“Oh!” cried the woman. “I cannae let ye go unfed. The wilds’ll have me. Aye, and Murtagh will have our yield! My máta always said—ye let the woodfolk pass, and all the land’s good’ll pass with ’em.”
It was not his place to sway her from her conviction. Men oft believed what they wished—for comfort, for solace… for blame. But the wind blew cold in Mírach, and the skies burned gold in Baine. The rain came and went, heedless of their call. The land neither gifted… nor punished.
It simply carried on.
After supper, the woman walked him to the barn. She held a lantern forwards and said, “Isnae much, but with the cows in, the breath keeps it warm.”
The barn was piled with hay and hung with drying meats. A bucket of plucked feathers and offal sat in the corner, aside a table full of rusted tools. The cows idled nearby and the druid thought it wasn’t such bad company.
“You have been a great help to me,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Bah! Come away wit’it!” She pulled her shawl loose and offered it to him. “I cannae think ye’ll be freezin’ stiff on my watch. Have a good’n sleep, woodsingr.”
He took what was given and bid her goodnight, then set about making a nest in the hay. He was mindful of the lantern flame as he shifted about, then blew it out with a soft puff of air. It was warm there and he fell quickly asleep.
But it was not peace that came to him.
The night quickened in his veins. Shadows moved behind his eyes. Sweat clung to his forehead, and his breath grew sticky. He saw a forest of fog and a woman, white amongst the mist. He could not see her face, yet felt her gaze upon him.
A flash of lightning.
He saw the sea; the midnight tides of Marn and an endless dark storm. His feet sank into the sand as the waves crept closer, and every time they drew near, fresh dread curled within.
The druid had never feared the land; had never feared the sky. He did not fear the tide. But a great unease dripped into his bones.
The storm raged and water rushed his ankles, and the wind screamed:
“Íridh! Íridh!”
His eyes snapped open.
The farmer’s boy knelt over him, fingers dug against the druid’s arms. His ruddy face was stricken. “Bless the spirits, ye finally woke!”
The druid’s skin was clammy, yet something dark turned in his heart.
They had come again—the visions in the night.
“Is it some ill?” said the boy, panicked. “Some fit? I’ll fetch Máta!”
“No.” The druid grasped him at the elbow. “I am alright, pay no mind.”
The boy looked unconvinced by this, taking in the druid’s tousled appearance. He said, “Ye were speaking things in yer sleep. To who were ye speaking them?”
The druid pressed his lips. “I am sorry if I frightened you.”
He gathered his staff and rose, eager to be on his way. The druid wished to roam, as if he could put distance between himself and his mind. The lingering images pricked at him.
The boy's eyes widened in wonder, as if he could read the druid’s thoughts. “Was it adream?”
The druid froze.
“Aye! That’s what they're called!” The boy hummed with excitement. “Máta says that druids can see the past, and the witches of the Moon can see the future. Mayhaps ye can do both—?”
“No!” said the druid at once. “I can do neither. Enough nonsense.”
Startled, the boy calmed. “A-aye, íridh… I’m sorry to speak improper. I only came to fetch ye. They call for ye in the villaigh.”
“Then let us be on our way.” He brushed his robes of straw. An earthy scent chased last night’s rain, and the barn had become balmy, further muddying his mind. He muttered, “Dear boy, for my sake… speak nothing of what you saw.”
