The eagle opened his wings to his full wingspan, and Fingin wanted to run. The creature could snap his arm in two easily, should he decide to. Bran stayed quiet but quivered beside him. Sean ignored the bird and kept eating.
“I am seeking word of my grandmother. She lived in the house on the shore. The stag thought you might remember her.”
“Yes, I remember her. She sometimes shared food with me. What do you wish of her?”
“I would like to find her. Do you remember where she went? Or how long ago?”
The eagle screeched again, flapping its wings. “I do not. She disappeared one day, many, many seasons past. I have since had several eggs, and the chicks grown and gone.”
Fingin hung his head, once again stymied in his quest.
The eagle spoke again. “However, the salmon might know where she’s gone. He spoke with her.”
Startled, he glanced up. “Spoke to her? She didn’t have the magic I do. How could she speak with the salmon?”
Another screech rang in his ears. “He is the Salmon of Wisdom. He decides who can hear him.”
Without waiting for an answer, the eagle took flight, flapping so strong the dust flew around them. Fingin coughed and rubbed the dirt from his eyes. The eagle had gone.
With a deep sigh, Fingin sank back to the ground. Where would he find the salmon? The only thing he could think to do was stick his head in the ocean and call for him. He’d drown before a fish heard him in the water.
No matter. For now, he would sleep. Perhaps a better solution would come to him in the morning.
* * *
The morning, however, offered no fresh ideas. After he’d honored the dawn—ever since encountering Brigit, goddess of the dawn, he made certain to keep his ceremony sacred—he paced along the beach in front of the abandoned stone hut, trying to discern a way to find the salmon.
Bran barked each time he walked in front of the dog. “Why do you walk like that? You aren’t going anywhere.”
“I’m trying to think. I have to find a salmon.”
“Are you going fishing? I’m hungry.”
He glanced out to the ocean, the waves choppy in the gray morning light. “I should. But I need to speak to a particular salmon. A smart salmon who made friends with my grandmother. Possibly the same one that got me started in this whole mess.”
“A smart fish? Like the Fae fish?”
“Maybe. Oh! Maybe the Fae fish can find him for me! Bran, thank you!” He hugged the hound so tight the dog let out a yip. “Thank you! What a brilliant idea.”
After a quick morning cast for fish, he waited impatiently for his fire to cook their meal. In the meantime, he called out a few times for the Fae fish. “Nuanni! Nuanni, are you out there? Tanni? Anyone? Come to shore, I have questions to ask!”
They ate their morning meal and rested on the beach in the overcast morning. The time passed with no answer, but he kept asking now and then. He even stuck his head under the water a few times, spluttering as sand and seawater got up his nose.
One school of smaller fish came to his call but flitted away as a larger fish chased them. He tried to talk to the larger fish, but it swam away almost as fast.
He sat back on the beach hard enough to jar his spine. His head ached from the impact, and he stared out to the islands peeking through the ocean mist. They danced among the wind, winking in and out of view as the breeze played with their white shrouds. He grew mesmerized by them, almost as if they moved in the waves, disappearing and reappearing like Hy Brasil every seventh winter.
His grandmother might have been gone too long for the salmon to remain nearby. Fingin probably wasted his time searching for this intelligent salmon. Perhaps his quest had truly failed.
His entire life had been a failure until this quest. He’d had no family, worked no farm, and created no stories. He had survived from day to day, scraping by, without contributing to his world in any way. If he had never existed, would anything have changed? Would anyone be the better or worse for his life?
He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the tears to stay away. His failure with this quest was no surprise. If he had drowned in the ocean, no one would have cared or noticed.
Bran nosed up against his hand, the warm, wet tongue interrupting his misery. He smiled and ruffled the wolfhound’s fur. Perhaps he had lived a worthless life, but he’d saved Bran’s life. That must be worth something in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps he could still complete his quest with his friends’ help. Perhaps he hadn’t yet failed.
“There is no failure while there is life.”
