He roasted four for him and Bran and stewed four more for tomorrow. The rest, he placed on a drying rack on the edge of the fire. He’d much rather do the drying outside, but the rain forbade that. Luckily, his thatched roof kept them dry while still allowing some smoke to disperse. Still, the smoke would make him and Bran sleep near the entrance.
He pulled several green branches from a pile he maintained for making smoke and placed them on the side of the fire near the drying rack. He coughed several times, a cough echoed by Bran.
“Why did the fire do that? It hurts my throat.”
“I know. But we need the smoke to dry the fish. That way, they don’t spoil. I can sell them at market.”
Bran coughed again, shaking his head and then his entire body. “I’m going outside. I don’t like it.”
“I don’t blame you. Don’t get caught in the mud.”
As Bran left, his head drooped, and his ears twitched as the rain pounded on his head. He shook a couple times, ears still twitching, before padding meekly back into the hut.
He shook again, spraying Fingin with water. “Hey!”
“Maybe that smoke stuff isn’t so bad.”
* * *
The next day, the rain had lessened, but no clear dawn appeared, so Fingin didn’t perform his morning ceremony. It made him feel off when he didn’t greet the dawn in a way he couldn’t define. However, trying to greet the dawn without being able to see the sun made it worse, he’d learned. The sunburst of a clear morning had more power than any other dawn. Perhaps he only harnessed that power when it shone strong, and any other time it became twisted, lessened. His grandmother had never said, and he couldn’t guess. He could only do.
The gray day continued to spit sprinkles on his head as he moved the smoking fire outside the hut’s entrance. His hut’s thatched roof had a small lip that kept the light rain from dousing the fire. The slight drips that did escape only helped to increase the smoke.
He shouldn’t leave until the fish had dried. Even the short time to cast another net would be enough for a fire to catch on the hut itself and remove any shelter either of them had. Such a possibility wouldn’t be worth the risk.
Crunching sounds behind him made him whirl, expecting Bran to return from his morning hunt. A flash of gray through the trees reassured him. The dog often came back empty-mouthed, or with a squirrel or baby rabbit. However, Fingin welcomed the occasional bounty Bran caught. He would skin the catch and give the meat to the dog, who deserved the treat. While his tanning skill remained basic, his skins held up well enough. Fingin had several rabbit skins now that would make a nice lining for a winter coat. He should make one for Bran as a surprise since the hound had caught most of the skins.
Today would be a good day to twist more twine. He should have enough material on hand, at least for a while. After he gathered his supplies, he sat on the low stool near the door for the best light. He separated the individual filaments into even sections. Though he didn’t have many fresh thin vines, he could braid the former together for a reasonably strong string.
Fingin unrolled the remaining twine and hooked it on a nail in the wall post. He braided the new material, grafting it onto the old. He tested it a few times for integrity and settled into the mesmerizing task. In and out, he pulled the sides to the center over and over again. His world faded out as he repeated the task without thought.
One, two, three. One, two, three. In and around and down. In and around and down. The twine grew as he braided and twisted, forming the strong thread which would become his net, his sieve, the tool that allowed him to catch fish and eat every day. One, two, three. In and around and down. One, two…
“Hallo! Hallo, are you there today?”
The female voice crashed into his meditative bliss, making him drop his twine and shake his head. His vision had blurred, and he grew dizzy with the magic he’d woven into his work.
He stood, using the wall post to steady his knees. When he glanced out into the muzzy morning, he made out a form in the mist. A single bark from the left told him Bran had returned.
The voice sounded like Lorcan’s mother, but why would she come back? Had Lorcan gone missing again?
“I’m… here.”
“Oh, thank the good God. I hoped I’d find you home. I wanted to thank you again for caring for my son. He’s such a silly boy, always running off on his own. I didn’t worry so much when he ran off before our move, as we knew the area so well. I knew his haunts and could find him quickly. This new place has hidden spaces. It will take me seasons to find them all! Well, I wanted to bring some things by for you. You seem too young to be all alone. Are your parents in the village?”
He blinked at the barrage of words and had to steady himself once again. People didn’t talk to him like this once they realized he had trouble talking himself. They assumed him to be either stupid or dangerous. He had no ability to argue with the assumptions.
What had the mother’s name been? Aideen, that’s it. As she took a few steps closer, out of the misty drizzle, he realized she carried a large
