Age of Secrets: Druid's Brooch Series: #8

by Christy Nicholas

  He needed more fish for breakfast. Yesterday’s catch had been enough to feed himself for two days, but not himself and a starving wolfhound.

  To get more fish, he needed to repair his net.

  With a determined stride, he walked to his abandoned project from the day before and bent to his task. He pulled a length of thin rope, braided with horsehair, thin vines, and reed stalks. He tied fast knots to one side of the enormous gap remaining from yesterday’s fiasco and tied the other end to the opposite side of the gap. Once he finished, he tied parallel lines across the gap until he had everything in that direction.

  Now for the hard part.

  He then added rope cross-ways, tying new knots at every juncture. This step took much longer than the first pass, and he had to get up often to stretch his legs and back.

  The hound still slept.

  Fingin smiled every time he glanced at his hut. He hoped Bran would want to stay. It would be nice to have a friend.

  Just as he tied the last knot of the main gap, a loud yawn came from the hut. Bran stretched and rolled over, but he didn’t wake.

  He held up his repaired net, searching for bits he’d missed. There, that knot didn’t seem secure. He re-tied it and tested the fastness of the net as a whole, tugging and pushing across.

  A sloppy job now meant empty bellies later. If Bran stayed, he had two bellies to fill, and failure wouldn’t mean just his own hunger.

  “What’s that for?”

  Fingin just about jumped out of his skin when the words intruded on the quiet morning. He spun to see Bran watching the net with a cocked head.

  When he caught his breath, Fingin answered. “It’s a net. I throw it in the water to catch salmon.”

  At the mention of fish, Bran’s ears perked up, and his tongue fell out of his mouth. “Fish? More fish?”

  “In a little while, Bran, I hope. I have to catch them first. Want to come watch me? Or do you want some water first?”

  “Fish!” Bran leaned crosswise and nibbled at the bandage on his leg.

  “Don’t eat that, Bran. It’s there to help your leg to heal.”

  Bran glanced at him, then to the bandage. With reluctance, the dog left the cloth alone.

  They walked down to the river. Bran watched with interest as Fingin waded out to his normal perch, a flat stone in the middle of the river. Then he cast his net, letting the weights pull the edge down to the riverbed once again. When he tugged, he watched for any unusually large salmon, but none appeared to ruin his net this time.

  A few expert tugs, and he almost had the net drawn in. Bran bound into the water and yanked the net, his teeth affixed to one edge. “Bran, no, no, you’ll tear it. It’s only designed for one person to pull.”

  Bran bowed his head and shrunk away with a whine.

  “It’s all right, Bran. I’m glad you wanted to help. But I’ve made my net so I can work it alone.”

  He tugged and pulled at the net. He’d gotten a decent haul this time, at least a dozen or more trout and a pike. One little salmon wiggled through a hole in the net, and Bran bounded after the tiny fish, losing it in the splashes.

  He didn’t look where he walked, and his paw stepped onto the net as Fingin still struggled to pull it to shore. Soon both paws got twisted in the net, and he yipped, trying to get free.

  “Bran! Stop moving. Hold on.”

  Fingin waded back out into the river and patiently extricated his new friend from his freshly repaired net. “Now, stay clear of the net in the future. It’s too easy to get tangled.”

  When Bran returned to shore, he tried to nibble on the cloth again.

  “Stop that, Bran. It won’t heal if you don’t stop bothering it.”

  Bran bowed his head, his wet fur dripping on the shore. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Just learn.” Fingin grinned to take the sting from his words. “I’m glad to have you as a friend.”

  Bran’s tail wagged so hard, droplets splattered them both.

  * * *

  “Can I eat this one yet?”

  “Not yet. I have to clean it. I don’t want you choking on a fish bone.”

  “What about this one?”

  Fingin closed his eyes. “No. Wait a few minutes, and I’ll have this one cleaned. You can have it. But eat slowly, because I have to clean all these fish, and no, you don’t get to eat them all.”

  Bran settled down and placed his head over his crossed front paws, the very picture of patience and virtue. Fingin set to cleaning the first fish.

