Étaín, as a newcomer, had been relegated to the less-desirable space on the fringe of the market. Still, the tree became a blessing in this weather. She draped her oilskin over the lower branches, forming a small dry place for herself and her table. She set out the different bags, each with tiny sprigs of the dried herb tied to the top for identification. Lotions, teas, and even a few medicinal tinctures completed her inventory. Then she waited.
Because of the blustery weather, fewer people braved the market this day. Still, people needed things, and everyone realized winter approached. The wind provided proof, with cold rain and occasional chunks of hail.
Étaín shivered in her stall, silently urging each passerby to buy her things. One by one, they glanced at her and kept walking. She despaired of making any sales this day.
An old woman approached, leaning heavily on a stout, black, gnarled walking stick. Her bones looked crabbed and her skin wrinkled. Gossamer wisps of hair stuck out in white tufts from under her threadbare cloak.
Her voice wavered with a querulous tone. “What have we here, girl? What have you to sell?”
While nodding to the woman with respect, Étaín touched the pouches on the left. “I have several dried herbs, such as sorrel and—“
The woman waved her explanation away with a shake of her stick. “Never mind all that jabber. How did you dry them? When?”
“It depends on the item. The chamomile I picked a fortnight ago, and hung to dry—“
“What time of night?”
Étaín blinked. “What?”
The woman rapped her walking stick several times on the ground, making mud splatter. “Are ye deef? I asked what time of night you picked the flowers. Is it too difficult a question for you?”
“I picked the chamomile with the first light of dawn. The leaves still shone wetly with the dew of the morning.”
After several questions like this, the woman grunted and bent to pick up the chamomile bundle. She sniffed it, ground a bit between her fingers, and then ground it up in the air, to watch bits float away in the cool breeze.
“Hmm. Just so.” The woman examined the bayberry leaves, sniffing the packet and wrinkling her nose at the intense odor.
She moved on down the line, asking questions about each bag, testing each in different ways. A young woman approached and asked about willowbark. Étaín tried to pay attention to both, but the older woman asked question after question, giving her no respite.
“And this lotion, is it made properly? By the light of a full moon?”
Frustrated, Étaín considered snapping back with a smart answer. However, some visceral instinct made her answer politely. “As it happens, the moon had been full when I mixed that. The moon lit the garden so I could see what I did.”
The younger woman giggled and handed her a loaf of rye bread for her purchases. Étaín smiled and turned back to the old one.
The woman peered up into Étaín’s eyes. She grew uncomfortable with the intimate stare, but determined not to flinch or blink. Then she poured some of Étaín’s crushed snowdrop into her palm. She rubbed her hands together, and the bits flew away in the wind, settling onto a puddle in the path.
Étaín opened her mouth to protest the waste of her herbs, but the woman cracked a broad smile, showing several crooked teeth. “Ye know what ye’re doing, true enough. I’ll take the lot.”
“The lot? All of them?”
“Aye, that’s right. The whole passel. What’s yer price, then?” The woman opened her large sack, ready to put all her stock into the gaping maw. Étaín glimpsed a pile of stones at the bottom. Whyever would the woman be carrying stones?
Étaín pushed the irrelevant thoughts aside and considered the items on the table. She knew the individual value of each, but she’d never considered what all of them together would be worth. She found a small stick and figured totals in the dirt.
After several minutes of adding, Étaín glanced at the woman. “Two goats and a cheese should do it.”
The woman frowned. “I’ve only got the one goat, and I need to keep her. Cheese is scarce for the likes of me. What say you to a horse instead?”
A horse would indeed be a valuable payment, especially as the days grew cold. A horse gave off more heat than most other animals and would keep her from freezing at night. A horse provided transportation and power for many tasks. The creature also created a lot of work to keep it healthy and properly fed, and gave none of the products other livestock did, such as milk, cheese, or eggs.
The hesitation must have shown in her eyes, for the woman clicked her tongue several times. “Very well, very well. The horse has high spirits anyhow. I have a fine cow. She’s a good milker and sweet disposition. Will ye have her for your herbs?” The old woman waggled her impressive eyebrows.
