Fingin had no drive in his life until he finds a half-drowned dog who becomes his best friend. That friend leads him to a cottage where a powerful woman sends him on a quest to find his grandmother. With his dog, Bran, and a donkey, Sean, they embark upon their journey. The problem is, his grandmother no longer seems to exist in this world.
Between falling in with a band of Fianna, nearly drowning in a river, and climbing to the rocky top of Skellig Michael, Fingin had just about had enough of this quest when some magical creatures sent him in the correct direction.
Once he finds his grandmother, he realizes nothing works out as it should have. She is far from what he remembers and even further from what he’d expected. And she entangled in a power struggle of her own and has little time to attend her wayward grandson.
Soon, a battle ensues, and Fingin is caught in the middle. He decisions will have long-term consequences for himself and those he loves.
AGE OF SECRETS
Druid’s Brooch Series, #8
Christy Nicholas
Published by Tirgearr Publishing
Author Copyright 2019 Christy Nicholas
Cover Art: Cora Graphics (www.coragraphics.it)
Editor: Sharon Pickrel
Proofreader: Lucy Felthouse
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This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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DEDICATION
We get to choose our friends, but not our family. Sometimes you have to remove yourself from those you are related to for your own well-being. I dedicate this to all those people who must choose between their health and their relations.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
As always, I want to thank my husband, Jason, and my author group for all their help, support, and friendship. My beta readers, Ian Erik Morris and Mattea Orr, your feedback was invaluable.
PRONUNCIATIONS AND DEFINITIONS
People
Adhna — Eye-na
Aebh — Ayv
Airiu — AY-ru
Bodach — Bud-ukh
Bres — Bresh
Caicher — KAY-kher
Cailleach — CAL-yukh: The hag goddess
Creidne Cerd — KRED-ne KURD
Elatha — eh-LA-tha
Fionn ma Cumhaill — FINN mack cool: Legendary leader of the Fianna
Goibniu — GOB-noo
Grian — GREE-ahn
Guaire — GAY-reh
Luchta — LUKH-tah
Manannán — Ma-na-NAAN
Míl — Meel: Leader of the Celts who came to Ireland from Spain
Onchú — AHN-khu
Pádraig — PAD-rig
Rúadán — ROO-dan
Tuireann — TOO-reen
Places
An Ruirthech — an ROOR-thekh: The River Liffey
Hy Brasil — Hee Brass-el: A mystical land to the west of Ireland
Imleach — IM-leekh
Tír na nÓg — Cheer nah Nohg: Land of the Ever Young
Other
Dearbhfhine — jarv-INAH: Related by having a shared grandparent
Fomoire — Foe-MORE-eh: Ancient race in Ireland before the Túatha Dé Danaan
Géis — gesh: A curse or requirement
Léine/Léinte — Lay-na (singular)/Layn-tah(plural): A long belted tunic
Murdúchann — MUR-doo-khan: mermaid or merrow
Túath — Twah: Medieval extended household
Túatha Dé Danaan — TWAH-ha day DAH-nan: Fairies or people in Ireland before the Sons of Mil
AGE OF SECRETS
Druid’s Brooch Series, #8
Christy Nicholas
Chapter One
Fingin flung the fishing net with all his might. The circular sieve spun wide and nestled onto the surface of the gently flowing An Ruirthech River. Slowly, the weights on the edge sank to the rocky floor. With gentle tugs, Fingin pulled the handline and tightened his snare. A few times the net caught on stones, but a slight twitch freed the twine. He frowned when he hauled the whole thing to shore; only three small salmon and a young pike.
Typically, he did much better at this time of the evening, as the sun kissed the edge of the dusky horizon. Still, he had plenty to eat and more for the market in the morning. Since he left home seven winters before, he’d learned to balance his work and his needs pretty well.
Perhaps just one more cast would be wise. He cleaned his catch, sniffed the fresh wind for a hint of rain, and finding none, waded back into the river.
The river narrowed here at the sharp bend, making the current run swift and strong. It also corralled the fish into a smaller area. Fingin whispered, urging the fish to come closer. His voice flowed out through the air and into the water.
Sometimes they listened. More often, they fled. Fish grew naturally wary of any fisherman, despite his unique ability to talk to them. Just because they understood him didn’t mean he had command over their actions.
He avoided speaking with fish, especially since his voice, even with magic, got distorted through the water. He preferred talking with larger animals, as they had more grasp of conversation. But sometimes he persuaded the fish to swim closer toward his net.
A ripple upriver caught his eye, glinting in the setting sun. Fingin squinted as the disturbance grew closer. Something large swam beneath the surface, something he wouldn’t want in his net. Hastily, he tried to pull the net in, but it caught on a rock and refused to budge. With frantic hands, he attempted to untie the handline from his wrist, but the water-soaked knot stuck fast.
“No, no, no! Go away! Go around!”
