“He requested a boon of each smith. He asked Goibniu for a spearhead, Luchta for the spear shaft, and Creidne Cerd for rivets of gold. Armed with this magically crafted artifact in his hands, he twirled and thrust it into Goibniu, wounding him with grievous violence.”
Bran whined at this betrayal, and Fingin stroked his head to reassure him.
Brigit folded her hands across her belly. “But Goibniu did not die from the wound. Instead, he pulled the spear from his body and cast it back at Rúadán with such force that the spear plunged through his body and out the other side. He then died in front of the Fomoire and the Túatha Dé.”
She fell silent, mourning her son, the foolish pawn of his father. She cried an unearthly keening which filled the roundhouse with echoes of pain and longing, the agony of a mother who has lost her son. Bran howled in response to her keening, and Fingin had to cry with them, the grief and sorrow welling inside him. It poured out of his voice and his eyes.
Fingin didn’t mourn for Rúadán, though. He mourned for his grandmother, for his childhood. He mourned for the dozen places he’d lived and loved the land, only to be chased away. And he mourned for the normal life he would never grasp.
The three of them cried and keened and wept for time and life. They shared a common grief and would always have this part of each other.
When their sorrow abated, and Fingin took a true breath once again, he stared at the cup he’d drunk. Had the mead made him so sad? He felt lighter than he had for many winters, almost as if a great weight had lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps he’d needed some time to mourn the things he no longer had in his life.
When he glanced up, the old woman had disappeared. In her place, a younger woman sat. A mature matron, with a strong jaw and crisp, blue eyes. She peered at him with a knowing smile.
“My story seemed to resonate with you, young Fingin. I’m glad my tales still evoke such strong emotions in the world. Now, will you join me for a meal? I don’t eat in any style, just some stew and bread. Still, it’s better than dried fish, is it not?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she stood and stirred the pot in the hearth. Fingin didn’t remember there being a pot on the hearth, but he realized now he visited a magical place, with a magical being. He must take nothing for granted in this house, nor with this woman.
Buzzing bees tickled his mind, but he saw none flying around. He glanced at Bran, but the hound had lain across his feet, at peace and content with his spot. If the dog sensed no danger, why should Fingin remain cautious? Yet, tales from his grandmother about the dangers of dealing with the Fae haunted the back corners of his mind, and he resolved to keep strong and wary.
Brigit chuckled as she stirred the pot, but said nothing. Fingin realized she listened to his thoughts, but he had no experience in keeping his mind quiet. He had no walls to keep her out.
“Indeed. Now, the venison stew is just finished cooking. Fetch two bowls from the shelf. There’s a good lad. One for you and one for Bran. No, no, I’ve already eaten. Your grief fed me well, and I thank you for that.”
He found the bowls in question, expertly fired pottery with a subtle flame design in the outside glaze. She filled both with generous ladles of stew. The rich aroma permeated the small hut, making his mouth water. The venison had been cooked so tender, the meat fell away when he poked it with his spoon, and the chunks of turnip and onion melted in his mouth. He didn’t recognize which herbs she’d used to season the stew, but the salty fat seemed what his stomach craved.
He didn’t think he’d ever eaten a tastier meal in his life.
The bread he used to sop up the last drops of broth had been well-baked, with flecks of exotic black pepper and salt on the crust.
Bran lay down beside him and placed his head on his paws. At a loss to what he should do, Fingin offered to clean the bowls.
“Just place them outside. The wind and the rain will do most of the work for us.”
That didn’t help pay his debt for her hospitality. He peered into the thatch and noticed some thinner spots. They didn’t leak, but they appeared darker, wet from the rain seeping in. “Maybe I can do some repairs for you? I must repay you for letting us stay.”
She regarded him for a silent moment. “I suppose you do need to repay me, at that, young man. Let’s sleep upon it tonight. In the morning, I’ll give you some ideas on how you might help. I do little over the summer. Most of my work is finished for the season, but sometimes help is useful. Not to worry, none of them will be onerous duties.”
Only slightly reassured, Fingin nodded in agreement. She provided a warm, woolen blanket and a large, soft pillow to lie upon. He curled around Bran and fell asleep almost as soon as he lay down.
* * *
The vivid dream slammed into his unconscious mind like a sudden storm. His grandmother stood in the center of a crowd—a crowd that included him. She seemed young, younger than he’d ever known her to be, with midnight hair and milk-pale skin. The wind whipped her hair like dancing feathers, as the crowd screamed and shouted. They brandished angry faces and burning torches.
He glanced to either side and found no familiar faces. Even the clothing seemed strange.
