Unbound and Free

By Becca Lusher

Once there was an island,
And that island there lived a boy...

Demairo’s life is far from easy. Living on an isolated island with a father who hates him and a mother he adores, things are difficult enough without the whispering voices that cry on the wind. Because this is no ordinary island.

Luckily Demairo is no ordinary child, and he has some unusual friends to support him. But a storm is coming, and no amount of crows, seals or shining stars can save him – unless he chooses to be saved.

A choice is only the start of the journey.

Set in Roman Britain (456AD), Unbound and Free is a collection of four stories following Demairo across almost thirty years as he finds out where he truly belongs.
Contains:
Jealousy’s Shadow (novella)
Elisud’s Choice (short story)
Unbound and Free (novella)
The Wanderer Returns (novellette)
Total Word Count: 110,000 words.

The Tales of the Aekhartain are about to begin. Stick a feather in your hat brim and come along for the ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Becca Lusher
• Release date: Jul 16, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311458063

Becca Lusher

Having an overactive imagination hasn’t always been a good thing: I spent much of my childhood scared of the dark and terrified by the stories my older sister told me (mostly to stop her being the only one afraid of the dark). These days I find it useful. I love stories, I love fantasy, I love things with wings, stars and the world around me, and I have great fun combining them all into my stories.Born in the UK, I live in the wild south-west where I run around with my dogs and get bossed about by cats, while taking photos of gorgeous landscapes, reading lots of books and climbing rocks.I’ve also been known to write stories.

Book preview

SHADOW

The Island

ONCE THERE WAS an island. It wasn’t a big island, or even famous. It lay just off the British mainland, less than a morning’s row away, if the weather was good and the sea was calm. Barely more than a mile in length and half a mile in width, it rose from the water in an undulating wave of green-covered rock.

But this was no ordinary island. For one thing, unlike the many other rocky outcrops that littered the southern coastline of Britannia, no birds nested on it. Few people ever chose to go there either, for all that it looked quite inviting from the shore.

Too bleak, some said.

A bit remote, said others.

No one knew how it came to be there, what myth or legend had dropped it into place or dragged it up from the turbulent seas beneath. It just was. And it waited.

The waters along this part of the coast were treacherous; hidden rocks and submerged islands crouched in the shallows and storms swept up swiftly from nowhere. For those caught out by such things, the island might have seemed a timely refuge.

But this was no ordinary island.

Though it looked green and firm on top, its own shores were pocked with caves and coves. Each one dug deep claws into the bedrock, and every year the hungry sea gnawed a little deeper. Inside the heart of the island lay a dark hollow and it was there that the spirits of drowned sailors were drawn and gathered.

That was the island’s secret, its dark treasure. Its curse.

Those lost at sea could never set foot on land again, but inside the island the lost souls felt sheltered and protected, surrounded by rock and wave. In this darkness they waited – and hungered.

For time unnumbered the spirits had no choice but to wait, an ill-wind on an exposed rock, within sight of land but unable to reach it. They were lost and could never go home, but every day they could see the shore and feel its presence. So close, so close, but just a little too far away. They were trapped, and their bitterness soaked into every facet of rock, watered each blade of grass and sighed on every evening breeze that the island possessed.

Yet there were some amongst the living who chose to go there. Strangers, eccentrics, misfits and hermits, each found themselves drawn to the rock in the water and made their home on its desolate shore. Some didn’t last long before they had to leave, others stayed and let the spirits transform them. There were few who resisted, and though the dead sailors often found women harder to crack, given enough time they could work their whispers into even the most pure of hearts.

The curse didn’t care who it took, just as long as it fed on something. Fear, pain, misery – the spirits were far from fussy. They had been simple men in life and had simple needs in death.

Help.

Salvation.

Freedom.

For though the island sheltered them when they were lost. Once it caught them in its dark heart it never let them go. So they stayed there, the souls from the sea, the cursed from the land, gradually losing all sense of themselves until they were mere ghosts. Faint shadows of bitterness, anger, hunger and torment. They wanted to be free, even though they no longer knew what freedom was.

