The Three-headed Dragon
Chapter 1
"Fairyland at last," muttered Michael Tempest to himself as he swung the big Citroen station wagon around a sharp bend in the road.
As the car dipped down a hill, his twelve year old son Pete looked up from the puzzle book that had been engaging his attention for the last hour or so and glanced out the window. They had finally left the miles of dreary moorland behind. The drenching rain that had dogged their journey for hours had eased and for the first time in many miles, Michael was able to switch off the big single wiper that had been struggling to keep the windscreen clear.

"That van seems to have finally disappeared, Megan," he observed, glancing into the rear view mirror.
"What van?" responded his wife, twisting around to look out the rear window.
"The black van I mentioned a couple of hours ago. It attached itself to our tail just after we ran into that rainstorm. Sat about a quarter of a mile behind and made no attempt to overtake," replied her husband.
Megan grimaced, turned round again and devoted her attention to the landscape now unfolding in front of them.
The big car was gliding into a small green valley under the pastel shades of a late summer evening sky. Bathed in golden sunlight, a wide sand-fringed bay sparkled in the distance. The low evening sun glistened on a calm sea. Within the eastern curve of the bay nestled a village of brightly coloured houses spilling down towards the water's edge. A cluster of small boats was huddled within the protecting stone arms of a little harbour. On the western point of the bay, a high headland topped by a craggy mound reared out of the surf. From the centre of the mound a tall pillar-like stone projected into the sky. Just visible on the far distant western horizon was the dark brooding hump of a small island.
"This journey seems much longer than I remember it as a lad," remarked Michael flexing his tired shoulders as he manoeuvred his car down the winding valley road.
"It's a beautiful setting for the village, Michael" his wife Megan murmured, enraptured by the view unfolding in front of her. "Really idyllic."
"What's the place we are going to called again Dad?" piped up Pete from the back seat. "It's a funny kind of name and I can never remember it."
"Tirnashee, it's actually the name of this valley as well as the village," replied Michael.
"What sort of a name is that?" exclaimed his son.
"In the Irish language it means Country of the

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