Isle of Ancestors by Gail Kavanagh

After my strange ride on the carousel, I returned to find my companions gathered on Duwamish Quay.The spell of the carousel had completely driven from my mind that we were to go on another journey tonight.My companions were all getting on their barges and I hurried down the quay in search of mine. A woman called out to me and I stepped down into my barge. I sent a quick thank you to my late father for his insistence on taking me out to sea at the first opportunity. Thanks to him I am quite at home in boats and I settled happily behind the ferry woman as the boat moved away from the quay.

It was a clear night full of stars and the sea was very still. I saw an island looming out of the darkness and felt the ferry jolt as it slid ashore. I climbed out and waded up onto the beach. I found
myself in a grove of apple trees that reminded me of the Abbey – and for a moment I felt a piercing homesickness for my little caravan and my horse Tinker. But faint heart ne'er enjoyed an adventure like this, so I kept to the path until I reached a huge stone doorway. I passed under the torches into a sloping passage and continued down until I found myself in a great hall. What little light there was
came from a dying fire in the centre of the hall. Seated nearby was a hooded figure. Remembering my instructions, I circled halfway round the hall and sat down facing my ancestor – who would it be?

``Greetings, ancestor," I said.

The figure reached up and tossed back the hood. A young man sat there, with a bright, laughing face and thick curly hair. Under the robe he was dressed in a colourful jerkin and leggings. I was
expecting someone wise and sere – this cheeky whelp looked like one of my sons. What question could I ask him? But there was only one question I really wanted to ask.

``What is this place I dream of, where the colours are so much more intense, where I feel so much more alive and happy? Does it really exist?"

He leaned forward and I saw wisdom as well as merriment in his eyes.

``Someday," he said, ``you will come home."

He reached into his jerkin and pulled out a single blade of grass. When I took it in my fingers I felt it pulse with life.

``This comes from that place you dream about," he said. ``Keep it with you always and you will find your way."

It was his turn to ask a question now. His merry eyes danced as he said, ``And after you – does the storytelling go on?'I told him about my children – Lucia, the daughter who writes songs; Kat, the one who tells her poems in pictures, and Chris, the son who creates worlds no one but he has ever seen – and of my grandchildren, who reach out for crayons and paper almost as soon as they can sit up. He listened with joy, this unknown minstrel ancestor of mine. Suddenly I found I was holding a piece of paper, on which was written the words of Lucia's lovely song to her grandmother. I gave it to him, and he sang it softly to himself as he scanned the words.

``It will go on with us," I said, ``as long as there are stories to be told."

Now it was time for me to leave. I followed the circle round the fire and went back to the shore where the ferry woman waited.As we sped across the glassy water, I clutched my blade of grass and felt overwhelming joy.