Two days have passed since I delivered my words of warning at the gathering. The weather continues gentle, the lake is tranquil, but I can feel the discord and alarm on the crannog. People are afraid, and with good reason. The vision was strong, its meaning plain. They harried me for more detail, pestering me with who? and when? and why? Of course I cannot tell them, though as the danger grows stronger there will be more signs. Of that I am certain. As to the who … many of them would not believe me if I told them my thoughts, for that is all I have to give; the wisdom of my mind. They will all listen when I bring them a seeing, but some still doubt my own word. As if their prophet is nothing more than a cypher!

But then, I must allow that I am a mystery to them. I cannot expect them to understand all that I do, all that I am. I have followed my mother’s calling as a shaman, and it was she who showed me the path of the seeker of visions. She who taught me how to read what I saw. Our strangeness marked us out, and we have always been respected as different, as having a connection to the old religion, to useful talents and gifts. The title of witch they accept less readily. There are too many tales of wickedness attached to my kind, and the combination of seer and witch is rare. My mother knew the day I was born that I carried magic within me. That I had been doubly blessed. But my skills were not enough to keep her in this life. When the sickness took hold of her, she could not shake free of it, and I was too young, too green, my gifts too undeveloped to save her.