Each subsequent memory of taunting, bullying, and cruelty crashed in after the first, like a tale with a series of challenges. First, his brother. Second, when he had enough and ran away, the first village he settled in. One after the other, his slices of life fanned out before him, a glimpse into a life barely survived and rarely cherished.
By this time, he’d gotten to the middle of the river. Bran watched from the beach as he used his angry memories to fuel his throw. The net flew from his fingers with a spin, kissing the waves and sinking below the sparkling surface.
Each time Fingin cast his net, calm surrounded him, quieting his fear, settling his mind, and salving his soul. It became a daily goal for him to grasp a small sliver of peace as the swirling waters of the wide river caressed him with loving tendrils.
The gurgle of the water became soothing music as the faint chatter of the fish below the surface rose in his mind as a chorus.
Even pulling in the net became a task requiring no mental effort, a series of actions his muscles remembered while his mind wandered.
A voice above him interrupted this meditation. He glanced up, expecting Lorcan to have finished cleaning up. Instead, a woman stood on the cliff, hands on her hips, glaring down at him. She had dark hair and a round figure. His calm fled, and he stumbled, his hands unable to work the net he knew so well.
He finished pulling in his catch—fifteen medium salmon and three trout—and dragged the bounty to the beach. He left it there, tied to a rock to keep the fish from flopping back into the water. Next, he ascended the steps to meet the angry-looking woman.
She waited until he’d reached the top of the cliff before she spoke. In a strident voice, she asked, “Who are you? How dare you take off with my son? What are your intentions toward him?”
Beside him, Bran growled, his hackles rising at her accusations. “What does she say, Fingin? I don’t like her. She smells of hatred.”
“I… I… wouldn’t… I…” Fingin took a deep breath and tried again, struggling to use simple words. They wouldn’t cooperate and leave his mouth.
She glanced back to the clearing, and Fingin noticed Lorcan hovering near the edge of the trees. He looked both miserable and apprehensive. The boy shuffled forward, his head low. “Don’t be mad at him, Ma. He helped me. He gave me food and let me pet his dog.”
The sparking anger in her eyes faded.
* * *
Fingin waved as the mother, Aideen, led Lorcan away from his glade. He hoped the child would be safe, but surely the mother wouldn’t be the bully. She seemed much too cheerful for such cruelty. The boy had rescued him from further speech, for which his gratitude soared. She’d relaxed considerably and invited Fingin to supper the next day, in thanks for his help. Fingin nodded, knowing he would never take her up on the offer.
Perhaps he should leave. Aideen had said they’d moved into a roundhouse up the river, at the next bend. In the past, having neighbors that close had resulted in pain and fear. Life would be easier if he left before it got to that point. Lorcan had been a sweet boy, and Fingin would hate if his presence made the child’s life harder.
With his hand on Bran’s shoulder, he walked back to the clearing and tried to remember what he’d been doing. He glanced down at the beach and noticed his full net. With a curse, he climbed down to retrieve it. He’d lost two fish who had wriggled out of the sieve and re-entered the water. The rest would need to be cleaned right away before they spoiled.
He’d finished tossing the last of the fish guts to Bran, who attacked the mess with wild abandon, when the rain began.
With a deep sigh, Fingin gathered his cleaned catch, his net, and anything else that might need to remain dry and shuffled them into the roundhouse. The rain intensified, making the odors of the forest rise in a green, humid fragrance. He took a deep breath, reveling in the intense aroma.
Fingin loved the rain almost as much as he loved the sunrise. The intensity of sound, odor, and air left him delighted, as long as he had a decent shelter from which to witness the wonder. Even though he’d been caught in freezing winter rains, he still loved the summer showers.
The pounding drops made a song, a rhythmic tattoo he hummed with, swaying as the sound swept him into another world, another time, and another life.
His grandmother had urged him to treasure these moments. She swore every part of the world had innate magic. “Pay attention to the music in the wind as it whistles and moans, the rain as it drums, the flutter of butterflies, and the sparkling stars in the midnight sky. Each one has a different song for those who wish to hear. Each one can impart a wisdom to those who pause and listen. The gods will never forgive us for wasting the dawn.”
Only the cold nose of his hound recalled him to the present. He turned to see Bran, a string of fish gut still hanging from the dog’s mouth. Fingin grinned at his friend and pulled it free, then stoked the fire back into a useable flame. He needed to cook those fish before the night fell.
He counted his fish. Sixteen left, despite those who had escaped, a good haul for the day. He wouldn’t need to have a second cast. He’d lost track of the day. Should today have
