The donkey peered at the steps. “I don’t want to go down there. I’ll wait here.”
“We might not return this way, and I don’t know how long we’ll be. I don’t want you to wait forever.”
“I shall wait here for a few days, then.”
Fingin nodded. “What about you, Bran?”
The dog whined and swiveled his head between Fingin and the water. “I don’t want to stay. I don’t want to go in there, either.”
He hugged the big hound tight. “I don’t blame you. But I have to go down there.”
Bran whined again and then woofed. “Then, so do I.”
He hugged Sean, retrieving his bag from the donkey’s back. “You’ve been a good friend and valuable help. Leave if we don’t come back soon. There should be plenty of people around happy to have your help on their farm.”
The donkey nodded, his eyes sorrowful.
Fingin took in a deep breath and stared at the water. The way wouldn’t come easier if he waited. He stepped into the well, the cold water seeping over his boot. With the second step, it reached his knees. The third step made him suck in his breath with the chill.
Bran stepped beside him. “This is cold!”
“I know, Bran, I know. Remember to hold your breath when we get beneath the surface. I hope the passage isn’t far.”
“I can’t breathe water.”
“Neither can I. But from what my grandmother taught me, this is a sacred well. For the salmon to send us here, it must be a magical portal. We shouldn’t have to hold our breath for long. If we don’t come out soon, we turn around.”
Bran didn’t answer. They took another step.
By the time the water reached his neck, his doubts rushed back. Did they descend into their own death by drowning? He reached under the stone, searching for some air space he could use to breathe, but found nothing but water and slick stone. He glanced at Bran, took in a deep breath, and ducked under water just as Bran did the same.
Chapter Eleven
Fingin had expected to continue down the steps, keeping his body under the water by pushing against the stone. However, as soon as his head went under the water, he stood in a field. He glanced around wildly for Bran, and found his loyal hound sitting at his feet, swiveling his head in abject confusion.
The confusion seemed logical. Gone was the lonely bog on the edge of the land, surrounded by tall grass with seagulls crying in the distance. Gone was the warm summer sun beating down on their sweaty skin. Gone was the patient donkey, the moss-slick stones, and the sacred well.
Instead, they stood in a dream glade. The trees growing along the side of their path seemed different from any Fingin had ever seen. Purple, blue, and green leaves fluttered in a nonexistent breeze. Bright, sparkling insects that almost looked like butterflies flitted amongst the vivid flowers. Even the gravel path shone and sparkled.
Fingin searched for the source of light, but no sun hung in the sky. Instead, each living thing glowed with its own luminosity.
Bran whined. “This is a strange place.”
“That’s true. But at least you can breathe!”
The dog’s tail whipped back and forth twice, but he stopped whining.
Where had they come? Did he stand in Faerie, land of the Tuatha Dé Danaan? Tír na nÓg? Hy Brasil? Whichever mythical place they’d traveled to, he had a mission. He must find his grandmother.
Fingin asked the butterfly creatures where he might find some humans like himself, but they ignored his question and flitted away on to the treetops. He frowned, unused to being snubbed. Even the fish who declined to come when he asked often sent back an answer with their disregard.
Fingin glanced back and forth on the path. In one direction, rolling hills disappeared into a hazy yellow glow. In the other, the land flattened out to a darker green mist. He didn’t know which direction he should choose, or if he should even remain on the path.
He knelt to his dog. “Bran, what do you sense here? Do you smell danger? Anything else? I don’t know which direction we should go.”
Bran sniffed both the air and the ground in several directions, sneezed, and tried again. “I don’t know these smells.”
“Can you find people? Or animals? Something other than these weird butterflies. Something I can talk to.”
He yipped and sniffed again toward the green mist. “There’s something that way.”
Fingin grew tired of walking towards unknown dangers on this quest, but he placed a hand on Bran’s head, and they resumed their journey. The gravel path didn’t sound like gravel as they walked on it. It didn’t crunch under his feet as he’d expected. Instead, it rustled, like dried leaves in the autumn. He stooped to examine the rocks and found them to be less solid than he’d expected. He crumbled them with his hands, turning them into powder. As he poured the powder from his hand back to the gravel, it sparkled and floated, forming a beautiful swirl in the air around him and Bran.
Bran sneezed again, backing away from the whirling silver dust. He backed into a tree, which waved its branches, apparently angry at the affront. Bran wooffed and retreated to Fingin’s side, his gaze scanning the surrounding plants for any further threats. His eyes remained wide, and his hackles high.
Fingin had no measure for how long they walked. No sun set to gauge the passage of time, no shadows grew to measure, and no darkness crept to measure the night. It seemed for days, and yet no time at all. The landscape changed from rolling hills to sparse forest of the strange, colorful trees, to
