by Jayne Castel
They continued down the wooded slope, reaching the valley below where a clear creek bubbled over mossy rocks. There, they continued west until they spied a lonely hut.
The dwelling sat back from the creek under the shadow of the northern side of the valley, with a view south. Made of stacked river stones and mud, its sod roof caved in and full of holes, Eithni could see at a distance that no one lived there.
“A deer hunter’s hut,” Donnel called out, quickening his stride as he approached the dwelling, leading his pony after him. “I was hoping to find one.”
Eithni heard the relief in his voice. Like her, Donnel had no doubt been mulling over the issue of how they would survive out here. Both of them were resourceful, but without shelter—a base of some kind—life would be hard.
As she approached, Eithni saw that there was still a stack of firewood piled up against the back of the hut. Donnel had already tied Reothadh up outside and had disappeared into the entrance.
Eithni reached the hut and ducked through the low doorway into a damp, dark interior. Daylight filtered in through the huge gap in the roof, and rain pattered on the dirt floor. There was some moss growing on the walls, and a fern had taken root in one corner. However, Eithni could see at a glance that with a bit of work they could make the hut inhabitable.
Donnel, who had been taking a look at the dark recesses of the hut, turned back to her. “What do you think?”
“I think no one’s going to mind if we repair it.”
He watched her, his expression inscrutable. “It’ll do then?”
She smiled back. “Aye, it will.”
Donnel strode through the undergrowth and approached the deer he had just shot. It was a beautiful doe with a rich, dark brown coat. He crouched before the beast, and saw that his arrow’s aim had been true. He had pierced her at the point where the back of the neck joined the skull. The doe had been dead when she hit the ground.
He reached out and ran his hand over the deer’s sleek coat. Fortune had indeed shone upon him to bring this beautiful creature into his path. The doe would give him and Eithni enough food for days, and the hide would come in useful too.
He heaved the deer up, slinging it across his shoulders. Then he picked up his bow and made for home.
Home. A ruined hut in the midst of a forgotten valley. It was not the broch of Dun Ringill, but it was a roof over their heads. And when he had finished patching the roof it would hopefully keep them warm and dry. When he had set out hunting, Eithni had been hard at work cleaning out the interior of the hut and making it livable. He had been gone a while, and he wondered how her afternoon had fared.
By the time he reached the deer hunter’s hut, the light was starting to fade. The rain had stopped mid-afternoon although a veil of damp hung over the forest. A pink hue shaded the western sky promising good weather for the day to come.
As he approached the mud and stone dwelling, Donnel breathed in the scent of wood smoke—and the smell of cooking. His belly growled, and his mouth filled with saliva.
What has she found to cook?
Eithni emerged from inside. One look at her, and he could see she had spent the afternoon toiling. Dirt smudged her cheeks, and untidy wisps of brown hair had come loose from her braid, curling damply around her face. She carried a broom fashioned out of a pine branch. Her face lit up when she saw him.
Her reaction pleased him. An unexpected warmth spread out across his chest. He had almost forgotten the pleasure of returning home to find a woman awaiting him with a welcoming smile.
Then he remembered that Luana used to come out to meet him, and the warmth turned chill.
“A deer!” Eithni rushed forward. “On your first hunting trip too!”
Donnel forced a smile, trying to banish the lingering pain of memories he preferred to keep buried. “Aye, but what’s that I smell? Fish?”
Her smile widened, and her eyes were warm. “Trout. I’m cooking it on a stone in the fire pit. Come inside. It’s nearly ready.”
Eithni picked the last piece of trout flesh off the bones and popped it into her mouth, sighing with pleasure. “That was delicious.”
“I’ll get to work on that deer carcass tomorrow morning,” Donnel promised her. “You’ll have a feast of roast venison tomorrow eve.” He sat across the fire from her, the firelight caressing the handsome lines of his face.
Eithni watched him a moment. He had been quiet over supper, his gaze introspective. She did not question him over his mood; she was just relieved that they had found a place to live and that they had at least eaten once today.
She shifted her attention from Donnel then, her gaze taking in her surroundings. There were still gaps in the roof, which they would take a look at the following day, but she had done her best to clean out the interior of the hut. She had gathered ferns from the river bank and made two small beds for them. They would not make a particularly comfortable bed, but she would gather more ferns tomorrow and see if she could find something softer to place on top.
“You did well, today.” Donnel broke the silence, his voice low. “This place looks unrecognizable.”
Eithni huffed, covering up the rush of pleasure his comment brought. “I’ve still got plenty to do … but it is an improvement.”
He gave her a speculative look. “You’re tough, Eithni. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman so resourceful.”
She smiled back, warming under the compliment. “All the women of my family are—we’ve had to be.”
“And a healer too. Was your mother one?”
Eithni shook her head. “My grandmother was, on my father’s side, but she died when I was wee. I barely remember her.” Eithni paused here, her smile turning melancholy. “I look like my mother although she was fiercer than me.”
It was Donnel’s turn to huff. “You’re fierce enough, I’d say.”
Eithni laughed, the sound lightening her soul. It had been a while since she had let mirth in. “With Tea as a sister, I have much to live up to.”
