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breath and held it.
    At first it seemed impossible. Then, to his surprise, he discovered he was swimming. Struggling, but staying up, not giving up. He opened his mouth to take a great gulp of much-needed air – and the sea poured in. Salty water flooded down his throat and up into his nasal passages. He was strangling.
    Out of control and terrified, Tom thrashed violently in the water. And felt his toes graze the bottom.
    Rowing backwards with his arms, he soon righted himself .The water came up to his chin but the bottom was still there, solid and reassuring. He was on a shelf that extended an unknown distance into the bay. As long as he went no further, he could practise swimming with confidence. If he remembered not to swallow any water.
    By the time Tom returned to the beach his body felt well used, but his spirit was soaring. He promised himself he would swim every day he could.
    He waited until his clothes were almost dry, then made his way home, eager for the next morning, when Donal and Maura might be there. And they were.
    Tom did not talk about his newly acquired skill for fear they would want a demonstration. Instead he told them about life at Roaringwater House. Things that seemed commonplace to him fascinated them. When he described his bed-closet, Maura clapped her hands with delight. ‘Tomflynn sleeps in a coffin!’ she cried as she capered around him.
    Tom had his own questions. ‘How far back does the cave go, Donal?’
    ‘Can you keep a secret?’
    ‘I can.’
    Donal led the other two into the cave. When their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he pointed out a narrow passageway leading to another chamber. ‘Beyond this are more rooms,’ he told Tom, ‘but you’d want a torch to see them. We only carry one when it’s needed.’
    ‘What are the rooms used for?’
    ‘Why do you think they’re used for anything?’
    Tom said, ‘You told me your work was guarding the cave.’
    ‘You have a good memory.’
    ‘Ev’ryfink is used for somefink,’ Maura volunteered.
    Tom chuckled. ‘Her English is not as good as yours, Donal, but she tries.’
    ‘Our father insists we learn English so we can deal with the Sasanach ,’ said Donal. ‘They’re too thick to learn Irish,’ he added scornfully.
    ‘What dealings do you have with the Sasanach ?’
    Ignoring the question, Donal said, ‘Only a few people know these caves are here. You can’t see them unless you come right up to them. That’s why they make such good storehouses.’
    ‘Storehouses?’ Tom queried. ‘But they’re empty.’
    ‘They’re empty now. The first time you were here they had casks of wine in them. Spanish sherry.’
    ‘I don’t understand, Donal.’
    ‘I’m talking about making a living from the sea. That’s what my family does. It isn’t always sherry, either. Or port from Portugal. Sometimes it’s swords, or silver, or Persian rugs. Once it was teeth.’
    ‘Teeth!’
    ‘Giant fangs,’ said Donal. ‘They were curved and white and longer than my leg. They came from Africa, so theremust be giant wolves in Africa. I never want to go there, myself,’ he added fervently.
    Try as he might, Tom could not imagine wolves with fangs longer than a boy’s leg. ‘You’re making that up, Donal.’
    ‘I am not making it up. I swear on the Virgin.’
    Tom only half believed the story about the fangs, but he was fascinated to learn of the wine. His father served port and sherry to his guests. Was he buying stolen goods without knowing it? Was Donal’s family making a fool of William Flynn?
    ‘Could I do what you do? Work with your family, maybe?’ he asked Donal when they were out in the sunlight again.
    ‘Are you serious?’
    ‘I am serious,’ Tom insisted. The idea had come to him in a rush. He could almost see himself carrying barrels in and out of the caves, whistling through his teeth, tossing his hair out of his eyes. Getting even with his father. ‘Please, Donal. Give me a chance.’
    The other boy looked