The salmon ignored his imprecations and hummed a sprightly tune as he leapt, cutting the river’s surface with a glint of silver and pink, before barreling into Fingin’s net. He held on for dear life as the fish plowed through, snapping the bits of braided horsehair and vine like a rotten bit of thatch, but the main part of the net held. The force pulled Fingin well into the center of the river, spluttering and gasping for breath like the fish he often tossed on shore.
The water roared above him and into his lungs, forcing the breath from him. His panic rose as the current slammed him into a jagged rock. Pain shot through his midriff. He gasped when his face found air for a moment. The water snatched him away from blessed air. He gasped again, but water flooded his mouth. His lungs burned from lack of breath.
The handline cut deep into his wrist, digging through his soaked skin. He clawed at it as the water swept him downriver, but it remained tight. The raging current and the power of the large fish pulled him with surprising ease. The salmon wriggled through two more bends in the bank as Fingin’s sight dimmed. Gray surrounded him, and he faded.
A wrench to his arms signaled the huge salmon tearing through the net. Fingin scrabbled back to the surface. He rasped a huge breath, drawing
sweet, fresh air into his lungs. He continued to drift down the river, the destroyed net trailing behind him.
With a set jaw and an angry step, Fingin retrieved the shredded remains of his net and slogged back to the shore.
He pulled the now useless net to the banks, squelching through the river mud and reeds to dry land. He wrapped it into a ball and considered throwing it back into the river—a just reward for the betrayal it caused.
With a deep sigh, Fingin tucked the awkward, sopping bundle under his arm and walked upriver. The net hadn’t been at fault. A salmon that size had no business being this far up An Ruirthech. He lived leagues away from the sea, and only the smaller salmon made it this far past the weirs and the rapids.
The hike to his small hut didn’t take too long, despite his adventure in the river. The river wound through the countryside, but walking overland got him there much more directly.
He didn’t live in high style. The rough hut wouldn’t last more than a winter or two. He never bothered with the hard work anything more permanent would require. Not anymore.
Not after the last time.
His current home stood next to a large open area in the woods, nestled within a tight bend of the river. A small beach allowed easy access to the water, and a large, flat rock lay next to the hut. This rock allowed Fingin to spread out his net when it needed repairs, like today. It also made a great place to clean his catch.
Fingin lived a simple life, but he liked it simple. He craved human companionship, but daren’t seek it out. He spoke to birds and squirrels, but they only spoke of sweet, simple things. They had no deep philosophies.
From his net-repairing rock, he glanced up to watch the river as it meandered, wiggling his hands to keep them from aching. He bent back to his task with industry, determined to fix at least half the damage while the light of the day remained strong. Occasionally, he’d glance up at a sound or to stretch his back.
It must have been a cursed fish, or maybe some faerie conjuration. Regardless, his net had no chance against such a thing. Still, he jerked the strands with frustration as he repaired the net out on the big stone.
He rose to go into his hut and retrieved his supply of thin rope. He’d need to make more. Although the ball of rope seemed hefty, repairs on this scale would use most of it up.
When Fingin sat again, he let out a deep sigh. He’d forgotten to stoke the fire. It remained banked from the morning, and if he didn’t start it now, the night would fall before he had time to cook his meal.
He stood again, peering at the river. A large log swung lazily along with the current, with something round and furry in the middle. Fingin squinted to make out the object between the glints of the setting sun.
The object lifted its head, and Fingin recognized it to be a scraggly wolfhound, soaked and scrambling to stay on the branch.
Without a thought, Fingin rushed to the far end of the river bend, to cut off the path of the log. He scurried down to the small beach and dove into the water, swimming with powerful strokes to reach the log before it floated away. He almost got a handhold before it spun away.
With a spluttered curse, he yelled at the dog, “Come! Swim to me! I’ll take you safe to shore!”
The dog lifted his head up with surprise. He’d never have heard anyone speak to him in words he understood.
After a heart-breakingly long moment, the dog left the dubious safety of the soaked log and paddled toward Fingin. The enormous dog almost dunked the man, but Fingin rolled on his stomach, asking the dog to drape his paws over Fingin’s shoulders. “I’ll bring us back to shore. Just keep your head above water.”
With both of them panting, he crawled to the beach and dropped on the sand. The dog did the same, his pink tongue flopping out of his mouth.
When Fingin caught his breath, he sat cross-legged next to the beast. The poor thing appeared half-starved and half-drowned. The silver-gray fur felt matted and patchy, and his gaunt frame showed through the skin.
He patted the poor dog a few times while the beast’s breath slowed to a normal pace. “Stay here just a few moments, dog. I’ll be back with some food, water, and a nice cloth to dry you. When you’re fed, I’ll take you up to the fire and get you warm, aye?”
The wolfhound opened his eyes once and closed them again, still exhausted. Fingin took that as assent and climbed up the rough stairs he’d built in the hill. He gathered some fish from the day’s catch, some turnips left over from yesterday’s stew and a skin of water. On the way out, he grabbed his blanket and returned to the beach.
