~ Chapter IV ~
Ransom's Eve

Morogh woke only to eat and drink over the course of the next day. Soon after he had slipped from consciousness, his daughters had discovered the bounty in the baskets. It would not have counted for much at the table of a wealthy family, but for Fíohra and Padraigin, it was more food than their humble hovel had ever seen at once. The goat, too, was not to be forgotten. While their father slept, the sisters dragged it closer to the fire and began the long, messy process of skinning, butchering and smoking the meat so it could be saved. As the daughters of a hunter, both girls had learned such basic skills in their childhood. It was a tedious chore, the promise of a real meal at their completion notwithstanding.

So, to pass the time, they talked of their father's experience in the forest.

Padraigin thought he had stumbled into the lair of some bandit who wished to frighten him with threats. But Fíohra disagreed, reminding her sister of the provisions the master of the cave had given their father. And a bandit was unlikely to have inspired the fear the pack of wolves showed when faced with the thunderous voice. They went back and forth over the matter, but as long as they conversed, one topic never surfaced. Neither sister mentioned the recompense the voice had demanded, for each feared to think of what it might be. They owned barely enough as it was; the goat would have cost a prosperous man like the blacksmith a full week's wages. Though neither would admit it, the fact sat like an ugly toad in both their minds. Each slept that night with their half-smothered fears looming dark and ominous in their dreams.

~o~

And so the third day since Morogh's entrance to the cave dawned upon the village of Baláirdh Drún, casting its wan light into the windows of the thatched hut nearest the wall, and the three restless dreamers that tossed on its dusty floor.

Morogh woke first. His body had been slow to recover from his day-long run, and his shoulder hurt more than he would have liked to admit. Heaving himself up from his mattress, Morogh looked with a father's fond eye at the pair of girls sleeping in the far corner of the hut. They lay next to each other on a single mattress, sharing a blanket for warmth. Padraigin and Fíohra had taken good care of him when he was recovering, helping him eat and drink when he woke and covering him up carefully when he slept again. Their ministrations had worked as well as any medicine, Morogh thought as he stretched his healthy arm. A good day's sleep after a hard day's run. That was all he had needed. Two days…

Two days.

He froze.

The voice had told him that a servant would collect his recompense on the third day.

Silently, the old man counted. He had spent one day running and more than one day sleeping. This day is the third day, he realized with a thrill that chilled him to his very bones. The day he comes. Morogh glanced again at his daughters. Fíohra slept still, but Padraigin was stirring. Seeing her father awake, she sat up. Without asking, each knew what the other was thinking.

"It's today, daughter," Morogh said solemnly. "You remembered?"

She nodded as her unconscious sister felt around for the misplaced blanket. Her face was grim. "What do you want us to do?"

Mastering the shiver of fear that crawled down his spine, her father clenched his good fist. "Have the merchants passed this week?" Padraigin shook her head and Morogh frowned. He had hoped to peddle the crystal dishes to the traveling merchants that did business in Baláirdh Drún, but at his daughter's gesture those hopes were dashed. Yet there remained some chance. Though their village was small, there were a few families that called themselves well-off. They might take an interest in the crystal goblets and carafes. Morogh's resolve hardened. "Padra, listen to me." He nodded to the covered baskets, now bereft of their delicacies. "You and I will each take a goblet to the doors of our neighbors and offer to sell them."

Padraigin's eyes brightened, for the proposal seemed promising. "And how much will we ask, father? I've 'nary seen the like of these before. They may be too fine."

Morogh sighed. "You're right. Take the most anyone will offer you. If you sell the one, come back for a carafe. We will put the earnings together this evening."

His daughter bit her lip. "And will it be enough?"

"I don't know." He glanced once more at Fíohra, a smile warring against the doubt that haunted his face. "But we shall see." Nodding to his youngest, he motioned for Padraigin to get up. "Let's let her sleep a while longer."

Padraigin obeyed, draping the blanket over her sister as she followed her father in rising. Moving as softly as they could to keep from waking Fíohra, they together set Morogh's plan into motion.

