Read Online Spirit of the Mist by Janeen O'Kerry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janeen O'Kerry
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The moon settled toward the western horizon and the sky in the east began to lighten with the first touches of dawn.
Muriel was still standing at her mirror when she heard the thunder of hooves outside. As if waking from a deep sleep, she closed the wooden shutters of her window and hurried to throw open the door of her house.
She was just in time to see five riders gallop out through the open gates, out into the morning light and onto the path that would take them to Dun Bochna. It would be at least a fortnight until they returned—fourteen nights of wondering whether Brendan was the prince he claimed to be, or if what Muriel’s mirror had shown her could possibly be true.
The days were at once the longest that Muriel had ever known and, at the same time, were not nearly long enough.
Brendan was quartered in a house with three other men. All of them were craftsmen, workers in iron and bronze and wood. As such, they were neither servants nor nobles; they were men who lived just as King Murrough had ordered that Brendan should live until they knew for certain what he was.
The craftsmen’s day began early. Brendan served as a mere helper to them, hauling loads of wood for their fires and carrying buckets of seawater for quenching hot metal. But he must have found time to slip out each day before the work began, for every morning when Muriel stepped out of her house she found a small bouquet of fresh wildflowers on the stepping stone just in front of her door.
Always the flowers were newly gathered from the hills above the dun, always still damp with dew. Some days there would be bright yellow primrose and gorse; others might bring the pinks of foxglove and violets; still others would deliver pretty combinations of blue and purple violets and gentian, or white blackberry canes with white violets set off by deep green clover.
In the afternoons Brendan would often come to sit with her as she worked at her spinning and sewing. They might stay in the hall with the other women if rain threatened but would walk out to sit on the grassy hilltops if the weather was fair, there to enjoy the warm summer sun and cooling sea breeze.
She would sew, and he would talk, and so many times she would find herself laughing more than working. His stories were varied and wonderful, but consisted mostly of Brendan’s heroics and Brendan’s bravery and Brendan’s great victory in stealing half of King Odhran’s cattle. Brendan would walk around her, gesturing and talking and acting out each part; and she would watch, smile, and laugh.
Muriel knew the chance she took whenever she spent time with him, for on each successive day he became more a part of her life and it became more difficult to hold him at arm’s length. Yet again and again she allowed him to stay at her side. Again and again she told herself that it was only for a short time, that soon he would be gone and she could safely forget she had ever known him, just as he would no doubt forget about her.
On the evening of the fourteenth day, as the shadows began to lengthen, Brendan finished yet another tale and came over to sit down close beside her. “Tell me, now,” he said, a little breathless, as she worked at stitching together a fine white linen gown. “You have watched me and listened to me for all these many days. Do you still believe I am only a slave?”
She set her mass of white linen down on the grass. Brendan sat near enough to touch, his golden brown hair and gray cloak blowing in the wind, his blue and brown eyes shining down at her.
For the first time, she reached out her hand to him. He stayed very still as she brushed a strand of sunlit hair from his eyes. Her hand lingered near his brow, and she drew her finger lightly down the edges of his hair and onto the smooth, warm skin near his left eye, the eye that was blue. She paused for a moment, stroking the skin again, marveling at how very soft it
The moon settled toward the western horizon and the sky in the east began to lighten with the first touches of dawn.
Muriel was still standing at her mirror when she heard the thunder of hooves outside. As if waking from a deep sleep, she closed the wooden shutters of her window and hurried to throw open the door of her house.
She was just in time to see five riders gallop out through the open gates, out into the morning light and onto the path that would take them to Dun Bochna. It would be at least a fortnight until they returned—fourteen nights of wondering whether Brendan was the prince he claimed to be, or if what Muriel’s mirror had shown her could possibly be true.
The days were at once the longest that Muriel had ever known and, at the same time, were not nearly long enough.
Brendan was quartered in a house with three other men. All of them were craftsmen, workers in iron and bronze and wood. As such, they were neither servants nor nobles; they were men who lived just as King Murrough had ordered that Brendan should live until they knew for certain what he was.
The craftsmen’s day began early. Brendan served as a mere helper to them, hauling loads of wood for their fires and carrying buckets of seawater for quenching hot metal. But he must have found time to slip out each day before the work began, for every morning when Muriel stepped out of her house she found a small bouquet of fresh wildflowers on the stepping stone just in front of her door.
Always the flowers were newly gathered from the hills above the dun, always still damp with dew. Some days there would be bright yellow primrose and gorse; others might bring the pinks of foxglove and violets; still others would deliver pretty combinations of blue and purple violets and gentian, or white blackberry canes with white violets set off by deep green clover.
In the afternoons Brendan would often come to sit with her as she worked at her spinning and sewing. They might stay in the hall with the other women if rain threatened but would walk out to sit on the grassy hilltops if the weather was fair, there to enjoy the warm summer sun and cooling sea breeze.
She would sew, and he would talk, and so many times she would find herself laughing more than working. His stories were varied and wonderful, but consisted mostly of Brendan’s heroics and Brendan’s bravery and Brendan’s great victory in stealing half of King Odhran’s cattle. Brendan would walk around her, gesturing and talking and acting out each part; and she would watch, smile, and laugh.
Muriel knew the chance she took whenever she spent time with him, for on each successive day he became more a part of her life and it became more difficult to hold him at arm’s length. Yet again and again she allowed him to stay at her side. Again and again she told herself that it was only for a short time, that soon he would be gone and she could safely forget she had ever known him, just as he would no doubt forget about her.
On the evening of the fourteenth day, as the shadows began to lengthen, Brendan finished yet another tale and came over to sit down close beside her. “Tell me, now,” he said, a little breathless, as she worked at stitching together a fine white linen gown. “You have watched me and listened to me for all these many days. Do you still believe I am only a slave?”
She set her mass of white linen down on the grass. Brendan sat near enough to touch, his golden brown hair and gray cloak blowing in the wind, his blue and brown eyes shining down at her.
For the first time, she reached out her hand to him. He stayed very still as she brushed a strand of sunlit hair from his eyes. Her hand lingered near his brow, and she drew her finger lightly down the edges of his hair and onto the smooth, warm skin near his left eye, the eye that was blue. She paused for a moment, stroking the skin again, marveling at how very soft it
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