Slowly, the boat turned in the water and we began moving back out of the little cove and into the open sea once more. Once well beyond the rocks, Fintan called for the sail to be raised; the heavy fabric shook itself once, twice, caught the wind and filled. The ship slipped smoothly into deeper water, and we were away.
The pilot steered a course parallel to the land, moving south along the coast. The morning passed in a damp haze of mist and fog which clung to the cliffs and obscured the hills, leaving little to see.
We broke fast on barley bread and fish left over from the previous meal. I carried some back to Fintan at the stern, who put me to work holding the tiller while he ate. "We will make a seafarer of you yet, Aidan," he chuckled. "Just hold fast and keep an eye on the sail."
"Gwilym said we were to put in at Ty Gwyn," I said.
"Aye," answered the pilot, breaking bread. "Supplies."
"Is it far?"
He chewed thoughtfully. "No great distance."
Fintan seemed content with this answer and disinclined to improve on it, so I asked, "How far then?"
The pilot ate his bread as if contemplating the deep complexity of my question. Finally, he squinted up his eyes and said, "You will see."
Fintan's prediction proved faulty, however: I never did see the abbey called Ty Gwyn.
The wind sharpened, backing to the southeast and blowing steadily harder throughout the morning, churning the slate-grey water into stiff, jagged peaks that slammed against the prow and sides as if to drive us ashore. Consequently, our squint-eyed pilot was forced to put the ship further out, away from the coast, to avoid coming too near the land and being blown onto the rocks.
The sea swelled, lifting the ship high and holding it, before pitching it sideways into the next furrow. I found this rising-swaying-falling motion more than I could endure, and retreated to the back of the boat where I might grit my teeth and moan.
By midday, the wind had become a howling gale, piling the black waves high and spraying white foam over everything. I sat hunched in my nest among the grain sacks, clutching my stomach and desperately wishing I had not eaten the fish. Dugal, seeing my misery, fetched a stoup of water from the vat lashed to the mast. "Here, Aidan," he cried. "Drink this. You will feel better." He shouted above the wind and wave-roar, for even as far from land as we were, we could still hear the terrible thunder of the water tearing itself upon the rocks.
Placing the stoup in my hands, he watched me raise the wooden vessel to my lips, spilling most of the contents over myself due to the violent motion of the ship. The water tasted like iron on my tongue. I shivered at the taste; the shiver became a shudder and I felt my stomach churn inside me. I made it to the rail just in time to spew the ill-favoured fish back into the sea whence it came.
"Fret not, Aidan," Fintan advised. "It is for the best. You will feel better now."
This promise seemed especially remote, however, as I fell back onto the grain bags, drooling and gasping. Dugal sat with me until he was called away to help the sea monks strike the sail. This, I understood, would make the ship less easy to steer. But, as Mael explained, "It is take down the sail, or lose the mast."
"Is it that bad?" I wondered, feeling innocent and helpless.
"Nay," replied Mael, frowning, "not so bad that it cannot yet get worse."
"You mean it can get worse?" I wondered, apprehension stealing over me.
"Aye, it can always get worse. Sure, this is no more than a summer's breeze compared to some of the storms I have braved," he told me proudly. "I tell you the truth, Aidan, I have been shipwrecked four times."
This seemed to me a dubious boast for a seafaring man, but Mael appeared most pleased with it. The pilot called him to take the tiller just then, and I watched as Fintan grappled his way along the rail to join Brynach and the bishop at the mast. The three conferred briefly, where-upon the pilot returned to the helm. Dugal had seen this, too, and went to where Brynach and the bishop stood with their arms about one another's shoulders to keep from falling over.
They spoke together, whereupon Dugal returned to where I sat and said, "We cannot put in at Ty Gwyn. The coast is too treacherous and sea too rough to stop there now."
"Where, then?" I moaned, not really caring any more where we went.
"We are making for Inbhir Hevren," he told me. "It is a very great estuary with many bays and coves, and not so many rocks. Brynach says we can find shelter there."
Any sight of land had disappeared in mist and cloud wrack long ago. I wondered how the pilot knew where we could be, but lacked the strength or will to ask; it was all I could do to hold to the sacking and keep my head upright.
