I make no reply, and after some time she adds, “Ardal, we will cast the runes again. Not to seek wisdom on any of the dilemmas I spoke of earlier, but to make sense of this for you. I believe a mission lies before you. Of its nature I know nothing at all. But perhaps you need to execute that mission for your brother’s sake. In doing so, you might make some sense of his death.”

“Or prove to him that, now he is gone, I can be brave without him.”

“You’ll have me weeping, Ardal.”

“You? I do not think so.”

“Do you believe me incapable of tears?” she asks, turning her gaze away.

“I think you hold them inside,” I say, “fearful to let them go, because you believe that is a sign of weakness.” If I am right, and I think I am, she must consider me a poor example of a man. When they told me Paul was drowned, I wept a lake of tears.

“Ardal?”

“Yes, Sibeal?”

“You won’t be going on without Paul. He is dead, yes. Most likely laid in his grave to the sound of my prayers. But he will walk with you step by step for the rest of your life. You will feel his presence in the air you breathe. In the cry of a gull you will hear his laughter; in the wash of the sea you’ll hear him whispering to you, late at night, telling you a story after the candles are quenched. You will remember his goodness and courage every time you see a man help a comrade. You’ll see his strong features, his humor, his kindness, when one day you have a son of your own.”

If Sibeal cannot shed tears, I surely can. She fishes in the pouch at her waist for a square of linen, reaches up, puts it in my hand.

“He was a stranger to you. But it’s as if you know him.”

“I know you, Ardal. I hear the love in your voice when you speak of him. Your words tell me the kind of man he was.”

We cast the runes together, on a ritual cloth before the fire. I want to sit on the mat opposite Sibeal, but she is afraid she will not be able to get me to my feet and back to bed afterward, so I remain in my chair, shame making my cheeks hot. Tomorrow I will work harder. I will walk further. I will make myself strong again.

Sibeal closes her eyes—such long lashes—and breathes deeply, her back straight, her hands relaxed in her lap. I cannot manage this manner of breathing, not now. My chest hurts when I try; my breath rasps, disturbing Sibeal’s concentration as she sinks deeper into the receptive state of mind required for a divination. I close my eyes instead, summoning up an image of birches in the wind, of standing stones in a circle, of a shimmering lake under a pale dawn sky. I stroke the dog. I attempt to banish from my mind all distracting thoughts. I wait.