The world turned around them, sailors came and sailors died, folk moved on and off the island, until rumour spread of a curse in those rocks. A curse was a powerful thing in those days, strong enough to keep even the most curious away. The spirits grew hungry as their land was forgotten. Invaders came to Britannia’s shores, but even those mighty Romans quailed before the island’s blight.

It was abandoned, condemned, forgotten by the living, but the dead still grew. Sleeping in the darkness inside the island’s heart, but not defeated, never gone. The hunger grew in the shadows, the bitterness, the desperation. They wanted to taste freedom, they needed it as the sea needed the land to fill its unceasing appetite. Though the beat of its rotten heart slowed, it never stopped, and with every slow pulse its power spread over more and more of the grass and rocks, wrapping them in its bitter grip.

For centuries it harvested the sea’s grim bounty, tending to its morbid crop, and it waited.

On the mainland much was said of the cursed island and the strange stories that grew there. Over time they waxed then waned, until no one much remembered them anymore. It was a place of emptiness, ill-luck and barren fortunes. Yet even such dark places can seem like a sanctuary to the desperate. Any empty land can be a promised land if one has nothing else to call one’s own. There will always be those who don’t believe in curses, or who think they can defeat them.

They are the island’s favourite type of people: strong, stubborn, a little brave and slightly foolish. A feast for the starving spirits beneath.

AND THAT IS where this story begins. On an island, just off the mainland, less than a morning’s row away. A place to hide and be protected, but not so far away that life would be impossible. A gift for a young bride, a fine new home in which to raise her family, far from the watchful eyes of a superstitious community. A place for a young husband to prove his worth.

A place for an island of ghosts to go about its bitter work.

Once there was an island, and on that island there was a boy…

One

Dumnonia ~ 256 AD

DEMAIRO SAT ON the shore, staring out to sea. The waves were whispering to him again, soft words, strange words. He didn’t understand them, and yet he did. The words were unfamiliar, but they tugged on his heart. Hopeless, homeless and lonely, so lonely. They were lost and ever more would be.

They wanted him to help them, they begged him to save them. But he couldn’t. He was just a boy; hopeless, useless and lonely, so lonely. He too was lost, for all that he had a home.

Shush, shh, the sea sighed as if to comfort him while it whispered up the sand and curled around his bare toes. A hermit crab scuttled through the soft foam, dragging its home behind it. Demairo wished he could do the same. To be free to wander wherever he wanted to go, to pick up everything he needed and walk away. If only he could do the same.

Demairo! This voice was a shout on the rising wind, using words he could understand. Mairo, where are you?

Wishing the crab silent luck, Demairo scrubbed his arm across his face and looked up. His hair blew into his eyes and he shivered beneath the chill wind. He hadn’t noticed it rising, nor had he paid attention to the dark clouds crowding over the horizon.

Mairo!

Turning his back on the storm, he sprang to his feet and ran up the beach, stumbling in the soft sand and rough winds. Here, Mam! he called. I’m here!

Oh, Mairo.

The wind blew him into his mother’s arms, and she held him close against the strong buffets. Didn’t you notice the storm? she scolded lovingly, running a hand through his curls. I was worried I wouldn’t find you. That you’d already been swept away.

He let her words wash over him, burying his head against her chest, feeling her warmth and love wrap around him. Here was home, here was safety. No voices could reach him here; not the strange whispers, nor the harsh words.

Lowena?

The voice made Demairo tense, his mother’s arms tightening hard around him. He didn’t look up, didn’t need to. He didn’t want to see that angry face. The words were bad enough.

Bring the boy inside. It’s late. The storm will be upon us soon.

Yes, Dewydd, his mother murmured, but didn’t move. Instead she waited for the heavy footfalls to crunch away, then hunched tighter over her boy.

Demairo held her just as close, wishing it was only the two of them, that they could pack up their things in giant shells and set sail across the open sea to a new world, a new home, a new hope.

The wind howled, pushing hard against them, almost taking them off their feet, and his mother pulled back with a breathless laugh. "Well, keresik, we’d best get in before this wind carries us both away."

