For the rest I read, and walked on the hills, and gathered plants and made medicines. I also made music, and sang a number of songs which made Cadal look sideways at me over his tasks and shake his head. Some of them are still sung, but most are best forgotten. One of the latter was this, which I sang one night when May was in town with all her wild clouds of blossom, and greybell turned to bluebell along the brakes.

The land is grey and bare, the trees naked as bone,

Their summer stripped from them; the willow’s hair,

The beauty of blue water, the golden grasses,

Even the bird’s whistle has been stolen,

Stolen by a girl, robbed by a girl lithe as willow.

Blithe she is as the bird on the May bough,

Sweet she is as the bell in the tower,

She dances over the bending rushes

And her steps shine on the grey grass.

I would take a gift to her, queen of maidens,

But what is left to offer from my bare valley?

Voices of wind in the reeds, and jewel of rain,

And fur of moss on the cold stone.

What is there left to offer but moss on the stone?

She closes her eyes and turns from me in sleep.

The next day I was walking in a wooded valley a mile from home looking for wild mint and bitterweed, when, as if I had called her, she came up the path through the bluebells and bracken. For all I know, I may have called her. An arrow is an arrow, whichever god looses it.

I stood still by a clump of birches, staring as if she would vanish; as if I had indeed conjured her up that moment from dream and desire, a ghost in sunlight. I could not move, though my whole body and spirit seemed to leap at once to meet her. She saw me, and laughter broke in her face, and she came to me, walking lightly. In the chequer of dancing light and shadow as the birch boughs moved she still seemed insubstantial, as if her step would hardly stir the grasses, but then she came closer and it was no vision, but Keri as I remembered her, in brown homespun and smelling of honeysuckle. But now she wore no hood; her hair was loose over her shoulders, and her feet were bare. The sun glanced through the moving leaves, making her hair sparkle like light on water. She had her hands full of bluebells.

“My lord!” The small, breathless voice was full of pleasure.

I stood still with all my dignity round me like a robe, and under it my body fretting like a horse that feels curb and spur at the same time. I wondered if she were going to kiss my hand again, and if so, what I would do. “Keri! What are you doing here?”