The crowd surged forward, calling his grandmother nasty names. She spat to the side and bared her teeth at them, gripping a pitchfork with white-knuckled hands. She protected a man from the crowd, who held a carved wooden staff. His eyes grew wide with terror, and his simple léine had been torn in several places. A scorch mark on the shoulder must be from one of the torches. He had long black hair and beard, with sun-dark skin. The two circled, back to back, against the crowd of shouting people.
Horrified at the scene, Fingin tried to run to her, to stand by her side, but he had no command over his movements. A bee buzzed by his face and landed on his nose, making him cross his eyes to see the creature. It pricked his nose and flew away, heading toward the man next to Fingin’s grandmother.
The wind grew stronger, making the torches sputter and flare. It swirled around the circle of anger, so strong it threw them off balance. Fingin stumbled into his neighbor, now able to move his feet. He took advantage of the freedom to flee to his grandmother.
Up close, she looked like a Fae. Her eyes were more cat-like than human, and the lines of her face seemed sharper. Her dire straits did nothing to diminish her beauty, and Fingin felt uncomfortably attracted to her. She seemed no older than he, a buxom maiden with fire in her eyes.
“Who are you? Go away!” She stabbed at him with a bronze, leaf-shaped knife. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now the wicked blade came close to his stomach, and he jumped back.
The man next to her stared at Fingin. He gave a slow nod, as if the man knew Fingin and why he watched. “Go, my child. She doesn’t need you in this time. You have other work to do.”
A crash behind him forced him to whirl, and he fell into the blackness.
He spun and flipped, his sense of balance vanished. His hands touched no surface, his eyes saw no light, and his stomach rebelled at the nothingness.
Something squishy lay beneath him, a soft pillow. The tantalizing odor of sizzling bacon awoke his senses. He opened his eyes, then shaded himself from the bright sunlight streaming through the window.
Bran licked his face with instant affection, and he shielded himself from further attacks. “Bran! Stop that!”
The sizzling bacon continued to surround him with delicious temptation, but his bladder informed him he had other duties first. Fingin stumbled out the door to the edge of the woods and relieved himself. He hadn’t greeted the dawn today, and it seemed to have been a powerful morning. The night before must have exhausted him, for him to miss the dawn.
The jumbled memories of his dream crashed into his waking mind. He tried to sort through the images to make sense of them, but they refused to cooperate. He shook his head as he returned to the cottage, wishing he remembered the details. The fuzziness took over his recollection, and they drifted away into the darker recesses of his mind, places he rarely peered into.
“You had quite a night, young man. Here, you need your strength.”
Brigit presented a plate piled high with eggs, cheese, bread, and the bacon, the smell of which had woken him. He glanced to ensure Bran had also been served before ravenously devouring the delicious repast.
By the time he’d sopped up the grease with the last crust of wheaten bread, he lifted his head to notice Brigit regarding him with a contemplative expression. She seemed even younger than the night before. Perhaps the harsh light had been unkind to her. She seemed young to middle-aged, rather than the bent old woman who struggled with the well bucket. His grandmother had always said a good night’s sleep would cure what ailed you.
“Ah, yes, Cliodhna. Quite a woman in her time, you know. Few dared to cross her, and those that dared invariably regretted it. I believe you saw a glimpse of that just last night.”
Fingin remembered the dream, and a vague memory of his grandmother’s name niggled out of his deep memories. Cliodhna. He never called her that, but his mother had.
“Did you meet my grandmother?”
Brigit chuckled once, then a second time. The third laugh came loud, bouncing around the small hut until she held her side. “Know her? Did I know her? Yes, child, I knew her well.”
“I dreamt of her last night, but she looked young.”
“She had great beauty then. She’s younger now, of course, but that’s how it works sometimes.” These words made no sense to him. However, Brigit didn’t give him time to ask questions. “Now, if you’ve finished your meal, I have another tale to tell you. Would you like to hear it?”
“Yes, please. But please, tell me what you would like me to repair, in payment for your hospitality.”
“You can repay me by sitting down and listening to my story, young man. Did I not just tell you?” The steel in her voice made him sit still and listen.
“Many winters ago, when your grandmother remained a young woman, we called her Cliodhna. She had great beauty, with long, flowing, black locks, as dark as the midnight sky. Many men courted her, eager to make her their bride, but she rejected them all.”
Fingin didn’t doubt she’d be in great demand, from the glimpse he’d had in his dream. Her beauty turned many heads and hearts. She’d had strength in her eyes, a woman not to be trifled with. From what he remembered of her in real life, she’d maintained that strength and then some.
“Cliodhna reached the age of five and twenty winters before her father insisted she choose one
