With my father at the oar, the curragh glides like a kestrel, scarcely seeming to touch the water. I hug myself and stare into the dark, seeing nothing but the sparkle of the lough lit by the moon. The mists slowly dampen my hair, gathering in droplets like slow-shed tears on my face. A chill made of weather and weariness sinks into my skin, into my blood, into the pit of my heart.

Silently, I cry. Caragh! Why did you run off? How deep are these waters? What lurks unseen in this black and silver nightworld? Stars above, where is my daughter? The last glimpse of her, fire-colored hair flying as her coltish legs skittered away from the forge, the smell of burnt skin and her wicked giggle hanging in the air - the moment is scalded onto me, tender and rough, forming a secret scar.

Daideo wields the oar like a smith, hammering away at the lough with steady and powerful strokes. The wooden doll he made for Caragh rests on his lap. His sboulders look bigger, his arms seem longer, and his eyes shine out like beacons, searching out his wee selkie. He puffs and strains, muscles standing out in his neck, sweat glistening all over, pushing the boat faster and faster while the druid sits still as a stone, eyes closed.

"Give over to me. Spare yourself."

I have to repeat it again and again before he stops.

"We'll bring her home safe," the old man mumbles. He looks at me and narrows his eyes before passing me the oar.

Sometime before the sunrise, we arrive on the southern shore of the lough, guided by the druidess' strange mutterings. The bump of the boat against ground seems to break her trance. She tosses her head and runs her fingers through her hair as if she has just wakened from a long nap. Daideo sighs and stares at her expectantly. I throw down the oar and leap from the boat, anxious to be away from the lapping waters.