When the trio arrived in Shannon, they were met at the airport by a small man that introduced himself simply as snáidid.[1]The snáidid drove them to a cove in a remote part of western Ireland. Seanathair Smith pointed to a distant Island that almost glowed green against the dark grey sea. “That is Oileán Thiar Mitchell. That is where they are holding Queen Ruth.”
As Seanathair Smith finished pointing out the Island, the evil Taibhse Lochlannach appeared. He explained in a mix of ancient Gaelic and Norse that both Mitchell and Seanathair Smith could magically understand, “It is the contest once again. We will cross the sea to the Island and who ever touches land first will have ownership of the Island. The winner will also claim Queen Ruth as theirs. It is also written that only a Prince of the Smith Clan can compete. That is why your grandson Mitchell was allowed to travel with you. He will compete against me!”
Mitchell, whose feet were bound in his corrective shoes and bar, could not yet walk, was carried to his waiting rowboat by Seanathair Smith. Mitchell said, gugh mugugu gah, which Seanathair Smith understood correctly to mean, “Don’t worry grandfather, I will cross the sea and claim our island and save Queen Ruth. Just set me on the beach and I will take care of the rest.” (You see, baby talk is a very efficient language).
The snáidid pulled out a pistol from his cloak and fired it. The Taibhse Lochlannach began rowing with all his might.
Mitchell stood up, took his thumb out of his mouth, and let out a commanding post nursing burp. This was a surprise to every one as Mitchell had not been fed in quite some time. Immediately Franklin ran up to the beach dragging his leash. Mitchell grabbed the leash and Franklin jumped into the water and began swimming. Mitchell expertly guided the swimming dog through the waves like a banshee on his way to a wake, on his shoe bar turned ski.
The Taibhse Lochlannach in his rowboat and Mitchell on his ski were tied about 20 yards from the shore. Franklin’s dog paddle was meeting the Taibhse Lochlannach’s oars stoke for stroke. Then it happened. Franklin breathed in when he should have breathed out. The momentary wash of sea water in his uniquely delicate nose allowed the Taibhse Lochlannach to move slightly ahead. It looked as if the Vikings would win and Queen Ruth would be lost to the Norsemen.
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