Cattle remained the spine of the Gaelic economy. A man measured his wealth not in how much land he owned nor how big his roundhouse, but in how many cows he owned. Entire wars had been fought for the cattle stolen in a raid. A cow remained essential for milk, cheese, and butter. The produce of one such animal would keep a family from starving all winter, and it would survive on poorer feed than a horse required. Simple grass satisfied the cow, rather than oats or other, more expensive grains.
“I’ll sweeten the deal if you like… the cow, and some information.”
Étaín furrowed her brow. “Information? Of what sort?”
“A couple things, child. First, there is talk around town. Talk which might be dangerous to you. It would be safer if ye moved on and right fast.”
Étaín’s blood grew icy at the words. A town might turn quickly against a stranger. Just one jealous woman, one rumor of devilry or witchcraft, and the mob wouldn’t be far behind. Étaín looked nervously over her shoulder as if a mob materialized out of nowhere to run her out of town at that very moment. The woman cackled.
“It’s not so bad as all that… yet. Still, there is talk. I’ve been where ye are before, so I wanted to warn ye.”
Étaín nodded, still cautiously scanning the market. “You said a couple of things?”
The woman nodded and moved in closer. “Aye. I can tell ye where the druids are.”
Étaín pulled back quickly with a gasp. How did the woman know she searched for them?
This earned another laugh from the woman, her crackling voice like crumpled paper. “Don’t be so surprised, child! Not everyone listens only to words. Now, you gather yer things and take the south road, aye? Go about five leagues, along the lake and farther yet. When ye get to the forest, take the path into the woods. About a half-league in, ye’ll find the oak grove.”
Still stunned by the woman’s knowledge, Étaín finally found her voice. “But who are you? Why are you telling me all this?”
“Don’t question me, girl! I sensed a kindred soul, someone who had seen many winters. That’s all I can say on the matter. As for who I am, well, you may call me Digdi today.”
“Just today?”
“Did I not just say I wouldn’t tell ye any more? Get the fluff out of yer ears. Just get yer things and go. I’d see you safe. Anyone who can properly dry the herbs has at least some of the old knowledge left. That’s worth preserving from the dreary pious newcomers, aye?” The woman elbowed Étaín in the ribs, hard enough to make her wheeze.
By this time, the woman had carefully placed all of Étaín’s herbs in her sack and thrown it over her shoulder. She put two fingers in her lips and blew, emitting a piercing whistle. Several moments later, a fat cow ambled up, with a lovely pale dun hide and white fringe over her eyes. She mooed, nodding her head several times when she saw Étaín.
“Ah, then, Bódonn approves of ye. That’s all to the good. Off with ye, girl. Be quick about it! There’s a storm blowing in unless I miss my guess.”
Étaín put a tentative hand on Bódonn’s neck, and the cow snuffled her shoulder. When she turned to thank the woman, she’d disappeared. When she turned in a full circle, she saw plenty of people, but the o
ld woman had vanished.
Stones and crows. Had the woman been Fae? Old women don’t just disappear into thin air. They seldom did things like hand you a cow for everything you own. Might the cow be a Fae creature, too? Étaín looked carefully at the creature’s eyes, but detected nothing which indicated anything but a well-fed, mature cow.
Étaín glanced at the sky, but it showed clear and blue. If a storm brewed, she saw no sign.
With a sigh, Étaín dismantled her table and placed it in her cart. She tied the cow’s lead to the cart, and they ambled back to her lean-to.
Someone had ransacked it.
Her clothing had been strewn around on several bushes. The intruder had scattered her cooking utensils and food about, but nothing appeared missing. Though she kept it safe, Étaín fumbled in her belt pouch for the brooch, still wrapped in white silk. The reassuring weight of the jewelry calmed her.
Had it been someone from the village in her things? Or perhaps Digdi? Étaín couldn’t tell and truly didn’t wish to. The sense of violation became a sudden urge to escape this place. She needed to leave now.
