‘When the giant boy was sixteen years old and Dougal was getting a few grey hairs, the shepherd told his big son the truth. About the lad’s real father, the curse, the terrible thing Dougal had made happen because he had wanted a lovely fey bride. The two of them went to the cliff to see the place where the Red Giant had fallen in a great shower of stones, and they wept there together. The mound was green now. Blanket of mosses and creepers and little flowering things had grown up to cover it. Dougal said a prayer. He said how sorry he was, and he told the Red Giant he’d done his best to be a good father. He said he knew he could never be as good as his son’s real father, his first father, the one who’d loved him more than life itself. He said that never a day passed when he didn’t think about what he’d done and wish that he hadn’t done it. Though, he said, from that sorrow he’d got the best son in all Erin. The giant boy patted Dougal on the shoulder, and picked him up for a hug, and said he forgave him. Then they walked home together. But after that, most days, the giant boy came to his father’s grave to sit awhile and talk to him, to tell him about the sheep and the weather and what was going on in the village. Or he would sit there without a word, knowing how lucky he’d been to have two fathers who loved him more than anything in the world.’ I glance at Bardán. ‘And that’s the end of the story.’

Bardán’s not talking. Looks like he’s in some kind of trance. Walking on, staring straight ahead, face like a mask.

‘You all right?’

Nothing. I can’t think what to say, so I walk after him, wondering if he’s going to explode, let it all out at once, whatever it is he’s got trapped in his head. Know that feeling well, things building up, getting bigger and bigger until your mind can’t hold them anymore. ‘You can talk to me,’ I say. ‘If you want. Any time you want. But you know that already.’

‘Build,’ Bardán says, and his voice is all cracked and choked like it was when he first came out of the forest. ‘Build the house. Heartwood house . . .’

‘Won’t be doing much building today,’ I say, wondering why he’d bring this up now. Talking to him’s like working on a puzzle. Sometimes he talks like everyone else, makes quite a long speech. Sometimes it’s a word here, a word there, and a lot of silence. Only it feels like there’s words in the silence, strong ones. ‘Be too dark by the time we get there.’