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

by Christy Nicholas

  Despite the storm, he curled up next to Sean and descended into a fitful, restless sleep.

  He woke several times, certain he heard Bran’s bark or voice on the whistling wind. Once, lightning struck the water just past the rocks where they sheltered, lighting up the entire shoreline in bright white light. Fingin searched but saw no dark form walking toward them in the brief flash of lucidity.

  The storm eased as darkness enveloped them. The rain didn’t stop, but settled into a fine misty drizzle, enough to keep them in their bare shelter until the sun rose again in the morning.

  Fingin had no wish to greet the dawn this day, even if the sun showed its face. His heart grew heavy with Bran’s absence. No joy sang within him.

  Sean didn’t want to travel anywhere, either, but he grew hungry. Their supplies drowned in the storm, so he found a patch of grass to chew while Fingin searched again. This morning, the sun struggled to burn through the fog, revealing a waterlogged landscape with rocks, trees, and little else. They had landed on some small spit of land sticking out into the sea. He’d have to head back east to continue his journey south.

  In his exploration, he came across a few scraps from his pack. A bowl. A spoon. A strip of ragged fabric that may have been from a léine he’d had. He found no twine, no knife, no flint, no food.

  He sat on a rock, gazing out into the still-choppy ocean, begging for Bran to pop his head through the surface and bark. Even a whine would be great. Sean brayed behind him, and he sighed.

  Something broke the surface. For a moment, Fingin’s hope soared but fell as the trout swam away. Perhaps one of the Fae fish. As helpful as they had been, he felt relieved they’d parted company. The raft had been swift, but too dangerous.

  He’d blame himself forever for drowning Bran. The poor dog had already almost drowned once, and now he’d done it again.

  Fingin stood, with one last resentful glare at the greedy ocean. He cursed the water and, his hand on Sean’s neck, walked east along the shore.

  The sun disappeared amongst the clouds as the morning passed. Sean and Fingin picked their way along the southern edge of the peninsula, scanning ahead and behind for their furry companion. They stopped for a rest just as the shore swung south again.

  He wished he had his fishing net. He’d have to make more twine and create a new one. In the meantime, though, he’d grown ravenous. A strawberry bush halfway through the morning had assuaged his worst hunger pangs, but they’d returned stronger than ever.

  Fingin searched the rocks for clams. He found none, but he did find oysters. He’d never eaten oysters, though he’d heard of them. Using a sharp rock, he pried one open, at the cost of a sliced finger. He wished intently for a fire, even a small one. With eyes squeezed shut, he swallowed the slimy, salty thing. He almost gagged but clamped his mouth closed, refusing to vomit the scarce food.

  He offered one to Sean, but the donkey refused, preferring the sweet grass in the sand dunes. He sat for several moments, willing his gut to settle down. The waves lapped against the rocks, forming hollow claps and clicks. In the distance, he spied a few shapes on the rocks. One of them moved, and he stared, trying to figure out what manner of creature he saw. When it flopped into the water, he realized it must be a seal; another creature of the sea he’d heard of but never seen. Legend had it some seals were murdúchann, magical creatures who shed their sealskins and took human form.

  These murdúchann would mate with a human man but then return to the sea, leaving their children on the land. Sometimes they chose to live on dry land, and sometimes the man stole their sealskin to prevent their return.

  The barks of the creatures echoed along the waves, bouncing and breaking across the rocks where he sat, transfixed by the unusual sight.

  He still heard barking, even after the last seal dove into the water. Fingin cocked his head. The seals wouldn’t be barking underwater.

  When the wet, shaggy form slammed into him, dragging him to the ground, he didn’t believe his eyes. “Bran? Bran, you’re alive!”

  His hound slobbered wet kisses all over Fingin’s face, knocking him down to the rocks and holding him with his paws. Fingin didn’t even bother to push him away but pulled the hound into a great hug. Bran’s fur felt gritty and matted with saltwater, but dry. He must have been somewhere farther along the coast all this time.

