The Hounds of the Morrigan by Pat O'Shea

weeds in the water and the darting minnows whose shadows followed them over the clearly-lit sandy bed that was the bottom of this shallow part of the lake. Some parts of the lake were said to be bottomless. They were places where the water was always dark green and glassy and impenetrable to vision, even on a bright day such as today, Pidge knew.
    When they landed on the island, Pidge felt overwhelmed by the sudden loudness of the insects, as they busied and buzzed amongst the tall, flowering grasses and in the thickets of sloes, wild roses and woodbine. He flopped down in a grassy dip. Brigit said that she was going to pick some wild flowers.
    When Pidge was alone, he took out that dreadful page, still wrapped in Patrick’s writing, from where he’d hidden it inside his shirt. He opened his little iron case. He was about to fold the pages once more to fit them inside it and secure the manuscript properly in iron.
    It jerked out of his hand, slipping out from Patrick’s page, and pretended that it was being blown by the wind.
    There was no wind.
    Not a whisper.
    He dived after it. In seconds he had it folded again within the covering page. Then it was inside the iron case and he snapped it shut.
    And now I have you! he thought happily. You are really imprisoned in iron!
    Brigit came back, her fists full of daisies and the brooch pinned through her hair as an ornament, right on the top of her head.
    ‘It’s far too hot,’ she complained and she threw herself down beside Pidge. She began to make daisy chains, selecting the ones with the strongest stems. Pidge lay on his back, thinking about witches and trying to remember everything he had ever heard about them. This wasn’t easy, for not only had he heard very little on the subject, but he couldn’t exactly remember what he had heard. Just broomsticks and black cats, really.
    After a time, Brigit held up her daisy chains triumphantly and said:
    ‘Know what these are?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Handcuffs! In case those pig-rustlers come back and try again.’
    She put them on her wrist as bracelets. Already they looked wilted and lifeless.
    Two swans sailed into view and steered in towards them. Brigit opened up a paper bag and broke up some bread to throw into the water for the swans to enjoy.
    The heat made throwing an effort. The last piece she threw fell far short of the water. One of the swans glided into the shore and waddled onto the land towards the bread.
    ‘Do you think that swan could be a fairy?’ she asked.
    ‘I wouldn’t be a bit surprised!’ Pidge said sitting up; and that was exactly how he really felt.
    Brigit threw another piece of bread. She deliberately aimed to bring the swan closer. It stood for a while and looked at her with its black button eyes.
    She sang to it:
    ‘Come swan! Come swan! I’ll give you bread and butter!’ It turned and waddled back to the lake.
    ‘What about a hard-boiled egg?’ Brigit shouted. ‘Would you come for that?’
    The swan settled back on the water like a cat on a cushion. The other swan came to meet it and they sailed in circles close to the shore. All the time they watched the children with their intent black eyes.
    It was as if they had been on the island for hours and hours. Again Pidge had the feeling that time was not passing at its correct speed. Brigit was restless, and Pidge felt impatience rise inside him like a large bubble, threatening to burst if he didn’t do something soon.
    ‘Why don’t we go and explore the island?’ Brigit suggested.
    ‘We already know every stick and stone of it.’
    ‘Will we row to a different island?’
    ‘Too hot.’
    ‘I’m fed up sitting here. Do you think Daddy is home yet?’
    ‘No. It’s only about twelve o’clock.’
    ‘I’m going into the little wood. There might be something to see in there.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Oh, an animal or butterfly or fairy—any old thing at all. It’s too hot to do anything, we might as well go home.’
    Pidge raised his