This is part of Chapter One from Móin & Marrow and our first introduction to Bréaca.
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My fingers tap against the mat. Staring up at the thatched roof, I listen. I haven’t heard the shuffling of anyone rolling over and there are no voices, grunts or whispers from Máthair and Athair. But then—just when I start to get up: footsteps. My left heel lifts and drops, slapping against the mat. I’m going to be stuck here forever. Won’t they go to sleep?

Ailill.

I know the sound of my older brother’s steps; he walks heel first and he’s almost as quiet as me. I see his tall shadow pass through the doorway and watch as he disappears down the hill. Áed is young; if he wakes in the night, he still makes Ailill or me walk with him behind the hazels. It feels like it takes hours before Ailill’s shadow fills the door again as he comes back. My heart beats faster but I still don’t move. I know better: Ailill has caught me before when I’ve not waited long enough. I’ll know it’s safe when the air breathes instead of holds.

Until then, I count the frog croaks outside.

They don’t all sound the same. There’s a big frog, with spots on his back. His sound is deeper than the others. Maybe I’ll see him. Their lungs still hold bubbles from the deepest part of the pond: that’s why their voices wobble. Once, when I wasn’t much older than Áed, I tried to rescue the frog I captured by pressing on its back. I thought he might spit out the water and his voice might clear. Máthair told me I was going to kill that frog and to let it go.

But he has water stuck in his throat.

It’s his throat. He’ll find a way to loosen it; now let him go.

Mugain says her sister taught her to count the croaks, too. If the frogs croak when you finish counting, then you’ll marry well. If it’s silent when you finish counting, then you’ll marry someone who will never know you.

If you marry him, how will he never know you?

It’s like the elders. Can you tell me one of their favorite flowers?

No.

Because we just know their names; we don’t really know them.

The air feels looser.

I hold my breath high in my chest as I rise.

I step soundlessly toward the door; my lips ready with a lie if I’m caught: just going to the hazels. Not that anyone, even Áed, would believe me.

When my toes touch the cool grass outside, my chest aches with the breath I haven’t released. It slips out all at once, my shoulders dropping with it.. The heart is a home; the doors of mine open only when I’m outside. The cool night air rushes against my skin, raising the small hairs along my arm. Thousands of stars crowd the sky. They belong to the clans and friendships I have given them, though some hide behind thick clouds tonight. I’m not surprised Béḃinn, the star that hangs just above our home, hides. Fluffy clouds make great wool; I’m certain she’s gathering it by handfuls tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll see wispy, stringy clouds instead of these fluffy ones as Béḃinn stretches the cloud cotton.

Scáthach’s out, though. She sits closest to the moon and isn’t very bright. In some of my stories, she is swallowed by the moon’s light but the moon always spits her back out. She’s only a seed and seeds aren’t any good to eat.

The stars make me think of something big, big enough to hold the whole world. Many years ago, before any of us were here, the land wasn’t firm like it is today. Water covered everything; there weren’t people but there were water women who swam in the deep and came up for air. The sun became thirsty and drank up the water until mud appeared. Soon, river reeds and moss grew and the sun kept drinking until more of the ground dried. But the ground was Ériu, and she knew she would need water, so she pushed some of it deep. Down, down, down it went until pools formed deep under the earth.

The bogs are places the water forgot to sink low. Ériu soaks it in, holds it. Even though I know exactly where it changes, I gasp when the ground gives beneath my feet. It’s bouncy where the water thinks about dropping deeper, where it almost wants to make a pool, but the moss and Ériu link arms, refusing to give up the water. Stepping… here isn’t as bouncy as…here. I smile when I step to the right and Ériu claims my foot, holding it until I pull it from her grasp. Water stains the edge of my shift as I walk faster, side-stepping from firmer earth to the bouncy patches.

Bog cotton springs up in clusters, swaying as water sloshes around the moss. I come to gather the cotton. I’m not really like Béḃinn; Máthair says I have the patience of a squealing pig when it comes to the loom, but I love the whiteheads of the bog cotton. I think they’re really stars come down to play and, when I blow on them, I’m sending them back to their sky village. Some of them hurry like I do after playing—getting caught sneaking out is not fun. Others do not move quickly; instead, they turn over and float slowly homeward. 

I pluck bog cotton, send a few skyward and hold the others in my hand. The frogs tell me stories while I gather. When I laugh at them beneath the moon, a curlew keens from the dark. It sounds as though it remembered something too late; its voice lifts over the bog and tumbles back down in small, watery notes. My eyes squint when the first raindrop lands on my nose. I look up; darker clouds cover more of the stars now and mist hangs low over the bog.

“Hello, rain,” I say, stepping onto a firmer piece of ground to reach another cluster of whiteheads. Crex-crex crex-crex.

“Hello, corncrake. You sound closer than usual.”  I look around me at the tall grass and reeds. “You going to let me see you tonight?”

