He had been all around the surrounding countryside, but this path didn’t seem familiar. Perhaps it had changed from weather or season since the last time he walked here.
His life had been divided into three distinct sections. The first section had been his childhood, filled with anger and fear from his parents, but love from his grandmother. His adult life divided into the settled times, with fishing and sneers from people in the marketplace, and the traveling times, with uncertain days but the intense freedom of being bound by nothing.
Some people lived in the same place their entire lives. Their ancestors had worked the same land they worked for hundreds of seasons. Their very blood became part of the dust and dirt they returned to in death. Others lived on the wind, never staying in one place for more than a few days, dancing on life like a cloud. His had become a hybrid life, with change orchestrated by the whims of those around him and his own inabilities to fit into a normal village.
Did he wish to fit into a village? Loneliness became difficult sometimes, but he treasured his solitude. Being alone meant no one criticized or demanded things from him. Bran demanded nothing but fish and the occasional dig into a rabbit’s warren. In return, he gave love and cheer.
He and Bran should be their own village. Would they be able to survive alone? A diet of nothing but fish might pale. Fingin craved other foods and sometimes grew ill if he didn’t get some variety. He’d tried that before and once had been so ill he barely got to the market. The onions he’d purchased had tasted so good, his body must have craved the tangy vegetable.
The light grew dim, and Fingin glanced up to see the clouds had grown thicker, darker, swirling in the wicked winds. He frowned, looking around for a likely shelter from the coming storm, but finding nothing.
“Bran! Search for a cave or hut as we walk. I’d rather not be caught in a downpour tonight.”
Bran glanced over his shoulder. “I sensed a hut back a little while ago, but I also smelled people.”
“I’d rather find a place with no people if we can.”
“No people? But I like people.”
He chuckled. “I know you do, Bran, but people don’t like me very much. It’s easier if I don’t live near them.”
Bran hung his head and walked beside him for several silent minutes before he raised his head. “What if I find people who like you?”
Fingin knelt beside the dog and hugged him tightly. “I already found someone who likes me, and he’s enough.”
* * *
The air grew damp as the clouds got darker. The wind picked up, rustling leaves and blowing their hair this way and that, like Fae playing with their locks. His neck tickled, and he rubbed it, wishing he didn’t feel the storm in his bones. The dread came over him like a wave, making his eyes dart around for the danger.
He realized Bran would sense any danger before he did. His paranoia didn’t make sense. That didn’t stop his anxious glances behind him and into each dark spot beneath the bushes. A bird flew toward him, and he ducked, throwing his arms up to shield his face.
Fingin didn’t like this at all. They needed to find shelter and fast. “Bran, can you see any place? The wind is throwing sand in my eyes.”
“Just a little farther. Something delicious is ahead.”
That didn’t reassure him in the slightest. The dog, beloved or not, remained a slave to his stomach. A delicious odor distracted him from an important task. He had few other options than to follow the hound’s scent trail.
The forest grew darker. Or perhaps the sky? He barely glimpsed Bran’s fluffy tail whipping the brush in front of him as he followed the dog down a dwindling trail. He shoved branches and bracken away from his face as they pushed their way through.
The wisdom of following a dog through a strange forest in an oncoming storm might be questionable. Still, Fingin trusted his dog didn’t want to drown in a rainstorm any more than he did. He pushed on, catching small scratches from thorns and branches. One whipped into his stomach as Bran passed it, making him lose his breath and double over.
The trees cleared, opening into a cozy glade. A fat white cow with red ears stood beside the hut, chewing her cud. Fingin caught his breath as he noticed the small roundhouse and an old, bent woman next to a well. He glared at Bran for his betrayal, but the dog glanced up with his mouth open and his tongue out, as happy as ever.
Fingin whispered, not wanting to gain the woman’s attention. “This isn’t an abandoned hut, Bran.”
“But this is a person who will like you! You said that’s what you want!”
A querulous voice rose over the whisper of the wind. “Make up your mind if you want to come help me with this blasted bucket or stand there and gabble all day.”
