

### Patchwork Quest

Jon Jacks

Other New Adult and Children's books by Jon Jacks

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl – Love Poison No. 13

Whatever happened to Cinderella's Slipper? – AmeriChristmas – The Vitch's Kat in Hollywoodland

Blood of Angels, Wings of Men

Text copyright© 2017 Jon Jacks

All rights reserved

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# Chapter 1

Naturally, I'm picked on a little at school, and not just for the weird colours of my skin.

It's also said that my mother's a witch, which isn't true; she just turns into an owl every now and again, as it's an easier way of getting around.

Who wouldn't, really?

Thing is, the brighter of the greens, the sunny yellows, the sharp pinks, have faded since I was small, visible on my skin now only in particularly strong sunlight. Mum assures me the colours will continue to fade, just as she continually assures me that I shouldn't concern myself with who my father was; a father isn't essential in my life, she tells me.

We can manage as we are.

As no one knows who my father is, the joke around school is that Mum must have used her witchcraft spells to conjure me into life, probably having put me together from scraps of materials much as she created my much admired patchwork bedspread. And it's true, I'm afraid, that the faded scarlet you can still see on certain parts of my skin bear more than a passing resemblance to the smartly uniformed soldiers that march across my bed, while the blues could indeed be the seas on which sailing ships scud across my pillow.

Some of the kinder kids at school actually think this is wonderful, making up stories from the fading images they believe they can just make out on my bared arms or legs. Naturally, their imaginations take even wilder flights of fancy whenever they see my patchwork bedspread, its colours all still wonderfully bright, the air balloons, swans and flowers all looking as wonderfully fresh as they were originally intended to be – probably because it doesn't need cleaning as often as an adventurous little girl.

Whenever I arrive home from school, I can never be _quite_ sure if Mum's going to be around; she has a lot to do, she says, apart from taking care of me.

Taking care of me means a stew bubbling on the stove.

'Be careful of the flames, dear!' she always says on the note she's left for me telling me she'll be back soon.

Today, however, there's no stew waiting for me.

There's no note either.

Ah well; I'm sure she's just a little busier than usual.

I help myself to some bread and jam.

This way, there are _no_ flames to take care of.

I sweep up a little around the cottage. When Mum's still not home and it gets dark, I light the lantern (being careful of the flame!).

I blow it out when it's time for bed and she's still not returned.

I light, instead, the small candle I always use to light me to bed.

It's as I'm getting undressed by the end of the bed that I notice something unusual about my patchwork bedspread.

In the silvery moonlight coming in through the minute window, the colours are muted, of course, even transformed into wholly new colours. But the oily yellow light of the candle flame picks out the end corner in much clearer detail, particularly a white slash of what could be white feathers that have stuck to it after drifting in through the open window.

When I take a closer look, I realise it's not loose feathers at all, but an embroidered part of the patchwork square.

Which is odd, because I can never remember seeing it there before.

Odder still, it's an owl.

An owl just like the one I've seen Mum transform into.

*

It's a flying owl, yet perhaps it's – _she's_? – going nowhere; she's on what is effectively an island, for it's not only the very last, corner square of the patchwork, it's also bordered on its two sides by water, one inhabited with swans, the other with sailing ships.

The island's a strange place for an owl to be; the patch is otherwise mainly one of trees and people, whatever creatures there are being incredibly small and partially hidden amongst the bright green vegetation. It's all overlaid with a silvery embroidery of a wheel of stars, which uncharacteristically stretches over one of the nearby seas.

Has Mum stitched the owl here, rather than leaving me a note, as a means of telling me – what?

That she's going to be late?

No.

It would be easier to just leave a note, wouldn't it?

Picking up the flickering candle, I stride over to the window, peering out into the darkness. Hoping I'll catch the flare of the fluttering of white wings, of Mum's return.

But all I see is the woodland, shrouded in the moon's mercurial veil.

Then again, why should I be worrying?

Mum's a big girl, who can take care of herself.

Besides, can't an owl see in the dark better than we can see in daylight?

And now I come to think of it, didn't all this happen once before, long ago? And didn't Mum simply turn up safe and sound after all?

Or maybe all that was just a fanciful dream.

I slip back to my bed, blow out the candle.

Slip under the bedspread, blow out a shivering sigh as the cold sheets wrap around me.

I might as well go to sleep.

Mum will be back in the morning.

*

# Chapter 2

In the moonlight, pigs aren't as brightly pink as they are throughout the day.

The grass, too, isn't that wonderfully bright green.

Everything is just shadows, with a silvery sheen.

Another shadow moves almost silently amongst the pigs, a taller shadow, a slimmer shadow; a man.

He's herding the pigs, using the prodding of a stick to force them towards a number of waiting wagons, where other tall, slim shadows force the pigs on board.

The shadows talk in whispers, if at all.

They're stealing the pigs; what other reason could there be for all this taking place on a night?

If I'm right, it would be dangerous for me to ask them what they're doing; but as I can't recall getting out of bed, or of ever even seeing this field close by our home, I think it would be safe for me to assume that I'm dreaming.

Which means it should also be safe for me to ask this man what he thinks he's doing.

'Are these your pigs?' I ask him, stepping closer towards him.

If the man's surprised to see me here, he doesn't show it.

'It's a fair trade,' he replies brazenly, indicating with an airily waved arm that the men by the wagons are unloading other animals; horses and hounds. 'A dozen mounts, and a dozen dogs; a fair exchange, I think, for pigs that by rights shouldn't be even here!'

'Why shouldn't they be here?' I ask.

'Well, just look at them,' he retorts. 'Can't you tell when you see creatures from the otherworld?'

It's true that these pigs look like otherworld shadows; but then, so does this man, and the men unloading the horses and dogs.

'If they're from the underworld,' I persist with my questioning, 'then why would you want them?'

'They're not for me; they're a gift for King Math of Gwynedd,' he says, adding with an exasperated snap as he swipes his switch across a pig's back, 'And I'm his magician, Gwydion; so if you don't wish to join this herd, might I suggest you leave me and my men be?'

Even in the darkness, I can see the sparkle of his eyes as he glowers at me before turning away to continue with his corralling of the pigs.

If he turns me into a pig, what's that to me, when all this is nothing but a dream?

I'm about to call him back when one of the pigs hanging towards the man's rear hisses at me.

'He means it!' the pig conspiratorially whispers.

'And this _isn't_ a dream!' another pig insists, keeping his voice equally low.

*

'If this _isn't_ a dream,' I whisper back to the two pigs, 'then why would _you_ think that _I_ think I'm _in_ a dream? Besides, pigs can only talk in dreams, can't they?'

'It _isn't_ a dream – but it's still a place where worlds overlap and mingle,' one of the pigs replies.

'Weren't you listening to the magician, when he told you we're from the otherworld?' says the other.

They continue following on after the other pigs, which means I have to walk alongside them to ensure I can hear their quietly mumbling voices.

'Then, if this isn't a dream,' I ask, now a little puzzled by everything I'm being told, 'then what am I doing here?'

'Because this is the best way to enter _this_ world, of course,' snorts one of the pigs, rushing ahead now to make sure he's not left behind.

'But now you need to head west of here,' the second pig assures me, as he too breaks into a trot.

'West of here?' I repeat uncertainly, looking nervously about me as I try to work out where west might be. 'Why would I want to go there?'

'Well for one thing,' the pig says, glancing back at me over his shoulder, 'because when the prince realises we've been _stolen_ , there'll be _war_!'

*

Before I can ask the pigs anything more, they're being gleefully, almost brutally, prodded up onto the waiting wagons.

The wagons' ramped backs are hoisted up into place, shut tight with the slamming of bolts. The shadowy men pull themselves up onto the seats, whipping the wagons' teams into a hurried gallop.

No one bothers closing the gate to the field behind them but, thankfully, neither the horses nor the dogs they'd left behind seem in a hurry to leave. Rather, the animals demurely and placidly settle down upon the grass, as if exhausted by whatever exertions they've already been put through.

I wish I could wake up from my dream; nothing much seems to be happening in it now, which is a little unusual as far as dreams go – normally, a dream simply takes an even crazier turn, throwing you into some other unexpected situation that, strangely, all seems perfectly reasonable at the time.

As if the dream has responded in _some_ way to my wish, the straggling column of wagons rapidly retreating down the road are almost briefly forced into the gutters as a heavy coach coming from the other direction imperiously tears through them. Even in the darkness, I can make out the coach is richly gilded, the moon's light making it all glow spectrally.

Naturally, the road the coach hurtles along passes the deeply rutted track that connects it to the field's gate. If I'm going to make this dream interesting once again, I realise, I need to get on board it; so I sprint down the muddy track, waving my arms to grab the driver's attention.

If the coach driver sees me running towards the road, then he doesn't seem prepared to stop, just as he hadn't seen any reason to give way to what could have been farmers going about their legitimate business. There's no slowing of the coach's speed, no effort by the driver to prepare the team of eagerly snorting horses to prepare to slow down.

I rush out into the middle of the road.

The driver's going to have to wildly slew out into the mud lying either side of the road; or run me down.

But he's not making any attempt to pull the coach aside.

And he's not slowing down either.

Fortunately, all this is a dream.

And you _can't_ get hurt in a dream!

Can you?

*

# Chapter 3

'Stop, stop! For the poor lady's sake, stop!'

The urgently pleading cry comes from inside what I now see is a brightly lit carriage, for a man is leaning out of the window, having snatched back the dark blinds that had veiled the illuminated interior. He's frantically waving, in the hope of drawing the driver's attention.

'Stop _immediately_ driver!' a woman shrieks as she leans out of a window on the other side of the coach, the light now spreading out on either flank of the carriage like gloriously glowing wings.

At last the driver begins to ferociously attempt to rein in his thunderously racing team; but the horses aren't in the mood to obey, having been given their head for too long now to simply cut short their elatedly frenzied gallop. The driver stands up in his seatwell, pushing down hard on the brake shaft, pulling violently on the reins, hollering at the horses threats of being boiled alive, of being made into glue or fodder for pigs.

I close my eyes; as if that will help.

With a creaking and clanking of tortured wood, the strained shrieking of stressed iron, the whinnying of brutally restrained horses, the rattle of violently jostling harnesses, and the rumble of disturbed, shifting rocks, the coach finally begins to slew to a chaotically disorganised halt.

When I dare to open my eyes, I'm rewarded with a hand's-breadth close up of irately flaring nostrils, a spray of rank sweat, and the hot breath of furiously snorting horses curling about me.

The carriage lying behind the impatiently stomping horses creaks and shakes once more as the guard leaps down from his rear seat to open the door and drop a step into place. As soon as the door's opened, there's a flurry of coloured materials as a richly dressed woman urgently steps from the carriage, closely followed by two equally elegantly garbed companions.

Instead of rushing towards me as I was expecting, however, the three ladies dart towards the rear of the coach, angrily shouting over their shoulders at the guard and the coach driver.

'Turn away!'

'Don't you _dare_ look!'

As ordered, the driver and guard rigidly avert their eyes, such that neither seems aware of me as I curiously make my way down the darker side of the carriage, where the door remains closed. At the coach's rear, I peer into the darkness, where I can just make out two of the ladies standing in the middle of the road, holding and stretching out a sheet or gown between them.

The third lady appears to have vanished until, suddenly, she pops up from behind the veiling sheet as if she had been briefly squatting behind it. She sighs with blissful relief; then her eyes open wide in horror as she sees me standing by the coach's rear.

'We told you _not_ to look!' she furiously shrieks.

*

Whirling around, the two ladies holding up the sheet are every bit as appalled as their friend when they see me standing there.

'Guard, guard!' they wail. 'You're _supposed_ to be protecting us!'

Realising something must be wrong, the guard hurriedly sprints around the back of the coach; only to be met by yet more aghast shrieks of 'Don't look!' 'Shut your eyes!'

He firmly closes his eyes, reaching out with his hands to guide him safely around the coach's rear.

'I'm sorry; I didn't mean any harm!' I say as calmly as I can manage.

The carriage door behind me opens, the light flooding out from the interior as a man steps down to see what all the commotion is about.

'No harm?' he repeats doubtfully, drawing his sword as his steps closer towards me. 'On the road at night, yet you mean no harm?'

While I've been distracted by the man's approach, the three ladies have also drawn closer towards me, one of them forcing the untidily rolled up sheet into the startled guard's hands.

'I...I don't know how I _got_ here!' I explain; before it dawns on me that it's no explanation at all.

'She's not armed,' the man thankfully points out, sheathing his sword.

His voice is a little slurred, as if he's drunk. The ladies, too, seem a little unsteady on their feet, as if they've also been drinking.

'She doesn't seem _dressed_ for holding up coaches either,' one of them points out, drawing their attention to my flimsy nightdress.

Suddenly, I feel cold; I'd forgotten that all I'm wearing is my nightwear.

'She doesn't seem dressed for _anything_ ,' one of the other ladies disdainfully adds.

'She must be _freezing_ , poor girl,' the third says more kindly, reaching for the sheet that had been forced into the guard's hands and draping it about me.

The sheet's surprisingly warm, and heavily embroidered; it's probably used as a cover to keep passengers warm when traveling in the coach.

'I need to head west,' I say. 'Can you please tell me which way I should be heading?'

'West?' the man merrily chortles. 'Who'd want to go west, when there's a wedding to attend?'

'This road heads south,' the kinder lady explains, 'or east if you head the other way.'

'You'd have to walk a long way before it branches off to the west,' one of the others adds, also speaking more kindly now.

'You should have hitched a lift with those farmers we passed on the road,' the man says.

'It's _much_ too far to walk,' one of the women agrees.

'There's nothing but woods and flowers there anyway,' the other says.

'I don't think I'd have been allowed to board any of those wagons,' I say. 'I think those men were _stealing_ those pigs!'

'Why would _anyone_ want to steal _pigs_?' The woman sounds both amazed and disgusted.

'They belonged to the _prince_ ,' I say assuredly, 'and when he finds out they've been stolen, it will mean war!'

*

'A war?' one of the ladies titters unsurely. 'Over _pigs_?'

I can hardly say that this is what the pigs told me, can I?

Neither can I say that they were pigs from the underworld, of course.

'Why would the prince have _pigs_?' Once again, there's that unmistakable mix of both amazement and disgust.

'Well, I suppose he doesn't have any _now_!' the man drunkenly guffaws.

'Why would the theft of some dirty pigs concern him anyway?' one of the ladies asks.

'Surely his mind's more on his wedding!' another agrees.

'I _think_ she's mixing up her princes!' another confidently declares.

'I _might_ have got my princes mixed up,' I admit, 'but the magician was definitely _stealing_ those pigs!'

'Magician?'

They all say the same thing all at once, all stare at me worriedly.

'Gwydion; yes, I _think_ that's what he said he was called,' I reply.

They gasp and exchange startled glances.

'Maybe we'd better take her with us!' one of the ladies firmly states. 'Just so things can be cleared up one way or the other!'

*

# Chapter 4

Although the rocking of the carriage on the badly formed road is quite brutal, the relative warmth of the interior, along with the comfort of being nestled amongst the luxurious dresses of the ladies, soon lulls me into a sleep that I don't awake from until it's daylight once more.

Of course, as I awake, I expect to wake up in my bed; but I'm still aboard the coach, where the ladies and the man are all in a deep sleep brought on by the previous night's merriment.

The prince about to be married, they'd eagerly explained to me as they happily drunk glass after hurried glass of wine, is Prince Lleu: and his bride the Lily Maid is beautiful, but also a mystery, for it is Gwydion himself who has introduced her to his nephew the prince, a boy he has raised as if his own. And once they are married, King Math will grant them the lands of Eifionidd and Ardudwy to rule over.

'But...but it was King Math whom Gwydion was giving the stolen pigs to!' I'd blurted out in surprise on hearing this. 'And yet you're saying the prince is King Math's son?'

'Oh! _Those_ pigs!' one of the ladies had exclaimed dismissively.

'The _underworld_ pigs!' another chuckled with equal nonchalance.

'Ah, now _that_ makes sense!' the man began confidently, only to abruptly correct himself with a puzzled, 'Wait! No, it doesn't, does it?'

'The prince isn't the _king's_ son,' the third lady happily explained. 'In our land, you're not born to your _father's_ line, but your _mother's_. It's the son of the king's _sister_ or even _niece_ who becomes king!'

'But you were _right_ ,' the first lady said to me gleefully, reaching across to give me a congratulatory shrug of my arm. 'It _did_ lead to war!'

' _Did_?' I'd repeated in bewilderment. ' _Already_?'

The man nodded.

' _That's_ why I wasn't sure that your tale of the stolen pigs made sense! It happened years and years ago!'

'And they belonged to Prince Pryderi; not Prince Lleu!' one of the ladies pronounced brightly.

'I _told_ you you'd got your princes mixed up,' exclaimed another.

'Prince Pryderi of Dyfed,' explained the third lady. 'The King of the Underworld had given him the pigs as a gift.'

'And all Gwydion left in their place were twenty-four toadstools!'

'Then...he must have stolen them all _again_ ,' I said uncertainly, frowning in puzzlement even as I say it.

After all, how likely is it that he would steal them all over again?

'Then...there's no point in trying to warn the prince,' one of the ladies added gaily.

'Ah, but, there _is_ a point in going to the _wedding_!' the second lady merrily declared.

'Well, now you're on your way there, you might as well stay with us!' the man agreed, raising his glass in a toast.

'I don't think it would have been easy ensuring you were granted an audience anyway, to be honest,' a lady said.

(They were all so happily drunk, no one had thought of telling me their names, or asking me mine.)

'But...don't you _know_ him?' I'd asked worriedly.

'We know _of_ him, of course,' the man said. 'But he _is_ a prince; so we don't know him as a _friend_ , I'm afraid!'

'We're just _lowly_ subjects, of course,' a woman pouted unhappily.

I glanced about the richly adorned carriage in amazement.

'Surely you're...'

It seemed rude to finish the sentence I'd unthinkingly started. Fortunately, the man finished it for me when he saw my reluctance to continue.

'Wealthy?' he said with a satisfied grin. 'To many, indeed we are,' he said, gleefully refilling the glasses of the ladies from a bottle he picked up from the floor.

'And yet to others, we are poor,' one of the ladies sadly confessed.

'It's all _relative_ , of course,' another said.

'It depends _wholly_ upon the position you're regarding us from, I suppose,' said the third lady.

'We may not be _invited_ to the wedding itself,' the man jovially chuckled as he poured what was left in the bottle into his own glass, 'but _everyone's_ invited to celebrate!'

The many, empty bottles rattle now like a poorly tuned up band as they roll about the floor between our feet. The man snores a little, the ladies at least being a little more demure in their sighs and gasps as they sleep on through the anarchic jolting of the swiftly moving carriage.

Pulling back one of the window blinds, I find myself looking out onto a far more wonderful landscape than I'd found myself in last night. We've travelled far, it seems, into another entirely different land.

Naturally, the presence of the sun helps give everything a brighter sheen, but the land itself seems far more pleasant, a gracious rolling of hills and well-cultivated fields, a vibrant mingling of luscious greens and the glistening yellow of ripening corn. There's also a gleaming white citadel, with purple-coned towers soaring up into a sky of the most delightfully perfect blue.

The closer we draw towards the walled city and its looming palace, the more the road and the fields to either side of it are becoming crowded with gaily laughing people heading in the same direction as we are. The richer carriages, such as ours, are allowed to keep to the road, whereas the more ramshackle carts of the poorer folk are restricted to its flanks, churning up the dirt into whirls of flying mud that those on foot good-naturedly avoid being splattered by with a happy hop and a skip.

Amidst the excited chatter, hawkers yell out the many benefits of their wares, most of them eagerly trotting alongside the carriages, hoping to attract wealthier buyers. There are few takers for their goods, however, perhaps because like my companions they lie fast asleep after travelling throughout the night.

Just as my fellow travellers had more or less declared, there are far more resplendent carriages than ours on the road. The glistening of their gilding and the brilliant tones of the pennants fluttering from their roofs all add to the sense of a joyous pageantry that becomes evermore exuberant and colourful as we draw closer towards one of the city's gates, where the walls are draped in rippling banners and heraldic flags.

The drawbridge is funnelling the crowds into a narrower stream, but thankfully the carriages are once again given precedence, enabling us to pass through the gates relatively swiftly. Once the gate is cleared, the crowds excitedly fan out once more, but the carriages are directed by liveried attendants up towards a large, open square where they draw to a halt in rows, the teams of horses unhitched so that the drivers can lead them away to be fed.

Even through all this, the carriage's owners remain asleep. Even though we've arrived at our destination, there doesn't seem to be any reason to wake them just yet, as I have no idea when the wedding will begin. I need to find someone I can ask, who can give me details not only on when it all starts but also where we need to be.

The guard, high up in his seat on the coach's rear, is struggling to stay awake when I slip out of the carriage. Around me, richly garbed lords and ladies, shaking themselves out of their own stupors, are clambering from their own carriages, or already heading off up towards the spires of a cathedral dominating an area alongside the palace.

I could ask them, of course; but they all seem far too imperious to bother answering any questions I ask them. I follow them instead, hoping I soon see someone who might be able to help me.

Off to one side of the paved and now increasingly busy concourse, there's a poorly dressed girl standing by an open-backed cart. She seems to be attempting to sell the mushrooms and toadstools she's piled up in crudely formed crates, but with little success.