Crex-crex crex-crex.

I step closer to the noise, scanning the ground around me. I can’t tell where the sound comes from exactly, but she won’t stop. She drives Máthair out of my mind. I pretend I wish she’d stop, but sometimes I fall asleep to the constant crex-crex sound. “What’s hiding all the time like?” Suddenly, I jump. Ériu leaps, splashing my ankles with water and wrapping small reeds and grasses around my feet. Crex-crex crex-crex. Still the same. “One day, I’ll make you laugh, just wait.” We play the same game almost every time: her song doesn’t change.

Two drops of rain fall on me; one splashes my arm, the other gets my cheek. Still, I stay until the frogs finish their stories and my fist won’t hold any more cotton and the edge of my shift is wet all around. As I turn to head home, a hare jumps not far from me, disappearing almost before I know what she is.

The house comes into view when I crest the hill, its round shape one of many clustered together. My breath catches high in my chest as I turn the knob. A door of my heart closes as I step into the house. Without the moon and stars, inside is darker than outside. I feel my heart skip as I pause, scanning for Athair’s chair, hoping he’s not sitting in it.

He’s not.

My fingers tighten around the stems of the bog cotton. They say I need to be more careful but I am very cautious. I only step on the quiet places in the house and I don’t hurry, not even when I can see my mat and am almost there.

Breath doesn’t come all at once. I measure it, like Máthair measures wool for the loom, and thread it through my nose so there’s no sound. The air shrinks and presses against me. Ailill coughs from a room over. Rain drips onto the roof. It’s falling, falling, falling; the corncrake is all wet now. I’ll tell Béḃinn not to take so much; I think she tore a hole in the cloud.

When my mouth stretches wide until I feel the breath in my jaw and my eyes squeeze, I raise my hand. I pull one stem, mouthing one as I do. Some whiteheads are special: if they are unbroken when I hold it up, they are small stars given to the earth—and anyone who finds them. Two. Even when my eyes feel heavy, I keep going, hoping, hoping, hoping I found a star. Three. When someone shifts, air freezes in my lungs. The house quiets; there are no footsteps; I breathe. Four. This one is broken, too, but it looks like an open circle. I push it behind my ear. Five.

My eyes widen and, just for a moment, I don’t feel sleepy. It’s not broken. I found a star! It’s a perfect whitehead, in full bloom, and I found it. A smile tilts my lips up.

I’m still holding stems when my eyes close.

            Áed tugs Máthair’s legs, calling her name over again even as she passes eggs to me, saying, “Put these on the table and then go get your father.”

            “Where’s Ailill eating?”

            “He’s eating with Senmáthair.” Swatting Áed’s hand away from her, she says, “What is it, Áed?”

            Mist still hangs over the land after last night’s rain, but I see them up ahead. I call for Athair, but he doesn’t hear me.                    Cattle move slow; I run much faster than any of them ever will. I hear the slu-oop of my feet running over wet soil and scoop down to pluck a whitehead as I pass it. A mosquito flies near me; I swat it away as Athair sees me and lifts an arm. Bending over, I brace my hands on my knees and wait.

            Damp grass, dung and dust cling to him as he walks closer.

            “We’re ready to break evening fast,” I greet, turning to walk alongside him. No one walks the same in my clan. Máthair steps with the side of her foot first, as if she’s not sure sometimes of the best direction. Ailill steps quietly with his heel first, even in the daylight, as if knocking on the soil to see if it’ll hold. Áed stomps: everyone knows that boy is coming, Máthair says. Athair doesn’t stomp, but his steps are fast and firm, as if he’s sure of where he’s going. I rarely place my heel on the ground, walking instead high on my toes, so I’m always ready to run outside, where I belong, and reach the high things. “How are the cattle?”

            “We have the one ready to give birth. I couldn’t get her out of the byre. I’ll need you and your mother to check on her while we’re on the hunt.”

            “You’re going hunting? Can I come?”

            He chuckles, shakes his head. “No; hunting is for the men, not the village children. You can help your mother.”

            My shoulders drop. “But she’s going to make me work with the loom.”

            “Then you will work with the loom.” The arm he places around my shoulders is hairy. “Tell me, Bréaca, why are your fingers green? And this—” he pinches a small piece of whitehead off, “I know you didn’t wear a dirty shift to sleep last night?  Even if you did,” he picks another one from my braid, “how would it have gotten tangled in your braid?”

            I pull my lip between my teeth and open my mouth, the shape of a lie already forming.

            “Think twice,” he warns, his voice hardening.

            I exhale a harsh breath. “It was such a beautiful night,” I say breathlessly. “There were thousands of stars—the lights came from everywhere—”

            “The lights?”

            “Red, green, white—all kinds of lights.”

He quirks a brow at me.

            My face scrunches as we walk up the last hill.

