Flashback Friday: Finn edition
Dive into a rare flashback in the life of Finn Colfer before his Smack era
Finn pressed his palm against Molly’s warm belly, feeling the soft twitch of unborn puppies beneath her fur. The old lab, wise-eyed and gentle, let out a sleepy sigh and nestled deeper into the hearth rug. The fire snapped in the grate, casting amber light on the stone walls of the inn. Outside, the wind howled across the moorland like a ghost searching for home.
His grandfather had said the Highlands held memories like peat held smoke—slow to fade, impossible to scrub clean. Finn didn’t quite know what that meant, but he felt it. In the silence of the hills. In the way time slowed when he read ancient battles inked on crumbling parchment.
Finn started as the old lab began to snore deeply underneath his palm.
“Finn! Where are yer boy?”
The deep gravel drawl of his grandfather’s voice rang through the Inn. Finn sighed and retreated from Molly’s light snoring. It had been a month since he’d arrived at the Inn to live with his grandfather full time. His parents had always travelled, chasing whatever research grant took them to the expansive sands of Marrakech or the Mayan jungles of the Amazon, but this was the first time Finn hadn’t gone with them. Beginning high school, it was apparently important he have consistency. While he’d treasured the long summers he’d spent at Dun Roamin’ as a boy, he didn’t know if this was the kind of long term consistency that was healthy for most teenagers.
“You called?”
He found his grandfather in the small, stone clad cottage kitchen, surrounded by what Finn could only describe as a storm of books. Dusty tomes were piled high on each countertop, teetering over his gangly grandfather’s form.
Grandbob straightened up as he noticed Finn, his tall form nearly scraping the wooden beams above his head. “Ah there yer are. Look, I’m trying to find this collection yer Gran used to have. I figure you’ve been here a good while now, and I haven’t cooked you a proper meal like she used to make. Problem is, she’s been gone so long now, I cannae remember how to slop any of it together.”
“Oh. Can I help?” Finn felt a pang of guilt at his recent teenage moodiness at being confined to Dun Roamin’. His grandfather was clearly making an effort.
“Look, I know it’s not the best outing for a young lad on his half term break, but would you mind nipping down to Brodie’s in town and grabbing a copy for me? I was thinking we could work our way through the Highland classics each week. I’m not much of a cook save for a Sunday roast, but I’m sure you’ve got yer Gran’s talent for it. Just tell Brodie I’m looking for yer Gran’s book that has the Haggis recipe in it, he’ll ken what yer mean. Oh and take this, get yerself a treat for yer trouble.”
Finn’s throat closed up. “Okay. Thanks Grandbob.”
Grandbob grunted and waved him off, returning to his teetering piles as Finn slipped out the backdoor of the Inn.
***
Finn hopped the crumbling stone fence bordering the public footpath which skimmed alongside the edge of the town and headed towards the small fishing village. While a clear and bright Spring day, the air hadn’t quite caught up with the season change, and Finn shivered as he pulled his down tight around his shoulders.
The road dipped gently as Finn made his way toward the harbour, boots crunching over frost-tipped gravel. The scent of peat smoke drifted through the crisp morning air, curling from squat stone chimneys. Stone cottages huddled close together, their slate roofs slick with dew, gardens wild with heather, tangled rosemary, and the last stubborn blooms of late spring.
Beyond the rise, the sea flashed steel-grey and restless while fishing boats bobbed in the sheltered harbour, their hulls painted in faded reds and blues.
He peered at the shop signs. The signs were creaking in the wind, steadily decaying in the salt laden air, all wooden and hand painted from years prior. Finn spied a particularly poorly maintained sign swinging from the roof of a small stone cottage dotted in grey and brown, with “Brodie’s Books” painted in small red font. Lichen bloomed in the cracks, and ivy clung stubbornly to corners as if trying to hold the buildings together.
The bell above the door gave a reluctant jingle as Finn pushed it open, the sound swallowed almost immediately by the heavy hush inside pierced only by crackly old jazz records spinning on a poorly maintained record player. Warm, dust-scented air wrapped around him, thick with the smell of old paper, dried lavender, and something faintly smoky. A peat fire crackling somewhere near the back.
The bookshop was dim, lit only by weak Spring light filtering through narrow windows, their panes fogged and dappled with sea salt. Tall shelves leaned together in uneven rows, packed tight with leather-bound volumes, paperbacks crippled under crumbling spines, cloth covers faded to shades of old moss and ash. A ladder rested against one of the shelves like it hadn’t been moved in years.
Finn stepped forward, boots echoing softly on the scuffed wooden floor.
Then came the voice, gruff and dry, like bark rubbed smooth by weather:
“Back again, are you? Can’t get enough of the old ghosts, eh?”
From behind a teetering stack of biographies and forgotten atlases, Mr. Alasdair Brodie emerged, eyebrows like thunderclouds and a steaming mug in one hand.
Finn smiled back. “I thought I’d check if the ghosts missed me.”
“Right you are. That, and yer Grandbob sent you for some centuries old tome I expect?” Brodie eyed Finn over the top of his glasses.
“Good instincts.”
“Hm, can’t keep track of his own head that man. Here, I just knew he wouldn’t be able to find it.” Brodie handed a grateful Finn a large cracked paperback with fish and haddock soup splashed over the cover.
“Thanks, Brodie.” Finn turned to leave but felt Brodie’s rough mitt on his shoulder.
“Not so fast,” Brodie grunted. “I’ve got something for yer, lad. Thought it was about time you graduated to some real ghost stories.”
Brodie handed Finn a small, green leather bound book that looked to be as old as Brodie himself. The front cover was dotted with small golden engravings of medieval characters, men missing eyes, great serpents and vikings riding into battle. Finn let out a small gasp as he flicked through the yellow faded pages.
“Thought you might like that. Yer Grandbob had a very similar copy when he was a boy. Carried it everywhere with him. Big old nerd, obsessed with dragons and serpents he was,” Brodie roared with laughter.
“Thanks so much, Brodie. This is amazing. Are you sure it’s okay if I have this?”
“You need to learn to stop apologising for yer existence lad. I want you to have it!” Brodie leaned down to match Finn’s eye level, placing a strong hand on his shoulder. “Now, this island has a way about it. Yer here now. Yer one of us. And trust me, this place, it has a way of pulling yer back. It has a way about it yer see. It’s a beautiful way, but it’s easy to lose yourself. Forget who yer are. Who yer people are.” He tapped the cover of the tome. “Yer people, they’re in here. Yer old enough now boy to choose for yerself what kind of man yer want to be. I’m not saying old stories of knights, dragons, good and bad will do that fer yer. No, yer ken, only you can do that. All I’m saying is I have a funny feeling this may help.”
While Finn was used to Brodie’s sometimes off putting tendency to rattle off almost-premonitions, and had a developed a tendency of nodding and brushing off the waves of eccentricity, a soft stirring in his stomach gave him the strange feeling Brodie may be right.
“I don’t know what to say. I just … thank you, Brodie. Really, thank you”.
Brodie straightened up. “That’s alright lad. Now, off with yer. I want my tea.”
As Finn pushed open the large wooden door to the shop, closing the pleasantly suffocating stench of age and peat behind him, his fingers traced the small indentations of the smaller book.
He stopped, looking out past the overgrwoth of foxglove and lavender spilling from Brodie’s ill kempt garden, into the darkening storm clouds rolling across the harbour. His fingers found a small inscription on the back cover of the small green book.
“If found, please return to Ewan Alasdair Colfer at Dun Roamin’,” Finn whispered.
He grinned, holding the book tight against his chest and set off into the rolling black clouds towards his new, and old, home.