He drifted to sleep thinking of days past, but for once, he didn’t dream of that. Instead, he drifted through a fantasy landscape, filled with fluttering insects in rainbow colors. His feet didn’t touch the ground. He floated on a musical note, riding it like a horse, as if he knew how to ride a horse. He had no blanket, so the note hurt his legs. It rose up and down on a soaring scale. His ears almost burst with the pure sound as it spun and wheeled.
The note came near the earth at the end of the song. When he dismounted, the ground grew spongy beneath his feet. He tried to pull himself from the quagmire, but it sucked him back, and he couldn’t move.
When he woke, dripping nervous sweat, the night had engulfed the world. A few stars poked through the clouds, but the moon remained hidden, not even a faint glow through the overcast sky.
Bran snored next to him, his warm fur against Fingin’s back. Sean lay asleep on the ground. The small chitterings of night creatures chattered in his mind. An owl wondered who stirred, as a badger grumbled in his den about the prey having fled these last few days. He felt sorry for the badger, as the reason animals had run away must be Fingin and his friends. However, they’d return when the small group embarked upon the river the next day.
He whispered into the night, knowing the badger wouldn’t hear him. “Rest easy, badger. You’ll eat tomorrow.”
* * *
The heavy rain woke Fingin in the morning rather than sunlight or warmth. He lay in a soggy mudhole, the steady drops pounding on his head. How had he even slept through this? He must have been more tired than he’d thought.
Sean and Bran must already be awake, as he didn’t see them. Fingin stood, shaking the excess water from his léine, but it remained covered in mud. He shrugged and waded into the river. He might as well be clean if he had to be soaked. The raft bobbed on the surface as he walked into the water next to it. At least it still floated, proving out the soundness of his construction.
When he emerged, he sluiced the excess water, stamping his feet and shaking his hands. It made little difference. The downpour replaced any water he shook off.
He grabbed his pack and climbed up the incline to the glade, searching for his companions. The oiled leather should keep things dry, though after almost a week on the road, their food stores had gotten lower. Perhaps he’d cast his net. This river, though, seemed too powerful for a fishing net from the shore. He might find a smaller tributary as they traveled.
There, under a thick pine tree. Both Sean and Bran looked soaked and miserable. He chuckled as he made his way through the soggy ground. “Lovely morning!”
Bran bowed his head. “It’s not lovely. The rain wants to drown me.”
He had to chuckle at the hound’s misery. “The rain just falls. If we don’t get out of its way, that’s our own fault.”
Sean nodded and brayed. “We found shelter, but it still wants to drown us.”
Bran glanced up, his scraggly hair dripping despite the cover. “Can you ask it to stop?”
“I have no power over the weather. My grandmother did, but I have none. I’m as miserable as you.”
The hound remained sullen. “You don’t have fur. You can take your wet off.”
“But I can’t shake like you can to dry off.”
Fingin realized Bran may take his words as a suggestion, so he backed up, but he wasn’t fast enough. Bran shook his body so hard, a drop flew into Fingin’s eye. It stung, and he rubbed his face until the discomfort eased.
“Well, we’re going nowhere until this lets up. If the rain fell soft and misty, we might make do, but this is too heavy. The raft would be dangerous. Let’s find a better shelter than this tree, though. Bran, in your explorations yesterday, did you find any caves? Holes in rocks we can fit into? We stayed in one before the warriors found us that night.”
Bran stood, dripping, while he thought back to his roaming, but then he shook his head, dislodging further droplets. “I found nothing like that place. I found lots of rocks, but no holes in the rocks.”
The wind rose with a whine, making the pine tree limbs shake. This dropped more water on them, and some dripped down his back, making him shiver.
“I think we’re stuck here until the rain stops. I wish we had a fire, but it would never survive this.”
He sat with his back against the trunk. The needles beneath squished. He tried to close his eyes to rest, but he’d just woken up from a full night’s sleep. He’d never get more sleep in this. The drops seeping through the pine boughs fell less frequently than in the clearing but remained annoying. The damp air grew redolent with pine.
