Age of Secrets: Druid's Brooch Series: #8

by Christy Nicholas

  As he cleaned the last of the day’s catch, a sound to the left caught his attention. Bran stood to the right, his nose deep in the fish entrails, happily munching. Fingin gripped his knife tight and scanned the trees. Bran’s head popped up, alert and wary.

  A branch snapped. Bigger than a rabbit. A deer might have ventured near? He wished he had skill with a bow, as a deer would last them a long time. He’d never learned, though, and his snares remained too small for such game.

  Bran let out a low growl, a menacing warning to whatever threatened their glade. Fingin put a hand out to signal him into silence. He listened again, trying to find the sound, the intruder, or whatever lurked in the shadowy trees.

  No birds sang. No wind rustled the leaves. The low buzz of a few bees filtered through the bushes, and the ever-present murmur of the river remained in the background.

  Another twig snapped. There, behind the ash tree. A flash of blue where none should be. Something curled up at the base of the tree, almost hidden by a rowan bush.

  A piteous sob and a sniffle wended to Fingin’s ears. He lowered his knife hand and glanced at Bran.

  He whispered, “That doesn’t sound like an animal, Bran. What do you sense?”

  Bran snuffled at the still air. “Human, definitely human. Wet? He’s wet. In several places.”

  Fingin wrinkled his brow, unsure what Bran meant by that. Had the person fallen into the river? If he sat under a tree, he hadn’t drowned. With a painful grip on his knife, he approached the figure.

  As he drew closer, the sobs grew louder. A child’s sobs, full of anger and despair. A boy, younger than Fingin had been when his grandmother disappeared. Perhaps eight winters, at the most.

  The child huddled under the tree, his blue léine sleeve ripped in a ragged rent. His bare, dirt-smeared feet poked out from under his arms. All Fingin saw was messy brown hair.

  “Hey, n-now, are you hurt?”

  The boy jerked his head up, his eyes wide and darting back and forth.

  “It’s… it’s fine. I… won’t hurt you.” Fingin discovered his speech didn’t work as badly around children as with adults.

  Bran had stepped up behind him, and the child’s eyes grew even wider.

  Fingin glanced down and put a hand on the gray hound’s head. “Bran won’t… hurt you. He’s fond of… children.”

  Fingin didn’t, in fact, know if Bran had a fondness for children at all, but he didn’t have time to discover such information. This child needed comfort and friendliness.

  Long ago, in his own childhood, he remembered running off on his own and crying until his throat burned raw with pain. No one had come for him. No one had comforted his own anguish.

  Bran lay down and inched forward, his nose near to the ground. As he got closer, his tail wagged harder, and his butt wiggled. His antics elicited a high-pitched giggle from the boy, cutting through his remaining sobs.

  Fingin extended his hand to the child. “C-c-come with us? I… have fish stew. W-w-water. What’s your… name?”

  The boy sniffed mightily and rubbed his ripped sleeve back and forth under his nose, smearing dirt and snot rather than cleaning it.

  “I’m Lorcan.”

  With a half-smile, Fingin took the boy’s hand to lift him. They walked to the clearing, and he led the boy to a stump.

  “S-s-sit here. Bran will… stay with you.”

  Bran said, “He’s still wet. He can’t lick himself, can he?”

  Fingin realized what the other “wet” meant. The boy must have pissed himself at some point. He must have been so frightened, he lost control.

  “Swim in the r-r-river? You can be… clean.”

  The child backed away, shaking his head, bumping into Bran. “No, not the river! I don’t like the river.”

  Bran let out a woof at the child’s instant distress and shoved his head under the boy’s hand. Surprised, Lorcan pet the hound while Fingin considered the situation.

  Something bad must have happened in the river. Still, if the child didn’t care about his wet clothing, Fingin wouldn’t force him to wash or change.

  Fingin led both the dog and the boy to his fire circle, sitting on a log outside his hut. The boy sat on the ground on the opposite side of the fire, and Bran curled around him, forming a protective circle. Fingin smiled at the sight. He hadn’t lied when he said Bran liked children.

