He might carry shelter with him, like a wagon. But wagons cost dearly, and people didn’t abandon functioning wagons on the side of the road as they did roundhouses. His father once had a wagon, a tall construction with a wooden cover. He took it into the larger village to trade farm produce. He’d stay away several days, time Fingin remembered as full of smiles and freedom.
The hail became a raucous song, a hammering distraction to his own thoughts. However, he didn’t drift away as he normally did. The tiny cave had barely enough room for him, Sean, and Bran, and his desired trance eluded him. The rain and hail bounced up and got them wet, despite their shelter.
Soon, the sun dipped toward the far shore, taking the hail with it. Twilight fell with sudden silence, loud in the absence of the constant drum of hail on stone. His ears rang with the emptiness of the evening. No birds sang, and no breeze stirred.
Exhausted, Fingin curled up next to Bran. Sean stood guard as they slept.
How many days must he travel to reach the world’s edge?
* * *
Menacing barking dragged Fingin from a deep sleep. A sneering voice filtered through Bran’s alarms. “Oho! What have we here?”
Another voice joined the first. “Looks like a kid with too much wealth. At least, too much for one lone boy.”
Shoving through the blur of sleep, Fingin sat up, putting a hand on Bran’s back. The dog stopped barking, but growled, his hackles raised and his fur bristling. Sean stood between them and the new arrivals.
Nine men, dressed in warrior garb, lined the thin ledge. They all seemed to be around Fingin’s own age, if not younger. Their linen léinte with fine embroidery, peeking out from behind leather chest-plates and wolf-skin shoulder pauldrons, spoke of wealth and privilege. Their braids, the distinctive badge of warrior status, had been styled in a ritualistic pattern.
The apparent leader stood with his arms crossed before him, eyeing the packs next to the donkey. Sean brayed and nodded, his eyes wide with alarm. He stamped his hoof several times.
Fingin grew concerned that Sean might get hurt. The poor donkey wouldn’t be able to save himself if the warriors shoved him off the cliff. While the cliff didn’t seem too high, even a small drop would break the loyal beast’s leg.
He clicked at Sean and pulled on his halter. “C-c-come over here, b-boy. It’s… safer next to the wall.”
The leader elbowed his nearest companion. “Listen to this one. He can’t even talk.”
Fingin sent him a silent curse. Bran bared his teeth with a snarl.
“How did you get such a strong, fine wolfhound? Did you steal him, boy? And all these goods. Food, cooking pots. You’re either a tinker or a thief. I’m betting thief. Tinkers must talk to barter their goods. What do you think, men? Do we judge this man a thief?”
General agreements came from behind him. His closest companion frowned. “I’m not sure, Cailte. What if he’s related to someone important? He might just be a scion searching for adventure in the hills.”
Cailte raised his eyebrows and made a show of examining Fingin’s léine. While he had newer ones in his pack, thanks to Brigit’s generosity, he wore his own older, threadbare clothing.
The warrior frowned when his gaze reached Fingin’s feet. He wore the boots Brigit had gifted him. Cailte glanced at his companion. “Look at that, Fearghus. His boots are new. You may just be right. Is that who you are, boy? Some younger son of a noble, off to find your own adventure?”
Fingin hated lying. However, he also hated being killed.
He recognized the warriors. Their leather armor and their stylized braids gave them away. Not the specific men, but their garb marked them as the Fianna. The Fianna, legendary bands of warriors pledged to defend the island from all dangers, including those within. If they had judged him a thief, they would have been within their rights to execute him on the spot. They might also beat him almost to death and leave him to rot, should they choose.
Despite tales of past heroes, though, Fianna had never been paragons of honor. They had a reputation for strength and might, not for being kind or gentle. Their justice came swift, at least. A string of pillaging by the Fianna in the winter happened regularly. But the summer offered enough game for them to support themselves as they roamed the countryside between each túath, keeping order.
The leader of the Fianna waited for his answer with increasing impatience. With a deep sigh, Fingin nodded. “I’m a younger son. I’m searching for a p-p-place I feel at home.”
He spoke the truth, as far as it went. He didn’t mention his father was a farmer, rather than a nobleman, but he let that implication float within his answer. If the leader took the wrong meaning from his truthful words, so be it.
After a few moments’ consideration, Cailte gave a quick nod. “That’s that, then. Care to come with us for a while? Which way are you headed?” He glanced at Bran, who still hadn’t dropped his guard.
Bran’s low growl grew, despite Fingin’s hand on his back. “I don’t like him. He wants something.”
Fingin nodded, more for Bran’s benefit than in answer to Cailte. Hoping the warriors travelled some in some other direction, he replied, “I travel west.”
“Excellent. We shall walk with you.”
Hiding his sigh, he gathered his pannikin and secured it to Sean’s back with a few words of quiet encouragement. Bran calmed somewhat after the confrontation broke, but remained on his guard. Fingin didn’t blame him and hoped the dog would continue to keep his senses sharp for the Fianna leader.
As they made their way off the cliff, the silence remained strained. Fingin didn’t wish to