  It had been quite a struggle to drag the net up the steps with Bran’s all-too-willing help. After various shouts, slips, and one yip from Bran, they hauled the net full of fish out to the clearing. Now he’d clean each one. With fourteen—no, fifteen—fish, most decent sized, he might give two to Bran, two to himself, and have eleven for market. Fingin glanced at the sun to judge the day. He’d woken early, and the sun hadn’t reached its zenith yet. With luck, he’d have time today.

  The market lay about a half day’s walk through the woods to a small valley. About ten families lived close enough to meet every ten days to trade when the weather remained bright. A fantastic day, full of sunlight and singing birds. Everyone would be out just to enjoy the day as much as possible.

  While Fingin must trade his fish so he might obtain things for his own needs and comfort, he hated going to market.

  He talked well enough to Bran and other animals, but his ability to converse with humans left much to be desired. His voice always stumbled and halted, making him sound like an idiot. No matter how much he practiced or tried, he barely got words out, much less whole sentences. Each word came like pushing against a riverbank.

  He’d often wondered how much of this had to do with his grandmother. Before she left, he spoke as anyone else did—perfectly fine to humans, not at all to animals. At least, when he spoke to dogs then, they hadn’t answered back.

  When she left, she took his human voice and left an animal voice. This left him unsuited to living in a village. Invariably, the locals would chase him away after he’d been there a little while. He didn’t know if the reaction stemmed from from fear, distrust, or plain dislike. Whichever the reason, he’d grown used to moving on every two or three winters to a new place.

  Which is why he didn’t keep many things.

  While Bran gleefully munched the growing pile of fish guts, Fingin gutted and cleaned each fish. When he’d finished, he stretched his arms behind his head and let out a long, low groan. His back ached from hunching over.

  Bran glanced up from his meal, slime dripping from one side of his mouth. “Is my friend hurt?”

  “Not hurt, just aching. I sat in one place too long. I shouldn’t do that.”

  The silence which followed his statement pounded on his brain. He shook his head and cleaned his gutting knife. After wrapping the cleaned fish in birch bark and tying it with string, he placed it inside.

  “No more fish?”

  “You’ve had two. No more now. I have to cook some for myself.”

  “Cook?”

  “Make it hot with fire.”

  Bran cocked his head. “My other friend did that. Why?”

  “It tastes better. I’ll let you try a bite when I’m done.”

  “He never let me taste any.”

  Sending a silent curse to whoever had been Bran’s “friend,” Fingin poked the fire with a stick. He skewered the two fish on another and placed it over the fire, across two Y-shaped sticks staked into the ground for that purpose.

  The sizzling of the fish made his mouth water. He realized he’d eaten nothing since yesterday afternoon, and the sun had risen to a zenith. When he judged the fish cooked, he pulled it from the flame to cool.

  “More fish now?”

  “Wait until it cools, Bran. Otherwise, you’ll burn your mouth. That’ll hurt.”

  Again, Bran pouted with impatient eyes. When Fingin pulled the cooked flesh of the fish apart with his knife, Bran per
ked up, and his tail pounded against the ground in delighted anticipation.

  Fingin placed a big chunk of cooked fish on the stone near Bran’s head. The dog sniffed at it several times before he licked the treat. He ate from the edge once and then devoured the whole thing in less time Fingin took to blink.

  “I suppose that means you like the cooked fish?”

  “I do. More?”

  “Not just now, Bran. I have to finish my meal. Then I need to go to market with the rest of the fish. Would you like to come along? Or would you rather stay here and guard our home?”

  “Home?”

  “This place, where we sleep. It’s our home, yours and mine.”

  “I like our home, but if you leave, I should be with you.”

  The simple answer made Fingin smile.

  Why had he never had a dog since he spoke to animals? It had been fifteen winters since his grandmother had left. In all that time, he’d seen several dogs, but they worked on someone else’s farm. He’d known a cat once, but she’d preferred to go her own way when he moved from that place. She’d been far too independent to attach herself to any human, no matter how well she understood his speech.

