‘They looked under the bridge. They hunted all along the riverbanks, this way, that way. But the creature was nowhere to be found. She had swum away before dawn with her little one clinging to her back. She had gone to find a new home, far from the habitations of men. And search as the wealthy man might, he never found her, not in all his living days.’

‘And the heartwood house was never finished.’ Cara’s voice was a little thread. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath.

‘It was never finished. The rich man tried to add pieces of the three missing timbers, but somehow they could never be made to fit. There was magic in the making of it, of course. And a man like him has no magic.’

‘At least the creature escaped,’ Cara said. ‘At least she got her child back and found a safe place for the two of them.’ What did this tale mean? It felt as if it was about her and her father and Bardán. But how could it be? She wanted to go away and hide. She wanted to be up in the yew tree, with her eyes closed against the world, leaning against the strong trunk and thinking of nothing at all. But she had to ask. Had to make herself ask. ‘Master Oisin?’

‘Yes, Cara?’

‘These old tales . . . Can the things in them sometimes happen again? Not exactly the same, of course, but . . . very much the same?’

‘If this were your story, Cara, who would you be?’

‘The monster’s child.’ Her voice shook. Deep down, she knew it was true. Even though it would mean Gormán had lied, and her father had lied, and something cruel and terrible had happened.

‘Ah, the monster. But she was only a monster in the eyes of those who did not understand the strange and different. The tale makes it clear she was a loving mother, a skilled and hard worker, a gentle creature who fed only on grasses, a singer, a poet, a student of lore. All of those things.’

Cara was shivering; she edged closer to the fire. ‘But folk wouldn’t see that,’ she said. ‘They’d only see the big teeth and the scaly body and the slime. They’d judge straight away that she was dangerous.’

‘It is often thus, sadly. Have you known such a person, Cara? One who is so different that folk feel fear and loathing rather than compassion?’

Cara remembered that day when she’d been up in the guardian oak and the wild man had come. She had looked down into his mad eyes and been frozen with terror. It would have been so easy to climb down, to smile, to ask if he was all right. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And I think he might be my father. My real father.’