The donkey shook his head but tried the raft again. In a moment of inspiration, Fingin ran to the shore. Bran barked but didn’t follow. Instead, he sat and put his head on his paws. Fingin, once he got onto the land, pulled the raft onto the beach with all his might. The edge came up onto the sand.
“Now, the edge is stable. Give it another try, Sean.”
The donkey stepped on the closest log, but it only moved slightly, sinking into the wet sand. When Sean put a second hoof on the raft, it moved a little more, but still not the bobbing target it had been when fully in the water.
The animal climbed all the way onto the raft with slow steps. His legs remained at somewhat rakish angles, but he stood in the middle, happily crunching his carrot.
“Try sitting down, Sean. It will feel more solid.”
The donkey stared at him and then lowered himself with achingly slow movements. He didn’t seem at all comfortable, but he’d gotten on board. Fingin cheered inside and bent to shove the raft off the shore.
The raft sat deeper now with both Bran and Sean. He grunted and sweated until he managed a few inches, and then a few inches more. By the time he had the craft all the way into the water, he had just about run out of strength.
The raft bobbed in the water while both animals’ eyes grew wide, the whites showing in alarm. Fingin grabbed the line, untied it from the tree, and jumped onto the raft himself. He lifted his steering pole and shoved it into the slope of the riverbed, pushing away from the land.
They twisted and swerved in the river current. Bran sang a mournful howl, and Sean appeared terrified. However, Fingin sang a song his grandmother had once taught him.
“Aréir is mé téarnamh ar neoin
Ar ar dtaobh eile 'en teóra seo thiós”
Last night and I wandering as you do, On the other side of my lands I was. He shoved against the pole again, and they drifted further into the center of the river.
“Do thaobhnaigh an spéirbhean im' chomhair
D'fhág taomanac breoite lag tinn”
There a beautiful woman approached him, who left me sick and moody afterwards. Bran still whimpered, but he’d calmed down somewhat since Fingin began his song, so he kept singing, hoping it would distract the poor hound from his fear.
“Le haon ghean dá méin is dá cló
Dá bréithre 's dá beol tanaí binn”
With her lovely bearing and shape, her sweet words and slender lips. Sean’s eyes grew less wide and frantic, and he swayed in time with each stroke of the vessel.
“Do léimeas fá dhéin dul 'na treo
Is ar Éirinn ní neosfainn cé hí”
I hastened to be in her presence, but for all of Éire, I’d not tell her name. By the time he’d finished the song, both beasts seemed much less upset. He sang two more songs as they floated down the river. As they passed a bend in the river, he shoved his pole against the far shore, keeping them near the middle. The effort almost made him lose his balance.
The rest of that afternoon, they drifted down the water. He’d never moved this fast, and the land rushing by on either side of them made him dizzy if he peered at the details too hard.
Bran stopped whining but kept his head on his paws. He didn’t seem happy, but at least he no longer seemed terrified or miserable. Fingin took this as a measure of progress. Sean also seemed resigned to his current situation.
A few drops made Fingin glance up, surprised to find gloomy clouds rolling in. They didn’t look like a storm front, but the day waned. It might be better to make their way to shore and find a place to spend the night.
The center of the river ran too deep for his pole to reach, but as they passed a bend, the raft drifted closer to the far shore, and Fingin shoved the pole into the riverbed. At first, he made no difference in their path. Poling a raft took skill Fingin had never learned. However, with some practice and a few mistakes, he steered the raft close enough to shore to jump into the shallows. With quick movements, he tied the raft to a large rock.
Coaxing Sean and Bran off the craft took little work. Bran bounded off in a moment, his thrill to be back on dry land apparent. Sean stepped with more caution, but once he stood on solid ground, he shook all over. “I’m glad that’s done.”
The rain dissipated as quickly as it had come, but Fingin didn’t have the energy for another journey that day. With a clear sky as the sun set, they slept on the beach. Fingin experienced a great sense of accomplishment for how far they’d traveled. It must be three times as fast as he would have done on foot.
The next morning shone bright and clear. Fingin greeted the dawn with great anticipation and excitement. The vantage point, on a shallow cliff above their little beach, commanded a fantastic view of the rising sun along the river. The morning rays colored the water with delightful shades of orange and peach. He took in a deep breath and with it, the promise and the hope of the new day.
He convinced both animals to mount the raft again without having to beach it first or offer a bribe of food. Perhaps today, they might reach the ocean.
Fingin’s grandmother had educated him as a child. She’d taught him history, geography, numbers, and practical things like making twine and manners. He tried to pull up the memory of the map she’d
