PROLOGUE
The faint call of heather on the wind surrounded Finn and called to him to come and run the hills and splash in the river. Bright sunshine reached through the slats that hung the windows and played with the dirt floor and refused to touch the black, soot-lined fireplace where the boy was diligently shoveling ash from the back of the pit.
It was disgusting work, and more than that, it was work. He stood, his ten-year-old back already angrily objecting to the cramped space and hard labor, and looked at the small improvised shovel in his hand. It was little more than scrap wood tied to a handle, which was, in turn, more scrap. Such made for a miserable tool, inefficient and ugly. It was the best they had.
Frustrated, he held it outright, his arm holding it above the two chairs and the crude table. In his mind’s eye, the shovel lengthened and tapered until his mighty arm held the sword of legends. He took a practice swing at the army, who ran from his prowess and cowered at the mention of his name.
This was an enjoyable fantasy, one he’d indulged in often. He raised his improvised sword again, imagining enemies who surrounded him as he ducked and parried. To raise it meant he created a swath of death in his wake.
A troll appeared to his right; he swung the great sword of legend and then parried the dragon’s breath to his left. An enemy king approached, his banner flying in the wind, and the great fires the dragon started burned behind him.
Finn grabbed the sword in both hands, ignoring the burning of a thousand wounds and the exhaustion of defending the great castle all alone against such a host of enemies. He waited for the enemy king to close and took his blade into a mighty arc.
Which proved to be his undoing.
The blade of the shovel flew off of the handle and dove unerringly into the earthenware jug holding fresh goat milk brought in not ten minutes before.
The blade shattered the jug. Fresh milk seeped into the dirt under the table, and Finn froze, handle still in his fist, but his heart stopped. He forgot to breathe. His mother was going to kill him.
He moaned, dropping the stick and rushing to the table. His only thought was to clean this up, as though his mother would not miss the pitcher and ask. As though she would never smell the milk or see the shards.
Maybe it didn’t happen. This was all nothing more than a bad dream, part of his imaginary battle. The jug was intact, the milk was fresh, waiting on their breakfast. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine it so.
“Finn!”
He heard her calling from far away. It was as though she already knew and was distressed by his carelessness. His eyes shot open and he looked for somewhere to hide, seeing too late through the window her feet flashing as she ran. He looked from her to the spill and through the window at her again. It was too late to cover up the mess.
He drew himself up. A great warrior did not run from battle or hide. They faced their enemies head-on.
“Mither, I didnae expect ye back so soon.”
The words were not what he’d intended. An apology would be better, but he’d been startled by the way she tore the door open as though she were fighting an enemy herself. He jumped back out of her way, confused by her look, for his mother prided herself on her neat and tidy appearance. This wide-eyed creature with flaming red hair billowing out from braids fast coming undone had the look of an avenging angel with a bright halo of flame about her head. Bridgette’s cheeks were flushed, and she looked for all the world like a wild animal cornered and ready to fight. He had always heard that a mother would fight to the death for her cubs, but he saw that now in her eyes.
“Get yer things. Be quick about it!”
“Mither…” He pointed to the pitcher, the shards, and struggled to get out the apology he knew he must.
“Isaidget yer things!” She grabbed his arm and gave him a hard shake.
Reeling, he staggered away from her, noting absently the way she reached for her other dress, the only other clothing she owned, and began to furiously stuff it with straw from the mattress.
Finn stood, frozen in confusion and fear. It was clear she wasn’t going to punish him for his carelessness. Something else was wrong, very wrong. He went to the shelf, grabbing the trinkets there, sweeping them into a cloth, his movements stiff and wooden. He fumbled in his haste, dropping the small jewelry box she’d always treasured. The top snapped open, spilling out a brooch nestled amidst rose petals. This seemed a worse crime somehow than the ruination of the milk, yet she did not even seem to notice, so fast came her breaths as she struggled in her task.
He found a part of him longing for the normalcy of punishment, of a world where the greatest crisis was a shattered jug and lost milk or a broken box. The strange noises she made sounded suspiciously like sobs. He could not ever recall hearing his mother cry like that before. He grabbed at the brooch and shoved it with the rest of their treasures, and looking around, he tried to decide what else in their home was worth taking if truly they must leave.
He was clearly taking too long. She shoved him aside and grabbed his extra shirt and stuffed it too. She then took off her necklace and lay it across the dress and grabbed the meager coins they had saved from their hiding place under the hearthstone.
Frightened now as well, Finn reached for the morning’s bread, fresh baked and still hot from the oven, throwing it in the sack with the rest.
“Quickly, now!”
The fire in the hearth had burned low. She grabbed the poker now, pulling the burning logs into the center of the room, letting sparks catch the hem of her best dress.
“Mither!” He choked on the word, disbelieving, seeing she meant to burn the stuffed figures and cottage both. What did this mean?
She pulled him toward the window away from the door and thrust open the casement. The next thing he knew, she was climbing through as though it were the most natural thing in the world to scramble out of the house through a window. Confusion warred with panic as he followed, the bag clutched in a sweaty hand. He longed for his imaginary sword to be made real. Whatever they fled had to be terrifying for his mother to act this way.
Behind him, flames crackled. Heart in his mouth, Finn turned back to grab his one true treasure, the one he was not supposed to have. It was a bit of a book he’d found blowing through the street at the village market. This was only a scrap of a story, but with the help of the old priest who’d seen no harm in teaching the boy, he read and reread that scrap a thousand times. He could not bear to let it burn.
