Page 50 of Fires of the Forsaken
The innkeeper, Lorcan, was the bull’s human counterpart: a thickly muscled man with a scarred face and a kind heart. He called mecailín álainn—orpretty girl.
“Ah,cailín álainn!”he greeted me in the mornings. “I’ve added some berries for you.” He winked as he handed me the bowl of porridge. “But let’s keep that secret between us, shall we? I don’t want my other patrons to be jealous. And be sure Noro doesn’t take more than his share.”
Noro, of course, being the black bull.
At first, Noro consumed most of the berries. Truthfully, I was stricken with terror at the thought of eating the fruits; a delicacy I’d never been permitted to indulge in. Surely it would have been more beneficial for the delectable little treats to go to Lorcan’s prized bull?
But Lorcan added a handful of the sweet fruit to my porridge every morning and, eventually, the temptation became too great. I ate one. Two. They wereequistite(that’s certainly not the correct spelling.Eqsuite?Exquisite?):bitter, yet sweeter than even Mama’s finest tomatoes. And, well, Noro seemed content with the porridge, so I kept the berries for myself.
Those first days were simple. Quiet. Terrick woke at dawn and went to complete the renovations to his dwelling.
“It’s fallen into disrepair,” he told me. “But it’s nothing I can’t fix. You’ll love it there, lass. Our lodgings are above the shop. Although not quite as big as what we have here at the inn,” he gesturedto the spacious room we were renting, “it will be all ours. There’s even a livery barn. Perhaps I’ll find a bull for you to keep there.” He smiled when I gasped in excitement.
While Terrick was away, I played with Noro or helped Lorcan clean the tables in the tavern. Or, sometimes, I rested in our rented room, curled against the windowsill, watching the busy village life below. I was usually sad on those days. Sad that Mama, Conn, and all the people from Detha would never know a vibrant life such as this.
But the sad days became fewer as the weeks passed. ‘Tis theresilency—resiliency of a child, I suppose. I’d been too young to hold on to dark emotions. Too young to dwell on the past when my future looked so bright.
And when Terrick deemed his dwelling livable again, I was given an important task: to help him reopen his shop.
Hisbookshop.
It’s a rather silly notion. Terrick earned coin by selling parchment bound in scraps of leather. He called them fictionbooks. Meaning that, while the stories seemed real, and sometimes frightening, they weren’t. There was nothing historical or factual about them. They were the product of someone’s imagination.
As I said, it’s a silly notion. Why would someone wish to waste ink and parchment on alie?
But, in Swindon, the townspeople adored Terrick’s fiction books. They celebrated when he reopened his shop.
“Ten years, Terrick,” one woman cried. “You’ve made me waitten yearsto discover what happened to the boy wizard!”
“Apologies, Róise,” Terrick bowed his head as he handed the woman a broad tome. “But after…well, the time away has done me good.” He turned to where I was dusting his fiction books and gave me a playful wink.
There was darkness in Terrick’s past, although I never asked him about it. At the time, I hadn’t noticed it, even though the evidence was there.
For instance, a great armoire occupied much of the wall space in our dwelling. I passed it every day. Sometimes I amused myself by tracing my fingers over the intricately designed flowers carved into the wood, or marveling at the gowns inside. And I never questioned why Terrick possessed an armoire full of lady’s clothes.
Terrick gifted me with trinkets when we moved into his dwelling. Toys, he’d called them. Wooden figurines of horses, and other objects.Frivoulous—frivolous things, clearly made for small hands. Like mine. They were already old and well-used when I received them. I lovingly played with them every day but never asked where they came from.
During those early months at Swindon, I busied myself with myindulgances—indulgences:eating until my stomach felt as though it would burst. Proudly polishing my new boots and telling another girl that I had thefinestboots in town. She, of course, maintained her boots were finer, while her brother was convincedhepossessed the superior boots. Our shoes were identical (quite like the girl and her brother). They’d been crafted at the same shop, likely with the same strip of cowhide. But we did rather enjoy teasing each other.
Terrick, sadly, couldn’t find a bull, but he brought goats into the livery barn. Wee bastards. They ate everything: my food, my clothes, Terrick’s fiction books. One even tried to gnaw on the toe of my precious boots.
Iadoredthe little buggards.
They were warm, and soft, and had tolerant dispositions. They didn’t care if I sang while I cleaned their pens—I was, and still am, a wretched singer. I’m certain the dulcet tones of my voice damaged their hearing. They didn’t bite or kick when I played with them, which often involved me hanging onto their necks, fiddling with their ears, and kissing their noses. And they stood patiently while Terrick taught me how to coax milk from their udders.
I still remember the day Terrick gave me my first cup of the creamy liquid.
“It’s good for you,” Terrick laughed as I savored the thick concoction. “Some people believe it helps children grow.”
“Helps them how?” I asked.
“It makes your bones strong.”
“How?”
Terrick smiled. “It coats them, like armor, and protects them from injury while you grow.”
“Ah.” And, considering I was the smallest, and thinnest child in my age group, I diligently drank the goat’s milk every morning. Sadly, Terrick was wrong in his belief. I grew. All children do. But I remain, to this day, smaller than most.
