The first day, the sea was very choppy and the little curach bounced along the wave-crests. Each time the boat crested a swell and then nosed into a trough, Aífe was misted with salty sea-spray, but she was well protected by boiled wool mittens, a cowled cape, and thick socks. The wool had been lightly soaked in oil, a fisherman’s trick to ward off the sea. Ruadh had bartered for these when he got the boat from a fishing family.

She had a wooden cup for bailing and an oiled leather tarp in case of a squall. She carefully rationed her little leather bag of water and her store of oat bread and cheese. As the sun set, she surrendered to yet another bout of tears; there was no one to hear her except the fish and the birds.

“What do you want of me?” she called to the gods as she pounded her thigh. “Why me? I am no great poet or prophet, with a ‘tongue that cannot lie’—I am just me! Just me, with everything that I love taken away.” Aífe sobbed and hugged herself, feeling the emptiness spreading around her, feeling her small self in the middle of a vast, terrifying nothing. Her only comfort left was the stone that Gaine had given her when she was in the nemed. She clutched it in her tear-stained fingers and curled into the bottom of the boat as best she could, crying herself to sleep, rocked by the rhythm of the waves.

She woke at dawn to watch the red-orange orb of the sun melt gradually into gold and then yellow against a bluer and bluer sky.

“Grian, help me!” she called out to the rising Queen of the Day. She sat for hour upon hour, surrounded by only the sea and sky. No birds dipped from the wind, no fish broke the water’s surface. Her back and shoulders ached, the sun beat down, and the waves pulled inexorably at the boat.

Then, without warning, the ocean flattened into glassy calm. The wind stopped. Sound didn’t exist. Aífe looked all around her. There was nothing. She pulled into herself and scanned the waters again. In the far distance was a fast-approaching chariot with horse and rider, coursing towards her atop the glassy-still sea.

She dared not move, unsure whether this was a dream, a waking dream, or a vision. She squeezed her eyes once and opened them again to see if this was a fear-induced hallucination, a trick of the light. But the image persisted and grew larger. There was no mistaking it.

As the chariot drew nearer, the sea sprouted purple flowers, as if the boat were resting on a heather-filled moor. But Aífe was too terrified to touch the flowers. Then a shimmering silver mist rose on every side, blotting out the horizon.

The chariot and rider pulled up before her; it was a man with dark, flowing hair and beard and eyes the color of a winter’s sky. The prancing horse was tall and proud, with a thick mane and tail so long it swept the field of flowers.

As the man studied her face, his billowing cloak changed colors as if registering his thoughts. It shimmered blue-green as a clear lake on a summer day; then silvered as moonlight. It darkened purple and then blackened as twilight. An intricately crafted sword hung by his side, glowing with its own light.

“I am the gatekeeper of Innis nan Druidneach. No one may approach except through me,” he said. “What is it that you want?”

“I don’t know!” Aífe cried. What was she supposed to say? What was she supposed to do?

“What is your purpose?” the man pointedly asked.

“I have been sent to learn.” It was all she could think to say. She didn’t know whether she should look directly at the rider or look away; she didn’t know which would show respect. She was overwhelmed and shaken beyond her depth. There had been no time to prepare.

“That answer is good. I have heard worse. This is the place of all knowledge.” He reached to the floor of the chariot, lifted up a small harp, and began to play. As he struck the first chord, Aífe’s fear melted. The man spoke gently to the accompaniment of his harp.

“To obtain wisdom, you must drink from the Well of Five Streams. The well is eternal and inexhaustible. The well exists under the sea and also within you; you have carried it with you through birth and death, through countless lifetimes.

“The five streams are your senses. You must drink from the streams and from the well itself. Only then will you attain all knowledge. Remember my words. You must drink from the spiritual source and also from your own experience. Do you understand?”

“I think I do,” she answered.

“You are young in this life. It will become clearer after you have finished your training.”

“How did you know?” she asked, amazed that the stranger had divined the purpose of her journey.

“I will open the veil for you. You have a good heart, and you may pass.”

He said nothing more.

As the silver mists parted, Aífe was surprised to see a small, rocky island in the distance. The chariot was turning; the man was leaving, heading back to the open ocean.

“Who are you?” she cried out as the choppy waves and winds reappeared in full force.

“Manannán mac Lir!” he shouted, his voice and form, chariot and horse already fading into the waves and the sea winds.