THE EMIGRANTS

We make slow progress in the afternoon, hampered by bad weather, having to climb lots of hills and Drust’s injuries. I hurt him with the blast of magic. He got out of my head just in time, but even so he took a hammering. He casts healing spells when he’s able, but movement is still painful.

There have been no more lessons. Drust has kept clear of me, walking close to Goll and Fiachna, bringing up the rear of the group. I don’t blame him. I’m suspicious of myself too. There’s no telling what Lord Loss got up to inside my skull and heart. Maybe he planted spells of destruction and I’m doomed to betray my friends and kill them all.

They should be told of the threat I pose but Drust has said nothing and I lack the courage to tell them. I don’t think they’d kill me but trust would be impossible. They’d cut me off. I’d be their friend no longer—merely a possible enemy.

So I walk in silence and keep my fears to myself, wondering if and when the animal within me will burst forth—either the magical animal of Lord Loss’s making or the beast of my MacGrigor heritage.

It’s late afternoon when we sight the sea. Dark blue, with white, choppy waves smashing against the rocks of the shore, roaring like a monster. It stretches as far as the eye can see. I hoped I might glimpse the shores of Tir na n’Og from here, the legendary land which lies somewhere between this place and the Otherworld. But if it’s out there, as the legends claim, it lies beyond the sight of normal folk—and magical folk too.

We stop atop a hill and marvel at the vision of the sea. Even Drust wipes a hand across his brow, then stares at the horizon with wide, childlike eyes, as though he can hardly believe it’s there.

“A thing of wild beauty,” Goll murmurs, smiling as the wind whips at his beard and hair. He strokes the flesh of his blind eye. “I saw it as a young man. I had perfect sight then. But it’s just as wondrous seen with a single eye.”

“Where does it end?” Lorcan asks, looking left and right, then straight ahead.

“Nobody knows,” Drust says, his first words of the afternoon. “Some say it goes on forever. Others that it comes to the edge of the world and drops away into nothingness. A few even claim that by some form of magic it leads to the other side of the world, that if you were to sail all the way across, you’d wash up at the lands to the east. But nobody really knows.”

“And Tir na n’Og?” Fiachna asks. “Is it out there?”

Drust shrugs. “Perhaps. There are…” He pauses, sniffs the air, looks west. “We will soon find some who believe they know where Tir na n’Og lies. You can ask them. They might be able to provide clearer answers than me.”

On that curious note, Drust starts down the hill, angling gently southwest, to a point further along the coastline. The rest of us cherish one last long look at the sea. Then we follow, reluctantly abandoning sight of the great expanse of water, eagerly awaiting the moment when we come within view of it again.

Night is close when we spot them. We’ve been walking along the edge of the coast for an hour, stumbling often on the strange, flat, cracked layers of rock underfoot. The strength of the sea can be felt first-hand here. The wind, the spray, the tremors in the ground from the pounding of the waves. I’m amazed the land has stood up to the battering for so long I always knew there was power in the earth, but it must be much stronger than I imagined to resist such a relentless foe, day after day, night after night, year after year. We’re all focused on the sea, watching the waves rise and crash, no two alike. In some places, where they strike, they rise up in huge plumes like smoke, spreading their drops far in a fine mist. It’s like a moving painting of never-ending designs. Because of this extraordinary show, we’re almost upon the travellers before Lorcan—at the front of the group—glances up and realises we’re not alone.

“People!” he shouts, halting abruptly and pointing ahead. Squinting—because of the spray—I spot a procession of twenty or thirty figures, heading to a large boat bobbing up and down in a relatively calm cove.

“Demons?” Connla asks, standing on his toes, as if that will help him see better.

“No,” Drust says, passing Lorcan without slowing.

“Humans?” Goll calls after him.

“Not as such,” is Drust’s response.

We look at each other uncertainly, then shuffle along after the druid.

The travellers are creatures of legend. Impossibly towering giants, the height of three or four men. Tiny, stick-thin people who might be the meddlesome leprechauns of myth. Slender, graceful, pointy-eared fairies. Weeping, pale-faced, dark-eyed, terrifying banshees. Others who look more like demons than humans. Druids and priestesses too. All are part of the procession, winding their way to the boat, where others like them are patiently waiting, seated or standing, all looking west.

“Morrigan’s milk!” Goll gasps, making a sign to ward off evil. Then he stops, confused, since although these are obviously beings of magic, they don’t have the look or feel of wickedness.

The walkers have their eyes set on the path or boat. One of the druids happens to look up and spot us. He breaks off from the others and comes towards us. As he draws close, Ronan nudges over to Drust and whispers, “Is he a threat?”

“No,” Drust says. He has stopped and is waiting calmly for his fellow druid, arms folded across his chest.

“Who are they?” Fiachna asks, studying one of the burly, brutal-looking giants. We’ve heard stories of these fierce warriors of the past, part god, part human. But ancient stories are sometimes hard to believe. They grow in the telling over the generations. Things get exaggerated. I always assumed the giants of lore were simply large but otherwise normal warriors. Fiachna and the others thought that too. We were wrong.

“They are beings of lessening magic,” Drust says in answer to Fiachna’s query. “They came after the Old Creatures and flourished for a time on the magic of the past. They’re leaving now. The magic of the Old Creatures has almost faded from this earth. Those it nurtured can’t survive without it. Their time here is finished. They go west in search of Tir na n’Og or death.” His eyes are sad but also filled with longing. He wants to go with them.

“Do they flee from the Demonata?” I ask quietly.

“Not necessarily,” Drust says. “Most have come from distant lands, some from the other side of the world. They leave to escape the Christians and other new religious groups. The world has changed and will change more in the centuries to come. Old magic is no longer dominant. Those who practise it have no place here. They leave before the magic disappears completely, to avoid an undignified end.”

“Why don’t they fight?” Goll asks.

“They did. But only a fool continues to fight when it’s clear the battle is lost. Everything has an end. This is the end of great magic and those who belong to it.”

The other druid reaches us and stops. He nods to Drust, who nods back. Then he casts a curious eye over the rest of us. “Do you seek a place on board our boat, brother?” the druid asks.

“Nay,” Drust replies. “I am here on other business.”

“There won’t be many more boats this year,” the druid says. “This might be the last before spring. If you miss this one…”

“I have work here,” Drust says.

“This is a dangerous land,” the druid notes. “Several of our kind have fallen on their way to this point. If you wait and the Demonata triumph within the next few months, there might never be a boat again.”

“My work involves the Demonata,” Drust says. “If I am successful the boats will continue to sail.”

The druid raises an eyebrow. “You have set yourself against the demons?”

“Aye,” Drust says steadily.

“A perilous undertaking. You do it to keep the path to the west clear for those who will follow?”