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

by Christy Nicholas

  As he lit a small fire for their evening meal, his muscle pain returned. However, this felt like the ache of a day full of heavy activity, not the throbbing of a pummeled body. He tossed some fragrant herbs onto the flames in thanks for Brigit’s forethought. Both the healing pendant and the axe had been invaluable.

  He hoped he wouldn’t need the pendant again soon.

  * * *

  The night came clear and cool, the stars twinkling above them in a magical dance. This night, Fingin found his slumber. His body, exhausted from the day’s efforts, didn’t keep him awake with pulsing pain. Instead, he drifted into troubling dreams, his thudding heart waking him more than once. Despite his broken dreams, he slept through most of the night.

  The morning dawned overcast, just as he’d wished for the day before, but no rain lingered in the morning mist. He didn’t greet the sun, but the power from yesterday’s ceremony, buoyed by Brigit’s charm, still infused his body.

  They pulled two more logs to the beach and dressed them, but Bran had difficulty finding two more. Each one he found had grown too gnarled, too thin, too thick, or too rotten for Fingin’s needs. Farther and farther they cast, trying to find suitable logs.

  He considered using just the eight logs they’d gathered, but it wouldn’t be large enough to ensure Sean didn’t fall into the river. He needed ten for both his friends to travel in safety.

  They stood in a clearing, the river now far below them. He glanced around, though the standing trees would hide any fallen logs. Something in the river caught his eye.

  A silver flash, a fish swimming against the current, jumped over the surface. The fish must have been enormous to be visible from so far. Frowning, Fingin made his way back to the shore.

  He remembered the last time he’d encountered a huge salmon when he’d almost drowned. And yet, if that fish hadn’t destroyed his net, he might have missed Bran. Brigit had even hinted she’d sent the fish.

  It couldn’t be the same fish.

  Still, it behooved him to check. Perhaps she sent another message.

  He slipped a few times, rushing down to the small beach. He made it just as the silver fish leapt once again.

  There couldn’t be two salmon so large in Ireland, could there?

  After he stared at the fish, disappearing upstream, he studied the far shore. There, sticking out along the tree line, lay two more logs. They seemed like the perfect size, the perfect length. In fact, they seemed to have broken from their trunks just long enough to serve as the final two parts of his raft.

  Now, how to cross the river to get them?

  Fingin considered building the raft with the logs he had, taking Bran and him across the river, and hauling the new logs back to finish the raft. He considered having Sean pull him across the water to pull them back. Which would be less dangerous?

  “Sean, do you see those two logs?”

  The donkey nodded.

  “I need to get them. If we swim over there and tie them to your back, do you think we can get them back here? We can do both at once, or one at a time. Are you strong enough for that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you willing to try?”

  Sean stared at the river for several moments before nodding.

  Feeling guilty for relying so hard on his friend’s help, Fingin assured him, “If you get too tired, we’ll stop on the other side. Bran can join us there until we’re rested enough to come back. Does that sound good?”

  Sean nodded again.

  “Let’s eat first. Then we’ll go over.”

  They ate in silence as Fingin considered the river, the dangers that might occur, and how his plan might go wrong.

  When they had rested, Fingin decided he’d first try with Sean, as the donkey had more stamina than the dog. “Are you sure you want to swim across, Sean? It doesn’t matter how far down the other side we float, as long as we reach the other side. I’ll hold on to your bridle, so we don’t get separated. Does that sound reasonable?”

  The donkey nodded a few times, but Fingin sensed the hesitation in the beast’s answer.

  With growing apprehension, he tied Sean’s bridle around his wrist, and they entered the river.

  He’d underestimated how strong the current ran. The water tugged at them, pushing them downriver. The far shore looked leagues away from the surface of the water. He sought any fish within the water, asking for help, but they all ignored him. Even the big salmon had disappeared.

  A large branch flowed next to them, and Fingin had to duck to keep from being hit on the head. It brushed Sean’s flank, but Fingin pushed it away before the branches got entangled in Sean’s ropes. It spun away on the water, cutting lazy circles as it sped along.