Before I can ask her anything, a blare of trumpets emanating from the area surrounding the palace spurs everyone around me into a more determined rush, the crush of the crowd abruptly increasing as those who'd still been asleep, at last woken up by the clarion cries, leap down from their carriages to join the onrush towards the cathedral.

Even for those following the press of the crowd, it looks as if it must be a frustrating experience for anyone trying to wend their way through it; for me, trying to fight my way back towards the carriages, it's impossible.

I can't even _see_ through the crush of people as I attempt to catch any sign of those I'd arrived here with.

'You're going the _wrong_ way!'

The girl is standing alongside me, reaching for my hand.

'No, no; I need to get back...'

Even as I say this, I realise I've no hope of pushing against the oncoming crowd.

'You'll _never_ get through to get anywhere even _close_!' the girl chuckles, pointing out what should have been more obvious to me. 'Well, not just _yet_ anyway; but it will be easy when you make your way back _later_!'

She takes my hand in hers, indicating with a nod of her head that I should follow her.

'I know the _perfect_ position to get a good view of the wedding!'

'What about your cart?' I ask uncertainly.

'Who's going to steal a pile of toadstools?' she laughs.

'But the horse; the cart...'

'It's not easy stealing large things like that in a city; and so I can always get them back!'

This time as she smiles, she also produces a gleaming dagger.

I'm worried she's going to use it to threaten me, but she slips it back into its sheath as deftly and as swiftly as she'd produced it.

Before I can think of any other ways of protesting that I should be searching for my 'friends', she drags me off to one side of the chaotic throng, lithely ducking down beneath a low arch in the wall behind her cart that I suspect serves in times of heavy rainfall as a means of directing excess water away from the palace, for the paving is slightly angled to form a gutter. It brings us out into the darker, narrower areas running between shops and houses, pathways the girl appears entirely familiar with.

She at last breaks her tight hold on my hand as we approach a slender set of stairs running up the side of one of the high inner walls that split the city up into sections, the steps being so crudely constructed that I can only assume they've been installed here for the purposes of maintenance rather than access. Nevertheless, the girl not only rushes up them as if they were as safe as any grand staircase, but on reaching the top jumps aside across empty space, landing on the very edge of the sloping roof of a nearby building.

'Come on!' she urges me with an elated smile. 'It's not as dangerous as it looks!'

Naturally, I don't believe her.

But now I've so naively followed her so deeply into the backstreets and alleyways of the city, I feel I don't have any other option but to follow her, and hope I can regain my bearings once I can view everything from a high position.

It turns out she could be said to be telling the truth, in the sense that the steps and the jump are nowhere near as dangerous as the next stage of our journey; clambering up the steeply inclined and often precariously loose tiles of the building's roof. When we reach the pinnacle, however, and sit astride the roof's ridge, the mingling of breathing in fresh air together with the exhilaration of our rapid ascent makes me almost giddy with joy, particularly when I find myself looking out over what appears to be most of the city, as if I have suddenly been raised up to be its queen.

In front of the cathedral, which lies on the other side of one of the high inner walls that we can now see directly over, there stands massed yet well ordered ranks of stationary soldiers, along with crowds of mainly elaborately dressed dignitaries. Soldiers also line a cleared route leading from the inner wall's gateway towards the rising steps and flattened landings stretching out before the cathedral's soaring doorway.

Here, amongst an array of gaily coloured, suspended banners, the prince patiently waits for his bride. Close by him are his attendants, together with officials from the church, including a tall-mitred bishop.

It would appear that the marriage is to take place outside, in front of as many people as possible, rather than inside the immense yet still more confined spaces of the cathedral.

The mushroom girl grins excitedly as she takes in this resplendent scene, yet whirls around to look just as excitedly towards the city lying behind us when we hear the muted drumbeats and horn blasts signifying the procession is either underway or is at least drawing closer. There are also cheers, cries of jubilation and laughter echoing between the buildings, and as we look towards where we think the sounds are coming from we're rewarded with the first signs of the higher-flying pennants, the tops of the elaborately decorated carts that make up at least part of the parade.

Even from our high position, we can't see the whole of the procession of course, the many houses lying between us partially veiling it from us, such that we first see only glimpses of it through gaps in the angled roofs, or catch fleeting, thin slivers of its passing through the narrow alleys running between certain buildings. Yet as the procession unhurriedly snakes through the winding streets, we see and hear more and more of it, until we find ourselves looking almost directly down upon it as it at last wends its way into a street running more directly towards us.

The Lily Maid certainly lives up to her name, for the open carriage she is travelling in is a mass of flowers, the carefully woven stems and blossoms of primrose, bean, broom, meadowsweet, burdock, nettle, oak, hawthorn and chestnut. As she passes the crowd, the people cheer all the louder, dazzled by a beauty that seems impossible, even unreal.

And the girl and I have the best view imaginable of this wonderfully magical event.

'This is wonderful!' I say elatedly to the girl, adding unthinkingly, 'I'm not sure how I can thank you enough.'

The girl shrugs, pouts thoughtfully.

'Hmn, well I suppose you _could_ buy some mushrooms,' she says miserably. 'No one else seems interested.'

'I don't have any money on me,' I tell her, realising for the first time that this is true. 'Besides, are they really mushrooms? They looked more like toadstools to me.'

'What's the difference?' she asks innocently.

'Well, I'm not sure, actually,' I admit. 'But can't _some_ of them kill you?'

She shrugs, like she doesn't really care.

'Ah, by the time anyone realises that, I'll be long gone!'

'You can't sell things that might kill people!' I exclaim

'How am I supposed to know the difference?' she asks, turning to me. 'I just pick them from the field.'

'Well, if you don't know, can't you sell anything else?'

'Like what? That's all I have; a field full of mushrooms. I'm not rich like you.'

'I'm not rich!'

She looks at me sceptically, at the way I'm dressed.

'You came in a carriage; and your jacket is worth more than I could ever hope to earn.'

I glance down at my jacket.

She's right.

It's heavily embroidered with expensive silks, even inlaid with pearls.

'It's...it's not _mine_ ,' I blurt out as it dawns on me that I'm still wearing the jacket offered to me after I'd first stepped into the carriage. 'I borrowed it; to stay warm.'

'I wish I could "borrow" a jacket like that to stay warm.'

She pronounces the word 'borrow' in such a way that implies 'steal'.

'I didn't _steal_ it!' I reply huffily. 'I took it by accident!'

The girl shrugs, like she doesn't really believe me, like she doesn't really care anyway.

'That's what they _all_ say,' she says.

I anxiously glance about me, trying to make out the quickest way back towards the parked carriages I can see lying a good distance off from where we're now seated.

'I need to return it!' I say, beginning to rise to my feet.

The girl takes my hand, pulls me back down into a seating position astride the roof's peak.

'They won't be there yet!' she points out. 'They'll be watching the wedding, right? So you might as well watch it too, yes?'

I'm tempted to stay; what she says make sense, of course.

Yet I'm also naturally worried that the man will almost undoubtedly believe I've stolen his jacket.

Before I can figure out the best course of action, the massed trumpets of the soldiers lining the route to the cathedral blare out once more, this time announcing the arrival of the procession at the gate leading into the courtyard.

From our exalted position, I can see the head of the procession splitting into two narrower streams, each of which files off to either side of the gateway, leaving the bride's carriage to pass beneath its arching entrance.

Similarly, the procession following on behind her now also splits and wheels off to either side, so that it's only the bride's carriage that slowly trundles through into the courtyard. Now it's the turn of the crowd of patiently waiting dignitaries to cheer, to clap.

The prince isn't allowed to turn to see his bride's entrance. He stolidly remains facing the bishop.

'That's odd.'

The girl frowns in puzzlement.

'What's odd?' I say. 'It all seems perfectly normal to me.'

The girl shakes her head.

'No, no; it's not,' she replies assuredly. 'Not when it's a _prince_ who's being married.'

'I've never seen a prince married before,' I admit.

'Well, then _that's_ why you don't see anything odd,' the girl says, adding, 'For a prince to become king, he _also_ has to marry the _land_ ; to demonstrate that he will care for and defend it just as he would his wife.'

'How can he marry the _land_? That's not possible!'

'There _has_ to be a Great Rite; a symbolic joining with a priestess of the Goddess!'

'I've never heard of such a rite.'

'In _our_ land,' the girl proudly declares, 'the _queens_ are the true wielders of power; the so called king really only serves as a protecting warlord.'

'I've never heard of such odd customs,' I say with a puzzled frown, recalling that the ladies I had travelled here with had excitedly hinted at something very similar: that the prince chosen to be king is the son of the king's _niece_.

I also recalled their claims that no one seemed to know where this new queen had originally come from.

'What _is_ odd, I suppose,' I say, 'is that everyone _trusts_ this magician's choice of a bride!'

'King Math?' the girl replies, taking me by surprise. 'I'm sure he wouldn't let his great nephew marry someone who wasn't right for him.'

'I didn't mean the king,' I say, perhaps a touch more sharply than I'd intended, 'I meant the _magician_ ; Gwydion.'

'King Math is also said to be a magician,' the girl coolly responds. 'And _he_ suggested that the prince should marry this Lily Maid – seeing as how the prince had been placed under a tynged by his mother.'

'Tinged?'

'Tynged; with a "y", not an "I". Doom, fate, destiny; or maybe what you might call a geis, a vow, or a spell – a _curse_ , I suppose. Although in his case I should maybe be saying _tynghedau_ , as it was _three_ curses his mother had placed on him!'

'A curse? What sort of mother puts a curse on her own son?'

'Well, I suppose not everyone wants to risk losing their son to the land–'

Before the girl can continue any further with her reply, we're interrupted once again by a change in the fanfare of trumpets. The bride's carriage has drawn to a halt in front of the steps leading up to the cathedral entrance, where the prince is still patiently waiting, still stoically averting his eyes.

As the woman is helped by two resplendently uniformed guards to step down from her carriage, I see at last that she is even more gloriously beautiful that I had at first supposed. Her dress could be made of lace spun by spiders utilising the very finest silk. The train flows behind her like a moonlit river, patterned – its _seems_ to me, for I am of course seeing all this from relatively far away – with entwining flowers and partially veiled creatures of the woodlands.

She draws up alongside her groom, who glances her way at last, the fanfare of trumpets coming to an abrupt end as if it is his own heartbeat that has come to a sudden halt. Of course, the music has ceased only so that the bishop might speak, but only those standing close to the couple could possibly hear him.

The girl nudges me with her elbow, perhaps guessing it's the only way to be sure of grabbing my attention.

'I was thinking,' she says, looking down at my expensive jacket, 'that maybe if they think you've stolen it, they might...'

She leaves the rest unsaid, widening her eyes instead, letting me work out for myself the consequences of being caught with a 'stolen' jacket.

'I'd better return it,' I say, wearily beginning to rise to my feet.

With a hand gently placed on my shoulder, the girl makes me sit down once again.

'Not _you_ ,' she says sternly. 'If you're caught wearing it while heading back there, it _still_ looks like you've stolen it. If you let _me_ take it back, not only will I be quicker–' she glances out over the maze-like city, her frown alone enough to convince me that she knows these streets and alleys far better than I could ever hope to – 'but I can also say you asked me to return it; and if no one believes me, I can get lost in these ginnels before they even know what's happening.'

She gives me an 'it all makes perfect sense, doesn't it?' smile.

'And you can continue watching the wedding,' she adds, nonchalantly turning only briefly to watch the couple as they touch hands, exchange rings and vows, kiss, 'while _I've_ seen _plenty_ of weddings like this!'

I'm tempted; I _do_ want to watch the rest of the wedding. But I'm still not persuaded it's a good idea.

'You wont know which carriage it is...'

'Yes I do,' she assures me. 'I saw you arrive in it, while I was setting up my stall; and we can meet up there after the wedding's finished, if you want. I'll leave the jacket in the carriage, with the guard, explaining that you'd forgotten you were still wearing it, that it was a simple mistake.'

Any resistance I might have put up crumbles as the bells of the cathedral begin to ring out, the many other, smaller churches dotted throughput the city immediately joining in with the celebratory pealing. The noise is both overwhelming and exhilarating, especially as it's accompanied by the cheers of the citizens, the clarion calls of trumpets and drums wildly and excitedly played.

I distractedly slip out of my jacket, handing it to the girl, my interest now purely upon the couple as they turn to face an expectantly waiting crowd who erupt into even more excited cheers.

'I'll be no time at all!' the girl whispers, as if unwilling to distract me any more than she has to as she takes the jacket from me. 'And if you're hungry, help yourself to some of these,' she adds, taking a handful of mushrooms from her pocket and handing them to me.

She scuttles across the rooftops as lithely and carelessly as any cat, slithering down a rickety drainpipe, either unaware of or blithely indifferent to the way its creaking supports threaten to break away from the wall and send her tumbling to the ground. I cringe in fear for her as she leaps from one weakly held piece of guttering to an equally loosely fixed section of tiling. At last, she vanishes out of my sight as she slips down the side of a building.

By the time I turn back towards watching the rest of the wedding, the newly enjoined couple are making their way into the cathedrals' yawning entrance, where they're instantaneously swallowed by its darkened throat.

I might as well have returned the jacket myself after all.

I morosely glance down at the handful of mushrooms the girl has left with me.

I doubt if they're really safe to eat.

'She won't be back, you know?' someone close by firmly warns me.

I whirl around, trying to see who could have spoken. But I can't see anyone nearby.

'Hrm; it was _us_ , dear,' another voice says, a woman's this time. 'We've been meaning to speak to you for some time.'

It's the mushrooms; the mushrooms are talking to me.

*

# Chapter 5

'Mushrooms can't _talk_!'

'Well, we're _toadstools_ actually.'

'What's the difference?' I curiously ask, accepting the fact that if pigs can talk in my dream, then so can toadstools.

'We're not sure, to be honest,' one of the mushrooms – the _toadstools_ – confesses.

'As for us not being able to talk,' another says, 'well, either we _are_ talking, of _you've_ gone a little crazy in the head; which would you prefer it to be?'

'Why didn't you talk to me earlier, then?' I demand. 'If that's what you really wanted to do!'

'Because if that girl had realised we could talk, do you think she'd let us go back to our field?'

I pout thoughtfully; if they're right about the girl not returning – which I presume means she's going to steal my jacket – then I don't suppose she would give up the chance to sell these talking toadstools for a tidy sum.

'But how do you expect to get back there anyway?' I point out to them.

'Well, because _you'll_ help us get back there; won't you?' one of the more feminine sounding toadstools asks me.

'How? How _can_ I return you?'

'Why, by taking the girl's horse and cart as payment for your jacket!'

*

I'm not sure it _is_ right to take that poor girl's horse and cart as payment for the jacket.

It isn't even as if the jacket was mine to trade in the first place.

Despite my reservations, I've agreed with the toadstools that I'll take them back to their own land. I can leave the horse and cart in the field along with them, the toadstools have assured me; so I won't really be stealing anything, as the girl lives nearby and will find it waiting for her when she returns.

I need to move on, anyway. And the horse and cart is probably the quickest way for me to travel at the moment. As the city celebrates the wedding of their prince, there are few people around to get in our way, while the guards simply wave us through the gate, quite obviously seeing no problem in allowing people to leave.

'Er, what's the point of returning you anyway,' I point out hesitantly to the toadstools. 'I mean, if you've already been picked, then...I mean, it's not as if you could be replanted again, is it?'

'But quite obviously, dear,' one of the toadstools replies imperiously, 'we won't be _eaten_!'

'Besides,' another says, 'we're _magic_ mushrooms!'

'Otherwise, how could we be talking to you?' adds another, talking to me.

'But we're not sure for how much _longer_ we'll be magic,' yet another says anxiously.

'So we need to get back there as _soon_ as possible!'

'You're saying your magic will _vanish_?' I ask uncertainly.

'We're just under a spell...'

'A spell whose effects might soon wear off.'

'Especially as the spell wasn't supposed to effect _us_.'

'We were just caught up in its area.'

'Gwydion only meant to charm two dozen of us!'

'Gwydion _again_!' I gasp, adding more curiously, 'Why would he want talking toadstools?'

'He _didn't_ , of course.'

'As we've just said, _we_ were caught up in the spell's edges.'

'It was a spell transforming our friends into twelve horses and twelve hounds.'

'As a gift for a prince.'

'But when the spell runs out, they'll become toadstools once more.'

'And then, we fear, there'll be _war_.'

'That's _nonsense_!' I declare, just about stamping my feet in my exasperation. 'The war's _already_ happened; it's in the _past_!'

'Ah, but that simply comes down to where you're _looking_ at it from, doesn't it?'

I frown in puzzlement at the toadstool's reply.

'Well, obviously, I'm looking _back_ at it – because it's in the _past_!'

'So, you're looking at it from the _future_ , then!' a toadstool adamantly declares.

'Which is why it _seems_ to be the past to you!' another adds enthusiastically.

I frown once again, not quite sure if that's _quite_ right.

'No,' I say determinedly after I've paused to think things out a little, 'I'm looking back at it from the _present_ , of course!'

The toadstools chuckle amongst themselves.

'What's so funny?' I snap.

'Well,' one of the toadstools giggles excitedly, 'of _course_ this is the _present_...'

'But it's also _our_ future...' another chuckles.

'And _your_ past,' adds another.

'It _can't_ be my past, because I'm _here_!' I insist vehemently, frustrated by this increasingly ridiculous conversation.

'And why _shouldn't_ you be here?' a toadstool laughs.

'It _is_ the wedding of your mother, after all!' another says.

'My mother?' I snort irately. 'It can't _possibly_ be my mother!'

'Oh yes, yes; of _course_ you're right,' a toadstool agrees me with, only to add adamantly, 'we _should_ say, she _will_ be your mother!'

*

# Chapter 6

'It _can't_ be my mother's wedding!' I continue to protest to the still chuckling mushrooms. 'My mother _never_ married!'

'Of _course_ she married!' comes the reply. 'You just _saw_ her getting married, didn't you?'

Even though I know all this is ridiculous – arguing with a cart full of talking mushrooms about attending a wedding that could only have taken place years ago, if at all – the strange thing is that the bride certainly reminded me of my mother, now I come to think about it; the graceful way she walked, the long waterfall of hair, the elegance of every move.

Is _that_ why my mother vanished?

She came _here_ to be married?

No, no! Of _course_ that's ridiculous.

She _will_ become my mother, the toadstools had said.

So that means the _prince_ is my father?

'Wait, does that mean...'

I stop myself; I'm so desperate to find out who my father might be, I'm going to ask a group of toadstools?

So now I'm accepting as true everything a _toadstool_ tells me?

It _is_ all a dream!

It _has_ to be!

In a dream, you can attend your mother's wedding whenever you want, can't you?

And toadstools can talk.

And so can pigs.

'Look, look; I just need to _wake_ up!' I frustratedly blurt out. 'Then I can forget this weird nightmare I'm having!'

'I think it's _us_ suffering the nightmare,' one of the toadstools wails.

'Pulled from our beds...'

'Or, worse, slashed at the waist...'

'Sold to be eaten...'

'Right, yeah; so we're all suffering a nightmare, I get it,' I admit wearily. 'So how do I get out of here? The pigs said I needed to head west...'

I glance about me, only to recognise once again that I've no clear idea where west might lie. I'm not even sure, either, if the pigs were lying or telling the truth. Or, naturally, even if they knew what they were talking about.

How can heading west help you wake up from a dream?

The glisteningly white city now lies far behind us, but the landscape we're passing through strikes me as being completely different to the rolling hills that had lain either side of the road that the coach had travelled on. Here it is more like farmland, sectioned off by walls into neat oblongs of a large variety of crops.

I'd simply taken the road that the mushrooms had directed me to take.

I _could_ be heading west; I _could_ be heading north, south or east.

The sun's too high up in the sky to offer me any clues.

'I think we're heading _east_ ,' one of the toadstools says helpfully.

'Ah well; it doesn't _really_ matter,' I sadly admit, recognising that I've got no choice but to wait until I'm ready to wake up from my dream. 'Are we close to your field yet?'

There's a gentle scuffling behind my cart seat as a few of the mushrooms, either shuffling forward worm-like across the wooden slats or sort of rolling around amongst the others, get themselves into a position where they can see more of the fields lying ahead of us.

'Most of the fields all look the same to me...' one of them admits morosely.

'We can't be _too_ far now, surely...' another says uncertainly.

'No, no! _There_ it is – look!' a third elatedly cries out.

Naturally, she's not really able to point out where we should all be looking.

And yet I can now quite clearly see the field I presume she means, for rather than sprouting yet one more colourful crop the land is partially covered in what could be a dome of an incredibly weak mist.

Around it, the ground is simply grassy, rather than tilled, a field left fallow.

And amongst that grass, toadstools have taken the opportunity to spring into life.

'The spell is _fading_!'

'We have to move _quickly_!'

The toadstools are abruptly fearful.

What else could that misty dome be, I suppose, other than the lingering aftereffects of a powerful charm?

But it certainly doesn't look as if it will be lingering for much longer.

*

With a snap of the reins, I urge the weary old horse into his idea of a charge.

