Sorcha, oh Sorcha. Farewell, farewell. The sounds followed me along the shore, as I made my way barefoot between stones and across rough grass, until I found the little flat boat with a pole to push it along. Sister, oh sister. Where are you going? When will you return? I dug the pole into the sand and sent the boat out into the current, and the water carried me away.

Chapter Seven

If I had any will at that moment, I would have followed Padriac’s suggestion and hugged the bank of the lake, traveling close under the draping willows until I should reach some place of relative safety. I thought, fuzzily, that the Lady had intended this and had moved me on for protection while I completed my task. But I had no energy to guide the craft. My mind was hazy with hunger, and I supposed I was ill; the faint rocking of the boat felt strangely erratic, the water was turbulent, and the passing trees tilted and swayed, making me dizzy. I sensed other hands were moving the small vessel on a path not of my choosing.

The forest sylphs faded away behind, and within the ripples and surges of lake water other voices arose, liquid, evasive, murmuring one to the other as their owners bore my little boat swiftly, too swiftly, out on the increasingly choppy water. I blinked and stared, wondering how much was real and how much some feverish vision. There were long pale hands in the water, and faces with wide-set eyes, and hair like fronded weed, gray and green and blue. There were tails with jewel-bright scales. “Make haste, make haste,” they sang, one to another. “It’s time.”

And so the boat moved faster and faster, as if on a swift river, and in the sky above heavy clouds gathered and hung, and the day grew dark. Fat raindrops began to spatter down around me, and there was a distant rumble of thunder. The small part of me that was still awake registered these things, and that I was alone in the middle of a large expanse of water, barefoot in my old dress, in a boat designed for peaceful shallows. The wind rose, and the little craft bobbed up and down as it went.

Wavelets sloshed in over the sides, soon soaking me to the waist. But it didn’t feel cold; instead I was burning hot and I heard their voices calling to me, around, under, behind, and before me in the darkening water. “It’s easy, easy, Sorcha. Slip over, slip over the side and down to us. It’s cool here under the water. Slip away down.” And another. “Come away, come away down. Say farewell to your pain, let the water wash it away. Come, let the water take you. Come and dance with us in the deep.” Their voices were sweetly coaxing. I wanted to feel the cool water on my burning brow, wanted to sleep and forget. It would be so simple to lean over, to slide under the water and away from it all. “Throw me your bundle! Throw it! Let go your burden!” I saw the long, clutching fingers stretching up, up toward me, and I came awake, and clasped the bag tight to my chest, never mind the barbs that pricked me through the canvas. No. I will not. Then I heard them laughing, high voices, deep voices, and the splashing of their tails as they moved around the boat. And they were gone, leaving me to the wind and water.