“S-s-sit here. Bran will… stay with you.”
Bran said, “He’s still wet. He can’t lick himself, can he?”
Fingin realized what the other “wet” meant. The boy must have pissed himself at some point. He must have been so frightened, he lost control.
“Swim in the r-r-river? You can be… clean.”
The child backed away, shaking his head, bumping into Bran. “No, not the river! I don’t like the river.”
Bran let out a woof at the child’s instant distress and shoved his head under the boy’s hand. Surprised, Lorcan pet the hound while Fingin considered the situation.
Something bad must have happened in the river. Still, if the child didn’t care about his wet clothing, Fingin wouldn’t force him to wash or change.
Fingin led both the dog and the boy to his fire circle, sitting on a log outside his hut. The boy sat on the ground on the opposite side of the fire, and Bran curled around him, forming a protective circle. Fingin smiled at the sight. He hadn’t lied when he said Bran liked children.
“W-w-wait. I’ll get… food.”
* * *
After Fingin stuffed both dog and child with fish stew, Lorcan curled up against Bran’s flank and promptly fell asleep. Fingin gazed down with a wistful smile. He would have enjoyed having a family. Once he’d dreamed of finding a lovely girl with a nice farm and raising his own family full of laughing children.
Not being able to speak to a girl made wooing difficult.
After swallowing down a suddenly tight throat, Fingin let out a deep sigh and escaped into the woods. He’d gather more deadfall for their evening fire while the two slept. Bran would take good care of the boy. Fingin grabbed a length of stout canvas.
The whisper of undergrowth as he walked turned into a tune, a wild song of the forest, raucous and strong. A sudden exclamation of surprise came into his mind as he saw a rabbit flee to the left.
“Don’t worry, bun. I’m not after you.”
The rabbit stopped and turned, twitching his ear a few times. The small animal bounded off, not trusting this human, despite his words.
Fingin chuckled. He’d been in this glade for over a winter, but the smaller animals had fleeting memories. He’d spoken to that rabbit at least a hundred times, and he still wouldn’t trust.
A bird swooped down on him, warbling madly. He glanced at the branches and made out the small nest. With a respectful nod, he walked away from the tree, and the eggs within.
He picked up several large branches, fallen from the last summer windstorm. After scratching his arm on one, he stopped to pick off the entwined thorny vine. An armful of smaller branches and some kindling filled the canvas sling, and he headed back to the glade.
When he returned from his small quest, Lorcan still slept, but Bran eyed Fingin and whined. He wagged his tail with three solid thumps on the ground.
“I need to pee, but the boy is happy where he is.”
Fingin chuckled. “I’m sure he’ll forgive you if you need to go pee.”
Bran shuffled away from Lorcan, inching to keep from waking the boy. Lorcan moaned once when his head shifted to the ground, but Bran extracted himself without incident. He bounded to the edge of the glade and closed his eyes as he watered a tree.
He stepped high as he returned and cocked his head at the sleeping child. “Are we keeping him as well? He doesn’t smell good, but he is gentle.”
“I don’t think we can keep him, Bran. He’ll have a family, and we should find them and return him. They’ll worry about him.”
“Do you think my first friend worries about me?”
Fingin frowned. “I don’t know, Bran. But from what you’ve said, he doesn’t sound like the sort to worry about anyone but himself.”
Bran nodded. “That’s him.”
“What did your friend look like? What did other people call him?”
“They called him Guaire. He had thinning gray hair and stood very tall. He used his switch a lot.”
Fingin’s blood grew hot at the mention of a switch. “He struck you?”
Bran ducked his head and his tail. “I was a bad dog.”
In an instant, Fingin hugged the dog’s huge head. “You were not a bad dog. He was a bad friend. I promise I will never whip you, never ever.”
The tail thumped twice. Bran licked his face, making him laugh. “Stop that! It tickles!”
A giggle from behind him made him turn. Lorcan had woken and watched them with a grin on his face.
Without urging, Bran bound to the boy and licked his face again. This made Lorcan throw up his hands in mock defense and roll on his back, which gave Bran more room to lick the child.
As the laughter died, Fingin offered the child a bucket of water and a cloth. “Go into the hut and c-c-clean. We’ll be at the… river.” He pointed to the steps down to the beach, and the boy nodded, a hint of uncertainty in his eyes.
“Take as long… as you n-need.”
Once the boy disappeared, Fingin grabbed his net and led Bran down the bank. The boy didn’t seem used to such courtesy. Every moment his eyes darted from side to side as if expecting a sneak attack. He’d only relaxed around Bran.
Fingin had been no stranger to bullying or abuse. He’d had more than his fair share when his grandmother stole his voice away. His own older brother had been the worst, dancing around him with cruel disdain, yelling, “Finny-fin-fing can’t say a thing! Come on, push the words out like a calving cow!”
Such taunts often came with punches, kicks, or even red-hot sticks on the arm. However, crying to Ma or Pa did
