The trees cleared, opening into a cozy glade. A fat white cow with red ears stood beside the hut, chewing her cud. Fingin caught his breath as he noticed the small roundhouse and an old, bent woman next to a well. He glared at Bran for his betrayal, but the dog glanced up with his mouth open and his tongue out, as happy as ever.
Fingin whispered, not wanting to gain the woman’s attention. “This isn’t an abandoned hut, Bran.”
“But this is a person who will like you! You said that’s what you want!”
A querulous voice rose over the whisper of the wind. “Make up your mind if you want to come help me with this blasted bucket or stand there and gabble all day.”
With a final withering glance at his hound, Fingin approached the woman, who struggled to pull the bucket from her well. He leapt to help her tug on the rope, lifting the thick wooden vessel from the mouth of the round, stone structure. She looked at the bucket, glanced at the sky, and sighed. Her iron-gray hair had been tied up in a messy bun, and her short, round figure seemed solid in countless layers of woolen shawls. “I suppose I should have just waited for the rain. But I need water if I’m to make some stew for my guests. Come inside now, before the rain hits. Bran can come inside, as well.”
She turned, walking into her hut, leaving both Fingin and Bran astonished. How had she known Bran’s name? He glanced at the dog, but Bran just tilted his head. If he could shrug, he might have done so.
The shambling roundhouse leaned to one side, the stones around the base haphazardly scattered. The thatch seemed sound but seemed uneven. Once inside, the space felt warm, cozy, and most importantly, dry. A cheerful flame burned bright in the central hearth. The first heavy drops of rain whipped onto his back as he closed the door behind them.
The old woman settled onto a well-worn and well-padded bench. She gestured for him to take the only other seat, a wide stool next to the hearth. Bran settled at Fingin’s feet and gazed at the woman.
“She smells friendly. I like her. Do you think she has any fish?”
Though the dog’s voice remained in Fingin’s mind, the old woman answered. “I have no fish, Bran, but I have some venison and milk. Would you like that? Your young man may also have some if he likes.”
Both Fingin and Bran stared at the woman in growing apprehension. Who was this woman who listened to their thoughts? With clammy palms, Fingin glanced at the door, now closed fast against the furious storm pounding against the daub and wattle walls of the roundhouse. The wind screamed outside, a furious gale like few he’d experienced. Yet the danger of staying inside with a clearly supernatural being might be greater. Would he ever see the open sky again? Had he just doomed both of them to a horrible death?
“Have no fear of me, Fingin. I mean you and your hound no harm. Hounds are special to me and have ever been my friend. Besides, this one only came to you because I sent the salmon to distract you.”
Mustering his courage and bracing himself for his broken voice, he pushed out the words, “What’s your name?” His eyes flew open in surprise, for the words came as easily as they did for Bran or any other creature of the forest or river. If she had magic, a Fae, she would require a price for the shelter she provided them. Fingin doubted a few seconds’ help with a water bucket would be sufficient exchange for such a gift.
She grinned, showing bright teeth. “You may call me Brigit, my dear. You’ve honored the dawn many times in your life, and I take that as an honor to myself. Now, I’m glad for your help with the water. May I repay you with a story?”
Brigit. Goddess of the Dawn. Healer, poet, and smith. The devoted goddess to a thousand sacred wells, to cattle and crafts. The harbinger of spring and inspiration.
She couldn’t be. She raised one eyebrow, waiting for him to come to his conclusion. He cleared his throat and put a hand on Bran’s shoulder for comfort. “A story would be lovely, thank you.”
Before she spoke, she poured liquid into two iron mugs, offering one to Fingin. He took it and peered into the dark vessel, unable to discern the contents. The aroma wafted strong and sweet—mead. She poured more into a bowl and placed it in front of Bran, who sniffed it warily. With a glance at Fingin, he lapped it and then lapped more. Fingin drank half of his own mug down, and the warm alcohol suffused his body.
The anxious worry slipped away. He relaxed to listen to her story.
“Long ago, when the Túatha Dé Danaan battled the Fomoire, they chose one of their men to spy on the battle. They wanted him to spy upon the camp, the soldiers, and the magical prowess of those who opposed them. The man they chose was Rúadán, son of Bres.”
Fingin recognized the tale and the name. While Bres may have been his father, Rúadán’s mother was Brigit.
“He spoke of the things he saw. The ironwork of Goibniu the smith, the woodcraft of Luchta the craftsman, and the gold work of Creidne Cerd the goldsmith. He spoke of the four healers around the Dagda’s Well, and how they brought to life every warrior who’d fallen the previous day.
“Bres told him he must go back and destroy Goibniu. But Goibniu had much power and possessed great magic, so Rúadán crafted a
