“At this time, I studied the new religion in the nearby abbey, vowed to the sacred fire which burned inside. I had a burning curiosity, eager to learn new things, despite my own nature. Though I’d vowed to eschew the company of men, I might entertain female visitors. She often came to do charitable work, and we developed a close friendship. I saw fire within her soul and appreciated her ability to temper strength with an uncommon wisdom. I nurtured this desire and even taught her a few tricks.”
Fingin grew confused again. What power would a woman have? She remained her father’s property until she married a husband. True, some had great influence upon the leaders in a túath, but they didn’t have influence themselves.
The strong breeze whistled through the thatch, reminding him of the storm in his dream, the wild look in his grandmother’s eyes as the gale whirled, surrounding the people. Had his grandmother called the wind? Was this the strength of which Brigit spoke?
He tried to pull up any memories he had of his grandmother, which involved the weather, but most memories had been tied to either his own misery or delight, not to his surroundings.
“The day that man came to the village; however, everything changed.”
That man? Did she mean the same man in his dream? As much as he wanted to believe the dream had been a fantasy of his own creation, he understood, deep within his soul, it had been a true memory. Perhaps he’d plucked it from Brigit’s own mind, with details he would never have known for himself. “Was he a dark-haired man with a beard?”
She took a sip from her mug and smiled, a knowing smile with the wisdom of the world within. “Why yes, young man, that is correct. He came to trade honey, but he left with the sweetest jewel of the land.”
Had they been lovers? Had his grandmother run off with this man? He’d never known his grandfather. Had he died before Fingin’s birth? “What was his name?”
“His tale is not mine to tell. He must tell it himself. Now, I’m weary and must take my rest. An old woman must nap during the heat of the day, to rest her bones, you know. There might be extra thatch in the alcove next to the well if you insist upon some repairs.”
With that, she curled up into her own bed and pulled the wool blanket over her head. Within moments, soft snores became louder than bees in a glade, and Fingin led Bran outside lest they disturb their mystical hostess.
Chapter Five
The tale of his grandmother churned up too many memories. He performed the mechanical movements of cutting the straw, binding it to the roof, and tying the bundles to the trusses. His final encounter with his grandmother flooded into his memory.
Her hair had been black streaked with white, and she wore it in a thick braid around her head. While her face had grown lined with the weight of winters, her eyes remained clear as a summer sky, blue and sparkling. Her voice didn’t quaver but bit with caustic strength.
He’d been mucking out the stable, a job he enjoyed as it kept him from being bullied. His brother disliked horse manure, but Fingin enjoyed the horses’ scent. They had a wonderful presence and always nickered in greeting when he worked the stalls. They’d even rear up when his brother tormented him nearby. He sang a low tune in time to his raking motion.
His grandmother’s voice broke through his woolgathering. “Fingin! Stop that now. I have something for you.”
He obeyed with alacrity. Though he only counted eight winters, he knew better than to ignore his grandmother’s commands. She had a quick hand and a quicker tongue. She didn’t hit to punish, though, only to command attention. His father didn’t share that philosophy.
Fingin followed his grandmother down the path away from their farm. The sky shone clear and bright overhead, the sun pounding on his scalp. His curiosity grew strong, but he mustn’t ask what she wanted. She would tell him in her time and not one moment before. She wasn’t tall. His legs were as short as hers, so they walked apace.
Up the path, they climbed, around the rocky outcropping the goats favored, down past the glade where his father repaired his tools and through the young oak grove. The trees grew older as they got deeper into the forest, more ancient trunks of gnarled bark and thinner undergrowth. The tree canopy blocked out much of the light from the already cloudy day, leaving the world in shadow and gloom.
He’d rarely explored this far from home at his young age. He’d climb down to the river to fish, as his father had taught him. Once a day, he climbed down to the river and cast his nets. Some days he caught nothing, but other days he contributed to the stewpot and earned a rare smile from both his parents. He’d wished he could bring fish home every day and earn those smiles.
They climbed a low hill now, to the scary place.
Twelve thin, dark stones jutted out around the crown of the hill at an outward angle. Though the trees edged the circle, nothing grew within the stones. Darker clouds swirled overhead, and he smelled rain on the wind. The stones loomed black in the stormy world.
Dread swept over Fingin at the sight of the stones, a dread which screamed at his legs to run, far away, as fast as he could. His grandmother had a firm grip on his hand, though, and despite her age, her strength remained greater than his.
Storm clouds roiled