Unlike the pigs, or the toadstools, he can't talk; which is probably a good thing for me, as I don't think he's too happy that I'm trying to force more speed out of him.

Despite his reticence, by the time we're passing through the field's gate we're travelling surprisingly fast. Unfortunately, this only seems to make my already nervous passengers even more afraid.

'Stop, stop!' they scream.

'You'll kill our friends!'

'Hang on then!' I shriek back over my shoulder, adding after a brief pause, 'Or whatever it is you have to do to stop yourselves from falling off!'

'Not us!'

'Our friends in the _field_!'

Oh _dear_!

Of _course_!

When the spell had been cast, there might well have been far more than this cartload of toadstools who were brought to life – an _unnatural_ life – by the overflowing charm. And right now, I'm riding roughshod all over them, churning them up beneath the cart's whirling wheels, the horse's pounding hooves.

I might be imagining it – I certainly hope I am! – but I do believe I can also hear screams and yells coming up from beneath our wheels.

Suddenly, I'm trying to rein in a horse who's just started to enjoy himself. We don't slew to a complete halt until we're right in the very centre of the rapidly vanishing charm.

'There's no need to be so _brutal_ with those straps, you know!' the horse sourly declares.

'I wasn't been brut– oh forget it! I'm not in the mood to get in _another_ argument with someone who's suddenly found they can talk!'

'There's no need to be so tetchy,' the horse declares huffily. 'I _have_ had a hard day, you know!'

Ignoring his complaints, I leap off my seat onto the back of the cart. I don't know how much longer I've got left. All around me now, as if my own intrusion has disturbed it, the misty remnants of the charm are whirling, dissipating.

Scooping up the toadstools in my arms, I begin to fling them over the cart's side, throwing them back towards the earth they were ripped free of.

Glancing over the cart's sides, I make a quick check that I'm doing the right thing; and yes, it seems I am, for the toadstools are somehow bedding themselves back into the ground, each one releasing a happy, contented sigh as he or she settles once more amongst the grass.

Satisfied that I'm doing the right thing at last, I scoop up another armful of toadstools, throwing them over the other side of the cart. Once again, the toadstools re-bed themselves amongst the soil.

'I don't think there's much more time left! Please hurry!' the toadstools plead.

The charm is indeed quickly dissolving, now little more than wraith-like swirls swooping about me.

Getting down on all fours upon the cart's wooden boards, I open my hands up wide and push hard against the base of the remaining pile, pushing it all towards the edge, where it all satisfyingly topples en masse over the side. There are a few lonely toadstools left behind, so I swiftly sweep these aside too, knocking them over the edges.

Once the cart is completely clear, I anxiously peer over the sides, hoping I've been in time to save them all.

Thankfully, every toadstool has had time to re-root itself. They laugh and chuckle amongst each other once more, shouting up their thanks when they see my beaming face leaning out over the cart's sides.

'While the magic's still with us, we should tell you what we know!' one of them cries out, more urgently and clearer than the rest.

'It's Gwydion's _intention_ to start a war!' another says.

'Why, why would he want to start a war?' I ask, puzzled. 'And how do you know this?'

'Because we heard his servants talking!'

'They didn't know we could hear, of course!'

'Or that we'd be able to tell anyone!'

'He wants to start a war for the sake of the king's nephew!'

'The prince?' I say, more confused than ever.

'No, no: he has more than _one_ nephew, of course!'

'This is Gilfaethwy, Gwydion's brother, who's fallen in love with Goewin, King Math's beautiful lap maid.'

'Lap maid? I've never heard of any such position before.

'When he's not at war, the king is fated to rest his feet in a virgin's lap.'

'Though some say he doesn't wish her to marry, for anyone who does will replace him as king!'

'Gwydion hopes Gilfaethwy can make her his during the confusion of war!'

'While the king's away, there will be no one to protect poor Goewin!'

'When King Math leaves to lead his troops off to war...'

'Yes, yes; go on!' I say eagerly.

But the toadstools are silent.

As toadstools should be, of course.

(I mean, whatever would we feel safe eating if _everything_ could talk to us?)

The last whisper of the suffusing glow of the charm has vanished.

And so, along with it, has the magic of the mushrooms.

The horse glares over his shoulder at me, as if both suddenly aware of and resentful of the fact that he can no longer admonish me for giving him a hard time.

Truth is, once I leave him behind for the girl to collect, I'll miss him.

Just how long is it going to take me to get anywhere around here without a ride?

*

# Chapter 7

Without the heavy cart to pull, this old horse can move much quicker than I'd realised.

Well, I couldn't leave him in the field to munch away at all those poor mushrooms I'd just spent so long saving, could I?

Even if horses aren't actually partial to mushrooms, preferring grass, his careless clumping around in that field would cause untold damage, wouldn't it?

Besides, as I'm heading towards the city, there's a good chance that I'll meet up with the girl on the way back.

Not that I'm exactly in a rush to meet her, naturally; she's hardly going to be overjoyed that I took her horse, cart and wares, is she?

And she _does_ carry a knife!

At least, though, meeting up with her will let me know I'm heading in the right direction. The road branches off a lot more times than I remember it doing, probably because I'm now heading in the opposite direction; it's a bit, I suppose, like climbing _up_ a tree rather than _down_ it.

I realise I'm truly lost once again when I find myself traveling up towards the peak of a low hill that I never came across on my way out towards the fields, unless you count the rolling hills I'd spotted lying to the south of us.

Which could mean, I suppose, that I'm now heading south rather than west, as I should be.

I'm on the point of turning back when it dawns on me that I haven't gone so wrong after all, for I suddenly catch a sight of the tops of the city's highest towers ahead of me. If I've taken the wrong road at some point, then it's obviously either been a fortunate short cut, or this old horse has been moving far faster than I'd believed him capable of achieving.

Surmounting the hill, I'm expecting to see the whole city rather than just its towers, only to find that it's still almost completely hidden behind the towering trees of a large forest. Most of the road stretching ahead of me is similarly chiefly hidden from my view as it snakes its way into the thickly wooded area, briefly tempting me to turn back and seek a safer route; the toadstools probably had a reason to avoid it if they chose the longer route home over the shorter one.

Still, if I turn back, I'll be lost all over again.

It's best to ride on and take my chances.

*

The passage through the dense woodland isn't anywhere near as dangerous as I thought it might have been.

It's actually a rather pleasant ride, as the sun – even though it's still rather weak, as if winter is only just on the verge of drawing to a close – isn't entirely banned from intruding, its rays throwing dappled shadows over everything. There's every type of woodland creature you'd expect, including birds, rabbits and deer. There are probably larger, more dangerous creatures too, such as wild boar and wolves, and a number of times a heavy scuffling amongst the denser plots of undergrowth cause my heart to leap up into my throat; but even as I draw closer towards the white walls of the city, I still haven't been attacked by anything more threatening than the odd wasp.

The walls don't rise anywhere near as high as the soaring barriers I remember leaving behind me as I'd set out on the road with the cartload of toadstools. The gateway is similarly much smaller, as if I've arrived at some side entrance of the city, rather than a major gate.

But then again, the buildings rising up behind the walls – although impressively graceful – don't grant any sense of a vibrantly expansive city, being more town-like in their lower-level, less-ambitious construction. The gates lie open, but the wooden bridge constructed across a dry moat has a raised section that acts like a small drawbridge, its controlling ropes and chains rising up and disappearing into flanking towers.

As if the guards housed in the gate's towers were expecting me – for I'm sure my approach is still veiled by the woodland – the bridge's raised section begins to lower into place. A rider appears at the gateway, exiting the town. No one makes any effort to stop her – and yes, it's definitely a woman, as she's dressed in a flowing riding gown, and a richly embroidered one at that.

She's riding at speed, the hooves of her magnificent horse thunderously pounding the wooden bridge. The echoing clatter changes to one of crunching stones as she leaves the bridge and charges out onto the coarse pathway, the drawbridge already being raised once more behind her.

Why is such a wealthy woman being allowed to ride out into the woods without an escort?

She's either capable of taking care of herself, or she's powerful enough to issue orders that no one should accompany her.

Maybe it's both those things.

What will she make of me and my old carthorse as she rushes past me on her fine horse?

I never get to find out.

As soon as the overarching branches veil her from view of the guards in the towers, she swings her horse off the path. It seems a crazy thing to do, the undergrowth being so thickly entwined that it's virtually impassable.

But somehow, as if she knows of a secret track running through the tangled bushes and ferns, there's no slowing of her reckless pace. More remarkable still, she hurtles through the trees without the need for any ducking or swaying, as if a tunnel has been subtly carved out of the woodland.

As she'd turned off the track, a smattering of dappled light had struck her face, her long, fluid waterfall of hair.

And despite it being only the briefest moment of illumination, I'd recognised her.

It was the princess, the woman I'd seen being married only this morning.

Which also meant – if the magic toadstools are right – that it's my mother.

*

# Chapter 8

'Wait, wait!' I cry out, hoping the rider can hear me before she completely disappears from view.

I pull hard on the reins of my own horse, urging him to also leap into the undergrowth.

If he could still talk, he'd undoubtedly refuse.

But with urgent jabs of my knees, I force him to follow after the rapidly vanishing rider. Almost immediately, it seems like a terrible mistake, the undergrowth being so thick and mostly impenetrable that I wouldn't be surprised if someone told me the plants were deliberately seeking to hold me back.

Any other, more refined horse would instantly shy from heading any farther into the woody thicket, but fortunately the carthorse is made of sturdier stuff, having lived a life of mistreatment and harsh conditions.

Even so, he would have undoubtedly given up after little more than a few yards if we hadn't suddenly crossed over onto the path the rider was following. It wasn't a completely clear track, the going still surprisingly difficult, yet the intertwining branches here are nowhere near as chaotically tangled as the area we'd just had to pummel our way through.

'Wait, please wait!' I yell out once more; but the rider can't seem to hear, probably because she's travelling so fast that the sound of pounding hooves alone will be enough to drown out my cries.

Even though our passage through the woods has now been made so much easier, I still have to duck and sway to avoid sweeping, overhanging branches. Which is odd, as my mother – or at least, the _woman_ riding ahead of me – has no such difficulty, remaining gracefully upright in her saddle, as if she never encounters a single, obstructing branch.

Her riding is so elegantly smooth and unencumbered, she could be passing through nothing more challenging than an endless clearing. As if caught in a stiff, whirling wind, any branches that might cause her any problems curl up and away from her, only to whip back down into place once she has passed. Similarly, I notice, the undergrowth lying ahead of her opens up, like a parting of surging waters.

On an impulse, I glance back over my shoulder. Behind me, the undergrowth is once again closing in upon itself.

There's no track there at all; only a densely impenetrable wood.

*

It's only because I'm traveling in the rider's wake that I'm able to make any progress at all through this wood.

Which means that, if we drop too far behind, the wood will completely curl around and envelop _us_ ; and who knows how long we could be trapped here then?

Fortunately, the well-bred horse ahead of us isn't being forced into the fastest gallop it's obviously capable of. If it were, we would have been left behind long ago. Despite this, my own mount is beginning to drop behind anyway, as the poor old thing is naturally flagging after its initial exertion.

Far ahead of us, deeper within the forest, there are elated cries, the blare of horns and the pounding drumbeat of a hunt: a hunt no doubt taking advantage of the extra light now that the shorter winter days are at last beginning to lengthen.

Maybe this is where my mother is heading?

Whether she is or not, it gives me hope that the forest must eventually begin to thin out, for no hunt could take place in woodland as densely packed as this. If my horse can keep up the pace just a little longer – or better still, if my mother begins to slow down as we draw closer towards the hunt – then we should be able to avoid being entrapped within the tangled undergrowth.

But my mother makes no effort to slow down.

And the old carthorse can't keep up the effort to keep up with her.

We _are_ dropping farther and farther behind. Worse still, the wood is gradually enwrapping itself about us, slowing us down all the more, both increasingly blocking our path and threatening to trip my mount up.

We slow to a trot, then a walk; and finally, we're going nowhere at all.

The wood wraps itself around us, as if wishing to forever make us a part of it.

*

# Chapter 9

'Help! Help!'

My mother is now even farther away than before; she couldn't possibly hear my cries.

As for anyone involved in the hunt, most of those will probably be even farther away. The booming of the drums, the sharp shrill of the horns; all of this will completely drown out my yells.

The wickerwork of undergrowth and the stems of the bushes and trees have now so securely bound us that it's just about impossible to move even an arm, to even tilt my head a little.

I don't have anything to hack away at the branches with; no knife, let alone a sword.

I can hardly work a hand free anyway, but even if I could, at best I'd manage to break a few of the thinner steams. The thicker ones would still present an unsurmountable problem, even to someone far stronger than I am. It's not dry wood either, of course, but fresh, green and therefore highly supple, making it all the harder to crack.

I glance up into the looming trees, trying to understand how they were compelled to allow my mother through unhindered.

Why won't it all move aside for me like it did for the rider?

For my _mother_.

Without even being aware that I'm doing it, I quite naturally reach out to gently touch the nearest branch, much as you would caress a younger child whom you're hoping to reassure, a child you're hoping will tell you something you need to know.

Why did you do it for _her_ , but not for _me_?

Why did you do it for _my mother_ , but not for _me_?

There's a fluttering of leaves, a gentle swish of stems; and like a writhing of interlocking serpents, the branches gradually disentangle themselves, a reversal of the way they had originally trapped both me and my mount.

An _enchanted_ wood – what else could it be?

The branches and tangled undergrowth continue to move aside, not only leaving us free to move once more, but also opening up a little in front of us, creating a clear path for us to head forward into. And as we move into the cleared area, more of the woodland pulls aside before us, ensuring there's nothing to hinder our passage.

I urge my horse into a faster walk, wondering if the restricting, thicker undergrowth lying directly ahead of us will slow us down. It doesn't; it parts for us before we're so close than we could be held back by it.

I spur my horse into a trot, laughing excitedly as the writhing branches draw aside like elaborate curtains, beckoning us on. Even when we break into a furious gallop, the woodland effortlessly adapts to our hurried pace, whipping aside to grant us easy progress.

Faster, faster!

It doesn't seem possible to catch the forest either unaware of or slow to respond to our presence.

Even my old mount appears exhilarated by the experience, elatedly snorting as we hurtle through this magical forest as smoothly as if we're rushing across the finest grassland.

Behind us, the woodland closes in once more, as chaotically intertwined as it's ever been, as if no one has walked let alone ridden through here in centuries.

The raucous sounds of the hunt become rapidly clearer; we're swiftly drawing closer, so close in fact that I'm worried we might suddenly charge down unexpectedly upon some outer fringes of the hunt party.

At the very least, they might hear us. At the worst, they might confuse us with being something worth hunting down.

And what would they think if they saw that the wood was springing apart as we thundered through?

That I was a witch?

How had my mother avoided causing the very same fears amongst them? Had she slowed down?

If so, I might yet have a chance of catching up with her.

But first, to ensure I survived passing close by the hunt; I would have to slow down too.

As I rein in my horse, the whipping aside of the stems immediately slows too, the lessening in the tremendous noise quite remarkable. At a slow pace, the old carthorse also hardly makes any noise, the soft ground we're passing over deadening any sound, while any twigs he might have snapped beneath his hooves have either sprung aside or, if dead, have been pulled out of the way by other, living stems.

Now nothing about us stirs, apart from the restrained shuffling of the branches parting to allow our passage, the equally almost silent moves of everything returning back to how it had all been before we had passed through. Not even the wind can stir the other nearby branches, however, as if the wood understands our need to be as noiseless as possible.

Outside of this eerie silence, I can hear the gaiety of the hunt far clearer than I could previously. As with all hunts, it's hard to pin down where its centre might be, the party stretched out throughout the woodland, no doubt gathering together in clumps rather than one solid mass.

That makes it hard to work out where I should head to pass along their rear. I can only hope that my mother is faced with the same problem, and so has also had to completely slow down, to wait until it's safe to pass by.

There's a loud snorting of a horse, somewhere off to my left and not too far ahead of me; it's either my mother, or a hunter hanging behind the rest of the pack for some reason.

There's no sound of hurried movement – and yet twigs are crumpling beneath the hooves.

It's not my mother then, I would guess; for surely, she's knows this is an enchanted wood, and it would far more likely aid her rather than me.

She wouldn't be making any noise, unless she saw no reason to remain quiet any longer.

There's a neighing, a whinnying; two horses then.

Two riders.

Definitely not my mother.

I remain perfectly still, not wishing to make any noise at all until the two riders ride on with the rest of the hunt.

But...the horses don't seem to be moving anywhere in a hurry.

The sounds of the hunt implies to me that it's swiftly, excitedly moving on.

So why have these two riders hung behind?

There's laughter now, but it doesn't seem to be coming from where I'd presumed the horses where. It's farther over to my left, which would mean – if these _are_ the riders – that they're even father away from the hunt than I'd first supposed.

The laughter of one of them is lighter, more musical; it sounds like that of a woman's.

Thinking I have a good idea now where the laughter is coming from, I try to peer through the tangle of branches veiling the laughing couple from my view.

I shouldn't stare, I know; but what if it _is_ my mother?

Just as the trees had parted to allow me passage, now they quietly ripple aside just enough to open up a narrow tunnel I can look through.

In what passes for a clearing in this dense forest, a tall man, elaborately and richly dressed in gleaming clothes, his hair bunched up beneath a fluffy white cap, leans against a sturdy tree. He's with an equally well dressed woman, the rider I'd been following earlier, going by the styling of her gown.

They draw close; embrace.

They kiss.

Suddenly, the woman pulls back from the man as if startled, her head whipping around.

Suddenly, she's looking directly down the woody tunnel, directly at me.

Yes; it _is_ my mother!

And she's caught me.

She's knows I'm watching.

She scowls, waves a hand in front of her face; and the tunnel sliced through the woodland instantly closes up once more.

*

Startled, I whip my mount around.

With only a momentary, fleeting fear that Mother's abrupt closing of the tunnel might signify that the woodland would no longer obey me, I urge my old horse into speeding away from here as quickly as he can manage.

Thankfully, the branches, the undergrowth, all swing aside for me, just as it all had before.

I no longer care exactly where I'm headed, as long as it takes me as far away from here as possible. Besides, my eyes are so full of tears, I can't really make out where I'm heading anyway.

The horse once again enjoys being given his head, the thrill of seeing the woodland open up before him.

Let him be.

Let him take me as far away from here as possible.

*

I don't think that man was the prince I saw my mother marry.

He seemed taller; broader.

Although the prince had undoubtedly appeared impressively built and well attired when I'd seen him wedded to my mother, it has to be admitted that he was hardly anything more than a mere shadow of this man, who in many other ways could pass as a sibling, even a twin.

Why, anyway, was my mother out in the woods without an escort?

Has she already betrayed her husband the prince, my father?

But then, what do I mean by 'already?

_When_ is this?

A _long_ time after her wedding?

Or, maybe, even _before_ her wedding?

Isn't that what the toadstools had more or less told me? That here time works differently?

Oh sure; here I am again, seriously considering something some _toadstools_ have told me as if it were a _fact_!

Besides, even if my mother _has_ betrayed her husband, then maybe it's _this_ man who is my father!

In which case, if she hadn't betrayed the prince – then I wouldn't be here.

I wouldn't be _me_.

And yet – it doesn't reflect well on her, does it?

Worse still, if they go to war here over stolen pigs, what happens when someone steals your queen?

*

# Chapter 10

We tear out from the woodland in a sudden, unexpected thundering of hooves as the ground abruptly changes to a harder grassland.

It's a complete transformation of landscape, the dense forest sharply giving way to expansive wild moors, where patches of angular rock are scattered amongst carpets of a yellow gorse and purple heather. The forest abuts it in a perfectly straight, solidly dark line, particularly now that the channelled valley it had created for us has sealed up behind us, appearing all but impenetrable.

I don't know why but, somehow, I sense that no one will continue their pursuit into this new land.

That is, of course, if we were ever being pursued.

I doubt if we were.

Mother had seemed angered – surprised even – that she was being spied upon. But who wouldn't, especially if they're conducting a secret affair?

Especially, too, if they're the queen.

And yet, I _feel_ that she wasn't _so_ concerned that she had to chase after me, or even send someone in pursuit.

_Did_ she recognise me?

How _could_ she?

If I'm now traveling through a past before I even came into being, as the toadsto– as I've been _told_ , then why _would_ she know me?

I'm someone from her future, aren't I?

She couldn't possibly conceive that I was her daughter.

I let my mount slow down. He deserves a rest. A drink too, I realise, spotting off to my side a narrow stream trickling along the creases running through a maze of rocks.

Nudging him over towards the whispering water, I exhaustedly slip down off his back, recognising that I could do with both a drink and a refreshing wash too.

As I slide down his flanks, I notice for the first time that his once relatively shaggy coat is now surprisingly smooth. Similarly, it's a hard, lithely muscular body, rather than the thickly padded build of an ancient and sorely used carthorse.

He's _not_ a carthorse anymore.

He's a completely _new_ horse.

A magnificently _beautiful_ horse.

*

How the–?

I'm so amazed, so overjoyed for this previously old carthorse, that I'm managing to both laugh and cry at the same time.

_What_ a transformation!

A moment ago – well, I'm not sure _how_ long ago, to be honest; I hadn't noticed when the changes had started to take place – he was an ancient, miserable horse, whose condition had only been made worse by his years of toil and poor treatment.

