Dreaming the Eagle by Manda Scott Read Free Book Online Page B

Eburovic guided the roan with his knees, remembering. The last time he had come this way he had been on foot, supporting Graine, walking at her side, fearful that the child might come before they reached the place he had made for her. She had smiled her singular smile and promised him it would not and, because it was her second, he had tried to believe her. Breaca had still been a child then; she had run on ahead, searching the paddock edges for late mushrooms, bringing them back to him in dirty handfuls. Graine had taken them, and later had found room in a different pouch for the strange-shaped pebble that might, from certain angles, have looked like a lizard’s head and the dried casting from an owl that showed the bones of what it had eaten. Both of those had stayed with her body afterwards, making playthings for the crows.
    The sun was warm on his right shoulder as they reached the ruins of the birthing hut he had made. The roofing had been taken down within days of the attack and the winter had seen to the rest. He followed his daughter as they rode past it in single file and then left the trackway, cutting right, towards the spinney that reached up the slope on the eastern side. When they reached it, they turned right again, to follow its margins.
    Graine’s bones lay on the platform south of the spinney. She had died with a spear in her hand and the little owl had been her soul’s guardian. Eburovic could imagine nothing better as a death gift than the brooch his daughter had made for her. He forced himself to think of it, imagining the shape of the mould, the carved imprint of the lines and the way it had looked when she broke the mould open; anything that meant he did not have to think about where he was going. Breaca rode on ahead of him, straight-backed, with her hair lying like a fiery cloak around her shoulders, and it was impossible to know what she was thinking.
    They reached the place midway through the morning. The sun shone from behind, throwing short shadows that pooled at the horses’ feet. An easterly wind blew lightly, lifting tatters of blue wool on the platform. On their arrival, a magpie and two jackdaws lifted themselves lazily and moved to a nearby branch. They made no noise. Without speaking - he could not, at that moment, have spoken - Eburovic dismounted and led his horse forward. Breaca pushed the grey to the base of a post. She was not tall enough to see on top of it. He was about to offer a hand when she reached up to the crosspiece and, with an ease that spoke of many repetitions, hoisted herself up, keeping her balance with the tip of one foot on the filly’s rump. Like that, she could stretch forward and lay her brooch where she wanted. He saw her lips move but did not hear the words. He turned the roan and walked it away, feeling his gaze an intrusion. She jumped down and rode across to him shortly afterwards. He searched her face and her eyes, looking for signs that the dream had broken, that she had drawn it out as the grandmother had said she should. She smiled then and nodded and he let her be. They rode back again in silence. The wind moved round to the south and the air became heavy. In the distance, thin, grey clouds promised rain.
    As they reached the fields and turned the horses out, Eburovic found his voice again.
    ‘Are you busy?’ he asked. The spring planting had started. Her days were spent in the fields. If she was not sowing seeds, she was weeding, or clearing the stones. She had washed carefully before coming or there would have been earth packed under her fingernails from the previous day. Out across the paddocks, he could see the others already at work.
    Breaca had not been thinking of work. She stared at him blankly for a moment, frowning, then said, ‘Airmid and Macha have started planting the woad. They will need help to finish before the rain comes. I should be there now.’
    ‘Come to the forge when you’re finished. I will have something to show