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

by Christy Nicholas

  The female voice crashed into his meditative bliss, making him drop his twine and shake his head. His vision had blurred, and he grew dizzy with the magic he’d woven into his work.

  He stood, using the wall post to steady his knees. When he glanced out into the muzzy morning, he made out a form in the mist. A single bark from the left told him Bran had returned.

  The voice sounded like Lorcan’s mother, but why would she come back? Had Lorcan gone missing again?

  “I’m… here.”

  “Oh, thank the good God. I hoped I’d find you home. I wanted to thank you again for caring for my son. He’s such a silly boy, always running off on his own. I didn’t worry so much when he ran off before our move, as we knew the area so well. I knew his haunts and could find him quickly. This new place has hidden spaces. It will take me seasons to find them all! Well, I wanted to bring some things by for you. You seem too young to be all alone. Are your parents in the village?”

  He blinked at the barrage of words and had to steady himself once again. People didn’t talk to him like this once they realized he had trouble talking himself. They assumed him to be either stupid or dangerous. He had no ability to argue with the assumptions.

  What had the mother’s name been? Aideen, that’s it. As she took a few steps closer, out of the misty drizzle, he realized she carried a large bundle wrapped in cloth. Fingin narrowed his eyes. He needed no charity from anyone. He had enough skill to feed himself and his hound.

  “These are some leftovers from our meal yesterday. My husband, Faelan, decided he dislikes garlic, and I made this bread with garlic, so now it’s all banned from the household. Lorcan suggested you might like it. I also added some clothing my eldest has outgrown. I’m afraid it’s not in the best of shape, but it should be useful enough, even if there are a few spots that need mending.”

  She paused again for breath, but Fingin didn’t know how to answer, or if he’d even get a word in edge-wise once she began again. He satisfied himself with a quick nod.

  “Well, I must be off before the rain comes back. I hope you’ll come to our roundhouse tomorrow night, as we agreed yesterday. I’ll make a grand feast for us all! See you at midday! We’re around the next river bend, remember!”

  And she left.

  He stared at the bag as if it would bite him. Bran lumbered up and sniffed at the package, nosing open the fabric. “Something smells strong in here! A good strong, though. Like in the village.”

  He didn’t want to touch the bag, but the thought of fresh bread—really, anything but fish—grew too tempting. He rushed forward and grabbed the bag, pulling it into the house and out of the rain.

  Inside, he found three threadbare léinte, though the basic construction seemed sound, and two huge loaves of bread, each with cloves of garlic studded in the top. In addition, he found a package of fresh wild garlic and rosemary.

  With delighted relish, he broke a generous chunk from one loaf and offered it to Bran. The dog sniffed the treat, pushed it around with his nose before licking it. He ate the chunk and chewed noisily, the gummy bread turning into an unappetizing mess before he swallowed.

  “That tastes warm. Spicy.” The dog hiccupped and wagged his tail.

  Fingin grinned and inhaled the aroma of his own chunk of bread, savoring the rich scent and warmth. He took a bite, tasting the garlic, salt, and rosemary within the bread. He savored each mouthful, wanting to prolong the wonder.

  “She talks a lot, but she brings food. I didn’t like her at first, but now I do.”

  Fingin nodded in agreement. Someone who talks so much might be pleasant to be around. She wouldn’t expect him to talk as much. Perhaps he would join them for a meal tomorrow, after all.

  He glanced over at his drying fish and remembered tomorrow would be market day.

  Chapter Three

  Fingin argued himself into going a dozen times that day. And a dozen times, he argued himself back out. Bran, when consulted, enthusiastically supported a venture to Lorcan’s home. The dog had woken feeling somewhat ill, but the nausea soon abated. The illness would have given him an excuse to turn down Aideen’s offer, and Fingin’s natural wariness around other humans kept him from making a final decision.

  Instead, he made more twine. Far more than he would need for a while, to be fair. He had braided three large balls of the twine, enough to create a whole new net, if needed. When he ran out of horsehair, he examined the outside of his roundhouse, searching for spots that required repair or rebuilding. However, he maintained his home with meticulous care regularly, so no glaring spots cried out for his attention.