Demairo didn’t say that he wished it would. Nor did he tell his mother to wipe her eyes. As the storm broke over their heads, pouring ice-cold rain across the island, he knew he didn’t need to. Within moments her tears had been washed away, draining deep into the sand at their feet.

As his mother took a tight hold of his hand, fighting against the wind to lead him home, Demairo sank deep inside himself. The voices were back, screaming in the storm. He couldn’t understand the words, but he knew what they were saying.

Help us.

Save us.

Free us.

But how could he, when he couldn’t even help himself?

ELISUD WAS WAITING when Lowena burst into the house. He had a blanket and a smile ready, both of which he wrapped around Demairo, hauling him close to the fire, leaving Lowena free to check on the evening meal.

Been out having adventures, eh, Mairo? Elisud laughed, rumpling the boy’s curls.

Lowena listened to their chatter as she tasted the broth, wondering where Dewydd was. She didn’t ask; she didn’t want to know. The last thing she wanted was for him to appear at the sound of his name. Instead she stirred the broth and watched Elisud dry her son, continually astonished at how different two related men could be. Dewydd and his younger brother looked so alike, but Elisud seemed to carry sunshine and lightness in his heart, while Dewydd brought only darkness.

It hadn’t always been like that. Sighing, Lowena pushed the thoughts away. They were old, familiar things, worn smooth and small like pebbles on the beach. She would learn nothing new by going over them again. Some things were the way they were, and there was nothing she could do to change them.

Me now, Da. Dry me! Ceri, Elisud’s young daughter, pulled on her father’s arm, begging to be allowed into the game.

But you’re not even wet, puffin, her father laughed. "You’re as dry as tinder, and just as like to go up!" Suiting his actions to his words, Elisud lifted his little girl high, making her scream with laughter.

It made Lowena smile, until she saw the look on Demairo’s face. Pure longing for a father who would play with him, tickle him to make him laugh, who would smile and love him.

I thought someone was being murdered, or Elisud had brought home another gull chick to raise. Dewydd stumped into the room, solid like the stones that held up the door lintel.

And just about as warm, Lowena thought wryly, while Ceri ran around the fire to throw herself at her uncle.

Uncle Dewi, Uncle Dewi, Da said he’ll throw me on the fire!

Lowena’s heart almost broke as her gruff husband looked down at the little girl and laid an affectionate hand on her head. "That’s enough now, cariad, he said gently. The storm’s enough noise for tonight."

Uncle Dewi, she giggled. I’m not nearly so loud as a storm!

Dewydd just patted the child on the head and looked at his wife. It’s late.

Lowena hunched her shoulders and hauled the broth away from the fire. We can eat, she told him, beckoning for Demairo to come help her with the bowls.

The look in Dewydd’s eye as his son carried his broth to him sent a chill down Lowena’s spine. She tried to remember how gently he’d dealt with Ceri, how he’d been almost kind. But Ceri wasn’t his child and Demairo wasn’t a giggling little girl.

Do you enjoy scaring your mother, boy?

Demairo’s head hung low, his shoulders hunched, braced for a blow. No, Da.

Do you think she has time enough to go haring about all over looking for you?

No, Da, Demairo murmured, his voice getting softer.

Do you think you’re the only person on this island that matters, to make everyone drop their work and go searching for you?

No, Da. He lifted the bowl a little higher, silently urging his father to take it, to eat, to let the subject drop.

"Then why do you do it?" Dewydd shouted, lashing out with his arm.

Demairo flinched back and Dewydd struck the bowl, splattering the broth across the floor and all over the boy.

Fool! Dewydd roared. Now look what you did. Wasteful, selfish, spoiled brat! Go clean yourself up, and wipe away this mess while you’re at it.

As Demairo scuttled off to obey, his father watching him like a despised insect, Lowena quickly filled another bowl. Anything to distract her husband. Here, Dewydd. There’s plenty more to go around. No harm done.

