The cave itself looked narrow but deep. In the back, the ceiling rose high enough that Conall could stand. No sign of animal or human inhabitants littered the ground, so they gathered sticks and started a small fire on the outside ledge. As the wood remained soaked from the rain the night before, they would produce billows of smoke. If they started it inside the cave itself, they’d be driven from the space. Once the fire had started, they laid more kindling around it to dry them out. They could shift the fire inside when the new wood had dried. He hoped the smoke wouldn’t be a beacon for anyone to find them.
For the first time since they left their home, Conall allowed himself to relax. Once they’d changed into fresh clothing, with their soaked garments and boots laid out to dry, they opened Adhna’s linen sack to look at the objects he’d gifted to them.
Conall gently poured the contents onto the cave floor. Conall picked up a small wooden box, about as big as his fist, sealed in wax. He felt carvings on each side, but the afternoon light remained too dim for him to make out shapes. He placed it to one side and looked at the other objects.
One long white peacock feather, broken in four places. Several long strips of white silk which had seen better days. A ball of twine. A single yellow onion. Two carved, wooden bowls. One red bean. A candle stub. Six apples. Thirteen turnips. Three bits of colored wool fluff. A small leather bag with flint and pyrite inside. Two spoons carved from bone. A wineskin filled with strong-smelling mead. A stoppered stone jar of honey and comb.
Some honey had seeped out and coated the candle, flint bag, and the onion. Conall set these aside and continued. Several small packages of food, including a hunk of cheese, some mushrooms, three loaves of rye bread, dried venison, and hazelnuts.
Two objects remained, wrapped in ancient gray linen. Lainn picked one up and unwound the cloth, revealing a bronze leaf-shaped dagger, elaborately carved with a primal, triple spiral design. The blade glinted in the slanting sunlight, throwing reflections on the cave walls.
Conall selected the last item, unrolling the cloth to reveal a Brigid’s Cross. Several rushes wrapped an even-armed cross, bound in the center in a time-honored tradition. The rushes crackled in his hands, well dried and ready to burn in the Imbolc fires. Tradition held a Brigid’s Cross prevented home fires, and should be made on the day midway between midwinter and Alban Eilir, in the spring. The cross from the prior year end should burn on the Imbolc fire.
With the sincere hope Adhna hadn’t relinquished this precious protection for them only to suffer a house fire until he could make a new one, Conall hugged the charm to his chest. He closed his eyes in prayer to Brigid, the goddess of fire, healing, and blacksmithing. If she heard them, perhaps she could guide them to safety. The dusty scent of dry straw filled his nostrils.
His stomach rumbled with alarming volume, and Lainn giggled. “Here, eat some of the dried venison. I’ll boil water and cook a turnip.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You will? With what pot?”
She looked at the items before them, her lips pressed together.
“Luckily,” Conall rummaged through his own pack, the one he had grabbed on their mad flight from their home, “I managed to p-p-pack one before we left. It’s not a large pot, but it should suffice for the two of us.”
He pulled out the small iron pot, stuffed with a spare brat and a few older tools. He’d kept these as Sétna replaced his own tools with better chisels and hammers. They weren’t in good repair, but he might earn food with his masonry efforts, once they settled in a túath.
Lainn gave him a long-suffering look, but took the pot and filled it with river water. When she returned and placed it in the coals next to the fire, it sizzled and popped until the water dried. For a long time, Conall stared at the water, waiting for it to boil. Belatedly, he recalled the venison and chewed on a few bites to quiet his angry stomach. He offered some to Lainn, but she shook her head. “I’ll wait for soup.”
They had no herbs, no salt, no flavoring. Still, the turnip, onion and dried venison soup tasted like the finest meal they’d ever had. Granted, their mother had been a horrible cook, but Adhna had fed them tasty food, as had their aunt on occasion. When Conall managed to make dinner, they ate better. This time, hunger and desperation seasoned their meal.
