He cleared his throat. “I woke, wet and alone, in my own bed. Nothing remained, not even the brooch. Not even my grandmother. She took my voice and gave me another.”
“That’s when you discovered the ability to speak with animals, yes?”
He nodded, remembering the joy and apprehension when he first realized his gift. And the mourning he did when he realized the price she’d exacted.
“She has something of yours, you know.”
“My voice?”
“Well, the brooch took that, not her, but the brooch itself, young man. That belongs to you, not her. She gifted it then took it back. That’s not permitted. You must retrieve it.”
“Will it get my voice back?”
Her eyes softened. “No, my lad. I’m afraid that won’t happen, not until you gift the brooch yourself. It must be to someone in your family, and you’ve no one but yourself at the moment. So, you have several quests. You must find your grandmother, retrieve the brooch, and then find yourself a lovely woman and have a family.”
He dropped his gaze to the ground, pushing some grass aside with his toe. “I tried to find her when she left.”
“Aye, so you did. You had few winters yet and were unsuited to cross-country travel. However, you’re a man grown, well capable of caring for yourself on the open road. You made it here readily enough, with Bran’s help. And with this fine hound by your side to protect you, how can you fail?”
* * *
The next morning dawned with foggy humidity. Fingin could barely see his hand in front of his face. Still, he woke well-rested and eager to travel.
However, Brigit wouldn’t permit him to leave just yet. She regarded him for a moment, her finger on her lower lip. “I've got a few things for you.”
The pile of items Brigit had gathered for him loomed like a dark mass in the mist. Failing in his quest looked more and more like a desirable outcome. How in the name of the Good God would he be able to carry all this? She’d given him cooking ware, several changes of clothing, hunting weapons, as if he knew how to hunt, food to last him and Bran several weeks, plus some odds and ends he couldn’t begin to identify. His back ached at the thought of carrying this pile.
Brigit kept returning to her roundhouse and rustling around, coming out with a new treasure or find. She added it to the growing pile and returned for more, without stopping for questions from the erstwhile travelers.
When she emerged with nothing in her hands, Fingin let out a sigh of relief. Bran gave a breathy woof.
She stood with her hands on her hips, frowning at the mound of supplies. “No, that won’t do. It won’t do at all.” This time she walked to the tree line and disappeared into the woods.
Fingin glanced at Bran, apprehension clear in his eyes. He had just about convinced himself she had left for good when crunching leaves heralded her return. The noises seemed much more than a single woman, even a goddess, should make. When the donkey emerged first, Fingin smiled. He should have trusted Brigit.
By the time they’d packed the items into pannikins and strapped them to the donkey’s back, the sun had burned through the mists, allowing the heat to bake the dew-wet grass.
He had no experience riding such a creature. He’d been on a horse once, but that only lasted a few seconds before he fell flat on his back on the dusty ground. Fingin had no urge to repeat such an experience. However, he didn’t need to ride the donkey. Instead, the placid creature seemed content to carry their gear, which, Fingin admitted, would be a nice break to him carrying a heavy pack on his back as he traveled.
Once Brigit finished tying the packs down, he patted the donkey’s neck. “What’s your name, friend?”
“The woman calls me Donkey. Is that my name?”
“It’s what you are, not who you are. Would you like me to give you a name?”
The beast nodded and brayed. “Yes!”
“How about Sean? Sean is a good, strong name. You’re a good, strong beast. Does that suit?”
The newly-named donkey nodded again with great vigor, almost knocking Fingin over. “I am Sean!”
With a laugh and a pat to Bran’s head, Fingin turned to the goddess. “I think I’m ready to leave, but where do I start? How do I find my grandmother?”
“Head west. There is an island with monks from the new religion. There is one there who has known your grandmother, and may direct you further.”
“What’s his name?”
“Ask for Maol Odhrán. He’s an older monk. It’s been many years since either of us encountered your grandmother.”
Brigit put her hands upon his shoulders and stared into his eyes. The regard of her gaze grew heavy, and he wanted to turn away. He didn’t dare. “Do not fail in your quest, young man. Generations of your family depend upon your success. Each one has an important place within this land, and you are the linchpin that will keep that lineage in place.”
With a frown, she pulled out a small object and placed it in his hand. She closed his fingers over it. A small iron pendant, shaped into a flame on a circle. The jewelry hung on a long, thin piece of fresh-cut fabric.
“I made this for you, Fingin. It has the power to heal, but it’s not instant. It takes time to work. Keep it close and use it when needed. You may feel ill afterwards, but all magic has a cost.”
She turned to Bran and placed both her hands upon
