Everything remained still except the faint lapping of the ocean against the rocky shore. Somewhere in the distance, a seagull cried. A few songbirds answered the complaint, heralding a morning chorus to wake him.
Fingin wished the sun rose in the west, so he might catch the precise moment when it crested the horizon. Perhaps someday he would travel to the other side of the island and witness the sunrise across the water from there. For now, he arranged himself in his ceremonial stance, cross-legged and eyes closed, to greet the sun.
Almost as if they joined him in his worship, the birds sang to his chants, matching his rhythm and delight. A practiced chorus to welcome the dawn, a waking of the life of the day, and the power of brightness.
Fingin’s blood buzzed with the resurgence of energy and strength. His skin tingled with the magic of rebirth. The dominance of sunlight burned his eyes.
When he finished his ceremony, the power returned to the ground, his steps came lighter, and his heart had lifted. No longer did he gaze upon the journey across the water with dread, but with determined purpose. He called out for the Fae fish, but none came close enough to answer his call.
If he didn’t find a Fae fish or a regular boatman, he would build a boat himself. No raft this time, but a coracle, the hide-covered, wicker-spined round boat most men on the island used for sea travel. He should be able to build a boat. His father had shown him how to repair one, long ago.
After their experience with the storm, Bran would not be eager to board another craft. Sean would be useless on that almost vertical island. They could both wait here for him, as his visit wouldn’t take long.
However, to build a coracle, he needed thin wood and hide. The wood would be easy enough to find, as trees lay just behind him. However, the hide meant a cow, and he had no cows. He also had no trade goods to buy a cow, nor any way to find a market to buy a tanned hide. This posed a considerable barrier to his plans. He glanced at Sean, and then swallowed, horrified at even considering hurting or trading his friend.
As he sat on the beach, plotting strategies, a motion caught his eye. He focused his gaze across the inlet, and he watched as two robed men jumped into a coracle and paddled west.
There! That’s where the monks embarked. He’d been on the wrong side of the water.
He jumped up and waved his hands with mad abandon, yelling and screaming to get the men’s attention. Bran watched his antics and barked, evidently confused but playing along. Even Sean brayed and nodded.
Fingin shouted himself hoarse but continued to leap and gesture until finally, the little coracle veered in their direction. Panting and voiceless, Fingin bent over and took a drink from his waterskin.
The craft crept closer, and Fingin observed details of the men rowing it. They had shaved their foreheads into a tonsure and wore undyed robes of rough weave.
He turned to Bran and Sean. “I don’t think I can take you on the island.”
Bran shook his head and sneezed. “I don’t want to go in the water again.”
Sean brayed his agreement.
“I promise I’ll come back here when I return. Wait for me?”
Sean answered for them both. “We will wait for you, Fingin.”
As the men approached the shore, Fingin gritted his teeth, remembering his speech difficulties with humans.
“Who hails the brothers of Fionán?”
“I… I… I need t-t-to t-travel to the island. Are you g-g-going… there?”
The monks peered at Bran and Sean, but Fingin shook his head. “Just me. My hound and… d-donkey will remain here. My mission shouldn’t t-take long. I only seek… information.”
He held out three packages of the large fish, wrapped in seaweed. The monk with darker hair eyed the offering, peeking under the wrapping, and then nodded. He left the rest of his supplies and the remaining pack with Sean, after leaving out plenty of food for Bran.
“We shall take you to the monastery.”
* * *
The small coracle might be ideal for one person. Three people made it crowded and uncomfortable. In addition, Fingin fretted about too much weight for the wicker braces. He spent the trip in silence, gripping the edge and doing his best to remain still. The monks offered neither conversation nor questions.
When they arrived at the mountaintop island, Fingin stared in wonder at the winding ribbon of stone steps carved into the side, wending up to the top in dizzying vertical construction. Around the bare mounds of stone, tufts of grass poked their way through the cracks, like a man losing his hair in a horrible disease.
Still silent, the monks stowed his fish into packs on their back and began the climb. With a deep sigh and a prayer to Brigit for strength, he followed them.
Each step seemed harder than the last. The rough-hewn stone steps climbed higher into the mists, which clad the pointed top of the island. It was as if he ascended into the sky itself.
Step by step. His legs already ached, and they’d only climbed a third of the way. Step by step. He needed to stop and catch his breath, despite being young and fit.
The monks didn’t wait for him.
Step by step. His skin burned with heat and sweat. His lungs burned with a lack of breath. Step by step. His escort disappeared into the clouds as he labored to take more air into himself. Step by step. He drank more from his waterskin, the liquid hurting his throat as he
