“Who is Kirsteen McVurich, Murtagh?” he asked.
“She was a good servant of Christ, she was, in the south isles, O Colum, till Black Angus won her to the sea.”
“And when was that?”
“Nigh upon a thousand years ago.”
At that, Colum stared in amaze. But Murtagh was a man of truth, nor did he speak in allegories. “Ay, Colum my father, nigh upon a thousand years ago.”
“But can mortal sin live as long as that?”
“Ay, it endureth. Long, long ago, before Oisìn sang, before Fionn, before Cuchullin was a glorious great prince, and in the days when the Tuatha De Danann were sole lords in all green Banba, Black Angus made the woman Kirsteen McVurich leave the place of prayer and go down to the sea-shore, and there he leaped upon her, and made her his prey, and she followed him into the sea.”
“And is death above her now?”
“No. She is the woman that weaves the sea-spells at the wild place out yonder that is known as Earraid: she that is called an-Cailleach-uisge, the sea-witch.”
“Then why was Black Angus for the seeking her here and the seeking her there?”