They passed another bend in the river, the huge badger hole in the hillside, and a stand of enormous oak trees. Fingin had to call Bran away from investigating the badger hole. Beyond the oaks lay a place he never went, a small circle of three ancient stones. Fingin shivered at the thought of the place. Even in the bright sunlight, the circle gave off a sense of danger, a feeling of being watched. He didn’t go there.
When they rounded a tall hill, the village came into sight; five farms clustered together with more on the outskirts. The local folks had created a center space for people to gather for fairs, harvest celebrations, and markets.
Thatched-roofed roundhouses ranged in size from tiny like his to huge. The largest held a family of seven and had two stories. Farms with fields of turnips, wheat, cabbage, barley, and rye radiated out from the roundhouses in a random pattern, like a broken wagon wheel. Smaller, kitchen gardens grew herbs such as rosemary, onions, garlic, and chervil.
Mid-summer meant the first, fast-growing vegetables would be harvested and offered in trade. Fingin spied several people he knew by name. They knew him but rarely offered any friendliness. He’d moved into his hut only a winter ago, and so remained a stranger, even if his speech hadn’t been garbled and difficult to understand.
Perhaps twenty people gathered in the clearing that day. Several sat behind benches, blankets, or trestle tables to show their wares. A few had a lean-to set up for shade. The summer dust rose from the trampled ground and tickled his nose until he sneezed. Bran echoed his sneeze and shook his head.
The first bench held the tanner’s goods. Sometimes Fingin caught a deer or rabbits and spoke to them, but today he only had fish. He continued past the baker, the weaver, the chandler, and several others. He normally took the space at the end, next to several people selling vegetables and fruit.
Bran went to each person, sniffing them and their wares. The tanner shooed him away, but the baker gave him a small treat, much to his delight. After that, Fingin tried to call him back, but he wouldn’t listen, not with the possibility of food.
Unfurling a clean blanket, Fingin set down his birchbark-wrapped bundle and unrolled his fish. Bran settled down on the blanket behind him.
“I want to go sniff more people. The woman with the blankets smells like sheep.”
Fingin murmured, keeping his lips still. “Just stay behind me until the fish are gone. Maybe she’ll come to us.”
A few minutes passed before anyone approached them. A young mother, a toddler on her hip, walked by and peered at his offerings. She lifted a pot and raised her eyebrows. “I have honey. How many fish would you trade?”
Honey. He hadn’t had honey in many months. His mouth watered at the memory of the sweet treat. He licked his lips and counted his fish. He’d never been good at adding, but his grandmother had taught him numbers. A fair trade demanded at least four of his catch. He’d caught fifteen fish. Bran had eaten two, and he’d cooked two. Another two remained at his hut for tonight’s meal, the smaller ones. That left him nine to trade.
If he gave four of the nine to this woman, he’d only had five left. He craved bread. He needed a blanket for Bran. Maybe the honey woman would bargain. He held up three fingers.
The woman frowned and examined the fish. She pointed at the three largest. He nodded and wrapped them in a piece of the birchbark. She put down her child and handed him the pot of honey. Then she stowed her fish into a bag over her back, hiked her child back onto her hip, and walked away.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky and no one else stopped by, Fingin gathered his remaining six fish and told Bran to wait for him on the blanket. Bran whined but stayed as he walked to the weaver. The older woman, portly with smile lines around her mouth, scowled as he approached.
Fingin examined the items she had laid out on her trestle bench. Three thick blankets, a léine, and two hats. The thickest blanket had been dyed a lovely, vibrant green. He wanted something thick for Bran, as the nights would grow cold soon enough. However, the vibrant dye would cost more fish than he had. He pointed to the gray one next to it and held up his fish.
She narrowed her eyes. “What’s the matter, boy? Can’t you ask like a human? Or have the Fae stolen your tongue.”
They’d encountered each other before. She well knew he had trouble speaking. He set his jaw and repeated the gesture.
“I don’t sell to mutes. Prove you’re human.”
He closed his eyes and swallowed, willing his voice to cooperate, just this once. “F-f-f-four fish… gray blank…et?” His voice scratched out, barely audible.
She laughed, a nasty, mocking laugh, and gestured over the baker. “Come, listen to him try to talk, Maire.”
The baker waved the weaver off. “You’ve heard it a dozen times, Nuala. When are you going to tire from the sport? The man just wants a blanket, for Danu’s sake.”
With a scowl at her friend’s betrayal, Nuala handed him the blanket and put her hand out for the fish. “There, you’re done. Now go.”
He rolled the blanket like a snail’s shell and tucked it under his arm. He had wanted to get some turnips with the remaining fish, but he felt he owed the baker some custom for her unexpected support. After putting the
