A dark shoreline hove in the distance, against the still-foggy horizon. Without warning, the bottom of the raft scraped and scratched against something, and the world flipped sideways.
His fingers remained stuck inside the twine knots, and now the raft floated above him. He panicked and breathed in water. He yanked, trying to get his fingers out, looking around frantically for Sean and Bran, but seawater filled his vision.
One mighty pull, and his bruised fingers came free. He launched himself to the edge of the bottom of the raft, and broke the surface, pulling in the air with sweet relief, despite the pounding rain. He coughed, trying to clear his burning lungs.
Sean brayed next to him, floundering in the water to swim for the shore. He listened for Bran’s bark. The storm raged around him. Waves pounded his face as he tried not to swallow more bitter seawater.
One step at a time. He got hold of Sean’s bridle and swam to shore, keeping the donkey’s head above water. A rude bump to his bottom made him cry out, but his attacker was only one of the Fae fish, trying to help. Another bumped Sean, and then a third.
By the time he reached the rocky shore, he panted for breath. His skin soaked, his body scraped and bruised from the rocks, Fingin and Sean stood safe on dry land. With frantic desperation, he searched for his hound.
“Bran? Bran! Bran, where are you!”
A rumble of thunder and the constant pounding of the rain against the rocks answered.
Chapter Eight
The storm raged on for the rest of the afternoon. After Fingin found a small cliff overhang for Sean to rest under, he searched up and down the shoreline for any sign of Bran.
Fingin called until his throat rasped hoarsely. He examined every lump on the ground, in case he found the remains of his beloved friend.
He cried, but the tears washed away with the constant rain.
Soaked and exhausted, Fingin trudged back to where he’d left Sean. The donkey, miserable and alone, huddled against the bare stone ledge, trying to keep away from the steady dripping.
The raft had disappeared, as well as the pannikins and all their supplies. He didn’t even have flint for a fire. He still had Brigit’s pendant, safe around his neck, but nothing else.
And he had no Bran.
The Fae fish had all swum away, no longer interested in the strange boat and its inhabitants. At least they’d helped him and Sean to shore. Maybe they’d also helped Bran find dry land. Maybe the dog would find them if they stayed here for a little while.
Despite the storm, he curled up next to Sean and descended into a fitful, restless sleep.
He woke several times, certain he heard Bran’s bark or voice on the whistling wind. Once, lightning struck the water just past the rocks where they sheltered, lighting up the entire shoreline in bright white light. Fingin searched but saw no dark form walking toward them in the brief flash of lucidity.
The storm eased as darkness enveloped them. The rain didn’t stop, but settled into a fine misty drizzle, enough to keep them in their bare shelter until the sun rose again in the morning.
Fingin had no wish to greet the dawn this day, even if the sun showed its face. His heart grew heavy with Bran’s absence. No joy sang within him.
Sean didn’t want to travel anywhere, either, but he grew hungry. Their supplies drowned in the storm, so he found a patch of grass to chew while Fingin searched again. This morning, the sun struggled to burn through the fog, revealing a waterlogged landscape with rocks, trees, and little else. They had landed on some small spit of land sticking out into the sea. He’d have to head back east to continue his journey south.
In his exploration, he came across a few scraps from his pack. A bowl. A spoon. A strip of ragged fabric that may have been from a léine he’d had. He found no twine, no knife, no flint, no food.
He sat on a rock, gazing out into the still-choppy ocean, begging for Bran to pop his head through the surface and bark. Even a whine would be great. Sean brayed behind him, and he sighed.
Something broke the surface. For a moment, Fingin’s hope soared but fell as the trout swam away. Perhaps one of the Fae fish. As helpful as they had been, he felt relieved they’d parted company. The raft had been swift, but too dangerous.
He’d blame himself forever for drowning Bran. The poor dog had already almost drowned once, and now he’d done it again.
Fingin stood, with one last resentful glare at the greedy ocean. He cursed the water and, his hand on Sean’s neck, walked east along the shore.
The sun disappeared amongst the clouds as the morning passed. Sean and Fingin picked their way along the southern edge of the peninsula, scanning ahead and behind for their furry companion. They stopped for a rest just as the shore swung south again.
He wished he had his fishing net. He’d have to make more twine and create a new one. In the meantime, though, he’d grown ravenous. A strawberry bush halfway through the morning had assuaged his worst hunger pangs, but they’d returned stronger than ever.
Fingin searched the rocks for clams. He found none, but he did find oysters. He’d never eaten oysters, though he’d heard of them. Using a sharp rock, he pried one open, at the cost of a sliced finger. He wished intently for a fire, even a small one. With eyes squeezed shut, he swallowed the slimy, salty thing. He almost gagged but clamped his mouth closed, refusing to
