Conall gasped and jerked his head back. “Duncan, are you drunk?”
“As a monkfish!” Duncan laughed, emitting more noxious fumes into Conall’s face. Duncan grasped his brother’s upper arms and kissed each of his cheeks. Then his eyes widened and he looked to either side of Conall.
“But where is the lass? Surely you’ve nae left her—”
Conall brought his hands up in a blink, one gripping the back of Duncan’s skull, the other pressing over his flapping lips.
“Shh!” Conall whispered. “I told you, no one is to—Christ, Dunc! You’ve nae told anyone—”
Duncan shook Conall’s hands away and gave him a punching shove, his frown clearly conveying his offense. “O’ course I havena, you big, braying ass! But your plan!” His happy grin returned. “It’s worked, whatever it may be.” Duncan seemed to be restraining himself from jumping up and down. “You must see! Come! Come inside!”
Duncan spun haphazardly and jigged back to the doorway of Conall’s house and ducked inside, leaving Conall little choice but to follow. He took a deep breath and entered his home.
It was filled nearly to the bursting point with what seemed like half the town. People everywhere—in the beds, on low stools, cross-legged on the floor. Their faces turned to him as he stepped inside and they chorused a welcoming cry, vibrating the very rafters and Conall’s eardrums.
The room smelt like a brewer’s barrel and each of the townsfolk had a grasp on a mug or a jug or a bowl or a—
Hunk of meat?
’Twas then that Conall noticed not one, not a pair, butfivedeer carcasses hanging at the far end of his house, along with countless rabbit skins tacked on twig frames over a smoking trench.
Conall could not seem to form the words that would give voice to the tens of questions spinning in his head. He stuttered and looked to Duncan, who brayed like a drunken ass.
“I know!” Duncan hawed. Then he glanced around Conall, as looking over Conall’s shoulder was impossible for him. “Someone wishes to speak to you, brother,” he said, “and then you and I”—he wiggled his eyebrows—“will have our own chat, aye?”
Conall turned and saw his mother, Lana MacKerrick, draped in Dáire’s tired old plaid. Her arms were spread wide and her eyes glistened.
“Conall,” she said with a melancholy smile. He embraced his mother, his mind still a whirl, and she spoke into his ear. “A miracle has occurred, my beloved son. One I never thought to see in my life.”
Conall drew away and could at last voice a part of his confusion.
“What in the bloody hell is going on?”
His question was met by uproarious laughter. Then, one by one, the townsfolk, his mother and brother as well, bombarded Conall with their own questions.
“What is it, MacKerrick?”
“How did you do it?”
“—plague of hares!”
“Are the Buchanans all dead?”
“Fuck ’em’s what I say!”
“—wood full of deer and—”
Conall raised his hands. “Quiet!” he shouted and the mob reluctantly settled. “Where did all of this meat come from?”
’Twas Duncan who answered. “Three days past,” he said, his eyes dancing merrily, “’twas as if God himself sent them to us.” He addressed the room now, and all leaned forward almost imperceptibly to hear the tale, although Conall suspected that those gathered in his home already knew the story by heart, by the way they contributed to the telling of it.
“I ventured out of doors, just before dawn,” Duncan began.
“To have hisself a good piss,” a little boy piped, earning him both a slap and a grin from his mother.
Duncan nodded. “Aye. And as I was making me way to the storehouse—”
“For the last bit of barley to be had, for certain,” Lana said, and shook her head sadly.
