Finegas and the Fish [A Short Story About the Salmon of Knowledge]

Note: This is the second story/chapter in my little serialized Irish/Celtic folklore/mythology saga/thing I’ve got going on here. And while you don’t need to read the previous story,“Balor and the Boar,” to enjoy this story, I selfishly recommend that you do. (FYI: The order doesn’t really matter so feel free to start with this story before going back for the prequel.)

---

Finegas was a bad poet and a worse fisherman, but don’t tell him I told you that. He’s a sensitive soul, as all poets (and fishermen) are. Even the bad ones. Perhaps especially the bad ones.

It had been clear from the start the path the life of Finegas would take. Born under the passing of a comet—known then as a “hairy star,” a sure sign of a heroic future ahead—Finegas was thrust into squireship as a toddler, became a knight as a five-year-old, and, by age eight, had been granted his own banner under which he led a company of knights.

The parents of Finegas (who had engineered their little knight banneret’s meteoric rise, going so far as to consult with vates and druids before his conception to determine the perfect date and time for copulation, thus ensuring a celestially significant birth) could not have been more pleased. He’d exceeded their wildest expectations. Naturally, they developed wilder ones.

Finegas the champion?

Finegas the king?

Finegas the emperor?

What the parents of Finegas didn’t know, however, was that their son had been living a lie.

One evening while sitting ’round a round table tipping back tankards of ale, Finegas confessed to his knights that he had never actually killed an enemy combatant in battle. Nor, he confessed, had he ever successfully hunted a stag, or a wolf, or a boar, or a hare, or even a mouse. Indeed, he found the whole business of slaying fuzzy creatures, humans included, barbaric, and the only animals he could bring himself to kill, for sustenance’s sake, were fish. (Their cold scaly bodies and black doll eyes made the whole business more palatable.)

“But we’ve seen you slay a thousand stags,” spoke a knight.

“And slay a thousand men,” spoke a second.

“And a thousand women,” spoke a third.

“Spells and druid powder,” Finegas said with a wave of his tankard, the foam sloshing over the sides. “It was all spells and druid powder. In truth, I’ve never harmed a soul—though I’ve certainly incapacitated a few.”

The eight-year-old learned a valuable lesson that day about the dangers of ale-induced oversharing. Unfortunately, that lesson came too late.

By age nine, Finegas was out of a job and out of a family. There were fire-breathing monsters decimating countrysides with sounder reputations.

But on the plus side, he didn’t have to dye his hair blond anymore, nor did he have to wear it in long, intricate braids. So he cropped it short. And he moved as far away from Tara as his nine-year-old legs would take him, which, as it turned out, was not very far at all. 

Stopping at the first river that got in his way, Finegas made camp on the bank and tossed a line in the water. 

He’s been there ever since.

And he’s yet to catch a fish.

“For Dagda’s sake,” he muttered just now, scratching at his white beard with his free hand, jiggling his fishing pole with the other. 

“Nothin’. More nothin’. Always nothin’. Nothin’ but nothin’. And when you think that it’s somethin’, guess what? It’s nothin’. Nothin’. Nothin’. “Nothin’. More nothin’. Always nothin’. Nothin’ but nothin’. And when you think that it’s somethin’, guess what? It’s nothin’. Nothin’. Nothin’. “Nothin’. More nothin’. Always nothin’. Nothin’ but nothin’. And when you think that it’s somethin’…”

This continued for some time. 

It was a mantra Finegas had recited for centuries. One he never set out to compose but had composed nonetheless, as if the gods themselves had injected it into his ear canals. (For the record, the gods have denied this, claiming that long-standing, deep-seated psychological issues were to blame for the washed-up prodigy’s relentless blabbering.)

“I can hear you, you know,” said Finegas, looking up to the sky.

“No, you can’t,” I wrote. 

“Yes, I can,” he said to no one.

“Just go back to fishing and I’ll go back to writing,” I wrote.

“You call that writing?” said Finegas, who, as it turned out, was an asshole.

I ignored him and got on with the story. And it’s a good thing I did, because just then, as narrative luck would have it, a fish was swimming upstream in the direction of the asshole’s hook.

The salmon was of such a size and color that even people who knew nothing about fish and/or cared little about fishing would have had no choice but to exclaim, “Wow, that’s a beautiful fish,” upon witnessing it.