            “Well, they were going to come… but it was too cloudy and then Béḃinn tore a hole in the clouds and let loose the rain and—”

            “Sneaking out at night to run through the wetland is not safe. There are wolves. And traveling bands.”

            “Tadhg.” The men call my father.

            Athair glances away, toward the men calling his name.

            Lugaid, Éogan, Mugain and her mother wave.  The men carry iron knives. The women carry covered baskets, certainly filled with wool. We’ll mend together. Mugain reaches out to hug me. We talk of the morning while Athair tells the men we’ll break fast before the hunt.

            “What’s this?” Lugaid says cheerfully, reaching out to pluck another bog cotton stem from the back of my shift. I’ve really got to mind that. “Sneaking out again?” He squints an eye playfully, elbowing Éogan in the side. “Doesn’t that mean she lost the wager we had?”

            Éogan snaps his fingers. “Right. We knew she couldn’t stop going to the bogs. So, what was it again that we waged?” 

            “A race, wasn’t it?” Lugaid grins.

            I’ve squatted into position before they have a chance to move. Mugain laughs. Éogan and Lugaid move to either side of me. They are older than me, but my legs are long, nearly as long as theirs. And I am fast. When I glance to my right, Lugaid winks, “Sorry, kid, you’re losing this one.”

            “Yeah. To me.”  Éogan doesn’t sound as playful as Lugaid but he’s more like Athair.

            Standing behind us, Mugain says, “I don’t know; Lugaid looks like he means it.”

            “Get on with it,” Éogan says, his fingers swiping the ground as we all bend low. Máthair calls for us from down the hill.

            “First to the house. One, two, thre—Éogan!”

            Éogan rushes before she says go; me and Lugaid follow. I pump my legs hard, wind rushing against my face as we race down the hill. From behind us, I hear Mugain cheering Lugaid when I overtake him. I will show them: I may be young but I am fierce.

            I am so close to Éogan I can hear him panting. I pump my arms harder, stretching my legs as far as they will go. Still, Éogan slaps the door of the house moments before I do. Laughing as me and Lugaid finish, Éogan says, “Can’t win if I’m in the race.” He ruffles the top of my head and adds, “Stop sneaking out; Lugaid can’t keep racing like that.”

            “Rematch tomorrow.” Lugaid smiles.

            The table is loud with many people. The men talk about the hunt and where they will spend the time, Máthair tells me we will work on the loom with Mugain, Áed knocks over the gourd of water. As it rushes off the edge of the table, soaking the front of my shift, chairs scrape against the ground as Máthair and Mugain rush to save the food. A small whitehead clings to the folds of my dress and it is this that makes me laugh until my belly hurts.

           “My skin feels naked.” I rub my arms with my palms, sitting with my back to my mother. The turf burns low in the hearth, red light breathing through its blackened edges. Máthair’s shadow casts on the wall when she moves behind me.

            Taking a strip of my wet hair, she runs a twig through it, brushing it smooth. “Your skin is clean.”

            I hold my palms out in front of me, twisting one way, then again, trying to see in the dim light. The grass stains and dirt are gone now. Máthair works her fingers through my hair, catching each knot between her nails and worrying it loose before drawing the small antler comb from my crown to the ends.

            “Clean skin smells funny,” I insist, lifting my hands to my nose. She chuckles as Athair eases down into his chair and pulls the carving blade and a block of wood set near the hearth close to him.

            “What does it smell like?” Máthair asks, working my hair into a tight braid.

            I scrunch my nose, pulling my hands from my face and tucking them beneath my legs. “Like nothing. I can’t even smell the water.”

            Máthair crosses strands of my hair over another and says, “But at least you don’t have critters sleeping in your hair.” I start to tell her bog cotton stems are not critters but, before I can, she says, “Tell me about the race.”

            My eyes light up and I forget about my skin feeling naked.

            “Mugain counted us down but Éogan cheated; he took off running before she said go. By the time Lugaid and I started, he was nearly halfway down the hill.”

            Athair chuckles. “I don’t think it was a full minute; he maybe had a half step start.”

            “But I caught up fast, I was miles past Lugaid and I was neck and neck with Éogan, but he has longer arms and that’s the only reason he touched first.”

            Athair leans back in his chair, his smile fading. “You cannot continue sneaking out at night.”

            My shoulders slump. “I don’t go far and I don’t go every night.”

            “The next time you do it, and I find out about it, you won’t like what happens—”

            “They can go whenever they want.”

            “Who?”

            “Lugaid and Éogan and Ailill.”

            “All three of them are at least four years older than you and they’ve been trained.”

            “And they’re boys,” I say surly.

            Athair sighs. “Promise me you will not sneak out again.”

            When I don’t speak up, Máthair’s hand moves to my back, pats twice. Beneath my legs, I cross my fingers before mumbling, “Promise.”