He whispered into the night, knowing the badger wouldn’t hear him. “Rest easy, badger. You’ll eat tomorrow.”
* * *
The heavy rain woke Fingin in the morning rather than sunlight or warmth. He lay in a soggy mudhole, the steady drops pounding on his head. How had he even slept through this? He must have been more tired than he’d thought.
Sean and Bran must already be awake, as he didn’t see them. Fingin stood, shaking the excess water from his léine, but it remained covered in mud. He shrugged and waded into the river. He might as well be clean if he had to be soaked. The raft bobbed on the surface as he walked into the water next to it. At least it still floated, proving out the soundness of his construction.
When he emerged, he sluiced the excess water, stamping his feet and shaking his hands. It made little difference. The downpour replaced any water he shook off.
He grabbed his pack and climbed up the incline to the glade, searching for his companions. The oiled leather should keep things dry, though after almost a week on the road, their food stores had gotten lower. Perhaps he’d cast his net. This river, though, seemed too powerful for a fishing net from the shore. He might find a smaller tributary as they traveled.
There, under a thick pine tree. Both Sean and Bran looked soaked and miserable. He chuckled as he made his way through the soggy ground. “Lovely morning!”
Bran bowed his head. “It’s not lovely. The rain wants to drown me.”
He had to chuckle at the hound’s misery. “The rain just falls. If we don’t get out of its way, that’s our own fault.”
Sean nodded and brayed. “We found shelter, but it still wants to drown us.”
Bran glanced up, his scraggly hair dripping despite the cover. “Can you ask it to stop?”
“I have no power over the weather. My grandmother did, but I have none. I’m as miserable as you.”
The hound remained sullen. “You don’t have fur. You can take your wet off.”
“But I can’t shake like you can to dry off.”
Fingin realized Bran may take his words as a suggestion, so he backed up, but he wasn’t fast enough. Bran shook his body so hard, a drop flew into Fingin’s eye. It stung, and he rubbed his face until the discomfort eased.
“Well, we’re going nowhere until this lets up. If the rain fell soft and misty, we might make do, but this is too heavy. The raft would be dangerous. Let’s find a better shelter than this tree, though. Bran, in your explorations yesterday, did you find any caves? Holes in rocks we can fit into? We stayed in one before the warriors found us that night.”
Bran stood, dripping, while he thought back to his roaming, but then he shook his head, dislodging further droplets. “I found nothing like that place. I found lots of rocks, but no holes in the rocks.”
The wind rose with a whine, making the pine tree limbs shake. This dropped more water on them, and some dripped down his back, making him shiver.
“I think we’re stuck here until the rain stops. I wish we had a fire, but it would never survive this.”
He sat with his back against the trunk. The needles beneath squished. He tried to close his eyes to rest, but he’d just woken up from a full night’s sleep. He’d never get more sleep in this. The drops seeping through the pine boughs fell less frequently than in the clearing but remained annoying. The damp air grew redolent with pine.
He should use this time wisely. He pulled out his pack and, careful to hold it sideways to minimize the amount of water getting inside, he pulled out his tiny remaining ball of twine. He would need to collect more materials, but having more twine would be useful.
“Stay here in the relative shelter. I’ll be back in a while.”
Bran’s ears perked up. “Are you going to get fish? I would like fish.”
“No, I’m not going fishing. But wait, I’ll get you some food.” He rummaged through the pack again and found some cheese and dried fish. He gave these to Bran and turned to Sean, but the donkey was already munching on the green grass peeking through the pine needles.
“I want the hot fish. The rain is cold.”
“I can’t cook anything, Bran. The rain is too wet for a fire.”
The hound poked at the dried fish with his paw and whined, unhappiness clear in his posture. After a few moments, he held it in his paws as he gnawed on it.
His companions thus sated, Fingin chewed on a piece of dried fish himself as he went in search of reeds.
The renewed strength of the rainfall on his head made him gasp when he left the shelter of the pine tree. In a short time, a headache formed from the onslaught. He collected reeds, grasses, and one small vine he found along the ground before hurrying back to the tree.
He didn’t have horsehair, but he squinted at Sean. “Sean, can I brush your mane for you? It looks tangled.”
The donkey raised his head but didn’t say no.
After grabbing his bone comb, Fingin brushed out the donkey’s mane. The hair took a great deal of work to unmat and untangle, but soon he had a good supply