So it really was a shame that Finegas was still looking up, shaking his fist, rather than focusing on the task at hand. 

Finegas took the hint.

“Yes, yes, there it is,” he said, spying the telltale silky silhouette of a swimming salmon. “Praise the gods.”

The excitement was on Finegas now. He added a second hand to his rod’s grip, anticipating the strength of the forthcoming strike.

This proved wise.

One, two, three splashing steps Finegas took into the river before he was able to halt his forward progress. His rod, which had been perfectly straight just moments ago, was curved to such an extreme that its tip touched the water.

Finegas dug his bare heels into the bed of river stones beneath him and heaved, and before the fish could detect any slack in the line (which might give it an opportunity to spit the hook), he took a step backward toward shore. This maneuver he repeated thrice. Then, with both feet firmly planted on dry(ish) land, he reeled with all his might.

Strenuous seconds gave way to embattled minutes, which, in turn, gave way to exhausting hours.

Many a time did Finegas believe he was on the verge of landing the leviathan, only to hear that signature, sinister buzzing that indicated the fish was running, i.e., taking more line.

And more line.

And more line.

And there came a moment when Finegas realized he would need to make a last stand, one final push (or pull, as it were), lest he lose all of his line and, in turn, the fish.

So for the first time in centuries, Finegas engaged each and every one of his muscles. His triceps whined. His biceps screamed. His glutes stayed quiet but that’s just how they were.

Then the line ran out. 

And the fish was gone.

The rod of Finegas unceremoniously sprang back to true.

“For Dagda’s sake,” he muttered.

“Nothin’. More nothin’. Always nothin’. Nothin’ but nothin’. And when you think that it’s somethin’, guess what? It’s nothin’. Nothin’. Nothin’. “Nothin’. More nothin’. Always nothin’. Nothin’ but nothin’. And when you think that it’s somethin’, guess what? It’s nothin’. Nothin’. Nothin’. “Nothin’. More nothin’. Always nothin’. Nothin’ but nothin’. And when you think that it’s somethin’—”

This recitation was interrupted by an intrusive thought, a thought that popped into his mind so fiercely and suddenly it was as if the gods themselves had implanted it in his brain (note: the gods have refused to comment on this matter in accordance with their new public relations policy).

Finegas reached into his pocket and pulled out a small satchel of druid powder and without giving it a modicum of further consideration, he dumped the powder into the river. 

Two dozen fish, one dozen frogs, and half a dozen viviparous lizards floated belly-up to the surface.

These were joined, shortly thereafter, by three dozen leeches, four dozen water spiders, and five hundred dozen of those little microscopic organisms that are always in rivers.

Finegas raised a cupped hand to his brow and scanned the mass of unconscious creatures being carried away by the current.

“Hmmm, no salmon,” he said stupidly.

Stupidly, because indeed there was a salmon; it was on the ground at his feet.

It flopped.

“Wow,” Finegas said upon witnessing the fish. “That’s a beautiful fish.”

He bent down to pick it up.

“Thanks for noticing,” said the fish. “I’ve been taking care of myself.”

Finegas jumped back.

“Genetics is a big part of it, of course,” the fish continued. “So I really can’t take all the credit.”

“Of course not,” Finegas agreed, still coming to terms with the fact that he was talking to a fish.

“You can go ahead and pick me up now,” said the fish. “I won’t bite.”

Finegas did as instructed. 

“Huh,” he said. “You’re even heavier than I thought.”

“Well, you should have seen the size of my last meal. You like barbecue?”

“I’m not sure I know what that is,” said Finegas. “But probably not. I’m something of a pescatarian.”

“Ah, that’s right,” said the fish. “You’re Finegas the Soft. Also known as Finegas the Faker. Also known as—”

“Yes, yes, I’m familiar with my epithets, fish. ‘Finegas the Faint of Heart.’ ‘Finegas the Fragile.’ I’ve heard them all.”

“Don’t forget Finegas the Fool,” added the fish, with a jerk of its head toward the river. “What was that stuff, anyway?”

“Druid powder,” said Finegas.

“Ah, your favorite,” said the fish. “Should’ve known.”

Finegas frowned. “How did you—”

“I was already onshore when you threw it in.”

Finegas nodded. Then nodded some more. But the curiosity was on him, slowly but surely transforming the up and down movements of his nod into the side-to-side movements of a shake.

“But why the Dagda did you come to shore in the first place?”

