The hoots and howls of his companions filled the glade, along with suggestive gestures and a few pats on Fearghus’ back.
He waved off his enthusiastic companions. “Settle down! It’s a story, not a brag.”
They chuckled but subsided as bidden.
“She wore a black cloak, shiny as the sea, and stood with it drawn around her shoulders, as if in the winter wind, though the wind still warmed with summer.
“That’s when I realized that though the sea breeze remained strong, neither her cloak nor her long, ink-black hair stirred in the slightest.”
The silence that crept across the men grew heavy.
“I knew then I beheld no ordinary woman. Besides the skin like milk and hair like night, she stood with one foot in this world and one foot in the other, without doubt. Her black eyes bore holes into my soul as I stared at her.
“She lifted one slim hand and beckoned me forth. No force on earth could have kept me from obeying her command.”
Fearghus’ jovial manner had turned grim. He took a deep sigh before continuing his tale.
“When I got close enough to touch her cheek, she laughed.”
Cailte furrowed his brow. “She laughed? Did you tell her a joke?”
“I’d said nothing yet at this point. Her laugh wasn’t the sort you give for a joke. Her laugh scratched at my bones, harsh against my soul. The cackle spoke of death, the hysterical laughter of tortured children, and bloody heads rotting on the battlefield.”
Fingin drew in his breath. He knew who this woman must have been.
One of the younger warriors sprang to his feet, anger in his eyes. “You saw the Morrigú? Liar! Why would she appear to you?”
Normally, an accusation of lying would require a fight to settle the insult. However, Fearghus simply nodded, refusing to rise to the other man’s words.
“Aye, and I had no doubt. This creature came of the night, of the dark, of the dead.”
Another warrior spoke in a voice a little too shrill. “Was she beautiful?”
With a half-smile, Fearghus closed his eyes. “Beautiful and terrible at the same time. She held the type of beauty you hope never to see in your lifetime, the type of beauty you would sell your life for.”
“What did she do next?”
Fearghus took another deep breath. “She touched my forehead, and I shut my eyes, knowing I would be dead in a moment. And yet… nothing happened. I felt no touch from the goddess. Instead, when I opened my eyes again, she’d disappeared. Not even a depression upon the sand remained where she had been but a moment ago.”
A few nervous laughs from the other warriors died quickly in the silence. One of the younger men coughed, and another sneezed.
Fingin shivered. Having met a goddess himself recently, he could understand how unsettled Fearghus would have been at such an encounter. While Brigit had as much, if not more, power as the Morrigú, a goddess of healing, inspiration, and smithcraft should be much less terrifying than a goddess of magic, battle, and sovereignty. No one craved to meet the Morrigú. No one with any shred of sanity.
In the somber quiet that followed Fearghus’ tale, several warriors cleaned up after their sparse feast. Fingin walked to a nearby bush to relieve himself, though he received a few glances of surprise since he’d just gone before the story. While he remained out of sight from the rest of the company, he pulled his nettles from his bag and, with quick swipes, rubbed them on his cheeks, his forehead, and his hands. For good measure, he touched a few places on his arms.
The welts turned red, and the itch burned. No matter. If the price he must pay for his own safety hurt, then so be it.
He returned to the warriors and bent to help them clean the fire like nothing felt wrong. He bent over, groaning and holding his stomach, as if in great gut pain.
Fearghus laughed. “Boy? What happened, boy? Is your belly too delicate for man’s food? Would you like us to prepare some buttermilk and soften the bread for you? Maybe I should chew it up and spit it in your mouth like a bird?”
Fingin fell on his side, moaning and writhing. The warriors now had a full view of the reddened welts on his face and hands. They backed up a step and exchanged nervous glances.
Bran barked, an assault on his ears. Fingin hadn’t had time to tell Bran the plan, so he would have to reassure him later. Besides, it might work better if the dog thought he had truly fallen ill. He just hoped it drove them far away.
Cailte peered down at him. “What have you got all over your face, there? Did you find some raspberries? Do you not know how to aim for your mouth?”
He shook his head and groaned again, pressing his palms into his belly. He curled further into a fetal position, praying to all the gods they would leave him here to die.
Fearghus poked him with his foot, prodding his shoulder. “This came on sudden. You seemed fine earlier.”
Cailte crossed his arms and scowled. “Do you think it’s a trick?”
“I do. We ate the same things he did, and we’re not covered in splotches.”
One of the other men rushed up to Cailte and handed him something using his glove. Fingin couldn’t see what he held, but he could guess. Some enterprising warrior had searched and found his discarded nettles.
The leader nodded. “Grab him.”
Fingin tried to punch back, but one thin young man against nine trained warriors would never be a fair fight. He
