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Later he bought this copy of the statue in an antique shop in Liverpool and proudly brought it home, assigning it a place of honour in his house. He drew inspiration from its purposeful forward stride, its body braced as if against strong winds or climbing waves, its wings thrust back from powerful, defiant shoulders. To Finn the statue was a triumph. It represented for him man’s victory, not over human enemies, but over the forces of nature, over the elements, the Fates, the Furies, over the most implacable foe of all: Death itself.
“We had a grand feast last night to welcome you home, Padraig,” Finn declared. “We slew the fatted calf and uncasked the vatted wine. We had, in fact, one hell of a good time—if you’ll pardon the expression, Father Padraig. But our prodigal priest came late and missed it all. So we’ll have another feast tonight. Gentlemen, drink up.”
Finn raised the decanter of wine in one big hand, a bottle of whiskey in the other, and held them up. “And there’s porter there on the table, and some of old Jimeen Doherty’s poteen, all the way from Aghadoe Lough above Mullaghbrae. Good stuff it is, too. Who’s going to join me? Seamus?”
“I’ve enough here, thank you, Finn. I can’t drink too much tonight.”
“Sweeney?”
“Just a little more whiskey, Finn. Easy.”
“What a crew we have on this trip,” Finn said. “Not a drinking midshipman left. The world’s going soft, Padraig. This God of yours doesn’t make men any more. Or he’s run out of his old materials. Clifford, you’re a young buck. You’re a university student. You’ll have a refill.”
“No more for me thanks, Mister MacLir.”
“Listen to the whelp. Can’t drink wine or whiskey and calls me Mister. Mister MacLir. The name’s Finn, boy. Just because the priest is here you needn’t feel you have to show respect for elders and betters. We don’t recognize betters here. Nor do we make distinctions on account of age.”
“But you called Clifford a young buck and a boy, Finn,” Seamus Slattery pointed out. He was a purple-faced, paunchy man with ponderous jowls and red-rimmed eyes. He looked round the table with a begging grin.
“What I mean is that we don’t make any distinction of status between ages here,” Finn explained, pausing with the decanter in his hand. “Differences there are, of course. Young bucks have energy, fresh ideas, enthusiasm. Or should have. Old bucks temper those with moderation, wisdom and the knowledge born of long experience. Or should do. A nation advances, regresses or stagnates according to the respective strength of each.
Libros Libertad 