“That’s an easy one,” said the fish. “Because you couldn’t catch me. You put up a heck of a fight though, I’ll give you that.”

“You wanted me to catch you?”

“That would have been ideal, yes. But I gotta work with what I got. And this cycle? Yeesh. You should’ve seen what happened on Samhain. Or maybe you already have. You got a TV out here?”

“I’m not sure I know what that is,” said Finegas. “But probably not. I’m something of a Luddite.”

“That tracks,” said the fish. “Now, let’s get down to business. Where’s your stove?”

“My what?”

“Your fire.” The fish flexed its tiny salmonid nostrils. “Funny, I don’t smell smoke. And the sun is nearly set.”

“Can you even smell?”

“Don’t patronize me,” said the fish. “Now, you got a spit? Or a grate?”

Finegas searched his camp, which took all of five seconds.

“I’ve got a stick.”

“That could work. How about firewood? Any kindling? Point my snout over there so I can see.”

Finegas obliged, and the fish found itself staring, with its black doll eyes, at a bird’s nest, or a man’s nest, as it were, with curved walls of woven straw. Everywhere inside, the floor especially, there was shit, of both the literal and proverbial varieties.

“Jesus Christ, man,” said the fish.

“Who?” asked Finegas.

“Welp, at least we have plenty of kindling.”

“Kindling?”

“The straw from your creepy birdhouse.”

Finegas brought the fish up close to his face. His cheeks had reddened.

“That’s my home, fish.”

“Your home? Do you really not see it?” said the fish. “You live in squalor. You could have been a hero, Finegas. You still could be a hero. But instead, you chose to live here. And here I am, giving you the chance of a lifetime, a chance to totally redeem yourself, and instead of embracing—”

Finegas chucked the fish into the river.

“Sorry, not interested,” he said to the sky.

 I kept silent.

“I can see where you’re going with this, alright?” Finegas continued. “And I appreciate the gesture, really, I do. It’d certainly make for an entertaining, if not overdone, redemption arc. The washed-up wunderkind getting back on his horse for one final hoorah, tracking down some enchanted weapon, using it to defeat whatever monster needs defeating, doing hard, brave, virile deeds to prove he’s not soft, or afraid, or flaccid, and doing it all without the aid of spells or druid powder to prove he’s not a faker. The thing writes itself. It really does. I’ll give you that. But the truth is, I don’t need this kind of pressure in my life—not anymore. The pressure to achieve. The pressure to fulfill. The impostor syndrome. And then to find out you are an impostor, that it had all been rigged from the start. Do you have any idea what that’s like? What that does to a person? Oh, you do? I guess that makes sense. But still—”

“Who the heck are you talking to?” asked the fish.

Finegas nearly laid an egg.

“How… I… But…”

After rattling off several other single-syllable words, Finegas was able to put a sentence together:

“I chucked you into the river.”

“Finegas the Fool,” said the fish flopping on the ground at his feet. “Next time you want to get rid of a fish, consider throwing it into the woods instead of water.”

“Thanks for the tip,” said Finegas.

He bent down to scoop up the fish.

“Now wait just a minute,” pled the wriggling fish. “There’s still something—”

“It’s like I said before, I’m not interested.”

But before Finegas could launch the fish into the woods, it lunged forward and bit him.

“For Dagda’s sake,” shouted Finegas, dropping the fish. 

A single drop of blood trickled from his bottom lip. He wiped it away with a crusty finger.

“I thought you wouldn’t bite.”

“And I thought you wouldn’t be such a gobshite.”

“Me, the gobshite? I beg your pardon. You just bit me, if you haven’t already forgotten.”

“Please, it was a nibble; don’t be so dramatic. And remember, you started it when you chucked me in the river.”

“You’re a fish!” cried Finegas. “And I was doing you a favor. You don’t want me. You need to go find someone else to be the hero of this little cycle of yours or whatever it is you’ve got a-brewing here because I’m. Not. It. I’m a bad poet and a worse fisherman—yes, I heard that too—and I embrace it with all of my being.”

“Look, kid,” said the fish. “I’ll level with you. We’re all out of options here. The situation is unprecedented. Our new Balor snapped on his very first Samhain, sending twenty-three years of planning right down the tubes. So now everything is on an accelerated schedule, which means I need to get a hero trained up by next Samhain, which is going to be Dagda near impossible, unless…”

The fish paused, hoping Finegas would finish its thought. 