  Birds, squirrels, rabbits, even the occasional deer, had conversed with him, but the simpler the animal, the simpler the speech. While he barely understood the speech of bees and beetles, the bits he did understand centered around food and survival.

  Their conversation didn’t assuage his own loneliness.

  Bran, however, might become a true companion, someone to help him through the long, lonely nights. Someone to watch his back when he slept on the road. Someone to share the sights and ideas he came across.

  He ruffled the dog’s head until the gray, wiry fur stood on end. With a grin, he got up and gathered his wares.

  * * *

  The birds sang and swooped as Fingin and Bran walked along the bare trail from his hut. His new friend bounded after partridges and rabbits, delighting in the journey. The village lay a good walk away, but the distance seemed shorter with Bran at his side.

  Once, after burrowing into a rabbit’s hole, Bran raised his head, and Fingin had to laugh out loud. A ring of dirt and clover surrounded his snout. After a sneeze and a violent shake of his head, Bran trotted next to him in quiet dignity, as if nothing of the sort had happened.

  He glanced at the large, derelict roundhouse in the next glade from his own. The place had been empty for a while. Fingin had even considered moving in, but something about the place made him wary. The thatched roof required significant repairs, difficult to make without another human to help him.

  They passed another bend in the river, the huge badger hole in the hillside, and a stand of enormous oak trees. Fingin had to call Bran away from investigating the badger hole. Beyond the oaks lay a place he never went, a small circle of three ancient stones. Fingin shivered at the thought of the place. Even in the bright sunlight, the circle gave off a sense of danger, a feeling of being watched. He didn’t go there.

  When they rounded a tall hill, the village came into sight; five farms clustered together with more on the outskirts. The local folks had created a center space for people to gather for fairs, harvest celebrations, and markets.

  Thatched-roofed roundhouses ranged in size from tiny like his to huge. The largest held a family of seven and had two stories. Farms with fields of turnips, wheat, cabbage, barley, and rye radiated out from the roundhouses in a random pattern, like a broken wagon wheel. Smaller, kitchen gardens grew herbs such as rosemary, onions, garlic, and chervil.

  Mid-summer meant the first, fast-growing vegetables would be harvested and offered in trade. Fingin spied several people he knew by name. They knew him but rarely offered any friendliness. He’d moved into his hut only a winter ago, and so remained a stranger, even if his speech hadn’t been garbled and difficult to understand.

  Perhaps twenty people gathered in the clearing that day. Several sat behind benches, blankets, or trestle tables to show their wares. A few had a lean-to set up for shade. The summer dust rose from the trampled ground and tickled his nose until he sneezed. Bran echoed his sneeze and shook his head.

  The first bench held the tanner’s goods. Sometimes Fingin caught a deer or rabbits and spoke to them, but today he only had fish. He continued past the baker, the weaver, the chandler, and several others. He normally took the space at the end, next to several people selling vegetables and fruit.

  Bran went to each person, sniffing them and their wares. The tanner shooed him away, but the baker gave him a small treat, much to his delight. After that, Fingin tried to call him back, but he wouldn’t listen, not with the possibility of food.

  Unfurling a clean blanket, Fingin set down his birchbark-wrapped bundle and unrolled his fish. Bran settled down on the blanket behind him.

  “I want to go sniff more people. The woman with the blankets smells like sheep.”

  Fingin murmured, keeping his lips still. “Just stay behind me until the fish are gone. Maybe she’ll come to us.”

  A few minutes passed before anyone approached them. A young mother, a toddler on her hip, walked by and peered at his offerings. She lifted a pot and raised her eyebrows. “I have honey. How many fish would you trade?”

  Honey. He hadn’t had honey in many months. His mouth watered at the memory of the sweet treat. He licked his lips and counted his fish. He’d never been good at adding, but his grandmother had taught him numbers. A fair trade demanded at least four of his catch. He’d caught fifteen fish. Bran had eaten two, and he’d cooked two. Another two remained at his hut for tonight’s meal, the smaller ones. That left him nine to trade.

