Fearchar & Seonaid

Fearchar led Eoin up to the entrance of the cottage.  It was well kept. Small autumn flowers were growing up against the stone, absorbing the warmth of the sun.  He noted a few simple medicinal herbs and some cold weather vegetables. “She’s a green thumb,” Fearchar smiled as he made off to the side of the house.  Eoin stood at the door, a bit confused. Fearchar emerged with a sling of firewood. “Easier ta’ bring it in now, rather than get aw settled and be sent f’r more later,” he set the bundle down at the door and knocked.  Eoin glanced at the man. The door wasn’t capable of being locked. Why was he knocking?

Then he noticed the noise.  A scattering of footsteps. A man came to the door, his face flush.  He pulled on his great coat. “Nice to see ye, Cormic,” Fearchar picked up his firewood before the man could tumble over them.  

“Efternuin, Fear,” the man mumbled.  He glanced at Eoin and looked away, his  face going red into his hairline. He skittered down the path quickly, pulling his hood up around his ears.

Eoin glanced back at Fearchar, trying to understand what that was all about.  Fearchar whistled happily, taking in the sling of wood and Eoin’s duffel. Eoin followed him in.  A warm hearth and stone chimney in the middle of the house greeted them. A wall buffered the main living quarters and a secondary area, what Eoin expected to be a bedchamber.  Near the door was a large work table on top of cupboards. Pegs in the chink and rock held all variety of working gear and clothing. From the rafter drifted pots, tools, and drying vegetation.

“Seonaid! Brought yer supper,” Fearchair yelled into the house merrily.  He sidled to the door on the other side of the fireplace.  Eoin followed him, not entirely sure where to set his box.  “Got a guest.” Fearchar strolled into the room. Eoin did a quick one-eighty and swallowed hard.  Fearchar leaned down to kiss his wife. Naked wife. Very much having just been in bed with a strange man.  

The woman glanced at the cloaked figure and stifled an amused snort. “You didn’t tell him what I do for a living?” she asked her husband.  She had a distinguished accent that Eoin had a hard time putting his finger on.

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2 Comment on “Quiet Village: Page 17

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