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

by Christy Nicholas

  Fingin chuckled at the boy’s assessment. He didn’t mind being funny. Being funny had much fewer dangers than being feared or hated. He glanced at Faelan, but the older man no longer sat at the head of the table. He’d gone to the sideboard to pour himself a mug. Fingin doubted it was more water, as that ewer remained on the table.

  His father used to drink ale all day long. Fingin wondered if Faelan did the same.

  Aideen stood and shooed all the boys out, including Fingin. “Go outside now. I’ve plenty of work to clean up after you lot. Go now!”

  They went. Ségán led them outside to the side yard, where he set three of them to work mucking out the stables. “You, Fingin, and Lorcan, come with me.”

  He glanced at his new young friend, but the younger boy had cast his gaze to his feet. Fingin shrugged and followed Ségán. Bran trotted behind, his tongue lolling.

  “That was a long time! Did you bring anything for me?”

  Surreptitiously, Fingin slipped Bran the chunk of lamb he’d tucked into his hand. The hound gobbled it up and licked Fingin’s fingers as they walked.

  The eldest son stood taller than Fingin by at least a handspan and had broader shoulders. However, from what Aideen had said, Fingin had several seasons on the boy. Still, age was one thing, and physical strength was another.

  Ségán stopped next to the pigpen and grinned. It wasn’t a nice grin. “So, Lorcan’s found himself a protector, eh? How good are you at fighting, Fingin?”

  Fingin narrowed his eyes at the other young man but said nothing. His knuckles turned white as he clenched his fists, though, and Bran growl came low and menacing.

  “Now, now, no fair siccing your mutt on me. It’s just you and me. Man to man.” Ségán put up his fists and settled into a fighting stance.

  “I won’t f-f-fight you. I’m a g-g-g-guest.”

  “Oho! So the mute speaks! I heard about you in the village, you know. The mute boy who can’t speak. But you can speak! Sort of. Lorcan, couldn’t you choose better than this? He isn’t even a real man.”

  “Leave him alone, Ségán! You can’t violate guest-right. Mom will kill you!”

  Ségán ignored his brother and brushed his words aside. He circled Fingin, throwing a few test punches his way. Fingin faced him but didn’t fall into a similar stance. He waited, studying the young man.

  Fingin hated fighting. That didn’t mean he didn’t know how.

  Bran jumped several times. “Can I bite him? He’s mean. He smells like anger. Please, can I bite him? Please?”

  When Fingin’s back was to the pigsty, Ségán made his move. Bran barked wildly, but Fingin cried out, “Stay!”

  Ségán let out a bestial yell and barreled forward, but Fingin ducked, not quite in the right place for what he wanted. He whirled around, ready to face the bully again. Ségán pushed himself from the sty fence and circled once more. Again, Fingin positioned himself.

  This time, when Ségán growled and rushed him, Fingin grabbed the other man’s shirt and crotch, bent his knees, so he was lower than his opponent, and flipped Ségán over the fence and into the sty.

  With a satisfying squish, Ségán landed in the mud and let out a stream of invective. Two pigs nosed him with their snouts, grunting in confusion.

  Lorcan and Fingin stared at the muddy mess but left the older boy to his sty. His shouts and curses followed them as they ran around the roundhouse and out of sight.

  “W-w-will that mean t-t-trouble for you later?”

  Lorcan nodded. “It will. But the sight of him with those pigs made it worth it. Can I escape to your roundhouse tomorrow? Ma is going to her sister’s, and when she’s gone, they get worse.”

  Fingin glanced down at the boy and nodded. “We can f-f-fish.” He patted Bran on the head as the dog’s tail thumped hard on the grass.

  As Fingin walked home, he recalled when his father fought with his grandmother, long ago. He’d hated when they fought, but hadn’t been able to escape or fight back. It had encouraged him to learn how to do both.

  His grandmother had been acting strange, and the tension in their household had increased. She left for entire days with no reason or excuse. She came home late at night, most nights, or not at all on others. Every time Rumann asked where she’d been, she ignored her son. Even Fingin’s mother couldn’t coax an explanation from her. Her eyes had glazed over, and Fingin suspected she might be losing her wits, but other times, she remained sharp.

