“Ah, yes, Cliodhna. Quite a woman in her time, you know. Few dared to cross her, and those that dared invariably regretted it. I believe you saw a glimpse of that just last night.”
Fingin remembered the dream, and a vague memory of his grandmother’s name niggled out of his deep memories. Cliodhna. He never called her that, but his mother had.
“Did you meet my grandmother?”
Brigit chuckled once, then a second time. The third laugh came loud, bouncing around the small hut until she held her side. “Know her? Did I know her? Yes, child, I knew her well.”
“I dreamt of her last night, but she looked young.”
“She had great beauty then. She’s younger now, of course, but that’s how it works sometimes.” These words made no sense to him. However, Brigit didn’t give him time to ask questions. “Now, if you’ve finished your meal, I have another tale to tell you. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes, please. But please, tell me what you would like me to repair, in payment for your hospitality.”
“You can repay me by sitting down and listening to my story, young man. Did I not just tell you?” The steel in her voice made him sit still and listen.
“Many winters ago, when your grandmother remained a young woman, we called her Cliodhna. She had great beauty, with long, flowing, black locks, as dark as the midnight sky. Many men courted her, eager to make her their bride, but she rejected them all.”
Fingin didn’t doubt she’d be in great demand, from the glimpse he’d had in his dream. Her beauty turned many heads and hearts. She’d had strength in her eyes, a woman not to be trifled with. From what he remembered of her in real life, she’d maintained that strength and then some.
“Cliodhna reached the age of five and twenty winters before her father insisted she choose one of her suitors. Until then, he’d indulged her whims for the riches he might get when she wed. However, when she still gave no sign of accepting a suit, he grew impatient.
“At this time, I studied the new religion in the nearby abbey, vowed to the sacred fire which burned inside. I had a burning curiosity, eager to learn new things, despite my own nature. Though I’d vowed to eschew the company of men, I might entertain female visitors. She often came to do charitable work, and we developed a close friendship. I saw fire within her soul and appreciated her ability to temper strength with an uncommon wisdom. I nurtured this desire and even taught her a few tricks.”
Fingin grew confused again. What power would a woman have? She remained her father’s property until she married a husband. True, some had great influence upon the leaders in a túath, but they didn’t have influence themselves.
The strong breeze whistled through the thatch, reminding him of the storm in his dream, the wild look in his grandmother’s eyes as the gale whirled, surrounding the people. Had his grandmother called the wind? Was this the strength of which Brigit spoke?
He tried to pull up any memories he had of his grandmother, which involved the weather, but most memories had been tied to either his own misery or delight, not to his surroundings.
“The day that man came to the village; however, everything changed.”
That man? Did she mean the same man in his dream? As much as he wanted to believe the dream had been a fantasy of his own creation, he understood, deep within his soul, it had been a true memory. Perhaps he’d plucked it from Brigit’s own mind, with details he would never have known for himself. “Was he a dark-haired man with a beard?”
She took a sip from her mug and smiled, a knowing smile with the wisdom of the world within. “Why yes, young man, that is correct. He came to trade honey, but he left with the sweetest jewel of the land.”
Had they been lovers? Had his grandmother run off with this man? He’d never known his grandfather. Had he died before Fingin’s birth? “What was his name?”
“His tale is not mine to tell. He must tell it himself. Now, I’m weary and must take my rest. An old woman must nap during the heat of the day, to rest her bones, you know. There might be extra thatch in the alcove next to the well if you insist upon some repairs.”
With that, she curled up into her own bed and pulled the wool blanket over her head. Within moments, soft snores became louder than bees in a glade, and Fingin led Bran outside lest they disturb their mystical hostess.
Chapter Five
The tale of his grandmother churned up too many memories. He performed the mechanical movements of cutting the straw, binding it to the roof, and tying the bundles to the trusses. His final encounter with his grandmother flooded into his memory.
Her hair had been black streaked with white, and she wore it in a thick braid around her head. While her face had grown lined with the weight of winters, her eyes remained clear as a summer sky, blue and sparkling. Her voice didn’t quaver but bit with caustic strength.
He’d been mucking out the stable, a job he enjoyed as it kept him from being bullied. His brother disliked horse manure, but Fingin enjoyed the horses’ scent. They had a wonderful presence and always nickered in greeting when he worked the stalls. They’d even rear up when his brother tormented him nearby. He sang a low tune in time to his raking motion.
His grandmother’s voice broke through his woolgathering. “Fingin! Stop that now. I have something for you.”
He obeyed with alacrity. Though he only counted eight winters, he knew better than to ignore his grandmother’s commands. She had a quick hand and a quicker tongue. She didn’t hit to punish, though, only to command attention. His father didn’t share that philosophy.
Fingin followed his grandmother down the path away from their farm. The sky shone clear and bright overhead, the sun pounding on his scalp. His curiosity grew strong, but he mustn’t ask what she wanted. She would tell him in her time and not one moment before. She wasn’t tall. His legs were as short as hers, so they walked apace.
Up the path, they climbed, around the rocky outcropping the goats favored, down past the glade where his father repaired his tools and through the young oak grove. The trees grew older as they got deeper into the forest, more ancient trunks of gnarled bark and thinner undergrowth. The tree canopy blocked out much of the light from the already cloudy day, leaving the world in shadow and gloom.
