Steering left felt right and so Inteachán began to walk carefully across the wet stone with the lough to her back. Her penlight faintly flickered in front of her revealing nothing more than a tiny disc of light for her to gingerly step into. As she moved Inteachán slowly began to gather her senses. The air was filled with a sickly rotting scent that Inteachán assumed was vegetation.
‘If that’s the case, she considered, ‘then maybe some of it is dry enough to burn.’
Inteachán felt better with each step.
‘I just need to keep moving,’ Inteachán reasoned. ‘Standing still is always death.’