On the seventh morning it seemed to discard all hopes and intentions of ever making light of its own, and darkened and solidified into the form of a black bird. This perched on the branch for some days, seeming dead except that it would shift its footing from time to time when strong winds came down from the mountains. When gusts ruffled its feathers it would open its wings just enough to learn a few things about how they worked, then fold them tight against its body and close its eyes for a while.

Blossoms flourished on a few branches of the ancient tree that were still capable of bearing apples. By the time these had withered and blown away, the black bird was fully formed, and capable of flight—though not very good at it. Prim woke up one morning and looked out her window to find the branch vacant, the bird nowhere to be seen. She felt a pang of loss. But then the still air of dawn was fractured by a clattering of black feathers and a scraping of talons on the stone sill of her window. She leapt back. The bird perched on the window frame and gazed at her curiously. “I am Corvus,” it announced, “and I am not like other new souls who come into the Land, though I cannot remember why.”

“Oh, of that, there is no doubt,” said Prim. For she had never heard tell of a new soul who had adopted a form and acquired the power of speech so readily. Indeed, had Corvus so manifested in other parts of the Land, he’d have been done away with by the superstitious folk who dwelled in such parts. That he had come into being in a tree in the garden of the Calladons was lucky, for the Calladons were queer folk. “My name is Prim,” she said. “My family is Calladon. This is Calla.”

“What do those words mean? Prim? Calladon?”

“Oh, they are not those kinds of words!” she answered. “You see, some words are very old, and their significance forgotten.”

“So Calladons have been here for a long time.”

She nodded. “We built this house on the back of a sleeping giant at the dawn of the Third Age, if that helps you.”

“It doesn’t.”

This Corvus seemed quite difficult to please. She shrugged. “That is our garden, and this my bedchamber. I have been watching you.”

“I know,” said Corvus—not really making it clear how many of the assertions just made by Prim had been known to him. No matter. The bird looked her up and down. She was wearing a sleeping gown that fell all the way to the floor. “Are you a girl, or a woman?”

“Girl,” Prim told him.

“Of how many falls?”

“It is not what matters,” she told him. “Calladons are queer folk. Girls become women, or boys become men, when some occasion requires it. Of late this part of the Land has been quiet and such occasions few.”