Since Étaín no longer spent each morning aging herself, she had more energy than when she lived with Airtre. With some of her energy, she cleaned up her dismantled home. Instead of replacing the items in the lean-to, though, she packed them into the cart.
Her possessions were meager, but more than when she’d left her husband. She’d bought an iron cooking pot, several bowls, dishes, spoons, one sharp belt knife, four léine in various degrees of repair, a good cloak, a light cloak, the lean-to oilskin, decent boots and the boots she had escaped with. In addition, she’d acquired a well-needed comb. She missed her good bronze mirror, but she’d left the mirror at Airtre’s roundhouse. She’d forgotten to ask Odhar to fetch it for her. Her mortar and pestle lie on the ground next to her makeshift drying rack, as well as several empty sacks she’d fashioned from hare skins. Étaín straightened the mess and checked to see if the cow needed milking.
Once she packed everything in the cart, she covered it with the oilskin and took a deep breath. She returned to the road again, and much sooner than she expected.
Bódonn turned out to be a biddable creature. She seemed content to follow wherever Étaín led, even over a small bridge across a creek. The placid beast didn’t even spook when a raven swooped down on her head, riding along for a league before flapping off into the setting sun.
The lateness of the day encouraged Étaín to search for a place to spend the night. While the area appeared mostly flat, it remained hilly enough to find a sheltered spot. After dismissing the first few as less than ideal, she found a shallow cave. The space didn’t offer much, but was still deep enough both she and the cow would be out of the rain. The clouds coloring on the horizon promised at least some rainfall this night, but didn’t appear nearly as dire as Digdi had predicted.
Étaín gathered some fallen branches and built a small fire before she settled down to watch the vestiges of color whisper away in the western sky. The brilliance of a stormy sunset never failed to amaze her, as if the gods apologized for the wicked weather with artistic splendor. Even the cow gazed at the setting sun with interest.
Just as the last glint of the sun dropped below the hills, the winds rose with a sudden vengeance. The howling and furious whipping gale blew her meager fire out in an instant, plunging Étaín and Bódonn into instant chilly darkness. She draped the oilskin over the cow and huddled in the back wedge of the cave.
Étaín didn’t know how long the storm lasted. If she’d remained unsheltered, she might have gotten hurt by the hail or swept away by the frantic wind. Even within her shelter, she became icy, soaked, and utterly miserable. She drew her second cloak more tightly around her shoulders. The outer one kept much of the rain out, but the inner cloak wasn’t as thick, so the freezing rain blew into the crevices of her clothing regularly. Bódonn mooed and stamped her hooves.
She shivered behind the beast, grateful for the warm bulk which blocked most of the storm’s rage. Because of that barrier, she drifted in and out of a fitful doze. It would be futile to try lighting the fire again. The night seemed like it lasted for a fortnight. At one point, Étaín opened her eyes to find a dozen bats flitting in and out of the cave with the wind. Another time she woke, startled, to a deep moaning in her bones. It seemed to come from the very earth beneath her as if the cave were actually the mouth of some giant stone monster. After shaking her head at such frantic folly, she settled in and closed her eyes once again.
When dawn finally arrived, Étaín couldn’t stop shaking. Her body ached, and she’d never be warm again in her life. Her skin pebbled and itched.
Étaín’s head pounded like someone had beaten her the night before. The storm had indeed beaten her, with smaller fists than any man. Every inch of her body hurt, one huge bruise. Any movement made her wince and gasp in pain.
Panic seized her. If she fell ill here, out in the middle of nowhere, there would be no one to find her, no one to cure her, no one to care for her. She would die alone and delirious, unburied and unmourned.
* * *
Étaín had no idea how long she lay wedged in the back of the cave. The morning dawned misty and didn’t allow the sunlight in, so time became a nebulous, shifting thing. Even if she kept a full grasp of her senses, she had nothing to mark the passage of time.
Dreams shoved into her frenzy. She moaned at being chased, but she couldn’t remember what chased her. She screamed for help, but no one came to help her. Thrashing around meant she hit the sloping ceiling of the cave several times, and her hands became bruised and sore. Her skin grew hot and dry, and her parched throat craved cool water.
