Gabhaim molta Bríde
Ionmhain í le hÉirinn
Ionmhain le gach tír í
Molaimis go léir í.

Lóchrann geal na Laighneach
A' soilsiú feadh na tíre
Ceann ar óghaibh Éireann
Ceann na mban ar míne.

Tig an Geimhreadh dian dubh
A' gearradh lena ghéire
Ach ar Lá 'le Bríde
Gar dúinn earrach Éireann.

I sing out loudly as I rub Moss's fragrant soap vigourously into my hair. As I finish the song - a tribute to Brigid, a fitting song to celebrate the timid entrance of springtime - I plunge down again into the refreshingly cold waters of the Boyne. The piercing blue water envelops me in a shivering embrace and I spin and swirl in the water, enjoying the weightlessness of my limbs. As I gaze through the hazy thickness of the water, I am glad to see my bruises fading, my scars lightening, and my scabs healing. Soon there won't be much physical manifestation of my psychological turmoil. I sigh and lay back againt a slick boulder, submerged in the water up to my neck. I have heard of plans to go after Lorcánn, to revenge my family and bring down this tyrannical killer. My heart remains unmoved though - although I long for revenge, nothing can render my loved ones' ashes to flesh again. I cannot think backwards, I must think forwards. This bustling port town I ended up in is a friendly, beautiful, promising one. Its members have cared for me and saved me from death. Moss has patiently waited on me day after day, and has become a true friend to me. A new life in the village is calling. It is time for me to find my place in it, as a citizen.

Suddenly, I hear a jarring splash as feet tramp into the river. Startled, I let out a shriek and I look around franticly for my brat to cover myself. Unable to locate my clothing quickly, I scurry over to the opposite side of the bank and try to hide in the underbrush. I sit there shivering on the cold rocks as I hear the footsteps continue to plod through the river towards my hiding spot. "Who's there?! Please, do not come closer! Throw me my brat at least! Fiend!!!" Just when I am working myself into a state of fury, a large furry gray paw lands at my feet and the top of my head is bumped repeatedly by a cool, wet nose. "Thorn! You wily little devil!" I relax and uncurl myself slowly from the underbrush. Crossing the river again, I gather my new brat and leine that Moss has given me and quickly dress. I have begun working on some embroidery around the edges with threads Moss has given me, but the rickety patterns are confirming my mother's claims that my sewing skills will never woo a husband. Patting Thorn on his hindquarters, I race him back to the hut.