She drew him into the circle. At the edge, a shock passed through him, making his skin tingle. The first drops of rain fell on his head.
His grandmother stood in front of the largest stone, the one facing west. It loomed with dark menace over them, forbidding and dangerous. “Stand here, boy. You must stay here, no matter what happens. Do you understand? I have some work to do before the ceremony.”
“Ceremony?”
“Shush now! All will be clear in time.”
He stood, rooted by the terror of disobeying his grandmother, even stronger than his fear of the stones. He stared up at the tallest one as she walked around the circle, chanting in archaic words just past his knowledge of language. Sparks flew from her feet and hands as she marched three times, sunwise, around the stones. Each time, the glints grew stronger, brighter, and crackled in the foggy air.
The breeze swirled with her pace, a slow whirlwind. Did the wind move her or vice versa? She gesticulated on the third pass, the sparks forming arcane shapes before her. Fingin had seen similar shapes carved into ancient kerbstones around the burial mounds in the sacred places. Triple swirls and endless curvilinear knots, a serpent forever eating its own tail.
As she completed her third round, the lightning struck.
The searing light left a black spot in the center of the circle. Fingin’s resolve fled. He scrambled toward the outer edge, hugging the now-familiar black standing stone as if the unyielding rock was his own mother’s arms.
Thunder muted his sobs. Rain drowned his tears.
His grandmother now stood in the charred spot in the stones, her arms raised high, now chanting at the top of her voice. She called down the weather gods, beseeching them with speech, and will to do her bidding.
“Mysterious Manannán and Aebh, rulers of the mists!
Shield us with your cloak
Brilliant Grian and Elatha of the sun and the moon!
Transport us with your silver craft
Powerful Tuireann of the thunder bolts!
Guard us with your fury
Honored Cailleach, the ruler of ice and snow!
Keep us in your arms.”
The woman standing in the center of the circle was no longer his beloved grandmother. In her place stood a powerful druid, a woman capable of calling the heavens to earth to destroy them all.
Fingin closed his eyes and prayed to any god who would listen so he’d wake up from this frightening vision. No divine intervention came. Instead, the flash of the lightning forced him to open his eyes just in time to see his grandmother struck by the light. Rather than burning into cinders, she formed the light into shapes. Stars, circles, spears, and other, less recognizable images flew from her fingers.
Afterimages burned into his mind, to live there forever. When the light faded from his sight, his grandmother seemed young again, no longer the tired matron. Now she stood tall and beautiful, with smooth skin and imperious eyes.
She turned to him, and again he wanted to flee for his life.
“Now, child, are you ready for your legacy?”
He swallowed, unable to speak.
She reached into her bag and extracted a small package of white, shimmering fabric. She stepped toward him with an air of ceremony, the object held before her as if a burning ember. When she stood but an arm’s length away, she halted and unfolded the fabric.
First one corner, then a second. A third and a fourth. The final wrapping revealed a glowing artifact of gold, silver, and green. Filigree gold and silverwork entwined in animal shapes, a penannular brooch with four green gems, glittering in the dim light with a mystical shine of their own. The emerald light bathed them both in a preternatural glow.
Despite the part of his mind that screeched in terror, he reached with one hand to touch a green gem. He half expected his grandmother to pull the jewelry away, to laugh in cruel jest at his temerity. However, she allowed him to tap the jewel.
Pain flowed through his finger and seized every muscle in his body. A red glow permeated the air around him. He shrieked through the anguish, his strained voice echoed by the thunder. A metallic scent filled the air as he fell stricken to the ground. His head wouldn’t move, nor would his eyes close to prevent the rain splattering in.
He had one last thought before he lost all sense. His grandmother might have found a much simpler way of killing him.
* * *
As his memory vision faded, he returned to the present, working on Brigit’s roof. He’d fixed most of the thatching as he daydreamed, which surprised him. He had no memory of actually completing the work. He’d repaired roofs before, but he didn’t do it every week, like braiding twine or casting his net.
Bran slept in the eaves of the roundhouse, but Brigit had gone. He must have concentrated so hard, he’d lost time, to do so much work. He checked the spots he’d worked on, but the ties seemed sound.
“This is a place of dreams, young man. Yours have been most nourishing, I assure you. I wouldn’t do you such a bad turn as to make you fall when you gave with such a generous heart.”
He whirled to find Brigit behind him, seeming even younger than she had before.
“Do finish the story. What happened after you woke at the stone circle?”
His words wouldn’t come. Rather than the halting inability he had with humans, this time, he had a blank mind. He had no memory of what had happened after he’d woken.
“Come now! You