He jumped to his feet, spinning to find the owner of the deep, resonant voice. It flowed through his feet and into his bones.
He saw no one.
A low chuckle bubbled into his mind. “You see no one. I am no one, but I am also everyone. You may glimpse me, however, under the surface. You must search if you wish to see.”
A glint of silver flashed in the ocean before him. An enormous salmon head popped above the water, black and silver spotted, with a hint of pink near the gills.
He had found his salmon.
“In truth, I have found you, Fingin. Again.”
“So, you are the salmon in the river, the one who broke my net?”
Fingin imagined a smile playing on the salmon’s mouth. “Indeed. You needed to be distracted so you could find your loyal companion. If I hadn’t broken your net, you would not have seen the branch. If you hadn’t seen the branch, you would not have rescued the dog.”
Fingin set his jaw. “I would have seen that half tree coming down my river without you breaking my net!”
“Do you doubt my words, human?”
The menace in the salmon’s mental voice brooked no argument. Fingin wondered at his own temerity. The salmon had an honored place in legends, a harbinger of wisdom. To ignore its words would be foolish.
“I do not.”
“Excellent. Cliodhna has chosen well.”
He raised his head, his eyes wide. Bran yipped once. “Cliodhna? Then you do remember my grandmother?”
“You already knew this. Why do you waste my time with foolish questions?”
Foolish questions. Very well, he’d ask what he needed to know. “Where is my grandmother now?”
“That is not the correct question.”
He glanced at Bran, but the dog just cocked his head. “Can you hear the salmon, too?”
Bran whined. “Yes. I don’t like him. His voice hurts.”
He flashed the dog a sympathetic smile and turned back to the fish. “How can I get to where my grandmother is?”
“Much better. I shall show you.”
Images swam in his mind. Back the way he came, to the north edge of the large island, to a bog near the coast. Hills hung in the distance, across the flat marshlands and a small strip of water. A sacred well surrounded by a throne of flat stones.
“The new religion will someday steal the well on Imleach Bog, dedicating it to one of their own holy men who will travel the ocean. However, the old gods remain strong in this place. This is where you will begin your journey.”
Sitting back on the ground, Fingin held his aching head. “My journey to where?”
“To where your grandmother lives.”
Fingin bowed his head. “Thank you.”
“This information comes at a price, young human.”
“What price do you ask?”
The salmon did not respond right away. Fingin sweated as the fish considered his answer. Perhaps the salmon only waited to make him nervous. Either way, it worked.
“I shall ask for a future favor.” The salmon disappeared.
With a muffled curse, Fingin leapt to his feet again, scanning the distance for a sign of the fish, but nothing moved but the gentle waves of the ocean.
Bran glanced up at him. “Is he gone?”
“He’s told me where to find my grandmother. At least a way to get to her.”
Bran barked three times. “Will t
here be food?”
* * *
The journey to the sacred well had been relatively easy, for once. No storms battered the coast, nor did any rogue warriors harass them. Instead, the day beat warm and humid upon their backs as they slogged through the marshy lands. The land remained flat here, vast and empty of trees. Tall, green grasses swayed in the faint breeze around them, the wind a welcome relief to the heat.
In the distance, several low hills rose against the backdrop of the ocean, just as they had in the salmon’s vision.
A dark pile of rocks in the distance became their beacon. As they drew closer, the dark pile resolved into the flat stones he’d seen in his mind’s eye. Arranged almost like a throne around the deep well, they appeared stark against the green grass. Stone steps led into the dark depths.
Fingin dipped his hands into the water, taking a cautious sip. The clear, sweet water ran down his throat, and his skin cooled despite the humid day. Brigit’s charm around his neck grew warm, and he grasped it with his hand. The cloth it hung upon grew icy.
“It seems like we need to enter the well itself.” Fingin glanced at his animal companions. “I don’t insist either of you come with me. You are free to come or stay as you like. If you stay, you can go your own way, or you can wait for me. Bran, I will fish for you if you want to do that. Sean, there should be plenty of grass for you.”
