“Obair,” she says emphatically.
“I suppose.” She raises an eyebrow at me. “Yes,” I add in her own language.
She smirks, as if she’s won some great victory, then adds a few words to her children and leaves.
I SPEND THE NEXT WEEKS LARGELY WITH RÓISÍN ANDTadhg, Gráinne disappearing early in the morning to work with her father and not returning until the sky begins to darken. Róisín is a bright girl, energetic and rosy-cheeked much of the time, constantly talking. When she laughs, I see Cari reflected somewhere in her eyes. She can’t be older than eight. Her brother is the opposite in many ways; smiles from him are rare, but when they are earned, they are infectious, regardless of whether I understand their source. He talks to me in a solemn, slow voice and acts the older of the two, but based on their sizes, I suspect he’s the younger by at least a year.
They drag me around the house and surrounding hillside for most of the daylight hours. The late spring is wet one day and bright sunshine the next, but never unbearable. I help them glean in the wake of Onchú’s scythe, and feed animals, and clean pens, and act as scarecrows, and do a hundred other menial jobs around the fields that never seem to end. Many tasks are made harder by my absent arm and still-recovering body, but I manage.
Throughout, the children chatter away at me. Explaining what we’re supposed to be doing even as they demonstrate, or patiently teaching me new words, or relating stories of which I catch only the vaguest outlines. But it’s simple, unaffected company. Simple, physical work. They call me Deaglán, and I hear it as their version of “Diago” and do not flinch and look around nervously when they do. There is no sign of danger, no sign that the men who were pursuing me are anything but convinced of my death. Whoever I was meant to meet surely thinks the same, but I find the thought troubles me less and less. The pressure that has weighed on me since Suus, and maybe even from my life before, sloughs away.
My body recovers. I adapt to my missing arm. I wake eagerly in the mornings, and cannot remember the last time I felt so light.
As the day outside fades, we all sit at the table and eat around flickering rushlight. These adult conversations help me start to get a feel for the grammar, the way words should fall on the ear. The more I hear, the more I start to recognise similarities with Cymrian: it’s not the same, not even a different dialect, and yet it still feels as though the two have sprung from a common source. I have always been good with languages. I pick this one up faster than most.
Sometimes, especially early on, the discussion gives way to glistening eyes and broken pauses, and I do not intrude, knowing they are missing the husband and father who gave his life for his children. Around those moments, though, Gráinne and Róisín and Tadhg seem to enjoy my company, and I enjoy theirs. Onchú, I can tell, still has his reservations. But he is never anything but polite.
One evening, my comfort with both the company and language grown, I spoon down some broth and wipe my face with a sleeve. Hesitate. I have left Cian’s staff within easy reach, as I often do, but when we sat, I noticed how carefully Róisín skirted it. Made sure not to come into contact with it at all. They’ve all been a little strange around the staff, but I’d assumed it was the unease of it belonging to the man they saw beheaded.
“The druid’s staff.” I point to where it sits in the corner. Divided into nine clear sections, each with a different symbol carved into it. I still use it often as a walking aid. “It is … not to be touched?”
“Yes.” Onchú replies before any of the others. Simple and blunt and emphatic.
I nod slowly. “Ishould not touch it?” I put my concern into my voice. I would hate to be doing something that is offending them, even if I don’t understand why.
“The druid gave it to you. It is well.” Something in Gráinne’s tone belies the words, but she says them sincerely.
I nod again absently, trying to think of how to convey what I want to ask. “Why will you not touch it?”
“It isdraoi,” says Onchú simply.
“It isdraoi,” agrees Gráinne.
I accept the statement, though it’s far from satisfying. It certainly doesn’t explain the faint glow I sometimes feel like I see from the wood. I want to ask whether they see it too, whether they’ve noticed anything about it, but their discomfort over the topic is so obvious that I do not feel I can press.
“You will say when I must leave?” I smile at Gráinne’s confused look. “I donot want to be a … heavy,” I finish, somewhat lamely as I reach for the word for burden. “Trouble! Trouble,” I correct myself as a better alternative comes to mind.
Gráinne smiles quizzically at me. “You are not trouble, Deaglán.” She speaks slowly and clearly for my benefit.
I dip my head gratefully. “I am glad. But is there more I can do to help?”
“You already do much.” She nods across the table to the children. “You make them lazy.”
I laugh. “I only do as you ask.”
She raises an eyebrow. “I asked only that you watch them.”
I pause mid-bite. “What?”
She grins. Róisín and Tadhg grin. Even Onchú allows some amusement.
“You are a good slave,” Tadhg adds solemnly.
I mock-growl at him. He shrugs.
“Are you sure?” I press my point, loathe though I am to. These people have taken me in, cared for me, when they already have so little for themselves. I love being here, but I cannot abide the thought that I am taking advantage of them. “If there is still danger …”
To my surprise, Onchú stirs. “Stay.” He says it gruffly, as always, but there’s honesty to it. “You are welcome here.”