The dog hadn’t moved so much as a paw but breathed more easily. Fingin noticed a gash on the dog’s leg, and he daubed it with river water. The dog whimpered but let him work.
With some urging, Fingin convinced him to sit up enough to drink and eat. He took a little fish but wouldn’t touch the turnip. Fingin didn’t blame him for that. He didn’t care for turnips either, and he lived too far from the ocean to spice it with salt often.
“What’s your name, boy? I’m Fingin.”
The hound turned his head, and Fingin heard his words within his mind. “Why can I understand you? I never understood other humans.”
Fingin shrugged. “It’s something I’ve been able to do for many seasons. My grandmother gave me a faerie gift when she left me.”
The dog shook his head as if the last bit didn’t make sense. Fingin supposed it didn’t, to a dog.
“I’m Bran. At least, that’s what my friend called me. It’s the only name I’ve ever known.”
Bran. One of the two famous hounds of Fionn ma Cumhaill, the legendary leader of the Fianna. A worthy name for an enormous wolfhound.
“Do you want to be called Bran? If you’d rather another name, I’ll call you something else.”
Bran shook his head. “Bran is good. I’ll remember Bran. I don’t remember things very well. That’s why my friend sent me away.” He ducked his head as if ashamed.
Fingin put a hand under Bran’s chin and lifted until he gazed into the dog’s eyes. “Hey! That was a mean thing for him to do. Would you like to be my friend? I promise I won’t make you go away.”
The dog’s tail thumped three times on the sand before he gave a cautious, “Yes, I would like that very much. Do you have more fish? My leg hurts.”
With a grin, Fingin nodded. “I have more fish up at my hut and a warm fire. I’ll wrap up your leg so it can heal. Here, let me dry you off first.”
Fingin rubbed the wiry gray fur hard with the blanket, and Bran squirmed under him, the tail now wagging so hard it bruised Fingin’s arms. “Settle down, Bran! Settle down. We’ll be done here in a moment.”
Once Bran’s coat felt fluffy and dry, Fingin led him up the stone steps. Bran didn’t like the steps but made it to the top after several whines. When he spied the fire, though, he rushed next to it and lay down. “This is warm. I really like warm. Will you let me stay near the warm for a while?”
With a chuckle, Fingin agreed. “You can stay next to the warm all night if you like. I’ll be there, too. The sun’s going down, so the air will chill. Let me get more fish in the pot for my meal, and I’ll give you the rest.”
He glanced over at the still ripped net and shrugged. He’d repair it in the morning. Keeping the hound warm and fed had more importance just now than the net. He wrapped Bran’s leg with a strip of cloth and tied it well.
* * *
Fingin woke the next morning with a warm body next to his, all along his back. He didn’t know who it was. He hadn’t chatted with another person in a long time, much less been comfortable enough to fall asleep next to them.
With cautious movements, he turned. In the dim light of the growing dawn, he made out the gray, furry form of Bran, stretched out almost as long as him, snoring slightly.
Yesterday’s events came rushing back into his memory, from the massive salmon to the nearly drowned dog.
He peered at said hound, a half-smile on his face. He’d had a dog once in his eigh
th summer. The puppy had loved him like no other. The dog had lived with them before Fingin talked to animals, before his grandmother had disappeared.
The puppy had been a mutt, some half-wolf hound from across the sea. At least, that’s what his grandmother had told him. He’d always believed her words. His father would tell lies all the time, just to make himself more important or impressive, but his grandmother had never lied to him.
Fingin gulped back the memories, got up from the warmth of the dog, and stoked the banked fire back to life. He poured some water into the tin kettle to heat for tea and walked outside to greet the day.
His parents had been fanatics of the new Roman religion, but his grandmother taught him the proper way to honor the dawn. He faced the east and sat, cross-legged, on the small outcropping of rocks looking over the river. Fingin waited for the sun’s first rays to peek out from behind the hills and across the countryside. He closed his eyes as the sun touched his skin, smiling at the warmth.
Then he sang.
The song had no words, at least, no words he recognized. The sounds he’d learned by rote, some old language she’d known. Or perhaps she didn’t know the meaning either, and just made the sounds, too. It didn’t matter. They had called to the sun as the sun now called to him. He drew in the power of the beams, energizing his body and his soul with the promise of the new day.
When the bottom of the shimmering orb cleared the hill, he allowed his song to fade, to blend into the song of the surrounding birds. He allowed the power within him to tumble into the earth below him, curling away like a heavy smoke from a smoldering fire. When he’d released the strength back into the soil, his body and soul remained refreshed and ready for what lay before him.
Fingin walked back to the hut where Bran still lay sleeping, now curled into a ball next to the flickering flames of the hearth fire.
Age of Secrets: Druid's Brooch Series: #8 Page 1