  They swam hard for the other shore, but it seemed to get farther away with each stroke. Sean struggled to keep his head up. Fingin’s arms ached, and the pains from the prior days’ work came back to haunt him. His eyes and nose stung, his healing not yet complete despite Brigit’s pendant.

  One more stroke. One more kick. If he hadn’t tied Sean’s bridle to his wrist, he would have drifted far from the donkey long ago. Together, they gained on the elusive shore.

  Sean brayed when they’d almost reached the ground. The donkey must have gotten a foothold on the riverbed. He climbed to dry land with Fingin dragging behind. They lay on the rocks, panting and exhausted, unable to move.

  Distant barking echoed over the rush of the water. Fingin lifted himself up to his elbows, spying the small gray blur on the other side that must be Bran. He’d have followed them as they drifted down the river, trying to cross. Fingin smiled at his loyal hound, though he suspected the dog wouldn’t see him at this distance.

  After a long rest, they hiked back up along the river’s shore to the two logs. He eyed them, noting how large and heavy they might be. They’d pull both him and Sean downriver a considerable distance. Dragging them ashore would prove even more difficult. In addition, he’d need to have some way to cut Sean loose if they became entangled.

  Fingin cursed the fact he’d left his knife on the other side. He had his axe, though, brought to cut small branches from the trunks. He bent to his task while he considered how he’d proceed.

  Would they have enough energy to return for the second trunk? Or should they try to take both the first trip? Sean offered no opinion when asked, so the decision must be Fingin’s. He must bear the weight of the consequences.

  Sean braced himself on the rocks as Fingin tied first one and then the second log to his bridle with twine. Once both logs bobbed in the river, sheltered by an outcropping of rock, he tied them together to minimize the water pulling them in different directions. Once he’d set the tethers, he took a deep breath and told Sean to head for shore. Fingin swam with one hand on the logs, both to use them to keep him afloat and to guide them.

  At first, Sean swam easily across the current, only drifting down river a little. However, a strong eddy formed beneath him, making him spin and flounder in the deep water. He squealed, and Fingin wished he had stayed near the donkey, offering support and strength. “Stay strong, Sean! Just keep swimming! Push on through the whirlpool!”

  Sean pulled out of the eddy, but then the logs got caught in the same whirl. Fingin kept hold so he might maintain some control upon the dragging wood. The tied logs angled up, knocking his grip loose, and he sank beneath the surface.

  The sunny day disappeared into the dark and swirling water. He didn’t get a chance to gulp air. Water burned in his lungs, and he struggled to the silver surface. The log floated above him, and he tried to shove it aside so he might breathe sweet air, but he had no leverage to move it. His sight grayed around the edges. He needed to cough, but couldn’t. He waved his arms, trying to free himself from the whirling trap. His hand hit one of the logs, and it moved forward. He followed it and broke the surface. He drew in the fresh air, gasping and coughing. His vision returned to normal, though his lungs and eyes stung.

  He searched for Se
an and the logs, but he didn’t see them.

  Fingin didn’t even know on which shore Bran waited.

  Silver water filled his sight, and he searched for any clue to which shore was which. That clearing might have been the same one they’d climbed. He’d make his way toward it.

  His arms refused to obey his will. With enormous effort, he lifted one arm, and it dropped on the surface, making a loud smack. He drifted further downstream as he tried to lift the other. No strength remained in his body. With alarming fatalism, he decided the water would eventually throw him ashore at some bend in the river. Perhaps Bran might find him someday.

  Adrift and unable to move, he bobbed along with the current, turning now and then with the motion of the surface. He stayed afloat, but he couldn’t muster the strength to make his way ashore. He hoped Sean had made it safely. How would the donkey remove the logs? Maybe Bran would bite through the twine. Then they would be free.

  They’d be better off free from him. He only brought them pain and danger. If the river swallowed him, they would live happier lives.

