The sun dimmed as he reached the cloud. Everything around him faded into white, surrounded by mist. His skin cooled and grew damp, the chilly damp of the cloud mixing with the heat of his sweat. He wiped his face several times to no effect.
Step by step.
The final steps rose more steeply, and his leg muscles screamed in ache and agony. When Fingin reached the top stair, he stumbled, so used to stepping up.
Then he did a foolish thing. He glanced down.
His vision swam as he grew dizzy. He fell backward, toward the grass and not the stone steps leading down, down, down, into the ocean. Little black and white birds zipped below him, criss-crossing the stairs in speedy flight. One dipped straight down to the ocean, and the world spun around him. He waited for the earth to stabilize once more. When his vision stopped whirling, he opened his eyes, rubbed at his face, and glanced around.
Four young monks ringed him, staring at him as he lay sprawled on the ground. They said nothing, but three nodded and left, leaving the youngest to help him.
This monk grinned and put out a hand to help him stand. His blond curls seemed odd with the shaved forehead, but his smile seemed genuine and disarming. “Greetings to you, pilgrim. I understand you are in search of information. I’m called Onchú, and I’ve been assigned to assist you. What would you like to know?”
Fingin smiled in response to the young monk’s cheerful manner. ‘I’m… I’m F-fingin. I’m searching for s-someone who… might remember my g-grandmother.”
The young monk blinked several times. “Oh dear, oh dear. You have some difficulty speaking, do you not? Never fear, we can still help. Your grandmother, you say? There are no women here. We are all men, monks of the Christian faith. Why did you think you might find her on our isolated enclave?”
Fingin shook his head. “I was t-told someone here might know her.”
With a cock of his head, Onchú asked, “Told by whom?”
He swallowed, as telling a Christian monk that a non-Christian goddess had sent him seemed the height of idiocy. Instead, Fingin answered, “A wise old w-w-woman. She lived alone.”
“Hm. Well, wise old women have a great deal of knowledge we do not. Perhaps she did not send you on a wild chase after all. I’ll ask around for you. Some of us maintain silence, but I’m allowed to speak still. I’m not yet vowed to our Lord, you see. That means I’m free to ask questions. Come, you must be tired after your climb. I shall get you refreshment and rest, and then I’ll get some details from you.”
Onchú led Fingin to his home, a hut made of stone, rounded like an upside-down bowl or a beehive. They crawled into the doorway. A sleeping pallet covered in straw and a wool blanket took up one side, with a simple stone table on the other. They both sat on the pallet while Onchú pulled several items from stone shelves above the table. A loaf of barley bread, a small jar of honey, and a drinking skin. He also retrieved plates and mugs, serving them both.
Fingin dipped the bread and bit deep. He closed his eyes at the pure sweetness of the honey. When he drank from his mug, he realized it contained not water, but mead. His head had ceased to spin from his climb, but it spun again, this time with alcohol.
Once they’d finished their meal, Onchú turned to face him, still sitting on the pallet. “Now, tell me. Do you know your grandmother’s name? When did you last see her? Can you describe her? Did she have any habits or traits?”
Fingin took a deep breath, trying hard to make his words work. “Her n-name is C-Cliodhna. She left over… fifteen winters past.” He swallowed another sip of mead. It seemed to help. “She had thick, dark curls with streaks of white then. B-b-black eyes. Pale skin. Strong voice. She loved p-p-poetry. We lived in th-the east, near a river.”
“Hm. That might describe half the women in Hibernia, to be true. I’ll inquire amongst the older monks. However, if they’ve been here too long, they wouldn’t have even seen a woman in dozens of winters. We have one who’s freshly arrived, so he might have seen her about in the world.
“Why don’t you bide here and rest? With your difficulty in speech, I might have more success on my own. If I have questions, I can always come fetch you. Will that suit?”
With some reservations, Fingin nodded. He’d expected to ask each monk himself but now felt relief at not being required to perform the onerous task.
The young blond monk exited the beehive hut and disappeared into the ever-present mist. Silence pressed in on Fingin, making him at once comforted and nervous. The white cloud blanket removed all sound, all movement, almost as if he lived in some ethereal afterlife, in Tír na nÓg, the land of the ever-living. And yet, the silence disturbed him, as if at any moment, some primal scream or a raving madman might shatter it.
He lay back on the pallet and closed his eyes, willing his body to relax. What could hurt him on this lonely mountain? Only religious men lived on this island. His parents would be thrilled to see him here, amongst their Christian people. His grandmother would be less thrilled. Would he ever find her? Would the brooch she held give him his normal voice back? Would it take away his ability to speak to animals? Would Bran and Sean still be friends with him if he couldn’t speak to them?
As these questions swirled in his mind like the mist around the mountaintop, he remained tense, unable to sleep.
Murmurs of male voices drifted past him,
