The Gardener Kings by Monica Boothe

Author:Monica Boothe [Boothe, Monica]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Peniel Press
Published: 2021-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

19

Like the Oak Tree

Once we’ve cleared the rapids, Aidan and Eirlys drive the boat onto the riverbank. We climb over the edge of the boat and slosh through the shallow water to pull it farther up the bank, till the river only laps at it with gentle nudges, but the boat rests unmoved.

Eirlys takes out a small knife and wades to the back of the boat, new ripples swirling about her knees as she moves. She cuts from the back edge of the boat a netted bag, full of writhing fish. She holds it up with both fists. “Take your pick,” she says and drops the great shimmering mass onto the bank. “Trout or grayling?”

I’ve never had grayling before, but we used to eat trout at home. Eirlys shakes four fish out of the bag and leaves them flopping on the muddy bank while she carries the rest back to the back of the boat.

Aidan has already gathered stones and dry wood for a fire. Rían offers to help him, and I kneel on the bank beside Eirlys to clean the fish. I pull out Fáelán’s dagger and turn it to scrape the scales off the trout.

“What’s it like?” Eirlys is scraping her fish, but her wide eyes are on me. “Coming home after years of captivity.”

“I don’t know.” Should I try to imagine how the Iníon from Dugald would feel, or do I answer honestly? Is there a difference between the two? “I’m not really sure that it is home. How much of a difference do you think it makes, where a person was born?”

“Oh, I think it makes a difference.” Having scraped her fish clear of scales, she slits its belly and with a deft swipe of one finger, removes its internal organs. “My mother always said, ‘Gàrradh, it’s in your blood.’”

It sounds like something Rían would say. I look up at the river. From where we sit, we can still see the rapids, white and frothy, the border of Gàrradh.

“But you know what they say,” Eirlys continues. “‘In this world…’” I mouth the words along with her: blood is everything, but instead she ends the sentence with “‘…blood is nothing.’”

I turn to her with surprise. “Do they?”

“In Bryn, they do. It used to always be my father’s response. Whenever my mother said that Gàrradh was in our blood, he’d reply, ‘But in this world, blood is nothing.’ Though I don’t think even he would disagree with the sentiment. Gàrradh, after all, it’s who we are. We are the kingless land. The free peoples. There is no one else like us on earth.” She rinses the fish in the river and reaches for the next one, and I remember what I’m supposed to be doing. I slip the knife through the bottom of the fish and reach inside to gut it. “I mean, my father has always lived in Gàrradh, and his father before him, and his father. Back for hundreds of years, we’ve lived in this land.

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