Have we so much that we can throw food about now, Lowena? he growled, taking the bowl. Have we enough to soak the floor? Or is there something you’re not telling me? Set up some trades, have you, wife of mine? Been out fishing when my back’s turned?

No, Dewydd, she whispered, pulling her hair across her face. An old gesture, a defensive one. She’d tried to stop it once, almost managed it when she’d first married, but times had changed and old habits never truly died. Her shoulders hunched in an echo of Demairo’s earlier stance and she silently urged her boy to stay in the shadows. She could feel him watching, damp from having been outside, shivering in just his linen undershirt.

You think me a fool, Lowena? her husband growled.

No, Dewydd. She thought him many things, but not a fool. Never a fool.

Then don’t treat me as one. Boy, clean this mess, then to bed with you. Time you learned the meaning of wastefulness. No food for you tonight.

Demairo skittered out of the shadows, using moss from the rocks outside to dab at the broth busy soaking into the floor. There was no point to it. The broth was thin, with few enough chunks of meat or anything else to liven it up. Better to leave it to dry overnight then wash it out in the morning. She didn’t bother saying such things, though; Dewydd would only get angry again.

So she watched her boy patting pointlessly at the floor, tense and waiting for his father to lash out at him. Neither Lowena nor Demairo relaxed until Dewydd gave a low grunt of satisfaction.

Bed, he growled.

Demairo crept like a whipped dog over to his grass mattress, which was laid far apart from where the others slept. The lowest place in the house, as commanded by his father.

Only then was Lowena able to move again, scooping broth into bowls for the others. Ceri was huddled against her father, quietly waiting for the anger to go away. Elisud’s face was blank as he accepted their food from Lowena’s shaking hands.

There was a time when he would have tried to interfere, tried to defend her and her boy. But Dewydd was bigger than his brother, meaner too, and Elisud had Ceri to think of. So now he stayed silent. They all did. No one wanted to attract more of Dewydd’s attention than they had to.

He wasn’t a bad man, Lowena had to keep reminding herself. The man she’d married had been loving and kind. It was just that life hadn’t treated him the same. He was a disappointed man, angry at the world. They were poor, life was hard, the island was bleak. He wasn’t a bad man, he was just angry.

Outside the sturdy walls of their home the storm raged on, with howling winds and rattling rain. Inside the fury had passed, settling into the temporary lull between rages. No one ever knew how long the calm would last, but each hoped for a lengthy peace.

Slowly eating the broth she had no appetite for, Lowena stared into the shadows at where her boy was huddled and wished she knew what to do. But there was nothing, not in this life, not in this world. So she finished her meal, cleaned up after the others and, when the fire was banked, lay down beside her husband to sleep for the night.

Two

DEMAIRO’S FATHER LEFT for the mainland early the next morning. Off to trade his wife’s hard-worked weavings and gather fresh wool from her family somewhere in the Dumnonii hills. No one but Ceri watched him go: Lowena was busy in the house and Elisud was harvesting shellfish from the rock pools. Demairo took himself to the furthest edge of the island to look south across the open sea.

He both hated and loved this place, with its crumbling tower and pungent smell of damp sheep. No one knew how old the tower was or how it had come here. It had always been there, as far as his mother knew, and not even Uncle Elisud could make up a story to explain it. Demairo was the only one who came here.

It was his favourite hiding place, broken and crumbling though it was, standing high atop the island’s cliffs. He loved it for the safety it offered, and the escape. But he hated it too, because it was the furthest place he could run. After this there was only sea and sky, neither of which had any help to offer him.

There were no gentle waves here to soothe him, instead they crashed and roared, gnawing on the rocks far below. Down there seals grunted and barked, playing and fishing in the rough waters, while up here the wind alternatively screamed and whispered.

Help us.

Save us.

Free us.

The voices were louder here, or perhaps that was just his imagination. Here where the island ended, but the final freedom was only a careless footstep away.

Demairo sat hunched precariously at the top of the tower, where the remaining stones still clung to its original shape. Behind him the topmost room was open to the sky, the floorboards rotten and perilous, a rickety ladder leading up between three dangerous floors. That was why he liked it here. If the ladder and floors would barely take his weight, then no adult stood a chance of following or finding him.

