~ Chapter III ~
Baláirdh Drún

The village of Baláirdh Drún lay at the crossing of the journeymen's roads deep within the forest. Tucked into the protective shadow of Mount Drún, a wall of earth and stone surrounded the village. The village's main thoroughfare ran uphill, with the finest houses situated on the highest ground and the poorest nearest the valley, where the trees grew thicker and the darkness was deep.

Morogh's thatched stone hut was the very last one in the village, downhill from all the others. He had one near neighbor—a withered old woman whose hut kept a good stone's throw from his, as if it had reason to dislike it. Morogh's daughters helped their father earn a living by serving the old woman, but neither of them liked her. Poor as they were, however, they could not choose their own company.

It was in this woman's garden that his youngest daughter was toiling the evening after the storm. The deluge had washed away the carefully planted tubers the girl had placed just days before, and the cantankerous old hag had ordered her to find and replant every missing bulb. It was nigh impossible. Her ratty hair wrapped in a rag and her dress filthy from the mud, she spared her employer's hut a venomous glance. She could hear the clattering of pots inside, nearly drowning out the indignant screeches of the old woman.

"You worthless little rat! You're scrubbing with yesterday's grease-cloth!"

The girl in the garden smirked and bent her head to her task. Her older sister Padraigin had not made a mistake with the cloth; it was her little way of returning Old Eithné's beatings from the week before. Clever Padra, her sister thought. She'll expect a prank to equal hers…I must start thinking…

But her rumbling stomach banished her mischievous plots to a far corner of her mind. She frowned, searching for one of the last lost bulbs. Though she dearly wished to cause trouble for Eithné, their family could not afford the lost wages. The old woman did not pay well, but Padraigin and her sister were due their twelve pennies that very evening. That meant they could eat tonight. The grubby girl's stomach rumbled even louder. She had not eaten since the morning before, apart from the dry crust Eithné had tossed her that afternoon. She hardly counted that as eating.

"Fíohra!"

The girl jumped up, wiping her muddy palms on the apron of her dress. It made little difference, for the cloth was already shamefully stained. But Fíohra didn't notice. Eithné was calling, and she made for the door with a hurried step.

"Yes, ma'am?"

Eithné's wrinkled mouth worked up and down, as if she were savoring her displeasure with the two girls. Padraigin joined her sister in front of the old woman, waiting for their employer to speak.

"You…you two." The old woman pointed a crooked finger at the pair and her watery eyes narrowed. The girls waited patiently, knowing Eithné couldn't bear to pay them without first delivering a sound scolding for some fault or another. "You have cost me more that you're worth! Nothing done right! Nothing done quick! You are fortunate I'm a kind-hearted woman," she began, and Fíohra had to wipe her nose in an attempt to disguise her laughter. Eithné glared and the girl fell silent. "You're fortunate I take pity on your miserable family! Here," she said as she tossed Padraigin a tiny leather purse. "And be grateful for it!"

The two girls bobbed their heads in minute curtsies as Eithné shooed them out of her hut. Once in the free air, Fíohra turned and stuck out her tongue at the old woman. Her sister tsked. "Fío, don't. We can't antagonize her anymore today."

Fíohra removed her sweaty headscarf and shrugged. "Then there will always be tomorrow." She nodded to the huts uphill. "Are we buying food now?"

Her sister bit her lip. "I think we should wait for father."

The merry mood that had settled on the younger girl evaporated in an instant. Their father had disappeared into the forest the morning before, hoping to replenish their bare pantry. But he had promised to come back before dark. When he failed to return both grew worried. One of the only villagers who dared to make use of the forest, their father was always cautious. His daughters could not think of what had happened to him—or at least they tried not to think of it. There were far too many things that could delay a man under the gloomy fastness of the trees, and none of them were pleasant. With the sun fast approaching the horizon, his chances of returning to the thatched hut on the edge of Baláirdh Drún grew slimmer and slimmer.

Padra squeezed her sister's shoulder, observing her concern. Though equally worried for their father's safety, she tried to ease the burden off of Fíohra. "Though if you're hungry, I don't think he'd mind."

Grateful but undissuaded from her somber thoughts, Fíohra nodded, following her sister up the hill to the village proper. They ignored the cold stares and whispered comments as they passed the houses, making for the outdoor ovens of the village baker. For twelve pennies, he had always been able to spare a loaf of bread for the sisters.

But they never reached the bakery.

A cry of astonishment brought the girl's attention to the highest point of the village, directly uphill from where they stood. A housewife stood at her door, pointing towards the wall. It was she who uttered the cry. Fíohra squeezed her sister's hand. "What's Eira on about now?"

Her question was answered as the carcass of a goat flew over the village wall. The woman standing at her door began screaming in earnest.

"Somethin's coming! Somethin's coming, everyone! Ye pitchforks! Take up ye pitchforks! Look to the wall!"

