Fingin didn’t even know on which shore Bran waited.
Silver water filled his sight, and he searched for any clue to which shore was which. That clearing might have been the same one they’d climbed. He’d make his way toward it.
His arms refused to obey his will. With enormous effort, he lifted one arm, and it dropped on the surface, making a loud smack. He drifted further downstream as he tried to lift the other. No strength remained in his body. With alarming fatalism, he decided the water would eventually throw him ashore at some bend in the river. Perhaps Bran might find him someday.
Adrift and unable to move, he bobbed along with the current, turning now and then with the motion of the surface. He stayed afloat, but he couldn’t muster the strength to make his way ashore. He hoped Sean had made it safely. How would the donkey remove the logs? Maybe Bran would bite through the twine. Then they would be free.
They’d be better off free from him. He only brought them pain and danger. If the river swallowed him, they would live happier lives.
It seemed an eternity later he heard the barking. He blinked several times to focus on land, but his sight swam. Only blurry water and colors danced in his vision, waterlogged with the wool of drowning daydreams.
Something pulled on him, and he fought with feeble struggles. He tried to bat away whatever attacked him, but his blows remained ineffectual. He only splashed around at nothing. Whatever bit at him ignored his actions.
Now he’d be dragged under, to some river monster’s watery lair. Perhaps he’d been seized by a legendary murdúchann? A lovely woman who turned into a seal and lured men to their death. He welcomed her sultry embrace. Where did she go?
Blackness engulfed him.
* * *
His grandmother’s strident voice cut through the black. “Rumann, what are you doing to that child? Stop it! Immediately!”
Fingin ducked away into a corner as soon as his father grew distracted. He huddled in the dark, hoping to stay hidden from his father’s eyes. Or, more importantly, from his father’s leather strap.
“I’m teaching him a well-needed lesson, Mother. Leave me to my own child.”
“I’ll do no such thing! Drop that at once.”
Rumann growled and did not drop the strap. Fingin shuddered, knowing his anger would find a target, and that target would not be his grandmother.
“I’m tired of healing the welts and cuts you leave on the poor boy. He’s doing his best, Rumann. Can’t you see that? He can’t work as hard as the older boys. Fingin weighs half as much.”
“He’s a slacking idiot. He doesn’t do enough because he’s lazy.”
“The boy is barely eight winters! You didn’t work as hard at eight. And before you protest that you did, may I remind you that I was there?”
He growled again, muttering under his breath. He slapped the strap into his hand in a rhythmic tattoo, an ominous warning that he itched to use it again.
His grandmother crossed her arms. Her shawl showed bright red in the dim light, a beacon from the misery. He wished to escape with her, to run away from his father, far away to another land. He’d even asked her once, but she’d laughed. She said she would leave some day; but had work yet to do here.
He didn’t know what work she did. She left for the village during the day and returned in the evenings, sometimes. She wore bright, new clothing and always came back cheerful. One time he found her crying, but she assured him she cried happy tears. He didn’t understand what she meant by happy tears.
His father barked, but that seemed strange. His father must have found it odd, for he furrowed his brow. When he opened his mouth, he barked again. Then something cold and wet touched Fingin’s cheek.
Fingin opened his eyes to find Bran standing on his chest. It hurt.
“You’re awake! You’re awake! I didn’t think you would wake, but Sean said you hadn’t been hurt. I found you, and you’re awake!”
He had to fend off a fresh onslaught of licks as Sean brayed in the background. Once he gained control of his body and asked Bran to stop trying to drown him all over again, he sat up.
They’d landed nowhere near where he’d left the rest of the raft. However, both logs had made it to shore, though the string appeared frayed and ready to break. Sean sat on the ground, exhausted and drained. They both deserved a long rest.
“Let’s sleep here tonight, and then we’ll head back to the rest of the raft in the morning. I have no food, though. We’ll have a grand breakfast in the morning.”
“I have fish!”
Fingin peered at where Bran stood. Three good-sized trout lay at his feet.
“Wherever did you get those?”
“I got them from the river after I caught you. They jumped into my mouth!”
He chuckled. “Then you must get first choice. You’re a real fisherman, like me!”
Bran’s tongue lolled in joyful satisfaction at his new title. Sean laid his head down on the ground.
“Let me gather some grass for Sean before we rest. He did all the work today, and deserves all the pampering we can give him.”
He searched for some tall, sweet sedge grass and cattails, and yanked them out to deposit near the brave donkey, but Sean had already closed his eyes in sleep.
“Bran?”
“Yes, Fingin?”
“Thank you for saving my life today. I would have died if you hadn’t pulled me to shore.”
“I had to.”
Fingin crinkled his forehead. “You did?”
“Brigit told me. She warned me this would happen. She said to be ready. So, I knew.”
“You did well, my friend.”
That night, he did not dream of his father’s violence, nor his grandmother’s
