The Bard’s Curse (Bard’s Song #One)

1. A Year and a Day

A Year and a Day

Tuathal stopped and listened. A fish hunter glided overhead.

Tuathal looked and caught a glimpse of the way ahead through the bird's eyes.

White clumps and dark in green, paler green trees, no dim-eyes.

Tuathal sent silent thanks and a warning—feather hunters moved to the south, near the river.

The pale-headed bird turned north and faded into the grey sky.

Tuathal resumed his search. The sheep were not far—far for a keen-eyed bird.

For a man? He shrugged. At least the mist hadn't killed the sheep this time.

Tuathal walked with an easy stride along the track.

Only he and Deri and a few women used the old, half-sunken ways, and even they went only after taking precautions.

He touched the rowan sprig tucked into the sprig-slit on his hood.

The way climbed up, onto harder ground, and he heard the sound of sheep.

But were they the sheep of the family, or did others use these lands?

He would know once he crossed the stream.

A set of border stakes answered his question.

Another family had claimed the land by the old way.

Evenly spaced, knee-high stakes marked off the edge of the pasture, separating grassy green from the wilder plants along the way.

They'd used ash wood, peeled and pale, to warn off the mist and the mound both.

Tuathal nodded and continued along the old way.

Not far for a sky hunter, but a ways for a man.

Whoever—or whatever—had led the sheep away had moved swiftly.

He shifted the straps on his bag. Or they had struck when Aelfie watched, the first watch of the night.

That's what he would have done. Two split-tailed dancers flew across the track.

One stopped on the branch of an oak. The other continued on her way.

Brown-caps, a yellow-throated weaver, and a morning-breaker all called from the woods on the left side of the road.

The right side remained grass, as the fish-hunter's eyes had shown. Tuathal strode on.

"Mee-ee-eeh! Mee-ee-eeh!" A lamb bleated from behind a green wall of brush and young trees.

Tuathal moved more slowly, listening. He touched rowan once more, clearing his sight of any mistiness.

Then he stepped to the side of the old way and removed his pack.

He opened the top and pulled out two rods of willow and two of hazel.

Tuathal eased the pack back onto his shoulders.

An eater of the dead flew over. He looked.

No long-alive moved or watched among the short-alive. He thanked the bird and withdrew.

Tuathal crossed the old way and found a well-trodden gap among the nettles and red-stem that grew on the grassy side of the way.

He grasped one willow and one hazel rod in his left hand, tips down, and waved them back and forth with a flick of his wrist. A tiny wisp of mist floated up from the bare dirt and faded away.

Had he not looked for it, he would never have seen it.

Tuathal walked ahead, moving with slow, quiet steps so he didn't startle the sheep.

They grazed, or nursed, and lay easily, chewing their cud.

He glanced up. The sun would be between dawn and midday were the sky not so gray.

All seemed well with the sheep as he walked among them, and none of the lambs showed signs of distress.

He climbed up the hill to near the crest. A burn flowed from between red and cream stones.

No wonder the sheep acted sheep-like and quiet.

No magic of bane could remain near the spring.

He went to one knee in respect and dipped the tips of all four rods into the burn, just downstream of the pool.

He moved them with the water's flow, lifted them, then repeated the dipping twice more.

Then he took a bit of cake baked with honey from his pouch and set it in the grass in thanks.

Now he had only to gather the sheep, without a dog, and lead them back to the family.

He began with the animals farthest uphill.

He brushed each one head to tail along the peak of the back with a pair of rods.

Only once did anything happen. A stem and two leaves fell out of the wool of a second-lamb ewe.

Yellow-cone, he saw, and nodded but took no other steps.

Fifteen sheep later, he began urging them toward the gap in the plants.

They all walked through. That . . . should not be.

Sheep favored corner gates, not mid-field gates.

He tucked the fact away, stowed the rods, and led the small flock back to the family.

The animals followed willingly, maybe even eagerly.

Still, he walked with slow steps and stopped at each burn and grassy verge.

Lambs could not be hurried. The sheep's spirits would remember the injury and disrespect long after their minds forgot.

None of what had driven them away remained on the animals, so they did not need to be smudged before returning to the flock.

The lambs nursed, or slept, at each stop as their dams chewed or grazed.

One or two sipped from the burns. Again, all was as it should be except .

. . They acted more as dogs than sheep. The oldest ewe gave him a sideways look from her blue-white eye.

Had she seen their lifter? Or did something else cling to the sheep?

The sun had crossed the roof-peak of the sky and passed the point midway between noon and nightfall by the time he and the sheep returned to the family.

One lamb had become foot sore. At the next stop, Tuathal had found hoof-wort growing beside the stream.

He'd picked it and had tucked springs between each lamb's hoofs, and three of the ewes and hoggets as well.

The foot-sore lamb he now carried over his shoulder, her dam following close behind.

He smelled the smoke of the fire. Brute barked once.

Tuathal stopped and waited. Alfie and Idwal came to the edge of the road.

"Good dog," Idwal said. Tuathal walked on, leading the sheep to one of the fields.

Deri lifted the gate and the others helped coax the animals in.

Deri lowered the newly-woven willow panel into place.

"Mist trace or just old?" Tuathal asked.

A shrug. "Eluvie's not sure, and the old one broke as I moved it. Bottom split. Had a new one almost ready." Another shrug. Deri guarded his word-hoard closely. "You find aught?"

"Mist trace on the field edge, none on the sheep. The graze-field burn is white-headed. I dipped the rods before testing the sheep." After a bit he added, "No claim on the graze field. Claim on one down way of it. I didn't check for family sign."

Deri shrugged again. The others would refuse to claim and move to land touched by the old way.

Here, the road bent so only a small patch of scrub-wood touched the old ones' path.

Tuathal alone gathered fuel from the waste-wood, but he took nothing more save rowan if the tree sank roots into the edge of the old way.

Nothing ill could tolerate rowan, and it never drew ill into itself.

Task done, Tuathal went to the house of Seelah's father.

He stopped at the low, wattle fence around the garden, opened the gate, and stepped in.

Seelah saw him and smiled as he closed the gate.

They'd handfasted for a year and a day, and the time would end soon.

She returned to grinding grain, turning the stone quern at a steady pace.

Her swollen belly had not grown so large as to keep her from that work, although it would soon.

Tuathal patted her on the shoulder as he passed but did not disturb her or her sister-by-marriage.

Eluvie, their father's mother, watched with a hard eye as he passed.

She did not approve of his walking the old ways, or of his seeming disrespect for their power.

Neither of his people feared the old ways, but respected them, and the ones who had made them.

"You found the sheep," Kai, Seelah's father, said as Tuathal stooped, stepped down, and entered the dark, smoke-washed dwelling.

Logs formed the lower part, with wattle and upright wooden planks making the walls above ground.

Heather and reed thatch kept out the weather.

The old man sat in the light of the other doorway, smoothing arrow shafts.

Why he did not work out in the sun, Tuathal had yet to understand.

"Aye. No claim mark, and no sign of the lifter. They grazed in a field with a white-headed burn."

The old man smiled with relief. "The grandfathers be praised. Any mist?"

"Only outside the field. None on the animals." He did not mention their strange way of traveling.

"Good." He turned the arrow shaft in the stone tool and stroked it with a bit of rougher stone, removing the last curve.

He set the arm-long shaft aside and reached for the next one.

Tuathal went to the corner he and Seelah shared and removed his clarsach from its case.

He tested the sound, then sat on a low stool, out of the late-day light, and began playing a work tune, one he'd heard among the fish-catchers on the western coast. The steady pace fit both Kai's task and that of the women.