In his heart, he ached for Bran to stay with him, but he doubted Sean would fit into the small well.
The donkey peered at the steps. “I don’t want to go down there. I’ll wait here.”
“We might not return this way, and I don’t know how long we’ll be. I don’t want you to wait forever.”
“I shall wait here for a few days, then.”
Fingin nodded. “What about you, Bran?”
The dog whined and swiveled his head between Fingin and the water. “I don’t want to stay. I don’t want to go in there, either.”
He hugged the big hound tight. “I don’t blame you. But I have to go down there.”
Bran whined again and then woofed. “Then, so do I.”
He hugged Sean, retrieving his bag from the donkey’s back. “You’ve been a good friend and valuable help. Leave if we don’t come back soon. There should be plenty of people around happy to have your help on their farm.”
The donkey nodded, his eyes sorrowful.
Fingin took in a deep breath and stared at the water. The way wouldn’t come easier if he waited. He stepped into the well, the cold water seeping over his boot. With the second step, it reached his knees. The third step made him suck in his breath with the chill.
Bran stepped beside him. “This is cold!”
“I know, Bran, I know. Remember to hold your breath when we get beneath the surface. I hope the passage isn’t far.”
“I can’t breathe water.”
“Neither can I. But from what my grandmother taught me, this is a sacred well. For the salmon to send us here, it must be a magical portal. We shouldn’t have to hold our breath for long. If we don’t come out soon, we turn around.”
Bran didn’t answer. They took another step.
By the time the water reached his neck, his doubts rushed back. Did they descend into their own death by drowning? He reached under the stone, searching for some air space he could use to breathe, but found nothing but water and slick stone. He glanced at Bran, took in a deep breath, and ducked under water just as Bran did the same.
Chapter Eleven
Fingin had expected to continue down the steps, keeping his body under the water by pushing against the stone. However, as soon as his head went under the water, he stood in a field. He glanced around wildly for Bran, and found his loyal hound sitting at his feet, swiveling his head in abject confusion.
The confusion seemed logical. Gone was the lonely bog on the edge of the land, surrounded by tall grass with seagulls crying in the distance. Gone was the warm summer sun beating down on their sweaty skin. Gone was the patient donkey, the moss-slick stones, and the sacred well.
Instead, they stood in a dream glade. The trees growing along the side of their path seemed different from any Fingin had ever seen. Purple, blue, and green leaves fluttered in a nonexistent breeze. Bright, sparkling insects that almost looked like butterflies flitted amongst the vivid flowers. Even the gravel path shone and sparkled.
Fingin searched for the source of light, but no sun hung in the sky. Instead, each living thing glowed with its own luminosity.
Bran whined. “This is a strange place.”
“That’s true. But at least you can breathe!”
The dog’s tail whipped back and forth twice, but he stopped whining.
Where had they come? Did he stand in Faerie, land of the Tuatha Dé Danaan? Tír na nÓg? Hy Brasil? Whichever mythical place they’d traveled to, he had a mission. He must find his grandmother.
Fingin asked the butterfly creatures where he might find some humans like himself, but they ignored his question and flitted away on to the treetops. He frowned, unused to being snubbed. Even the fish who declined to come when he asked often sent back an answer with their disregard.
Fingin glanced back and forth on the path. In one direction, rolling hills disappeared into a hazy yellow glow. In the other, the land flattened out to a darker green mist. He didn’t know which direction he should choose, or if he should even remain on the path.
He knelt to his dog. “Bran, what do you sense here? Do you smell danger? Anything else? I don’t know which direction we should go.”
Bran sniffed both the air and the ground in several directions, sneezed, and tried again. “I don’t know these smells.”
“Can you find people? Or animals? Something other than these weird butterflies. Something I can talk to.”
He yipped and sniffed again toward the green mist. “There’s something that way.”