Her shouts roused the rest of the village. Shabbily dressed men and young women holding the day's laundry poured out from their homes into the street. They all looked a little dazed until the first woman pointed out the body of the goat.

"We are attacked! Baláirdh Drún! Defend yeselves!" she continued to cry.

Padraigin pushed her sister out of the way of the blacksmith, who had leapt to his town's defense with a handful of smoking iron pokers. "Where?" the man cried, adding his voice to the mayhem. "Where be this intruder?"

Unfortunately, however, he was unable to test the mettle of his makeshift weapons on the 'intruder.' For soon following the goat's body, a hand came over the top of the wall, gripping the stone until its knuckles were white. It was connected to an arm, then a shoulder, and then, to both the annoyance and relief of the villagers, the tousled head of old Morogh.

Fíohra did not wait for her father to descend the wall. As soon as she saw it was him, she cried out and shoved her way through the crowd of villagers, her sister hard on her heels. Balancing himself on the top of the wall, Morogh reached out shaking hands to his daughters. His face was deathly pale.

"Father?" Padraigin said. "Are you a'right?"

"Oh, Padra. Oh, Fío," he mumbled, tears coursing down his weathered cheeks. "O, my daughters." And without warning he pitched forward.

"Father!" They rushed forward at the same moment, but even their combined efforts were not enough to break his fall. Morogh landed hard, his arm striking the ground before the rest of him. There was a dull wrenching sound as the weight of his body tore his arm from its socket. Fíohra screamed again. "Father!"

But to her—and everyone else's—surprise, Morogh made no sound of complaint. While Padraigin tried to steady his wounded limb, he only looked at his daughters with tears in his eyes, sparing an occasional glare for the glossy black goat carcass. Even when his reluctant neighbors came forward to offer help escorting him home, he said nothing. It was only when he had been laid on his own mattress and left along with his daughters that he gave any indication that he felt his injury.

Fíohra drew a blanket over him and helped him lean against the wall. Her sister had started a fire on their hearth and was preparing some strips of linen for a sling. She bit her lip and looked at Fíohra, though she spoke to her father. "Father? Can you hear me?"

Morogh opened his eyes and stared at Padraigin. "Padra?" he said softly.

She smiled a tearful smile. "Yes. It's me. Fío and me." She paused. "We're going to have to…put your shoulder in again."

He nodded slowly, as if just realizing he had injured his arm. After a moment, his eyes began to clear as the pain started to register. "A'right you are, child." With a weak grin, he gave Fíohra his other hand. "Best hold tight then, eh, Fío?"

"I will, father." Padraigin readied herself on his other side and Fíohra nodded. "Do it quick."

The words had scarce left her mouth before their father let out a terrible yell, which quickly dissolved into a brave whimper of pain. His daughter had indeed been quick. The shoulder was back in its place. Breathing hard, Morogh squeezed Fíohra's hand and his grin widened. "A bit delayed, I'm afraid."

She wasn't sure if he was referring to his return from the forest or to the reaction to the replacement of his shoulder, but she was glad to see his spirits improved. A tear dripped off the end of her nose and she wiped it away with a tentative chuckle. "Suppose so."

Padraigin felt her father's forehead, relieved that it was free from fever. As she helped him into her makeshift sling, she noticed the goat's harness for the first time. Furrowing her brow, she pointed it out to her sister. "Father? What is that?"

Morogh's good humor vanished and he trembled. "Ah! It was my folly!"

Fíohra reached out to touch the tiny silver bells. "What do you mean? And wherever did you get a goat?"

A very dreadful look came over her father's face, and he trembled again. "It was…it was a gift." All of a sudden he began to weep. "Forgive me, daughters! Fío, Padra…I was such a fool!"

Padra exchanged a frightened glance with her sister. She took his other hand. "Father, please. Tell us what happened!"

Morogh didn't answer for a long time. He merely stared at the body of the goat, half imagining that it would leap to life and accuse him of his treachery with the voice of its master, the Creature of the cave. Indeed, for a moment, when the evening breeze ruffled its fur, he thought it was returning to life. But the wind sank, leaving the animal very silent and very dead. Morogh wits returned to him. Sighing deeply, he shared with his daughters the events of the past two days, culminating in his full-day's run down the mountainside, his climb of the village wall and his exhausted collapse in their arms. As he concluded his tale, Fíohra squeezed his hand.

"Thank you, father," she said quietly.

Padraigin nodded. "Aye. You're very brave."

In his heart, Morogh was relieved that his daughters had accepted his tale without question. Many times during his breakneck descent down the mountain, he had thought that the whole encounter with the mysterious voice must have taken place in his imagination. But the very real burden of the goat and the basketed provisions drew him out of his doubt, and it eased his mind to know that at least two others knew he was in his right mind.

His oldest daughter adjusted the sling and helped her father lay down again. Fíohra drew the blanket up to his chin and kissed his forehead. "Now rest, father."

So rest he did.