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

by Christy Nicholas

  “I can call fish, so you have a nice meal. I can talk to them the way I talk to you.”

  They consulted again before the largest one answered. “We can take you. Can you hold on to our fins? It won’t take long.”

  Fingin smiled and stepped into the water. He gasped at the chill, and hooked his hand over that dolphin’s fin. He held on as it burst forward with speed. He wondered if the fish tried to knock him off, but he held on tight. Faster than he could imagine, faster even than the other Fae fish had hauled the raft, they skipped across the choppy water. He bounced on the dolphin’s back, his stomach pounding on the curved body, but he gripped tight.

  The sky grew ominously dark as they traveled, but he had committed to his course. If he fell off now, he’d surely drown.

  The water rose next to them in a strange bubble. The dolphins scattered, except the one he rode. Panicked at this new danger, Fingin asked, “What’s that?”

  “Oh, that’s Grandfather. He’s not dangerous. He only eats tiny fish.”

  The bubble rose higher and higher. The water sluiced from the top, almost loosening his grip on the fin. The form rose from the surface, white and blue, several times as big as the dolphin.

  Fingin gasped out his question, “Hello! What are you?”

  A deep voice rumbled through the water. “I am me. What are you?”

  The form rose and slapped down, causing a wave that once again threatened his hold.

  “I am Fingin, and I’m trying to get safe on shore before the rain starts.”

  “Oh… I thought you just played with my friends.”

  Fingin considered this. “I suppose I am. I will call fish when we’re done. Would you like some fish?”

  The creature dove again, disappearing under the waves, but his voice filtered back through the water, distorted. “I don’t like big fish.”

  “I can try to call little ones!”

  He got no answer from the large creature, his deep voice fading away. Without warning, the bigger fish burst to the surface. This time, Fingin lost his grip and, try as he might to get purchase on the dolphin’s slick body, he slipped into the water.

  Fingin dipped below the waves, his arms thrashing in panic. A body bumped against his arm, and he grabbed at it, but his hand slipped. Again, he scrabbled for something, anything to hold onto.

  Desperate for something to grasp, he flailed his arms. He connected to the smooth dolphin skin, but not the fin. His fingers slipped across the slick surface until he lost contact. Fingin’s vision grew fuzzy, but he tried again. This time, the panicked swimmer found the fin and pulled himself to the surface.

  He spluttered and coughed, vowing never again to embark upon the ocean.

  The shore came into close view, and through eyes burning with salt water, he squinted, trying to focus on the details. He searched for Sean or Bran but saw no animals. They might be waiting for him where he left them or might have wandered off. He didn’t think he landed on the same beach he’d embarked from with the monks.

  Fingin didn’t care. He just wanted to be on the ground and no longer on the ocean. He should have waited for the monks the next morning. This was what he got for his impatience, and his arrogance for believing his talent gave him an advantage.

  The Fae fish deposited him, choking and spitting on the sand. They waited in the shallows, while the larger creature waited further away. With the last measure of his strength, Fingin called out for the smaller fish, making them curious. They came to see who called them, and all the fish feasted.

  When the Fae fish and their companion ate their fill, they swam away. However, one lingered.

  “You are a strange human.”

  He managed a weak smile. “It’s not a bad thing to be strange. Sometimes it’s better to be strange.”

  The dolphin chittered. “I’m Nuanni. Why do you swim in the ocean with us? Most humans die when they try that.”

  Heavy drops of rain splatted on his head. “I almost died once, too. We do better on land, and swimming is more difficult.”

  “I remember a female human swam with us, but not into the deep. She didn’t talk to us, but she’d bring the storms. Storms mean more fish. We fed well. We liked her.”

  Despite the growing wind, this piqued Fingin’s interest. “A female human? Did she have black hair with white streaks? Do you know where she lived?”

  After a flip in the water, Nuanni replied, “Stripey hair, yes. She sang to us. She lived in a land structure that way.” The Fae fish pointed her nose toward the south.

