He patted the poor dog a few times while the beast’s breath slowed to a normal pace. “Stay here just a few moments, dog. I’ll be back with some food, water, and a nice cloth to dry you. When you’re fed, I’ll take you up to the fire and get you warm, aye?”
The wolfhound opened his eyes once and closed them again, still exhausted. Fingin took that as assent and climbed up the rough stairs he’d built in the hill. He gathered some fish from the day’s catch, some turnips left over from yesterday’s stew and a skin of water. On the way out, he grabbed his blanket and returned to the beach.
The dog hadn’t moved so much as a paw but breathed more easily. Fingin noticed a gash on the dog’s leg, and he daubed it with river water. The dog whimpered but let him work.
With some urging, Fingin convinced him to sit up enough to drink and eat. He took a little fish but wouldn’t touch the turnip. Fingin didn’t blame him for that. He didn’t care for turnips either, and he lived too far from the ocean to spice it with salt often.
“What’s your name, boy? I’m Fingin.”
The hound turned his head, and Fingin heard his words within his mind. “Why can I understand you? I never understood other humans.”
Fingin shrugged. “It’s something I’ve been able to do for many seasons. My grandmother gave me a faerie gift when she left me.”
The dog shook his head as if the last bit didn’t make sense. Fingin supposed it didn’t, to a dog.
“I’m Bran. At least, that’s what my friend called me. It’s the only name I’ve ever known.”
Bran. One of the two famous hounds of Fionn ma Cumhaill, the legendary leader of the Fianna. A worthy name for an enormous wolfhound.
“Do you want to be called Bran? If you’d rather another name, I’ll call you something else.”
Bran shook his head. “Bran is good. I’ll remember Bran. I don’t remember things very well. That’s why my friend sent me away.” He ducked his head as if ashamed.
Fingin put a hand under Bran’s chin and lifted until he gazed into the dog’s eyes. “Hey! That was a mean thing for him to do. Would you like to be my friend? I promise I won’t make you go away.”
The dog’s tail thumped three times on the sand before he gave a cautious, “Yes, I would like that very much. Do you have more fish? My leg hurts.”
With a grin, Fingin nodded. “I have more fish up at my hut and a warm fire. I’ll wrap up your leg so it can heal. Here, let me dry you off first.”
Fingin rubbed the wiry gray fur hard with the blanket, and Bran squirmed under him, the tail now wagging so hard it bruised Fingin’s arms. “Settle down, Bran! Settle down. We’ll be done here in a moment.”
Once Bran’s coat felt fluffy and dry, Fingin led him up the stone steps. Bran didn’t like the steps but made it to the top after several whines. When he spied the fire, though, he rushed next to it and lay down. “This is warm. I really like warm. Will you let me stay near the warm for a while?”
With a chuckle, Fingin agreed. “You can stay next to the warm all night if you like. I’ll be there, too. The sun’s going down, so the air will chill. Let me get more fish in the pot for my meal, and I’ll give you the rest.”
He glanced over at the still ripped net and shrugged. He’d repair it in the morning. Keeping the hound warm and fed had more importance just now than the net. He wrapped Bran’s leg with a strip of cloth and tied it well.
* * *
Fingin woke the next morning with a warm body next to his, all along his back. He didn’t know who it was. He hadn’t chatted with another person in a long time, much less been comfortable enough to fall asleep next to them.
With cautious movements, he turned. In the dim light of the growing dawn, he made out the gray, furry form of Bran, stretched out almost as long as him, snoring slightly.
Yesterday’s events came rushing back into his memory, from the massive salmon to the nearly drowned dog.
He peered at said hound, a half-smile on his face. He’d had a dog once in his eighth summer. The puppy had loved him like no other. The dog had lived with them before Fingin talked to animals, before his grandmother had disappeared.
The puppy had been a mutt, some half-wolf hound from across the sea. At least, that’s what his grandmother had told him. He’d always believed her words. His father would tell lies all the time, just to make himself more important or impressive, but his grandmother had never lied to him.
Fingin gulped back the memories, got up from the warmth of the dog, and stoked the banked fire back to life. He poured some water into the tin kettle to heat for tea and walked outside to greet the day.
His parents had been fanatics of the new Roman religion, but his grandmother taught him the proper way to honor the dawn. He faced the east and sat, cross-legged, on the small outcropping of rocks looking over the river. Fingin waited for the sun’s first rays to peek out from behind the hills and across the countryside. He closed his eyes as the sun touched his skin, smiling at the warmth.
Then he sang.
The song had no words, at least, no words he recognized. The sounds he’d learned by rote, some old language she’d known. Or perhaps she didn’t know the meaning either, and just
