The eerie sound floated lightly into the air and then faded away--he took the flute from his lips and stowed it in the woven bag he carried on his back. In the distance a fight had broken out and I realized that the notes were more than sound--they were the wind element, used this time for defensive purposes. The gray mist was alive, whirling down the trail toward the men and beasts who followed us.
MacCuill, the druid, turned to stare at me, his indigo eyes filled with mirth. He spoke a sentence in Gaelic and then translated when he noticed my bewildered expression.
"Just a slight diversion but it might give us time to get to the boat."
He turned and I followed but not before checking behind me for our pursuers. They were shrouded in the fog and I could hear screams of frustration as they struggled to free themselves.
Ahead of me MacCuill's gray robe billowed as he strode quickly up the hill. I ran to catch up wondering how a man his age had such stamina. He stopped at the top of the hill. The blue jewel of the sea stretched into the distance and below us wavelets moved gently in and out of the little harbor. There was no boat.