“This place seems safe, Conall. I’m so tired; can’t we sleep? Just for one night?”
“Too safe, Lainn. It feels too safe. Why should we be safe here? We’re on a hill in the mist, in a place given to the gods long ago. This is no fit place for humans.”
She threw up her hands. “Now you're just difficult! Given to the gods…you think this is a sacred space? If anyone held this place in the least regard, they wouldn’t have left it to rot. Someone would have swept, repaired, and maintained the structure.”
While her logic made sense, it still seemed too odd for this sense of peace to come across so strong. Still, he grew weary after their ordeal. Sleep sounded delightful.
“Let me check the other roundhouse, just to be sure. Wait here.”
“Oh no. You aren’t going alone. I’ll be right behind you.”
He wrinkled his nose but said nothing. How would he stop her, anyhow? He adjusted the bag still over his shoulder, unwilling to leave it in case they needed to run from whatever hid in the second roundhouse.
The second house, though larger, hadn’t fared as well with time. Something had shattered the center pole, allowing the thatch roof to buckle inward. More broken furniture scattered within, as if someone had left in a hurry, forgetting essential pieces of their lives in a rush to leave.
Ghosts of prior residents flitted through Conall’s mind. Panic and fear seized his heart, urging him to flee before the danger arrived. He steeled his will and kept his feet from running far away.
“I don’t like it here, Conall. We chose the right roundhouse.”
He didn’t want to stay on the hill at all, but he agreed they needed to rest. They returned to the smaller roundhouse without a word. He set down Adhna’s linen bag, his shoulder aching with relief from the burden. As he set it upon the packed-earth floor, dust sprang up. The motes sparkled in the now strong sunlight, giving an almost magical hue to the air surrounding them.
Lainn had already curled up with her pack as a pillow, dead to the world. To protect her, he curled up behind her, sharing her warmth. He placed his smaller sack under his head and the larger one at his back. With one last glimpse at the door, the noon-day sun now beating through the remaining mists, he closed his eyes and found the bliss of slumber.
Chapter 8
The ice crashed on his head like hammers, pounding his skull until he covered his scalp with his arms. When Conall looked up, he saw the thatch had fallen away even further from their meager roof, letting in the winter hail.
“Blood and bones!” He scrambled to his feet and retreated to the more sheltered edge. Lainn looked out of danger, but his head ached where the apple-sized stones had hit him. He rubbed his hair, trying to ease the pain. The sheer volume of noise from the hail drowned out all other concerns until his bladder informed him he’d slept all day, thank you very much, and would like immediate attention.
He stepped outside and took care of his need, ducking the hail as best he could. When he went back inside, he checked their supplies. All three sacks remained safe, so he rifled in his small pack for an apple. He found the dried venison and a small cheese first, so he ate those. The venison tasted sour; soon the dried meat would be unsafe to eat.
He put the rest out for Lainn when she woke, and washed down his meal with water from the flask. He watched the hailstones as they bounced around on the open floor of the roundhouse. He picked one up, hefting the icy stone a few times with a smile, despite the chill. He grabbed two more and used them to practice his juggling. A few times he dropped the stones, and they cracked into many pieces, but he had a huge selection of replacements.
Conall didn’t understand how Lainn slept through the racket, and for a moment, worried that she’d once again fallen into an unnatural slumber. However, she moaned a few times and turned over.
She woke with a cry, her eyes darting around the room. “Conall! What in the name of Goibnui’s forge are you doing?”
He blinked several times and held up his ice balls. “Juggling?”
Lainn stared at him and burst out laughing. Conall smiled and then giggled, unable to keep from mirroring her mirth. Soon, they both rolled on the ground with belly-laughs, reveling in the hilarity of nothing at all.
Adhna once told him laughter worked as a salve for the soul. For once, Conall believed the old man’s ramblings. After their hilarity subsided, his shoulders felt less burdened.
Lainn spied the food he’d left out and fell upon the morsels with ravenous intent. When she wiped her mouth, she glanced at the sky, still spitting smaller hailstones. “I suppose we need to repair that. The hole is a lot bigger than the last place.”
