For several moons, Clíodhna tried to convince herself his absence wasn’t her fault. They’d had no argument, she knew of no other woman, no long-lost relative came seeking help. He’d simply gone out hunting one day.
When he didn’t come back the first night, she’d thought little of it. He often stayed out overnight, especially if he found no deer. By the second night, however, she’d grown concerned. By the fourth night, she’d gathered several men from the village and asked them for help. Together, they’d combed the nearby woods, searching for sign of either the hunter or his belongings.
They found nothing. The best trackers in the village found not one clue. Not even the trace of a footstep in the mud. Clíodhna even lost her last horse to the search, when he got mired in a bog and broke his leg trying to escape. She’d loved riding that horse to escape life when she still could. That time was over now, with three children to care for.
Speculation to his fate ran rampant through the small community. The most common theory was he’d been taken by the Faeries. Others posited he’d just left to start a new life; he’d fallen into a bog and suffocated; or he’d hidden himself and laughed at them all for their searching. He’d been fond of playing jokes on people, and the latter seemed plausible. However, as the season marched on and no sign of him appeared, a joke appeared less likely.
Clíodhna muddled on as best she could, vacillating between resentment, freedom, and loneliness.
At least he’d left her with a full pantry from the summer crop and dried lamb, beef, and fish from his hunting and fishing forays. He’d been a great hunter. His skill with the bow remained unrivaled, and he traded his furs and meat in the market on good days.
Before he left, he’d taught Etromma to use the bow, and she possessed a great deal of skill. She’d brought down two deer this winter, which helped tremendously. Donn would never be a great hunter, but he adored fishing. Between the two of them, and her own weaving efforts, they survived the winter. However, she’d found it difficult to tend the house and raise the children at the same time. Perhaps being part of this monk community might help.
She glanced at Ita, still stirring the kettle, waiting for her answer. What could it hurt to see what these monks had to say?
“Very well, Ita. I’ll come with you tomorrow. When?”
“Just after dawn.”
“Dawn? That’s when we milk the cows.”
“The cows can be milked earlier, can’t they? Just give it a try. There is a Lovefeast afterward.”
Letting out a deep breath, Clíodhna glanced at her baby, and agreed.
* * *
The cows didn’t mind being milked before the dawn. If anything, they remained more placid than usual. As the darkness faded, Clíodhna gathered her three children and trudged to the outskirts of the village.
Etromma whined. “Ma, where are we going?”
“I told you, dear one. Ita invited us to the monk’s house. They give some sort of lesson. She thought we would enjoy it.”
“But it’s so early! Why do we have to wake up extra early?”
“Because that’s when they do the lesson. If we don’t like it, we can leave.”
Etromma answered with sullen silence. Donn chucked her on the shoulder and grinned. “Mornings are the best time of the day, sister. Don’t you love watching the sun rise? We always greet the dawn with Ma anyhow.”
“Yes, but that’s dawn. This is before dawn. It’s unnatural.”
Clíodhna hid a smile.
Her roundhouse and farm stood some distance outside the main village, if village was the proper term. A collection of twenty families and a few single craftsmen clustered near a bend in the river. About a dozen more farms like hers circled the village. Past that lay a low, flat hill where the monks built their community. The river which ran through town eventually opened into the wide sea, where Clíodhna had grown up. She missed the salt water and storms across the ocean. Memories of swimming with dolphins and sharks sometimes tickled her dreams.
Seven monks settled in this area the summer before last. They’d built apiaries, planted gardens, and helped the people in the village with tasks now and then. Clíodhna’s husband attended once or twice but came back grumbling under his breath about dead gods, so he never went back. For Clíodhna to go without his blessing would be rude and unseemly. Besides, she’d never felt a draw before.
Now, with Ita’s urging, she pulled Etromma, Donn, and little Aileran in a sleepy string along the forest path toward the monk’s place.
Others met them on the road. A smile, a nod, but not much conversation peppered the pre-dawn light. The sun shot its rays up through pink clouds, but the chill didn’t lessen appreciably. Her toes grew numb from the mid-winter frost, and now wet besides from the dew. This had better be worth the effort.
At least thirty people gathered at the wattle and daub square structure. Most houses were round, but this one looked sturdy enough. It wore an odd little attachment on the chimney, like someone nailed two straight sticks together, crosswise.
The interior seemed dark, but it cut the winter wind. A small hearth burned near the front, and two braziers filled with glowing coals stood in both back corners. Near the fire, a small table stood with another pair of crossed wooden sticks. A monk dressed in white robes and a colorful neck scarf stood next to it.
A few of the other villagers sat on the floor, so Clíodhna found a place along the