Fingin grew tired of walking towards unknown dangers on this quest, but he placed a hand on Bran’s head, and they resumed their journey. The gravel path didn’t sound like gravel as they walked on it. It didn’t crunch under his feet as he’d expected. Instead, it rustled, like dried leaves in the autumn. He stooped to examine the rocks and found them to be less solid than he’d expected. He crumbled them with his hands, turning them into powder. As he poured the powder from his hand back to the gravel, it sparkled and floated, forming a beautiful swirl in the air around him and Bran.
Bran sneezed again, backing away from the whirling silver dust. He backed into a tree, which waved its branches, apparently angry at the affront. Bran wooffed and retreated to Fingin’s side, his gaze scanning the surrounding plants for any further threats. His eyes remained wide, and his hackles high.
Fingin had no measure for how long they walked. No sun set to gauge the passage of time, no shadows grew to measure, and no darkness crept to measure the night. It seemed for days, and yet no time at all. The landscape changed from rolling hills to sparse forest of the strange, colorful trees, to dense woods, and back again. They passed a sparkling pool of water, but with pink or orange water, rather than green or blue.
Bran stayed by his side, occasionally exploring a rustle in the undergrowth or a flicker of movement, but not as boldly as he would have in the mortal realm. He seemed spooked, cautious, and Fingin didn’t blame him. This place unnerved them both. Though the air remained warm, he didn’t sweat. Though the water sparkled, no light source appeared. Though creatures abounded in the hills, none came close but the butterflies. They continued to ignore both man and dog as they made their progress along the silver path.
The green mist retreated as they approached, always the same distance away. However, a spot appeared in the distance upon the path. This spot grew larger, and Bran said, “That’s what I smell, I think. They’re coming closer.”
The form resolved into the shape of a man. The shape, but not the color. Dark brown skin, gnarled and rough like the bark of an ancient oak tree, covered him. His lack of clothing revealed him to be ma
le. Green leafy hair cascaded down his back, rustling in the breeze and with his movement.
As they came closer, Fingin halted and waited for the stranger to approach them. He held his hands open in a sign of welcome.
The creature examined them for several moments before speaking. “And what manner of creature do I see before me? A human and a hound? For what reason have you tread upon our lands?”
His throat dry, Fingin stammered, “I s-search for my k-kin.”
The Fae, for so he must be, circled them both, studying them from head to toe, making clicks with his tongue, as if assessing them for danger or dessert. “How intriguing. And for what reason do you search for them here?”
“Someone t-told they lived here.”
In an instant, the Fae appeared before him, a mere handspan from Fingin’s face. The human jerked back, startled by the sudden movement as Bran growled. “Told by whom?”
“B-b-b-b-brigit.”
After a moment of dead silence, the creature threw his head back and laughed. “Brigit! Brigit sent you? Oh, that must be the funniest thing I’ve heard in ages.”
He continued to laugh, bending over in his hilarity while Fingin and Bran exchanged glances. The laughter went on so long, Fingin clenched his fists. His purpose didn’t seem this funny to him. The creature grew silent, his merriment subsiding. He resumed his regard for the pair. Without warning, he stood close to Fingin, his earthy-smelling breath misting on Fingin’s skin. Fingin gasped and took a step backward, but the Fae walked forward. “So, sent by Brigit into the land of the Fae. What assistance can you expect here, mortal? You cannot hope to complete such a vague purpose.”
Fingin didn’t answer. How should he answer such a statement?
The Fae cocked his head, making his leafy hair rustle again. “Still, I might use mortal servants.” He snapped his fingers, and a blue light formed at his woody fingertips. Fingin stared at the blue light. It mesmerized him, drawing his attention despite trying to look away. Bran whined next to him and pawed at the ground. The scent of burning leaves and lavender swept around him.
His feet moved against his volition. First one step, then the other, toward the Fae. That creature took several steps backwards, still holding his fingers up with the blue light, leading them down the path toward the yellow haze end of the path.
Age of Secrets: Druid's Brooch Series: #8 Page 16
