Rian is tired. The pain of the world has settled into his bones, and he is not as young as he used to be.

The first time he got pulled into a rescue mission, it was thrilling. Terrifying, but the details are still as clear as yesterday in his mind. 

It was the spring when River, his son, was not quite a year old. Rian had taken a bath after the morning training sessions, and he planned to go down to the village to purchase some new shoes. He was in a hurry, whistling, thinking about River, when he strode through the south gate and—

Into an entirely different village. He was standing on a rutted road, round houses crumpled into the earth around him, the scent of burnt wood and wool sitting dusky in the air. Rian was a warrior, and he knew the look and smell of freshly ruined villages. A little under a week, he guessed, since these fires had raged. 

He turned in a circle, slowly, trying to keep panic from skittering through him. The hills and horizon wasn’t familiar. Fionn’s castle and the connected village—none of it was here. But Rian had traveled Ireland enough to know that he was still in the south, not too near the coast, nor in the mountains. 

So the usual gate must have become a door Between. Rian looked around one more time, checking to see if anyone else had come along with him, even one of the castle dogs. He was alone, which at first was frightening but then he thought of people he was glad he didn’t have to deal with. Alone was fine.

He walked through the streets. It didn’t take long; just a cluster of round houses around a central well, a half-fallen log palisade, a few farms beyond. The fire had leapt between the thatched roofs but not burned too hot, for many of the walls were still standing, only a few buildings on the west side burned to the ground. Rian hated this part of a battle, even when he knew where he was and had walked there with his own feet. But since he was here, he might as well be useful. Somehow.

Looking back, this was an easy assignment, as though the magic knew it had to start with something even a confused young man couldn’t bungle. Eventually, twenty-year-old Rian found fresh eggshells, and then vegetable peelings. Life! A spark of human soul, glittering among the wreckage of human cruelty. He found them hiding in the upper loft, tucked into a corner that had been recently mended and thus the wood was too green to burn quickly. A grandmother, three small children, and a limp baby. The old woman had used all her wits to shelter and feed them, but had used all her strength by now too. She and the babe were laying on the cold floor, covered in what scraps of blankets the children had found. Frankly, they wouldn’t have made it the night, and the children were too small to have any sense.

Rian thrilled to the challenge. He figured it was no more than any able-bodied man would do: He built a ladder, boiled water, foraged a simple meal and some basic healing herbs, shuffled through the ruins until he found enough to stitch together cloaks and blankets for the children. He tried to remember what age River had been when he could eat more than goat milk, and figured this baby was close enough. He hoped the baby was close enough, because there were no goats. The farms had been raided, but briefly, and the children were good enough at gleaning as long as Rian stayed nearby, telling stories to keep their spirits up, but what really matters was his broad shoulders and the heavy sword across his back. The children dared stay out in the sunlight when he was there. He boiled the roots, mashed them into pulp, and balanced the baby on his lap while he tried to aim mashed turnips at its mouth. If he dipped in just the tip of his finger, the baby would suck eagerly, and if he kept his finger in the baby’s mouth for a minute she didn’t mush it all back out with her tongue. It took a long time, but he got some food in her, and her cheeks pinked back up. Then the others got more cheerful and feasted on turnips and eggs. 

It was only what any warrior would have done.

Rian could figure out how to take care of the stragglers, but he never knew if he was about to walk Between. What would happen to them if he disappeared back to Fionn’s castle? Or maybe he would never get home again! Praise the gods that River had his foster mothers, and didn’t depend on Rian in a physical day-to-day way—but still, he needed a parent, and Rian was the only one. The wet-nurse spent much of her time at Fionn’s castle, in those days, so Rian could see River when he wasn’t on assignment. So the only way that Rian could manage being away from River was to tell himself that this was an assignment too. 

All these years later, that was still how he thought of it. He had assignments from Fionn, assignments from his armlet, and then his duty to his family—River. None of them acknowledged the others, but he made it work. Barely.

In the burned-out village, it took two days to stabilize the old woman and children. On the third and fourth days, Rian took brief scouting missions. He was startled when he found a particular cliff face, a rock formation that he could not help but recognize. He knew this place—but it was wrong. The village was not in the right relation. When he followed the creek downstream he found an elaborately constructed dam forming a pool in a meadow where he had certainly camped with his troop just a month ago. His skin prickling, he followed the banks all the way around. Here was a bathing area. Here, stones to hold the bank in place. He took off his boots and hiked up his léine and waded in, hissing at the chill. Waterlilies. Fish. Cat-tails with signs of being harvested last autumn. Rian climbed out and sat in a patch of sun, staring out across the glittering water. This pond had not formed in the last month. It had not even formed in the last year. So the trip Between had not brought him somewhere far away, but it had brought him somewhen far away. All right. That was unsettling, but that was what he had to deal with, so he would deal with it. 

But meanwhile, he took just a few minutes to appreciate the birdsong and let the sun soak into his shoulders, because that’s the only way to get though the hard times.

That night, back in the half-burned house, a whimpering toddler on one hip and a bowl of turnips in the other, he spied something else. Under a fallen beam, something too colorful, something… He set down the child and pointed, and all three of the little ones scrambled to make the discovery. Rian started to laugh, watching them, hearing those joyful little shrieks.

“What is it?” demanded the old woman.

Rian put up his hands, having no way to explain it to her. His library had followed him, although it could only manage one little shelf of books with a scented candle on top. 

The oldest child was shushing the other two, smacking their hands so they couldn’t touch the “beautiful tapestries, too fine for the likes of us!”

“It’s fine, lass, it’s fine.” Rian settled on the floor, leaning his aching back against the one solid wall. “They’re here for you. Bring me a pretty one, now, won’t you? It has a story in it. I’ll tell you the stories.” He hadn’t even said that much before the little two were plopped in his lap and nestling against his chest. “Bill Peet,” Rian continued, examining their offerings. “Goodnight, Moon.” 

“Moon,” repeated the toddler. 

Rian had no idea how it worked, given that his people didn’t even have written language. He didn’t know where the books came from or why the library followed him from place to place. He had no idea how anyone in his time could understand the books from the library—in any language, trains and llamas and peanut butter sandwiches appeared clear as day in their heads—but apparently the magic of story was universal.

“May I have this one?” The oldest child had taken her time, carefully selecting a book with elaborate pictures.

Rian held out an arm, welcoming her close. Skinny elbows and knees and a heart that was daring to hope.

“Pity,” said the old woman, her gaze sharp, “we haven’t any milk. We must leave out milk.”

She meant for the Good People, of course. The ones you do not name. When Rian was young, one had come and talked with him every year, but already he was in horror of how much he had taken Herself for granted, like she was—normal. A part of the world he lived in. His own normalcy was now gone entirely—she had saddled him with a library that followed him like a dog and a predisposition to walk through doors into another time. Right then and there, children on his lap and a breeze blowing through the open side of the burned house and the wary eyes of the grandmother boring into him, Rian was suddenly and horrifically aware that this was the first time but it would not be the last. This was his destiny—the storybooks and the human tragedies, his broadsword and his common sense.

“I think, granny”—Rian swallowed around the lump in his throat—“that tonight they would accept a bowl of mashed turnips.”

to be continued….

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