He should use this time wisely. He pulled out his pack and, careful to hold it sideways to minimize the amount of water getting inside, he pulled out his tiny remaining ball of twine. He would need to collect more materials, but having more twine would be useful.
“Stay here in the relative shelter. I’ll be back in a while.”
Bran’s ears perked up. “Are you going to get fish? I would like fish.”
“No, I’m not going fishing. But wait, I’ll get you some food.” He rummaged through the pack again and found some cheese and dried fish. He gave these to Bran and turned to Sean, but the donkey was already munching on the green grass peeking through the pine needles.
“I want the hot fish. The rain is cold.”
“I can’t cook anything, Bran. The rain is too wet for a fire.”
The hound poked at the dried fish with his paw and whined, unhappiness clear in his posture. After a few moments, he held it in his paws as he gnawed on it.
His companions thus sated, Fingin chewed on a piece of dried fish himself as he went in search of reeds.
The renewed strength of the rainfall on his head made him gasp when he left the shelter of the pine tree. In a short time, a headache formed from the onslaught. He collected reeds, grasses, and one small vine he found along the ground before hurrying back to the tree.
He didn’t have horsehair, but he squinted at Sean. “Sean, can I brush your mane for you? It looks tangled.”
The donkey raised his head but didn’t say no.
After grabbing his bone comb, Fingin brushed out the donkey’s mane. The hair took a great deal of work to unmat and untangle, but soon he had a good supply of donkey hair to add to his twine-making supplies.
Now he sat in his spot next to the trunk and lost himself in the braiding rhythm, the sound of the rain, helping him keep time with the task. His mind drifted, as it often did, but not so far as normal. He remained aware of the cold, wet mud he sat in, and the miserable, damp air.
His fingers chafed since they’d started out wet. Thin layers of skin sloughed off as he created the string from the rough materials, and he had to stop more often than he normally did. This helped to break his concentration, and the task became a chore rather than a joy.
With a sigh, he put away his materials. He’d gotten some work done, but his fingers ached. Instead, he sat with his head on his hands, watching the rain fall. Mist rose from the warm earth, making the atmosphere of the forest mysterious and beautiful. Sounds filtered through, the cries of birds, or the rustle of animals in the underbrush, perhaps displaced from their burrows by flooding.
Bran settled down after he finished gnawing on his fish and laid his head on Fingin’s lap. Even Sean stopped munching grass and lowered himself to the ground beside them.
Surrounded by warmth and steady sounds, Fingin slept again.
* * *
When he startled awake, the silence almost pounded on his skull. No rain, no dripping, no rustling. He cracked one eye open and remembered to test his skin for tenderness. Thanks to Brigit’s charm, the bruising had healed. No pain remained, even to his ribs. He breathed deep, thankful for the healing token.
Fingin rose, his clothing sticking in the mud as he stood. He grimaced at the mess and made his way back down to the beach. The humidity and heat had risen as the clouds scattered away in the brightening sky. Bran rumbled awake and followed
him to the riverside.
He let out a breath of relief. The raft still bobbed, tied to its tree. In the back of his mind, he’d felt certain the raft would have somehow become unmoored and floated away on the current. At least the logs will have swollen to form a tighter seal.
He waded into the water again to clean the mud away. Bran joined him, joyful in his playfulness now that the rain had gone away. The waterline had grown higher than the day before.
Sean joined them, and Fingin made certain they had everything they needed. He stowed the pannikins on the raft along with his pole.
Sean would be difficult to get onto it, so he decided he’d work with Bran first. “Right. Bran, come on up.”
Bran stared at the bobbing craft. “I have to get on that?”
“Yes. Not to worry. It’ll be safe.”
Bran shook his head. “I don’t want to get on. I’ll drown in the river.”
Fingin clenched his jaw. “Bran, come on. It’s not dangerous at all. See? I’m standing on it. It’s sturdy. It’s been floating all night without drowning.”
Bran retreated until he stood next to the hill and refused to budge.
