All of a sudden, the sun was no longer warming Flynn’s face and he opened his eyes to see a storm brewing; dark clouds rolled in from all directions as loud thunder rumbled and heavy rain lashed down. The wooden boat creaked as it rocked to and fro, rose up on the waves and smacked down on the ocean with a judder. Flynn was tossed around like a rag doll and clung with all his might to the edge of the boat. A gust of wind unexpectedly and violently swung the boom, striking the fisherman on the head. He fell backwards onto the deck as lightning struck the top of Bishop’s Island.
With blood streaming down his face, Flynn scrambled to the back of the boat to pull his fish filled net to the surface. He hauled his catch onto the deck before frantically raising the anchor and turning the boat towards the sanctuary of the bay. Flynn hadn’t noticed the large egg caught inside his net. As he approached the mouth of the bay, the waves were reaching the cliff top at George’s Head. In all his years, he’d never seen waves as big as these. The sea was white with foam and it took all his strength to keep the boat away from the perilous black rocks that lay beneath the surface. The motion of the boat caused the egg to crack and the fragments of shell were washed into the sea. The mighty waves carried the fishing boat all the way to the seaweed-strewn beach where Flynn washed the blood from his face and returned to his cabin where he sheltered until the storm passed.
When the sky had cleared and the sea was calm again, Flynn returned to the deck of the boat. He was shocked to find a baby lying quietly amongst the fish, looking back at him with nothing more than a tuft of silver grey hair upon her head. He looked around the boat to see if anyone was there but there was nobody.
“How the blazes did a baby get on my boat?” he said to himself.
Bewildered, Flynn wrapped the baby in a blanket and carried her in his arms to the promenade. He asked the town folk if they knew of any missing boats or shipwrecks that day which might explain why he’d found a baby lost at sea. He wanted desperately to reunite the child with her family and walked the streets speaking to everyone he met, but nobody claimed the child. The weary fisherman bought a few supplies in town, including clothes for the baby before heading back to his boat. He placed the child in a basket made of willow branches and watched her as she slept. Flynn vowed to find her family but days turned into weeks and still there was not a whisper from anyone, not in town at least.
While the people of Kilfearagh were busy getting on with their daily lives, members of a secret sea community were frantically looking for the infant. Triton Morgan, messenger of the sea circle, son of the famous Triton and grandson of the legendary Poseidon was swimming the seven seas in search of the infant. Triton was half man, half fish with a muscular upper body, a strong tail and green hair. Rumours that an egg had fallen into the sea and mysteriously vanished were circulating the seabed. Triton Morgan knew more than anyone that this was no ordinary egg. He’d heard about the egg from Mazu and he was determined to find it, or indeed the creature inside but wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for. His vague questions had some members of the sea community doubting his sanity but Triton and Mazu knew there was a lot at stake.
When they’d searched every inch of the seabed they made their way to the surface and began their search on land. Dressed head to toe in their Victorian finery and Triton’s green hair tucked neatly under his top hat, the pair were ready to mingle with polite society. They wandered through town, watching, listening, certain that someone must know something. The well to do people from Limerick had been in town for weeks already for their summer holidays and they were strolling along the promenade in their best clothes, men in their top hats and ladies in long dresses under which they wore layer upon layer of undergarments which made their bottoms look bigger.
It was almost midday when Triton and Mazu stopped and chatted to a man named Jerry who was selling seafood from a basket on the promenade.
“Top o’ the mornin’ to you,” he said with a smile, craning his neck to get a better view of Triton who towered above him.
“How do you do?” replied Triton.
“I’m very well, thank you Sir. It’s a beautiful day isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
Mazu stood back a little and held a handkerchief to her nose, not because of the fishy smell, which she was well used to, but because the man had a strong odor of ale about him.
“What can I get you?” asked Jerry. “Lobster? Crab? Crawfish? All caught fresh this mornin’.”
“We’re looking for something else,” said Triton. “Something...”
“Cooked periwinkles? You won’t find better anywhere else. Caught ‘em in the shoreline this mornin’.”
“No, not periwinkles.”
Jerry scratched his head. “Is it seaweed you’re after? The poppin’ kind? Some people use it for medicine.”
“A shell. It’s a shell we’re looking for,” said Mazu.
“An egg shell,” said Triton. “A large egg shell.”
Jerry paused and a look of puzzlement