  Bran continued to lick Fingin’s face, hands, and arms. He even ran over to Sean and licked the donkey’s nose, much to Sean’s disgust. “I searched everywhere for you both! I ran up and down the beach, but I didn’t see you anywhere! Too much fog. I couldn’t smell anything but wet. I found some fish on the rocks, though, but they tasted bad. I’m hungry. Do you have better fish?”

  Fingin hugged Bran again, rocking in relief. He had his friend back again. Everything seemed brighter now.

  “I have no fish, Bran, I’m sorry. I lost my net in the storm, along with our packs.”

  Bran yipped, a grin on his face. “I found one of them! But I can’t use the net.”

  “What? You found one of our packs?”

  For an answer, Bran disappeared around one bush and returned, dragging the leather strap of the pannikin. It had broken in the middle, but one pack, waterlogged and heavy, remained. With an exclamation of delight, Fingin rooted through it, taking stock of his new-found possessions.

  “My fishing net! My knife, another bowl. Oh, that dried fish is disgusting now.” He tossed it on a rock. Bran ambled over to sniff it, but even he wouldn’t eat it, ruined with seawater. “Two léinte! I’ll need fresh water to clean them. Aha!” He held up his fire-making kit, with flint and fool’s gold. “This is more valuable than silver, Bran! Thank you so much for saving this. And for not drowning!”

  Bran ducked his head. “It tangled around my leg. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  “It doesn’t matter. With my net and flint, we can have cooked fish for supper.”

  Bran barked in delight three times as Fingin pulled his net out and hefted it, eyeing the now-calm inlet.

  * * *

  The walk along the coast remained pleasant enough for the next two days. The three of them journeyed on, not hurrying but not tarrying, either. They climbed rocky outcroppings, detoured around boggy estuaries, ran along flat white beaches, and sheltered under enormous oak trees as they made their way south. When he squinted, Fingin spied land on the other side of the water, another peninsula jutting into the ocean. Did the island he searched for sit on the end of that one? The Fae fish had mentioned the stinky island sat off the end of the tip of land. He hoped so.

  A long, flat, beautiful beach crossed almost to the other side of the waterway. Out of curiosity, they walked along the sand, hoping it would connect to the southern land. When the bit of land curved away, just short of their destination, he considered the waterway.

  It seemed deep and swift, but narrow. He discerned a few roundhouses on the far side, clear enough that he observed a man walking.

  “What do you think, Sean? Can we swim across this?”

  Sean stared at the water but didn’t answer.

  Bran, however, had an opinion. “I don’t want to try. The water looks deep. What if another storm comes?”

  Fingin glanced at the clear, blue sky, just one white cloud low on the horizon. “I don’t think we’ll get any rain today, Bran. It shouldn’t take us long to get across. Can you smell a storm?”

  Bran sniffed the wind. “Not right now, but I still don’t like it.”

  With a deep sigh, Fingin nodded. “Very well, Bran. We’ll walk. Come along.”

  They wended their way back to the mainland, along the other side of the beach. Staying on the shore wouldn’t add too much to their journey. The land remained visible in the misty distance. Perhaps a half day extra to round the inlet.

  He’d kept his eye out for mountaintops sticking out of the ocean, covered in seabirds, but so far, none of the tiny islands along the coast fit the description. He suspected he’d have to walk along the next pe
ninsula to find the stinky island the Fae fish had spoken of. Their trek on this portion had taken most of a day. The next one looked rougher. The journey would be more difficult if those peaks reached the shore.

  When the shore turned again, from east to south to west, they had a river to cross. However, this river had a friendly ferryman who took them across on his raft. Bran didn’t want to board the raft at first, but with some fish for the ferryman and more for Bran, Fingin got them all across. It helped that the wind had died, leaving the day warm and still. The water flowed narrow and calm.

  After their lunch, and much refreshed by not only the meal but the fact they once again faced west, Fingin sang as he walked. Inspired by the seals he noticed earlier when he mistook their barks for Bran’s own, he sang a song of murdúchann.