With a final withering glance at his hound, Fingin approached the woman, who struggled to pull the bucket from her well. He leapt to help her tug on the rope, lifting the thick wooden vessel from the mouth of the round, stone structure. She looked at the bucket, glanced at the sky, and sighed. Her iron-gray hair had been tied up in a messy bun, and her short, round figure seemed solid in countless layers of woolen shawls. “I suppose I should have just waited for the rain. But I need water if I’m to make some stew for my guests. Come inside now, before the rain hits. Bran can come inside, as well.”
She turned, walking into her hut, leaving both Fingin and Bran astonished. How had she known Bran’s name? He glanced at the dog, but Bran just tilted his head. If he could shrug, he might have done so.
The shambling roundhouse leaned to one side, the stones around the base haphazardly scattered. The thatch seemed sound but seemed uneven. Once inside, the space felt warm, cozy, and most importantly, dry. A cheerful flame burned bright in the central hearth. The first heavy drops of rain whipped onto his back as he closed the door behind them.
The old woman settled onto a well-worn and well-padded bench. She gestured for him to take the only other seat, a wide stool next to the hearth. Bran settled at Fingin’s feet and gazed at the woman.
“She smells friendly. I like her. Do you think she has any fish?”
Though the dog’s voice remained in Fingin’s mind, the old woman answered. “I have no fish, Bran, but I have some venison and milk. Would you like that? Your young man may also have some if he likes.”
Both Fingin and Bran stared at the woman in growing apprehension. Who was this woman who listened to their thoughts? With clammy palms, Fingin glanced at the door, now closed fast against the furious storm pounding against the daub and wattle walls of the roundhouse. The wind screamed outside, a furious gale like few he’d experienced. Yet the danger of staying inside with a clearly supernatural being might be greater. Would he ever see the open sky again? Had he just doomed both of them to a horrible death?
“Have no fear of me, Fingin. I mean you and your hound no harm. Hounds are special to me and have ever been my friend. Besides, this one only came to you because I sent the salmon to distract you.”
Mustering his courage and bracing himself for his broken voice, he pushed out the words, “What’s your name?” His eyes flew open in surprise, for the words came as easily as they did for Bran or any other creature of the forest or river. If she had magic, a Fae, she would require a price for the shelter she provided them. Fingin doubted a few seconds’ help with a water bucket would be sufficient exchange for such a gift.
She grinned, showing bright teeth. “You may call me Brigit, my dear. You’ve honored the dawn many times in your life, and I take that as an honor to myself. Now, I’m glad for your help with the water. May I repay you with a story?”
Brigit. Goddess of the Dawn. Healer, poet, and smith. The devoted goddess to a thousand sacred wells, to cattle and crafts. The harbinger of spring and inspiration.
She couldn’t be. She raised one eyebrow, waiting for him to come to his conclusion. He cleared his throat and put a hand on Bran’s shoulder for comfort. “A story would be lovely, thank you.”
Before she spoke, she poured liquid into
two iron mugs, offering one to Fingin. He took it and peered into the dark vessel, unable to discern the contents. The aroma wafted strong and sweet—mead. She poured more into a bowl and placed it in front of Bran, who sniffed it warily. With a glance at Fingin, he lapped it and then lapped more. Fingin drank half of his own mug down, and the warm alcohol suffused his body.
The anxious worry slipped away. He relaxed to listen to her story.
“Long ago, when the Túatha Dé Danaan battled the Fomoire, they chose one of their men to spy on the battle. They wanted him to spy upon the camp, the soldiers, and the magical prowess of those who opposed them. The man they chose was Rúadán, son of Bres.”
Fingin recognized the tale and the name. While Bres may have been his father, Rúadán’s mother was Brigit.
“He spoke of the things he saw. The ironwork of Goibniu the smith, the woodcraft of Luchta the craftsman, and the gold work of Creidne Cerd the goldsmith. He spoke of the four healers around the Dagda’s Well, and how they brought to life every warrior who’d fallen the previous day.
