The Pie Runner

A Fast Boy, a Warm Pie, and the Run of a Lifetime

Jun 02, 2025

In the days when monks still inked gospels in candlelit scriptoria and druids whispered to oaks, there lived a boy with legs like lightning and a grin always smeared with berry pie.

His name was Finn. He first ran to serve.

The baker’s wife had weak knees and a stubborn mule, so the boy ran. He delivered warm pies wrapped in linen to the next village before the steam stopped rising. His feet learned the rhythms of the fields, his lungs the cadence of hills. He ran for joy, for laughter, for the thanks of the old man with no teeth who wept at the sight of fresh rye bread.

His feet barely touched the road. He ran through morning fog and sleet, past startled sheep and open gates, always laughing, always faster than yesterday.

Everywhere he went, they cheered. Not for glory, but because the boy’s arrival meant hot pies and good news, delivered with a grin.

Word of his speed spread faster than the mail he carried. Soon, Finn was the fire-warner, sprinting to towns when chimney sparks caught thatch. Then the monastery summoned him, bearing scrolls sealed with beeswax and instructions whispered in Latin.

The village said no one had ever run like him. He didn’t boast. He didn’t need to. He simply loved the way the world unfolded when he ran—how the air turned to music in his ears, how the ground softened under him like a drumskin tuned to his joy.

Someone suggested he enter the Tailteann Games. He laughed. Me? The Pie Runner? A competitor?

The Games Begin

The Games drew the swiftest sons of Ireland. Finn entered his first race in homespun linen and muddy sandals. He won.

But he didn’t run to win. He ran because he could.

Year after year, he returned. His face lifted to the wind, his feet barely brushing the earth. Others raced for garlands and praise, but Finn only smiled and returned to mend thatch or carry sacks for the old baker.

Yet time rolls on like a heavy cart, and the wheels do not turn backward.

His hair greyed at the temples. His legs no longer sang. And still, he trained.

He told himself: One more race. One last win.

So each morning, before sunrise, he ran the old forest path—a loop from the edge of his village, through pine-sheltered lanes, past the standing stone, curving by the river bend, and home again.

Familiar. Comforting.

Until one morning, he saw someone ahead.

A runner—barefoot, wild hair, maybe fourteen, with a bundle slung over one shoulder. He ran with an untamed rhythm, arms loose, breath like laughter. Finn squinted into the mist and gave chase. But the boy vanished past the bend.

The next morning, another figure. Taller. Lean. Tunic damp with dew, a satchel bouncing at his side. He ran like someone with purpose. A steady pace, focused eyes.

Finn blinked, pushed harder. The runner stayed just ahead, always in reach—never caught.

Day after day, new runners. A lad with soot-stained hands. A young man with a scroll tucked into his belt. One with a braided wristband that made Finn’s stomach turn strangely. He couldn’t place why.

Something in their stride unsettled him.

And always, they were faster.

No matter how hard he trained, he couldn’t catch them. And slowly, the joy faded. He measured worth in seconds now. Every footfall compared. Every breath judged.

The Descent

He traded his wool tunic for tighter cloth. Lighter shoes. A polished copper torque for luck.

But the breath came ragged. His feet struck harder now—thud, slap, drag. What once felt like flying now felt like hauling stone. Running became a chore. Not a joy, but a grim, grinding duty.

No one waved anymore. He didn’t smile.

He spoke to no one but the road.

He sought out the healer-woman with the bitter roots.

She warned him: “What I brew doesn’t make you fast. It only hides the slow.”

He drank anyway.

For a week, he soared. The shadows in the woods seemed thinner. He nearly caught one of them.

But his heart began fluttering like a caged bird.

His knees howled.

His vision blurred.

And finally, somewhere near the standing stone, he collapsed.

The world dimmed, and the last thing he saw was a boy running toward him.

The Awakening

Finn was lying beneath the pine canopy. The moss was cool beneath his head. The air smelled of crushed thyme, wet bark, and something sweeter… berries, maybe. Pie?

“You used to love this,” the boy said. “Remember?”

He sat beside him—bright-eyed, maybe fifteen, with berry juice on his fingers and a grin that matched the one Finn used to wear.

He was eating a piece of pie. Still warm.

“You want some?” the boy offered, holding it out.

Finn groaned. His chest burned. But he smiled, faintly—almost tasting the memory.

Another figure approached. Broad-shouldered, golden with victory. “Did you try to beat us?” he asked.

Finn stared at the garland of oak leaves on the man’s brow. “I know that crown,” he said. “It was mine.”

A third figure knelt beside him—old, lined, and quiet.
He reached for Finn’s hand, and in that touch, Finn felt it—his own skin, aged and worn, as if he were holding time itself.

“I… I was trying to catch up,” Finn whispered.

The old man gave a soft, knowing smile.

“You weren’t racing,” he said. “You were chasing. But somewhere along the way… you forgot why you ran.”

Finn closed his eyes. And wept.

Not from shame.

But from relief.

The Last Run

When he woke, there was no one on the path.

Only birdsong.

Only wind.

He sat up slowly. His body ached in ways it never had. But he was alive.

The village healer later said it was exhaustion. Dehydration.

Finn never explained.

But the next day, he ran again.

Slower.

Softer.

He listened to the earth beneath his feet, let the sun warm his shoulders.

And when a child waved from a garden gate, he waved back.

For the first time in years, he smiled.

He didn’t chase anyone that day.

He didn’t need to.

Epilogue

Old folks still talk of him—the pie runner.

Some say he died chasing a ghost. Others say he found peace beneath the pines.

And sometimes, at dawn, if you take that loop past the standing stone, you’ll hear footsteps.

Not behind you—but beside you.

A whisper of someone else’s pace, urging you on.

Not to win.

But to remember what joy feels like.

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