With a sigh, Fingin turned to the donkey. He grasped the bridle and placed a gentle hand on his neck. “Sean? Will you show Bran there’s no worry?”
He led the donkey to the edge of the raft. The animal put one tentative hoof on the first log, which bobbed in reaction. He pulled back and retreated to where Bran sat. Two unmovable forces.
Fingin let out his breath and considered the raft. It seemed sturdy.
He climbed onto the raft and jumped up and down. “See? It’s stable! I can jump all over it and I won’t fall off!” He ran to one edge and then the other. He lay down on one side, trailing his hand in the water, then rolled all the way to the other side.
Neither animal seemed impressed with his escapades.
With a firm set to his mouth, he stomped back to the shore.
After careful deliberation, he pulled some soaking branches into a pile and, taking out the flint Brigit had gifted him, started a fire. It took a great deal of work to build one. The smoke billowed from the wet wood, but soon he had a reluctant blaze. He narrowed his eyes at the fire. It shouldn’t have been so easy. Then he glanced at the flint and decided Brigit must have placed an enchantment on that, as well. Then he got his cooking pot, filled it with water, and dropped in a large chunk of the dried fish. He waited in steaming silence as the fish soaked, getting soft and warm.
He refused to look at either of his companions as he stewed.
When he judged the fish to be tender, he tested it with a small bite. Perfect.
He then put out his fire, dumped out the excess water, and pulled out a sweet carrot from his pannikin. He placed the carrot and the lump of hot, cooked fish in the middle of the raft.
“Now, will you come? I have hot fish and a sweet, tasty carrot for you.”
Bran’s head drooped, but he approached the raft with wary eyes, sniffing the edge. He craned his neck out as far as he could while standing on the ground, but the fish remained out of reach. The tiny waves from the raft lapped against his toes. He whined.
“Come on, Bran. Tasty fish?” He held the piece up and took a bite, exaggerating his enjoyment. “Mmm. Careful, I’ll eat it all!”
With a whine and a yip, Bran jumped onto the raft. He stood, splayed, as the raft shifted. Then he took several careful steps toward the food.
“Well done! You earned your treat, Bran!” Fingin held his hand out, and Bran ate the piece of cooked fish. The hound then glanced over his shoulder at the shore.
“No, I need you to stay here. How about you, Sean? Wouldn’t you like this sweet carrot? Bran showed you how to do it.”
The donkey shook his head but tried the raft again. In a moment of inspiration, Fingin ran to the shore. Bran barked but didn’t follow. Instead, he sat and put his head on his paws. Fingin, once he got onto the land, pulled the raft onto the beach with all his might. The edge came up onto the sand.
“Now, the edge is stable. Give it another try, Sean.”
The donkey stepped on the closest log, but it only moved slightly, sinking into the wet sand. When Sean put a second hoof on the raft, it moved a little more, but still not the bobbing target it had been when fully in the water.
The animal climbed all the way onto the raft with slow steps. His legs remained at somewhat rakish angles, but he stood in the middle, happily crunching his carrot.
“Try sitting down, Sean. It will feel more solid.”
The donkey stared at him and then lowered himself with achingly slow movements. He didn’t seem at all comfortable, but he’d gotten on board. Fingin cheered inside and bent to shove the raft off the shore.
The raft sat deeper now with both Bran and Sean. He grunted and sweated until he managed a few inches, and then a few inches more. By the time he had the craft all the way into the water, he had just about run out of strength.
The raft bobbed in the water while both animals’ eyes grew wide, the whites showing in alarm. Fingin grabbed the line, untied it from the tree, and jumped onto the raft himself. He lifted his steering pole and shoved it into the slope of the riverbed, pushing away from the land.
They twisted and swerved in the river current. Bran sang a mournful howl, and Sean appeared terrified. However, Fingin sang a song his grandmother had once taught him.
“Aréir is mé téarnamh ar neoin
Ar ar dtaobh eile 'en teóra seo thiós”
Last night and I wandering as you do, On the other side of my lands I was. He shoved against the pole again, and they drifted further into the center of the river.
