Chapter 43: Chapter 43: Aonair’s Dream

They approached the old barn in silence, Aonair's hood covering his face. While Aonair and Dara had been gone, Ruadhán and Luda had watched the comings and goings at the castle. They reported only an overturned cart. At dinner, when Aonair proved reticent, the men fell silent. Dara excused himself and entered the forest as if nature called. On quiet feet, he crept back toward the camp. The men had a built a low fire at the barn's entrance, not wanting to risk an ember, though the straw that filled the interior was wet and mud trampled. Dara entered the barn through a hole in the back wall. Going to his saddlebag, he took out quill, ink, and parchment, and wrote:

Aonair's head has been healed. I know not by who. I fear he is magiced.

He signed his name and, cutting the parchment with his knife, stuffed the message into his pocket. It would have been easy enough to slip Ruadhan the small piece of calf's skin, as they sat by the fire. But his hand ever stayed in his own pocket. The moon rose. The fish was eaten. Aonair wrote his message: All is well. Nothing to report.

“Go now,” he said, putting a hand on Ruadhan's shoulder. “Night will hide your leaving.”

Ruadhan mounted and disappeared into the darkness. “I will take the first watch,” Dara said. Twice in the night, the hood slipped from Aonair's head as he slept, and twice Dara pulled it back in place.

As soon as the moon had risen and Aonair had closed his eyes to sleep, he waited for the dreaded words. Since the witch's coming, they had haunted his nights. “Aonair, how convenient that you have come to me.” He rolled onto his side away from the fire and Luda. Aonair's eyes flitted open and closed, open and—he slipped into sleep’s embrace.

Lightning bugs lit the forest. The evening was brisk. A strong breeze lifted strands of his hair.

“Da! Da!” Opening her hand, she showed him the red fruit. “Look, Da!”

He brought her onto his lap. “I bet it’s sweet.”

“Can I eat it?”

“Only if I don't get it first.”

“No, no!” She jumped from his lap, then with a mischievous grin, bit into the strawberry.

Movement to his left had him turning his face. Saoirse leaned backward, her hands on her lower back, stretching. Though she was turned away from him, he knew she was ripe with child.

He sat in the grass next to a strawberry patch. Beyond, a river gurgled. Above flew a crow—and he was the crow, watching himself and Saoirse and—Ciara, his daughter's name was Ciara. They sat in the lower curve of a river shaped like a huge ‘S’. Not far away, two blackened, stone cairns marked the place where once a bridge had stood. The bird dove and landed next to Saoirse. At its caw, she turned . . .

Her face. Her beautiful face was burned, horribly burned. Pink, puckered skin covered her left cheek and her forehead.

Morning lit the sky.

“Why didn't you wake me?” Luda asked. “I'd have stood my turn at watch.”

“Don't you know?” Dara said.

“Know? Know what?”

Dara leaned close to whisper in Luda's ear, “In your sleep, you croon like a woman in her lover's bed.” Dara grinned and raised his eyebrows. “Oh . . . oh . . . yes, please, more.”

“I dunna say that!”

Dara clapped him hard on his back. “Why it was almost as good as—”

“Get off!”

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Dara ate the last roll.

“Aren't ya going to wake him?” Luda asked.

“Shhh” Dara put a finger across his lips, looked back to where Aonair still softly snored, then leaned close to Luda, conspiratorially whispering, “I've got my orders.”

“What orders?”

“From Lord Laoch. He's worried about the lad. Aonair is set on vengeance. So our lord bade me see that Aonair gets his rest. He wants his son to use his mind and not his rage.”

Luda nodded—in a confused sort of way.

Dara glanced upward. “Shouldn't you be off to the village? Or should I report that you need extra sleep, too?”

“I'm off. I'm off.”

Aonair woke from the strawberry dream with a cry. He touched his own face, then his head where his scalp had been healed. “Surely, she could heal herself.”

“Who could heal herself?” Dara asked.

Aonair looked about. The sun was high, and Luda gone. He growled deep in his throat.

“Are you trying to call the beast?” Dara asked quite innocently.

Aonair rolled to his feet, his legs stiff and sore. “Oh . . . ” He yawned, stretching wide. With another moan, he saddled Rith and mounted.

“If you're not feeling well . . . ”

He rode hard for the beach, Dara one gallop behind. “It is light. You'll be seen.”

“No. I'm one man with the sun at my back. I was too cautious yesterday.”

After Aonair swam out, Dara rode swiftly back to the barn where he hid the saddles, tied up his mare and stashed his shoes. Riding bareback on Rith, he returned to the beach.

“Now, you'll be hiding yourself while I'm gone.” He looked Rith square in the eyes. “No going and getting yourself lassoed and stolen.”

Rith nodded.

“Damn magic. I'm talking to a horse.”

Rith nodded again.

In front of Dara, the vast ocean shimmered in the sunlight. “Sea monsters, no sleep,” he kicked the sand. “A man could be far less a friend than I and still merit the singing of songs.” As he ran into the water, the cold surf hit him in the chest. “Long, long songs—fourteen verses, nay sixteen.”

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