  His words described the first humans who came to the island, the sons of Míl, those who encountered the Tuatha Dé Danaan. The murdúchann played around the ships of these late invaders, distracting them and keeping them from landing for many days. Sirens sang, which lulled the sailors to sleep with their song. One wise Druid amongst them, a man named Caicher, handed out wax with which to plug their ears, an effective shield against their magic.

  Should a man ever heed the call of murdúchann and enter the water to be with her, the sea creature would tear them apart, limb by limb, and eat them. Tales of a thigh washed ashore in the island’s southeast gave truth to this belief.

  Once he finished his song, Bran yipped. “Were those fish who pulled our raft the same creatures?”

  “No, of course not. The murdúchann have the upper half of a human woman, with the bottom of a fish. The Fae fish had no human parts.”

  Bran peered out into the water as if trying to conjure the creatures again, to get a better glimpse at their form. “But they said they breathed air. You said fish only breathed water.”

  “That’s why I call them Fae fish. They have some strange magic.”

  Sean let out a soft bray as if laughing at the hound’s naiveté.

  Bran swiveled to glare at the donkey. “What’s funny?”

  After smothering a laugh, Fingin passed the comment to Sean, who snorted.

  Bran pouted and let out a mock growl. “What’s he laughing at?”

  Fingin couldn’t comment and keep his laugh at the same time. Instead, he pointed ahead. “Look! There’s a mountain range. Do you think we can get to it before evening falls?”

  The distraction worked, and Bran bounded ahead.

  * * *

  The mountains didn’t quite reach the ocean, so walking along the coast didn’t involve too much hiking up hills. It took the rest of that day and all the next before they got close to the western end of the peninsula. Beyond the mainland lay a large island, with more islands dotting in the ocean beyond that. Perhaps they’d be lucky, and the monks would be on this island. A lumpy hill rose on the far end, but not like Brigit had described. Fingin suspected they needed to get to the large island before they found the one they searched for.

  A long line of stepping stones allowed them to ford an inlet across to the large island. They then turned left to climb the steep hill on the western tip.

  The sun had almost touched the edge of the ocean as they reached the top. Fingin, Bran, and Sean gazed out to the sea, and the island Brigit described sat right in front of him.

  Islands, he should say. Two mountaintops, one smaller than the other, stuck out of the waves. White with birds wheeling and nesting amongst the crags, they appeared as he’d imagined. This must be where the monks lived and where he needed to seek for word of his grandmother.

  Then he eyed the vast expanse of choppy ocean between his vantage point on his island and the bare shore of the monks’ island. In no lifetime would he ever even try to swim that distance. He doubted he wanted to cross it in a raft, even if he hadn’t almost drowned the last time he traveled in that manner.

  If men lived on the island, they must return to the mainland for supplies. They would have a boat for such journeys. He’d just need to secure passage on that boat the next time it crossed. But where would it be here? He peered down to the shore but saw no place where a boat might moor. He’d passed a flat beachy area on the way to the hill. Perhaps that’s where the monks embarked. He’d just have to search out the right place.

  They picked their way back down the mountain and scanned the flat areas for evidence of frequent boat use, but found none. The mainland lay just across the inlet, but he detected no details of human creation there, either.

  As the day had almost died, Fingin cast his net in the growing gloom, catching several large salmon and a huge fish. This strange creature resembled the Fae fish, with smooth skin and a single fin, but with a pointy nose and several rows of very sharp teeth. Amazed this catch didn’t break his net, he sent out a question to the fish, asking what it was. However, the fish only returned with the words, “Food. Swim. Food.”

  With a shrug, he hauled in the fish and cleaned them. He stoked the fire with a wary eye on the sky. The night remained clear so far, stars just beginning to twinkle in the east.

  As the last of the dying light disappeared in the west, Fingin snuggled between the warm bodies of Sean and Bran, content with his life and his quest. While he missed the security of a sturdy roundhouse, for now, he had a goal, a direction. Something he’d been missing most of his adult life, other than the day-to-day needs of survival and entertainment. Brigit had given him a gift more valuable than any magical healing charm. She’d given him a purpose.