He was safe. Mostly.

Spread out below, the island’s small flock of sheep muttered and grumbled at each other, tearing hanks of scrubby grass from the ground and nibbling on the gorse shoots. He found them good company, just so long as he was beyond grazing reach. They weren’t vicious creatures, just curious and hungry. Always hungry.

Demairo knew what that felt like. His stomach snarled at him and he hunched a little tighter around the ache in his belly. It was past midmorning now, with the sun climbing rapidly towards midday – his father would be gone. He could go home, help his mother with her chores, get something to eat. Or he could find his uncle, help scour the rock pools, share his lunch.

He didn’t move. He didn’t want to go back yet. He just wanted to sit here for a while, eyes closed, feeling the sun on his face and the wind in his hair. The seals laughed in the sea, the sheep grumbled at the gorse, crows cawed and tumbled through the air.

It was peaceful here. Busy, wild and free. He could lose himself in these simple sounds, until he became just another stone on the tower, weathered into place like all the rest.

But underneath it all the island whispered to him.

Help us.

Save us.

Free us.

Demairo opened his eyes and climbed down the perilous ladder. His father was gone. There was work to be done.

LOWENA HAD JUST finished sweeping the floor when Demairo returned. Putting aside her broom, she kissed her son’s forehead, stroked a hand over the beautiful brown curls he’d inherited from his father and removed the lid from the broth pot. They didn’t talk; they didn’t need to. She knew where he’d been, she knew why and she didn’t blame him one bit. Oh, his father might have blustered and grumbled when he woke after dawn to find his son had already slipped out, but it was better than what would have been said had the boy still been here.

So she fed Demairo and went outside to bring in the flour she’d ground earlier, with grains carried over from the mainland during one of her husband’s trips. He was going more frequently these days, Lowena thought with a sigh as she started making the bread. She wondered if he had another woman on the far shore. Someone he could laugh and be gentle with.

Days gone by he’d travelled there and back within the day. A long day, tiring work for one man, but he’d done it and gladly, wanting to get back home. Sometimes he’d taken his brother and they’d returned before dark. Now he never came back the same day. Sometimes he stayed away several nights in a row. Travelling inland, he said, finding better trades.

She should have cared, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Not when life was so much easier without Dewydd in it. She wondered if that made her a bad wife. She already knew she was a failure as a mother, so she didn’t much care if it did. She couldn’t protect her beloved son from his father’s cruel tongue, and she didn’t love her husband anymore either. She was empty and so, so tired.

Thank you, Mammik.

Demairo’s soft words dragged her away from her dark thoughts. She looked down to see her boy holding his bowl up to her. Washed and ready to be put away. He was the only one on the island who ever did that besides her. The only one who didn’t just assume it would be taken care of. The only one who didn’t take her for granted.

Her chest felt tight and she grabbed her boy, holding him tight, so tight. No, she wasn’t empty, but Great Domnu, sometimes she wished she was. Surely it would be easier that way.

Forcing herself to release him, not wanting to scare him, she stepped back and brushed his curls away from his face. He had his father’s hair, but those sea-grey eyes were hers. The sadness lurking inside them she knew all too well. The rest of his features reminded her of her father and brothers, so close on the mainland, yet so very far away. Looking at her son made her heart hurt, yet healed it at the same time.

Go on now, she whispered, kissing his forehead. Go play with your cousin.

He pressed a swift kiss to her cheek and dashed out of the door, leaving Lowena alone. She touched a finger to the left side of her face. The tight skin burned from her son’s casual affection. He always kissed her there as if it was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing to be scorned. The scars were just part of her, of his Mammik.

Oh, Mairo. My sweet boy, she whispered to the empty house, scrubbing her hands over her face to wipe away the tears she wouldn’t allow herself to shed. Then she returned to her bread, because there was work to be done and no one but her would do it.

YOUR DA SAID you weren’t supposed to eat anything. He said you were very bad.

