Sliabh
na Caillighe
The boy sat leaning against one of the
large gray stones, enjoying the warmth of the early sunlight after the chill of
the night. He had a hunk of stale barley bread in his right hand, having saved
it for his breakfast, but he was not eating it; instead he was thinking back to
the ritual he had witnessed the night before. The sunlight shone on his shoulder-length
black hair, and sparkled in his inwardly-gazing dark eyes. He was seven years
old, and should not have spent the night alone on the hill, but he was as
indifferent to the possible dangers from wolves or wild men as he was to the
beating that he would probably get when he returned to his father’s ráth
below. Fráechán always went his own way, whatever the cost...
