"Go to the meadow, by the river. Go at night. take nothing iron and no fire. Bring silver, and meat and mead. Now leave me and mine boy!"
That had been the advice of the old woman of the hedge near his clan. Rumors said her skill with potions and poultices came from a bargain with the Duanann. A bedtime story people for the wee ones. Something you dared a friend to do after too many cups. Normally nothing any sane Erainn would ever think was real. But Liath was desperate. There was maybe a dozen of his family left. Their farms burnt. Homeless and wandering. If their fortunes didn't change soon, the Clan would die out. And his grandfather had said that must never happen. They were the blood of the Old Kings, and if that line died out, there would be consequences for the land. So he was willing to hinge his hopes on stories, given his father hadn't returned from the summit of Clan Chiefs where he went to sue for peace.
But as he stood at the edge of the ring of trees looking into the meadow, he felt a silent tickle in the pit of his gut that ran to the back of his neck. A chill. Sweat beaded his brow and upper lip. The stories said they knew when you crossed the boundary of their ring with intent. And that leaving without a bargain was ill-luck. The edge of the meadow was ringed with mooncaps, a pale & skinny white mushroom that bloomed and grew only at night after a heavy rain in the day. Another sign. As was the crude pile of rocks in the center. Maybe once it had been a table or altar, like it was said. Maybe it was just rocks.
In his mind's eyes, he saw again the raiders take his sister, and something stirred in response to the momentary fear. Reaching to the clasp of his belt, he stepped just to the ringing of mooncaps and let the weapons and the belt drop outside of them, being slow and obvious about divesting himself of them. His spear was dropped next, almost thrown down. He strode forward in naught but the leine his mother had given him last week for his nameday, a beautiful thing dyed the traditional saffron colors of his people's more formal garments for warriors. In his hands was a parcel. A polished mirror of silver, a small flask of mead, and venison he himself had tracked, killed, butchered and cooked. Nothing had passed his lips all day. Oiled, his fiery beard was freshly trimmed and braided by his beloved, and a heavy torc of bronze from his father sat his neck.
Finally, he steppe over the barrier and into the softly lit meadow, hesitating once inside the moonlight. He wasn't sure what was expected. But the nothing that followed wasn't it. A sigh, and he stepped to the 'table'. Worn stone pile, more like. With moss growing in what could be old glyphs and runes. Or just random patterns. He sat down next to it, opening the cloth to reveal the gifts, and waited. In silence. He was, even as young as his age, an accomplished hunter. He could wait for hours. But even he eventually began to drift where he sat.
Fiadh
