Lying between Bran and Sean, the warmth of their bodies guarding him against the cool sea breeze, he drifted into a sweet sleep.
In the velvet dark of the night, Fingin leapt up, wide awake.
A mournful sound drifted across the water.
A low, slow, ululation haunted him. Had he heard something? Or had his imagination played tricks on him? Did his dream wake him?
The sound drifted across the beach again. This time, Bran’s head popped up, ears alert.
“You hear it too, huh?”
Bran sneezed, shaking his head. “We heard it last night. We thought someone had hurt you.”
“Not me, Bran. Something out there.”
The song seemed lovely, but lonely, as if someone cried for lost love. The cry came in and out, punctuated by a series of clicks and whistles, reminiscent of the Fae fish chittering.
“Nuanni? Nuanni, is that you?”
The answer, deep in his mind, didn’t sound like a female Fae fish, but the lower voice of the larger creature. “That is me, small human. I sing to the stars.”
“Are you hurt? Can we help?”
“I don’t hurt. I am happy.”
No other answer came, and Fingin lay back down. “One of the big fish is singing, Bran. You can relax. He won’t hurt us.”
Bran snuffled and shook his head again, turning several times before settling back in his spot. His wiry fur scratched Fingin’s neck, but he treasured feeling the dog’s warm body against his. He drifted back into slumber.
Chapter Ten
Late the next afternoon, they approached the derelict stone hut.
Larger than the monastic huts on the monks’ island mountaintop, this structure seemed cozy enough for one person. It stood round like the more familiar thatched homes but made of stacked stones with large slates on the roof. A large stand of trees backed the hut, leading to a denser forest as the ground rose from the shore. Beyond that, a tall cliff jutted up to overlook the ocean.
Shells and barnacles decorated some of the stones, and moss grew thick on other spots. A few flowers stuck up out of the top, and as they approached, it seemed sound enough. A few stones had rolled away from the base to rest in the sand. The high tide mark reached about forty paces from the front steps. Fingin decided a heavy storm would swamp the place, despite being on the rise in the sand.
Bran sniffed the air. “I don’t smell people.”
No smoke filtered out through holes in the stone, but the day remained mild. Perhaps whoever lived there didn’t need a fire for warmth.
He approached the entrance with trepidation and prepared himself for disappointment. She must have moved away long ago. This would be yet another a dead end, and his quest would be over.
Fingin clenched his jaw in determination and peered into the darkness within.
Nothing remained inside the stone hut. No piece of furniture, no half-burnt sticks in the hearth, not even a broken spoon. Only a faint cloud of dust disturbed by his entrance. The interior looked utterly desolate.
Fingin sat on the threshold with his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He wanted to cry. All the travails he’d endured to find his grandmother, only to find nothing at the end of the quest. Bran nosed in and licked his face several times. He batted away at his friend, trying not to giggle. “Stop it! Stop!”
“You’re sad. I don’t want you to be sad.”
He ruffled Bran’s fur. “I’m not sad at you, Bran.”
Sean brayed, facing the forest. “Someone is coming.”
Fingin jumped to his feet. Bran bristled and let out a low growl. “Hush, Bran. We need to see what’s coming before we warn it off.”
Rustling in the forest undergrowth grew louder as whatever it was came closer. A glimpse of brown flashed amongst the trees, and the branches moved.
When Fingin realized he saw antlers, not moving branches, he let out a breath of relief. “Greetings, honored stag. I apologize if we’ve intruded upon your wood.”
The stag bowed his head once. “You are forgiven. The donkey is welcome, as are all my distant relations. Your hound is tolerated if the donkey speaks for him. You are more problematic. The sons of men have often brought evil to my kind.”
With a nervous swallow, Fingin said, “I mean no harm to you or yours. I come seeking information.”
“What information do you seek?”
He let out a deep breath, thankful the stag would speak with him. Deer of all types wouldn’t linger to chat, being flighty and nervous. He couldn’t blame them, as men often hunted deer throughout the land. “I’m seeking the woman who lived here. She is my kin, and I must find her. Do you remember where and when she left?”
The stag, his magnificent antlers twitching, considered the question. “She lived here for many seasons, but I’m uncertain when she left. Perhaps the sea eagle can help you. She often shared her meal with him.”
“Where can I find the sea eagle?”
The stag glanced to a promontory above them, a large nest tucked into the cliffside. “He resides up there, but you should be able to call him. If he can understand your words like I can, he will heed them. He’s rather intelligent for a bird.”
Fingin squinted, trying to make out details of the large nest, but only saw a smudge of brown against the gray rock. “Thank you, honored stag, for your suggestion.”
With another bow of his head, he darted away into the trees. His brown coat and antlers disappeared.
Bran bounded up. “You need to find a sea eagle? That’s a bird? Birds are hard to catch. They fly too fast.”
“We don’t want to catch him, Bran. We need to speak to him. He might remember my grandmother.” Fingin shaded his eyes and