He did not.

“Unless,” the fish continued, “I recruit someone who already has hero experience.”

“Hero experience?” Finegas scoffed. “You think I have hero experience?”

“While your methods were…unorthodox, and, under normal circumstances, you never would have been my first choice, or any of my choices, for that matter, it’s undeniable that you once stood in those shoes and took on that mantle, and by hook or by crook, mostly by crook, you attained greatness, a fleeting greatness, but greatness nonetheless. And I am convinced that you can restore that greatness if you’ll only accept what I’m offering…namely, my flesh.”

The left eye of Finegas narrowed.

“If you think I’m going to have intimate relations with a fish, you’re dreaming.”

The right eye of Finegas widened.

“I mean, how would that even—”

“Stop,” said the fish. “You need to eat me. That’s how it works.”

“Oh,” said Finegas. “So, what happens after I eat you? Hypothetically speaking. Do I gain super-strength or something like that?”

“Something like that,” said the fish. 

“And then what?”

“Then you track down an enchanted weapon and slay the monster.”

“Ah, of course. It writes itself.”

“It really does.”

Both fish and man looked to the sky.

Just wait, I wrote. It gets better.

“But I’m still not interested,” said Finegas to the fish. “There’s no incentive for me here beyond rehabilitating a reputation I don’t care about. I have no personal connection to the story. Nothing that really hooks me. Pardon the expression.”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” said the fish, thinking on its fins. “Because thus far I have omitted a very important detail from the story.”

“Have you now?” replied Finegas.

“I have,” said the fish. 

“And what detail would that be?” inquired Finegas.

The fish told him.

Shortly thereafter, Finegas left his nest behind and marched in the direction of civilization, a large salmon slung over his shoulder. Through thistle and bracken and hawthorn he trudged, the soles of his bare feet growing blacker and bloodier with each labored step, and when the roar of the river was but a distant hum in the valley behind him, the old man stopped to reflect on the lifetime(s) he had spent there waiting, waiting, waiting. Waiting for a fish.

The fish bit him on the ass.

“Hey!”

“Keep moving,” said the fish. “Your destiny awaits. And so on and so forth.” 

The pavement felt worse on the feet of Finegas than the thorns had. The streetlights stung his eyes. Everywhere, the shadows formed perfect right angles, which bothered him to no end.

“What is this place?” he asked.

“Home,” said the fish. “It’s amazing how much can change in a few centuries. And how little.”

Finegas grunted. “Is that your attempt at sounding wise?”

The fish gurgled. “Buddy, you wouldn’t know wisdom if it bit you on the ass. Now, take a left up here. And be quick about it.”

Before Finegas, the town unfolded, a town he couldn’t help but admit was technologically very different from and yet psychologically very similar to the one he’d loved so well all those years ago. There were still taverns rattling with revelry. Still temples silent with mourning. Still street vendors hawking grilled mystery meats.

He stopped at the first food cart on the line and, per the fish’s instructions, asked politely if he could borrow the vendor’s griddle. 

His request was denied. 

It was the same story at the second cart.

At the third, the vendor not only declined to lend Finegas his griddle but furthermore, he brandished a weapon and threatened to murder him.

“Put that away, you idiot,” spoke a voice from behind the fourth food cart on the line.

“What did you just—”

The vendor behind the third cart trailed off, as if he’d just remembered some crucial bit of information about his cart-neighbor, which, of course, he had.

He tucked the weapon back into his trousers.

“Sorry about that,” he whimpered to the woman in the green apron. “Won’t happen again.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” replied the woman.

With a sigh, the vendor behind the third cart turned to the old man in the tattered rags with the humongous salmon slung over his shoulder and said, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re lucky,” replied Finegas. “Back in my day, I would have had no choice but to defend my honor by—”

The fish flopped.

“I mean, apology accepted.”

“Now,” the woman said to Finegas, “how can I help you?”

 Finegas cocked his head toward the fish.

“I need you to cook this so I can eat it and get superpowers.”

The woman scratched her chin and considered. It didn’t take long for her to decide.

“Okay,” she said.

“Brilliant,” said Finegas.

“I just wish I had my usual setup,” said the woman. “We’re still waiting on the stupid insurance money so we can start rebuilding.”

“Rebuilding?” inquired the fish.

The woman assumed it had been Finegas who’d spoken.

