Not long into their journey, Bran dove into a rabbit’s warren, burrowing down to find his prize, but the hole seemed empty. At least, Bran came up for air with nothing but dirt on his nose and a laugh in his voice. Fingin didn’t care if he never caught game. His dog’s joy made Fingin happy. What more could he want in a companion?
Back and forth across the trail, Bran investigated each new scent and sound. Fingin walked at his normal pace, halting now and then as Bran darted across his path, lest he careen into the tall hound.
“I’ve never been down this road. There’s a new scent, something I haven’t smelled before. I wonder what it is? It’s not rabbit or badger or squirrel or deer or…”
“There are lots of animals in the woods, Bran.”
“But this is a new scent! I want to see what the new creature is.”
“We have to keep moving. I want to find a safe place to sleep tonight. See those clouds? It may rain before dusk.”
Bran bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to sleep in the rain.”
“Neither do I, which is why we have to keep moving. The path splits up there. Do you want to choose which branch to take?”
Without a word, Bran bounded to the fork and sniffed in both directions. He didn’t hesitate, taking the right-hand path, so Fingin followed.
He had been all around the surrounding countryside, but this path didn’t seem familiar. Perhaps it had changed from weather or season since the last time he walked here.
His life had been divided into three distinct sections. The first section had been his childhood, filled with anger and fear from his parents, but love from his grandmother. His adult life divided into the settled times, with fishing and sneers from people in the marketplace, and the traveling times, with uncertain days but the intense freedom of being bound by nothing.
Some people lived in the same place their entire lives. Their ancestors had worked the same land they worked for hundreds of seasons. Their very blood became part of the dust and dirt they returned to in death. Others lived on the wind, never staying in one place for more than a few days, dancing on life like a cloud. His had become a hybrid life, with change orchestrated by the whims of those around him and his own inabilities to fit into a normal village.
Did he wish to fit into a village? Loneliness became difficult sometimes, but he treasured his solitude. Being alone meant no one criticized or demanded things from him. Bran demanded nothing but fish and the occasional dig into a rabbit’s warren. In return, he gave love and cheer.
He and Bran should be their own village. Would they be able to survive alone? A diet of nothing but fish might pale. Fingin craved other foods and sometimes grew ill if he didn’t get some variety. He’d tried that before and once had been so ill he barely got to the market. The onions he’d purchased had tasted so good, his body must have craved the tangy vegetable.
The light grew dim, and Fingin glanced up to see the clouds had grown thicker, darker, swirling in the wicked winds. He frowned, looking around for a likely shelter from the coming storm, but finding nothing.
“Bran! Search for a cave or hut as we walk. I’d rather not be caught in a downpour tonight.”
Bran glanced over his shoulder. “I sensed a hut back a little while ago, but I also smelled people.”
“I’d rather find a place with no people if we can.”
“No people? But I like people.”
He chuckled. “I know you do, Bran, but people don’t like me very much. It’s easier if I don’t live near them.”
Bran hung his head and walked beside him for several silent minutes before he raised his head. “What if I find people who like you?”
Fingin knelt beside the dog and hugged him tightly. “I already found someone who likes me, and he’s enough.”
* * *
The air grew damp as the clouds got darker. The wind picked up, rustling leaves and blowing their hair this way and that, like Fae playing with their locks. His neck tickled, and he rubbed it, wishing he didn’t feel the storm in his bones. The dread came over him like a wave, making his eyes dart around for the danger.
He realized Bran would sense any danger before he did. His paranoia didn’t make sense. That didn’t stop his anxious glances behind him and into each dark spot beneath the bushes. A bird flew toward him, and he ducked, throwing his arms up to shield his face.
Fingin didn’t like this at all. They needed to find shelter and fast. “Bran, can you see any place? The wind is throwing sand in my eyes.”
“Just a little farther. Something delicious is ahead.”
That didn’t reassure him in the slightest. The dog, beloved or not, remained a slave to his stomach. A delicious odor distracted him from an important task. He had few other options than to follow the hound’s scent trail.
The forest grew darker. Or perhaps the sky? He barely glimpsed Bran’s fluffy tail whipping the brush in front of him as he followed the dog down a dwindling trail. He shoved branches and bracken away from his face as they pushed their way through.
The wisdom of following a dog through a strange forest in an oncoming storm might be questionable. Still, Fingin trusted his dog didn’t want to drown in a rainstorm any more than he
