The slate sky threatened the coastal path with a glowering promise of rain as the old man made his way slowly towards the headland. A sharp and mean breeze whipped at the folds of his grey robe as if the elements themselves had taken it upon themselves to torment him.
Every once in a while he stopped to lean against his staff and rest, raised his nose to the wind and closed his eyes to listen to the sounds of the island of Achill speak to him. The leaves in the trees whispered to one another, gossiping their opinion on the lonely traveller, the grasses leaned together and wondered what had brought such a wizened and aged individual on such an unsuitable journey. Above them all the shrill cry of a hawk riding the thermals above the bay, bade them be silent.
The old man struggled upon his way, eventually picking a tortuous path along the sea cliffs until he came to the cave that he sought. Inside the rocky hollow he piled together kindling and called upon his arts to set it afire.
The afternoon drew into evening as he sat in solitude beside the flames, staring out at the darkening waves far below. All at once the hawk’s shrill cry sounded again, very near, and the mouth of the cave was filled with a rush of air as great wingbeats heralded its arrival at the old man’s refuge.
The old man drew back as the giant bird swooped into the cave, breaking its descent with powerful strokes, its great talons extended forward until they scored the rock. The hawk folded its wings with care and turned its sharp eye upon the old man, regarding him in silence.
The man settled back next to his fire once more and smiled warmly at the great bird. As dramatic as its entrance had been, the old man sensed the creature had come peacefully. He returned its gaze and saw in its eye a weariness, a tiredness of soul the equal of his own.
“Ah, great bird of Achill,” the old man addressed the hawk. “I remember what it is to ride the air on wings such as yours. There was a time I too took the shape of a hawk.
“Come now, come closer to the warmth of my fire and tell me of your adventures, I well understand the language of the sky.”
The bird cocked its head and shuffled its grey-feathered bulk a little further into the cave. Presently it open its great beak and spoke to the old man in the language of the birds.
“The years show upon you, druid.” Said the hawk. “It has indeed been long since your first transformation at sea-washed Dún Tulchu. Why do you squat here in this draughty cave, Fintan the Wise?”
The old man, the druid, narrowed his gaze and wondered at the bird’s knowledge of his history.
“Ahhh,” sighed Fintan wearily. “I come to reflect upon my sorrow, a darkness that has come over my heart. The death of my son Illan still grieves me sorely after all of these years.” The hawk bowed it’s head in understanding. “And you, noble and courageous hawk, what brought you to the island of Achill?”
“Achill serves me well, Fintan.” Replied the creature. “Light is its air, gentle are its havens, the thickets are warm. Its streams are noble, the estuaries lonesome when my own company suits. And the chase here is fruitful. There’s never a night upon this island when I have not eaten my fill of fish, wild game or venison.”
Fintan nodded his head sympathetically and stared into the phantoms of the flames. Presently he turned to the hawk and said:
“I have good reason to show my age, bird. I was fifteen years old when the black Flood came. And after the Flood the gods have given me five thousand and five hundred years.”
As he spoke he noticed the way the hawk carried itself, a certain weariness, a stiffness in its limbs as it shifted upon its rocky perch. And the hawk’s eyes, they spoke of a deep wisdom, something Fintan was familiar with. Those eyes had seen much of the history of Erin.
“And you, Hawk out of cold Achill?” he said. “From the time your egg was hatched, what is the number of your years?”
The Hawk turned and met Fintan’s gaze. “Equal is my life to yours, Fintan son of Bochra. I was hatched on the day you were born and I’ve lived as long after the Deluge.” Fintan nodded. The Hawk continued:
“You are a poet and a prophet, Fintan the Wise, tell me of your life, what evils and wonders befell you in your five thousand five hundred and fifteen years?”
Fintan cast his mind back down through the ages, the Kings and Queens he had seen rise and fall throughout the history of this land. He felt more than ever the weight of the years upon his shoulders and baulked more than ever at the thought of adding any more of them to his burden. The fire was warm though, and the Hawk was attentive.
“Very well,” said Fintan. “I shall tell you of the evils and wonders of this Ireland, from the earliest time, from the time the first woman set her feet upon this land.” Fintan smiled warmly at the Hawk.
“She was my wife.” He said.