  Bran, who had been lounging on the flat rock while Fingin made his rounds, perked his head up. Fingin turned to discover what had alerted the hound. Someone crashed through the brush, and a female voice cursed with a creative flair.

  With a quick check to make certain his léine appeared presentable, he stood next to Bran as Aideen’s soft, round form broke through the branches, brushing a stray leaf from her sleeve. She stumbled as she peered into the sun-bright glade, shading her eyes.

  “Ah, there you are! Lorcan begged me to come fetch you, as you wouldn’t know where our home stands. Are you both ready?”

  It seemed the decision had been taken out of his hands. He masked his sigh and nodded, his hand on Bran’s flank.

  Sometime later, Fingin felt relief at how far away the family lived. He had been imagining a throng of noisy, rowdy children invading his quiet solitude every afternoon. However, the roundhouse stood far enough from his own home to keep visits blessedly infrequent.

  Strange how he’d craved human companionship when young, but when he no longer fit in, he treasured his peace above all company. Well, not all company. Bran remained a true friend. He glanced at the hound, who had been exploring every side path and strange hummock along the trail. Once, he’d stuck his snout into a rabbit hole and pulled out just as quickly. From his yelp and reddened nose, Fingin figured he’d learned that rabbits have powerful back legs for a reason.

  While Aideen chattered the entire trip, he’d stopped listening after the opening sentences. She didn’t seem to require any responses other than an encouraging nod or grunt now and then. However, she began listing names, so he paid attention again.

  “Now, Lorcan, he’s my youngest. The baby of the family, without a doubt. He gets some grief from his older brothers, of course, but so do most children. Lugaid is about three winters older than him and sometimes sticks up for him against the other three. Ségán, he’s the eldest. He’s all ready to marry his young sweetheart, and her father has set up a farm for them already. I’ll miss him dearly, but one less mouth to feed is a blessing, make no mistake about that. She’s a sweet girl, but not very bright. Still, she’s got nice, healthy hips, so I expect lots of grandchildren from her.

  “Faelan, he’s my husband, he won’t talk much. But never you mind that. He’s got a sharp mind. Sometimes a sharp tongue, as well, but you’re not his son, so pay no attention to his words. We don’t have a dog around the farm for your hound to play with, but he should be happy lying in the sun outside the door, won’t he? Faelan doesn’t care for animals within the house, you see.”

  Fingin nodded with a glance at Bran. He didn’t want to talk in front of her if he could help it, but he’d make sure Bran behaved when they arrived. She hadn’t made fun of his speech, but the fewer reminders of his difference, the better.

  “I do hope you like lamb stew. We slaughtered two of our lambs last week, as our ewes birthed too many to feed properly. The meat has just aged to perfection. Luckily, we got a great load of salt on Faelan’s last trip to the east. He makes a trade trip once every few months. He travels to a large town right on the river mouth with people who do nothing but trade. Can you imagine that? They grow no crops and raise no kine. The people don’t even sail any ships! They just trade with the sailors and the farmers. Such a strange world we live in. Faelan said he even met someone from Rome!”

  Fingin h
ad heard of Rome, an eternal city, and according to his parents, the cradle of all civilized manners. His grandmother hadn’t been of the same mind, but she didn’t contradict them where they could hear. Their fervent belief in the new religion came from Rome, and they’d hear no criticism. Rome brought images of short, stocky, dark men in loose-wrapped robes, with skin darkened by a strong southern sun. Cities thronging with hundreds of people, maybe even thousands. Fingin couldn’t imagine being so close to so many people, living each day shoulder to shoulder with all those strangers. He shivered.

  “Wouldn’t it be something to travel to Rome? To see temples to the gods, the Forum, all those foreigners in one place? Faelan heard tales of people with skin as black as tar! So exotic. I asked him, once, if we could go with him to the shore when he traded, but he grew a bit upset at the suggestion. After that, it seemed best not to mention it.”

  She fell silent for the first time, her eyes pinched in a pensive expression. Fingin wondered if Faelan’s version of “a bit upset” looked anything like his own father’s version. If so, he didn’t blame Aideen for avoiding an argument.