As he chewed a particularly tough piece of venison, he turned to Lainn, who had just refilled her wooden bowl. “Do you think we should try to find the druids Adhna told us of? Are they likely to take us in?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I think so, but you don’t? Why?”
He shrugged and took another spoonful. “You, certainly. I can absolutely understand if they take you in. But why would they be interested in taking care of me? Other than my relation to you, I have no value to them. I’m no student of the arts, nor of history. While you can sing to the bees, I have no talent for singing or the law. I’m happy to take you to the druids, so they’ll care for you. It might be easier for me to survive on my own.”
Lainn put her now empty bowl on the ground with a hollow thump. “Take me to the druids and leave me? You’re going to dump me with a group of strange men and go traipsing across the countryside on your own? You will do no such thing, Conall!”
He blinked several times. “I don’t mean t-to abandon you, Lainn. I only meant—“
“You only meant to leave me ‘safe’ with men. Men we don’t know, have never met, and cannot understand. Men, I might add, that might do what Sétna tried.”
“But Adhna said—“
“Adhna can go soak his head in honey! I’ll not surrender myself to the whims of any man again, Conall. I thought you understood that?”
He swallowed his half-chewed bite of turnip as he thought about her position. “It’s no less dangerous to be living rough in the winter, Lainn. Especially for a girl.”
“Then I’ll be a boy. I feel more like one, anyhow. I don’t do the girly things Aoife or the others do. They only think of attracting husbands. I want to learn new things and explore places. Besides,” she patted her head, “I adore these warrior braids. So much more practical than loose hair.”
Conall realized the conversation had been closed. No more argument mattered once Lainn decided. “Then we need to find a place for both of us to stay. This place isn’t good enough. It’s too close to Sétna.”
She picked at the end of her brat. “Even if we can’t stay with the druids at Uisneach, let’s travel toward them. The river should be along the route. We might find a túath or abandoned roundhouse.”
He could see nothing wrong with her idea so, once they’d finished their meal, they re-packed their bags. He took care in placing each object in the linen sack, and as a result, it sat more comfortably on his shoulder, each object in its place. He shifted a few times to make sure the objects in his pack seemed secure.
In a panic, he unpacked his own bag again, sighing in relief when he found the small package containing his father’s brooch. For a horrible moment, he thought he’d left it behind.
“What’s that, Conall? Something else from Adhna?”
His father’s admonition for secrecy in mind, he shoved the package back into the bag with a shake of his head. “Just something F-F-Father gave me long ago. A sentimental keepsake.”
She narrowed her eyes but didn’t push. Instead, she belted her Maelblatha around her hips like a boy rather than around her waist. She’d added a few beads to the braids he’d made, and they clicked as she walked.
As they left the cave, Conall watched her with a critical eye. She moved more like a boy now. Her swagger wasn’t as exaggerated, but she walked differently from the girl he’d known. She kept her shoulders squared and her back straight, which helped the illusion of confidence. Her face remained delicate, but a fixed frown made it less sweet.
He shifted the packs on his back and followed her. He scanned the treeline in hopes Rawninn the raven had found them in the night. While birds rustled in the branches, no enormous black raven cawed for their attentio
n. He felt both panicked and relieved at the bird’s disappearance. If Rawninn found them, Conall would experience guilt for not seeking out the druids, as Adhna had urged. However, if he didn’t find them, they might wander the forest all winter, until they died of starvation or exposure.
The day, at least, had dawned bright and relatively warm. Icicles melted as they walked, dripping and sparkling in the wintry sun. They followed the river as it wound through the valley, clambered over piles of bracken, stone outcroppings, and skirting around the few túaths. Conall wanted to get at least a day’s travel from Sétna before they even considered a place to stay.
The river flowed beside them as they made their way upstream. The glinting of the ice-strewn water blinded Conall, making him blink several times against the glare. Even then, the after-image of the shining spots burned in his vision as he walked. He stumbled on the rough rocks and landed on one knee, letting out a yelp of pain.