  He peered in that direction, but the rain came from there and obscured any details. “Thank you, Nuanni! I hope we’ll meet again!”

  For an answer, she chittered and balanced on her tail, moving away. Then she dove into the water, and Fingin turned inland. He’d best find shelter.

  Only a stand of pine trees over a sandy beach stretched before him. He ran for the trees, hoping one had a thick canopy to cut the worst of the rain. Wishing he had a dry change of clothes, he pelted toward it, his boots squelching in the sand.

  Even if he hadn’t already been soaked, the storm drenched him within moments. The headwind almost blew him off his feet before he reached the trees. He crawled the last part, hugging the rough bark of the tree trunk as the storm raged around him.

  Tired, hungry, alone, and soaked, he held hope in his heart. The Fae fish had given him a clue to finding his grandmother’s home. Did she still live there? He hadn’t asked how long ago the Fae fish remembered her from. Somewhere out there, he also had friends to help him. Those friends carried his net, his clothing, and his tools.

  However, after seasons alone, he decided those friends mattered more than any of the material things they carried for him.

  * * *

  The rhythm of the raindrops lulled Fingin to sleep. He remained cold and wet, but at least he felt safe and secluded, despite his precarious position on a spit of land within a raging summer storm. As the darkness fell, he snored.

  When he stretched awake, the world dripped with more than the morning dew. The earthy scent of wet pine needles filled his nostrils, along with the tang of the air and the musty odor of seaweed.

  The rich smells reminded his stomach he hadn’t eaten for far too long. He had no net, but the shore had other treats. Fingin walked to some rocks along the beach and peered into the hollows for clams or oysters. He had no knife to pry open their shells, or fire to cook them, but he’d leapt this hurdle before. This time, he didn’t cut his finger. Somehow, the oyster didn’t seem as disgusting as it had been the first time he’d choked it down. The saltiness of the seawater helped.

  He shouted for Bran and Sean but knew he’d have to go search for them. Fixing the spot in his mind so he’d find it again when he needed to, he turned up the beach toward where he’d left with the monks. His friends likely waited for him near that spot.

  Fingin took his time walking along the beach, enjoying the post-storm air. The metallic scent tickled his nose, and he sneezed a few times as he climbed over rocky outcroppings, seaweed piles, and pebble washes.

  He imagined his grandmother living in this place, at the liminal border between the land and the water, a place of balance, danger, and magic. If she sang to the dolphins, did they make friends with her? Did she have any friends here? Or did she live on her own?

  A bark in the distance jerked him from his reverie, and he swiveled his head to find Bran. In the far distance, two dots moved toward him. He grinned, anticipating the reunion.

  When Bran caught up to him, the hound covered him with slobbering licks, to the point he had to fend off the enthusiasm or risk losing the top layer of his skin. Sean greeted him with less effusion, but still expressed relief at having found him again.

  “Bran didn’t wait patiently. He’s been running up and down this coastline searching for you since you left.”

  Bran jumped around him. “Did you find her? Did you find her? I don’t see her. You didn’t bring her back, though.”


  He shook his head with a chuckle. “No, I didn’t find her. I found someone who knew her, though. And it’s possible she’s living nearby. Our next goal is to find her home. It should be around that bend back there. At least, that’s what the Fae fish said.”

  “You had another raft?”

  “No, no raft. But the Fae fish brought me back until the storm hit.”

  Bran woofed and shook his head. “I don’t like the storms on the sea.”

  “No more do I, my friend.”

  “Do you have fish? I finished the ones you left me.”

  He laughed, ruffling Bran’s fur. “No, but we can get some. Let me pull my net out.”

  The actions of casting and drawing his net, cleaning the fish, and then setting up a fire to cook them helped him settle his mind and his thoughts. Now he had his friends once again, he’d find his grandmother with a lighter heart. They set off along the beach after a brief meal.

