After their lunch, and much refreshed by not only the meal but the fact they once again faced west, Fingin sang as he walked. Inspired by the seals he noticed earlier when he mistook their barks for Bran’s own, he sang a song of murdúchann.
His words described the first humans who came to the island, the sons of Míl, those who encountered the Tuatha Dé Danaan. The murdúchann played around the ships of these late invaders, distracting them and keeping them from landing for many days. Sirens sang, which lulled the sailors to sleep with their song. One wise Druid amongst them, a man named Caicher, handed out wax with which to plug their ears, an effective shield against their magic.
Should a man ever heed the call of murdúchann and enter the water to be with her, the sea creature would tear them apart, limb by limb, and eat them. Tales of a thigh washed ashore in the island’s southeast gave truth to this belief.
Once he finished his song, Bran yipped. “Were those fish who pulled our raft the same creatures?”
“No, of course not. The murdúchann have the upper half of a human woman, with the bottom of a fish. The Fae fish had no human parts.”
Bran peered out into the water as if trying to conjure the creatures again, to get a better glimpse at their form. “But they said they breathed air. You said fish only breathed water.”
“That’s why I call them Fae fish. They have some strange magic.”
Sean let out a soft bray as if laughing at the hound’s naiveté.
Bran swiveled to glare at the donkey. “What’s funny?”
After smothering a laugh, Fingin passed the comment to Sean, who snorted.
Bran pouted and let out a mock growl. “What’s he laughing at?”
Fingin couldn’t comment and keep his laugh at the same time. Instead, he pointed ahead. “Look! There’s a mountain range. Do you think we can get to it before evening falls?”
The distraction worked, and Bran bounded ahead.
* * *
The mountains didn’t quite reach the ocean, so walking along the coast didn’t involve too much hiking up hills. It took the rest of that day and all the next before they got close to the western end of the peninsula. Beyond the mainland lay a large island, with more islands dotting in the ocean beyond that. Perhaps they’d be lucky, and the monks would be on this island. A lumpy hill rose on the far end, but not like Brigit had described. Fingin suspected they needed to get to the large island before they found the one they searched for.
A long line of stepping stones allowed them to ford an inlet across to the large island. They then turned left to climb the steep hill on the western tip.
The sun had almost touched the edge of the ocean as they reached the top. Fingin, Bran, and Sean gazed out to the sea, and the island Brigit described sat right in front of him.
Islands, he should say. Two mountaintops, one smaller than the other, stuck out of the waves. White with birds wheeling and nesting amongst the crags, they appeared as he’d imagined. This must be where the monks lived and where he needed to seek for word of his grandmother.
Then he eyed the vast expanse of choppy ocean between his vantage point on his island and the bare shore of the monks’ island. In no lifetime would he ever even try to swim that distance. He doubted he wanted to cross it in a raft, even if he hadn’t almost drowned the last time he traveled in that manner.
If men lived on the island, they must return to the mainland for supplies. They would have a boat for such journeys. He’d just need to secure passage on that boat the next time it crossed. But where would it be here? He peered down to the shore but saw no place where a boat might moor. He’d passed a flat beachy area on the way to the hill. Perhaps that’s where the monks embarked. He’d just have to search out the right place.
They picked their way back down the mountain and scanned the flat areas for evidence of frequent boat use, but found none. The mainland lay just across the inlet, but he detected no details of human creation there, either.
As the day had almost died, Fingin cast his net in the growing gloom, catching several large salmon and a huge fish. This strange creature resembled the Fae fish, with smooth skin and a single fin, but with a pointy nose and several rows of very sharp teeth. Amazed this catch didn’t break his net, he sent out a question to the fish, asking what it was. However, the fish only returned with the words, “Food. Swim. Food.”
With a shrug, he hauled in the fish and cleaned them. He stoked the fire with a wary eye on the sky. The night remained clear so far, stars just beginning to twinkle in the east.
As the last of the dying light disappeared in the west, Fingin snuggled between the warm bodies of Sean and Bran, content with his life and his quest. While he missed the security of a sturdy roundhouse, for now, he had a goal, a direction. Something he’d been missing most of his adult life, other than the day-to-day needs of survival and entertainment. Brigit had given him a gift more valuable than any magical healing charm. She’d given him a purpose.
When he woke in the morning, he stretched, stiff and creaking, in the cool morning air.
