There are few leaves left on the branches now, but still the light alters as I leave the open grassland and step between the tall trunks. There is sufficient shattering of the sunlight to allow me to lower my hood. I am aware of the heat of the sun on my face, still, and resolve to make a balm of chamomile and honey when I return to my house to guard against blisters. The woodland floor is yet a tangle of plants—ground elder, brambles, ivy, the remnants of rosebay willow herb, all tumble over one another in their scramble for space. Above me birds make the most of the fair weather. On an oak bough three lazy crows spread their wings to soak up the warmth of the sunshine through their glossy black feathers. In a holly bush a plump robin, full of his own importance, sings to claim his territory and warn off any rivals. A mother blackbird, browner than her name suggests, flits past at knee height before trilling her warning of my approach. How much more tuneful are the birds of the woods than the birds of the water. Ducks and geese make their raucous racket without once finding a note of sweetness, whilst these tree dwellers are practiced in the art of melody.

I cast my eyes to the ferny floor in search of what I will need for the princess’s vision and spellcasting, for my gifts are twofold. The first is that I am able to work as a shaman, to enter a trance in which, should I be blessed, a vision will come to me. A seeing that foretells the future, or answers a question, or offers guidance. There are times I find my visions in the flickering flames of my fire. At others I see them rise from the moonlight reflected on the lake. They can come to me unsought, or I can chase them, in which case I prefer to aid my quest with the use of certain mushrooms or herbs. Today I look for the bright red caps of the elfin toadstool, which I will simmer in milk and sip in silent contemplation. The measure is of vital importance. Too little, and it will prove ineffective. Too much, and it will prove fatal.