He walked back across the gangboard to the quay and the waiting stranger. He was taller when you were close to him, and his face looked old and worn. But his clothes and boots had once been well-made.
The stranger reached then into his leather bag and pulled out a sheet of creamy parchment and a quill pen. Swiftly, resting the thick paper on his spare hand, he made some marks, then handed it across to Quirk.
“Give this to Caillagh-Ny-Ghueshag and I think she will help us.”
Quirk nodded. He had met perhaps one other person in his entire life who could write. He took the paper and looked at the marks on it. They meant nothing to him although he liked their clever intricacy, like so many knots in a fine rope. He folded the paper carefully and put it in a pocket.
The stranger made a su
