With much pain and effort, he chopped off the protruding branches. He hacked at the trunk for a long time and only made it halfway through before he had to stop.
He retrieved his waterskin from Sean and gave some to both the dog and the donkey. A wizened apple and some jerked meat, and his stomach quieted. A sharp snap made him jump up, axe in hand, but rather than Fianna, he only saw a squirrel. Bran chased off the intruder with furious barks.
After a great deal of work, he won through the thick trunk and trussed it to Sean’s bridle. Several shouted orders later, and a few scary moments when he thought the trunk would slide down the slope, taking poor Sean with it, they made it to a flat space on the shore. The low beach would be an ideal spot to assemble the raft.
Now they just had to do all that nine more times.
This might take a few days. Maybe this wouldn’t be faster. Still, it would be safer than walking the forest paths. Presumably.
They got two more deadfall trees trimmed and down to the beach before he needed to stop for a longer break. The sweat streamed down Fingin’s face and on Sean’s flanks as he pulled out both oats and jerked fish. He gave some to Bran, who played with it before he ate it, flipping it into the air and pouncing on it several times.
The sun roasted the top of his head now. He wished for an overcast day, but he shouldn’t complain. This task would be more difficult in the rain. He might cool down in the river if he wanted to risk that current.
After his meal, he brushed down Sean’s coat, getting the worst of the wood chips and dust off, and sluiced some river water over his flanks to cool him down. Bran jumped into the water, luckily finding a shallow pool protected by a rocky outcropping.
When Bran returned to shore, he shook his coat, covering both Fingin and Sean with a fresh splash of river water.
With a splutter, Fingin said, through a clenched jaw, “Thank you, Bran. That’s exactly what I needed.”
Bran’s tongue hung out. “You’re welcome!”
Fingin gave a grim smile at the dog’s innocent answer and sent him to find a fourth log.
They only finished six logs the first day. Fingin realized his muscles hadn’t ached nearly as much as they should. He gingerly tested his ribs, but they seemed sound. His face still stung, but the swelling around his eyes had retreated to almost normal. “Bran, what color is my face?”
“Color?”
“I mean, is my face bruised, or is it normal?”
Bran cocked his head as if listening. “What’s bruised?”
“Purple and black, as it must have been after those men beat me.”
“Oh! It’s still dark here and there. It’s almost normal. Splotchy.”
He grinned, the smile pulling on his aching skin. “That’s what I wanted to know.”
The welts from his misbegotten nettle plan had also faded from his hands. He knew who he should thank for such rapid healing.
As he lit a small fire for their evening meal, his muscle pain returned. However, this felt like the ache of a day full of heavy activity, not the throbbing of a pummeled body. He tossed some fragrant herbs onto the flames in thanks for Brigit’s forethought. Both the healing pendant and the axe had been invaluable.
He hoped he wouldn’t need the pendant again soon.
* * *
The night came clear and cool, the stars twinkling above them in a magical dance. This night, Fingin found his slumber. His body, exhausted from the day’s efforts, didn’t keep him awake with pulsing pain. Instead, he drifted into troubling dreams, his thudding heart waking him more than once. Despite his broken dreams, he slept through most of the night.
The morning dawned overcast, just as he’d wished for the day before, but no rain lingered in the morning mist. He didn’t greet the sun, but the power from yesterday’s ceremony, buoyed by Brigit’s charm, still infused his body.
They pulled two more logs to the beach and dressed them, but Bran had difficulty finding two more. Each one he found had grown too gnarled, too thin, too thick, or too rotten for Fingin’s needs. Farther and farther they cast, trying to find suitable logs.
He considered using just the eight logs they’d gathered, but it wouldn’t be large enough to ensure Sean didn’t fall into the river. He needed ten for both his friends to travel in safety.
They stood in a clearing, the river now far below them. He glanced around, though the standing trees would hide any fallen logs. Something in the river caught his eye.
A silver flash, a fish swimming against the current, jumped over the surface. The fish must have been enormous to be visible from so far. Frowning, Fingin made his way back to the shore.
He remembered the last time he’d encountered a huge salmon when he’d almost drowned. And yet, if that fish hadn’t destroyed his net, he might have missed Bran. Brigit had even hinted she’d sent the fish.
It couldn’t be the same fish.
Still, it behooved him to check. Perhaps she sent another message.
He slipped a few times, rushing down to the small beach. He made it just as the silver fish leapt once again.
There couldn’t be two salmon so large in Ireland, could there?
After he stared at the fish, disappearing upstream, he studied the far shore. There, sticking out along the tree line, lay two more logs. They seemed like the perfect size, the perfect length. In fact, they seemed to have broken from their trunks just long enough to serve as the final two parts of his raft.
Now, how to cross the river to get them?
Fingin considered building the raft with the logs he
