Tír na nÓg Trilogy, Book II: The Rising Dark

Birthday

Rain fell for the next week. There was little to do in all that time. There was no riding horses, no traveling out of the walls into soggy pastures, no going to the stream for water. No feasts were held, either. In fact, the mood in the girls' roundhouse was absolutely sullen, and it hadn't helped that the day after they'd returned from Cathair Chon-Raoí, Tess woke ill, and Cathbad had taken her to his hut in the forest to recuperate. He assured Emery that Tess was most likely in a state of shock and would soon be well, but he believed she needed his consistent care. Emery couldn't disagree with him; she was genuinely worried about Tess, and she herself had no medicines or skill when it came to illness, especially the kind of PTSD Tess was probably going through. So, Tess had gone, and though Oonagh was always cheerful, she was often helping her family, especially as her father's illness had turned into something that was probably pneumonia, and her mother needed her more and more. Emery had offered to help as well, but Oonagh was too afraid Emery would grow ill, as well, moving back and forth in the rain, and as she said, "Mine'll be the next head over that gate if I allow the Lord's Lady to die of illness!"

So that meant Emery was largely alone during the day, and only in the evenings, when Oonagh returned with food and watery beer was there any sort of joy in the roundhouse. Emery hated being helpless, being unable to get her own food and drink. She at least knew how to get her own well water for the bath, and she didn't mind trudging out into the rain and mist and mud for it. In fact, going to the well was perhaps the most interesting part of her days. Other than that, to keep her mind off of Charlie and The Dark Man and everything else that confused her, she practiced throwing her dagger indoors (the wall above her bed was beginning to sustain some damage), attempting to refine what few weaving skills she had, and cautiously touching Lugh's Spear.

She'd been afraid to do more than press a finger to it, but the longer Oonagh stayed away, the longer she was alone, the bolder Emery began to grow. After about four days of mind-numbing boredom during which even a math textbook might've caught her interest, Emery was able to hold the spear and raise it above her head, even spin it slightly and try to ready herself for throwing it. She wouldn't throw it, of course--not indoors anyway. Or even out of doors. Whatever the spearhead touched caught fire (or so she'd been told), and the last thing she needed was to be blamed for burning Dun-Dealgan to the ground. Still, the shaft began to feel comfortable in her hand, as if it enjoyed being held, as if it had waited for her to find her courage and was rewarding her now.

But even the spear couldn't occupy her for so long. One morning, before she and Oonagh had finished their porridge, Emery said, "I think my birthday passed."

"Your birthday?"

Emery looked up at Oonagh, marveled for the millionth time at how many freckles were on her face, and said, "Where I'm from, we celebrate the day we were born. I don't really know what the date is, but if Samhain was sort of like Halloween, we've got to be well into November, now, and my birthday is November nineteenth. I think I'm eighteen, now."

Oonagh sparkled, her grin large enough to chase away the shadows and rain. "Yes! We, too, celebrate, though with the seasons. Oh, Emery! We must do something fun!"

Rolling her eyes, Emery shrugged. "Don't worry about it. I don't know what there would even be to do, here. This weather is killing me."

Frowning, growling in annoyance, Oonagh replied, "Oh, bother! If I'd known, I would've asked mother--"

"No, it's all right! Just go to help your family. They need you more than I do. I'll just . . . try to embroider something. I don't know. Don't worry about me. I don't even know if it is my birthday. It was probably several days ago."

"All right, all right . . ." Oonagh began to look around. She stood and bustled about her bed, muttering to herself about putting things in their proper places. After digging in a trunk, though, she gave a cry of success and stood, holding a large bottle in her hands. Turning to Emery, she cried, "This I was saving for a special moment! It's supposed to be one of the finest meads! With honey and flowers--you should drink it, or at least, some of it. Maybe save a glass for me. I'll return tonight for dinner, and . . . and I'll have a surprise for you! But I mean what I say, Emery--you drink this. I'll be very cross if I come back and you've not had any."