‘Who needs electric lights anyhow, eh? Not me. And certainly not you,’ Tilda decides, noticing how soothing the feel of the dog’s fur is beneath her fingers. She sets about her tasks and begins to achieve the sense of calm that comes from gently restoring order; from attending to the small details of life that ease the passage of time. When at last the dog is tended to and settled and the electrician called, she slips out of the house and into her ceramics studio.

SEREN

The sun has gone to sleep and left shadow-making to the torches that burn bright in the still of the evening. From where I sit, at the entrance to my small lakeside house, I have an unbroken view of the crannog. The small island sits upon the water as if held there by magic, floating, the weight of the hall and the other buildings apparently supported by some unknown glamor. In truth, it is a solid thing. It was not magic that brought it into being but hard labor, sweat, and toil. It is not suspended at all, but sits stoutly on layers of rock and wood, hauled into place over many months, constructed to the design of clever, ambitious men.

Many more torches than is customary are lit tonight, the better to show the way to the gathering in the long hall. And the better to show off the finery of those who will attend. How people snatch at the chance to parade in their expensive garments and gaudy jewels. They pretend to hurry to their prince’s side, to show their support, to listen to his every word. In truth their loyalty is not as great as their vanity. And is not the crannog itself a display of pride? That man can make an island! Not content to build his hall and smithy and houses on the shore, he must construct his own isle, must sit atop the water, as if he has conquered the elements so that he alone is able to float his impossibly heavy buildings above the eels and fishes. As if his feet are too tender, too royal, to set upon the gritty earth.

The lake itself is quiet tonight. The trifling events of those who dwell within its reach do not trouble it. A wind might stir its surface into jagged waves. A freezing might glaze it with bitter ice. The sun on a summer morn might lift from it a mist. But man’s splashings and flailings are fleeting disturbances only. Prince Brynach considers himself ruler of his own land, and that may be so, but he no more rules the water of the lake than the stars in the sky or the thunder in the clouds. No matter how many crannogs he builds.