  It seemed an eternity later he heard the barking. He blinked several times to focus on land, but his sight swam. Only blurry water and colors danced in his vision, waterlogged with the wool of drowning daydreams.

  Something pulled on him, and he fought with feeble struggles. He tried to bat away whatever attacked him, but his blows remained ineffectual. He only splashed around at nothing. Whatever bit at him ignored his actions.

  Now he’d be dragged under, to some river monster’s watery lair. Perhaps he’d been seized by a legendary murdúchann? A lovely woman who turned into a seal and lured men to their death. He welcomed her sultry embrace. Where did she go?

  Blackness engulfed him.

  * * *

  His grandmother’s strident voice cut through the black. “Rumann, what are you doing to that child? Stop it! Immediately!”

  Fingin ducked away into a corner as soon as his father grew distracted. He huddled in the dark, hoping to stay hidden from his father’s eyes. Or, more importantly, from his father’s leather strap.

  “I’m teaching him a well-needed lesson, Mother. Leave me to my own child.”

  “I’ll do no such thing! Drop that at once.”

  Rumann growled and did not drop the strap. Fingin shuddered, knowing his anger would find a target, and that target would not be his grandmother.

  “I’m tired of healing the welts and cuts you leave on the poor boy. He’s doing his best, Rumann. Can’t you see that? He can’t work as hard as the older boys. Fingin weighs half as much.”

  “He’s a slacking idiot. He doesn’t do enough because he’s lazy.”

  “The boy is barely eight winters! You didn’t work as hard at eight. And before you protest that you did, may I remind you that I was there?”

  He growled again, muttering under his breath. He slapped the strap into his hand in a rhythmic tattoo, an ominous warning that he itched to use it again.

  His grandmother crossed her arms. Her shawl showed bright red in the dim light, a beacon from the misery. He wished to escape with her, to run away from his father, far away to another land. He’d even asked her once, but she’d laughed. She said she would leave some day; but had work yet to do here.

  He didn’t know what work she did. She left for the village during the day and returned in the evenings, sometimes. She wore bright, new clothing and always came back cheerful. One time he found her crying, but she assured him she cried happy tears. He didn’t understand what she meant by happy tears.

  His father barked, but that seemed strange. His father must have found it odd, for he furrowed his brow. When he opened his mouth, he barked again. Then something cold and wet touched Fingin’s cheek.

  Fingin opened his eyes to find Bran standing on his chest. It hurt.

  “You’re awake! You’re awake! I didn’t think you would wake, but Sean said you hadn’t been hurt. I found you, and you’re awake!”

  He had to fend off a fresh onslaught of licks as Sean brayed in the background. Once he gained control of his body and asked Bran to stop trying to drown him all over again, he sat up.

  They’d landed nowhere near where he’d left the rest of the raft. However, both logs had made it to shore, though the string appeared frayed and ready to break. Sean sat on the ground, exhausted and drained. They both deserved a long rest.

  “Let’s sleep here tonight, and then we’ll head back to the rest of the raft in the morning. I have no food, though. We’ll have a grand breakfast in the morning.”

  “I have fish!”

  Fingin peered at where Bran stood. Three good-sized trout lay at his feet.

  “Wherever did you get those?”

  “I got them from the river after I caught you. They jumped into my mouth!”

  He chuckled. “Then you must get first choice. You’re a real fisherman, like me!”

  Bran’s tongue lolled in joyful satisfaction at his new title. Sean laid his head down on the ground.

  “Let me gather some grass for Sean before we rest. He did all the work today, and deserves all the pampering we can give him.”

  He searched for some tall, sweet sedge grass and cattails, and yanked them out to deposit near the brave donkey, but Sean had already closed his eyes in sleep.

  “Bran?”

  “Yes, Fingin?”

  “Thank you for saving my life today. I would have died if you hadn’t pulled me to shore.”

  “I had to.”

  Fingin crinkled his forehead. “You did?”