He met her gaze. “You are different to Tea … but now that I’ve spent time with you I see you have the same iron will.”
“That comes from my father,” Eithni replied. “He could be as stubborn as a boar.”
“Stubbornness runs in my family too. Galan, Tarl, and I are all bull-headed.” Donnel’s face grew grim as he spoke of his brothers.
“This isn’t the end, you know,” she said quietly. “Give Galan time to calm down, and he will welcome you back.”
Donnel shook his head, his mouth thinning. “You don’t know my brother as I do. He is slow to anger and endlessly patient with those he loves. However, when his temper snaps it takes a long while to mend. Some things he will never forgive.”
Eithni watched him. “He was once angry with my sister, but that did not last. It will be the same with you.”
Donnel’s mouth twisted. “He was in love with Tea, and he realized he had misjudged her. This isn’t the same … Galan’s patience has slowly been stretching to its limit where I’m concerned. Before we set out to The Gathering, he made me promise not to spill blood. I agreed although that promise meant nothing to me—Loxa merely gave me the excuse I’d been looking for.” Donnel looked away. “Galan knows that.”
Empathy swept over Eithni. She longed to go to him, to put her arms around those strong shoulders and comfort him. However, she did no such thing. She was wary of touching him. Not only that, but Donnel would not welcome her sympathy. The man wore his grief, his anger, like a shield. No one would dare penetrate it.
Chapter Seventeen
In Search of Reeds
EITHNI STEPPED OUTSIDE and stretched, raising her face to the morning sun. The bed of ferns, although scratchy, had been more comfortable than she had expected. However, she was relieved dawn had broken.
She did not like the long dark of the night or the bad dreams that haunted her sometimes.
Forcus had visited her again. He had been hunting her through a stand of tall,
dark trees. She had fled, terrified, but wherever she went he followed, his rough threats echoing through the forest. Finally he had caught her—his heavy hands slamming down onto her shoulders—and she had awoken to find herself bathed in sweat, her heart galloping.
Eithni closed her eyes under dawn’s kiss. Daylight always chased her fears away. The air was mild this morning; there was a little lingering dampness after the rain of the day before, but the sky above the trees was clear.
A noise to her right made Eithni open her eyes and turn. Donnel was already awake and was lighting a fire in a large hearth outdoors. It was more practical, and comfortable, to cook and spend time out here during the day, for their hut was dark and cramped.
The deer carcass hung from its hind legs behind them. They would both work on it this morning.
Once Donnel had gotten the fire lit, woodsmoke wreathing into the soft morning air, the pair of them perched on one of the larger rocks near the fire and shared the last morsels of fish Eithni had kept back from the night before.
Donnel was taciturn this morning. He had barely spoken a word to her, and his gaze had turned inward. Eithni understood his mood; dawn was often the worst time of day for bleak thoughts.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked finally, flashing him a warm smile.
Donnel grunted. “Well enough. And you?”
Eithni shrugged, her smile faltering. “A bit restless. I had a nightmare … I get them sometimes.”
Donnel glanced up from where he had been staring moodily into the fire. “I heard you tossing and turning,” he replied. “Are they about him?”
She nodded. “Forcus has been dead over a year and a half, but his wraith still haunts my dreams.” She shivered, as if the morning had suddenly turned chill. “I suppose the dreams will stop eventually with time.”
He watched her a moment before nodding. “I don’t dream at all,” he replied.
Eithni raised an eyebrow before favoring him with a teasing smile. “Of course you do—everyone dreams.”
He shrugged. “If I do, I never remember them.” He rose to his feet then, shattering the quiet moment, his gaze shifting to the deer carcass behind them. “Come—let’s get to work.”
A warm summer’s day settled over the Glen of the Stags. Above the dark bristling tree line, between the slopes of the encircling mountains, the sky was a deep unblemished blue. It was one of those days when Eithni could pretend that winter never existed, that the breeze was always warm, and the days forever long. But she knew that this warm weather would not last—it never did upon The Winged Isle. The bitter season was far longer than the warm one, and there would be many moons when the days were short.
Still, it made Eithni appreciate this fine day all the more.
She and Donnel worked side-by-side. They gutted the deer, saving choice parts of the organs—the kidneys and liver especially—for eating fresh. Then they skinned the doe, and Eithni left Donnel to finish preparing the carcass while she took the skin over to the creek and washed it. She then hung it over a wooden frame that Donnel had built for her, stretching the skin tight so that the sunlight could cure it.
They worked tirelessly and ate a rich noon meal of cooked liver and kidneys, flavored with wild garlic. Afterward Donnel went off to hunt while Eithni set to work once more on the hut.
When she had finished her chores inside the hut, Eithni went in search of reeds.
She wanted to make herself a basket, which would make foraging much easier. No reeds seemed to grow nearby, and so she headed along the bank of the clear waterway, traveling west. The creek bubbled over smooth round rocks and down shallow ravines. Farther west it would lead out of the pine forest into the open stretches of the glen, yet for now it lay under the shadow of the mountains, shaded by tall trees.