She didn’t want to move, but the cow mooed and nudged her. After forcing herself to sit up, she realized the beast needed to be milked. With painful movements, she sat up and dragged her cauldron under the cow’s teats. With practiced strokes, she relieved the creature of its milk.
For several moments she stared at the warm milk. Shapes swirled in the thin whitish liquid, drawing her into a dance. She blinked several times, shaking her head to dispel the trance. Perhaps drinking the milk would warm her, enough to get moving again. With trembling hands, she scooped a bowl into the milk and drank it.
It seemed warmer than it should be. In fact, it burned hot, like soup fresh from the fire. It trickled down her throat, burning until she coughed.
Her body didn’t ache as much, but she still suffered from a woozy head. She used the cave wall to stand, despite her dizziness. She swallowed several times, trying to dispel the burning sensation in her throat. Perhaps the cow’s milk had gone bad? But she didn’t feel ill. In fact, she’d gotten much stronger than when she first woke.
With increasing confidence, Étaín peeked out of her sanctuary. The fog still clung tightly to the landscape, but the rain had stopped, and the wind had died. The grass outside had that fresh scent after a violent storm, heavy with dew and possibilities.
After breathing deep of the moist air, Étaín coughed a few times experimentally. No, her throat no longer hurt. She stretched up, her hands touching the outer ridge of the cave, and her bones popped and crackled with relief. She stretched luxuriously, all her muscles open and breathing. With a sigh, she settled into a normal stance, refreshed and full of energy.
Étaín glanced sharply at the cow. Bódonn looked like an ordinary animal. She walked around the creature, noting the hooves appeared perfectly clean and no burrs or tangles marred her hair. After a night like they’d just had—just the one night? Étaín didn’t know—there should have been at least some mud splashed on her fur. No dirt marred the perfect hide.
Étaín put her hands on her hips and pursed her lips,. “I have the sneaking suspicion you are no ordinary cow, Bódonn. Besides milk which could rouse the dead from their graves, you have a particular talent for staying clean. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It’s most refreshing to not have to clean up after someone else for once.”
The cow looked up at her and nodded several times. Then she went back to chewing the grass at the edge of the cave.
“Just so. Best get on with it, then. Digdi’s forest should be a few leagues down the path yet.” Étaín gathered her things back into the cart and tore a chunk from the loaf of bread the young woman had paid her. The bread seemed harder than it should be. Still, she gnawed on the corner until it softened enough to eat.
The path, which had been dry and dusty, now grew muddy with frequent large puddles. Étaín eyed Bódonn as they sloshed through or around the worst of it, but still, no mud clung to the cow’s legs. The creature must be Fae. She still needed to determine what sort of Fae. Would Bódonn be the sort of creature who carried a curse, forever leaving Étaín to misery and pain? Or did Digdi freely give Étaín a precious gift? For the old woman had surely been Fae. Ordinary humans didn’t go around giving away magical cows. However, Bódonn hadn’t been a gift; she’d bought the cow with her herbs.
Étaín sighed. She disliked being involved with any of the Fae. It rarely bode well for humans of any sort. Not always—she knew the story of her own brooch began with a kind act from a human to a Fae and the resulting gift of magic—but the vast majority of cases resulted in disaster.
Many tales told of apparent old women meddling with others. Sometimes the old women turned out to be simple Fae, a local creature who haunted a particular place of the land. A spirit of a specific lake or attached to a family’s house. On the other end of the spectrum, it might be the goddess Mór-Ríoghain, pretending to be an old lady and trying to seduce a warrior. When he inevitably turns her down, she wreaks havoc upon him and all he holds dear.
Étaín shivered and prayed Digdi hadn’t been the latter sort of Fae. There would be little Étaín might do to extract herself from such a powerful foe. Still, she’d treated the old woman with respect and dignity.
The forest loomed in the distant, fog enveloping the treetops like a lover’s embrace. It seemed to move as she walked toward it, growing ever distant with each step. It seemed like hours passed before she approached the verge.
Misfortune of Time: Druid's Brooch Series, #6 Page 14
