Bran barked. “This way.” They must have headed in the same line they’d traveled before.
Fingin turned about a quarter circle from the latter, facing south. “We’ll head this way for a league and sleep for the night. In the morning, we can head west again.”
He stumbled within the first three steps, falling on his hands and knees. “Curse the crows!” With much muttering about his own clumsiness, he picked himself up with Sean and Bran’s help. The palms of his hands burned with a raw rash from his fall.
“Bran, you must be my eyes. I can’t see stones, roots, bushes. Choose the smoothest path you can find. Let me know if I need to step taller.”
“I’ll try.”
Bran’s long legs and small paws walked almost effortlessly through low brush, but without knowing when to lift his feet higher than normal, Fingin didn’t have this ability. It took some refinement and adjustment, but Bran learned how to lead him.
By the time a human would have needed to stop because of the darkness, they hadn’t gotten very far. However, Bran saw better than any human, so they continued until the last vestige of the setting sun expired. Fingin didn’t even bother setting up camp. Instead, he curled up next to Sean’s side, with Bran against his back.
Fingin’s entire body ached and throbbed. All his leg muscles, unused to the unusual method of walking, jumped and twitched. Normally, he didn’t walk so far each day, and this day had the added difficulty of the beating he’d received. His face pulsed in a mass of agony, now that he had nothing else to concentrate on. After a few times, he tried not to touch his swollen eyes or nose. He’d splashed it with cool water, but the burning skin stung worse than ever.
Sleep eluded him. He needed rest, despite his brief bout with unconsciousness. Yet dreams wouldn’t come. Perhaps no dreams would be a blessing.
* * *
As morning dawned, Bran roused, chasing after the birds singing in the bushes. Fingin rose, a glimmer of light filtering through the swollen slits of his eyes. He needed to greet the dawn. He’d missed the chance the last few mornings, but today the sky seemed clear.
Fingin found east, sat cross-legged, and breathed deep. With each breath, he drew in the land’s power, the rising sun, and the beauty of the dawn, from what he could see. The tonic suffused him with healing energy, and Brigit’s pendant warmed.
He placed his hand on it, almost burning his already injured palm. It pulsated with tingling energy. The throb in his skin ebbed, though it didn’t flee entirely.
When Fingin completed the morning ceremony, his muscles ached much less than they had when he first rose. His skin remained tender, but not painful. Brigit’s pendant had already helped some. He threw a thankful prayer to the goddess.
After a quick meal from his packs, and some oats for Sean, they headed west, away from the rising sun, and reflected on the events of the day before.
His plan hadn’t worked. While it extracted him from the Fianna, he’d almost died with the process. He wouldn’t have been able to forgive himself if Bran or Sean had been harmed or taken by the rough warriors.
How would he prevent such an encounter again? While even his luck made running into the same band unlikely, Fianna groups wandered all around the island. Some might be more honorable than that one. Some might be less. He shouldn’t risk another beating; he might not survive the next one.
The trees opened to a long, flat glade. No longer blind, he traveled faster. However, he still had to watch his step. His eyes weren’t all the way open yet, and the edges of his vision blurred. He stopped to survey the view, noting a low cliff to the right and a gentle slope to the left. The glint of water in the bright sun drew his attention.
He focused his gaze and traced the glittering ribbon and realized the river grew wide as it curved. The forest line obscured the view from there. It might be easier to follow the water to the ocean. The shore might make for a smoother path.
The group moved down the slope, picking their way along a rocky field. When they reached the water, they all stared.
Fingin had grown up along An Ruirthech River. He’d always thought it broad and swift, filled with plenty of fish for his daily cast. This river, however, made the other seem like a trickling brook. He barely saw the other side through the roiling mist. The current flowed rough and strong, pulling debris along with alarming speed.
He glanced back at the trees, nervous in case anyone saw them in the open, exposed. Then his eyes returned to the river.
If he fashioned a raft for the three of them, they might travel down the river, free from the danger of Fianna, bandits, or other evil men. They’d reach the western shore much more quickly, besides.
“Bran, we need to find downed trees. At least… ten.”
“Ten? Is that more than two?”
He closed his eyes. He’d forgotten Bran didn’t understand numbers. “Just keep finding more until I say we have enough. Sean, I’ll need your help in dragging them here. I’ll build a raft. We also need twine, but I have plenty of that.”
Bran ran into the woods and barked when he found a log. Fingin and Sean followed to assess what he’d discovered. The first two were too slim, while the third was so gnarled it seemed like a knotted rope. The fourth, however, had once stood straight and tall.
Fingin used Sean’s bridle and his own twine to attach the log. He searched in his pack through Brigit’s supplies and shouted in triumph when he found a small