He’d rarely explored this far from home at his young age. He’d climb down to the river to fish, as his father had taught him. Once a day, he climbed down to the river and cast his nets. Some days he caught nothing, but other days he contributed to the stewpot and earned a rare smile from both his parents. He’d wished he could bring fish home every day and earn those smiles.
They climbed a low hill now, to the scary place.
Twelve thin, dark stones jutted out around the crown of the hill at an outward angle. Though the trees edged the circle, nothing grew within the stones. Darker clouds swirled overhead, and he smelled rain on the wind. The stones loomed black in the stormy world.
Dread swept over Fingin at the sight of the stones, a dread which screamed at his legs to run, far away, as fast as he could. His grandmother had a firm grip on his hand, though, and despite her age, her strength remained greater than his.
Storm clouds roiled above, and a rumble of thunder boomed across the hilltop. The vibration buzzed through his feet and his bones. The wind swirled, and the air chilled. It had been the height of summer, but now he shivered, aching to be somewhere else. Anywhere but here.
She drew him into the circle. At the edge, a shock passed through him, making his skin tingle. The first drops of rain fell on his head.
His grandmother stood in front of the largest stone, the one facing west. It loomed with dark menace over them, forbidding and dangerous. “Stand here, boy. You must stay here, no matter what happens. Do you understand? I have some work to do before the ceremony.”
“Ceremony?”
“Shush now! All will be clear in time.”
He stood, rooted by the terror of disobeying his grandmother, even stronger than his fear of the stones. He star
ed up at the tallest one as she walked around the circle, chanting in archaic words just past his knowledge of language. Sparks flew from her feet and hands as she marched three times, sunwise, around the stones. Each time, the glints grew stronger, brighter, and crackled in the foggy air.
The breeze swirled with her pace, a slow whirlwind. Did the wind move her or vice versa? She gesticulated on the third pass, the sparks forming arcane shapes before her. Fingin had seen similar shapes carved into ancient kerbstones around the burial mounds in the sacred places. Triple swirls and endless curvilinear knots, a serpent forever eating its own tail.
As she completed her third round, the lightning struck.
The searing light left a black spot in the center of the circle. Fingin’s resolve fled. He scrambled toward the outer edge, hugging the now-familiar black standing stone as if the unyielding rock was his own mother’s arms.
Thunder muted his sobs. Rain drowned his tears.
His grandmother now stood in the charred spot in the stones, her arms raised high, now chanting at the top of her voice. She called down the weather gods, beseeching them with speech, and will to do her bidding.
“Mysterious Manannán and Aebh, rulers of the mists!
Shield us with your cloak
Brilliant Grian and Elatha of the sun and the moon!
Transport us with your silver craft
Powerful Tuireann of the thunder bolts!
Guard us with your fury
Honored Cailleach, the ruler of ice and snow!
Keep us in your arms.”
The woman standing in the center of the circle was no longer his beloved grandmother. In her place stood a powerful druid, a woman capable of calling the heavens to earth to destroy them all.
Fingin closed his eyes and prayed to any god who would listen so he’d wake up from this frightening vision. No divine intervention came. Instead, the flash of the lightning forced him to open his eyes just in time to see his grandmother struck by the light. Rather than burning into cinders, she formed the light into shapes. Stars, circles, spears, and other, less recognizable images flew from her fingers.
Afterimages burned into his mind, to live there forever. When the light faded from his sight, his grandmother seemed young again, no longer the tired matron. Now she stood tall and beautiful, with smooth skin and imperious eyes.
She turned to him, and again he wanted to flee for his life.
“Now, child, are you ready for your legacy?”
He swallowed, unable to speak.
She reached into her bag and extracted a small package of white, shimmering fabric. She stepped toward him with an air of ceremony, the object held before her as if a burning ember. When she stood but an arm’s length away, she halted and unfolded the fabric.
First one corner, then a second. A third and a fourth. The final wrapping revealed a glowing artifact of gold, silver, and green. Filigree gold and silverwork entwined in animal shapes, a penannular brooch with four green gems, glittering in the dim light with a mystical shine of their own. The emerald light bathed them both in a preternatural glow.
Despite the part of his mind that screeched in terror, he reached with one hand to touch a green gem. He half expected his grandmother to pull the jewelry away, to laugh in cruel jest at his temerity. However, she allowed him to tap the jewel.
Pain flowed through his finger and seized every muscle in his body. A red glow permeated the air around him. He shrieked through the anguish, his strained voice echoed by the thunder. A metallic scent filled the air as he fell stricken to the ground. His head wouldn’t move, nor would his eyes close to prevent the rain splattering in.
He had one last thought before he lost all sense. His grandmother might have found a much simpler way of killing him.
* * *
As his memory vision faded, he returned to the present, working on Brigit’s roof. He’d fixed most of the thatching as he daydreamed, which surprised him. He had no memory of actually completing the work. He’d repaired roofs before, but he didn’t do it every week, like braiding twine or casting his net.
