Kate Hoffmann - The Mighty Quinns - Brendan

Brendan pressed the ice to his swollen lip. “He looked worse than me before the fight. That boy is as ugly as a mud fence.” He grimaced. “God, I hate fighting.”

In truth, Brendan had had his hands full with Angus. Though he didn’t give anything away to him in height, Angus was at least seventy pounds heavier. But his weight made him slow on his feet and with every punch thrown, Brendan simply dodged and weaved, suffering a few glancing blows.

“I was winnin’ for sure until I knocked Angus half-senseless.” Brendan chuckled. “Then he fell on top of me. Like a big tree. And when he hit the ground, I felt the earth shake. I swear I did! Just like that giant, Fomor, in the story of Mighty Odran Quinn.”

Liam’s eyes brightened at the mention of one of the Mighty Quinns. Liam loved the stories. For as long as Brendan could remember, the stories had been part of their lives. They’d started after his mother had walked out. At the time, Brendan hadn’t made the connection, but as he got older he realized that Seamus Quinn’s tall tales about their mighty Quinn ancestors were nothing but cautionary tales meant to warn his sons about the dangers of love.

After Fiona Quinn had walked out nearly eight years ago, life had never been the same. Though Con and Dylan had memories of her, Brendan had only been four years old. He had vague images of a dark-haired woman who sang songs and made him cookies. He remembered a birthday cake in the shape of a car. And a beautiful necklace she always wore. But beyond that, Brendan had relied on his older brothers for a picture of his mother for there were no mementos of her left in the house.

She was beautiful and affectionate and understanding, all the best qualities magnified a hundred times in their imaginations. Alone at night, he and Con and Dylan used to wonder aloud whether she might still be alive, whether she had miraculously walked away from the auto accident that his father insisted had claimed her life. Brendan liked to believe that she had amnesia and that she was living another life with a new family and that someday she would suddenly remember the boys she’d left behind.

“God, I hate fightin’,” Brendan repeated. “I mean, what good does it do? Angus will still be a bully. He’ll just move on to someone else.” He glanced at the twins. “You’re next, you know.”

“Some goms only respond to the sting of a fist or the taste of blood on their lip,” Conor said.

“If you ask me,” Dylan said, “someone ought to whack that boy over the head once or twice with a nice thick plank, maybe jangle his brain a bit.”

“You were like Dermot,” Liam said, his eyes filled with awe. “Remember Dermot Quinn? How he fought off all those boys from the village.”

Brendan reached out and ruffled his little brother’s hair. “I’m not sure I do remember Dermot,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me, Liam. Maybe it will make me feel a little better.”

His little brother drew a deep breath and began. “Some boys who were jealous of Dermot decided to drown him. They pretended they were swimming and—”

“That’s not where it starts,” Sean insisted. “It starts when Dermot catches the deer.”

Brian shook his head. “No, it starts when Dermot is born inside the giant oak tree.”

Liam leaned over and braced his elbows on Brendan’s leg. “You tell it,” he pleaded. “You do it best.”

Brendan took a deep breath. “Well, Dermot Quinn was raised in the forest by two strong and wise women, one a Druidess and the other a warrior. They raised him after his father was killed by an evil chieftain. Living all that time in the forest, Dermot became a fine hunter. One day, he was walking with the two women and they spotted a herd of deer. ‘I would love to have venison for dinner tonight,’ the Druidess said. But none of them had brought along a weapon.”

Liam sat up and continued. “‘I can catch that deer for you,’ Dermot cried. And he did. He ran after the herd and he captured a huge buck with his bare hands and wrestled it to the ground.”

“That he did,” Brendan said. “And then, the two women told Dermot since he was now a great hunter, he must learn to become a great warrior. So they sent him on a long journey to search for a teacher.” Brendan glanced over at Conor who nodded and continued the story, drawing Liam’s attention away from Brendan’s bleeding nose.

“One day, Dermot passed a group of boys playing a game,” Conor said. “They invited him to play, but they made him play by himself against five of the boys. Dermot won the game. The next day, they put ten boys against him and still he won. And the next day, all the boys in the village played and he won again. The boys were embarrassed and complained to the chieftain. A vengeful and powerful man, the chieftain told the boys that if they didn’t like Dermot, they must kill him.

“So the next day, they decided to invite Dermot to swim with them in the lake. They ganged up on him and tried to drown him, but Dermot was strong and in the end, he drowned nine of the boys defending himself. When the chieftain heard this, he suspected that Dermot was the son of his old enemy, a man he murdered many years before. He set out to find Dermot and deal him the same fate.”

“But Dermot didn’t want to fight,” Brendan said. “He was a peaceful person. So he decided to become a poet, for poets were held in very high esteem in Ireland. The evil chieftain would be unable to harm him if he were a poet. Dermot returned to the forest and found a teacher who lived near a great river. His name was Finney and every day they would talk as Finney fished in the river, hoping to catch a magic salmon who lived in the shallow water.”

“The fish was charmed,” Liam said. “And whoever ate the fish would have—have—”

“Knowledge of all things,” Brendan completed. “Finney was keen to catch this fish. For years he fished and Dermot patiently watched him and one day Finney finally caught the fish. He gave it to Dermot to cook for him, but he warned him that he must not taste the fish for it held powerful magic. Dermot did as he was told but as the fish cooked in a tasty stew, a drop of the stew splashed on Dermot’s thumb. He cried out and put his thumb in his mouth to cool the pain.”

“So he did taste the fish,” Liam said.

“That he did,” Brendan replied. “And when he served the fish to Finney, he admitted as much. ‘Then you must eat the salmon,’ his teacher said. ‘And from this fish you will receive a gift so precious to poets— the gift of great words. And after that, Dermot’s poetry became the most beloved in all of Ireland.”

“Are you going to fight Angus again?” Liam asked.

“Nope,” Brendan replied. “I don’t like fighting. I think I’m going to become a poet like Dermot Quinn. For Dermot proved that words can be as mighty as weapons.”

As Brendan sat on the front porch of the house on Kilgore Street, he thought about the Mighty Quinns, all those ancestors that had come before, all those Quinns who’d made something of themselves. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but Brendan was certain that something special was waiting for him out in the world. But it wouldn’t come to him if he stayed here. He’d need to go find it.

BRENDAN QUINN sat in a dark corner of the Longliner Tap, nursing a warm beer and watching the patrons wallow in their Friday night rituals. The Longliner was a popular spot for commercial fishermen, their families and their friends, located on the rough and tumble waterfront of Gloucester, Massachusetts, homebase to the North Atlantic swordfishing fleet.

His own home, The Mighty Quinn, was tied up at a dock just a few hundred yards from the bar. Though the early December cold had set in, his father’s old swordboat was tight and cozy, providing a perfect spot for him to tie up the loose ends on his latest book.