She had drawn a rough rectangle, tall rather than wide. She pointed almost in the middle. “That’s where we live, Fingin.”
He’d laughed. “We live over there in our home. Not here, in the stable yard. I don’t understand.”
“This is a drawing of what our land looks like, but much tinier than the real thing. Those Christian monks your parents love have drawings like this, in their scrolls and books. If you walked from side to side, east,” she pointed toward where the sun rose, “to west” and she pointed to where the sun set, “you’d have to walk for about two days if you never stopped to rest, eat, or sleep. Four days if you travel wisely.”
She pointed to the two sides of the picture. “That would correspond with my map here and here.”
He tried to get his head around the concept. “So, this is like when I make a tiny horse whittled out of wood?”
“Yes, just like that! A tiny model of our land. Now, I know you’re well familiar with our river, An Ruirthech. That’s here.” She drew a line near the right side of the map, about in the middle, top to bottom.
“That’s fresh water, but if you go out to the edge of the island, the water that surrounds us is salt water, unfit to drink.”
“Are there no fish in the ocean, then?”
“Oh, no! There are much bigger fish in the ocean! But they can breathe the salt water. Some of them are enormous, much bigger than horses or cows.”
He didn’t quite believe her, but he would never say so.
Now, as he rafted down a different river, on the opposite side of the island, he watched for this ocean, this mythical body of undrinkable water, which held gigantic fish. He wondered if they would jump over the surface like salmon did. Would he see them? Would they listen to him?
He quested out in his mind to find any local fish, and a few voices filtered through the water, but he found only trout, salmon, minnows, and other river denizens. Voices he recognized well. A few birds chattering about their passage, and a curious deer staring at them as they floated by. The deer bounded away once they’d passed.
The river opened out ahead, and he worked to shove the raft closer to the shore. He chose the south shore, as Brigit had told him the island he sought lay past the river mouth and far to the south. Should he try to continue to raft along the ocean’s edge? The water might be rougher, from what his grandmother had said. Great storms sometimes pounded the western edge of the island, furious weather which ate bits of the shore. He had no wish to be caught in such a storm.
Still, walking across land seemed so slow to him now, after this delightful swift mode of travel. He should wait to decide until he found the ocean.
Bran howled, startling Fingin from his thoughts, and someone answered him. Frantically, Fingin searched both shores for the source of the answering howl. After a moment, he saw them, three ragged dogs, on the south shore. They pawed at the dirt, trying to get up enough nerve to jump into the river to get at Bran. Bran kept howling, an unnerving sound that made Fingin’s stomach feel hollow.
“Bran, stop that! They can’t get to us from here.”
“But they’re there! I have to talk to them!”
Fingin quested out in his mind, asking the dogs what they wanted. Their only response was a question — who passes? What do you want? Don’t come here, this is our place!
“It’s not needed. We’ll be past them soon. They’re just trying to figure out who we are.”
The hound whimpered, but whimpering sounded better than unearthly howling.
* * *
Over the course of the day’s travel, the river opened into a great estuary, small islands dotting the wide expanse of the river mouth. Fingin had never seen so much water in one place in his entire life. Bran glanced around with wide eyes, and even the usually laconic Sean seemed impressed.
“This is the ocean. My grandmother told me about it.”
Bran let out a few curious yips as something bumped the raft. Then he barked several times, running from one corner to the next, peering into the water. “Something’s there! It’s a big fish! But it doesn’t smell like a fish. It’s huge!”
It bumped the raft again, and Fingin sent his thoughts below the surface, searching for animal intelligence. The voice which answered him came strong and loud. “What are you? You don’t look like the coracle boats.”
Startled at such a cohesive response from a fish, Fingin said, “I’m Fingin, and this is Bran and Sean. Who are you?” and then, with even more curiousity, “What are you?”
The water splashed, and a large gray fish with smooth skin rather than scales popped her head up. She chittered, nodded a few times, and said, “I’m Tanni! I’m me, of course. What else would I be?”
The fish seemed as large as Sean, and then some. A sudden clutch of fear gripped Fingin’s heart, but the voice had been so genial, he couldn’t remain afraid long. He smiled at the creature. “Bran, this is Tanni. She has a name, just like you!”
Bran cocked his head and regarded Tanni. He barked once again and then sat. “Then we can’t eat her? I bet she doesn’t taste as good as salmon does.”
With a chuckle, Fingin turned to Tanni with an idea. “We want to get to an island full of religious men. It’s also covered in sea birds, and lies to the south, a steep mountaintop jutting out of the water. Do you know where I’m talking about?”
Tanni chittered a few more times, almost like a cat who sees a bird and
