We trudge inland, the waves lapping at our thighs. Behind me two holy brothers of the Culdees pull the prow of the coracle. They have asked me several times to remain within the boat, concerned that word will reach my uncle that I marched at the head, charging into hostile country. The other seven brothers stay aboard, singing the hymn of Bunessan.

I am glad we landed when we did, for the winds have picked up and the unfriendly clouds overhead have cast a spray that foretells of heavy rain to come. The heavens rumble, and I am wont to think that God, Himself, stayed the storm with His hand whilst we were asea.

The country before us is craggy, with sheer cliffs and patches of lush green, not at all unlike the coastline of Inis Mor. Brothers Aodhán and Maitiú and I fall to our knees, at the shallowest part of the stony beach, and lower our heads while we lift our thanks up to our Creator. After the others run our boat aground, they join us. Taking cues from me, each brother rises and follows the path that winds inland, through a crevice in the cliff. Within a sheltered, stone alcove we find a stone domicile that resembles our skellig churches back home.

I stop us there, where the path splits. To the monk's residence or farther inland? My heart tells me to seek out the man of God, if there is in fact one who lives here. Christians are of many races, and we may find the Britons' clerics more hospitable than their chieftains.