  “Brigit told me. She warned me this would happen. She said to be ready. So, I knew.”

  “You did well, my friend.”

  That night, he did not dream of his father’s violence, nor his grandmother’s secret life. In fact, he dreamt of nothing at all, except the warm, fluffy body that curled up next to him as the darkness fell upon them.

  Chapter Seven

  It took the three of them a great deal of effort to haul the two logs back upriver. If he’d completed the rest of the raft first, he might have floated that downriver to where the new logs waited, but he hadn’t.

  They left the logs floating in the river, and, once again, Fingin asked Sean to drag them along, though the donkey remained on shore. Fingin stood by in case the new twine got tangled in bushes or rocks along the journey. With several rests and more than a few snags, they returned to the small beach with the other eight logs.

  Now Fingin set to work with the rest of his twine. Sean slept, and Bran kept an eye out for any interruptions, bounding in the woods and chasing the curious ravens away. Once he surprised a brace of rabbits but caught nothing.

  In and out, Fingin twined around each of the logs, pulling them tight and tying the string. The first two secure, he added a third, then the fourth, and so on. He built it right on the edge of the beach, so all he’d need to do was shove it into the water. Then he’d need to get Sean on board. He should persuade the donkey to sit down. Standing on the raft would be more dangerous, and would make it more likely to capsize.

  His twine supply had almost run out when he tied the last knot. With a grin, he tested his work’s sturdiness.

  Just as he tugged on the last knot, he realized he needed one more thing. “Bran! I need you to find me a slender log, something I can use as a pole to steer the raft. As long as you can find, but strong enough so it won’t bend. Can you find me one?”

  Without answer, Bran bounded into the trees, disturbing a flock of robins who had just settled down to dig for worms. They complained in a raucous chorus, both in Fingin’s mind and in chirps. They had some choice words for the blundering dog who disturbed their meal, making Fingin smile.

  Sean had woken again, but he still seemed off-color.

  “Would you like some water, Sean?”

  “I don’t want any water ever again.”

  Fingin chuckled. “I don’t blame you, my friend. But we need to drink water every day. I’ll get you some.”


  With his cooking pot, he scooped water from the river. He also gathered more sweet sedge grass for a treat. Sean had well earned it. Fingin wondered if the donkey would be too afraid to get on the raft afterward. He’d deal with that later. He wanted to ensure his friend was rested and fed.

  Bran’s barking in the distance made him rise. “I’ll be back soon.” He grabbed his axe and walked toward Bran’s summons.

  His dog had found a suitable tree. The thin tree had grown straight, with only a few knots, and those didn’t bend the main trunk. With a few axe blows and some trimming of the offshoots and top, he had a serviceable raft pole.

  He dragged it back to the beach, where Sean slept again.

  Fingin squinted at the overcast sky, judging the sun’s height. Through the thin cloud cover, it seemed to be farther to the west than overhead. Today would not be a good day to embark on their journey. He should let Sean sleep and get some rest himself.

  Instead, he built a small fire with leftover branches he’d trimmed from his raft logs, tied the raft to a tree near the shore, and settled down to cook a meal. He’d been eating jerky and the last of the bread for several days and craved a hot supper.

  Turnips, carrots, onions, garlic, and rosemary went into the pot. He soaked the dried fish before tossing it in with the rest. He let it simmer for a long time, his mouth watering as the aroma enveloped him. A proper stew took all day, but he didn’t have all day. The sun had almost set by the time he allowed himself to sample the stew. The fish remained tough. He should cook it a half a day more, but his stomach informed him in vocal insistence he shouldn’t wait any longer.

  He scooped some of the steaming food into a bowl for Bran, who finished it in short order, despite the heat. Fingin forced himself to savor his. He wouldn’t be able to cook on the raft, but they’d stop each night on the shore.

  Fingin didn’t have much practice guiding a raft, but he had to try. He’d used a raft a couple times when he was younger and had learned how to craft one from his older brother. They’d made smaller rafts and explored up and down the river.