He offered one to Sean, but the donkey refused, preferring the sweet grass in the sand dunes. He sat for several moments, willing his gut to settle down. The waves lapped against the rocks, forming hollow claps and clicks. In the distance, he spied a few shapes on the rocks. One of them moved, and he stared, trying to figure out what manner of creature he saw. When it flopped into the water, he realized it must be a seal; another creature of the sea he’d heard of but never seen. Legend had it some seals were murdúchann, magical creatures who shed their sealskins and took human form.
These murdúchann would mate with a human man but then return to the sea, leaving their children on the land. Sometimes they chose to live on dry land, and sometimes the man stole their sealskin to prevent their return.
The barks of the creatures echoed along the waves, bouncing and breaking across the rocks where he sat, transfixed by the unusual sight.
He still heard barking, even after the last seal dove into the water. Fingin cocked his head. The seals wouldn’t be barking underwater.
When the wet, shaggy form slammed into him, dragging him to the ground, he didn’t believe his eyes. “Bran? Bran, you’re alive!”
His hound slobbered wet kisses all over Fingin’s face, knocking him down to the rocks and holding him with his paws. Fingin didn’t even bother to push him away but pulled the hound into a great hug. Bran’s fur felt gritty and matted with saltwater, but dry. He must have been somewhere farther along the coast all this time.
Bran continued to lick Fingin’s face, hands, and arms. He even ran over to Sean and licked the donkey’s nose, much to Sean’s disgust. “I searched everywhere for you both! I ran up and down the beach, but I didn’t see you anywhere! Too much fog. I couldn’t smell anything but wet. I found some fish on the rocks, though, but they tasted bad. I’m hungry. Do you have better fish?”
Fingin hugged Bran again, rocking in relief. He had his friend back again. Everything seemed brighter now.
“I have no fish, Bran, I’m sorry. I lost my net in the storm, along with our packs.”
Bran yipped, a grin on his face. “I found one of them! But I can’t use the net.”
“What? You found one of our packs?”
For an answer, Bran disappeared around one bush and returned, dragging the leather strap of the pannikin. It had broken in the middle, but one pack, waterlogged and heavy, remained. With an exclamation of delight, Fingin rooted through it, taking stock of his new-found possessions.
“My fishing net! My knife, another bowl. Oh, that dried fish is disgusting now.” He tossed it on a rock. Bran ambled over to sniff it, but even he wouldn’t eat it, ruined with seawater. “Two léinte! I’ll need fresh water to clean them. Aha!” He held up his fire-making kit, with flint and fool’s gold. “This is more valuable than silver, Bran! Thank you so much for saving this. And for not drowning!”
Bran ducked his head. “It tangled around my leg. I didn’t do it on purpose.”
“It doesn’t matter. With my net and flint, we can have cooked fish for supper.”
Bran barked in delight three times as Fingin pulled his net out and hefted it, eyeing the now-calm inlet.
* * *
The walk along the coast remained pleasant enough for the next two days. The three of them journeyed on, not hurrying but not tarrying, either. They climbed rocky outcroppings, detoured around boggy estuaries, ran along flat white beaches, and sheltered under enormous oak trees as they made their way south. When he squinted, Fingin spied land on the other side of the water, another peninsula jutting into the ocean. Did the island he searched for sit on the end of that one? The Fae fish had mentioned the stinky island sat off the end of the tip of land. He hoped so.
A long, flat, beautiful beach crossed almost to the other side of the waterway. Out of curiosity, they walked along the sand, hoping it would connect to the southern land. When the bit of land curved away, just short of their destination, he considered the waterway.
It seemed deep and swift, but narrow. He discerned a few roundhouses on the far side, clear enough that he observed a man walking.
“What do you think, Sean? Can we swim across this?”
Sean stared at the water but didn’t answer.
Bran, however, had an opinion. “I don’t want to try. The water looks deep. What if another storm comes?”
Fingin glanced at the clear, blue sky, just one white cloud low on the horizon. “I don’t think we’ll get any rain today, Bran. It shouldn’t take us long to get across. Can you smell a storm?”
Bran sniffed the wind. “Not right now, but I still don’t like it.”
With a deep sigh, Fingin nodded. “Very well, Bran. We’ll walk. Come along.”
They wended their way back to the mainland, along the other side of the beach. Staying on the shore wouldn’t add too much to their journey. The land remained visible in the misty distance. Perhaps a half day extra to round the inlet.
He’d kept his eye out for mountaintops sticking out of the ocean, covered in seabirds, but so far, none of the tiny islands along the coast fit the description. He suspected he’d have to walk along the next peninsula to find the stinky island the Fae fish had spoken of. Their trek on this portion had taken most of a day. The next one looked rougher. The journey would be more difficult if those peaks reached the shore.
When the shore turned again, from east to south to west, they had a river to cross. However, this river had a friendly ferryman who took them