~o~

To Morogh's surprise, they sold the goblets fairly fast, though at a far lower price than they were worth. He rejoiced at the greedy gleam in his neighbors' eyes as he peddled the crystal-ware from one door to the next. One family declared they were not interested, but hung out their windows to watch as Morogh moved on to the next house. At the first sign of interest from their neighbors, the old hag of the first family rushed out of doors and seized the goblet from Morogh with the announcement that it was not for sale. The coins in her hand silenced any complaint from the old man, and he left quickly to avoid a disputation with the second family. He had the money; they were welcome to their neighborly strife.

Padraigin had similar luck, and by noon they met again at the door of their hovel, their spirits significantly improved from the morning. Together they entered, finding Fíohra awake and stirring the fire. She looked up as they came in.

"'Morning. Or afternoon, rather. Where have you been?"

Padraigin poured her earnings onto the hearthstones. "Fío, look! We have money!"

Fíohra's eyes widened as their father added his coins to the tiny pile. "But that's…!"

"It'll pay the debt," Morogh said with relief. "No goat would sell for more."

His younger daughter bit her lip. "Are you certain?"

Morogh nodded vigorously, as if to assure himself as well as his daughters. "It must."

Padraigin encouraged a change of subject as she swept the coins into a rude earthenware pot. The silver and copper pieces clinked the merry tune of security as she placed the pot on the mantle. Wiping her hands on her apron, she smiled at her sister. "No more talk of money. Aye, Fío?" She bent to the hearth where Fíohra was stirring a pot of goat's meat. Her stomach rumbled. "Is it ready?"

"Not yet." Fíohra pinched a few leaves of dried rosemary and tossed them in the pot, filling the dusty hovel with a scent it had not known for more than seventeen years. "Soon."

~o~

The family ate their meal in relative silence. Each was eager for the day to be over, for the mysterious servant to claim his master's payment and leave them in peace. Their portions of stew eaten and the rest stored carefully for the future, father and daughters busied themselves with the menial chores required of any household, no matter how poor.

Fíohra set about cleaning the hide of the goat, hoping to have it ready for her sister by the evening. It would make a fine waterskin when dried and sewn together. Padraigin sprinkled and swept their dirt floor in an effort to reduce the dust before she was called outside by her father. His left arm useless in its sling, he was unable to tend to their little garden by himself, so Padraigin helped him.

Unfortunately, their plants had suffered much in the same way as Old Eithné's had. The deluge had dislodged many of the young vegetables from their muddy beds. Padraigin set about replacing those that could be salvaged while her father did his best to find the errant plants and return them to her. By the evening hour, however, both realized that they had lost more than a third of the crop they had planted. The summer, when it came, would be a hungry summer.

Again.

Cursing their omnipresent poverty, Morogh returned to the hovel with his daughter. The day was ending and their debt must soon be paid. But he wanted to be secure within his own walls when the servant came. Indeed, if he had trusted his neighbors not to steal it, he would much rather have left the jar of coins outside their door. Then he would not suffer a face-to-face encounter with the Creature's minion, in whatever terrifying form it might take. Nor would his daughters.

Morogh was considering this as the sun slipped beneath the forest's grasping horizon.

His thoughts were interrupted as a scream pierced the dying dusk air.

Fíohra and Padraigin looked up in alarm from their preparation of the goat's skin. Their father leapt to his feet, his face white. Drawing his hunting knife from its sheath on the wall, he motioned for his daughters to move to the far side of the hut. Without a word, they obeyed. Morogh took up the jar of coins and placed himself in front of the closed door. His hand trembled but he raised his chin in silent defiance to the yet-invisible messenger. The payment was ready, he told himself. He had nothing fear.

More screams rent the air, closer this time. Padraigin squeezed her sister's hand and pushed her further into the shadow of the wall. "Don't worry, Fío. It will be gone soon," she said for both their sake's.

The cries of their neighbors suddenly ceased, and the three in the hovel stiffened. They could hear something outside their door, and it sounded very large. They held their breath.

A powerful knock shook not only the door but also the very walls of the house. Padraigin shuddered and put a trembling arm around her younger sister. Fíohra's eyes were wide and staring. Morogh pulled himself straighter as a second knock rattled the teeth in his head. He tightened his grip on the knife.

"Enter." The old man's voice was little more than a whisper.

The door flew open.