She is right to be wary. The men walk all over her island. They carry books, in which they make notes and sketches. They spend a long time at her hut, of which there is now almost no trace, except a low course or two of stones. Even so, they pace it out; wave their hands at the mound, gesture to her apple tree, the spring. They disagree about the spring. There is shouting. The sheep don’t like them. They run to the far end of the island.

Although they don’t come close to touching each other with their hands, Cwen feels the violence. She can see their silver pommelled swords. The daggers they carry in their belts. The ease with which those fists could smash a woman’s nose, or penetrate an unwilling cunt. Cwen shudders.

At last they leave in their boat, and Cwen sniffs the air. Her island smells sullied.

She sighs, and feels Wind stir at the touch of her breath. It is that easy. Already, between Wind and her, they have the makings of a tempest, should she want it. She closes her eyes and listens to the noise the little storm makes; the waves, dashing on her beach, the clatter of pebbles and branches, the swirling of Wind as the sea is pounded.

Cwen, stop. If she let herself carry on, she could drown them all.

She opens her eyes again. The men have reached the island opposite.

Cwen thinks of the women she is drawing out. She knows they aren’t ready. She knows they know nothing. Each time they come here, their feet touch the sand of her island – and they think they are safe. But an island this size never saved anyone in the long run. When the seas rise, you have to be ready; when the birds begin to die, you have to survive on roots. These women aren’t prepared for any of that. If their boat broke and they were stuck here, they wouldn’t last a week. They have no fish taboos, yet they don’t know how to catch a fish. They have no wish to be attacked; but not one of them could lay a trap, or garrotte an invader, or staunch a bleeding wound – and there are several different ways: with a cloth, a piece of string, and either the birch polypore fungus or the giant puffball.

They desire it. They long to know everything she knows – about Wind and Moon and Sun; about the plants; about listening. And Cwen can do it. She can provide them with the knowledge. She can cause the puffballs to sprout, and the flint to break open its deadly milky sharpness, and crabs to land on the shore, and their eyes to open to each other. It’s her island, she will do it if necessary. She will force the knowledge on them.