“Bres told him he must go back and destroy Goibniu. But Goibniu had much power and possessed great magic, so Rúadán crafted a plan and returned to the enemy camp.
“He requested a boon of each smith. He asked Goibniu for a spearhead, Luchta for the spear shaft, and Creidne Cerd for rivets of gold. Armed with this magically crafted artifact in his hands, he twirled and thrust it into Goibniu, wounding him with grievous violence.”
Bran whined at this betrayal, and Fingin stroked his head to reassure him.
Brigit folded her hands across her belly. “But Goibniu did not die from the wound. Instead, he pulled the spear from his body and cast it back at Rúadán with such force that the spear plunged through his body and out the other side. He then died in front of the Fomoire and the Túatha Dé.”
She fell silent, mourning her son, the foolish pawn of his father. She cried an unearthly keening which filled the roundhouse with echoes of pain and longing, the agony of a mother who has lost her son. Bran howled in response to her keening, and Fingin had to cry with them, the grief and sorrow welling inside him. It poured out of his voice and his eyes.
Fingin didn’t mourn for Rúadán, though. He mourned for his grandmother, for his childhood. He mourned for the dozen places he’d lived and loved the land, only to be chased away. And he mourned for the normal life he would never grasp.
The three of them cried and keened and wept for time and life. They shared a common grief and would always have this part of each other.
When their sorrow abated, and Fingin took a true breath once again, he stared at the cup he’d drunk. Had the mead made him so sad? He felt lighter than he had for many winters, almost as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps he’d needed some time to mourn the things he no longer had in his life.
When he glanced up, the old woman had disappeared. In her place, a younger woman sat. A mature matron, with a strong jaw and crisp, blue eyes. She peered at him with a knowing smile.
“My story seemed to resonate with you, young Fingin. I’m glad my tales still evoke such strong emotions in the world. Now, will you join me for a meal? I don’t eat in any style, just some stew and bread. Still, it’s better than dried fish, is it not?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she stood and stirred the pot in the hearth. Fingin didn’t remember there being a pot on the hearth, but he realized now he visited a magical place, with a magical being. He must take nothing for granted in this house, nor with this woman.
Buzzing bees tickled his mind, but he saw none flying around. He glanced at Bran, but the hound had lain across his feet, at peace and content with his spot. If the dog sensed no danger, why should Fingin remain cautious? Yet, tales from his grandmother about the dangers of dealing with the Fae haunted the back corners of his mind, and he resolved to keep strong and wary.
Brigit chuckled as she stirred the pot, but said nothing. Fingin realized she listened to his thoughts, but he had no experience in keeping his mind quiet. He had no walls to keep her out.
“Indeed. Now, the venison stew is just finished cooking. Fetch two bowls from the shelf. There’s a good lad. One for you and one for Bran. No, no, I’ve already eaten. Your grief fed me well, and I thank you for that.”
He found the bowls in question, expertly fired pottery with a subtle flame design in the outside glaze. She filled both with generous ladles of stew. The rich aroma permeated the small hut, making his mouth water. The venison had been cooked so tender, the meat fell away when he poked it with his spoon, and the chunks of turnip and onion melted in his mouth. He didn’t recognize which herbs she’d used to season the stew, but the salty fat seemed what his stomach craved.
He didn’t think he’d ever eaten a tastier meal in his life.
The bread he used to sop up the last drops of broth had been well-baked, with flecks of exotic black pepper and salt on the crust.
Bran lay down beside him and placed his head on his paws. At a loss to what he should do, Fingin offered to clean the bowls.
“Just place them outside. The wind and the rain will do most of the work for us.”
That didn’t help pay his debt for her hospitality. He peered into the thatch and noticed some thinner spots. They didn’t leak, but they appeared darker, wet from the rain seeping in. “Maybe I can do some repairs for you? I must repay you for letting us stay.”
She regarded him for a silent moment. “I suppose you do need to repay me, at that, young man. Let’s sleep upon it tonight. In the morning, I’ll give you some ideas on how you might help. I do little over the summer. Most of my work is finished for the season, but sometimes help is useful. Not to worry, none of them will be onerous duties.”
