“The creature.” It was the young boy who spoke now, a lad of perhaps fifteen. “The monster. Is it still there?”

“It is, Colm,” Felix said. “But these men won’t run away. They’ll stand and defend you if it comes again. And there’s a boat waiting, a sturdy boat with a crew well able to take you home.”

The boy was trying his best not to weep. His jaw trembled. “It took Artan,” he said. “Before we found this place. It took Demman. It took one of the Norsemen. It ate them up right before our eyes.”

“We know, son.” Gull’s voice was very quiet. “You told us. And we’re here to get you away before any more are lost. Cathal, if we’re doing it we need to move.”

I was reminded, again, of what people said about Johnny’s men: that they were the best of the best. They worked with no fuss, assembling the stretcher, moving the sick man onto it with strong but careful hands, deciding who would carry it and who would help the two men who could walk. Few words were exchanged; every man knew exactly what he was doing. I waited quietly, watching them. This small cave had been home to hunger, cold, loneliness and fear. It had seen men near death; men desperate for survival in a world turned hostile. There was no fire here. There was nothing to burn. How in the name of the gods had they survived the harsh northern nights? Where had they found hope?

I glanced around me as the men began moving through the back of the cave and into the tunnel. There was very little in the chamber. A stone with a natural depression in it might perhaps have been used to collect water. Spray from the waterfall, maybe, or rain. In a corner lay a heap of empty shells; they had foraged for food, then, on the rocks nearby. Perhaps they had stolen an egg or two from the gulls’ nests. If they had stayed in the cave, they would have starved. I wondered what had happened to the other man, the one who was not taken by the creature. Perhaps he had died of despair. The place stank; the men had performed all their bodily functions here, and it smelled not only of that, but of sickness and defeat. I must say a prayer as I left, or the sad shadow of its human tenants would linger on.

The stretcher-bearers had not taken the unwieldy covering that the sick Norseman, Thorgrim, had used as a blanket. It lay on the cave floor, humped in awkward folds. “Shouldn’t we take that with us?” I asked Cathal. “It could keep Thorgrim warm on the way back.”