Now he's not only young once again, but has all the hallmarks of being an expensively well-bred horse.

No wonder he'd moved so swiftly, so tirelessly, through the woods!

The _woods_!

It _must_ be the enchanted wood that has had this remarkable effect upon him!

What else _could_ it?

Whenever he looks up from drinking from the stream, he observes my laughing and joy as if he can't understand what it's all about.

'I suppose I _should_ give you a name, don't you think,' I say to him.

He responds with a nonchalant neigh, as if he thinks all this is nonsense.

_Naissance_!

'Yes, _that's_ what I'll call you; _Naissance_!'

Now that I've stopped laughing, I can faintly hear the chaotic clash of metal, the cries of men, the whinnying of many, terrified horses.

A battle?

The disordered clatter seems to be coming from the far side of a rise in the land, a rising that I presume must drop away into a wide valley if it is indeed hiding a battle from my view. After taking a quick drink from the stream, and giving my face a refreshing splash of cold water, I mount up on Naissance once more and direct him to slowly take me closer towards the rise's peak, from where I look down into what is actually a far wider vale than I had imagined.

Two vast armies spreading out across the valley's bed have clashed at various points. Dead men and horses lie everywhere, both signs and results of earlier, fruitless yet disastrously expensive assaults.

It's a war; as the pigs had prophesied.

Or is it a war over a stolen queen?

*

# Chapter 11

A tired wailing of war horns shivers out across the battlefield.

The shrill wails are calls to action that mean nothing to me, but the men begin to respond to their urging, with those on one side gradually, cautiously withdrawing back to their own lines. Their opponents don't take advantage of this withdrawal, perhaps because they are too weary or too wary of a trap, perhaps because the retreating men are still keeping to a formidably solid order.

Amongst the sharply hued banners of roaring lions, flying swans and golden crowns some other standard is raised, one of parlay it seems, for now both sides withdraw into regular lines, the fighting stilled at least for while. Under the newly raised standard, two mounted knights canter out into the contested area lying between the two foes.

The rider supporting the standard isn't quiet as richly dressed or as heavily armoured as his companion. He hangs back a little as the other confidently trots out a little closer to the centre ground.

As the expensively adorned knight pulls his horse up to a halt, he shouts out something to the opposing side. He's too far away for me to clearly hear whatever he's saying, but the tone seems to be one of anger, of a challenge.

The front lines of the army facing him open up slightly, allowing one of their own knights to ride out to meet the challenger. He's surprisingly lightly clad, and not particularly well armed, which doesn't bode well for him if he's intending to take on the far more heavily armoured knight in single combat. He doesn't have a lance, or even a shield.

He draws his sword, however, raising it high; a sign, it seems that he's accepted the challenge, for the opposing sides erupt into a mingling of cheering and jeers.

The knight who threw out the challenge drops his helm into place, reining his mount around a little, straightening it up before spurring it into a gallop. As the gallop becomes a full on charge, the knight lowers his lance, resting it across his horse, directing its glinting point towards his calmly waiting adversary.

The more lightly armed knight is still making no moves to defend himself. Moreover, when he at last urges his mount into movement, it's nothing faster than a casual trot.

If he's hoping to take his opponent by surprise, edging his horse aside at the last moment to avoid the lance, then he's just been sorely, fearfully disappointed; for the knight bearing down on him throws his shield aside, taking up in its place a mace he withdraws from a sheath on his mount's flanks.

If the lighter-armed man's plan has been foiled, he's not showing any sign that he's hesitating in his attack. Far from it – he at last spurs his horse into a more respectable, challenging charge, rushing towards the other knight as if assured of success.

The horse's leaping strides appear strangely elongated, unnatural, as if it possesses a remarkable strength. And it's in the midst of a particularly soaring bound that the flow of muscles, of rippling flesh, fluidly changes.

The man is no longer riding a horse; he's mounted upon a powerfully springing hellhound the size of an ox.

This man isn't a knight.

He's a sorcerer.

*

The monstrous dog vaults into the air, viciously launching himself at the oncoming horse and rider as he snarls menacingly.

What must the poor, beleaguered horse think he's up against?

Cleary and understandingly terrified, it shies, rearing up and back in its effort to avoid this unexpectedly horrifying assault.

Abruptly completely unbalanced, with the great weight of its rider now being impossible to comfortably bear, the fearfully whinnying horse topples over. Effectively locked into his saddle by that same great weight of armour, the rider topples with his mount, such that when they crash to the ground one of his legs is agonisingly pinioned beneath the horse's flank.

And so now, no matter how much they struggle to free themselves, to rise up from the ground, the rider and mount are as immovable and helpless as an upended turtle.

An easy meal, then, for a monstrous, slavering hellhound.

Yet despite its formidable size, the beast appears to still be under the control of its rider. It draws close to the fallen pair, contemptuously looming over them, its maw ravenously wide; yet it holds back from making any final, deadly strike.

There are no jubilant cries emanating from the victor's side; rather, they seem mute in their shock, their horror, much as the fallen challenger's side is stunned into a fearful silence.

Magic. A sorcerer who can transform a horse into a gigantic dog.

Maybe, too, _toadstools_ into dogs, and horses.

Gwydion?

Not necessarily, of course; but if it is, does that make his defeated opponent Prince Pryderi?

Is this the war instigated – deliberately – by the stealing of pigs?

If it is, it's worked out badly for the prince.

The fallen knight, recognising the hopelessness of his position, yanks off his helmet.

It signals that he's yielding, I believe.

The dog doesn't seem to understand this.

Greedily lunging forward, he rips out the knight's bared throat.

*

# Chapter 12

The yells from the watching regimented lines are neither ones of triumph nor ones of a simple, resigned dismay.

From both sides, once again, they are very much the same.

Cries of revulsion. Of dread.

I can't begin to guess what the reaction will be.

Will the fight continue, the result of the single combat declared null and void by the utilisation of magic?

Or will the resolve of the prince's forces be broken by his death?

Will there be surrender, or withdrawal?

No matter which way it goes, what passes for roads around here will soon be overrun with agitated, angry soldiers.

I glance back over my shoulder, back towards the woods, briefly contemplating heading back the way I'd come. If my sense of direction is any good at all, I believe I came south; I should be heading back the way I came anyway.

No; I can't be sure that the woods will open up for me like they did before.

The only road taking me away from the battlefield, then, is one leading off to my left; east.

East is has to be.

What other option do I have?

*

Naissance can now carry me swiftly, effortlessly.

The battlefield and the possibility of unexpectedly arriving upon a group of disgruntled soldiers is soon left safely far behind us.

The moors stretching out seemingly endlessly before us at last begin to come to an end as I find myself faced by a long line of thick forest once more. The rough road I'm on cuts into it, the only way through what would otherwise be impenetrably dense woodland.

The path winds its way through the darkness of the trees, but here and there I begin to spot glimpses of white through the few gaps in the wickerwork of their branches.

The closer I draw towards these fleeting shocks of white, the more they begin to join up together, and the more I realise I'm once again approaching either a citadel or walled town. The wandering lane leads me towards the gate, its guarding towers more of a size of those flanking the drawbridge of the smaller town I'd left earlier, rather than the grander structure protecting the far more imposing city.

It's a gate similar in many remarkable ways to the one I'd seen my mother riding from; I wouldn't be entirely surprised to see her once more galloping across the lowered bridge.

And yet, when the gates open, when the bridge is lowered, and my mother rides out; I'm completely and utterly shocked.

*

# Chapter 13

How did I get back here?

It's _not_ possible!

I rode south of my mother's castle, I'm just about _sure_ of it.

And then I rode directly east.

There's _no_ way I could have come back upon this particular castle.

But why am I wasting time even considering all of this when I've once again been given the opportunity to talk to my mother?

Before I can shout out to her, however, another rider clatters through the gate, closely following on behind her. They both thunder across the lowered wooden bridge, mother glancing every now and again over her shoulder, laughing happily.

The rider pursuing her, a man, is also joyfully enjoying the chase.

The prince, her husband? _My father?_

Her lover? _My father?_

I'm expecting Mum, as before, to suddenly swerve off the track before reaching me, rushing into the welcoming embrace of the enchanted wood. This time, she rides on towards me, as if she's unaware of my presence or, at least, she's uncaring of it.

I could pull up in front of her to ensure I bring her to a halt, but she's urging her horse into a ferocious gallop to avoid her laughing pursuer. It could only result in a brutal, no doubt painful, injurious collision.

She rushes past as if I'm not even there. The pursuing man similarly treats me as if I'm nothing more than an inconsequential bystander, yelling out in delight that she can't avoid him for ever, that she'll have to draw to a halt by the river.

I hadn't passed any river on my way here. But as I swing around on my mount's back to watch them ride away from me, I catch them at last swerving off the main path; yet once again my mother has resisted hurtling through the undergrowth, choosing instead to take a branching, narrower track leading off to their right.

Why hasn't she taken the simpler, ironically less restricted route through the undergrowth?

Why is she sticking to the paths, where she and her pursuer have to duck and weave to avoid being struck from their mounts by the low lying branches?

Doesn't she want her husband or lover to know that the forest is enchanted?

Or have I ended up farther back in her past, to a time before she realised the wood would part to allow her through unhindered?

And if I have entered a different time, then what of the wood itself? Will it grant _me_ access, like it had before?

Despite fearing this, I fear all the more that I'll be seen if I try pursuing my mother and fathe– the _other_ rider – by following them down the track. So with a sharp nudge of a knee, I take the risk of urging Naissance to swerve off the track, directing him towards the flanking undergrowth.

Far from – as might be expected – shying as we approach the dense undergrowth, Naissance fearlessly plunges straight in, perhaps recalling the way it had all previously drawn apart for us. Thankfully, the thick woodland almost silently curls aside for us, just as it had before, allowing safe, swift passage as I spur Naissance into shadowing the two riders.

So if the woodland's prepared to aide me, it _should_ also work for my mother. And yet she seems content enough with her chosen course, even though it entails a great deal of ducking and weaving to avoid been struck by the many low lying branches.

I'm grateful for her choice, of course.

They're both so engrossed in the excitement of the chase, the need to avoid being sent flying from their thundering horses, that they have little chance of recognising that they are being followed. There are few safe opportunities for them to stare off elsewhere into the woods, whereas the raucous clatter of their violent passage through the undergrowth makes my own ride sound like nothing more than the wind's caressing of the trees.

Just how far is this river the man mentioned?

And what will I do when we get there?

Approach them – like some mad girl they can't possibly have ever met – demanding answers they probably couldn't give me?

Or hang back in the undergrowth, watching them like some devious spy?

What _am_ I doing here?

_How_ did I end up back here in this enchanted wood?

*

It's an _enchanted_ wood – does that mean it can exist in two places at the same time?

Or, maybe, in _different_ times?

Perhaps even _more_ than two places?

Can it move, from one position to another?

Surely there can't be _two_ enchanted woods? Not, at least, two that _both_ contain my mother and her castle?

I breathe out an exasperated, bewildered chuckle.

There's only _one_ other place I've ever seen two such identical castles, and that's–

Of _course_!

Why didn't I see it _before_?

Because it doesn't seem in anyway _possible_ , that's why!

The pigs, in the field – it's a patch right up by the very top of my bed.

And next to it – to the west, if you're somehow magically entrapped in that field of pigs! – there _are_ flowers: blooms of every colour.

The earlier, glorious white city, with its celebratory pennants? Well yes, that lies just below – _south_ – of the field of pigs! And to the east of the city, there's a patch of toadstools in a field.

Below that, there's a citadel in a forest of hunting parties; then below that, a mediaeval encampment of gloriously toned tents, shields and battle flags,

And to its east; this castle, and its forest once more.

That's right, isn't it? Or have I got my directions wrong, a bit mixed up?

I can't be sure because I can't quite remember my bedspread as accurately as I'd like to! I can't even recall for sure which directions I took on my way down here!

But – what else could this crazy land be but my patchwork bedspread?

No matter how crazy – how impossible it might seem – somehow I'm travelling along through the variously coloured and embroidered patches of my own bed!

*

# Chapter 14

Then again; hadn't my mother, as the owl, been somehow sucked into my bedspread?

Is that what _I_ look like now, if anybody comes into my bedroom – an embroidered girl, looking just more than a little bit lost in a dark forest?

Maybe that's why the pigs said I should head west; maybe that was the way _out_ of here!

But – do I really _want_ to get out of here?

I mean, not because I'm having a really wild time here: I just feel confused most of the time.

Yet if Mum has somehow been magically absorbed within the patchwork, then this is the only chance I have of rescuing her.

_She's_ in the very bottom corner of my bed.

I'm...well, I'm not quite sure exactly _where_ I am. Not even close to being halfway down, I would guess.

If only I could remember how the squares were placed on my bed, I'd not only know how much farther I have to go, but also know what to expect, know what lies in front of me.

_Dragons_!

There are _dragons_ on my bedspread!

Wait, wait! – they're a long way off. Yes, I remember _that_ now, thank goodness.

But – dragons have _wings_!

And as I've already seen for myself, things aren't necessarily confined to their original, individual squares.

The coach party travelling to the wedding crossed from one square into another. I met the toadstools in the city, as they'd been brought there by the girl hoping to sell them.

The sorcerer Gwydion seems more than capable of moving from one area to another; unless I'm just seeing him in different periods of time, of course, which seems to be the case.

If I had my bedspread with me, it would make the most perfect map (if an incredibly bulky one!).

There are just so many other things on my bedspread, I can't remember them all; let alone recall the order they were in.

I never really paid it close enough attention, unfortunately.

I just saw it as something bright and colourful that kept me warm and snug on a night, that's all.

How was I supposed to know I would somehow end up entrapped within it?

If only I could remember how close the square containing the air balloons was; well, how much time would that save me, if I could simply fly above all these different lands?

There's one square that I _do_ know regrettably lies far off from the diagonal course I need to take – a patch portraying a gloriously white unicorn!

How wonderful would it be to see a _unicorn_?

*

# Chapter 15

The river is wider and more beautiful that I'd imagined it to be, its surface partially erupting into foaming waves where it flows over mainly hidden rocks. It curves sharply too, such that I can make out glimpses of the white walls of the castle rising high above it on its own rocky mound.

If the castle overlooks the river, as it seems to do, why did my mother and her pursuer ride out here?

Maybe because the spot they've chosen is particularly idyllic, with a clearing of bright green glass sloping down towards the rippling waters.

Maybe because they just need to be alone, this being an ideal spot for lovers to meet.

And yet...as my mother and the other rider dismount, it's quite obvious that this isn't the tall, more broadly built man I'd seen her dallying with before.

This, I believe, is her husband, the prince.

That s why he rode out from their castle, of course, rather than mother having to ride out to meet him in secret.

They lash the reins of their mounts around nearby branches, then approach the river hand in hand.

I don't want to make the same mistake the last time I spied on my mother.

(Yes, I have to admit I _am_ spying, aren't I?)

Like my mother and the prince, I've dismounted, leaving Naissance a little behind me. The woods still part from me, thankfully more silently this time, as if every tree, every plant, is responding to my need to remain unheard and unseen.

This time there is no wide tunnel for me to peer down, but a simpler, smaller separating of the branches lying before me, the slightest of gaps repeated time and time again yet exactly configuring, allowing me to watch while hopefully remaining undetectable by my mother.

Not that she seems likely to even fleetingly glance my way, as all her attention is reserved only for the prince.

How can all this be taking place _after_ her secret meeting with her lover? I can only be witnessing some time before that, surely, for she seems so in love with him, so attentive and caring.

If only I could hear them; but they are too far off for me to hear anything but the rustling of the wind through the leaves.

'...dangers of being a king.'

The leaves are talking, whispering. They sound concerned, even pleading.

The hushed rustling changes, becoming a deeper, nonchalant chuckling.

'My mother left me well protected with her charms, as you know.'

'So you've told me,' the lighter, more considered and female voice replies, its quality nevertheless the whispering of leaves rather than the clearer tones of a woman's mouth, 'but many charms have weaknesses or faults we don't originally appreciate. Nature possesses its own mysterious ways to ensure it isn't completely thwarted.'

Of course, they're the voices of my mother and the prince, carried towards me by innumerable leaves echoing, collecting and replicating their words.

'I cannot be killed during either the day or the night,' the prince confidently points out.

'Then at dusk; you can be killed at dusk, which lies between the two.'

'Yet not indoors, nor outdoors.'

'A poorly constructed stable then, with little more than supporting struts and a roof! And before you say "neither riding nor walking", then let me say you'd be doing neither in a stable anyway!'

'Ah, but would I be half naked? I can't be killed if clothed, or if naked! And, remember, even then any weapon used must have been forged for a year, during the hours when everyone else is at prayer!'

'How many times have I've seen you dismounting after an excited ride stripped to the waist? As for this remarkable weapon, I'm sure our lands suffer enough lawless people for one to be quite easily forged!'

The leaves laugh richly.

'Then be thankful, my dear, that my mother also cared enough to consider everything you have; for the weapon can only be effective if I'm standing with one foot on a cauldron and one on a goat, and I'm wrapped in a net!'

There's no reply from my mother to the prince's assertion that he couldn't be better protected. Doubtlessly, she's attempting to form in her mind an otherwise and previously unseen flaw in his declaration that he is perfectly safe from any assassin.

'Now, can you think of _any_ situation where all these clauses would apply?' the prince at last asks.

'No; thankfully, I _can't_ , my dear!' my mother chuckles happily, reassuringly pulling him close. 'Your mother was very, very _wise_ indeed!'

And as she draws him close, she turns and looks my way.

I see it in her eyes, her satisfied smile; she has known all along that I've been watching!

*

The stems all fall back into place, blocking off my view.

The leaves fall silent.

The show is over once more.

For that's what it was, isn't it? A show put on by my mother, for some strange reason.

Is this to make up for how I caught her out before? To show me a better side of her, one caring for the wellbeing of her husband, the prince?

Now that I've seen what she wants me to see, the wood no longer caters to my needs, it seems.

Briefly, I'm worried that I'll be trapped amongst the tangled undergrowth once more; but fortunately, the branches and bushes that would otherwise lie in my way continue to move aside for me, just as they had earlier.

If my mother can indeed prevent the woods from obeying my wishes wherever she's concerned, at least she's not against me leaving her and the prince to continue with their dalliance by the river.

I don't think she's going to allow me to see anything more; not for the moment, leastways.

Which means I might as well continue on my journey.

Not west, not north, to get back to the start, as the pigs had advised me.

I need to head southeast, moving in the nearest to a diagonal course that I can mange.

I need to find out what I'm doing here; and I don't think I'm going to find that out until I find my mother – the mother I know, the one who looks as she did just before she left me.

*

# Chapter 16

I glance up through the trees, looking for the sun to offer me guidance.

The branches overhead part, revealing the sun; but, I realise, I really can't be sure of it's position in the sky, and therefore it's of no use to me whatsoever.

How am I supposed to work out which is southeast?

The wood parts for me once more, but this time not in the direction I'm traveling. It opens up at a sharp angle to my course, the rustling of the leaves seemingly whispering to me once more: this, this is the way you must travel.

I urge Naissance into a faster trot, wondering what the next landscape I enter will look like. What part of my mother's life will it represent? Or, if not part of my mother's life story, then will it be another land where people go to war and lose their lives over stolen pigs?

At the very far end of the tunnel of overarching branches I'm rushing through, there's a much brighter burst of light, as if the forest at last comes to an end and opens up onto a whole new vista. When I break through into the light, however, I'm not in a new land but stand facing the continuation of the dense forest on the other side of a wide river.

Is it the same river that my mother had talked to the prince by, curving around in a vast loop? It could, naturally, be a branching spur, or a whole new river.

Whichever it is, it's barring my way, being far too wide for me to attempt to cross it. Towards its centre, the flow is particularly fast, and liable to sweep away anyone foolish enough to try swimming across.

I keep to the banks of the river, which is now as near to travelling southeast as I can manage, despite the way it's continually curving in on me, forcing me to head in what I believe must be a southerly direction. Barring the frustration of being redirected in this way, it's nonetheless a pleasant journey, the silvery waters flecked with the pink of leaping salmon struggling upstream against the current, or the resplendent blues and greens of swooping kingfishers briefly dipping beneath the waves.

When I finally cross over into another land, it's not quite as abrupt a change as before, where dense forest immediately and sharply gave way to moorland. Even so, the border is remarkably precise, this new land being a far more spacious woodland, the difference in the two quite marked in the type as well as the spacing of the trees, the lack of overly tangled undergrowth, the spreads of green grass and bluebells.

There is either little or less obvious change in the river. It still blocks my chosen path, directing me farther into this new woodland, preventing me from heading in a more easterly direction.

The struggling of the salmon is less pronounced here, the river's flow not being quite so strong; and so I'm completely shocked when – in a flash of sunlit pink scales – one of them jumps so high, and at such an odd angle, that he lands upon the bank. Frenziedly writhing on the rocks and grass, gasping for breath, he vainly attempts to drag himself back into the waters – and yet it's a forgone conclusion that he's going to die unless I help him.

