Falling men, crashing seas, gaping, long-toothed jaws. I wake. I cannot breathe. I gasp, struggling to sit up, but my body refuses to obey. Nothing works. I wheeze out a sound, the pathetic cry of a small creature in a trap. They come, one at each side of the bed, a pair of watchful spirits. They lift me, hold me, speak in gentle voices. They are dark, quiet, tall. Their names are . . . Gull. Gull and Evan. Father and son? “Breathe,” Evan says. “Breathe.” I try. Who would have dreamed it could be so difficult?

She was here. Stillness in person, telling me a story of trees and water and magical beings. She was here by my bed, her fingers gentle, her voice sweet and clear as a mountain stream. She was here, and now she is gone. Even the dog is gone.

After a long time, I breathe more easily. Evan washes me and changes my clothing. I piss in the pan he holds. They move away to study the contents, their faces grave. Something wrong. Evan puts on a reassuring face and comes to feed me broth. It is light outside. A cold wind whispers under the door. He asks me the same questions again. A patient man. What is your name? Do you understand Irish? I have no answers.

Time passes. Bright light: someone has opened the shutters. Outside the sun shines, but it is cold. I am always cold. The dog has not come back. I miss its small form next to me. Its breathing warmth, its sighs and grumbles remind me that I am alive. I think I am alive.

The rustle of a skirt over by the bench. My heart jumps. She’s here! I manage to turn my head; the effort exhausts me. There is a woman, slight, dark, bending over a seated man. My heart plummets. Not Sibeal but the other one, the healer, wrapping a cloth around the fellow’s arm. I close my eyes. I want to speak. I want to ask. I rehearse it in my mind. Where is she? Where is she with her listening eyes and her truth-speaking voice? I will not ask, lest they tell me I only imagined her.

I sleep. Waves crash, men scream, something rears huge and dark. I wake sweating, dizzy, the chamber moving around me. I must . . . I have to . . . Compulsion hammers in my blood and whips my heart to a breakneck gallop. Quick, quick, almost too late . . . The desperate images fade and are gone. By my bed sits the other sister, the one with flaming hair and skin like fresh cream. Perhaps I have been shouting. She dabs my face with a cloth, her eyes narrowed as she examines me.

“Better now?” she asks with a little smile. “Do you remember me? My name is Clodagh. You seem much troubled by your dreams. Breathe slowly.”