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	Innis Glora
	They flew west and settled by Inish Glora, keeping close to the coast. But it wasn't sea monsters they needed to fear. Aoife sent a Demon wind from the North, filled with the breath of icebergs. The sea froze solid and was silenced as if dead. The swans froze to the rocks they sheltered on. The cold ice bit into them as if it had teeth. They fought against it, struggled and pulled so hard to escape, that they left behind, caught in the ice, feathers torn from their wings and skin from their feet. They plunged into the open sea. The salt burned their wounds. They screamed, but could do nothing. They must swim. If they stayed on the ice the frost would slide its long cold fingers under their feathers, along their shivering bones, right into their hearts, and squeeze. They would grow numb and still. Snow would cover them. Ice would close their eyes. 'It's too cold. I'm sinking,' Conn moaned, his breath like mist around him. Snow drifted against them, lay on their backs. Thin needles of ice grew on their wet feathers. Their breath came weakly. Finola began to sing. She sang of the warm current of sea water from the south that would reach under the ice and crack it open, of the melting away of the ice, and the melting away of all their sorrows. Her singing warmed her, and her brothers joined the song and the magic of their music called out the sun from behind the clouds and brought a whisper of springtime on the softening wind. Time must pass. Time must bring changes. There were no more evil winds. The swans journeyed all along the western coast, and met the Lonely Crane of Inishkea. 'What sort of birds are you,' he said, 'talking with human voices?' They told him the long sad story of their enchantment and exile. 'I hate being a bird,' Fiacra said.'We should be at home, grown -up, with our father.' 'Learning to drive a chariot!' said Conn. 'Winning all the prizes at the games,' said Aedh. ' Walking with our father in his fields, naming the wild flowers and herbs,' said Finola. 'Don't say anymore,' said Fiacra. 'It makes me homesick.' For the last time Aoife swooped down out of her lonely place in the sky. She swirled and skirled and screamed around the swans. 'Fly where you will. Your exile is ended.' 'Must we stay swans?' 'Until you find a stronger magic . . . ' previous page | read more