Father Brien kept his stores at the back of the cottage, and I took anything that might be useful. A bag of barley meal, a sack of dried beans, a small crock of honey. The weather was already chill. I helped myself to an old cloak and a homespun tunic. Simon’s boots were still there, and I took them. A sharp knife, a sickle, a cooking pot. It was going to be difficult to feed the dog. I trusted she would develop a sudden skill for hunting. Father Brien had no distaff and spindle, no weaving loom. But even a holy father’s garments need mending sometimes, so I found bone needles and a spool of thread, and these I slipped into the small pack. A water bottle, a spade. The horse looked at me a little plaintively, his ears twitching. I placed some rolled-up blankets on top of the load and tied it firmly. The little pack, which contained carefully selected items from Father Brien’s stock of herbs and spices, I would carry myself. And his oaken staff I would use to ease my way.

I stood there a moment before I took my farewell. The clearing was full of memories. The coming of Father Brien, his prayer, and reading, and healing, his solitary life in the forest and his teachings. His young visitors: the solemn Liam and sunny Diarmid, the twins like mirror images, Cormack, bold and fearless, Conor, deep and subtle. Finbar with his passionate integrity. Padriac, eager for knowledge. And their small sister, who was not the seventh son of a seventh son, but who trailed along after them anyway. He had taught us much over the years, and now he was gone. Now my brothers’ human selves were indeed just that, just a memory, until I should bring them back. Here was the rowan tree where I had seen the Lady of the Forest that first time. Here the spot where Simon had held his knife to my throat and asked us why we would not end his miserable life. The trees whispered the memories of my stories, and the air still held the trace of his voice; don’t leave me, it breathed, don’t leave me alone.

I rubbed a hand fiercely across my cheeks, and then snapped my fingers for Linn to come. She would learn fast enough that I could no longer call to her, or praise her with kind words. As for me, I could hardly imagine a life without my brothers, for they had always been there, sometimes kind, sometimes gruff, always ready to help when I was in trouble. They were a part of me, and I of them. Now I was alone, and I must manage without them, for to fail in this task was to lose them forever. I would not think of the lady Oonagh, or of my father. I would not consider what might happen if they should find me here in the forest. I would ignore the thudding of my heart, and the ache in my head, and the way my mouth grew dry when I contemplated the work laid out for me. I must bring my brothers back. I would bring them back. I took up the horse’s leading rope, turned my face toward the forest, and walked steadily away into the west.