One monk laughed somewhere. Fingin didn’t like the laugh, but he couldn’t say why. Then everything fell silent again.
The lack of sound pressed on his ears, and he covered them, trying to keep the pressure away. He hummed to himself, but that made his uneasiness worse. He sat up, shaking his head to dispel the odd sensation.
Perhaps he needed to be outside this tiny stone place. He crawled to get through the doorway. As he did so, he almost ran into Onchú, who had just returned.
“Aha! There you are. Believe it or not, you might be in luck! I found not one, but two monks who may have met your grandmother! They might be thinking of different women, but this remote corner of Hibernia is not such a large place. It’s possible they knew her. Come with me, Fingin.”
“You c-call our land Hibernia. Is th-that its name?”
Onchú shrugged. “It’s a name. Ierne, Ériu, Hibernia, all describe this island. The Greeks used Ierne, and our people used Ériu before the Romans came. They call it Hibernia. Since we write in Latin, we use Hibernia.”
As they walked down a narrow stone path, which wended through several more stone huts, Fingin asked, “‘Write’? What is ‘write’?”
The monk stopped, putting a finger to his lips in thought. “Writing is… well, it’s a method of drawing words. We make marks that represent the sounds, and those sounds form words. That way, we can record events or ideas, and later on, someone else can read those drawings and translate them back into speech.”
This sounded much too confusing to Fingin. “Why not j-just tell the other p-person?”
“If the other person is many leagues away, or must read it next season, they can do so whenever they wish, instead of that moment. It helps to record mighty deeds.”
“Isn’t th-that what druí are for?”
“Oh, certainly, the storytellers are important. But the druí are all pagan. We Christians need a way to pass our own stories on. We find writing is much more useful.”
Fingin shook his head as he followed the monk, unwilling to argue with someone helping him. He supposed the new religion did things their own way. He hoped the druí would never go away, though. It remained their duty to remember the histories of the ruling families, the battles and legends, the tales, and adventures. They memorized hundreds of tales just to become druí. Some specialized in healing magic, or music, or the Brehon law, but each still memorized the stories and took pride in remembering every word as they learned them.
Ériu would no longer be the same without the druí.
Chapter Nine
They first stopped at a beehive hut similar to Onchú’s. However, rather than crowd three people inside, the resident met them in front. They sat on the grass, cross-legged in a circle.
This tall monk seemed about forty winters, give or take a few. The dark hair left from his tonsure had thinned and grayed around the edges, and the frown lines around his eyes ran deep.
Onchú turned to Fingin. “Guaire, here, remembers a woman who passed through his village. He lived far to the east, didn’t you say, Guaire? Would your grandmother have lived in the east?”
Fingin nodded. “Near a r-river called An Ruirthech. My f-f-father farmed there.”
Guaire’s brow furrowed. “Yes, yes, I lived right along that river for a few winters. I remember a woman who roused quite a rabble, many seasons ago. Perhaps twenty? More? I can’t remember. Well, they ran her out of town. Some sort of wanton; loose with the men.”
Fingin didn’t want to believe this description of his grandmother, but he remembered his dream. The mob had clearly attacked her, and she’d been with a man. Had the man been her lover? Guaire and Onchú waited for an answer. “I d-d-don’t know. I only counted eight winters myself. I don’t remember a lot of men.”
Onchú frowned. “Well, maybe our other brother will have better information. Thank you, Guaire.”
They rose. The older monk scowled as they left.
“The next monk remembers a great bit more detail, so perhaps you will have more success. He’s my mentor, and his name is Maol Odhrán. He once fought as a warrior of the Fianna, long ago, in another lifetime, but now he lives in peace here. He even met the great Pátraic once, in his youth.”
Fingin remembered the name Brigit had given him. At the mention of the Fianna, Fingin tensed, but he forced his shoulders to relax as Onchú mentioned peace. This man would be old now, and no longer vowed to the Fianna’s violence. He didn’t know much about this new religion, but peace seemed to be one of its strongest precepts. As a lone traveler on the island, he drew comfort from this notion.
Maol Odhrán already sat outside his round hut. Though the mist swirled around him like a whirlpool, he sat on an outcropping, studying the ocean below through the fog. He stood as they approached, his arms wide in welcome. His long, white beard almost reached his waist, but he had no hair on his head at all. “Come, come, young friend. Oh! Oh, I do say! Yes, you must indeed be Cliodhna’s grandson. You have her dark eyes.”
Startled, Fingin halted.
The monk ignored his surprise and hugged him. The older man held him by his shoulders, peering at his face. “Yes, definitely her eyes. Her smile as well. Perhaps even a bit of her soul, though that’s buried deep. Do you have her powers?”
Fingin blinked, unsure how to answer such a strange question.
Onchú came to his rescue. “Father, be kind
