Exhilaration surged through me as the ship gathered speed before the wind, gliding out upon the smooth, glassy waves as quick and keen as any black-winged gull. The sea spread before the ship and I gaped in awe at the sight: an immense expanse of restless blue-grey water billowing to the horizon and beyond, wider and more wild than I had ever imagined. How different it appeared from the rail of a swift-sailing ship.

Gasping, the raw wind stealing the breath from my lungs, I marvelled at the speed of the boat and the power of the waves sliding by along the rail. From time to time a wave would strike the side, flinging salt spray into my eyes.

I felt the wind on my face and tasted salt on my tongue and knew what it was to be alive. I breathed deep, exulting in the racing of my heart and the cool air in my lungs. We flew!

Stupid with wonder, I stared into the sea-misted distance, and offered up the fisher's prayer: Save me, Lord! Your sea is so big, and my boat is so small. God, have mercy!

I stood at my place at the back of the boat, almost too frightened to move, and watched the seafaring brothers perform their labour. They worked with deft efficiency, moving naturally with the running bound of the boat, hands busy with ropes-pulling, knotting, loosing, casting-calling to one another with a familiarity born of long acquaintance.

There were six of them altogether: Connal, Mael, Clynnog, Ciaran, and Faolan-five of the muir manachi, that is, five sea monks, who braved deep water under the leadership of a brother named Fintan, a gaunt gristle-bone of a man who was the pilot. He stood with tiller in hand, keen eyes asquint against the sky, watching the sail and calling sharp commands which the others instantly obeyed. Obviously, they had sailed together before and had been chosen for their ship-handling mastery.

I looked around at my other companions. Bishop Cadoc had placed himself at the front of the boat, together with his advisors, the three Britons: Brynach, Gwilym, and Ddewi. At the rear of the boat, along with Fintan at the tiller, stood Brocmal, Dugal, and myself.

Thus we were thirteen souls in all; a sacred number, the number of Christ and the disciples: thirteen peregrini, chosen of God, dedicated Cele De each and all.

Despite the apprehension of my death, I could not help feeling proud to be included in this eminent company. And as I had not yet told anyone about my vision, I decided that I would keep this secret to myself, shouldering its bitter burden alone. This resolution pleased me oddly; I felt that in some way it would be my unsung contribution to the venture. The thought made me feel noble and worthy. I enjoyed the feeling.

As if to confirm my brave intentions, the sun suddenly cracked the clouds and poured dazzling light over the wind-stirred waves. Gazing out upon the broad, endless sweep of shimmering sea, I thought, "Come, let the world do its worst. Aidan mac Cainnech is ready."

I gradually settled into the plunging rhythm of the ship, and learned how to anticipate the sudden lifts and shuddering dives. The up-and-down motion was not at all difficult to master, but I found the erratic and abrupt side-to-side lurch unnerving. Whenever it happened, I seized the rail with both hands and held on, lest I tumble headlong into the sea.

Dugal, who had some small experience in ships, laughed to see my first, stuttering steps. "Stand straight, Dana," he instructed. "You hobble like an old man. Take the motion in your knees." He bent his legs slightly to show me. "It is like riding a horse."

"I have never ridden a horse," I complained.

"A Celt who has ridden neither ship nor horse? Now I have seen everything." He laughed again, and several of the sailing monks laughed with him.

"Some of us are not so worldly-wise as others," I replied.

"You will learn, my friend," Fintan called from his place at the tiller. "I daresay you will learn."

Our tutelage began at once, as the sea monks began instructing us in the ways of the rope, sail, and oar. At their bidding, we worked side by side, and I soon came to recognize seafaring as a rough yet exacting occupation, as demanding in its own way as anything encountered in the scriptorium.

When at last we finished securing the provisions and ordering the ship, I made myself a nest among the grain sacks and settled in; Dugal joined me there. "Strange the way God works, is it not?" I observed. He watched the sail swelling full in the wind. "It seems we are to be together after all."

"Indeed," he agreed, regarding the sails closely.

"Forgive me, brother, but I must know…" I hesitated, unwilling to speak the words.

"Did I push Libir?" he offered, guessing my thoughts.

"Brocmal thinks you did."

"I care little enough for what Brocmal thinks; let him say what he likes. What do you think?" he asked, turning his glance to me. "Did you see anything?"

"I did not see you do it," I answered. "Nor can I see how you could have pushed him."

"Then let us just say that God has favoured us highly," he said. "Truly, I do not think he meant us to be apart."

"And here I was beginning to fear I would never see you again. Who would have believed it possible?"

"We are friends," he said simply, and seemed inclined to say more, but turned his attention to the sail once more, drew a deep breath and exclaimed, "Ah, mo croi. The sea, Aidan. The sea! A ship is a beautiful thing, eh?"

"It is that."

We talked for a while, and then drifted into reverie, watching the slow rise and fall of the sea swell. I lay back on my grain-sack throne and closed my eyes. I did not think to doze, nor considered that I had. Nevertheless, I was startled when Clynnog, a Dal Riada Irishman, sang out: "Land ahead!"

"Already?" I wondered, rising in surprise. We had sailed little more than half a day, or so it seemed to me.

"The wind has been a fair friend to us," Fintan said, running a hand over his grizzled grey head. "Pray this weather holds."

I stepped over Dugal's sleeping form, and lurched to the side of the ship. Gripping the rail, I scanned the far horizon, but saw nothing save the great grey empty sweep of the sea-some of it glowing where sunlight touched it through a hole in the low-hanging clouds.

"I see no land," I called back to Fintan.

"There!" he said, pointing with his right hand. "Low on the horizon."

I looked where he was pointing, but still could see nothing but the rolling sea. "Where?" I shouted.

He laughed. "Keep looking."

Straining over the rail, I searched and searched, and at last began, dimly, to make out a vague shape in the misty distance-like that of a cloud bank sitting just above the firm line marking the boundary of sea and sky. I watched this murky bank for some time before observing any significant change, and at last began to see a small variation in the colour.

The ship flew towards this low-lying bank, leaping from wavetop to wavetop, ropes taut, mast-tip bending, sail straining, driving the ship's sharp prow through the deep green water. Slowly, steadily, the dark distant bank took on definition, becoming a gently undulating contour of mottled grey and green. After a time, these soft contours resolved into sharper features: stark cliff-faces of tumbled stone.

Dugal wakened and took his place beside me at the rail. "Ynys Prydein," he said, lifting a hand to the landscape before us.

"Have you been there before?" I asked.

"Once or twice," he said. "But it was night and I remember little of the land."

"Night?" I wondered. "Why would you go at night?"

He shrugged. "We most always went at night." Dugal paused, looking at the coastline almost wistfully. "Oh, but that was a long time ago, and I was very young."

Even as Dugal was speaking, the sky opened and light streamed down through a hole in the clouds, drenching the crag-bound coast in glorious golden rays. The sea sparkled in silver and blue, the broken rocks gleamed black as crows' wings, and the smooth-sloped hills glowed like fired emerald. This sudden beauty startled me with its intensity. I blinked my dazzled eyes and stood in awe of the sight.