  His own father had sometimes been physical in his disapprovals. He rarely struck his wife or his son. Fingin’s grandmother wouldn’t have stood for such abuse. However, his words had cut deeply enough for Fingin to avoid any interaction with him, even when he could speak with eloquence. The few times he had received a physical beating, it hurt hard enough for him to avoid another at all costs.

  For a panicked moment, Fingin frowned. He couldn’t remember his grandmother’s name. His father was Rumann, and his mother’s Mugain. What had his grandmother’s name been?

  He wracked his brain, trying to remember what his mother called her. She’d been Fingin’s father’s mother, so his father called her “Mother.” Something with a C. Clooadh? Clodagh? Something like that.

  “Ah, here we are! See the house on the hill? That’s where our brood lives. The field to the left is all rye, and the one on the right has a mix of turnips and cabbage. I have my herb garden, of course. Perhaps you’d like to trade some of your fish with me? I really have too many herbs to use this winter, even with drying.”

  Fingin smiled. Lorcan must have mentioned how bland his own stew tasted. He didn’t mind. If it meant he could trade for things he needed without braving the market and Nuala, he felt glad the boy had said something.

  Perhaps he would enjoy visiting this family, despite himself.

  * * *

  A shrill scream cut across the countryside as they approached the large, two-story roundhouse. A bare moment later, a thin, blond boy of about twelve winters darted out the front door toward them, followed by an older boy, with heavier shoulders and red hair. He growled as the younger boy swerved left and right, evading his grasp with easy agility. Another shout drew Fingin’s attention back to the doorway, where a third young man with brown curls similar to Lorcan’s stood, hands on his hips. He shouted again, but this time Fingin understood his words.

  “Get back here, both of you! Ma will be back soon, and the table’s not set!”

  His imprecations did nothing to curb the boys’ antics, but they meandered back toward the building as their chase continued. Soon, they barreled past the older boy and into the door.

  The momentary silence made Aideen grin. “Those were my three eldest, Niall, Muirchu, and Ségán in the doorway. You’ll meet Lugaid inside. He’s almost as quiet as Lorcan, but my baby is still the sweetest. I do want to thank you again for helping him that day. We couldn’t figure where he’d run off to. The boys had all been playing in the river, collecting deadfall for the fire. Ségán said he just ran away without a word. He’s usually so biddable.”

  Fingin recalled Lorcan’s violent reaction to the suggestion he wash in the river and doubted that he “ran away” with no goading. In fact, he suspected the older boys had been too rough in the water. Regardless, he wanted to protect the young man. He felt a particular affinity for the child, especially as Bran had already adopted the boy as another friend.

  He trusted Bran’s judgment.

  As they got close to the house, Aideen waved at Ségán, who appeared at the door once again. He waved back and disappeared into the house.

  “They’ll have food ready for us. Ready? Don’t worry about speaking. Lorcan said you had trouble with some words. I speak enough for all of us!”

  He grinned, thrilled at her understanding. Fingin crouched next to Bran and whispered, “You stay outside, Bran. I’ll be out with food for you later. Understand?”

  “Of course, I understand. Why are you speaking so softly?”

  “Because other humans don’t know you can understand my words.”

  Bran cocked his head in confusion.

  “Just stay here.”

  He cocked his head to the other side, but he sat and watched as Fingin walked into the roundhouse.

  The bright daylight dimmed to darkness inside. He blinked several times to adjust his vision to the low light. The ceiling seemed odd because he’d never been inside a two-story roundhouse before. No peaked thatched roof here; a flat ceiling of wooden planks formed the floor of the upper story, changing the expected shape of the great room below. In the center, though, the normal hearth burned, larger than his own. A long, wooden table creaked under the wealth of food upon it.

  A gaggle of people resolved itself into two distinct groups. The younger three boys, including Lorcan, stood to the left of the table. The tall blond man must be Aideen’s husband, Faelan.

  She brought Fingin forward. “This is Fingin, the young man who found our Lorcan for us the other day. Please, Fingin, be welcome in our home. May you have both bread and salt. May you never thirst and never starve.”