  If he gave four of the nine to this woman, he’d only had five left. He craved bread. He needed a blanket for Bran. Maybe the honey woman would bargain. He held up three fingers.

  The woman frowned and examined the fish. She pointed at the three largest. He nodded and wrapped them in a piece of the birchbark. She put down her child and handed him the pot of honey. Then she stowed her fish into a bag over her back, hiked her child back onto her hip, and walked away.

  As the sun dipped lower in the sky and no one else stopped by, Fingin gathered his remaining six fish and told Bran to wait for him on the blanket. Bran whined but stayed as he walked to the weaver. The older woman, portly with smile lines around her mouth, scowled as he approached.

  Fingin examined the items she had laid out on her trestle bench. Three thick blankets, a léine, and two hats. The thickest blanket had been dyed a lovely, vibrant green. He wanted something thick for Bran, as the nights would grow cold soon enough. However, the vibrant dye would cost more fish than he had. He pointed to the gray one next to it and held up his fish.

  She narrowed her eyes. “What’s the matter, boy? Can’t you ask like a human? Or have the Fae stolen your tongue.”

  They’d encountered each other before. She well knew he had trouble speaking. He set his jaw and repeated the gesture.

  “I don’t sell to mutes. Prove you’re human.”

  He closed his eyes and swallowed, willing his voice to cooperate, just this once. “F-f-f-four fish… gray blank…et?” His voice scratched out, barely audible.

  She laughed, a nasty, mocking laugh, and gestured over the baker. “Come, listen to him try to talk, Maire.”

  The baker waved the weaver off. “You’ve heard it a dozen times, Nuala. When are you going to tire from the sport? The man just wants a blanket, for Danu’s sake.”

  With a scowl at her friend’s betrayal, Nuala handed him the blanket and put her hand out for the fish. “There, you’re done. Now go.”

  He rolled the blanket like a snail’s shell and tucked it under his arm. He had wanted to get some turnips with the remaining fish, but he felt he owed the baker some custom for her unexpected support. After putting the blanket next to Bran, he approached her table.

  She wrapped three loaves into a thin cloth. “Here. Take these and welcome. No, I won’t take your fish, young man. You
deserve better than such treatment. Save that fish for something else.”

  Tears pricked his eyes at the kindness, and he bowed his head in thanks, putting one hand over his heart. With a shy smile, he left her and went to the vegetables.

  Trades completed, he grabbed both blankets and the bread. He stowed them in his own sack, and they walked out of the clearing, with another shy smile for the baker. She waved at him and turned to her own child, murmuring something to the girl.

  He hadn’t even walked halfway to the first hill when the baker’s girl ran up to him. She held something in her hand. “What’s your dog’s name? Can I give him a piece of bread?”

  Another prickle of tears threatened him as he nodded. He squeaked out the name, “Bran,” as the child petted the hound with a clumsy hand. For his part, Bran wagged his tail with great enthusiasm and slobbered all over the girl. She gave him a final pat and a grin and ran back to her mother’s bench.

  “What do you think, Bran? Was it worth the long walk?”

  Bran’s tail thumped. “Can we go back tomorrow?”

  Chapter Two

  Bran’s leg healed over the next days, and he bugged Fingin every morning, asking if it was time for the market yet. Fingin tried to teach Bran how to count, so he would know how many days until the next market, but Bran couldn’t hold the concept in his brain. He understood one and two, but after two, it became many. Fingin gave up.

  When he said “yes” to Bran’s daily question of “Can we go back tomorrow,” Bran leapt around the clearing, barking and spinning like a child with a toy. Fingin had managed to not only catch several dozen fish this week, but he’d also dried half, so they’d keep much longer. Fresh fish tasted better, but dried fish would last into the cold winter if kept well. Those he wouldn’t sell in the market. He had two mouths to feed now. He’d best make plans.

  Even with only the fresh fish to sell, he’d saved twenty. He’d be able to get bread, vegetables, even some beef for Bran. A diet of all fish and a loaf of bread might not appeal to a dog. He’d grown used to such fare himself, but he was human.