One day, she noticed the dolphins sporting among the higher waves as a storm angled across the horizon toward the shore. The churning water brought shoals of fish, and the dolphins feasted on these. Once she figured this out, she would bring small storm cells whenever her dolphin friends came near, giving them a proper feast during their visit.
After all, proper Gaelic hospitality demanded such efforts, did it not?
After a few such meals, one dolphin pushed his soft-skinned snout under her hand. She patted him, but he did it again. Intrigued at what he wanted, she cocked her head, wishing she spoke their language.
The dolphin moved until her hand touched his fin, and when she gripped it, he chittered. Taking this as approval, she put both hands on it and, with tentative bravery, mounted the dolphin like a horse.
As soon as she did so, the dolphin chittered again and leapt up, pulling her along. He swam with strong strokes into the crashing waves, up and over, again and again. At first, terrified, she held on for dear life. Then, when she realized he just took her for a thrilling ride rather than trying to drown her, she laughed in delight.
From that day, their visits held more structure. She brought up a small storm to churn up a meal, and the dolphins took her on rides across the waves. Sometimes they took her to small islands dotting along the coast. Other times, they took her out into the wide, empty ocean. She saw some massive whales now and then, and other dolphin pods. A few sharks might come close, but her dolphin friends poked their gills to make them go away.
There came a day when she didn’t look forward to swimming with the dolphins as much as she had. Clíodhna realized the time had come to seek her family. With great reluctance, she said goodbye to her maritime friends, and began her trek inland.
As Clíodhna tramped along the flooded path towards her village, she reflected that perhaps she should have arranged for a horse.
She chuckled at her idea. A horse? How grand had she become now? She’d never needed a horse to ride into the village in the past. Her time as Queen had spoiled her, so it had. She held her chin high as she strode into the center square.
No one she met looked familiar. One woman’s face tugged at her memory, but she didn’t recognize her when their eyes met.
She should first visit the blacksmith. Etromma would be there, married to Tirechan. Did Tirechan’s father still live, or had the boy taken over the trade? She’d find out soon enough.
Clíodhna wondered when Adhna would join her but felt glad she could return alone. It would do her little good to arrive, unaged, with a stranger by her side. Finding her children and convincing them she was their mother might be difficult enough. He agreed with a reluctant nod and would wait for her in the cave near the standing stones.
By following her nose, she found the acrid smell of the blacksmith’s forge. Black smoke billowed from the fire, rising into the sky like a beacon. The hammering of iron made her flinch. She must be sensitive to the substance now, like other Fae. She’d have to be cautious what she touched.
After taking a deep breath against her fears and fighting the urge to flee as a coward, she walked to the roundhouse and peered into the doorway. It stood open to catch the breeze on this warm summer day. The interior seemed dark and empty. She made her way around the back, where the blacksmith toiled at his work.
The tink, tink, tink of his hammer almost became a song, a chant she sang under her voice. Find me now. I am here. Find me now. Would Etromma have changed much? How many children did she have now?
A youngish man, his chest stripped bare and covered in soot and sweat, stood over the anvil. His hammer tapped on a red-hot ingot, shaping it into something long, like a sword. She cleared her throat to get his attention.
He glanced up, noticed her, and nodded once. “I’m almost at a point I can stop. Bide a few moments and I’ll be right with you.”
The young man concentrated on his work, doused it in a barrel, and then hammered a few more bits. He dunked it again, billows of steam pouring out of the water. After examining his work more closely, he nodded and put it aside, along with his hammer. He grabbed a piece of cloth and mopped his face before pulling on a light linen léine.
He held his hands out to her, palms up. “I welcome you to my hearth. What do you seek?”
She placed her hands over his in greeting. “I come seeking information for one of my kin. Do you know a woman named Etromma?”
The blacksmith’s face broke into a smile. “You seek my mother? I’m afraid she’s far away, in the north. She moved to be near her brother.”
Clíodhna swallowed her disappointment and her delight. “In the north?”
“Oh, yes. The church sent Donn up there to complete work on the cathedral, and Etromma went along to help care for him after Da died.”
“Tirechan died?”
The young man nodded. “Aye, about two winters past. Trampled by a horse on a trade journey.”
“I’m so sorry. Oh, I forgot to introduce myself! I’m Clíodhna.”
His eyes grew wide. “Clíodhna? That’s Etromma’s mother’s name.”
“Yes, that’s me.”
He backed up a few steps, his hands out. “You couldn’t be. You’re too young. She died winters ago. Are you… are you a spirit?”
She threw her head back and laughed. “No, of course not! I never died. I went away for a while. What’s your name, lad?”
He visibly
