Now he sat in his spot next to the trunk and lost himself in the braiding rhythm, the sound of the rain, helping him keep time with the task. His mind drifted, as it often did, but not so far as normal. He remained aware of the cold, wet mud he sat in, and the miserable, damp air.
His fingers chafed since they’d started out wet. Thin layers of skin sloughed off as he created the string from the rough materials, and he had to stop more often than he normally did. This helped to break his concentration, and the task became a chore rather than a joy.
With a sigh, he put away his materials. He’d gotten some work done, but his fingers ached. Instead, he sat with his head on his hands, watching the rain fall. Mist rose from the warm earth, making the atmosphere of the forest mysterious and beautiful. Sounds filtered through, the cries of birds, or the rustle of animals in the underbrush, perhaps displaced from their burrows by flooding.
Bran settled down after he finished gnawing on his fish and laid his head on Fingin’s lap. Even Sean stopped munching grass and lowered himself to the ground beside them.
Surrounded by warmth and steady sounds, Fingin slept again.
* * *
When he startled awake, the silence almost pounded on his skull. No rain, no dripping, no rustling. He cracked one eye open and remembered to test his skin for tenderness. Thanks to Brigit’s charm, the bruising had healed. No pain remained, even to his ribs. He breathed deep, thankful for the healing token.
Fingin rose, his clothing sticking in the mud as he stood. He grimaced at the mess and made his way back down to the beach. The humidity and heat had risen as the clouds scattered away in the brightening sky. Bran rumbled awake and followed him to the riverside.
He let out a breath of relief. The raft still bobbed, tied to its tree. In the back of his mind, he’d felt certain the raft would have somehow become unmoored and floated away on the current. At least the logs will have swollen to form a tighter seal.
He waded into the water again to clean the mud away. Bran joined him, joyful in his playfulness now that the rain had gone away. The waterline had grown higher than the day before.
Sean joined them, and Fingin made certain they had everything they needed. He stowed the pannikins on the raft along with his pole.
Sean would be difficult to get onto it, so he decided he’d work with Bran first. “Right. Bran, come on up.”
Bran stared at the bobbing craft. “I have to get on that?”
“Yes. Not to worry. It’ll be safe.”
Bran shook his head. “I don’t want to get on. I’ll drown in the river.”
Fingin clenched his jaw. “Bran, come on. It’s not dangerous at all. See? I’m standing on it. It’s sturdy. It’s been floating all night without drowning.”
Bran retreated until he stood next to the hill and refused to budge.
With a sigh, Fingin turned to the donkey. He grasped the bridle and placed a gentle hand on his neck. “Sean? Will you show Bran there’s no worry?”
He led the donkey to the edge of the raft. The animal put one tentative hoof on the first log, which bobbed in reaction. He pulled back and retreated to where Bran sat. Two unmovable forces.
Fingin let out his breath and considered the raft. It seemed sturdy.
He climbed onto the raft and jumped up and down. “See? It’s stable! I can jump all over it and I won’t fall off!” He ran to one edge and then the other. He lay down on one side, trailing his hand in the water, then rolled all the way to the other side.
Neither animal seemed impressed with his escapades.
With a firm set to his mouth, he stomped back to the shore.
After careful deliberation, he pulled some soaking branches into a pile and, taking out the flint Brigit had gifted him, started a fire. It took a great deal of work to build one. The smoke billowed from the wet wood, but soon he had a reluctant blaze. He narrowed his eyes at the fire. It shouldn’t have been so easy. Then he glanced at the flint and decided Brigit must have placed an enchantment on that, as well. Then he got his cooking pot, filled it with water, and dropped in a large chunk of the dried fish. He waited in steaming silence as the fish soaked, getting soft and warm.
He refused to look at either of his companions as he stewed.
When he judged the fish to be tender, he tested it with a small bite. Perfect.
He then put out his fire, dumped out the excess water, and pulled out a sweet carrot from his pannikin. He placed the carrot and the lump of hot, cooked fish in the middle of the raft.
“Now, will you come? I have hot fish and a sweet, tasty carrot for you.”
Bran’s head drooped, but he approached the raft with wary eyes, sniffing the edge. He craned his neck out as far as he could while standing on the ground, but the fish remained out of reach. The tiny waves from the raft lapped against his toes. He whined.
“Come on, Bran. Tasty fish?” He held the piece up and took a bite, exaggerating his enjoyment. “Mmm. Careful, I’ll eat it all!”
With a whine and a yip, Bran jumped onto the raft. He stood, splayed, as the raft shifted. Then he took several careful steps toward the food.
“Well done! You earned your treat, Bran!” Fingin held his hand out, and Bran ate the piece of cooked fish. The hound then glanced over his shoulder at the shore.
“No, I need