Quickly slipping down off Naissance's back, I rush over towards the floundering salmon, hoping I can overcome his pained thrashing long enough to pick him up and throw him back into the water. The nearer I draw towards him, the more violent his writhing becomes however, such that I'm worried he's going to badly injure himself before I have a hope of rescuing him.

The sun flashes on his multiple scales, flame-like in its ferocious flickering, its unfollowable changing of forms: and from that burst of fire, there's a rising, a spreading of what appears at first to be a pure-white light. Yet the light swiftly solidifies, taking on its own form, a recognisable form – that of a magnificently beautiful hind.

*

Now I know where I am; at least, I know where I am in regards to my patchwork bedspread.

I remember now. Just below the second patch featuring the castle in the forest, there's one featuring a hind and a stag in a more paradisiacal type of setting, swarming with pairs of colourful animals.

But this is a hind that came into being from a beached salmon.

Sorcery?

Or should that be witchcraft?

A _hind_ ; that's female.

So I was wrong about the salmon being a 'he'. (It's not really very easy to tell with a fish, of course.)

She seems timid enough. Even a touch bewildered, as if her transformation is as much a shock to here as it was to me.

She observes me with wide, innocent eyes, maybe even fearing that I might be the one who attacks her, rather than threatening to endanger me.

I continue to approach her, but more slowly now, not wishing to frighten her off.

How can I show her I mean no harm?

Is there anything I could offer her to eat?

What _do_ deer eat?

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a tree's low-lying branch I hadn't noticed before. It stretches quite a way out from the main bulk of the tree, passing over my head. There are a number of acorns burgeoning amongst the leaves, and I wonder if the hind would find those edible.

The acorns, as if suddenly too heavy for the branch to bear, break away from it, dropping towards me. I only need to reach out a little with my hand, my palm uppermost, for the acorns to comfortably fall into my clasping fingers.

Unhurriedly drawing closer to the hind once more, I stretch out my hand, offering what I hope is a tasty dish of acorns.

She hesitantly steps towards my outstretched hand. With an equally hesitant distending of her neck, she takes one of the proffered acorns between her lips and begins to munch it gratefully, hungrily.

Seeing her enjoying the acorn, it makes me realise I'm hungry too; the last time I had anything to eat was this morning, in the coach belonging to the people attending the wedding.

Another branch lies close to my head, this one decked with fruit.

A ripened pear drops from the tree, falling within an effortlessly comfortable reach of my hand.

'Thank you,' I cheerfully say to the tree, highly amused by the way it could have almost granted me this meal as magically as the trees in the other wood had moved aside for me.

'Thank you to you to,' the hind says to me.

'You can talk!' I blurt out in surprise, almost spitting out part of my partially eaten piece of pear.

'Of course I can– well, no, I haven't been able to talk for years now, come to think of it!' The hind cocks her head to one side, eying me suspiciously. 'You're not a witch are you?'

'Of _course_ I'm not a witch!' I reply with a sour chuckle, a little offended by the suggestion. 'Why on earth would you think _that_?'

'Well, just _look_ at me,' the hind replies miserably.

I'm confused. What's so unusual about her? I can't see anything wrong with how she looks.

Seeing my confusion, the hind hurriedly continues, 'I mean, you can't tell _now_ of, course; but I _used_ to be a man!'

'A _man_? But...'

'A sorcerer transformed me into...well, whatever animal it is I am now! I change every now and again, never knowing what to expect next. But if you're a witch, maybe you could...?'

His voice fades away, hope mingling with dread.

'As I said, I'm not a witch,' I point out once more.

Could this sorcerer be Gwydion, the man I saw stealing the underworld pigs? He seems to keep on turning up in all these strange lands I'm finding myself in.

'But this sorcerer,' I ask, 'why did he change you into a _hind_?'

'A hind?' He lowers his head as he glances down at his legs. 'Is that what I am now?'

He sounds unsure; but of course, he has no mirror to see himself in. And he's had no time since his transformation from a salmon to work out what kind of animal he now is.

'Isn't a hind...well, a _girl_?' I say hesitantly.

He snorts in disgust.

'That's all part of my own particular punishment of course! For molesting Goewin; King Math's maid!'

'Then you're...' I'm trying to recall the name of the king's nephew, the one whom Gwydion was hoping to help by starting the war over the stolen pigs.

Whether I could manage to recall it or not, I'm not sure; but I'm suddenly distracted anyway, as another salmon leaps too far out of the water, beaching itself on the grassy bank. As with the earlier salmon, it writhes in dismay, in fear of dying.

'Gilfaethwy,' the hind replies, adding ashamedly. 'I...I _was_ in love with her; I thought that while the king was away I could...'

He hangs his head in shame.

'Force yourself upon her.'

A harder, more accusing voice finishes his sentence for him. Where the freshly beached salmon had seemingly ferociously struggled to regain the safety of the waters, a powerful white stag is imperiously rising up from the flaming flashes of rippling scales.

I immediately recognise the assuredness, the haughtiness, of that challenging voice.

I heard it only last night for the first time, after all.

It's Gwydion, the sorcerer.

*

# Chapter 17

It must have been Gwydion after all who has changed this Gilfaethwy into a hind.

Why, when he had originally set out to help his brother?

Did Gilfaethwy, in forcing himself upon this poor maid Goewin, shock and disgust even Gwydion?

With the merest flexing of his long, muscular hind kegs, the stag aggressively launches himself towards us.

I expect the hind to flee, but she – _he_ – calmly stays where he is, unperturbed by Gwydion's approach. If anything, the hind seems to have been expecting Gwydion's arrival rather than being in anyway shocked by it.

As Gwydion draws alongside the hind, he peers at me with unhidden distaste, snorting his disapproval.

'Have you been reduced to this, Gilfaethwy? Accepting acorns from some peasant girl?'

Although sharp eyed enough to spot the remains of the acorns scattered beneath the hind, Gwydion doesn't seem to be aware that I can understand what he's saying.

Hadn't the hind been surprised that he could talk to me, declaring it witchcraft?

Gwydion peers even more intently at me, suspicious now.

'Do...I think I _know_ this girl.'

He remember me from last night.

What should I say? Should I admit that yes, I was the girl who witnessed his stealing of the underworld pigs?

That I was also the girl who watched him kill a prince through the unexpected and unfair use of magic?

'She can understand us,' the hind warns him, before he unconsciously reveals more than he would like.

'Can she now?'

He raises what passes for his eyebrows, his tone one of admiration and surprise but also, perhaps, loathing.

'Well? _Do_ I know you?' he asks expectantly; but thankfully, before I can even begin to answer, he arrogantly answers his own question. 'No, no; of course I don't. The girl you reminded me of was someone I met years ago now, before the war. She would not only be older now, but there was nothing about her hinting she could override one of Math's charms.'

'Math – King Math, you mean?' I ask, recalling some of the many tales I have been told since arriving in these strange lands.

'Ah, so yes – you _are_ far more aware than that foolish girl.'

It seems, then, that Gilfaethwy has been charmed by King Math, not Gwydion. And Gwydion himself; is he suffering the same punishment, for causing an unnecessary war? If so, and he's unable to transform himself back, then King Math must be the more accomplished sorcerer.

I'd like to ask Gwydion a few questions about this, to see if my assumptions are correct; but it would be too risky, revealing my ignorance just when he appears to have presumed that I know far more than I actually do.

'This is your punishment for starting a war,' I say instead. 'For replacing a gift from the king of the underworld with nothing but toadstools charmed to briefly resemble horses and dogs.'

The stag peers at me even more directly and suspiciously.

'Who _are_ you? How can you _know_ all this?'

I don't wish to anger him, of course; I suspect that Math must have ensured that his magic skills have been deliberately restricted, perhaps even completely annulled, but even as a stag he could cause me great harm. I equally suspect, however, that I'm only going to get him to either offer me more information or even help me if I can persuade him I'm someone who deserves his respect.

'That's no concern of yours,' I reply with all the haughtiness I can manage. 'I've granted you permission to talk; are you going to waste that opportunity by asking me questions about who I am?'

'Could you ask King Math to forgive us?' the hind asks hopefully. 'We've suffered enough: I know and admit now that I did wrong!'

'Did _wrong_?' Gwydion snorts derisively. 'Goewin is now queen, thanks to your...actions.'

'Only because King Math sought to help her retain her honour, taking her as his wife.'

Gilfaethwy once again ashamedly hangs his head. Does he feel sorrow, too, that he has permanently lost the woman he once loved?

'King Math will forgive us soon enough without any need for this girl to plead for us.' Gwydion displays no hint of doubt in his assured tone. 'He needs our particular skills too much – particularly _my_ powers. Besides, our _sister_ can entreat Math to forgive us, provided he follows my earlier suggestion to appoint her as Goewin's replacement.'

'And provided, naturally,' Gilfaethwy adds sourly, 'that Arianrhod passes the tests to show _she_ remains untouched!'

Gwydion balefully glances Gilfaethwy's way.

'You sound doubtful,' he sneers. 'Is there anything you're withholding from me?'

Not having any interest in their disagreement, I glance about me to check that Naissance hasn't wandered off too far, as he'd earlier drawn closer towards the riverbank to slake his thirst.

He's no longer there.

He's right in the very _middle_ of the river!

*

The water reaches up to just below his flanks, which I find odd until I realise that the river's height has dropped considerably, leaving the banks on either side still soaked and dripping with sparkling droplets.

The waters are still dropping, such that Naissance is effectively walking rather than having to swim, his hooves quite clearly touching the bottom. That doesn't mean he's not in any danger, of course; the river might only be temporarily dammed somewhere, which means the resulting flood waters could surge down at any moment, sweeping him away.

Ignoring the bickering deer, I rush towards the bankside, crying out to him to come back to dry land.

By the time I plunge into the water after him, the river has fortunately dropped even more, so that now even I can wade through it towards him, my feet touching the riverbed, if a little uncertainly and with little grip. Thankfully, however, the ground seems to be rocky rather than mud, which would only slow me down.

All my concentration is focused on reaching Naissance. As soon as I draw close, I pull myself up on to his back, urging him with both prods of my knees and urgent warnings to head towards the other bank, fearing that we might not have time to waste turning around.

Besides, if we can safely cross the river, I can start heading east at last.

Behind me, the angry conversation between the stag and the hind has developed into nothing much more than irate grunts and snorts; is that the way it now just seems to me, or are they now incapable of talking even to each other now I've moved away from them? Glancing back over my shoulder, I see them rise and shake their heads in frustration as if coming to this startling realisation themselves. With a series of even angrier grunts, their heads spin this way and that, as if now looking for me, perhaps blaming my absence for their sudden inability to intelligibly converse with each other.

On seeing me riding hard through the river, they whirl around on their hind legs and, with a further flexing of their powerful muscles, launch themselves towards the river's edge, obviously intending to pursue me in the hope of dragging me back.

I can't spur Naissance to go any faster than he's already managing. The waters are beginning to return, swirling angrily about us, although Naissance's legs aren't completely submerged just yet, for we're fortunately riding up the sloping riverbed towards what would be the shallower edges.

If the stag and hind have noticed that the river is swiftly rising once more, they either don't seem to care or put my capture ahead of their own safety. They plunge into the waters to continue their pursuit. Although they manage at first to run through the temporarily shallow waters of the river's edge, they immediately begin to struggle as they head into the deeper sections, where the water adds to their difficulties by rapidly rising about them.

The rising water is also dangerously rippling about Naissance and me too, the increasingly strong current beating hard on his flanks and threatening to topple him sideways, carrying us away in its firm hold. Our progress isn't impaired anywhere near as badly as that of the pursuing deer, for we're at least heading up the steadily sloping riverbed; but even if we manage to get close to the steeply rising bank before we're totally swamped, Naissance will be too exhausted to leap up high enough out of the water to gain safe ground. The waters are already deep enough around us to suck hard at his flanks, while also seeking to sweep him off his feet.

Over my shoulder, I see that the hind and even the more powerful stag are already succumbing to the waters' persistent pummelling. Knocked and then dragged off their feet by the rising waters, they're immediately overwhelmed by the constant and irresistible battering of the river's flow, the surging waves spinning them around, turning them over, carrying them away. Unable to oppose the growing strength of the waters, and sent uncontrollably twirling amidst the pounding waves, they plunge beneath the surface again and again, their white hides almost indistinguishable from the foaming spray.

Those waves are now swelling high about Naisssance's flanks, brutally barging into him just when he needs what remains of his rapidly waning strength to leap up onto the bank looming ahead of us, little more than a few strides away.

He's too exhausted.

The flow of the waters is too strong.

The bank is too high, too steep.

The enveloping waves ferociously claw at us, eager to drag us under.

*

# Chapter 18

Glancing back at the floundering stag and deer, I'm effectively seeing what awaits Naissance and me.

They're being relentlessly pushed towards an outcrop of jagged rocks, where the waves violently lash the stones. Their relatively thin, uselessly flailing limbs can't fight against the water's powerful pull.

Tumbling uncontrollably in the waters, neither the stag nor the hind have any hope of struggling clear of the rocks. In one last dip beneath the waves, in a flash of brilliant white, of skin and spray and reflected sun, the stag seems to shiver, to fluidly ripple, taking on the green of the waters, the moss on the rocks.

Leaping up as if enjoined with one of the soaring waves, the stag becomes in the wink of an eye a large toad, nonchalantly stretching out towards the rocks. It lands on the drenched, slippery stone as calmly and surefootedly as if the rocks are the most solid, secure ground.

Similarly threatened with being pummelled against the rocks, the hind also goes through a rapid transformation, a rippling of glittering white becoming in an instant the green of fresh reeds, the limbs shrinking, the hooves spreading into webbed feet that confidently grip even the slimiest stone.

With a satisfied croak, a relieved rolling of his eyes, the toad coolly looks over towards us; does he relish the thought that we won't be saved either so easily or so magically?

The waters have risen even higher about us, the river's increasing depth alone now drawing perilously close to lifting Naissance up of the riverbed, while the flow's growing strength tears at us in readiness to sweep us away as soon as he looses his footing.

Despite the rising waters, the bank still looms too frustratingly high for us to tiredly clamber up onto it. The river tears at the banks as angrily as it pounds us, the sodden soil crumbling under the assault, the huge clumps breaking away briefly floating off downstream in rapidly dissolving dark mounds.

In a particularly brutal wrenching at the shrieking earth, a whole higher section of the bank, now thoroughly undermined and barely supported, is at last torn away. As it collapses, it disintegrates completely, the bank that had only a moment ago been angled as imposingly as a black wall now a relatively gentle slope.

Naissance doesn't need any urging to head for this sole, gently inclining area of the bank. Calling on what could possibly be the last residues of his waning strength, he rushes towards it, shrugging off the painful battering of the waters as he powers himself forward.

The ground is far from firm, of course, it being both slippery and crumbling, but Naissance gains in confidence and resolve as we finally begin to rise up from the surging waters; and with a relieved, triumphant snort, he drags us completely clear of the river, galloping up the incline onto firmer ground.

I slip down off his back, realising he needs and deserves a rest.

The two toads observe us indifferently. Just how aware are they of everything that's just happened?

Their glares when they had been a stag and a hind had certainly seemed baleful enough.

They casually slip into the still rising waters, perhaps at least grateful that they haven't drowned, perhaps resentful that they are now creatures regarded as being even lower down the hierarchy than deer.

As for me, I'm grateful that this sorcerer Gwydion won't be appearing in any more of the landscapes I have to travel through.

But what of this King Math who – it would seem – is a far more powerful sorcerer?

Am I destined to come across him amongst these patchwork kingdoms?

*

# Chapter 19

Now that we've crossed the river, at least we can begin traveling east.

The going through the woodland is easy, even pleasant. At some point the river that had prevented me from heading in this direction for so long has at some point also changed direction, and now runs almost parallel to the track we're taking.

It seems I could have stayed on the other side of the river after all. But then again, I don't really know how long the waters travelled south before turning around – or, indeed, even if this is the same river, rather than some probable offshoot of it.

After a while, the woodlands I'm traveling through sharply give way to a landscape of bright yellow cornfields, of red tiled farms and thatched houses. There's a sense of newness, of freshness, everywhere about me, the flowers spouting from the ground around me at their brightest, as if it could be springtime here. Certainly, there's an aura of happiness about this landscape that I thoroughly relish, feeling completely at home here.

After a little while more, I hear the sounds of laughing, of splashing water, and as I turn a corner of the river I see a young man and woman swimming together over by the side of the far bank.

It's almost dusk, an odd time to be having fun in the river's waters; but the couple appear wealthy enough to be prepared for how cold they feel once they step onto the bank, for a servant is diligently warming water over a fire before pouring it into a high sided steel pot doubtlessly intended as a warming bath. The floor is carpeted in thick furs, while a makeshift wind-breaking wickerwork wall and a pole-supported thatched roof has been constructed to keep at bay any rain.

As the sun begins to go down, the laughing couple rise up from the waters and, half naked in their drenched clothes, rush towards the thatched shelter. There's a toing and froing as the couple light-heartedly argue who should be the first to step up into a bath now as warm as summer rays. The man has to take the woman's hand to steady himself as he prepares to clamber up into it.

And then the strangest thing happens.

The man is so happy, is laughing so much, that he seems unaware that the part of the fur carpet he's now only half standing upon is moving, is rising up a little.

Worse still, the servant standing behind him has pulled out a long spear that had been hidden amongst the wall's wickerwork, its blade glittering in the very last rays of the sun.

Raising the spear, the servant slices through a rope with its blade.

A net falls from the roof, dropping over the poor man, who still stands only half in, half out of the cauldron.

And then, abruptly striding forwards, the servant plunges the spear's gleaming point deep into the bared back of the half-naked man.

*

There's a pained, wailing bleating as a goat, as shaggy as an old winter coat, rises up from a hole dug into the ground beneath the carpet of furs.

It's the final piece required for my mother's successful murder of her husband Prince Lleu, isn't it?

Didn't he have to be precariously balanced between a roasting cauldron and a capricious goat?

That's why my mother had persuaded the prince to reveal the details of how he could be killed; not because she cared for him, but because she wanted to be sure that she and her lover's plot to remove him and be together wouldn't fail.

The whole scene is taking place too far away for me to make out the faces of everyone involved, let alone see their reactions; but what else could I be witnessing but the prince's brutal murder?

And yet; the prince isn't dead yet.

Rather, he shivers, his body rippling much as the salmon and the deer quivered like flickering flames just before their transformations.

With a raising of his arms, the prince flashes gold, with a feathering of silver.

The draping of gold transforms outspread arms into wings, the agonised expression of a sorely injured man into a great beak, the tortured clenching of feet into vicious claws.

The huge wings beat heavily on the air; and the eagle launches himself up through the thatched roof, scattering hay everywhere.

*

# Chapter 20

It seems Prince Lleu hadn't been wholly open with my mother.

Going by the way both she and her lover appear shocked by his transformation, they hadn't been expecting him to fly away as an eagle.

They had meant to kill him, obviously.

And they must have been planning this murder for well over a year; for hadn't it being one of the stipulations for the successful killing of Lleu that the spear had to be forged for a year?

My mother, the murderess.

Thankfully, she and her lover are so intent on observing the eagle's flight they haven't noticed that I've witnessed their attempted killing of the prince.

With a caress of Naissance's neck, I let him know to swerve sharply off into the veiling woodland running alongside us.

With a nudging of my knees, I urge him into a fierce gallop, to move as fast – even as dangerously fast – as he can.

Even through my misery, it dawns on me that I'm still heading east.

The river had started to change its course a little, in its apparently doubtful wavering at last curving in a more southerly direction. But with my heading off into the woodland, I've set myself to heading into yet another landscape unconnected with my mother.

Maybe that's a good thing.

Maybe it's for the best if I don't learn anything more about my mother's history.

What I've learned about her so far hardly presents her in a good light, does it?

What else is there to know about her?

Maybe I've seen enough.

I let Naissance ride hell for leather, for as long as he wants, for as long as he can manage.

I'm crying.

And I need some way of sweeping away all my tears and the disgust I feel for my mother.

*

As is the way in this world, the change from one landscape to another isn't gradual but startlingly abrupt.

Here it is far later at night than it had been in the woodland, a silvery moon's gracious wheeling across the heavens apparently coming to an immediate halt as the dark grey clouds rapidly envelope it.

Worse still, we emerge from an unexpectedly terminating woodland, travelling so fast that we almost plummet off a cliff edge, there being little more warning than a narrow strip of rocky ground.

Fortunately, Naissance slews to a halt before we reach a point of no return, while I manage to cling on hard enough to him to ensure I'm not thrown.

It's a precipitous drop to the thin band of shingle beach lying far below us. Multiple spearheads of rocks project far out into a presently tumultuous sea, scornfully resisting the lashing of towering waves.

The powerful heaving of the waves brings with it strong, salty gusts that strike my face as hard and painfully as any shower of hail.

It's refreshing, this air of rotting seaweed, this strikingly cold onslaught of spray, all whipped up so ferociously by the sea that it whirls up everywhere about me as a fine, continually eddying mist.

I'm still weeping, but now it's because my eyes are a raw red, the result of everything being thrown at me by this thoroughly irate sea. Through watering eyes, everything appears to be dissolving, merging into anything close by; yet I can't help but question why the sun appears to be rolling on the sea's surface rather than remaining suspended in the sky.

