Chapter Seven
The same night Beathan had saved him from the river, Mor lay in his hut with a cold poultice one of the women made on his wounded face. His jaw ached and he was dizzy still when he tried to get up. His new hinged door was ajar to let the cool air inside. Though he was as afraid as anyone else in the village, Mor was alone in that he didn’t like the new doors. He didn’t like being shut off from the world. He’d never felt more alone ins life than when the door had been attached and he was shut inside his hut behind it for the first time. Only moment had passed before he opened it wide once more.
Now, in the dark by a dying tin fire, Mor was cursing himself for what had happened that day. He owed Beathan his life now, and though he was grateful to be alive, there was no tellin