Conall nodded, studying the problem. “Maybe we can take some thatch and timbers from the other place?”
The amusement fled from her expression, her mouth in a grim line. “I don’t want to walk in there again.”
“We don’t have to go inside. I can extract the supplies from the outside. The job will go more quickly if you help, though.”
She nodded, still watching the hail. “What if we build a wicker wall for this half of the roundhouse? The half with the roof?”
“The remaining roof needs more support. A section fell in this storm. The structure is more sound when complete. And a wicker wall wouldn’t keep the wind out as well as we don’t have enough daub for sealing. We have plenty of mud, but are short of horse manure.”
Reluctantly, she agreed. “Fine. But I won’t go inside.”
As the storm continued, they swept out the livable space, arranged food on what remained of the shelves, and organized a sleeping area better than bare dirt, and ancient hearth remains. Luckily, they hadn’t seen many mice in the cold. Conall found several stones to create a true hearth area and gathered rain-soaked wood. He didn’t relish the billows of smoke they’d cause, but he found no dry wood. His muscles and bones protested the cold, and they’d need a fire as the sun set. He couldn’t tell the time of day through the storm clouds, but dusk must be approaching. They’d slept most of the day.
Lainn kicked in the back of his knee. “Wake up, daydreamer! We’ve got too much to do in too short a time for you to gather wool.”
He scowled at her. “Shut up, Lainn. You sound like Sétna.”
Her eyes grew round, and he regretted his words. “Crow dung. I’m sorry, Lainn. I didn’t mean that.”
Lainn set her jaw and picked up the bundle of wet sticks she’d dropped. She shoved past him without a word. Once she tucked them into a dry spot, she walked out into the storm.
“Lainn? Lainn!”
Her form disappeared into the sleet. With a growl, Conall grabbed both his brat and hers and ran after her.
His skin grew instantly frozen as the icy rain pelted him, stinging his face and his ears. He drew his brat over his head but the chill settled into his bones. His feet crunched as he stalked after his sister, having no clue in which direction she’d run.
Damn my thoughtless words and damn her for running off in this. They still didn’t know if this place would be safe, and she’d gone haring off into the unknown in the middle of a winter storm. They’d both freeze to death before he found her.
His foot fell through an icy puddle, dunking him into cold water mid-calf. He cursed again and jerked his foot out, shaking off the excess as best he could. In an even fouler mood, he continued. Something bounded across the path, a streak of gray and brown. He considered trying to catch the rabbit, but finding Lainn remained more urgent. They’d need fresh food, but he first needed to make certain his sister returned safely.
He spied a lump under a lone hawthorn tree, and he caught his breath. Lainn huddled beneath, her arms cradling her head on her knees. He knelt beside her, tossing the brat around her shoulders and hugging her tight. She flinched away but didn’t make him move.
“Come back to the roundhouse, Lainn. You’ll freeze out here.” He drew her up to a standing position, and she didn’t resist. She also didn’t look into his eyes. Still, she allowed him to lead her
back down the path and to relative safety and dry shelter.
The slush and sleet grew thicker, and he had to push physically through the falling ice, one step at a time. The path blurred before his eyes. When the peace washed over him, he knew he must have arrived in the smaller roundhouse. The shock of no longer being pelted by ice pellets made them both gasp as they gained the sheltered portion of the room.
Despite having only just woken, his limbs had grown heavy with exhaustion from his brief sojourn into the storm. Lainn drooped as she sat on a log, hands once again cradling her head. He heaved a deep sigh and gathered logs and kindling, praying he could find some not completely waterlogged.
Conall shaved bark with his belt knife and piled the kindling in the center. He pulled out his small tinderbox and clacked the stone several times, trying to get the spark to jump on the shaved bark. After about ten tries, he gritted his teeth and pulled on his magic. This would take a feather touch, but he should be able to guide the spark to the right place.
