had on that night. Was it really only three days ago?
“It’s as if everything is part of a pattern,” he said eventually. “Almost as if I’d had no choice, as if it was all set out for me, on a sort of map of my life. I think Mother saw what was ahead for all of us, maybe not exactly, but she had an idea of where we were going.” He touched the amulet that hung always around his neck. “And yet, as well as that, it’s all about choices. Wouldn’t it be easier for me to be one of the boys, to earn Father’s love with my sword and bow—I could do it—take my place at his side and defend our lands and our honor? It would be good to have recognition, and fellowship, and some kind of pride. But I choose this path instead. Or it is chosen for me.”
“So where’s the boy then? Did he get away?”
As I have said, Finbar and I had two ways of talking. One was with words, like everyone else. The second was for us alone; it was a silent skill, the transfer of image or thought or feeling straight from one mind to the other. He used it now, showing me Father Brien’s cart, loaded with bundles and boxes, making its slow way along the rutted track to the hermit’s cave. I felt wincing pain at each jolt of the cart, though Father Brien held the old horse to a stately walk. A wheel rim got stuck; the good father’s young helper jumped down to lever it back onto the track. There was a spring in this young man’s step that revealed him as my brother even while the hood concealed his face, for Finbar always walked thus, with a bouncing stride and his toes out. Then an image of the two of them, outside the cave, lifting one long bundle with special care from the cart. A gleam of gold amid the stained wrappings. That was all; the shutters closed.
“He was in no state to go any further,” said Finbar flatly. “But he’s in good hands. That’s all you need to know—no,” as I made to interrupt, “I won’t have you involved anymore. I’ve put enough people at risk already. It’s finished, for you at least.”
And that, indeed, was all I could get out of him that night. He was becoming alarmingly adept at closing his mind to me, and neither by pleading nor by trying to read him at an unguarded moment could I learn anymore. However, his prediction proved to be entirely wrong.
There followed a quieter time. With Father and the older boys away, we fell back into our old routine, although the guard had increased around the keep and the enclosure. Conor controlled the household affairs with calm competence, arbitrating when two cottagers came to blows over an errant flock of geese, overseeing the autumn brewing and baking, the culling of yearling calves, the salting of meat for winter. For Finbar, Padriac, and me it was a good time. Donal still put the boys through their paces with sword and bow, and they still spent time with Conor, following more learned pursuits. I usually slipped into these lessons, thinking a little scholarship would do me no harm, and that I might pick up something interesting. Each of us could read and write, thanks to Father Brien’s kindness and patience. It was not until much later that I realized how unusual this was, for most households were lucky if they had a scribe who knew sufficient of basic letters to set down a simple inventory. For more complex tasks, such as drawing up contracts between neighbors, one must seek out a monk, or a druid, according to one’s own persuasion. Druids were hard to find, and harder still to pin down. We owed a great deal to Father Brien’s openness of mind.
We knew the runes, and we could reckon, and make a map, and had a fine repertoire of tales both old and new. In addition, we could sing, and play the whistle, and some of us the small harp. We’d had a bard once, who wintered over; that was a while ago, but he taught us the rudiments, and we had an instrument that had been Mother’s, a fine little harp with carvings of birds on it. Padriac, with
“It’s as if everything is part of a pattern,” he said eventually. “Almost as if I’d had no choice, as if it was all set out for me, on a sort of map of my life. I think Mother saw what was ahead for all of us, maybe not exactly, but she had an idea of where we were going.” He touched the amulet that hung always around his neck. “And yet, as well as that, it’s all about choices. Wouldn’t it be easier for me to be one of the boys, to earn Father’s love with my sword and bow—I could do it—take my place at his side and defend our lands and our honor? It would be good to have recognition, and fellowship, and some kind of pride. But I choose this path instead. Or it is chosen for me.”
“So where’s the boy then? Did he get away?”
As I have said, Finbar and I had two ways of talking. One was with words, like everyone else. The second was for us alone; it was a silent skill, the transfer of image or thought or feeling straight from one mind to the other. He used it now, showing me Father Brien’s cart, loaded with bundles and boxes, making its slow way along the rutted track to the hermit’s cave. I felt wincing pain at each jolt of the cart, though Father Brien held the old horse to a stately walk. A wheel rim got stuck; the good father’s young helper jumped down to lever it back onto the track. There was a spring in this young man’s step that revealed him as my brother even while the hood concealed his face, for Finbar always walked thus, with a bouncing stride and his toes out. Then an image of the two of them, outside the cave, lifting one long bundle with special care from the cart. A gleam of gold amid the stained wrappings. That was all; the shutters closed.
“He was in no state to go any further,” said Finbar flatly. “But he’s in good hands. That’s all you need to know—no,” as I made to interrupt, “I won’t have you involved anymore. I’ve put enough people at risk already. It’s finished, for you at least.”
And that, indeed, was all I could get out of him that night. He was becoming alarmingly adept at closing his mind to me, and neither by pleading nor by trying to read him at an unguarded moment could I learn anymore. However, his prediction proved to be entirely wrong.
There followed a quieter time. With Father and the older boys away, we fell back into our old routine, although the guard had increased around the keep and the enclosure. Conor controlled the household affairs with calm competence, arbitrating when two cottagers came to blows over an errant flock of geese, overseeing the autumn brewing and baking, the culling of yearling calves, the salting of meat for winter. For Finbar, Padriac, and me it was a good time. Donal still put the boys through their paces with sword and bow, and they still spent time with Conor, following more learned pursuits. I usually slipped into these lessons, thinking a little scholarship would do me no harm, and that I might pick up something interesting. Each of us could read and write, thanks to Father Brien’s kindness and patience. It was not until much later that I realized how unusual this was, for most households were lucky if they had a scribe who knew sufficient of basic letters to set down a simple inventory. For more complex tasks, such as drawing up contracts between neighbors, one must seek out a monk, or a druid, according to one’s own persuasion. Druids were hard to find, and harder still to pin down. We owed a great deal to Father Brien’s openness of mind.
We knew the runes, and we could reckon, and make a map, and had a fine repertoire of tales both old and new. In addition, we could sing, and play the whistle, and some of us the small harp. We’d had a bard once, who wintered over; that was a while ago, but he taught us the rudiments, and we had an instrument that had been Mother’s, a fine little harp with carvings of birds on it. Padriac, with
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