Only slightly reassured, Fingin nodded in agreement. She provided a warm, woolen blanket and a large, soft pillow to lie upon. He curled around Bran and fell asleep almost as soon as he lay down.
* * *
The vivid dream slammed into his unconscious mind like a sudden storm. His grandmother stood in the center of a crowd—a crowd that included him. She seemed young, younger than he’d ever known her to be, with midnight hair and milk-pale skin. The wind whipped her hair like dancing feathers, as the crowd screamed and shouted. They brandished angry faces and burning torches.
He glanced to either side and found no familiar faces. Even the clothing seemed strange. He didn’t recognize the place, either. Some ancient stone circle on a hilltop with a massive cairn covered in turf.
The crowd surged forward, calling his grandmother nasty names. She spat to the side and bared her teeth at them, gripping a pitchfork with white-knuckled hands. She protected a man from the crowd, who held a carved wooden staff. His eyes grew wide with terror, and his simple léine had been torn in several places. A scorch mark on the shoulder must be from one of the torches. He had long black hair and beard, with sun-dark skin. The two circled, back to back, against the crowd of shouting people.
Horrified at the scene, Fingin tried to run to her, to stand by her side, but he had no command over his movements. A bee buzzed by his face and landed on his nose, making him cross his eyes to see the creature. It pricked his nose and flew away, heading toward the man next to Fingin’s grandmother.
The wind grew stronger, making the torches sputter and flare. It swirled around the circle of anger, so strong it threw them off balance. Fingin stumbled into his neighbor, now able to move his feet. He took advantage of the freedom to flee to his grandmother.
Up close, she looked like a Fae. Her eyes were more cat-like than human, and the lines of her face seemed sharper. Her dire straits did nothing to diminish her beauty, and Fingin felt uncomfortably attracted to her. She seemed no older than he, a buxom maiden with fire in her eyes.
“Who are you? Go away!” She stabbed at him with a bronze, leaf-shaped knife. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now the wicked blade came close to his stomach, and he jumped back.
The man next to
her stared at Fingin. He gave a slow nod, as if the man knew Fingin and why he watched. “Go, my child. She doesn’t need you in this time. You have other work to do.”
A crash behind him forced him to whirl, and he fell into the blackness.
He spun and flipped, his sense of balance vanished. His hands touched no surface, his eyes saw no light, and his stomach rebelled at the nothingness.
Something squishy lay beneath him, a soft pillow. The tantalizing odor of sizzling bacon awoke his senses. He opened his eyes, then shaded himself from the bright sunlight streaming through the window.
Bran licked his face with instant affection, and he shielded himself from further attacks. “Bran! Stop that!”
The sizzling bacon continued to surround him with delicious temptation, but his bladder informed him he had other duties first. Fingin stumbled out the door to the edge of the woods and relieved himself. He hadn’t greeted the dawn today, and it seemed to have been a powerful morning. The night before must have exhausted him, for him to miss the dawn.
The jumbled memories of his dream crashed into his waking mind. He tried to sort through the images to make sense of them, but they refused to cooperate. He shook his head as he returned to the cottage, wishing he remembered the details. The fuzziness took over his recollection, and they drifted away into the darker recesses of his mind, places he rarely peered into.
“You had quite a night, young man. Here, you need your strength.”
Brigit presented a plate piled high with eggs, cheese, bread, and the bacon, the smell of which had woken him. He glanced to ensure Bran had also been served before ravenously devouring the delicious repast.
By the time he’d sopped up the grease with the last crust of wheaten bread, he lifted his head to notice Brigit regarding him with a contemplative expression. She seemed even younger than the night before. Perhaps the harsh light had been unkind to her. She seemed young to middle-aged, rather than the bent old woman who struggled with the well bucket. His grandmother had always said a good night’s sleep would cure what ailed you.
Age of Secrets: Druid's Brooch Series: #8 Page 6