  His father had been drinking ale all day, which hadn’t been unusual. His mother had already fallen asleep, exhausted from her busy day.

  When his grandmother stumbled into the door late after the evening meal with stars in her eyes, Rumann pounced upon her. “There you are! What’s your excuse tonight, woman?”

  She speared him with a withering glance. “I do as I like, Rumann. You aren’t my husband.”

  He threw his mug against the wooden wall, startling Fingin’s mother awake. She groaned in complaint, but didn’t rise. Fingin huddled in his own alcove, afraid to make a noise.

  “I’m your son! Not that you ever act like a mother should. You ought to sit by the fire and sew, not gallivant off at all times of the night! What do you do, meet some lover? Are you sinning in the dark? Like some animal?”

  Her laugh echoed through the roundhouse. “Sin? Who are you to speak of sin? You and your dead god. Keep your artificial morality to yourself, Rumann. I’ll have none of it.”

  Her footsteps rang across the flagstone floor and toward her own alcove, but Rumann hadn’t finished with her.

  “Don’t you walk away from me, harridan! Come back and explain yourself.”

  “Should I use small words so you can understand them? I went out. I am back. Go away.”

  “This is my house, old woman, and you’ll live by my rules!”

  “Your house! I lived here long before I opened my legs to push your ungrateful self from my loins. I should have left you inside to rot!”

  Fingin had tried to cry himself to sleep. He remained as quiet as he could, but his father heard him anyhow. The cloth curtain separating his alcove flung open, revealing Rumann’s angry red face. “What are you blubbering about? I swear I don’t have a son. I have a sniveling daughter, good for nothing.”

  His father grabbed his shoulder and yanked him from the alcove into the main room, out the door, and into the stable. Fingin knew better than to argue, but he thought he might have grown big enough to fight back.

  He pulled on his father’s arm, trying to pull him off balance. While Rumann stumbled, it did nothing to break the grip he had on his son. Instead, he dug his fingers into tender skin, making Fingin whimper. He’d been wrong.

  With silent deliberation, Rumann removed the switch from the stable wall and punished Fingin for his escape attempt and his grandmother’s defiance.

  He lost count after ten. Perhaps that’s why he had never learned numbers well.

  After that incident, he’d learned to run and hide as soon as he noticed trouble brewing.

  Back in the present day, Fingin held his sobs inside. Bran butted him. “What happened? Did someone hurt you? Where are they? Is it that bad-smelling man?”

  “No, no one hurt me now, Bran. I just remembered something which happened long ago. No need to protect me.”

  “I’ll protect you! And Lorcan, too! The bad-smelling man is mean.”

  “Yes, he’s very mean. Lorcan needs more protecting than I do. But you must be careful. That man is also his brother, his kin. It would be bad to hurt him.”

  Bran cocked his head. “But he wanted to hurt you! He tried to hurt you. Why can’t we hurt him back?”

  “Because no one would know he tried to hurt us, and it would be our word against his. He lives there, and I don’t. They would believe him.”

  Bran sneezed. “I don’t understand. That makes no sense. That’s not true.”

  He patted the hound’s back. “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense. But sometimes things make no sense, no
matter how much you want them to.”

  * * *

  The next day, when the bushes snapped behind him, Fingin didn’t need to turn around. Bran had already bounded toward the sound, his mental voice cheering for his new friend, Lorcan. “He came! He came! We’re going fishing now, right? We’ll show him how to fish?”

  Remembering Lorcan’s unease about the river, Fingin suspected Lorcan would wait on the beach and watch while Fingin fished, but still, he’d show the boy. Perhaps he’d be able to ease the child’s fear of the water, without his bully brother around to shove him under the surface.

  The child in question emerged from the treeline, Bran hopping around him like a drunken rabbit. The enormous hound jumped back and forth, making the boy giggle at his antics.

  “C-c-come, sit. Would you l-l-like to see how I make my net? I’m repairing a worn p-p-place.”

  With a determined set to his mouth, Lorcan sat next to him and peered at the net.