  Despite the mostly clear sky, a quick shower dampened their spirits. Nothing nearby offered cover, so they pushed on through the brief rain. The sand below them turned to mud and became difficult to walk through, so they moved inland to the treeline. While the way didn’t seem as clear, their feet had more purchase with the thicker ground cover. They could still glimpse the shoreline, so any structure would be in full view.

  The sun rose to its zenith before they got too far. Surprised, Fingin tried to figure out how much time he’d spent that day. He must have slept on the beach longer than he’d imagined, halfway through the morning.

  The edge of land crinkled here in the west, dipping in and out again. Frequent hills and rocks made it difficult to see around the next bend, so the trip became a long slog in and out of small inlets. Exhausted from all he’d been through the last few days, Fingin collapsed.

  They camped on the shore, a small, cheerful fire to keep back the darkness. The sky had cleared, revealing a blanket of twinkling stars above them, and he swore the ocean glowed from the sun after it set.

  For the first time in a long time, Fingin realized he’d found peace, despite still being on a mad quest. He felt happiness. This epiphany was no small thing, for he’d only ever been content with his life. But with Bran and Sean and his own dawning confidence in his ability to fend for himself in the wide world, he found something stronger, something deeper than mere survival.

  He enfolded this nugget of joy in his hands, smiling at it and tucking it into his memory. He’d take it out when he needed reassurance of his own worth, a recollection of when he made the right decisions to battle against his doubts when things careened out of control.

  Lying between Bran and Sean, the warmth of their bodies guarding him against the cool sea breeze, he drifted into a sweet sleep.

  In the velvet dark of the night, Fingin leapt up, wide awake.

  A mournful sound drifted across the water.

  A low, slow, ululation haunted him. Had he heard something? Or had his imagination played tricks on him? Did his dream wake him?

  The sound drifted across the beach again. This time, Bran’s head popped up, ears alert.

  “You hear it too, huh?”

  Bran sneezed, shaking his head. “We heard it last night. We thought someone had hurt you.”

  “Not me, Bran. Something out there.”

  The song seemed lovely, but lonely, as if someone cried for lost love. The cry came in and out, punctuated by a series of clicks and whistles, reminiscent of the Fae fish chittering.

  “Nuanni? Nuanni, is that you?”

  The answer, deep in his mind, didn’t sound like a female Fae fish, but the lower voice of the larger creature. “That is me, small human. I sing to the stars.”

  “Are you hurt? Can we help?”

  “I don’t hurt. I am happy.”

  No other answer came, and Fingin lay back down. “One of the big fish is singing, Bran. You can relax. He won’t hurt us.”

  Bran snuffled and shook his head again, turning several times before settling back in his spot. His wiry fur scratched Fingin’s neck, but he treasured feeling the dog’s warm body against his. He drifted back into slumber.

  Chapter Ten

  Late the next afternoon, they approached the derelict stone hut.

  Larger than the monastic huts on the monks’ island mountaintop, this structure seemed cozy enough for one person. It stood round like the more familiar thatched homes but made of stacked stones with large slates on the roof. A large stand of trees backed the hut, leading to a denser forest as the ground rose from the shore. Beyond that, a tall cliff jutted up to overlook the ocean.

  Shells and barnacles decorated some of the stones, and moss grew thick on other spots. A few flowers stuck up out of the top, and as they approached, it seemed sound enough. A few stones had rolled away from the base to rest in the sand. The high tide mark reached about forty paces from the front steps. Fingin decided a heavy storm would swamp the place, despite being on the rise in the sand.

  Bran sniffed the air. “I don’t smell people.”

  No smoke filtered out through holes in the stone, but the day remained mild. Perhaps whoever lived there didn’t need a fire for warmth.

  He approached the entrance with trepidation and prepared himself for disappointment. She must have moved away long ago. This would be yet another a dead end, and his quest would be over.

  Fingin clenched his jaw in determination and peered into the darkness within.

  Nothing remained inside the stone hut. No piece of furniture, no half-burnt sticks in the hearth, not even a broken spoon. Only a faint cloud of dust disturbed by his entrance. The interior looked utterly desolate.