“Do thaobhnaigh an spéirbhean im' chomhair
D'fhág taomanac breoite lag tinn”
There a beautiful woman approached him, who left me sick and moody afterwards. Bran still whimpered, but he’d calmed down somewhat since Fingin began his song, so he kept singing, hoping it would distract the poor hound from his fear.
“Le haon ghean dá méin is dá cló
Dá bréithre 's dá beol tanaí binn”
With her lovely bearing and shape, her sweet words and slender lips. Sean’s eyes grew less wide and frantic, and he swayed in time with each stroke of the vessel.
“Do léimeas fá dhéin dul 'na treo
Is ar Éirinn ní neosfainn cé hí”
I hastened to be in her presence, but for all of Éire, I’d not tell her name. By the time he’d finished the song, both beasts seemed much less upset. He sang two more songs as they floated down the river. As they passed a bend in the river, he shoved his pole against the far shore, keeping them near the middle. The effort almost made him lose his balance.
The rest of that afternoon, they drifted down the water. He’d never moved this fast, and the land rushing by on either side of them made him dizzy if he peered at the details too hard.
Bran stopped whining but kept his head on his paws. He didn’t seem happy, but at least he no longer seemed terrified or miserable. Fingin took this as a measure of progress. Sean also seemed resigned to his current situation.
A few drops made Fingin glance up, surprised to find gloomy clouds rolling in. They didn’t look like a storm front, but the day waned. It might be better to make their way to shore and find a place to spend the night.
The center of the river ran too deep for his pole to reach, but as they passed a bend, the raft drifted closer to the far shore, and Fingin shoved the pole into the riverbed. At first, he made no difference in their path. Poling a raft took skill Fingin had never learned. However, with some practice and a few mistakes, he steered the raft close enough to shore to jump into the shallows. With quick movements, he tied the raft to a large rock.
Coaxing Sean and Bran off the craft took little work. Bran bounded off in a moment, his thrill to be back on dry land apparent. Sean stepped with more caution, but once he stood on solid ground, he shook all over. “I’m glad that’s done.”
The rain
dissipated as quickly as it had come, but Fingin didn’t have the energy for another journey that day. With a clear sky as the sun set, they slept on the beach. Fingin experienced a great sense of accomplishment for how far they’d traveled. It must be three times as fast as he would have done on foot.
The next morning shone bright and clear. Fingin greeted the dawn with great anticipation and excitement. The vantage point, on a shallow cliff above their little beach, commanded a fantastic view of the rising sun along the river. The morning rays colored the water with delightful shades of orange and peach. He took in a deep breath and with it, the promise and the hope of the new day.
He convinced both animals to mount the raft again without having to beach it first or offer a bribe of food. Perhaps today, they might reach the ocean.
Fingin’s grandmother had educated him as a child. She’d taught him history, geography, numbers, and practical things like making twine and manners. He tried to pull up the memory of the map she’d drawn of the island.
She had drawn a rough rectangle, tall rather than wide. She pointed almost in the middle. “That’s where we live, Fingin.”
He’d laughed. “We live over there in our home. Not here, in the stable yard. I don’t understand.”
“This is a drawing of what our land looks like, but much tinier than the real thing. Those Christian monks your parents love have drawings like this, in their scrolls and books. If you walked from side to side, east,” she pointed toward where the sun rose, “to west” and she pointed to where the sun set, “you’d have to walk for about two days if you never stopped to rest, eat, or sleep. Four days if you travel wisely.”
She pointed to the two sides of the picture. “That would correspond with my map here and here.”
He tried to get his head around the concept. “So, this is like when I make a tiny horse whittled out of wood?”
“Yes, just like that! A tiny model of our land. Now, I know you’re well familiar with our river, An Ruirthech. That’s here.” She drew a line near the right side of the map, about in the middle, top to bottom.
Age of Secrets: Druid's Brooch Series: #8 Page 11