  The eldest son, Ségán, offered a wooden tray with a small chunk of bread and a mug of milk. Fingin accepted it with a nod of thanks, and took a token bite of the bread, washing it down with a sip of the milk. The ceremony complete, Aideen introduced her family.

  She stood next to the two boys. “Lorcan you know, of course, and this young lad is his brother, Lugaid. They were born but a winter apart.”

  Next she moved to two blond boys, twins, one of whom had been the screaming boy earlier. “This is Niall and Muirchu. Never mind if you can’t tell them apart. Neither can they, most of the time.”

  The redhead came next. “This tall man is my eldest, Ségán. And this is Faelan, my husband.”

  The tall, burly man with long blond hair regarded Fingin with a hooded gaze. His warrior’s braids appeared ragged, and his paunch belied a life of fighting. Still, no man would dare wear the braids of the Fianna without earning them. He must have once been of the famous warriors. As such, a man to be wary of, no matter what shape he had.

  Fingin bowed to the father, according him honor. The man grunted in response and shuffled off to sit at the head of the table.

  Once he sat on his stool, the others all fell to the benches along each side of the table. Faelan took a ladle of lamb stew for himself and passed it to Ségán.

  Once the family passed the bowl of stew, next came vegetables, bread, and a sweet fruit tart. Fingin stared at the pile of food before him and hoped he could eat it all. He daren’t insult his hosts, but he hadn’t had a meal so huge since he left home.

  He ate slowly, trying to savor each bite. Aideen certainly had greater cooking skill than he did, as well as more herbs available from her garden. He closed his eyes when he crunched a clove of roasted garlic, the spicy tang flooding his tastebuds. The lamb melted in his mouth, and crunchy bits of roasted turnip rounded out the flavors.

  Fingin took a drink from his mug, cool spring water. His stomach already bulged, but he needed to taste everything. The berry tart glistened with strawberries covered in honey, catching his attention. Even with his recent acquisition of a jar of honey, this sweet remained a luxurious treat, as he rationed it tightly.

  “It smells delicious. When do I get some?”

  Fingin smiled at Bran’s men
tal nudge. He had already palmed a big chunk of lamb and wrapped it in a small piece of cloth. Small conversations among the family flowed around him. He’d expected more curiosity about himself, but perhaps Aideen had cautioned her children not to ask him questions.

  Once he’d mopped up every savory drop from his plate, he picked up the tart, examining its glistening beauty in the dim afternoon light streaming through a window. Aideen had sliced the pale red berries, arranged in an overlapping circle, covered in a glaze of golden honey, and hemmed in the confection with a sweet, crunchy wheat crust.

  In an ecstasy of indulgence, Fingin bit into one side of the tart, careful not to let a drop of the honey escape. He licked his fingers and lips, chewing each sweet bite with relish.

  He'd found the berries in the woods as he foraged, beating the birds to them. He knew wild berries were often more tart than sweet unless served with honey. The sweetness of this tart was a rare delight.

  His head buzzed, and his skin felt itchy like he needed to rub it away. He shifted on his bench and realized everyone was watching him. He became self-conscious, bowing his head over his half-eaten tart.

  Aideen laughed. “No need to feel shame, young man. Seldom has any cook received such obvious praise for her efforts. Enjoy the tart and welcome. There’s even a second one for you if you saved room for it. Ségán, pass down the tray, will you? The boy must be half-starved for sweets.”

  Faelan scowled but said nothing. Ségán passed the tray, which held three remaining tarts, to his end of the table.

  Should he finish the first tart before taking a second one? He wanted to take his time eating it and not bolt it down. He glanced back and forth between the half-eaten one in his hand and the one on the tray. With a mischievous grin, Lorcan placed a new tart directly on his plate, forestalling his indecision.

  He winked at the boy in thanks for his conspiracy and took another bite of his first tart, savoring the wonderful taste anew.

  When he emerged from this tasty bliss, he opened his eyes. Aideen grinned, while Faelan scowled. The boys all concentrated on their own sweets except Lorcan, who had a half-smile. “You’re funny, Fingin.”