Lainn, who had trudged ahead of him, glanced back. Seeing him already picking himself up, she continued. Her previously confident stride degenerated into a tired slog. His own energy had long since left, but still, they plodded on.
He pushed himself to walk more quickly to catch up to her, his knee aching with every step. His hip protested, shooting in pain from the night before. He hoped they found a place soon. His body complained more painfully with each passing minute.
The tree next to them exploded in a furious cacophony of black feathers and harsh birdcalls. Conall and Lainn both covered their heads from the onslaught, waiting until the last crow departed. The branches looked half as full as they had before. Watching the birds fly into the distance, they looked like an arrowhead pointing to a long, low hill on the horizon. Conall tried to see if Rawninn had been among the flock, but all the birds had been smaller.
The trees on the side of the hill grew in a straight line, like a procession way. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Conall thought he saw stones on the top of the hill. Conall wondered if it was the same hill where the druids lived, the hill Adhna had sent them to. If so, those stones must be faery stones, portals into the land of the Fae.
A dangerous place, druids or not.
He shivered and tore his gaze away from the beckoning hill. As he glanced down to the riverbank, he noticed a thatched roof just beyond a large rock. He poked Lainn and pointed.
The roundhouse had seen better days. Part of the thatch had fallen in. The wicker and daub walls had gaps where the wind and wildlife picked away at the structure. Still, the rest of it looked sound, and the base stones seemed solid.
They approached the place with due caution, Conall listening for any human or animal. No one had maintained the small clearing in many years, judging from the tangled dead weeds and rough ground.
With measured steps, he inched around one side of the cottage while Lainn explored the other side. Without words, they agreed to examine the inside together, but Conall entered first.
The dim light filtered in through the breaks in the wattle walls, forming broken shadows, masking amorphous forms with mystery and danger. Conall held perfectly still, listening for shuffles or creaks of an animal or human hiding within the shelter. Nothing stirred, so he moved further in as Lainn came in behind him. He touched one lump, discovering an overgrown hearth filled with ancient stones. A broken wooden cot lay along one wall, while a cracked stone water basin sat nearby. He found nothing else inside but layers of dust and dirt, leaves and twigs from countless abandoned winters.
Lainn put her hands on her hips. “Well, if no one claims this place, it will do for the winter, at least. Better than a freezing cave, at any rate.” She surveyed the dusty corners, and her mouth curled up. “It could certainly use a thorough cleaning.”
“See if you can find a d-decent branch with some leaves still clinging. That might work like a broom and should get the worst of it. I’ll see if I can repair the cot frame.”
They spent the remainder of the afternoon clearing out the roundhouse, weaving in rough branches into the largest holes, and daubing mud into the cracks. The thatch would have to wait for another day. Exhaustion crept into his bones, and his hip screamed at him.
As the evening fell upon them, Lainn gathered sticks, but Conall stopped her. “We shouldn’t light a fire tonight. We’re both too tired to stay up, and we can’t risk the place going up in flames. Tomorrow, during the day, we’ll test the hearth and watch it carefully.”
“Why didn’t we do that today, then?”
“The walls needed fixing first.”
She frowned but didn’t argue. She muttered under her breath, something about being able to do both, and then bit into one of Adhna’s apples. “We should also find the closest túath. Soon we’ll need more food than what Adhna gave us.”
“We have nothing to trade for food, Lainn. I might offer my services to do stone work, but it will take a while for the local people to trust us. If there even are any local people.”
“I could sing or tell stories, just like a real bard.”
“Won’t that get you in t-trouble? You’re barely one season trained.”
She shrugged. “They never told me not to. I’ve memorized the fifteen stories from the first year and most of the second fifteen. Even if people are familiar with the stories, the storyteller’s job is to bring life to those stories, to coax nuance out of the tale itself, and bring the characters to life. Gemmán always said I was particularly talented at that aspect. That must be worth something to a small túath.”