  “W-w-wait. I’ll get… food.”

  * * *

  After Fingin stuffed both dog and child with fish stew, Lorcan curled up against Bran’s flank and promptly fell asleep. Fingin gazed down with a wistful smile. He would have enjoyed having a family. Once he’d dreamed of finding a lovely girl with a nice farm and raising his own family full of laughing children.

  Not being able to speak to a girl made wooing difficult.

  After swallowing down a suddenly tight throat, Fingin let out a deep sigh and escaped into the woods. He’d gather more deadfall for their evening fire while the two slept. Bran would take good care of the boy. Fingin grabbed a length of stout canvas.

  The whisper of undergrowth as he walked turned into a tune, a wild song of the forest, raucous and strong. A sudden exclamation of surprise came into his mind as he saw a rabbit flee to the left.

  “Don’t worry, bun. I’m not after you.”

  The rabbit stopped and turned, twitching his ear a few times. The small animal bounded off, not trusting this human, despite his words.

  Fingin chuckled. He’d been in this glade for over a winter, but the smaller animals had fleeting memories. He’d spoken to that rabbit at least a hundred times, and he still wouldn’t trust.

  A bird swooped down on him, warbling madly. He glanced at the branches and made out the small nest. With a respectful nod, he walked away from the tree, and the eggs within.

  He picked up several large branches, fallen from the last summer windstorm. After scratching his arm on one, he stopped to pick off the entwined thorny vine. An armful of smaller branches and some kindling filled the canvas sling, and he headed back to the glade.

  When he returned from his small quest, Lorcan still slept, but Bran eyed Fingin and whined. He wagged his tail with three solid thumps on the ground.

  “I need to pee, but the boy is happy where he is.”

  Fingin chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll forgive you if you need to go pee.”

  Bran shuffled away from Lorcan, inching to keep from waking the boy. Lorcan moaned once when his head shifted to the ground, but Bran extracted himself without incident. He bounded to the edge of the glade and closed his eyes as he watered a tree.

  He stepped high as he returned and cocked his head at the sleeping child. “Are we keeping him as well? He doesn’t smell good, but he is gentle.”

  “I don’t think we can keep him, Bran. He’ll have a family, and we should find them and return him. They’ll worry about him.”

  “Do you think my first friend worries about me?”

  Fingin frowned. “I don’t know, Bran. But from what you’ve said, he doesn’t sound like the sort to worry about anyone but himself.”

  Bran nodded. “That’s him.”

  “What did your friend look like? What did other people call him?”

  “They called him Guaire. He had thinning gray hair and stood very tall. He used his switch a lot.”

  Fingin’s blood grew hot at the mention of a switch. “He struck you?”

  Bran ducked his head and his tail. “I was a bad dog.”

  In an instant, Fingin hugged the dog’s huge head. “You were not a bad dog. He was a bad friend. I promise I will never whip you, never ever.”

  The tail thumped twice. Bran licked his face, making him laugh. “Stop that! It tickles!”

  A giggle from behind him made him turn. Lorcan had woken and watched them with a grin on his face.

  Without urging, Bran bound to the boy and licked his face again. This made Lorcan throw up his hands in mock defense and roll on his back, which gave Bran more room to lick
the child.

  As the laughter died, Fingin offered the child a bucket of water and a cloth. “Go into the hut and c-c-clean. We’ll be at the… river.” He pointed to the steps down to the beach, and the boy nodded, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.

  “Take as long… as you n-need.”

  Once the boy disappeared, Fingin grabbed his net and led Bran down the bank. The boy didn’t seem used to such courtesy. Every moment his eyes darted from side to side as if expecting a sneak attack. He’d only relaxed around Bran.

  Fingin had been no stranger to bullying or abuse. He’d had more than his fair share when his grandmother stole his voice away. His own older brother had been the worst, dancing around him with cruel disdain, yelling, “Finny-fin-fing can’t say a thing! Come on, push the words out like a calving cow!”