Is it somehow a reflection, a mirror image of the sun's last golden rays as it slips below the horizon? Certainly, it looks for all the world as the sun might look as it rises up over the horizon, its fiery beams resplendently spreading out over the sea's wildly undulating surface.

Yet even through my bleary gaze I can make out that the sky is dark and cloudy, with no moon, let alone a sun, to reflect.

I try and focus on the golden disc slowly heading my way across the powerfully rolling waves.

If it is a sun, then it's one in miniature form.

Still, it flashes as gold as the sun, as fiery as flames. It endlessly rises high on the rolling waves rather than being swamped, as if the sea itself is holding it up high, to allow this flame of gold safe passage.

Perhaps if it were some glorious offshoot of the sun, there might be a reason why the sea might support it so reverently.

But as it draws closer towards the shore, I see it isn't a sun in miniature at all.

It's nothing but a boy

A boy with golden hair.

*

# Chapter 21

It's fortunate for the boy that the waves seem to have no intention of swamping him, as they could so easily do.

He's not even in a boat; he's in nothing more substantial than a box, the type you might have at the end of your bed to store linen sheets.

He benefits from a charmed life, obviously.

He doesn't even have a paddle, or anything that could suffice as one. He seems quite content to place himself at the mercy of the sea, allowing the waves to take him whichever way they wish to.

And at the moment, it seems the waves wish to bring him ever closer towards the shingle beach stretching out below me.

Glancing up towards the top of the cliff, the boy sees me.

He smiles, waves at me.

With a gentle nudge of my knee into Naissance's flank, I direct him towards what appears to be the beginnings of a thin track winding its way down the cliff face. Naturally, I slip down off his back before we start heading down the potentially dangerous path, leading the way and allowing Naissance to follow on behind at his own pace.

By the time we reach the base of the cliff, where the loose shingle slips and twists under every move of my feet, the boy has also already safely arrived there, the waves somehow depositing him so high up the beach that his makeshift boat is now completely out of their reach.

As I walk towards him, the boy steps out of the box, his hair glittering as brightly as if reflecting the rays of the brightest sunlight, even though the moon still remains shrouded by dark skies. He's maybe a little older than I am, I think, until I'm standing so close to him that I realise I'm taller than he is.

He smells as fresh and clean as a new-born babe, as if he's emerged from a brief, refreshing bath in the sea; and he's every bit as unashamedly naked as any new infant.

'I'm so glad to meet you!' he exclaims with an excited grin, indicating the land lying behind me with a satisfied nod of his head. 'I see you've come from where it's never a capricious winter, never the baking cauldron of summer.'

'You know me?'

I frown in bemusement. How could he possibly know me?

'Of course!' he replies assuredly. 'And naturally – well, many call me Dylan Eil Ton, which in their language means "Son of the Wave"; for that is where I always appear to emerge fresh and new from. I believe you have news of my brother?'

'Your brother? I'm sorry, I'm not sure I...'

'My brother who, of course, was briefly raised in this very box!'

With a proud grin, he turns to indicate the narrow box he had been using as a boat.

'Isn't that rather cruel, to raise him in such a small box?' I ask, horrified by the thought.

'Oh, no one realised he was there at first, of course!' he explains coolly, adding with equal nonchalance, 'Not until he was heard crying to be let out!'

Doubtlessly noting that I appear increasingly puzzled, he indicates with an airily waved hand that I should draw closer to his box, to peer into it.

'I thought you'd know all this,' he apologises, smiling warmly, 'let me show you!'

I look down into the box, wondering what on earth it is I'm supposed to see there that will begin to explain anything he has said to me so far.

As I might have expected, all that lies in the bottom of the box is a shallow layer of seawater. It glistens in the glow of his hair as if lit by a flaming torch

In the reflection, I also catch a glimpse of what can only be my own curiously peering face, yet I'm almost certain that I strangely appear a few years older than I really am. Before I can reassure myself that I'm only imagining things, the waters begin to stir, as if the box is being rocked, as if waves are beginning to flow from one side to another, as if it were a sea in miniature.

No; not a sea.

A dark universe, stirring.

The planets and stars whirling.

The whirling becomes a swirling of light, and of darkness.

A palace forms amidst the darkness.

A palace in which I can see a king, a resplendently dressed lady; and Gwydion the sorcerer.

*

# Chapter 22

'Gwydion!' I gasp.

'Ah, so you _do_ know _some_ things! Good!' the boy exclaims happily.

'This is the past,' I say hopefully. 'It has to be – for Gwydion was transformed by King Math into a stag: into a whole number of animals!'

'Yes, yes; this _is_ the past,' the boy agrees with a sage nod of his head. 'The Summer Solstice: and this is my mother, Arianrhod; which in their language means "Silver Wheel", the one that Descends into the Sea. But as for Gwydion, well, everything we see here isn't as far back as the time when he had been transformed into these animals you refer to; for here he is, with King Math himself, forgiven and granted human form once again!'

How swiftly time moves on here. I had hoped Gwydion would remain entrapped by King Math's charms for a great deal longer than this!

'To prove she was untouched and fit to serve the king, my mother agreed to undertake the test of leaping over the king's wand, a wand so powerful it is said to be capable of drawing even the Longest Day to an end, if Math so wished; but as Arianrhod passed over it, she became a mother, giving birth to me.'

As he talked, everything he was describing was also being played out before me in the glittering waters of the box. In shock and apparent disgrace, Arianrhod fled the palace; and in all the surprise and commotion, a swiftly growing Dylan – bewildering growing taller, even older than he is now – also swept out through the door, rushing off towards the sea.

In all the haste to flee the palace, something small had fallen to the floor, something that at first appeared to be nothing more than the weirdest of shadows, somehow left behind; and yet Gwydion eagerly hunted it down, placing it later in the narrow box at the end of his bed, as if in a dark, oversized coffin.

And there the shadow lies for a while, amidst the darkness.

Then from the bottom of the box I'm peering into there comes a wailing, the sounds of a distressed babe. It's a wailing that also plays out in Gwydion's bedroom, waking him, and causing him to open the box lying at the bottom of his bed.

Inside his box, there is now a child, eager to be let out, to be fed and cared for.

The golden haired boy smiles as he sees my surprise.

'My elder brother at times shadows my own health and wellbeing; hearty now, because it's said I've been killed by my Uncle Gofannon to alleviate his sister's shame.'

'Elder brother?' I say, confused. (Naturally, I don't see any point in questioning his comment that he had been killed, for here he is, standing alongside me alive and well.) 'Don't you mean _younger_ brother?'

'I did say "at times", didn't I? He's more of a twin really I suppose.'

With a swirl of a hand in the waters covering the base of the box, he sets in motion the strands of seaweed and rotten leather straps lying there, such that they rise up, entwine, swiftly taking on the form of a large ship.

And yet this magical transformation isn't simply taking place within the boy's box; it's also taking place within the images of the past I'm being shown, King Math magically drawing together a whole seabed of entangled weed, of the leather and canvas of long forgotten wrecks, creating a full sized ship. And as a part of the same charm, he transforms the sorcerer Gwydion; not into a creature this time, but making him so unrecognisable his own sister wouldn't know him.

As for the child, well; he's almost unrecognisable too, but only because he's already a boy, having grown unnaturally fast.

He doesn't, however, share Dylan's remarkable mane of golden hair.

'King Math has insisted that Arianrhod recognises the boy as hers, so that he may one day be king,' the golden haired boy explains as the ship portrayed below us sets sail.

Looking down like this upon the great ship I feel as if I could help power her along by blowing fiercely into her billowing sails. Dylan smiles too as he watches its swift progress across the ocean, as if he were the sun, aiding its progress through the benevolence of the good weather he brings.

'But Arianrhod, bereft at rumours of my death and confining herself to her castle, angrily rebuffs Math,' the boy continues cheerfully, 'saying the boy will never be king; and to ensure this, she curses her own child, saying he shall remain nameless unless she herself grants him his name.'

As he speaks, the universe of stars once again appears amongst the images swirling in the silvery waters.

The whirling becomes a swirling of snow.

The falling of snow becomes a brightly shining palace, one not only revolving through the stars, but also spinning, such that no one could determine where its entrance lay.

Arianrhod stands on a balcony, peering down on the ship of seaweed and leather as it docks in the castle's harbour.

However, no one, not even the disguised Gwydion, steps from the ship to make their way up towards the castle. Instead, he and the boy sit amongst an elaborate array of tools and equipment and materials set out upon the ship's deck.

And here – undoubtedly utilising enchantments and spells – they begin to craft the most beautiful of shoes.

Dylan chuckles at my bewildered frown.

All this way, all this trouble – the ship of seaweed, the disguise – and all to make _shoes_?

'My mother does a great deal of wandering,' the boy explains with a satisfied giggle, 'she wanders daily, as it were, albeit throughout most of the night. And it's a Long Night, at the Winter Solstice.'

Queen Arianrhod sends notice to this wondrous cobbler that she requires a new pair of shoes, providing them with measurements; but the shoes the cobbler delivers to her are too large, the replacements she asks for too small

The cobbler insists that, to ensure the most perfect fit, she must come to his ship, so that he can accurately measure her feet with tools so unique they can never be allowed to leave the deck.

The queen complies, with cautious instructions to her guard that at the first signs of any trickery, they may kill the cobbler and his boy.

And yet there are no signs of trickery at all as the cobbler and his son painstakingly take a variety of measures of the queen's delicate feet, using the most ingenious tools.

Indeed, the only disturbance to their work is both trivial and seemingly unexpected; a small bird, a wren, that flutters down through the ship's rigging like a dark tear of the moon, vibrantly singing.

'It might seem the height of lunacy for the mousey little wren to come visiting while Gwydion's there, and at the time of the Wren Hunt too, when the successful hunter can be blessed for a year with inner knowledge; but she's happy to be heralding a new beginning – she wants my mother to know that I will soon be with her once more.'

Landing wide-eyed upon the ship's deck, the wren innocently threatens to mix up the carefully cut and laid out pieces; and with an astonishing deftness of skill, the boy aims a needle at the poor bird's leg, breaking the leg, killing the poor bird.

'The fair boy has a skilled hand,' Arianrhod observes admiringly.

As soon as she finishes saying this, the images being played out before me ripple, as if the watery scene is about to change once more.

But no; what _is_ changing is the enchantment that has kept Gwydion so well disguised for so long.

He steps back from the queen with a triumphant laugh, the bulky form and rough demeanour of the cobbler instantaneously giving way to the slender elegance of the sorcerer.

More surprisingly still, as far as I'm concerned, is the rapid melting away of the disguise that had been shrouding the boy, his mop of fair hair blazing almost as golden as his brother's.

'You _tricked_ me!' Arianrhod shrieks accusingly, recognising the boy at once.

'But the boy _still_ won't be king,' she spits furiously, scattering the sections of uncompleted shoes as she storms off the ship, 'for here's _another_ curse; he will _never_ bare arms, except those given to him by _me_!'

'Why is she so angry?' I ask Dylan. 'In what way has she been tricked, other than that her brother and her son were in disguises that had fooled her?'

'Her _first_ curse, remember?' Dylan answers with a grin. 'He could have no name, unless she herself had given it to him!'

'But she _didn't_ grant him any name!'

'Ah, but the passing of all these images is revealed to you in the language _you're_ familiar with; whereas in _their_ language, "fair skilful hand" is Lleu Llaw Gyffes.'

'Lleu? Prince Lleu?'

Dylan nods, chuckles a touch mischievously.

'You see; you _do_ know my brother!'

*

# Chapter 23

I'd begun to think that one strand of the landscapes I was finding myself exploring was all to do with my mother's history, while the other strand – the one of gifts of pigs from the underworld, of sorcery – was unconnected to either her or me.

Now, it seems, it's a string of histories related to Prince Lleu.

Of Prince Lleu before he marries my mother.

So does that mean that the landscapes I thought were a retelling of my mother's life are actually yet further histories of Prince Lleu? Setting out his life _after_ his marriage to my mother?

And if that's the case...then does that mean that Prince Lleu _is_ my father?

*

If Prince Lleu _is_ my father...then my mother wasn't just attempting to kill her _husband_ , but also the father of her child – _my_ father.

Then again, he's not dead yet; he was, rather, transformed into an eagle.

He might be able to transform back into human form, of course.

But...I can hardly seeing him getting back with my mother, to be honest.

So, have I missed scenes of my birth?

Or is mother already carrying me?

As I briefly come out of chewing all this over in my mind, I see that Dylan is intently watching my brooding expressions with an interested, amused smile.

That's something else I have to consider, of course; how do I go about telling him that my mother has tried to kill his brother?

Or, rather, my mother _will_ one day – at some point in Dylan's _future_ – attempt to kill him.

Why is everything so _complicated_ here?

Why is my _life_ suddenly all so complicated?

And if I tell Dylan – then will he tell his brother to prepare for my mother's attempt on his life?

Could the prince have my mother killed?

Would that mean I might not be born?

'This...this is _hard_ to explain...' I begin hesitantly.

He nods, smiles, oh-so innocently, like he can't believe that _anything_ could be hard to explain.

'But...I've seen your brother in the future...'

His innocent smile never wavers, like he still can't see any problem with what I've just told him.

Then again, he _has_ just played out a whole set of past scenarios in the water swilling around in the bottom of a box, hasn't he?

'I saw my...a _woman_ , trying to kill him; but instead, he transformed into an _eagle_ , and flew away.'

'An eagle?'

Rather than being dismayed or perhaps even a little confused by my news, he nods sagely, as if this all makes perfect sense to him.

'You...don't seem surprised,' I point out to him unsurely. 'Or even in anyway upset by what I've just told you about your poor brother.'

He shrugs.

'The eagle is king of the birds, _some_ say; the druid's bird.'

' _Some_ say? You disagree?' I couldn't help but notice his derisive annunciation of 'some'.

'Envious of the wren's thirteen chicks, the eagle boasted he could fly closest to the sun; only for the cunning wren to hitch a lift amidst the eagle's feathers and, darting upwards, become a dark speck eclipsing the sun. It's very name means "king", even "druid" – for the latter regard it as being sacred, using it's notes for their divinations.'

'I tell you that someone tried – _will_ try – to kill your brother, and _this_ is all that bothers you; that the wren's a more important bird than the eagle?'

He chuckles.

'Oh, I'm quite sure he will soon be up and running again, as fresh as ever. As for this _someone_ ; could that _possibly_ be your _mother_?'

'You...you _knew_?' I gasp, both startled and ashamed all at once. Perhaps, too, even a touch angry at him for not letting me know that he must have known this all along.

Once again, he shrugs nonchalantly.

'It's just the way of the world, isn't it?'

'Not in _my_ world!' I snap back.

'Then what a _strange_ world you must live in,' he replies with a bemused frown, abruptly brightening as – as if it has only just dawned on him – he says excitedly, 'Perhaps you need to see further into my brother's future, yes?'

'You can do that?'

'Of course; can't you?' he replies, turning once more to peer into his box, to stir the waters lying in its bottom.

The swirling waters reflect his gleaming hair as if they were mirroring the sun, the blaze of gold feathering into wings, into the body of a soaring eagle.

The eagle dips through the air, swooping down past a mountain, heading into a deep dark valley, overshadowed by the mountains. Here he lands in the top of a tall, if not the tallest, tree, the rotten meat and maggots that fall from him plummeting through the branches to be greedily devoured by a wild sow scuffling around the tree's base.

He looks out across the shadowy valley, his eyes seemingly missing nothing.

His gaze latches on to an approaching man.

He cocks his head a little, as if briefly bemused, as if, perhaps, vaguely recognising that he too used to be a man.

It could be because the man is chanting a weird, hypnotically oscillating song.

I can see the approaching man.

I recognise him.

It's Gwydion.

*

# Chapter 24

Dylan smiles knowingly as I gasp in surprise at seeing Gwydion.

On just about every occasion that I've come across him, it's as a character preforming in the strand of underworld pigs, of wars and the young Prince Lleu.

Now here he is once again playing his part in the string of histories I'd originally taken to be revolving completely around my mother.

'Naturally, Gwydion came to hear of the attempt on my brother's life; and, of course, of its failure,' Dylan coolly explains. 'But he still mourned the fact that no one seemed to know where Lleu had flown off to after his transformation into an eagle: and so he set out searching for him, singing the englynion that he hopes will entice Lleu to draw closer.'

Lulled by Gwydion's entrancing singing, Lleu descends from his high perch, the glow of gold once more like flickering flames playing across the water. And as the waters ripple, the undulating image of the eagle becomes human once more, though a far more sickly version of the Lleu I'd last seen joyously bathing with my mother.

His hair isn't the golden mane of his childhood, of his now younger rather than older brother; it's lank, dulled with age. No wonder I had never noticed it before.

Dylan brings the image to a close with a wave of his hand, the waving of the waters.

'All the signs are there that will now be a war between Lleu and your mother,' Dylan says with no hint of either bitterness or dread. 'But he'll need a year to recover,' he adds, before suggesting, 'perhaps _that_ is where you should pick up your story of your mother.'

'I can't say I'm sure that I wish to learn anything more about her,' I admit sourly.

Dylan reaches out to tenderly take my hand, his touch warm and comforting on my bared flesh.

His eyes are of the most beautiful blue,

'You shouldn't despair,' he says kindly, 'there's still so much to learn about your mother.'

His voice is as gentle as a warm breeze.

' _That's_ what I'm _worried_ about,' I scoff, hoping to abruptly bring myself out of the sense I'm being charmed.

'I'm sure,' he continues, 'that there are reasons for her behaviour that you're not yet aware of.'

I laugh bitterly.

'What reasons could there be to behave the way she has?'

'How could I tell you that when I've already said they're reasons you're not yet aware of? I meant, of course, that those reasons don't presently exist, as far as you're concerned.'

I observe him closely, wondering if he's somehow making fun of me; yet he appears serious enough for me to think otherwise.

'If that's the case,' I ask hopefully, 'can't you show me what those reasons might be?'

'Ah, show you _you're_ future, you mean?' he chuckles good-naturedly. 'I can often see so many things hidden to others; but sometimes there are reasons why some things are best revealed only when a person is ready to accept them.'

'But no such reason exists _here_ ,' I point out, 'where past and future have all been so confusingly mixed up!'

'There's no confusion at all if you accept that past and future events can only ever be exactly the same things; it's only the viewpoint of the observer that's changing.'

'Yet _all_ this is in my past; and yet here I _am_!'

'Well, _there_ your are then!' Dylan exclaims, as if I've somehow proved the very point he's wishing to make. 'But you must _hurry_ ,' he says urgently before I can protest any further, adding to his sense of urgency by indicating with a hand placed firmly on my back that he wants me to clamber inside his box. 'You must take my boat!'

'Your boat? But it's only a _box_!' I say ungraciously in reply to his generous offer, even edging back a little from the box's sides. 'I can't go out to _sea_ in something so flimsy!'

'Of course you can!' he insists. 'It's the _only_ way you'll make it in time. Lleu is already besieging your mother's castle!'

'Already? But you said it would be at least a year...ah, wait, of course. Here a year has already flown by, yes?'

He nods in reply to my question, while keeping up his insistence that I must board his 'boat'.

I glance nervously back towards Naissance, realising I can't just leave him–

'He'll be fine with me,' Dylan assures me, as if reading my mind, or at least the pained expression crossing my face.

There's no time for any more protesting. The sea is suddenly rushing in beneath my feet, causing me to leap into the box before I have time to even realise what I'm doing; then the sea rushes out again, having lifted the box up off the shingle, taking me out to sea.

*

Glancing back towards the beach, it's reassuring to see that Naissance is happily nuzzling up to Dylan, as if appreciating the warmth and comfort afforded by the boy's glittering golden hair.

I couldn't head back there now anyway; the waves are now the ones in control, taking me wherever it is they wish to take me. The farther we move out from the land, the more insistently aggressive the waves become, in a moment rolling so high around me I can no longer see even the highest cliff tops.

The only mountains and valleys I can see now are those of angrily stirring water. As they swell, as they rise, as they abruptly fall away, I'm taken with them, soaring and plummeting, in danger of being swamped, even effortlessly crushed, at any moment.

Despite its obvious flimsiness, the box I'm floating in seems to be holding up well against the sea's remorseless battering. More remarkably still, little or no water at all is rushing over the box's sides: even the magical waters Dylan had used to relay both past and future images seems to have evaporated, the box being completely dry.

I'm just beginning to believe I might somehow survive this tempestuous sea after all when I'm suddenly caught up on a particularly fierce surge of water that carries me higher and higher, until I'm uncontrollably twirling on top of what seems to be a continually ascending wave.

Then it falls away from beneath me, and I'm plummeting down into a deep, dark valley of water as swiftly as if I've leapt off a precipice.

Before I can catch my breath, I'm caught once more in the swelling of another approaching wave, the rolling waters hurriedly bearing me up; but this time, I'm not rising up and up with the waters' cresting but, rather, I'm caught in the swirling current forming at its base, the rapidly growing wave looming now as if it were a dark sky, arching over me like a falling cliff face.

Imprisoned in the curl of the wave, all I can do is wait for it to break, to swamp and pulverise my flimsy boat.

*

# Chapter 25

The onrush of swiftly swelling waters carry me forward at a previously unimaginable speed: and then suddenly, I'm hurtling across an otherwise perfectly clam lake, where only my own violent wake disturbs the sense of peace and calm.

