Gospels clambered to his feet, dusted himself off, and then turned to Smoke, “And a monk I still am. I have Teirt.”

“Your offices?” Smoke was surprised, “Gospels, who would know?”

Gospels laughed, “. . . he asked the hermit.”  Gospels turned to the path that led back to the little compound. “Do hail the boat if you see it.  If it leaves us, we will be eating little bits of dried fish for a long time.”

Smoke looked back to the sea.  There was no sign of the boat that Gospels had assured him would come.  It was a beautiful day, sea birds danced on the breeze and Smoke took pleasure in watching their play.  “Wouldn’t it be best to be like a bird? Free? There in the sky are sailors in truth, who ride the sea winds and touch the sea only when they want,”  thought Smoke. The sun was warm on his face and he lay back against the stone for a moment to enjoy this gift as well.

Smoke started awake to the sound of a laughing gull.  He was chilled with the wind against him and the sun blocked by a passing cloud.  He did not know how long he’d slept.

Below, on the waves, was a small dinghy, smaller than his before it was shattered on this isle.  Both prow and stern rose from the gunnels and for a moment Smoke feared it was leaving.  The oars rose and fell, sparkling in the sun as the sea water fell away from them to plunge back into it for another stroke.

Smoke leaped to his feet and picked his way down toward the moorage, such as it was.  Soon enough he realized that the boat was approaching.  Smoke sighed his relief as he slowed.  He glanced back up toward the hermitage and saw Gospels high on the cliff, he waved when he saw Smoke looking back for him.  Smoke glanced back to where the little boat struggled toward the safety of the little cove.  There seemed plenty of time so he decided to wait for Gospels to catch up to him.

The Book of Invasions lists many groups who came to Irish shores, the first three left only bones. A grand-daughter of Noah, the Parthalonians (sp?), and then the Nemedians.

Now the Nemedians are another matter perhaps, it is claimed that the Nemedians returned as both the Fir Bolg and the Tuatha de Danan and were sons of Nemed from Greece. Also an argument might be made that the Fomorians, seafarers from the north or Africa, or who knows (? (Phonecia?)) may have lived at times on Irish shores, it can also be said that their bones remained as they are reputed to have been involved in several notable battles with various Irish dwelling peoples. I wonder if the Fomor had more to do with things than just popping in to oppress from time to time and also who they might be.

Since Nemedians were the progenators of both the Fir Bolg and the De Danans one might class them as survivors if one accepted that the Milesians only drove them underground into the FaeRig mounds.

Legend and lore often focuses on the kings and their linege. If it is at all possible one might think about who the people were, the ones who carried the water and rounded up cattle and made the food that the champions feasted upon. In particular, without having read the Book of Invasions, the title suggests that someone was there to bear the successive waves of invasion, perhaps someones other than Tuan.

Well that’s a start and I really aught to fill more in, but there is little enough time except to say that Niall of the Nine Hostages (yes yes, I’m back to that) is an excellent illustration of what I’m going on about. Niall, was Irish, well, half so. Niall’s father was Eochaid Mugmedon, but his mother was a Saxon princess. That makes his blood half Saxon. But I would submit that what really made Niall Irish was not his father, but the druid who saved his life and raised him.

Much later Normans would come to conquer Ireland, again the rulers changed, but it is funny. I’ve heard it said that the Norman lords became more Irish than the Irish themselves. Is it because, irrespective of the ruler, the people stay pretty much the same?