The Fourth Chapter

Michael Dunhill laid down upon a mattress in a corner of the gloomy tenement. After the long day, and the fight at the bar he lay awake for only a few moments before sleep came, but no peace came with sleep.

When his eyes closed he saw the clouds race across the sky over Carrickfergus, as if they were trying to outrun the helicopters that circled above. Cries of mourning replaced the childish laughter that had once ruled the streets. It was a dark and dismal place, populated entirely by crying mothers and black-booted policemen.

In his dream he watched through a gap in the fence as the policemen came to drag off his older brothers. They were rounding up everyone in the city that was suspected of being a nationalist, loyal to Ireland. His two oldest brothers were led outside in handcuffs, grim gray eyes staring out from behind the bruises 'necessary' to arrest someone. His mother sat in the parlor, watching her two sons being carted away to the interment camps set up for those disloyal to the crown.

After the van with his brothers in it disappeared from sight the dream decided to forebear the tragedy of the next several years. Instead of the years of rations and starvation, abuse and cruelty handed down by the Protector he was transported across the rooftops to the moors. Consciously he was glad he didn't have to watch that again. The loss of his mother had tormented him all his life, and he was glad he didn't have to see it again in wretched detail.

The reality of the dream began to float away when he reached the moors. The empty hills were covered with formations of stone. As he stood on a hilltop with the morose skies floating above him he became aware of a movement behind him. He turned slowly to see a man towering above him. The giant was lifting stones from the earth to make the strange constructions that dotted the lonely hills. Michael gasped at the man's tremendous stature, at the noise giant turned to see what had made it. When he saw Michael he smiled, a gentle thunder, like that of the soft summer rains, questioned why he was there. Michael replied that he had been brought here without his consent.

The giant beamed and asked him if it was really so. Michael nodded and affirmation, but the giant still seemed quizzical. Was he sure that he hadn't been brought here on purpose, to learn what it was he truly desired? Was it really against his will, or just against what he forced himself to believe he wanted?

Under the great man's questioning Michael admitted that he was not entirely sure of the answers. With such honesty the giant became less interrogating and more friendly. Michael had come, the giant said, because he must. He was the subject of a fate far greater than himself, and he had come there to discover it, and find his part of that fate. Michael was not entirely convinced, he asked the giant why it had to be him, what made him so different than any other man. The giant knelt down next to him, he had come because he was the one needed, it was his differences from other men, but rather his similarities that made him the one required.

Michael asked the giant what made him so sure he understood the fates of the world. The giant rose, and parted his mantle to reveal the symbol upon his chest. The field of blue with an orange sun glowed with an other worldly light. Poor Michael Dunhill gasped again, it could not be that such a great hero really stood before him, yet there was no denying the crest of the Fiona. The giant asked if he understood. Michael could only whisper that he did, how could he not understand the great hero Finn Mac Cumhaill.

Finn Mac Cumhaill stood to his full height and looked out over the moors. After a moment of silence he turned to Michael and began to tell the history of the current world. He began with his death, the disbanding of the Fiona, the growth of Ireland, the troubled times, the forming of the Finn Eirann and their long, desperate struggle against the crown. Michael Dunhill already knew this story, after all he had sworn vengeance upon the head of his beloved mother and his path had led him already to the Finn Eirann. The naming of his pub Finneran's was no accident. Even though he knew the giant's story it would have been incredibly forward to interrupt such a man. And so Michael crossed his legs and sat upon the ground to wait the end of the giant's tale. Despite his existing knowledge of the story he found himself drawn in by the great man's rolling voice. In the midst of his rapture his conscious mind was checking off facts from the story against his knowledge of the Finn McCool lying on a cushion across the dark room from his sleeping body. The story of the Salmon of Wisdom rang over and over in his mind, the thought of the giant being burnt and placing his great thumb in his mouth to cool it, accidentally absorbing the wondrous knowledge, echoed through his memory.

After a long time the giant ceased his storytelling and turned to Michael. It told him, rather than asked, that he understood. Michael did understand, this was his future, it had been his from the beginning. He asked the giant how he should begin achieving his fate. Finn Mac Cumhaill smiled one last time and told him he had only to follow. After all, hadn't this story been written thousands of years ago, all that was left to do was follow it through to the end, and make sure that it unfolded the way it was told.

With this last piece of advice the giant went back to placing the great stones. Michael was borne up and away towards the ancient towers of Belfast. As he drew closer the towers seemed to age and crumble, by the time he was over the city it was the way he remembered it, dark and dismal. The unseen carrier brought him to the tenement where his body lay sleeping. As he entered and prepared to awake himself, the words of the giant echoed again through is mind, "Follow the one who will lead."