Even the cresting wave vanishes in plums of light mist and spray, as if it has struck an invisible wall.

The lake stretches ahead of me as perfectly smooth and reflective as a mirror, the whole scene blissful in its aura of perfect solace and contentment, the colour of the leaves of the trees perhaps just starting to turn, preparing for autumn.

Glancing back, I see a completely different world lying behind me, one of a tumultuous, raging sea, forever fruitlessly throwing itself against that magical, invisible wall. Above it all, however, there rises the most perfectly beautiful of suns, as if cast up there by the towering waves.

And yet it's neither the most shocking nor most surprising thing I see, for as I turn once more in the boat, I catch my reflection in the mirroring of the lake's placid surface.

At first, I think I must be mistaken; think that I could only be seeing the rising up of a mermaid from the waters below.

But no, it really _is_ me.

But an _older_ me.

I'm no longer a little girl.

I'm a young woman.

*

I place my hand in the water, swirl it around a little, causing ripples; just to check that what I'm seeing really is my reflection and not some ingenious imagery conjured up by Dylan.

But as the waters settle, it's still the older me peering back at me.

Not that, thankfully, I'm that old.

Rather, somehow, I've gained a few extra years at some point during my travels through this confusing landscape.

There are still things I find familiar, of course; otherwise, how would I know it was really me?

My eyes are still the same.

My hair, in its colour, its length, is mine as I remember it too.

The general shaping of my features is more or less the same too, although now it's all far more well formed, more defined.

No, I certainly can't complain about the way I look.

In the reflected image, the clear sky above me spoils and then darkens a little, an incongruous pitch-black cloud rapidly scudding across an otherwise perfectly blue sheet. The darkness is thickening, hovering high above my head like some funereal wreath.

It's not a cloud. It's a plume of smoke.

Whirling around, following the course of the rising plume back to its cause, I realise I'm drifting towards a castle that's partially aflame behind its high walls. Echoing across the waters, there are also the metallic sounds of clashing arms and armour, the angry cries and petrified screams of men and women.

The castle is under attack, with many of over a dozen rumbling siege towers already at the walls, while catapults and gigantic crossbows rain down boulders and bolts on the defenders.

Not far from the shore of the lake, there's a pleasant garden, one decorated with stone structures such as walls, walkways, steps, and even a minute shelter built for a romantic couple's lakeside viewing. As my box-boat slips into a space lying amidst a row of elegant boats – their prows carved into the gracefully bowing necks of swans or geese – a panicked girl abruptly emerges from this small structure, as if being chased.

As I step from my beached box, another girl follows the first, uncomfortably close behind her, and then another, the three of them far more than this little building could easily accommodate. And yet a forth girl emerges directly after them, then a fifth, a sixth, a seventh, an eighth and a ninth.

This tiny structure has to be an exit for a secret passage leading from the castle, a means of escape when the citadel is under siege and is about to fall – as it is now.

As the clearly terrified girls emerge form the escape tunnel, they all rush towards the lake's shore; towards _me_!

Will they wonder why I'm standing here?

Will they mistake me for one of those besieging their castle?

Despite their strained expressions, the first girls to exit the small building mange a friendly, concerned smile as they draw close.

'Why are you still waiting here?'

'The queen's safe!'

'She's with us!'

'Quick, quick: let's get in the boats!'

Before I can make any effort at protesting, or at least asking for an explanation, two of them have taken me by the arms and, spinning me around in their urgency to flee, begin leading me back towards the shore and the row of boats.

Yet again, I'm worried that they might wonder why I've stepped from the battered box lining up amongst their far more elegant swan boats. But my box is no longer there; instead, it has been somehow transformed into one of these graceful boats, its arching neck like theirs looking back out towards the centre of the lake, as if eager to set off for their goal as soon as possible.

The girls are hurriedly clambering into the boats, as if seeing this as their only chance of escape. And yet, as I'm caught up in their frenzy and end up on board one of the boats, I soon realise that there are no oars to power us out towards the lake's centre.

As I turn to look for some other means of propulsion, I catch a glimpse of the last person to leave the escape the tunnel.

It's the queen.

My mother.

*

# Chapter 26

I can't help but recognise her – the certain, proud way she holds herself, the curtain of glorious hair – even though she looks so much older now.

Older than I've ever seen her look, if that's in any way possible.

Could it be all down to the stress of the siege? No, surely not; it couldn't have had this much of an effect on her, especially when she must have known all along about this escape route.

Before I can either study my mother more closely or step ashore to approach her, the boat jerks, begins to move.

After that first jolt, the boat's passage is incredibly smooth. Like a swan, whose legs – lying hidden below the surface – are doing all the work.

Mother doesn't seem in anyway perturbed that, in the panic to flee, she's boarding a boat on her own. She remains serene, unaffected even by that initial jolt as the boat slips away from the mooring.

The girls I'm sharing the boat with are far from calm and dignified. Two of them shriek in fear as they notice that our flight has been registered by some of the soldiers surrounding this side of the castle, a troop of mounted men already racing towards the shoreline. The men-at-arms with bows are already firing at us, seemingly hoping for a lucky shot, yet the loosed arrows fly close enough for me to realise they'll have no problem striking their targets once they are closer, or have dismounted.

The boat containing most of the girls, being a touch heavier, is behind us a little, and thereby in even more danger than we are. There's commotion aboard the boat as some attempt to stand up and leap into the relative safety of the water, while others are attempting to persuade them they have to sit down. The abruptly unbalanced swan boat rocks, tips, suddenly leaning all the more as the girls are thrown to one side, unnaturally increasing the weight there.

Arms flailing uselessly, the girls tumble into the water.

Absolved of its burden, the swan boat immediately uprights itself – but continues on its course towards a point where the river joins the lake, oblivious to the screaming of its brutally shed passengers.

Only two of the girls can swim, and it's only a doggy paddle at that. The rest flounder in the water, crying out to us for help.

Our own cries to our own swan boat to stop are as useless as the screams were in preventing the now empty boat from carrying on without its passengers. The virtually empty boat of my mother's, being so light, is far ahead of us all.

Wishing to leave no one behind, the girls aboard my boat begin to reach out towards those in the water, crying out to them to draw as close as they can, so that they can be dragged on board. But as those that can manage a crude attempt at swimming try to drag themselves up into the boat, as the girls all move over to one side, our own boat is now also suddenly unbalanced; and with a lurching tip, we're all thrown into the cold water.

*

The arrows are still flying above our heads, closer than ever to striking their chosen targets now that the mounted archers are swiftly drawing to the edge of the lake.

Once the archers are dismounted, they'll pick us off easily; but most of their chosen victims will have undoubtedly drowned by then anyway.

Our swan boat, just like the first one that had briefly tipped over, has righted itself and is innocently following on after Mother's boat.

If Mother's seen what's happened to her maids, she either doesn't care, or is putting her own life ahead of theirs.

Would she change her mind, would she be more caring, I wonder, if she realised I was amongst the girls under threat of either drowning or taking an arrow to the head?

Probably not.

She at last glances our way.

She sees us floundering in the water, most of the girls flailing uselessly with whirling arms.

She waves at us, as if saying goodbye.

And...I'm just about sure she _sees_ me.

Just about sure she _recognises_ me!

Then she turns away, her focus once more on the river – her escape route – that now lies close ahead of her.

She doesn't want to see her maids drown.

She doesn't want to see _me_ down.

*

# Chapter 27

I can swim a _little_.

But everyone about me isn't so lucky.

They're panicking; they know they're going to drown, to die.

And so as anyone does when they feel they're going to drown, they reach out to anyone close by.

Hoping that _someone_ can help them.

Not realising that they're dragging their supposed helper down too.

The splashing, the high, rolling ripples, are even more frightening than those great waves I rode through as I crossed Dylan's tumultuous sea.

The chaotic spray rises up everywhere about us like white flames, feathering as it strikes the air.

Like fluttering wings of water.

Wings that now beat at the air.

That now take form, the white of spray, the grey of disturbed waters, becoming in an instant the colours of the goose.

And as a goose, I rush across the water. My legs, lying hidden below the surface, doing so much of all the work.

Then, suddenly, I smoothly lift up clear of the troubled waters.

I take to the air.

I'm saved.

*

Rising up with me are other geese.

Relieved to be free of the drag of the water. Taking to the air, like it's a release.

Nine of them; there are nine geese with me.

Glancing back, my long neck turning, I can't see any girls left in the water.

The surface of the lake is calm, mirror-like once more; there's no one left there struggling to survive.

A few arrows whirl up through our formation, but the archers are too far behind, too surprised by what they've just witnessed, to have any accuracy in their aim.

The formation that the geese have formed into wheels off to head up the river, to follow mother's flight.

I'm about to wheel around with them when I'm distracted by the brightest flash of gold, a blaze of brightest yellow erupting from the side of the castle we're rapidly leaving behind us.

I pause in my flight, whirling about to leave the formation and take a closer look at this burning of gold.

The castle boasts a sally port, a means whereby the defenders can launch a sudden strike upon the besiegers. From here, a phalanx of heavily armoured knights have galloped out to pierce the line of attackers.

But it's not the flash of polished armour, of glittering spear blades, that I've mistaken for a golden glow.

The troop's leader has forgone his helmet. He's riding bareheaded, revealing a mane of the brightest golden hair.

Dylan.

It really can't be anyone else but Dylan.

*

# Chapter 28

I'm suddenly torn.

Who should I be following; my mother, or Dylan?

I really can't understand why Dylan should be here.

Is he...is _he_ mother's lover?

Is...is _Dylan_ my _father_?

*

If Dylan's my father...well, just how painful, how _confusing_ , is that?

I mean, well...when I was talking with him, I was thinking how handsome, how uniquely interesting, he was.

And that...well, _that's_ just plain _disgusting_!

Thankfully geese can spit, because yes, I'm spitting now.

I feel like I want to clear out my mouth, my whole being.

Now, at least, I know where I need to be headed. I swoop back towards the lake, down towards its shimmering surface; then I plunge deep into its cold, thoroughly cleansing waters.

Fortunately, the archers who had lined the shore, hoping to bring down as many of the fleeing geese as they could, have given up on their task, the formation now way too far in the distance for any arrow to reach.

The water swirls in silvery braids as I surge through it, whirpooling about me, bubbling richly as the air I've brought down with me attempts to eagerly dart back to the surface.

Then I'm also hurtling back up towards the surface, breaking through the rippling waves in a fountaining of water, of spume and lighter, sun speckled spray.

As I soar up into the air once more, any water still hoping to cling to my feathers rapidly begins to fall back towards the lake, dropping away from me like a moon-lit rain.

I relish this sense of newness, of freedom; for the moment, uncaring that I'm still a goose, with no idea as to how I might become a girl once more.

Where am I supposed to go now anyway? Can I really ever get back home?

Do I ever want to?

With thoughts like this circling through my mind, it's little wonder that I don't at first notice the hawk hovering high above me. By the time I spy him, he's spied me – and suddenly, he's darting down towards me, faster than I would have believed possible.

And I'm still flying up and up, as if eager to greet him; as if I'm in a hurry to become a tasty meal for a bird of prey.

I at last manage to slow my ascent, to draw to halt in the air; but then it dawns on me that the swiftly descending hawk appears to be growing and growing in size, far more than I would expect of such a relatively small bird.

An eagle?

No; _bigger_ than that!

An albatross?

No, bigger even than an albatross!

It's _gigantic_.

It's a dragon!

*

The thing with dragons, of course, is that they have one extra ability that a hawk, or even an eagle, would delight in possessing.

The onrushing dragon opens its mouth a little, revealing an interior as sharply red as hot coals.

And, furnace-like too, the dragon throws out towards me a tumbling cascade of scorching flames.

*

# Chapter 29

I haven't been a goose for long.

I wouldn't know how to _swiftly_ wheel aside to avoid a waterfall of fire plummeting towards me.

So, instead, I just drop like a stone; thinking this _has_ to be the quickest way of getting out of the way of a plume of searing flames.

The fire rushes over my tumbling form.

Even so, the heat emanating from the fountain of flames is sweltering. It almost cooks me.

As soon as I think it's safe, I spread my wings to halt my fall, to send me soaring once more.

The dragon follows on after its own hurtling breath of fire, now so close I can clearly make out his stone-like teeth, the curved talons opening up to grasp and pinion me in their vice-like hold.

I throw myself off to one side as the dragon hurtles towards me, veiling myself amongst the dissipating clouds of inky-black smoke the surging flames had originally left in their wake.

I can only hope that I'm so relatively minute in comparison to the dragon's vast size that I can dart about him, at least for a while, much as a mouse avoids the sharp claws of a more cumbersome cat.

Not that a mouse ever survives for long utilising such a strategy.

Fortunately, I'm small enough to hide myself away amid the dark, lacy shreds of smoke, whereas the dragon's immensity means it's always in view as it whooshes close by me time and time again, the turbulence generated by its great beating wings, by its incredible speed, often sending me uncontrollably spinning through the air.

And as a particularly strong beating of its wings throws me frenziedly whirling up into the air, I realise my only chance of survival is to _vanish_.

So when the dragon flies past me this time, when he cranes his long neck to look for me, to see where he needs to swoop towards next; well, naturally, I'm not there any more.

I've disappeared.

*

# Chapter 30

After spending a few bewildered minutes attempting to find me, no doubt wondering what could have happened to his choice little titbit, the dragon at last gives up his search and continues on his way.

I'm not sure where he's heading. I couldn't have any control or say over his chosen destination anyway.

I'm just along for the ride for the moment, hiding away in the middle of his back, where even his long, serpentine neck can't stretch around enough for him to see me lying there.

The thing is; when will it be safe to fly off?

As soon as I reveal myself, I've more or less transformed myself back into a handy hor d'oeuvre; and he'll straight away return to pursuing me.

Unless he's already eaten something _else_ , of course.

Or he's too exhausted to give chase. Or maybe asleep.

But do dragons sleep? Do they even ever get exhausted?

If they don't, then I might have to wait until nightfall, and hope it's a moonless night. That way, it might be possible for me to slip away in the darkness.

His back is so wide, his wingspread so vast, that I can't make out anything of the landscape passing beneath us, even in the brightest daylight. So when, at last, night begins to fall, I have even less idea than ever where we might be heading.

And, worse luck, the moon is out.

It whirls through the night sky high above us, revolving like a silver wheel.

Worse still, it actually seems to be growing larger.

But no, it's not growing larger of course.

We're growing closer to it!

The dragon is flying up towards the moon!

*

Now that we're so much closer, I realise it's actually a glittering palace that we're heading for.

It's a palace I've seen before.

Or, at least, I've seen it amongst the images Dylan showed me amongst his magical waters.

As it revolves around the heavens, it turns upon it's own axis too, with its soaring towers taking on the semblance of a huge, resplendent crown.

Even the dragon appears to have tired himself out heading for this floating castle.

His breathing is more laboured, the beating of his great wings slower, less hurried.

Not that that seems to have assuaged his hunger in anyway; perhaps its even added to it.

For on sighting two mounted travellers making their way up towards the castle via a shimmering pathway, he suddenly seems to gain energy, excitedly wheeling about to swoop down towards the unsuspecting prey.

He'll be coming out at them out of the darkness.

They won't know they're in danger until it's far too late to do anything about it.

From the dragon's back, I honk out the loudest warning I can manage.

The men urgently turn, peering into the darkness, no doubt wondering how a goose has soared this high.

They must catch a movement, perhaps even an onrush, of darkness, realising that something massive and dangerous is out there, hurtling towards them.

One of the men raises his arm, as if foolishly and fruitlessly hoping to avert his doom by shading his face.

Yet from that upraised arm there abruptly comes a shimmering of light.

It rushes out towards me, towards the dragon I'm riding upon.

And just as spears of light can breakup the darkness, the dragon begins to dissolve, to dissipate as easily as the smoke cloud his scorching flame had earlier left behind.

*

# Chapter 31

With the dissolving of the dragon into the shadows, I'm suddenly falling – until I remember that I have wings, that I can fly.

Then, suddenly, I find I can't move my wings after all. At least, not enough to fly.

I've suddenly been surrounded by a cage of what could be woven light.

And so, abruptly, I'm falling once again, weighed down all the more by this constricting cage.

I'm not plummeting in a direction I'd call straight down, however.

Rather, I'm falling towards the two men, one of whom has gleefully opened his arms, ready to catch me.

He laughs.

'So the dragon who sought to make us his lunch has happily provided us with ours!'

I recognise the voice.

Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised.

It's Gwydion.

And this time, he obviously spells even deeper trouble for me than normal.

*

His companion, of course, is Prince Lleu.

He seems as equally overjoyed at my capture as Gwydion is.

'She's a plump one for our pot,' he chuckles richly.

Plump?

'Or for the queen's kitchen?' Gwydion replies more sagely. 'As a part of our offering?'

Lleu nods in agreement.

'Two wandering minstrels, bringing a tasty goose to enjoy as we sing and entertain; yes, yes – I _like_ it!'

At first, I can't see how two richly dressed lords are going to pass themselves off as minstrels, particularly as they're not carrying any instruments with them: but as we draw closer to Arianrhod's swiftly whirling castle, Gwydion casts a few more charms – conjuring up disguises for both Lleu and himself, and transforming their mounts into a lute and a harp.

I'm not sure if it's also a touch of magic that helps but, as they stand by the revolving castle's walls, their melodic singing and playing of these instruments is angelic in its beauty, music that is enchanting in its own right.

Someone inside the castle must be as equally impressed by the abilities of these 'minstrels' as I am, for the palace begins to slow in its whirling, to slowly come to halt, its gateway facing us, if not yet open in welcome.

'We're minstrels and storytellers!' Gwydion hails the now stationary castle, his voice as well disguised as his form.

'With remarkable stories to tell!' Lleu adds, his own voice impressively and seductively booming.

'And a goose for the cooking pot,' Gwydion says, holding me up high in my cage.

The gateway opens; though if it's because they want to hear the stories, or to eat me, I can't be sure.

*

# Chapter 32

The 'minstrels' are shown through to what must pass around here as an entrance hall, even though it's more garden-like than anything, while the surrounding structures of pillars and walls appear to have been grown from seedlings rather than constructed. Other people are also patiently waiting here, though no one seems in anyway perturbed that no one is attending to their needs.

A maid gratefully accepts the 'minstrels' gift of a goose for the cooking pot. She turns to carry me off to the kitchen, but draws to halt as the door before her opens and the queen and her ladies in waiting sweep in.

The maid bows, then waits for permission to leave.

'It's actually news, if you have it,' the queen announces to her guests, 'of my freshly born son that I'd like to hear–'

Before she can say anything more – and I wish she'd had more time to speak, for I'm sure she's referring to Dylan (which would mean that all this is taking place not long after the wren had informed her that her son wasn't dead but somehow rejuvenated) – an aggressive blast of trumpets drowns out even her powerfully commanding voice.

The fanfare causes consternation amongst her ladies in waiting.

'We're under attack!' one wails as the trumpets cease the worst of their loudest trills.

'But how?' says another.

'And who would dare?' adds a third.

Any doubts as to whether they might or might not be under attack are instantly allayed when one of the large doors to the hall bursts open, a small company of armed men chaotically rushing in before drawing to a nervous halt on sight of the queen.

'My apologies, my lady,' the captain gabbles as he and his men bow, all of them bending with difficulty as they seem to have grabbed a number of extra arms, perhaps with the intention of arming anyone they came across on their way to the battlements, 'we didn't realise you'd be her–'

With a consoling wave of a hand, the queen accepts the apologies of the company's captain.

With an equally casual wave of her other hand, she transforms a nearby wall, making it and any other walls beyond it instantly transparent.

A whole fleet of warships of every kind are gathering, gradually surrounding the castle.

The ladies gasp in a mix of surprise and horror.

The minstrels set their instruments down upon the floor.

'My lady,' Gwydion announces intently, 'we were both accomplished mercenaries before we were minstrels.'

'If only we had kept our swords...' Lleu adds innocently, enviously eyeing the extra arms being carried by the captain and his men.

Although far from certain that he should arm these strangers, the captain steps towards the queen, presenting the extra sword he carries to her. Gratefully taking the sword, the queen hands it to the disguised Lleu.

'Thank you for your kind offer to serve–'

Once again, the poor queen is unable to finish her sentence, this time interrupted by the shocked cries of both her ladies and her men.

The besieging warships have vanished, as if they had never been anything more than forms conjured up from high scudding clouds.

'An enchantment; that's all they were,' the captain breathes in awe.

'A powerful one,' the queen snaps irately, turning to view the minstrels with suspicion. 'One only a very few...'

'I _do_ have news of your son,' Gwydion announces grandly as he lifts the disguising charms, revealing the real natures of both himself and a triumphantly smiling Prince Lleu, 'for you have just _armed_ him...'

I don't hear the rest of what Gwydion or anyone else has to say, although I can imagine the queen's fury that she has once again been fooled into lifting her own curse on her son Prince Lleu.

What was it that she had said?

'He will _never_ bare arms, except those given to him by _me_!'

And now, of course, she has just granted him a sword.

By their nature, curses and charms are far more complicated, more entwined things than we ever realise.