  Fingin sat on the threshold with his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He wanted to cry. All the travails he’d endured to find his grandmother, only to find nothing at the end of the quest. Bran nosed in and licked his face several times. He batted away at his friend, trying not to giggle. “Stop it! Stop!”

  “You’re sad. I don’t want you to be sad.”

  He ruffled Bran’s fur. “I’m not sad at you, Bran.”

  Sean brayed, facing the forest. “Someone is coming.”

  Fingin jumped to his feet. Bran bristled and let out a low growl. “Hush, Bran. We need to see what’s coming before we warn it off.”

  Rustling in the forest undergrowth grew louder as whatever it was came closer. A glimpse of brown flashed amongst the trees, and the branches moved.

  When Fingin realized he saw antlers, not moving branches, he let out a breath of relief. “Greetings, honored stag. I apologize if we’ve intruded upon your wood.”

  The stag bowed his head once. “You are forgiven. The donkey is welcome, as are all my distant relations. Your hound is tolerated if the donkey speaks for him. You are more problematic. The sons of men have often brought evil to my kind.”

  With a nervous swallow, Fingin said, “I mean no harm to you or yours. I come seeking information.”

  “What information do you seek?”

  He let out a deep breath, thankful the stag would speak with him. Deer of all types wouldn’t linger to chat, being flighty and nervous. He couldn’t blame them, as men often hunted deer throughout the land. “I’m seeking the woman who lived here. She is my kin, and I must find her. Do you remember where and when she left?”

  The stag, his magnificent antlers twitching, considered the question. “She lived here for many seasons, but I’m uncertain when she left. Perhaps the sea eagle can help you. She often shared her meal with him.”

  “Where can I find the sea eagle?”

  The stag glanced to a promontory above them, a large nest tucked into the cliffside. “He resides up there, but you should be able to call him. If he can understand your words like I can, he will heed them. He’s rather intelligent for a bird.”

  Fingin squinted, trying to make out details of the large nest, but only saw a smudge of brown against the gray rock. “Thank you, honored stag, for your suggestion.”

  With another bow
of his head, he darted away into the trees. His brown coat and antlers disappeared.

  Bran bounded up. “You need to find a sea eagle? That’s a bird? Birds are hard to catch. They fly too fast.”

  “We don’t want to catch him, Bran. We need to speak to him. He might remember my grandmother.” Fingin shaded his eyes and pointed up to the cliff. “Can you see if there’s an eagle in the nest up there?”

  “I only see the nest. Can’t you see it? It’s right there!”

  “Your eyes are better than mine, Bran. Perhaps he’ll come back when the sun sets.” He squinted again, this time searching to the west. The sun hung close to the horizon. Dusk would be soon. “We’ll sit under the cliff. Come on!”

  They pushed through the bracken and bushes, the oak trees and pines until they reached a glade at the foot of the cliff. Small fishbones and other debris littered the ground beneath the nest. Fingin glanced up until his neck hurt, trying to stare the eagle back.

  As the sun dipped closer to its evening rest, they ate and rested from the day’s journey. Sean chewed on the sweet grasses while Bran and Fingin ate the last of the morning’s fishing venture. Glad he’d taken the time to fish and cook, he chewed on the last morsel, wishing he had some of the garlic-studded bread Aideen had given them. That part of his life seemed so long ago, another world away.

  A screech above him drew their attention. They watched as the massive sea eagle banked and circled over the cliff before diving. However, the bird didn’t land in the nest. Instead, it wheeled in lazy circles, dropping to a tree on the edge of the glade.

  He stood and bowed his head to the huge raptor. “Greetings, noble sea eagle. We apologize for intruding upon your home.”

  The eagle cocked his head and regarded him with glittering eyes. “How do you speak my words?”

  “I have magic that allows me to speak with the animals. I’m honored you allow me to converse with you. The stag suggested you might help me.”

  He fluttered his wings and squawked. “What would that silly creature understand about me? I help no one.”