When the bottom of the shimmering orb cleared the hill, he allowed his song to fade, to blend into the song of the surrounding birds. He allowed the power within him to tumble into the earth below him, curling away like a heavy smoke from a smoldering fire. When he’d released the strength back into the soil, his body and soul remained refreshed and ready for what lay before him.
Fingin walked back to the hut where Bran still lay sleeping, now curled into a ball next to the flickering flames of the hearth fire.
He needed more fish for breakfast. Yesterday’s catch had been enough to feed himself for two days, but not himself and a starving wolfhound.
To get more fish, he needed to repair his net.
With a determined stride, he walked to his abandoned project from the day before and bent to his task. He pulled a length of thin rope, braided with horsehair, thin vines, and reed stalks. He tied fast knots to one side of the enormous gap remaining from yesterday’s fiasco and tied the other end to the opposite side of the gap. Once he finished, he tied parallel lines across the gap until he had everything in that direction.
Now for the hard part.
He then added rope cross-ways, tying new knots at every juncture. This step took much longer than the first pass, and he had to get up often to stretch his legs and back.
The hound still slept.
Fingin smiled every time he glanced at his hut. He hoped Bran would want to stay. It would be nice to have a friend.
Just as he tied the last knot of the main gap, a loud yawn came from the hut. Bran stretched and rolled over, but he didn’t wake.
He held up his repaired net, searching for bits he’d missed. There, that knot didn’t seem secure. He re-tied it and tested the fastness of the net as a whole, tugging and pushing across.
A sloppy job now meant empty bellies later. If Bran stayed, he had two bellies to fill, and failure wouldn’t mean just his own hunger.
“What’s that for?”
Fingin just about jumped out of his skin when the words intruded on the quiet morning. He spun to see Bran watching the net with a cocked head.
When he caught his breath, Fingin answered. “It’s a net. I throw it in the water to catch salmon.”
At the mention of fish, Bran’s ears perked up, and his tongue fell out of his mouth. “Fish? More fish?”
“In a little while, Bran, I hope. I have to catch them first. Want to come watch me? Or do you want some water first?”
“Fish!” Bran leaned crosswise and nibbled at the bandage on his leg.
“Don’t eat that, Bran. It’s there to help your leg to heal.”
Bran glanced at him, then to the bandage. With reluctance, the dog left the cloth alone.
They walked down to the river. Bran watched with interest as Fingin waded out to his normal perch, a flat stone in the middle of the river. Then he cast his net, letting the weights pull the edge down to the riverbed once again. When he tugged, he watched for any unusually large salmon, but none appeared to ruin his net this time.
A few expert tugs, and he almost had the net drawn in. Bran bound into the water and yanked the net, his teeth affixed to one edge. “Bran, no, no, you’ll tear it. It’s only designed for one person to pull.”
Bran bowed his head and shrunk away with a whine.
“It’s all right, Bran. I’m glad you wanted to help. But I’ve made my net so I can work it alone.”
He tugged and pulled at the net. He’d gotten a decent haul this time, at least a dozen or more trout and a pike. One little salmon wiggled through a hole in the net, and Bran bounded after the tiny fish, losing it in the splashes.
He didn’t look where he walked, and his paw stepped onto the net as Fingin still struggled to pull it to shore. Soon both paws got twisted in the net, and he yipped, trying to get free.
“Bran! Stop moving. Hold on.”
Fingin waded back out into the river and patiently extricated his new friend from his freshly repaired net. “Now, stay clear of the net in the future. It’s too easy to get tangled.”
When Bran returned to shore, he tried to nibble on the cloth again.
“Stop that, Bran. It won’t heal if you don’t stop bothering it.”
Bran bowed his head, his wet fur dripping on the shore. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just learn.” Fingin grinned to take the sting from his words. “I’m glad to have you as a friend.”
Bran’s tail wagged so hard, droplets splattered them both.
* * *
“Can I eat this one yet?”
“Not yet. I have to clean it. I don’t want you choking on a fish bone.”
“What about this one?”
Fingin closed his eyes. “No. Wait a few minutes, and I’ll have this one cleaned. You can have it. But eat slowly, because I have to clean all these fish, and no, you don’t get to eat them all.”
Bran settled down and placed his head over his crossed front paws, the very picture of patience and virtue. Fingin set to cleaning the first fish.
It had been quite a struggle to drag the net up the steps with Bran’s all-too-willing help. After various shouts, slips, and one yip from Bran, they hauled the net full of fish out to the clearing. Now he’d clean each one. With fourteen—no, fifteen—fish, most