  Such taunts often came with punches, kicks, or even red-hot sticks on the arm. However, crying to Ma or Pa did little good. Pa would tell him a warrior never complains about pain, though he’d been a farmer, not a warrior. Ma would click her tongue and shake her head.

  Each subsequent memory of taunting, bullying, and cruelty crashed in after the first, like a tale with a series of challenges. First, his brother. Second, when he had enough and ran away, the first village he settled in. One after the other, his slices of life fanned out before him, a glimpse into a life barely survived and rarely cherished.

  By this time, he’d gotten to the middle of the river. Bran watched from the beach as he used his angry memories to fuel his throw. The net flew from his fingers with a spin, kissing the waves and sinking below the sparkling surface.

  Each time Fingin cast his net, calm surrounded him, quieting his fear, settling his mind, and salving his soul. It became a daily goal for him to grasp a small sliver of peace as the swirling waters of the wide river caressed him with loving tendrils.

  The gurgle of the water became soothing music as the faint chatter of the fish below the surface rose in his mind as a chorus.

  Even pulling in the net became a task requiring no mental effort, a series of actions his muscles remembered while his mind wandered.

  A voice above him interrupted this meditation. He glanced up, expecting Lorcan to have finished cleaning up. Instead, a woman stood on the cliff, hands on her hips, glaring down at him. She had dark hair and a round figure. His calm fled, and he stumbled, his hands unable to work the net he knew so well.

  He finished pulling in his catch—fifteen medium salmon and three trout—and dragged the bounty to the beach. He left it there, tied to a rock to keep the fish from flopping back into the water. Next, he ascended the steps to meet the angry-looking woman.

  She waited until he’d reached the top of the cliff before she spoke. In a strident voice, she asked, “Who are you? How dare you take off with my son? What are your intentions toward him?”

  Beside him, Bran growled, his hackles rising at her accusations. “What does she say, Fingin? I don’t like her. She smells of hatred.”

  “I… I… wouldn’t… I…” Fingin took a deep breath and tried again, struggling to use simple words. They wouldn’t cooperate and leave his mouth.

  She glanced back to the clearing, and Fingin noticed Lorcan hovering near the edge of the trees. He looked both miserable and apprehensive. The boy shuffled forward, his head low. “Don’t be mad at him, Ma. He helped me. He gave me food and let me pet his dog.”

  The sparking anger in her eyes faded.

  * * *

  Fingin waved as the mother, Aideen, led Lorcan away from his glade. He hoped the child would be safe, but surely the mother wouldn’t be the bully. She seemed much too cheerful for such cruelty. The boy had rescued him from further speech, for which his gratitude soared. She’d relaxed considerably and invited Fingin to supper the next day, in thanks for his help. Fingin nodded, knowing he would never take her up on the offer.

  Perhaps he should leave. Aideen had said they’d moved into a roundhouse up the river, at the next bend. In the past, having neighbors that close had resulted in pain and fear. Life would be easier if he left before it got to that point. Lorcan had been a sweet boy, and Fingin would hate if his presence made the child’s life harder.

  With his hand on Bran’s shoulder, he walked back to the clearing and tried to remember what he’d been doing. He glanced down at the beach and noticed his full net. With a curse, he climbed down to retrieve it. He’d lost two fish who had wriggled out of the sieve and re-entered the water. The rest would need to be cleaned right away before they spoiled.

  He’d finished tossing the last of the fish guts to Bran, who attacked the mess with wild abandon, when the rain began.

  With a deep sigh, Fingin gathered his cleaned catch, his net, and anything else that might need to remain dry and shuffled them into the roundhouse. The rain intensified, making the odors of the forest rise in a green, humid fragrance. He took a deep breath, reveling in the intense aroma.

  Fingin loved the rain almost as much as he loved the sunrise. The intensity of sound, odor, and air left him delighted, as long as he had a decent shelter from which to witness the wonder. Even though he’d been caught in freezing winter rains, he still loved the summer showers.

  The pounding drops made a song, a rhythmic tattoo he hummed with, swaying as the sound swept him into another world, another time, and another life.

