She wrapped three loaves into a thin cloth. “Here. Take these and welcome. No, I won’t take your fish, young man. You deserve better than such treatment. Save that fish for something else.”
Tears pricked his eyes at the kindness, and he bowed his head in thanks, putting one hand over his heart. With a shy smile, he left her and went to the vegetables.
Trades completed, he grabbed both blankets and the bread. He stowed them in his own sack, and they walked out of the clearing, with another shy smile for the baker. She waved at him and turned to her own child, murmuring something to the girl.
He hadn’t even walked halfway to the first hill when the baker’s girl ran up to him. She held something in her hand. “What’s your dog’s name? Can I give him a piece of bread?”
Another prickle of tears threatened him as he nodded. He squeaked out the name, “Bran,” as the child petted the hound with a clumsy hand. For his part, Bran wagged his tail with great enthusiasm and slobbered all over the girl. She gave him a final pat and a grin and ran back to her mother’s bench.
“What do you think, Bran? Was it worth the long walk?”
Bran’s tail thumped. “Can we go back tomorrow?”
Chapter Two
Bran’s leg healed over the next days, and he bugged Fingin every morning, asking if it was time for the market yet. Fingin tried to teach Bran how to count, so he would know how many days until the next market, but Bran couldn’t hold the concept in his brain. He understood one and two, but after two, it became many. Fingin gave up.
When he said “yes” to Bran’s daily question of “Can we go back tomorrow,” Bran leapt around the clearing, barking and spinning like a child with a toy. Fingin had managed to not only catch several dozen fish this week, but he’d also dried half, so they’d keep much longer. Fresh fish tasted better, but dried fish would last into the cold winter if kept well. Those he wouldn’t sell in the market. He had two mouths to feed now. He’d best make plans.
Even with only the fresh fish to sell, he’d saved twenty. He’d be able to get bread, vegetables, even some beef for Bran. A diet of all fish and a loaf of bread might not appeal to a dog. He’d grown used to such fare himself, but he was human.
As he cleaned the last of the day’s catch, a sound to the left caught his attention. Bran stood to the right, his nose deep in the fish entrails, happily munching. Fingin gripped his knife tight and scanned the trees. Bran’s head popped up, alert and wary.
A branch snapped. Bigger than a rabbit. A deer might have ventured near? He wished he had skill with a bow, as a deer would last them a long time. He’d never learned, though, and his snares remained too small for such game.
Bran let out a low growl, a menacing warning to whatever threatened their glade. Fingin put a hand out to signal him into silence. He listened again, trying to find the sound, the intruder, or whatever lurked in the shadowy trees.
No birds sang. No wind rustled the leaves. The low buzz of a few bees filtered through the bushes, and the ever-present murmur of the river remained in the background.
Another twig snapped. There, behind the ash tree. A flash of blue where none should be. Something curled up at the base of the tree, almost hidden by a rowan bush.
A piteous sob and a sniffle wended to Fingin’s ears. He lowered his knife hand and glanced at Bran.
He whispered, “That doesn’t sound like an animal, Bran. What do you sense?”
Bran snuffled at the still air. “Human, definitely human. Wet? He’s wet. In several places.”
Fingin wrinkled his brow, unsure what Bran meant by that. Had the person fallen into the river? If he sat under a tree, he hadn’t drowned. With a painful grip on his knife, he approached the figure.
As he drew closer, the sobs grew louder. A child’s sobs, full of anger and despair. A boy, younger than Fingin had been when his grandmother disappeared. Perhaps eight winters, at the most.
The child huddled under the tree, his blue léine sleeve ripped in a ragged rent. His bare, dirt-smeared feet poked out from under his arms. All Fingin saw was messy brown hair.
“Hey, n-now, are you hurt?”
The boy jerked his head up, his eyes wide and darting back and forth.
“It’s… it’s fine. I… won’t hurt you.” Fingin discovered his speech didn’t work as badly around children as with adults.
Bran had stepped up behind him, and the child’s eyes grew even wider.
Fingin glanced down and put a hand on the gray hound’s head. “Bran won’t… hurt you. He’s fond of… children.”
Fingin didn’t, in fact, know if Bran had a fondness for children at all, but he didn’t have time to discover such information. This child needed comfort and friendliness.
Long ago, in his own childhood, he remembered running off on his own and crying until his throat burned raw with pain. No one had come for him. No one had comforted his own anguish.
Bran lay down and inched forward, his nose near to the ground. As he got closer, his tail wagged harder, and his butt wiggled. His antics elicited a high-pitched giggle from the boy, cutting through his remaining sobs.
Fingin extended his hand to the child. “C-c-come with us? I… have fish stew. W-w-water. What’s your… name?”
The boy sniffed mightily and rubbed his ripped sleeve back and forth under his nose, smearing dirt and snot rather than cleaning it.
“I’m Lorcan.”
With a half-smile, Fingin took the boy’s hand to lift