Eithni enjoyed her journey. Above, a skylark trilled; it was the sound of summer. The sun was hot on her back, and the ground was soft under her feet. She felt oddly calm and at peace this afternoon, which surprised her, for the last few days had been difficult.
Reeds seemed hard to find. She walked quite a distance before she finally spotted some. The creek rushed over the edge of a steep bank, causing a small waterfall and forming a pool at the bottom before it continued its way west. There below, at the edge of the pool, she spotted a small reedbed.
Eithni made her way down the bank, her feet sliding on slippery moss. Once she reached the pool she hiked up her tunic, knotting it around her waist, and waded into the water. Eithni unsheathed a small knife that Donnel had given her for boning fish and preparing food.
She cut the reeds deftly and ended up with a large bundle under one arm. Then, resheathing her knife, she waded back to the edge of the pool. Despite that it was mid-summer, the water was chill, and her feet had gone numb.
Unknotting her skirt from around her hips, Eithni began to climb the bank—and she had nearly reached the top when a dark shape burst from the trees a few yards before her.
A boar—a massive hairy beast with yellow tusks—rushed out of the undergrowth, snorting.
Eithni gasped, stumbled back, and slipped.
A moment later she was falling, her rushes flying into the air.
Donnel returned to the hut in the early evening. Night fell late this time of year, so dusk was still a way off. He was in a dark mood. Unlike the day before, this hunting trip had yielded little—just two scrawny water fowl. None of his other arrows had found their mark.
He strode down the hill toward the small dwelling, his expression darkening further when he spied the smoking embers in the fire pit outside. Eithni had let the fire go out.
Dumping his bow, quiver of arrows, and catch upon a rock near the fire, Donnel glanced around. “Eithni?”
No feminine lilt answered him, and Donnel realized he had already started to get used to having a woman’s company again.
Where is she?
Donnel’s mouth thinned. He had told her not to stray far from the hut. Surely she had not wandered off and gotten herself lost?
“Eithni,” he called once more, but his voice merely echoed back at him.
Donnel took a deep draft from his water skin. He was bone-weary and had been looking forward to stretching out next to the fire. However, he would not be able to rest, not knowing where Eithni was. If the fire had gone out it meant she had been away for a while.
He found her tracks just west of the hut, in the soft earth beside the banks of the creek, and followed them. It was a glorious evening; the sun still had warmth in it. Sunlight gilded the forest, releasing the scents of pine and moss.
Donnel followed the waterway, his concern deepening when he caught no sign of Eithni. There were still footprints on the banks, and so he pressed on.
Some time later, the land fell away steeply, and he stood at the top of a small waterfall with a pool beneath.
There at the bottom, lying on her side upon a velvet-green bank, was a slender female with long brown hair.
Panic flared in Donnel at the sight of her lying so still. “Eithni!”
The sound of his voice roused her, and when he saw her move his fear subsided.
Donnel climbed down the steep bank to where Eithni was pushing herself up into a sitting position. Her face was pale and pinched with pain.
“What happened?” he greeted her.
“I was collecting reeds,” she replied with a wince. For the first time Donnel noticed the reeds that lay around her. “I was climbing up the bank afterward when I fell.” She looked embarrassed then. “I saw a boar and took fright.”
Donnel tensed. Boar were dangerous creatures. She had been lucky it had not charged her. His gaze slid down over her body, checking for signs of injury. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s my right ankle. It twisted under me as I fell. I tried walking, but it hurt too much.”
Donnel huffed out a breath. “You weren’t supposed to stray far from the hut.”
She gave him a penitent look. “I know, but I wanted to make
a basket—I needed reeds.”
“You could have broken your neck.” He knew his voice was harsh, but he was tired and this was the last thing he needed. Two days together and she was already becoming a burden.
“It’s just a sprain,” she replied, stubbornness catching light in her eyes. “I knew you’d come looking for me so I waited rather than risk worsening the injury.”
Donnel sighed. He was not in the mood to argue. “Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s get you home.”
He helped her to her feet. “Climb onto my back.”
She frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Aye—hurry up.”
His tone must have warned her not to dither further for she hastily did as bid. Eithni was slightly built, so he carried her easily. Donnel felt the warmth of her lithe body press against him, and the firmness of her breasts crush against his back.
His breathing caught. Aye, this woman is trouble—in more ways than one.
Eithni sat with her legs stretched out before the fire, a leather bandage wrapped tightly around her sprained ankle. Her belly was full of roast venison, and she was enjoying the soft evening air, coupled with the heat of the fire that burned a few feet away.
However, the sight of Donnel’s scowling face on the other side of the fire pit took away her peace.
She knew he was angry with her.
She had focused on not being a burden but today had proved that indeed she was one. Donnel had said little during the journey back and had hardly spoken a word while they roasted venison for supper. The silence was starting to wear on her, as was the thunderous look on his face.
“I have already said ‘sorry’,” she said, breaking the silence between them. “I don't know what else I can say? I didn't mean to fall. I told you what happened.”
Donnel glanced up, his face hard. “If something happens to you, it’s my responsibility,” he replied.
