The waves lap in rhythm against the hull of the tiny boat as it creeps outward into the vastness of the ocean. Stroke by stroke the spindly oars beat against its constant ebb and flow, carrying the craft further and further still.
Passed the ancient ground where ships rest in the Davy dark
Passed the rocks the float, caught in the crushing tidal caress, swarming with eels the thickness of men
Passed the place where giant squid are said to mate, in writhing seas that boil with tentacles and strange, sucker rimmed limbs.
She has been rowing for days. Her cloak bound tightly around her, her arms jangle with bangles and bracelets. Trinkets and charms. Gifts, all of them. She is Heidi, and it is no accident she has come to this place.
She stows her oars and sniffs the air. The salt tang, so familiar to her nostrils, tells her stories of this place, of all that it has seen, of songs sung and deeds done. This is the place.
She reaches into the depths of her craft, her tiny rowboat, and