One click and his magic pushed the spark across the room. A second click and he barely moved it. The third click brought the spark closer, but the bright spot died with a sizzle on a wet log. The fourth one flew true, and he only needed to nudge the spark into place. A small wisp of steam curled up from the bark. He fanned the small spark, praying for the flame to catch. Soon, with judicious additions of bark and splinters, he had a small, merry blaze going.
As he sat back to survey his efforts, he considered the differences between a wood fire and the more familiar peat fire. Peat fires burned low and smoldered for a long time, while a wood fire burned hot, fast, and fierce. Flames licked higher with a wood fire, as sometimes peat had no flames at all, only embers. Peat might even smolder underground if unchecked. His father once told him a story of a bog which caught on fire, but no one knew until someone dug down to where the fire burned. A huge billow of smoke enveloped the man and cooked him in a matter of minutes.
A glance at his sister showed her curled up and asleep again. He supposed he shouldn’t blame her. Sleep seemed an excellent idea.
First, Conall set out the last apple for her and roasted an onion for his own meal. The sweetness of the flesh burned his lips, and he sucked in air to cool his mouth. When he had licked the last of the charred juices from his fingers, he curled up next to the fire and pulled his brat over his shoulders.
They felt bonier than he ever remembered. They’d both lost so much weight. Once again, he used his pack as a pillow.
As exhausted as he felt, sleep danced out of his grasp. He drifted in and out of consciousness, punctuated by the sound of hail drumming on the thatch with occasional drips of icy water working through the thinner parts of the roof. In contrast, the toasty warmth of the fire made him uneven if he lay on one side for too long. He’d shift and toss, once kicking Lainn in the shin in his gyrations. She grunted and moved further to the other side of the fire to avoid his feet.
The rain lessened and the chill deepened. Snowflakes replaced the rain with less noise, drifting in silence down upon the now ice-covered surfaces. Conall watched each one fall in lazy circles from the midnight sky, wandering down random paths from the heavens to gather into snow clouds on the ground. Wet kisses from the few drifting onto his face soon made his skin damp. He rubbed his face with the edge of his brat, but the scratchy wool cloth remained damp from yesterday’s venture into the storm.
Conall gave up on trying to sleep. He sat up and studied the ceiling in the dim firelight. Wood gave off better light than peat fire did, though it flickered more. The shadows gamboled across the ceiling, making a true assessment difficult. He’d have to survey the damage in the morning.
He filled the pot with fresh snow and set it into the embers. By the time Lainn woke, he’d have made a rough soup with the last of the onions and some turnips. They had no meat left, but perhaps he might snare a rabbit soon.
He stared at the pot, waiting for the water to boil. The dark reflections of the liquid shimmered and shone, a black pond under a starless sky. He stared at the images which swirled on the surface, losing himself in the gyrating features. He almost made out the form of a man beckoning to him. The form looked lean and long, with dark hair and pale skin. His movements seemed seductive and tantalizing.
Lainn’s high-pitched screech startled him from his imaginings, and he sat bolt upright. He scrambled to his sister and pulled her into his arms, rocking her for comfort. He whispered soothing sounds, but still, she screamed, her voice slicing into his nerves and his heart.
“Sh, Lainn. I’m here. You’re safe. No one can harm you.”
“He’s coming. He’s coming for us now. He will find us.”
Conall thought he might if she didn’t stop screaming. Horrified at his own uncharitable thought, he hugged her tightly, proof against anything in the outside world that might harm her. “I’ll protect you, Lainn. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”
He rocked her back and forth, praying for her calm and her silence. Eventually, her screams subsided to whimpers. She cried in time to his rocking, back and forth, sob and breath. Back and forth, sob and breath. Her wet tears mingled with the melted snow on his face. Somewhere, a raven called in the night. He glanced up to see if Rawninn had found them after all this, but saw no living creature in the crumbling roundhouse.
Ages later, Lainn slept again. As difficult as this had been for him, this ordeal must be a thousand times worse for her. She looked like a boy, now he’d gotten used to her clothing and hair. She’d subsumed her entire identity in this mad escape. He wondered if he’d ever get his old sister back—the carefree, delightful young girl who skipped through summer storms and laughed while picking wildflowers.