  His grandmother had urged him to treasure these moments. She swore every part of the world had innate magic. “Pay attention to the music in the wind as it whistles and moans, the rain as it drums, the flutter of butterflies, and the sparkling stars in the midnight sky. Each one has a different song for those who wish to hear. Each one can impart a wisdom to those who pause and listen. The gods will never forgive us for wasting the dawn.”

  Only the cold nose of his hound recalled him to the present. He turned to see Bran, a string of fish gut still hanging from the dog’s mouth. Fingin grinned at his friend and pulled it free, then stoked the fire back into a useable flame. He needed to cook those fish before the night fell.

  He counted his fish. Sixteen left, despite those who had escaped, a good haul for the day. He wouldn’t need to have a second cast. He’d lost track of the day. Should today have been a market day? He tried to count back to the last market. Eight days? Market wouldn’t be for another two. He should dry most of these. Roasted fish or stewed fish wouldn’t last long.

  He roasted four for him and Bran and stewed four more for tomorrow. The rest, he placed on a drying rack on the edge of the fire. He’d much rather do the drying outside, but the rain forbade that. Luckily, his thatched roof kept them dry while still allowing some smoke to disperse. Still, the smoke would make him and Bran sleep near the entrance.

  He pulled several green branches from a pile he maintained for making smoke and placed them on the side of the fire near the drying rack. He coughed several times, a cough echoed by Bran.

  “Why did the fire do that? It hurts my throat.”

  “I know. But we need the smoke to dry the fish. That way, they don’t spoil. I can sell them at market.”

  Bran coughed again, shaking his head and then his entire body. “I’m going outside. I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t blame you. Don’t get caught in the mud.”

  As Bran left, his head drooped, and his ears twitched as the rain pounded on his head. He shook a couple times, ears still twitching, before padding meekly back into the hut.

  He shook again, spraying Fingin with water. “Hey!”

  “Maybe that smoke stuff isn’t so bad.”

  * * *

  The next day, the rain had lessened, but no clear dawn appeared, so Fingin didn’t perform his morning ceremony. It made him feel off when he didn’t greet the dawn in a way he couldn’t define. However, trying to greet the dawn without being able to see the sun made it worse, he’d learned. The sunburst of a clear morning had more power than any other dawn. Perhaps he only harnessed that power when it shone strong, and any other time it became twisted, lesse
ned. His grandmother had never said, and he couldn’t guess. He could only do.

  The gray day continued to spit sprinkles on his head as he moved the smoking fire outside the hut’s entrance. His hut’s thatched roof had a small lip that kept the light rain from dousing the fire. The slight drips that did escape only helped to increase the smoke.

  He shouldn’t leave until the fish had dried. Even the short time to cast another net would be enough for a fire to catch on the hut itself and remove any shelter either of them had. Such a possibility wouldn’t be worth the risk.

  Crunching sounds behind him made him whirl, expecting Bran to return from his morning hunt. A flash of gray through the trees reassured him. The dog often came back empty-mouthed, or with a squirrel or baby rabbit. However, Fingin welcomed the occasional bounty Bran caught. He would skin the catch and give the meat to the dog, who deserved the treat. While his tanning skill remained basic, his skins held up well enough. Fingin had several rabbit skins now that would make a nice lining for a winter coat. He should make one for Bran as a surprise since the hound had caught most of the skins.

  Today would be a good day to twist more twine. He should have enough material on hand, at least for a while. After he gathered his supplies, he sat on the low stool near the door for the best light. He separated the individual filaments into even sections. Though he didn’t have many fresh thin vines, he could braid the former together for a reasonably strong string.

  Fingin unrolled the remaining twine and hooked it on a nail in the wall post. He braided the new material, grafting it onto the old. He tested it a few times for integrity and settled into the mesmerizing task. In and out, he pulled the sides to the center over and over again. His world faded out as he repeated the task without thought.

  One, two, three. One, two, three. In and around and down. In and around and down. The twine grew as he braided and twisted, forming the strong thread which would become his net, his sieve, the tool that allowed him to catch fish and eat every day. One, two, three. In and around and down. One, two…

  “Hallo! Hallo, are you there today?”