Demairo found Ceri outside the door, sorting shells to line the main path, her spindle and fleece discarded on the grass as usual. She was a pretty little thing in the morning light, her curls a shade darker than his and shining in the sun. Her face was round and cute, her nose the tiniest pebble, her eyes merry and black like her father’s. She picked up a mussel shell and studied the deep blue shades with a frown.

Are you going to tell him?

Ceri wrinkled her pebble nose. I can’t, silly, he isn’t here.

He didn’t think that would stop her. Ceri didn’t mean to be nasty or cruel, but she needed to be liked and loved. If that meant carrying tales to his father, then that’s what she did. She was too young to understand what she was doing – or so his mother kept telling him. Demairo wasn’t so certain. He was only three years older than Ceri and he didn’t remember carrying tales when he’d been five. Who would he have told them to?

Are you going to tell your Da then? he asked.

Pressing the mussel shell into line with others of the same type, Ceri picked up a huge scallop shell and smiled. Da says you need all the food you can get, ’cause you’re a growing boy.

That was one of the many reasons why he liked his uncle. Elisud was always slipping him extra food whenever he had it to give. He couldn’t stop Demairo’s father from shouting at him, but Elisud still showed him kindness in small, important ways.

I asked him why I don’t get extra food like you do, since I’m a growing girl, but he says it’s not the same.

No, it wasn’t. Ceri was allowed to eat as much as she liked from the cooking pot. His father liked her; he wanted her to grow well.

Putting the scallop shell to one side, she picked up a tiny spiral one instead, studying the delicate swirls of pink and yellow. After a moment she put it down and looked at him. I have some cheese. Would you like a bit?

No, his cousin wasn’t cruel or nasty, she just wanted to be loved. So Demairo smiled at her. I’m not hungry right now. You keep it for later.

She crept closer to him on her knees and put a small hand up to her mouth to whisper, I didn’t really want to share it anyway. But Da would have made me.

That made him laugh. Only a little laugh, but it felt good, like a knot had come untied in his chest, making it easier to breathe again.

Demairo?

Yes? He smiled at her little face, suddenly so serious, her scattered shells temporarily forgotten.

Why doesn’t Uncle Dewi love you?

The knot in his chest tightened back up again.

I asked Da and he said I wasn’t to say such silly things. But I don’t think it’s silly, I think it’s sad. Uncle Dewi likes me, so why doesn’t he like you?

I don’t know, he said, forcing the words out in an attempt to stop her from talking.

She did. A solemn silence fell between them and she stared at him for a long moment before picking up a beautiful whelk shell and holding it out. Da and I like you, Mairo. We like you lots.

He took the shell and accepted her hug, but it only made the knot in his chest pull tighter.

WANT TO COME fishing with me today, Mairo? Uncle Elisud asked the next morning, once dawn had broken and breakfast had been eaten.

Demairo sent a quick glance at his mother, nodding when she smiled.

Good! His uncle slapped his thighs and stood up. We’ll be offshore today, Wena, so don’t expect us until late.

Go careful then, she said, packing yesterday’s bread and cheese into a basket and handing it to Demairo, ruffling his curls affectionately. Bring home something tasty for me.

Kissing his mother on the cheek, he turned to follow his uncle, then paused to kiss Ceri’s cheek when she demanded it.

The little girl stretched up onto her tiptoes to pat his curls. Go careful then, she ordered, imitating his mother. So he tickled her to make her giggle, before running after his uncle.

Elisud was in a fine mood, carrying his net over one shoulder and whistling as he walked. Certain sure, it’s a good day to be alive, Mairo, he laughed, tipping his face up. A warm sun, a clear sky and all the sea air you can take. Breathe deep, my boy. You don’t get this type of breeze on the mainland.

Shaking his curls from his eyes, Demairo wished he’d worn a hat, but nodded along with his uncle’s foolishness. Spring was always a tricky time on the island; one day sunshine, the next a storm. Still, it was a good day and the sea looked calm, which always made fishing that little bit easier.

