“Some may be true, and some not,” I said, threading a long pointed leaf under, and through, and around itself. “Does it matter?”

He got up, and I heard the change in his breathing as he swallowed a gasp of pain; silence meant control.

“Nothing in life is like your stories,” he said. “You dwell in your own little world here; you can have no idea of what exists outside it. I wish—” he broke off.

“Wish what?” I asked when he did not go on.

“I would almost wish that you should never discover it,” he said with his back turned to me.

“Don’t you think I have begun to?” I stood up, the little wreath in one hand. “I have seen what they did to you. I have listened to you crying for help. And you have told me yourself such stories of cruelty that I must believe them true. You have hardly thought to spare me.”

“You shut that world out, with your tales.”

“Not entirely,” I said as we began the slow walk back. “Not for you, or for myself. The tales make it a bit easier, that’s all. But you will have to talk about it eventually, if you are to heal and return home.”

Father Brien had given him a strong stick of ash, and he used it to help him walk; he was still painfully hesitant, but he moved along now without my support. Here, the path was thickly covered with fallen leaves, and the tangled network of bare branches let cold light through to touch them with gold and silver. Linn was ecstatic, digging and sniffing here and there. A bird called; another answered.

“Will I ever be able to sleep again?” he asked suddenly, taking me by surprise. My answer was guarded; I had seen those taken by the Fair Folk, how their madness never quite left them by night or day, how the whirl of memories in their heads gave them no peace.

“It might take a long time,” I said gently. “You have made some progress; but I cannot lie to you. Such damage does not heal easily. You may be your own best helper, if you choose the right path.”

Simon’s body was healing. He had been young, and strong, and resilient, and he was winning the fight against the damage and invasions of that night and the evil humors that had followed. After a time he began to walk without the stick, and he exchanged his first few words with Father Brien, almost without noticing. I greeted each small victory with joy. A kind word, an attempt to do something new for himself, a spontaneous smile, each was a priceless gift. Once the healing process took hold, it gathered speed, and I began to believe we might eventually be able to send him back to his own folk.