“Yeah. Haven’t you heard about the—” 

She stopped herself.

The man had the look of someone who, in fact, had not heard about the recent fire.

“The abbreviated version is that our brick-and-mortar location burnt down.”

“Abort!” yelled the fish. “Abort!”

“What was that?” the woman asked. 

In one fluid motion, Finegas whipped the fish off his shoulder and smashed its head on the cobblestone street.

“Nothing,” said Finegas. “Let’s get cooking.”

“It’s the strangest thing,” the woman replied. “I swear I just heard—”

“You should know, I’m something of a ventriloquist,” said Finegas. “I’m Finegas, by the way.”

He extended a crusty hand. The woman shook it.

“Viona.”

The fish was still semi-conscious when Viona fileted it and pushed its flesh through the meat grinder, but the physiological pain that resulted was nothing compared to the mental anguish that would follow it into the next life. 

Imagine, the same Tara’s employee infiltrating not one, but two of the cycle’s carefully curated fairytale endings. It was beyond unprecedented. It was—

“Shit,” said Viona.

And through the gray griddle smoke, she held aloft a bright red thumb.

“I burnt my thumb on your salmon burger.”

“Oh, okay,” said Finegas, his voice shaky. “Just, whatever you do, don’t—”

Viona plopped the thumb into her mouth. 

And the wisdom blossomed in Viona so fiercely and suddenly it was as if the gods themselves had implanted it in her brain. 

“For Dagda’s sake,” muttered Finegas. 

“Whoa,” said Viona. She would repeat the word several more times.

“I should have seen this coming,” said Finegas.

And it was funny he should say that, because at that exact moment, Viona was staring off into the middle distance, seeing what was coming.

“You might as well eat the whole thing now,” Finegas continued, nodding toward the burger. “The fish said it only works for one person.”

Viona pressed her burnt thumb to her lip.

“That’s true,” she said. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I stole your gift.”

“You didn’t steal anything,” said Finegas. “You were only trying to help. You were the only one who would help. It makes sense you’d get the super-strength.”

“Super-strength?”

“Don’t be coy. Let’s see you lift this cart over your head. Or how about an entire building?”

“It’s not that kind of gift,” Viona replied gently. “It’s sort of like…having an internet connection in your brain.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Finegas.

“Now, I don’t mean to be rude,” said Viona, peeling off her green Tara’s Burgers apron, “but I need to get going.”

“I know you do,” said Finegas.

She held out the green apron.

“Want a job?”

“I actually had a different one in mind,” said Finegas.

“And what would that be?”

“Wise mentor figure/personal travel guide.”

“Oh, well, I mean—”

“I know I don’t exactly look the part,” said Finegas, who, in actuality, looked very much the part, “but as a dearly departed friend once told me, I’ve worn the shoes and adorned the mantle, so to speak, and sometimes you need a good crook with a hook in your nook. So let an old man tag along for one last adventure, will ya?”

“Finegas, I—”

“Look, Viona, it’s personal for me this time, alright? I need to go. I need to confront my parents”

“Your parents?”

“Exactly. And the good news is I have insider information we can use to bypass their guard and sneak into their armory, granted that information might be a little outdated. Anyway, I’m sure we’ll find my father’s spear in there.”

“Your father’s spear?”

“I know, right? I didn’t even know my father had an enchanted spear, until the fish—”

“Finegas,” said Viona.

“It’s not true, is it?”

Viona pressed her burnt thumb to her lip.

“No,” she said. “It’s not true.”

Finegas nodded. 

“I think I’ll go home now,” he said. “This whole day has been for nothin’.”

And so Finegas set his blackened, bloodied feet to the cobblestones, which gave way to asphalt, which gave way to thistle and bracken and hawthorn, and he returned to his nest by the river, and to the cold comfort of his eternal pessimism.

Nothin’.
More nothin’.
Always nothin’.
Nothin’ but nothin’.
And when you think that it’s somethin’, guess what?
It’s nothin’.
Nothin’.
Nothin’.
Nothin’.
More nothin’.
Always nothin’.
Nothin’ but nothin’.
And when you think that it’s somethin’, guess what?
It’s nothin’.
Nothin’.
Nothin’.
Nothin’.

Thanks for reading

Fan of Celtic and Irish mythology-inspired fiction? Check out this short story collection I put together:

Neon Druid: An Anthology of Urban Celtic Fantasy