When reluctant sunlight filtered through the lingering snowstorm, flickering shafts of light found Conall’s face. He’d fallen asleep holding Lainn in his arms. She still slept, drooling from the edge of her mouth. He wiped it and laid her on the floor, using both his brat and hers to cover her body from the chill.
The water had almost boiled away, so he added more snow. When this boiled, he chopped the remaining onions and turnips in, adding the rosemary he’d gathered. He wished he had salt or garlic. He eyed the wood-ash, knowing it would impart a salty flavor. With a sigh, he swept some up and sprinkled the ash in. He didn’t care for the charred taste, but it improved the flavor of the bland vegetables.
Several hours later, the savory aroma of the stew must have woken Lainn, for she moaned and turned toward the fire, opening her eyes. Her nostrils flared, and she sat up, rubbing her eyes. “How long did I sleep?”
“Forever and a day, good sister.”
“Brother. Call me brother.”
He closed his eyes. “No one can hear us.”
“It doesn’t matter. If we are traveling and someone hears by accident, things might go wrong. Promise me, Conall.”
“I p-p-promise, Lainn.”
“Thank you. Now, what delectable delights have you cooked for our morning meal?”
He smiled at the glimmer of his sister’s irrepressible optimism and gestured with the spoon in a dramatic flourish. “Your meal will be a delicious stew with onions, ash, and turnips, should it please you. At least you had the forethought to sleep long enough to allow the stew to simmer.”
She tossed him a half-smile before she stood to retrieve the bowls. “And if it shouldn’t please me? Then what would you do?”
“Throw the slops to the pigs and find you a rabbit.”
She handed him one bowl. “I wouldn’t turn down meat. Do you remember how to set snares?”
He nodded as he served them both. “Father taught me before he left. Sétna never bothered with such things, but I should remember. I need to find a sapling flexible enough to bend.”
She glanced up as a drop plopped on her forehead. “I think the roof repair has greater priority. What will you need for that?”
While he listed off the things he’d need, including stout branches for the frame, dr
ied grasses for the thatch, and twine to hold it all down, he blew on his stew to cool it down. Lainn watched him and smiled. She stood, grabbed a handful of snow, and dropped a bit in each of their bowls. In moments, the snow melted and cooled both bowls to eating temperature. He stirred his and took a sip. His clever sist…brother.
He tried to wrap his mind around thinking her as a boy. If someone heard them in casual conversation as they walked, or even came upon them here in the roundhouse, any innocent remark might be dangerous. Even as a boy, she’d be in danger. But she’d be in less danger than a girl.
“Why don’t I teach you the snares? That way you can set several while I gather the things for the roof? The snow seems to have stopped, so we can start as soon as we finish eating.”
Lainn nodded, taking another sip of her soup. “Sounds fair enough. You use willow switches, right?”
“Sometimes. You can use braided sinew or twine, but I’d rather save the twine for the roof repair. I have sinew in my pack. If you use a switch, cut the branch and strip it thin. Bend the branch into a full circle. It should be flexible enough to tie a slipknot at the end. The branch also needs to be stiff enough to stand up along the rabbit trace, so the loop catches around their neck as they run through.”
She nodded, closing her eyes. “I think I can visualize it. How do you find the nests?”
“They’ll be sleeping for the winter, but some are up and about. I saw one yesterday when I chased you down.” He frowned but she still had her eyes closed. “Search for hollows and depressions, lots of brown leaves and shrubs. If you can find a trail leading from it, with broken branches or trampled leaves, that will be your best spot. I’ll make one and show you how, then you can do more.”
“Will you need help gathering the supplies for the roof?”
He shook his head. “I think I can get most of what I need from the other roundhouse. I will need help with the actual repair, though, unless I want to risk breaking my neck.”
“Right. I’m done with my stew. Give me your bowl, and I’ll clean them. Then we can set snares!”
Age of Saints: Druid's Brooch Series: #7 Page 10
