I show her the path to the hostel and she leaves without another word. The woman has not talked a lot, much to my relief. Some of the people I take across the water chatter like hatchlings, chirping merrily away about this and that, all matters which they seem to believe are most important for this ferryman to know. They tell me who they are visiting and why, the story of their lives, confessions of regret for their elders, excuses for not coming here more often, sorrowful tales of hardship, braggings of good fortune. I have the privelidge of hearing it all. Others, like this fine-featured cuillean in the wornout green brat, are thoughtfully silent. I remember everyone but I don't remember seeing this one before. Surely I would, had we ever met. From her sober manner, she must have traveled here to attend someone's death. For the sake of that pretty face, I hope she is not too late.

There is a little spot of sunshine on the bank of the lough. I sit down with my back against the mooring post to warm myself and rest awhile. On the opposite shore I can just barely make out the shapes of her pony and wolfhound. She will be going back soon, otherwise she would have insisted on at least taking the dog in the boat. I wonder why she acted startled when I said my name, as if I had said something else instead. We have a certain way of speaking here and sometimes people from elsewhere can't understand us very well at first. But she spoke exactly as I do. Why do I not know her?

It occurs to me then that she could be from one of the older families, whose children and grandchildren went away during that time when the crannog's territories were in dispute. I scratch my head and try to remember some of the stories.

As a fosterling, I have scant knowledge of my own parents. The old ferryman before me was the only father I ever knew, and a mother even more vague, both of them gone for a long time. They told me I was found in a basket by the shore, newborn and abandoned. So they called me after the god of the waters. A tidy tale indeed!

I laugh out loud. What does it matter? I am grown now and living on my own, comfortably enough, by the lough where I have always been. I live in my old father's hut and everything I need is close at hand. The god of the waters blesses me. I may well be his child, for all I know.

The sun reaches its highest place for this winter's day and the clouds finally blow away. I shut my eyes against the bright glitter of the lough so that I can dream while I wait to ferry the quiet woman back to the shore.