Remembering the hill in the distance, Conall wasn’t certain that would be the case. If an enclave of true druids lived so close, a trainee wouldn’t be in much demand. Many of the locals might already know the first fifteen stories just by sheer exposure. Still, he didn’t know for certain, and he didn’t wish to crush Lainn’s idea out of hand. She may end up being their savior.
They curled up next to each other for warmth, draping all of their brats and furs over them both. Exhausted as he was, it took Conall a long time to sleep, staring into the inky black winter night.
The cry of an owl roused him from half-remembered dreams of being chased through a raging river, not being able to move his feet fast enough to escape the angry river monster. He jerked awake but held still until the owl hooted again. He detected no alarm in the call, only a statement of existence. The owl wanted all to know he watched the night.
Conall shivered, his back and left side frozen from the cold earth. Where he curled around Lainn, his body warmed. He promised himself he would always protect her from danger, no matter what befell them.
Even if he hadn’t promised his father as much, he would always protect her.
He slept more soundly after that.
Chapter 6
The túath stood about a half hour’s walk south, comprised of ten roundhouses around a small gathering circle for festivals and bonfires. The bonfire was stacked high with sticks, probably in preparation for the mid-winter celebration. The farmers had likely been stacking deadwood on the pile for weeks, and it rose even taller than the surrounding roundhouses.
Farmland radiated from the center like a wheel. While each resident eyed Conall with suspicion at first, Lainn became his saving grace. Where doors were shut in his face, people smiled at his sister. When she offered to sing them a song, they listened, rapt at her perfect voice. Bright red cardinals alighted on her shoulders when she sang, making children gasp in wonder. Folks offered them food and drink for the entertainment, even inviting them in for a meal now and then.
After several days of gathering supplies, they returned to their cottage with riches of meat, cheese, and bread. They smiled and joked with each other on the journey back, their spirits and outlook lifted considerably.
The hearth needed work, but by moving the old stones to the edge of the cottage, they blocked some of the worst floor drafts. Plenty of dried branches and twigs lie around them in the forest. Conall wove a serviceable basket from dried reeds. With this creation, he
concentrated on remembering all his father had taught him about fishing. While his father had fished every day, he’d seldom brought his son until the last year or so. Conall had been barely twelve winters old when their father had fallen ill. Even then, his father had not taught him; not like Sétna taught the mason’s trade. He simply fished and let Conall watch. Sétna explained each step, the reason behind each step, and hints on how to avoid making mistakes. In retrospect, Sétna had been a much more effective teacher than Fingin had been.
The comparison rocked Conall. His father held a special place in his heart, almost a god-like status. He could do no wrong in Conall’s eyes. The honesty in this assessment, showing Fingin as less than perfect, especially as compared to Sétna, shattered that illusion of perfection.
Shaking away the disturbing revelation, Conall picked up his basket and tools and stalked down to the riverbank. After several tiring hours in the slushy water, he returned with three small trout. While their size muted his success, he still felt proud of his catch. They roasted the fish on a stone near the hearth that evening.
A large bubble formed on the skin of one fish and Lainn pushed it down with her finger, instantly putting the finger in her mouth to soothe the burn.
Conall laughed. “So, did that grant you all the knowledge of the world?”
She grimaced around her finger. “It’s not a salmon, silly, much less the Salmon of Knowledge. And you’re no wizard.”
“No, but we still have to figure out how to get enough food for the winter. I hoped you gained some wisdom.”
She poked the fish again, this time being clever enough to use a stick rather than her tender flesh. “We’ll figure something out. My singing went well today, don’t you think?”
He nodded. “More b-b-beautifully than when you sang for the bees. But we can only count on that for a while. Soon the local people will grow weary of even that beauty. Would you dance, perhaps?”
Age of Saints: Druid's Brooch Series: #7 Page 7