  When he woke in the morning, he stretched, stiff and creaking, in the cool morning air. After the stresses of the last few days, with the storm, the long hikes, the terror of almost losing his best friend, Fingin had needed the deep, restorative sleep.

  Everything remained still except the faint lapping of the ocean against the rocky shore. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull cried. A few songbirds answered the complaint, heralding a morning chorus to wake him.

  Fingin wished the sun rose in the west, so he might catch the precise moment when it crested the horizon. Perhaps someday he would travel to the other side of the island and witness the sunrise across the water from there. For now, he arranged himself in his ceremonial stance, cross-legged and eyes closed, to greet the sun.

  Almost as if they joined him in his worship, the birds sang to his chants, matching his rhythm and delight. A practiced chorus to welcome the dawn, a waking of the life of the day, and the power of brightness.

  Fingin’s blood buzzed with the resurgence of energy and strength. His skin tingled with the magic of rebirth. The dominance of sunlight burned his eyes.

  When he finished his ceremony, the power returned to the ground, his steps came lighter, and his heart had lifted. No longer did he gaze upon the journey across the water with dread, but with determined purpose. He called out for the Fae fish, but none came close enough to answer his call.

  If he didn’t find a Fae fish or a regular boatman, he would build a boat himself. No raft this time, but a coracle, the hide-covered, wicker-spined round boat most men on the island used for sea travel. He should be able to build a boat. His father had shown him how to repair one, long ago.

  After their experience with the storm, Bran would not be eager to board another craft. Sean would be useless on that almost vertical island. They could both wait here for him, as his visit wouldn’t take long.

  However, to build a coracle, he needed thin wood and hide. The wood would be easy enough to find, as trees lay just behind him. However, the hide meant a cow, and he had no cows. He also had no trade goods to buy a cow, nor any way to find a market to buy a tanned hide. This posed a considerable barrier to his plans. He glanced at Sean, and then swallowed, horrified at even considering hurting or trading his friend.

  As he sat on the beach, plotting strategies, a motion caught his eye. He focused his gaze across the inlet, and he watched as two robed men jumped into a coracle and paddled west.

  There! That’s wher
e the monks embarked. He’d been on the wrong side of the water.

  He jumped up and waved his hands with mad abandon, yelling and screaming to get the men’s attention. Bran watched his antics and barked, evidently confused but playing along. Even Sean brayed and nodded.

  Fingin shouted himself hoarse but continued to leap and gesture until finally, the little coracle veered in their direction. Panting and voiceless, Fingin bent over and took a drink from his waterskin.

  The craft crept closer, and Fingin observed details of the men rowing it. They had shaved their foreheads into a tonsure and wore undyed robes of rough weave.

  He turned to Bran and Sean. “I don’t think I can take you on the island.”

  Bran shook his head and sneezed. “I don’t want to go in the water again.”

  Sean brayed his agreement.

  “I promise I’ll come back here when I return. Wait for me?”

  Sean answered for them both. “We will wait for you, Fingin.”

  As the men approached the shore, Fingin gritted his teeth, remembering his speech difficulties with humans.

  “Who hails the brothers of Fionán?”

  “I… I… I need t-t-to t-travel to the island. Are you g-g-going… there?”

  The monks peered at Bran and Sean, but Fingin shook his head. “Just me. My hound and… d-donkey will remain here. My mission shouldn’t t-take long. I only seek… information.”

  He held out three packages of the large fish, wrapped in seaweed. The monk with darker hair eyed the offering, peeking under the wrapping, and then nodded. He left the rest of his supplies and the remaining pack with Sean, after leaving out plenty of food for Bran.

  “We shall take you to the monastery.”

  * * *

  The small coracle might be ideal for one person. Three people made it crowded and uncomfortable. In addition, Fingin fretted about too much weight for the wicker braces. He spent the trip in silence, gripping the edge and doing his best to remain still. The monks offered neither conversation nor questions.