  “See here? The line is f-f-frayed and will b-b-break the next time I p-pull it, or if a larger fish p-pushes against it. I don’t want to lose a b-b-big fish, so it’s b-better to fix it b-before it breaks.”

  “Where do you get the twine?”

  “I make it myself. Here, I’ve g-got horsehair, flax strands, some thin, d-d-dried vines, and c-cattails. Anything strong and f-f-fibrous will work. The t-trick is to have each end start at a d-different place. Each individual strand is weak, but t-t-together, they’re strong.”

  Lorcan stared down at his hands and fidgeted with his fingernails. “Like my brothers.”

  “Like your b-brothers. However, even something with c-c-combined strength can be broken.”

  The words didn’t just apply to the net. The boy glanced up, entreaty in his eyes. “Can you teach me how to do what you did to Ségán?”

  “I can t-t-teach you, yes. But it only works in certain circumstances. Your other b-b-brothers were elsewhere, and I had to move so he’d be running t-toward the f-fence. Did you notice that?”

  “I did afterward. How did you flip him like that?”

  “I crouched d-d-down, so I stood lower than him. Th-that way, when he hit me, he t-t-tumbled over me rather than into me. I just made certain I stayed close enough to the fence that falling over me also meant going over the fence. Ségán won’t let himself b-b-be in that situation again any t-time soon.”

  Lorcan bowed his head but didn’t answer.

  “That doesn’t mean you can’t fight b-back, just that it takes some p-planning.” He brightened at that. Fingin finished tying his repair and tugged it a few times. “That’s b-b-better. See how much stronger it is? Now, let’s go t-test this out.”

  Lorcan followed him and Bran down to the beach, but he watched the water with cautious eyes. “You don’t have t-t-to go in if you don’t want to. Would you p-prefer to watch as I cast?”

  He continued to verbalize as he cast, pulled, and hauled his net to shore. The fish didn’t swim into his net today, despite his humming, as the sun had climbed high and fish became more active at dawn and dusk. Still, a few trout and a sunfish wriggled in his net, making Lorcan’s eyes grow wide.

  “Do you eat those right away?”

  One fish escaped, wriggling and flopping on the beach. Lorcan jumped and tried to catch it, but it leapt from his fingers and into the water. Bran leapt back into the river after the escapee, splashing all of them with a wave. Lorcan shouted in complaint, and even Fingin chastised the eager hound.

  In apology, Bran placed both his front paws on Lorcan’s shoulders and licked his face, making him laugh and scream for the dog to stop. However, Bran held him down and gave him a thorough licking. The boy earned a few shallow scratches, but his face glowed with delight.

  When they settled, Fingin saw a bird flit by and had an idea. “Lorcan, have you ever held a b-b-bird?”

  The boy shook his head, so Fingin said, “Come closer, wee blackbird. I won’t hurt you.” He held out his hand, sending a mental urging to the bird to alight upon it. The bird considered him at first, cocking his head back and forth. It flew to a closer branch and regarded the trio for a few more moments. After hopping to the ground, it drew closer every few moments, jumping in a zigzag until it remained just out of reach.

  Lorcan froze, entranced by the sight.

  “Remember to breathe, boy! Blackbird, will you come to my hand? We won’t harm you.”

  The bird’s gaze flitted between him, Lorcan, and Bran. It hopped on Lorcan’s leg. The boy drew in his breath, and his eyes grew wide.

  “Can the boy pet you, wee bird? Be gentle, Lorcan. Barely touch him.”

  Lorcan reached out a hand with tentative eagerness. The bird allowed the touch, bobbing twice. “Do you have seed?”

  Fingin shook his head. “No seed, but I might tomorrow.”

  “It’s so soft and light! No weight at all. It’s like an air spirit.”

  Fingin’s grandmother used to speak of the nature spirits. Spirits of the air, the water, the trees, all the wild things around them. “Perhaps that’s what he is. Have you ever seen an air spirit b-before?”

  A strident voice cried out, “What are you doing! What devilry is this?”

  Lorcan’s blissful smile turned to horror, and the bird flew away in an instant. Bran jumped up and growled, placing himself in front of both Lorcan and Fingin.

