“Pretty,” said the wee man. “Like gold.”

“And that really is all you want? Will one hair get me over to the island and back again?”

“It will, and more besides.”

She plucked the hair, coiled it into the shape of a ring, and gave it to the ferryman, who did not put it on his finger, but slipped it into the leather pouch at his belt. Yes, Lily was foolish. But she was sixteen years old, and the rising, capricious tides of Beltane were flooding through her body and spirit. Such things happen.

She stepped into the little boat, and the ferryman got in after her, with a long pole in his hand, and took her on a bobbing, uneven course out onto the river. The ferry was not the most comfortable of boats, but the wee fellow knew what he was about. In next to no time they reached the island, and Lily disembarked onto another pebbly shore.

“You will wait for me, won’t you?” she asked. “I want to have a look at the tower. Climb up, if I can.”

“When you want me, do this.” The wee man stuck his fingers in his mouth and delivered a piercing whistle.

“When I want you, I’ll call ‘Ferryman!’” Lily said. “I have never learned to whistle like that.”

“Useful skill,” observed the ferryman. “Off you go, then; take a look around. You never know what you might find in a spot like that.” He jerked his head toward the tower, but did not quite look at it.

So, at last she was here. Such a lovely place, all grown over with a profusion of flowering plants, here and there a small tree—a hawthorn, an elder—and the air filled with a wonderful sweet scent. Patches of soft grass seemed to invite a traveler to lie down and dream awhile; flat stones provided perfect spots to sit and listen to the singing of birds, the rippling of the river and the sighing of the wind in the trees. But there was the tower, standing at the highest point, and Lily set her steps toward it, not letting herself linger. Who knew how soon her small ferryman might grow tired of waiting and head off on his own business?

The base of the tower was broad; it took some time to walk right around it. Mosses clothed the pale stones in a soft garment; flowers grew everywhere, a bright carpet. The voices of birds made a high music. And ah! here was the door at last, and it stood open. Within, all was shadow.

Lily drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She was not afraid; not really. But her heart was beating like a drum, and her palms were suddenly clammy. It was so dark in there. She took a step inside, and another step. There was a spiral stair against the tower wall, stretching up, ladder-steep, into the shadows.

Very well. She tucked her hem into her belt and up she went, treading with care. Spiders had colonized the tower’s interior; their webs were everywhere, catching at her hair, tickling her fingers, covering her skirt with filmy white strands. Things scuttled and scurried and whisked out of sight. The darkness was not complete; had it been so, she would indeed have been risking her life on this stair. From somewhere above, a faint light filtered down. There must be a window, an opening up there, Lily thought. She might be able to stand at the top looking out, as she had dreamed.