Go ready the boat, will you? Elisud asked, turning aside to his fishing hut where he stored his spears, pots and spare nets.

Though dragging the covers off the boat and turning it over was hard work for Demairo alone, he’d rather be out here than in the hut, which reeked of fish guts and oil, while old scales made it slippery underfoot. The boat itself – a little round coracle made from animal skins stretched over a woven willow frame – was smelly enough, but at least the breeze carried off the worst of the stench.

All set? Elisud called, striding out of the hut with an armful of fishing nets, hooks and lines. Let’s get her down to the water then. Stowing his things beneath the bench, Elisud lifted the coracle and carried it over the beach, kindly pretending that Demairo was helping. That’s it, Mairo, hold it high. You’re getting strong. Soon you’ll be doing all this for me, and I can retired to a nice seat outside the house, whittling bits of nothing all day and getting under your Mam’s feet.

The words were silly nonsense, but Demairo lapped them up. They were fun, they were kind and not one hint of criticism ever passed his uncle’s lips. He didn’t shout, he didn’t get angry, he just smiled and laughed and told stories about ridiculous things.

That’ll do, Elisud said, once they’d reached the wavelets. In you hop now, Mairo, save your feet getting wet.

Though his feet were already wet from hauling the coracle down the beach, Demairo nevertheless complied, scrambling into the centre of the boat and picking up the oar.

That’s my boy, Elisud approved, getting behind the coracle to shove it into the water.

The first waves lapped at the hull, splashing cold water inside to make Demairo’s toes curl.

With a heave and a ho and away we go! Laughing, Elisud gave a mighty push, splashing through the knee-deep water to hop in beside his nephew.

Demairo grabbed the sides of the rocking boat to stop himself from being tipped out, and only just managed to save the oar from going over.

Rough seas ahead! Elisud laughed, as the coracle settled. Good save, Mairo. We’d be in deep trouble without that. Certain sure your Mam would scold us if we tossed a good oar out before even leaving the beach. Now, to the back with you, and eyes open. You know what to search for.

Waiting for his uncle to settle at the front of the coracle, working the oar in a twisting, cross-circle movement, Demairo clambered carefully over the fishing gear and lunch basket to curl up at the rear of the boat. Then as his uncle began steadily moving them forward through the waves, Demairo lifted a hand to shade his eyes and scanned the glittering seas.

Birds, he was looking for seabirds. Gannets and guillemots, shags, puffins and cormorants, but especially gulls. Anywhere they were gathered, stooping, diving, flocking, then it was certain sure there’d be fish nearby.

As they made their way out of the shallow cove on the eastern tip of the island, Demairo couldn’t help turning to watch the seals. The lumbering grey creatures liked to use the rocks along this point to bask in the early mornings. They looked so clumsy and ungainly on land, but the eager heads that popped up around their boat told a different story.

Ack, away with you, seadogs, Elisud scolded, but with a smile. I’ll not have you following along and stealing my catch.

The nearest seal snorted in derision and suddenly all the heads were gone. A quick glance behind showed that they were following, just like the dogs Elisud had named them. Even the ones basking on the rocks had started slipping into the water.

We’re in for it now, Elisud chuckled. They’ll take all the prime scales and leave us with nothing but fins for supper. Tighten your belt, Mairo, my lad. It’s going to be a long day.

Facing forward again to watch for seabirds, Demairo smiled into the wind and couldn’t wait.

Three

TELL ME ABOUT the seals. It was past midday, and Demairo and his uncle were drifting on the tide a short distance away from the island, the bottom of their coracle gleaming with fresh fish. They still had the shore traps to check, but their job was mostly done. There was enough in this catch to last them a fair few days, and what they didn’t immediately use Elisud would smoke for later.

So there was time enough to spare for a story, not that Elisud ever needed an excuse. He grinned as he dipped his hands in the sea and wiped them clean on his tunic. Are you sure you’re not too old for tales?

Demairo shook his head vigorously until his curls covered his eyes. Pushing his hair back, he accepted his share of bread and cheese.

"Well, all