  Aideen climbed down the stone steps to the beach. She grabbed Lorcan’s arm, ignoring Bran’s furious barking. “You’ll come home this instant, young man. I’ll have none of that pagan evil taught to my child! You’re not to touch my son again, do you understand? You will not speak to him, you will not seek him out, and you will not teach him your evil ways! Begone, devil! Out with you!”

  She held up the small wooden fish on a string around her neck, a symbol of Fingin’s parents’ new religion.

  “It wasn’t … evil! Just a b-b-bird! I s-s-s…” He swallowed, trying to get control of his voice. “I swear!”

  “Stop! Do not swear at me, devil-man! And call off your hellhound. I’ll have none of you! Begone! I banish you!”

  She dragged Lorcan up the hillside, though the boy sent an entreating look. Fingin dropped his gaze. He knew what happened next.

  Next would be the grumblings, the rumblings of something terrible going on in his glade. Maybe a few villagers, maybe a mob. They’d come with their torches and their burly men, and force him to leave. The last time they’d almost caught him. Their angry voices and burning torches still haunted his dreams.

  He’d learned his lesson as a child. Escape before it got to that point would be safer. No amount of argument, as forced and horrible as his voice delivered it, had ever before changed their minds. He’d vowed to stop trying after the last time.

  Once again, he’d have to find a new home, a new place to sleep.

  With sullen steps and weary bones, he gathered his catch, dragged all his things up to his hut, and packed his meager belongings.

  Chapter Four

  The fishing net took the most room in his bag. Three blankets, the few tools he had accumulated, dried fish, two spare léinte, some pottery, his cooking pot, and his twine took up the rest of the space. Even that little would be heavy enough after the first day of traveling, in his experience. At least Bran would keep him company on his journey this time.

  Bran jumped all around the small hut, excited, and anxious at the same time.

  “Where will we go? Will we travel far? Will we meet other people? Will we be able to fish?”

  “I’m not certain where we’re going, or how far we’ll travel. We’ll surely meet someone. I won’t settle anyplace I can’t fish.” Fingin considered the hound. “Would you like to choose which direction we start?”

  Bran’s head popped up, and he glanced left, right, and left again. “Which is the best direction?”

  “The best direction is away from here. Just don’t go that way.” Fingin pointed south. He’d come from the south when he moved here.

  The dog
woofed and shook his head, an action that moved down his body. He sniffed the air in several spots around the glade and finally chose a spot, opposite from the path to Lorcan’s home. “This smells like rabbit. Let’s go this way. The other way has badgers.”

  Fingin grinned and patted Bran on the head. “Rabbits sound better. Lead the way, trusty hound!”

  He reveled in the familiar freedom of being on the road, but at the same time, the dread of the unknown crowded against his mind. They had enough food for three days, no more, unless they foraged while they walked. Bran could hunt as they traveled, but Fingin had discovered his hound didn’t hunt well. Perhaps that’s why his previous owner had sent him away. Fingin still hadn’t forgiven that person for such an act. Dogs are friends, not tools.

  Not long into their journey, Bran dove into a rabbit’s warren, burrowing down to find his prize, but the hole seemed empty. At least, Bran came up for air with nothing but dirt on his nose and a laugh in his voice. Fingin didn’t care if he never caught game. His dog’s joy made Fingin happy. What more could he want in a companion?

  Back and forth across the trail, Bran investigated each new scent and sound. Fingin walked at his normal pace, halting now and then as Bran darted across his path, lest he careen into the tall hound.

  “I’ve never been down this road. There’s a new scent, something I haven’t smelled before. I wonder what it is? It’s not rabbit or badger or squirrel or deer or…”

  “There are lots of animals in the woods, Bran.”

  “But this is a new scent! I want to see what the new creature is.”

  “We have to keep moving. I want to find a safe place to sleep tonight. See those clouds? It may rain before dusk.”

  Bran bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to sleep in the rain.”

  “Neither do I, which is why we have to keep moving. The path splits up there. Do you want to choose which branch to take?”

  Without a word, Bran bounded to the fork and sniffed in both directions. He didn’t hesitate, taking the right-hand path, so Fingin followed.