Bran slept in the eaves of the roundhouse, but Brigit had gone. He must have concentrated so hard, he’d lost time, to do so much work. He checked the spots he’d worked on, but the ties seemed sound.
“This is a place of dreams, young man. Yours have been most nourishing, I assure you. I wouldn’t do you such a bad turn as to make you fall when you gave with such a generous heart.”
He whirled to find Brigit behind him, seeming even younger than she had before.
“Do finish the story. What happened after you woke at the stone circle?”
His words wouldn’t come. Rather than the halting inability he had with humans, this time, he had a blank mind. He had no memory of what had happened after he’d woken.
“Come now! You must have woken. Otherwise you’d still be asleep. I haven’t got all day, now. The evening will be upon us in a short time. You’ve places to go on the morrow.”
He cleared his throat. “I woke, wet and alone, in my own bed. Nothing remained, not even the brooch. Not even my grandmother. She took my voice and gave me another.”
“That’s when you discovered the ability to speak with animals, yes?”
He nodded, remembering the joy and apprehension when he first realized his gift. And the mourning he did when he realized the price she’d exacted.
“She has something of yours, you know.”
“My voice?”
“Well, the brooch took that, not her, but the brooch itself, young man. That belongs to you, not her. She gifted it then took it back. That’s not permitted. You must retrieve it.”
“Will it get my voice back?”
Her eyes softened. “No, my lad. I’m afraid that won’t happen, not until you gift the brooch yourself. It must be to someone in your family, and you’ve no one but yourself at the moment. So, you have several quests. You must find your grandmother, retrieve the brooch, and then find yourself a lovely woman and have a family.”
He dropped his gaze to the ground, pushing some grass aside with his toe. “I tried to find her when she left.”
“Aye, so you did. You had few winters yet and were unsuited to cross-country travel. However, you’re a man grown, well capable of caring for yourself on the open road. You made it here readily enough, with Bran’s help. And with this fine hound by your side to protect you, how can you fail?”
* * *
The next morning dawned with foggy humidity. Fingin could barely see his hand in front of his face. Still, he woke well-rested and eager to travel.
However, Brigit wouldn’t permit him to leave just yet. She regarded him for a moment, her finger on her lower lip. “I've got a few things for you.”
The pile of items Brigit had gathered for him loomed like a dark mass in the mist. Failing in his quest looked more and more like a desirable outcome. How in the name of the Good God would he be able to carry all this? She’d given him cooking ware, several changes of clothing, hunting weapons, as if he knew how to hunt, food to last him and Bran several weeks, plus some odds and ends he couldn’t begin to identify. His back ached at the thought of carrying this pile.
Brigit kept returning to her roundhouse and rustling around, coming out with a new treasure or find. She added it to the growing pile and returned for more, without stopping for questions from the erstwhile travelers.
When she emerged with nothing in her hands, Fingin let out a sigh of relief. Bran gave a breathy woof.
She stood with her hands on her hips, frowning at the mound of supplies. “No, that won’t do. It won’t do at all.” This time she walked to the tree line and disappeared into the woods.
Fingin glanced at Bran, apprehension clear in his eyes. He had just about convinced himself she had left for good when crunching leaves heralded her return. The noises seemed much more than a single woman, even a goddess, should make. When the donkey emerged first, Fingin smiled. He should have trusted Brigit.
/> By the time they’d packed the items into pannikins and strapped them to the donkey’s back, the sun had burned through the mists, allowing the heat to bake the dew-wet grass.
He had no experience riding such a creature. He’d been on a horse once, but that only lasted a few seconds before he fell flat on his back on the dusty ground. Fingin had no urge to repeat such an experience. However, he didn’t need to ride the donkey. Instead, the placid creature seemed content to carry their gear, which, Fingin admitted, would be a nice break to him carrying a heavy pack on his back as he traveled.
Once Brigit finished tying the packs down, he patted the donkey’s neck. “What’s your name, friend?”
“The woman calls me Donkey. Is that my name?”
“It’s what you are, not who you are. Would you like me to give you a name?”
The beast nodded and brayed. “Yes!”
“How about Sean? Sean is a good, strong name. You’re a good, strong beast. Does that suit?”
The newly-named donkey nodded again with great vigor, almost knocking Fingin over. “I am Sean!”
With a laugh and a pat to Bran’s head, Fingin turned to the goddess. “I think I’m ready to leave, but where do I start? How do I find my grandmother?”
“Head west. There is an island with monks from the new religion. There is one there who has known your grandmother, and may direct you further.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ask for Maol Odhrán. He’s an older monk. It’s been many years since either of us encountered your grandmother.”
Brigit put her hands upon his shoulders and stared into his eyes. The regard of her gaze grew heavy, and he wanted to turn away. He didn’t dare. “Do not fail in your quest, young man. Generations of your family depend upon your success. Each one has an important place within this land, and you are the linchpin that will keep that lineage in place.”
With a frown, she pulled out a small object and placed it in his hand. She closed his fingers over it. A small iron pendant, shaped into a flame on a circle. The jewelry hung on a long, thin piece of fresh-cut fabric.
Age of Secrets: Druid's Brooch Series: #8 Page 7