In going back and reading the earlier parts of this story, I realized that I should make it clear that this isn’t meant to be anything astounding or well planned. I will only say that it is loosely (oh, so loosely) based on the Irish myth of Cessair. I’m just writing blind for fun here, folks. Such a novel idea, I know.
If you want to start from the beginning, here’s Part 1.
When we got in the tent I changed my skirt and hung the other to dry near the hearth. It was one of my favorites, even in advanced age and with numerous snags. Despite Fintan’s attempts to convince me to turn it into a rag, I insisted on keeping it as a garment for fishing, berry picking and other outdoor tasks. It was just strong enough to be practical, and just delicate enough to let me feel like a grown woman.
Fintan went to work preparing the fish for dinner. I’d not caught much, but it would make a nice meal for the two of us. I’d try again tomorrow for a larger catch that we could dry.
“Who was that small man, out there with everyone?” It came out of my mouth suddenly, as if by suggestion. I almost looked around to see if he were there with us.