Chapter 2 #2
“Fool.”
“When I came back down, he had the gall to ask how many I’d gathered. Tried to snatch a few of them.”
“You didn’t do anything foolish, did you?”
“Course not. I reminded him he said I could take what I could reach and that the Sheedar don’t look kindly on men who break their word.”
Cormac looked at her sideways. “You persuaded him to make a blood oath for apples?”
“No, he didn’t even realise promising me apples wasn’t an oath, nor that the Sheedar therefore wouldn’t care if he broke it. He let me go.”
Cormac smiled. “Clever.”
She’d slipped into the house and left a couple by the boy’s pillow before returning home.
“I have something too.” He pulled a bundle out of his satchel.
“Kippers?” She raised an eyebrow. “We’re nowhere near the coast. How?”
“I have my ways.”
“Like the time you bought a puppy for Eoin and it turned out to be a wolf pup?”
“That was different,” he said, grinning.
“Seriously, where did they come from?”
“Traded with a fisherman, didn’t I.”
“That’s all I’m getting? After I told you about my adventures,” she said, giving him a nudge.
He only shrugged, evasive. Cormac never wasted lies on her.
His silences often spoke more than his words.
She could tell he wasn’t telling the whole truth, always could.
She let it drop. If he were keeping it a secret, there must be a reason.
He had probably stolen them, in which case she was better off not knowing.
They arrived at the village square, an open space ringed by cottages, the forge, and a scattering of stalls.
It was quieter than it had ever been. Farmers no longer came to sell, and the fishermen, when they did appear, sold out within the hour and shuttered again.
The square had once been the place for news and rumours, the heart of the community, where they had celebrated harvest festivals, winter solstices, and every season’s turning. But not this year.
The forge stood at the far side, a low stone building with its wide doors thrown open to let in air and light.
Her father was inside, arguing with a customer.
The tips of his fingers were darkened, the nails blackened by soot.
His back stooped a little from long years bent over iron, but his arms still carried strength; the hammer swing was still sure.
His face was weathered by ash, his eyes set with the stubbornness of a man who had provided too long with too little. He looked older than his years.
The argument grew sharper until he slammed his hammer down on the anvil. It rang through the square, drawing every eye. Aoife quickened her pace. The customer pushed past her, and she recognised Farmer Gowra. She greeted him, but he did not even look at her.
Her father stood fuming. He kicked at the empty hearth, sending ash spiralling upwards.
“Father,” Aoife said.
He turned. His hands were shaking with anger. He held one out to her, the grip tight enough to whiten his knuckles. He opened his palm to reveal a pile of coins, more than generous in the spring, before the crops failed. But now, all the gold in Eldross would not buy a loaf of bread.
“He promised food,” her father spat. “Food in payment, and he brings me this. I should have thrown it in his face. Let him shoe his own beast.”
“It’s better than nothing,” she murmured, though her throat tightened.
Her father glared into the forge’s dead fire, ash drifting in the air. She had hoped he might provide their evening meal. But there was no use in complaining. No one felt the weight of failure more sharply than her father. He did not need her to remind him of it.
Her siblings came running up, and her father slipped the coin into his pocket and plastered a smile across his face.
They had agreed months ago, without ever speaking of it, that Eoin and Maire were too young to worry about where their food came from, to carry the weight of hunger.
He never let them see how hard things were.
Eoin was thin as a reed, ribs pressing against his shirt. His movements were quick, his small hands constantly grubby and scratched from climbing, fighting, and meddling where he shouldn’t.
Maire wore Aoife’s old clothes. Aoife had been a skinny, gangly girl, but even so her old things hung loose on her sister.
Younger and smaller than Eoin, Maire’s body was frail, her face pale, the bones of her wrists and elbows too visible beneath the fabric.
She was often Aoife’s shadow; Aoife had been the same with their mother.
Maire would be a fine healer herself one day if given the chance.
Their father closed the double doors, shutting the forge for the day. Tools neatly lined the walls, but the cold hearth dominated the space. The smell of iron, soot, and sweat hung heavy, the unmistakable scent of him.
They sat at the long wooden table, scarred with scorch marks, scratches, and dents from years of use. Aoife laid out the crowberries and the pignuts. Eoin’s face lit up when she set a piece of smoked fish in front of him.
“Kippers!” he crowed, eyes bright.
Maire wrinkled her nose but ate without complaint. She knew better.
Aoife offered Cormac a handful of berries.
“No, I’ve eaten,” he said.
She gave him a measuring look, but let it go. Pressuring him never worked.
Maire finished her crowberries in seconds flat. “Next time I’ll come with you.” She said in her light, sing-song voice. “I can help carry more.”
“That would be nice,” Aoife said. She didn’t bother to point out that she’d gathered all the berries there were.
Her siblings’ delight rose when she brought out the apples. Eoin bit into his and let the juice run down his chin.
“Don’t waste it!” their father scolded.
Aoife laid a hand on his arm. “He’s a child.”
Her father sighed. The children ate the apples, seeds and all.
As they were finishing their meal, a commotion arose outside.
“What’s going on?” Maire asked. Eoin was already up and out of his chair.
Someone screamed.