Such as, indeed, Gwydion's own elaborate conjuring up of the besieging fleet, the disguises so good that they can even fool a sister and a mother; and she herself being an accomplished caster of charms too.

The cage he had conjured up to entrap me had also somehow been thankfully caught up in the weaving of such ostentatious spells.

And so as they are lifted, the charm that had ensured my imprisonment also vanishes.

With a flap of my wings, I rise up out of the startled maid's hands.

Just how transparent, I wonder, are those magically transformed walls?

*

# Chapter 33

As I swoop through walls that, thankfully, are no longer substantial enough to contain me, I hear the furious queen vengefully cast yet another curse upon Prince Lleu.

'He'll never get a wife, from any race that's in the world today!'

And yet...he married my _mother_?

No one, apart from the disgruntled maid, is paying any attention to an escaping goose.

The maid tries to follow me through the transparent walls, but they're weirdly as solid to her as they must have ever been; she strikes the wall full on, falling back in surprise.

I whirl out into the night sky, wondering how high I am, _where_ I am.

Briefly wheeling in a circle, I spot the sparkling bridge and track that Gwydion and Lleu had used to access the castle.

_That_ way; it has to be _that_ way back to where I need to be.

*

The glittering pathway is narrow, and quite precarious.

I'm glad I have wings, to carry me safely above it.

It also enables me to stare far ahead too, of course.

To look out for where one section of the patchwork landscape abruptly becomes another.

Here, strangely, the darkness of the night appears to continue, as if forever.

And yet there does appear to be a definite line between one area and another, for whereas the pathway on this side of the invisible divide is narrow, meandering, the track that continues on the other side is immensely wide, glistening like so many uncountable stars.

Stranger still, that precise line where the path abruptly widens isn't stationary but, rather, is rapidly drawing towards me.

*

Just ahead of the swiftly approaching line dividing the widened path from the narrow one, there's an elegantly garbed woman.

She's running. Running up the narrow pathway. But as she runs, her cloak wildly billows behind her, throwing and spreading out any number of white flowers.

The countless flowers she's shedding spill out across the darkness, glittering like so many uncountable stars.

She's my mother.

The older version of my mother I'd seen fleeing the besieged and falling castle.

She still appears to be fleeing. She doesn't seem in anyway aware that I'm circling overhead.

Close behind her, I see her pursuer.

A mounted man.

A man I've grown accustomed to recognising.

It's Gwydion.

*

The sorcerer must believe he's drawn close enough to his prey to cast one of his powerful charms; for he slews his horse to a halt, raising and waving his arms in a manner I've come to identify as precursors to the setting of charms and spells.

It's like an urgent weaving of the air, of the hidden waves lying everywhere about us, the vibrations of life coursing unseen through everyone of us.

'You shall never again show your face in the light of day!' he cries out after my fleeing mother.

He casts his braiding of darkness and light directly towards my mother's back.

And in the twinkling of a star, she's transformed into a sparklingly white owl.

*

# Chapter 34

As mother flies off, I begin to fall: to plummet frighteningly quickly through the darkness.

I try flapping my wings, but it doesn't stop me falling. That's because I no longer _have_ wings.

I have _arms_ once more.

I'm me as I was before, as a girl, not a goose.

The owl turns, briefly whirls in the darkness of space; and then she swoops directly towards the blindingly bright silver light of the moon, any sense of form she possessed instantly evaporating against the sharp glare.

I can't see how my transformation into a goose was in any way connected with mother's metamorphosis into an owl; but I've got more important things to concern myself with.

Such as how do I survive this fall?

Below, rushing up towards me at a terrifying rate, there now appears to be a roaring fire of flaming reds, oranges and yellows.

The closer I get, the more I can pick out details amongst the 'flames' revealing them to be trees in their autumn colours.

Not that that means I'm substantially any safer.

Not when I'm viewing them from above and dropping towards them like a stone.

*

Suddenly, far sooner than I'd expected, I'm crashing through the upper branches of a tall tree.

These, thankfully, are the lighter branches, the more solid, thicker ones still awaiting my falling body lying deeper down in the mass of the tree.

The branches I'm hurtling through shatter again and again with the multiple cracks of heavily falling hailstones.

The branches making up the next array are thicker but, being relatively fresh growths, retain their suppleness. Some swing aside, letting only their weaker offshoots bar my way, while those directly in my path bend before at last breaking.

They're slowing my fall, the mass of soft leaves even cushioning it a little too.

I could just about swear that the tree is deliberately ensuring my fall is as painless as it could possibly make it; but that would be the height of craziness, wouldn't it, to believe such a thing?

Despite how crazy it sounds, I'm at last jolted to an abrupt halt just a few inches above a spectacularly thick stem of the trunk; one that I wouldn't have had a hope of surviving if I'd struck it. The entangled branches supporting me have come together to form the equivalent of a springy net.

I'm bruised, a little shocked too. But otherwise, apart from being short of breath and in need of a brief rest to recover from my experience, I'm somewhat miraculously uninjured.

My rest amongst the soft leaved branches give me time to think things over too.

To recall viewing this autumn forest from above as I'd fallen.

Looking down on it in this way, I saw it for what, perhaps, it really is; nothing more than one of the patch's on my bedspread.

And yet it's an important one; because this patch of flaming autumn colours, lying on the diagonal I've been trying to follow, is the very last square before the island I'd originally set out to find.

The island where, I believe, my mother has somehow been imprisoned, trapped in her form of an owl.

Didn't, too, I just see my mother transformed into an owl by Gwydion?

Or...was it my _mother's_ own defensive charm, transforming _herself_ into an owl to avoid Gwydion's spells?

She could always do that at home, couldn't she? Transform herself into an owl?

Or...was that just a part of the curse Gwydion had inflicted upon her?

I always thought Mum was responsible for the transformation, of course.

But...maybe she had no _control_ over it.

Maybe Gwydion's curse ensured that every now and again she became this owl, whether she wanted to or not.

Which is it?

Gwydion's curse?

Or Mum's own powerful charm?

I don't know what to think, to be honest

*

Somewhere below me, I can hear the sounds of approaching men.

There's talking, casual laughter.

The snort of horses.

_Mounted_ men.

The clink of reins.

The clatter of armour.

_Armed_ men.

The soldiers are drawing closer. Passing somewhere close below me.

I still my heavy breathing, perhaps overly worried that I might be heard.

I'm peering face down through the woven branches, this being the way I'd landed. The mounted troops file past the base of the tree I'm suspended in. If anyone glances up, they might catch a glimpse of me.

They're well armed, but obviously not expecting or prepared for a fight, their lances holstered, their shields strung across their backs, their helmets dangling from the flanks of their mounts.

I recognise the dulled yellow hair of the man who – through his bearing, the deferential way the others treat him – appears to be in charge.

It's Prince Lleu.

*

As soon as the knights have completely passed me by, I shuffle around as quietly as I can amongst the leaves, hoping to see where they're heading

They haven't got far to travel before they reach a long yet narrow clearing by the edge of a swiftly flowing river.

Towards the end of the far side of the clearing, there's what could be a makeshift barn there, one with a thatched roof, and remnants of what had once been its only wall.

The last time I saw it, there had been a cauldron and a goat in that thatched shelter.

It's the place where Dylan and my mother had attempted to kill Lleu, having tricked him into standing astride the cauldron and the goat.

Another troop of men arrive, entering the clearing just beyond the derelict structure. Like Lleu's men, these mounted knights are dressed for war, yet are casual in their manner, their shields hanging from backs, their helmets unworn.

The leader of these men has hair as gold as the sun.

Dylan.

The man who I think must be my father.

*

# Chapter 35

As neither side appears prepared for a fight, I can only assume this meeting has been arranged through some earlier form of agreement; a means, perhaps, of discussing how the war between them might be drawn to a satisfactory close.

Each group languidly comes to a halt on their own end of the clearing, slipping down off their mounts and collectively handing the reins to men chosen as temporary stable hands. Closest to me, of course, is Lleu's company, and the prince and his shield bearer step to the fore of his dismounted men. On the far edge of the clearing, Dylan and his own shield bearer mirror these moves, albeit the man-at-arms carries a glistening spear.

Amongst Dylan's men, there's also a great deal of struggling as some of the men set about unloading something heavy and cumbersome from the back of a horse drawn cart.

Dylan draws to halt beneath the thatching of the dilapidated shelter, allowing his man to continue walking across the clearing. On this side, Lleu has also come to a stop, while his shield bearer confidently approaches Dylan's spearman.

The spearman hands the spear to Lleu's shield bearer; then they each turn and begin to walk back towards their own sides. As the shield bearer returns to his place alongside the prince, Lleu eagerly takes the spear from him, testing the weapon's weight and balance in his hand.

The spear's blade glistens in what little sunlight remains, the weak rays of the autumn sun nevertheless making it sparkle evilly.

It's the spear Dylan and my mother had used in their failed attempt to murder Lleu.

It's obviously tied in with any agreement the warring factions have made; Lleu has been given possession of the weapon specifically forged to kill him.

Does he now intend to use that same spear to take his revenge?

Certainly, Dylan remains motionless in the very spot were the attempt on Lleu's own life was made, even though he has discarded the breastplate of his armour. His shield bearer doesn't draw to a halt to stand by his side either, but strides past him, re-joining the line up of dismounted knights.

The group of men who had struggled to empty the cart have unloaded what could be a large millstone, only one lacking the hole in its centre. Hurriedly upending this stone disc, they wheel it across the grass, setting it in place in front of Dylan and supporting it with wooden stakes speedily driven into the ground.

If it had seemed madness that Dylan had agreed to stand defenceless before a spear-wielding Lleu, it now seems equally ridiculous that he is allowed to take shelter behind such a large stone.

Lleu is apparently unconcerned by the obstacle placed in the path of any spear throw. He takes up his own position, preparing himself for his throw with a deft twirling of the spear in his hand, ensuring a comfortable grip, a firm balance.

He launches the spear from his hand with a speed approaching the snuffing of a flame from the draught of an abruptly opened door.

*

The spear burns a hole in the very middle of the stone, remaining on course as straight and true as a ray of light bursting in through a gap in a roof's tile.

It speeds on, suffering no further trouble as it relatively effortlessly penetrates Dylan's soft flesh.

There is no swift, surprising transformation into an eagle for Dylan.

The force of the blow briefly sends him stumbling backwards, as he fights to retain his feet.

If he fights to cling onto life, it's a battle he almost instantaneously losses.

With a final shake of his golden mane, he keels over.

*

# Chapter 36

Lleu unceremoniously retrieves his spear, brutally standing upon the prone Dylan's chest to pull it clear of the flesh.

As he and his men leave the field, Dylan's men reverently strip him of his armour, sheathing him in robes of white silk in its place. From the back of the cart, they unload what I first take to be a long, thin coffin; but it isn't.

It's the linen bed sheet box that his twin Lleu had come to life in.

Carefully lying Dylan within his box, his men set it upon the gentle waves of the nearby river. They watch for a while as the waters take the box in the grip of their flow, pulling it and Dylan's corpse out towards the river's centre, sending it rushing off towards the sea.

Doubtlessly satisfied that their prince has been successfully sent off on his final journey, Dylan's men quietly mount up once more. They leave the clearing in silence.

Clambering down from my hiding place as soon as I'm sure the knights are out of hearing distance, I fearfully sprint towards the riverbank, gasping for the small mercy of being able to watch from a more dignified position as Dylan's corpse is borne away by the flowing waters.

Is this how it ends for him?

Carried off in a linen box?

*

Behind me, there's a disgruntled snort.

Whirling around, find myself peering into the face of someone incredibly familiar.

Naissance.

The horse I had left behind with Dylan so long ago.

*

Naissance nuzzles his cheek close up to mine, the way he had when I'd first left him with Dylan.

Wait; when _did_ I leave him with Dylan?

Was it just a matter of hours ago, as it seems in some way to me?

Or was it years ago, before I became the young woman I am now?

Or was it before even that?

Or, even, _after_ all that?

The passage of time is all _so_ confusing here!

It makes no sense at all!

No matter how long ago it was, Naissance appears every bit as youthful as he had then, I realise as I lean back a touch and begin to take in his whole form.

His body is still lithe, athletic.

His coat still smooth, glistening.

His mane, lustrous and flowing.

Ah, but _here's_ a difference I would never have expected.

A horn; and one that could have been made of braided sun rays!

Naissance is no longer just a horse.

He's a unicorn!

*

# Chapter 37

The horn could have been made of a solidified whirlpool of glistening sunlight, weaving in amongst its braiding the odd glimpse of moonlight, of a host of coruscating stars.

Naissance lowers his head to allow me to slip up onto his back. As he was when I'd left him with Dylan, he's been freed once more of any harness, bridle or saddle. Yet he's still effortless to ride, for I feel far more a part of him in this way than if I relied on any unnecessary accoutrements.

I don't need to urge him into following Dylan's swiftly disappearing box. Wheeling around, Naissance sets off at a steady gallop along the riverbank, following both the river and the bobbing box's course.

Presumably, the river will take me towards the sea.

And beyond that, there lies the island.

I don't really see any reason to resist heading in that direction now I'm so close.

*

As I'd expected, the river spills into a dark green sea

Once again, it's only the waters that more or less seamlessly merge as I move from one landscape into another. Yet even these, of course, undergo an abrupt change in colour from the bright blues and silvers of a pleasant river into the darker colours of a wild, untameable sea.

In every other way, the change is sudden and startling.

The richness and warmth of autumn colours give way to the cold hardness of slate greys, of olive greens.

The reassuring curves of woodland become in an instant the angular sharpness of rocks, of looming, dark cliffs and precariously descending pathways.

Other riders are heading this way too and, unable to follow the river to its end as it dips down to the sea through a rocky valley, I have to join them as they make their own way down to the shore via the narrow pathways. On reaching the shore, each rider – whether man, woman or child – quickly dismounts, setting their mounts free with a smack on its flanks. They then patiently join a line, boarding a larger ship that presumably waits to take these new arrivals across the sea.

As I've had to move up and away from the riverside, I've lost sight of Dylan and his makeshift boat. Perhaps if I also board the ship, I might catch sight of Dylan's box floating farther out to sea.

And yet, unlike all these other travellers, I'm not prepared to set Naissance free. He's far too special to be treated in such an offhand manner.

I sense, too, that he still carries some connection with Dylan. I don't wish to lose that sense of somehow still being a part of him.

Surprisingly, there are no protests, not even murmurs of consternation, as I clamber on board the waiting ship with Naissance.

Maybe they all recognise, too, that he is special.

As soon as I'm on board, I feel the ship beginning to pull away from the shore. The section of sea running alongside us slips past, the waves becoming far more robust and powerful as we plunge into deeper parts of the ocean.

And yet...I was never aware of the ship hauling anchor, or slipping its mooring.

Glancing back over my shoulder, I'm a touch startled to see that that the ship's stern still touches the shoreline, that people are still boarding there.

It's not so much that the ship is progressing across the sea as that we're gradually been carried smoothly forward along the ship's deck.

After a while, the sense of slowly slipping forwards across the sea is joined by a realisation that we're also steadily rising up away from the increasingly choppy surface.

Curling up up up into the ship's gracefully rising prow.

We could be on a gradually ascending wheel.

And as the wheel carries us higher, all around us it's taking in strands of light and darkness from the air around us, spinning it into bright threads, weaving it all into fresh embroideries containing everything and everyone, melding it all into timeless materials.

*

# Chapter 38

The ship's passengers disembark at our destination as patiently and quietly as they'd boarded.

They file soundlessly into a courtyard, a beautiful garden where they wait a while, for a door lying ahead of us presently remains closed. The enveloping walls don't seem in anyway confining, however, as they're not formed of stones or brick but, rather, seem to have long ago sprouted up from the ground.

Somehow, it would appear, we have arrived at Arianrhod's castle.

It's familiar to me too, I now see, in another way.

This is the final square on my bedspread.

The island where my mother had somehow been entrapped as an owl.

*

The peace of the courtyard is briefly shattered as nine geese fly over one of the walls and, as they land in the large pool surrounding a centrally placed fountain, transform into young women, as if the waters themselves were being granted life. The women calmly step over the pool's low wall, their elegant attire neither disturbed nor in any way wet but, rather, appearing to have somehow been fluidly woven from the water.

There's a further fluttering of feathers, but this is an almost silent beating of wings, more of a hushing sound than anything disturbing.

It's a white owl; the kind of owl I used to see my mother transform into.

*

# Chapter 39

Like the geese, the owl lands amidst the garden, choosing as its perch however a blossoming bush.

Bush and owl fluidly merge, until a woman stands in their place.

I almost rush towards her in my eagerness to greet her.

It's my mother, just as she looked the last time I saw her, as she rushed towards me over the sparkling pathway.

Just before, in fact, she transformed once more into a white owl.

But I stop myself just in time, not wishing to make a fool of myself; because this isn't my mother, after all.

It's Arianrhod.

Somehow, Arianrhod seems to recognise me however. She smiles at me, begins to unhurriedly approach.

'Ah, you must have had quite a journey here,' she says.

*

Should I tell her that I was here before?

Before I can decide what I should do, Arianrhod speaks again.

'You came seeking your mother?'

It's phrased as if it's a question, but I suspect that it's a statement.

'Is she here?' I ask.

'Do you still wish to see her?'

Once again, I'm not sure how to answer, what to say.

'I've learnt things about her that...well, I'm not sure I _do_ want to see her,' I admit ashamedly. 'I...I wouldn't know what to _say_ to her!'

'Perhaps you haven't _fully_ understood what you have learned about her.'

'Someone else recently said something very similar; yet I think it would be hard to mistakenly interpret _everything_ I've learnt about her.'

Arianrhod tenderly takes my hands in hers.

'Do you know whom I regard as being far wiser than I am?'

I shake my head in reply.

'Why, _my_ mother, of course!' she replies with a mischievous grin.

As we talk, the young women who had arrived with Arianrhod are leading away those who have been waiting in the courtyard, showing them through the now opened doors.

Although Arianrhod quite obviously means well, flattering my mother in this way, she quite obviously doesn't _really_ know my mother at all!

' _My_ mother isn't wise,' I say a touch sourly.

'Well, I know that _my_ mother would disagree with you,' Arianrhod happily persists. 'She would simply say that you still have _more_ to learn.'

'And yet I'm here, on the end of my journey; and all I've constantly found out about my mother is that she's a far worse person that I could've possibly imagined her to be!'

'The _end_ of your journey?'

Arianrhod frowns doubtfully, even looking a little puzzled.

'Nothing lies beyond here; beyond this island,' I point out.

Now Arianrhod smiles, the smile of someone who thinks you're still insisting on causing yourself unnecessary problems.

'Yet, you didn't complete the _whole_ journey, did you?'

The _whole_ journey?

Well, no; thinking back, of course, to what the pigs had said about me needing to head _west_ , I _hadn't_ completed the _whole_ journey.

But that was hardly _my_ fault.

Besides, it way back at the start of my journey.

How could _that_ make any difference to what I've learnt _on_ my journey?

As if she knows what I'm thinking, as if she can probe deep into my deepest thoughts, Arianrhod says, 'Surely, where we set out on our journey will determine where we will end up?'

'It's too _far_ back,' I declare, suddenly feeling exhausted, frustrated. 'Besides, I _can't_ begin my journey all over _again_!'

Far from being upset by my rudeness, my pessimism, Arianrhod chuckles.

'I can see you've suffered from not possessing a map for your journey!'

Holding up a hand, drawing in strands of light and darkness from the very air, she swiftly weaves something together; and as she brings her hand down with a flip of opening fingers, she throws open a brightly coloured map of the landscape I've travelled through.

Naturally, it's my bedspread.

*

# Chapter 40

'This; _this_ is where you missed.'

Arianrhod indicates one of the most brightly coloured squares of all, a patch illustrating a forest of early spring flowers.

I'd never noticed before, but right next to it – over to _its_ west, as it were – there's a narrow bordering, one of delightful cottages, a small school.

It reminds me so much of my home, of my own school.

Yet seeing the square of blossoming flowers so far back, so far on the opposite side of the 'map' from where I'm standing now; well, attempting to make my way all the way back there all just looks so hopeless, so pointless.

'I...I can't see what _purpose_ it would serve,' I confess. 'How would restarting my journey alter anything I've seen on the way here?'

'Oh, I completely agree,' she says, surprising me.

'Then...why show me this map?'

'I never said you should restart the journey you've just _completed_ ,' she says, her cryptic reply confusing me even further. 'There _was_ a purpose in why you began your journey where you did; because you obviously weren't ready to understand whatever it is you still have to witness and learn there.'

' _Still_ have to learn?' I repeat unsurely. 'Then I _do_ have to return there?'

'And is that possible; to _return_ to somewhere you insist you've never been to before?'

'I'm sorry; a slip of the tongue–'

'No, no; you _were_ right, my dear!' Arianrhod declares. 'When the sun dips into the ocean, when it seems to vanish in the shadows of winter, is that the last we ever expect to see of it? You _do_ have to return – only to somewhere where you can't yet _recall_ ever visiting.'

As she speaks, Arianrhod curiously reaches out beyond me to touch the point of Naissance's whirling horn; and as she begins to withdraw and unwind, and reweave and rebraid, the coils of sunlight and darkness, of time itself, she tenderly touches my cheek with her free hand.

'You see child,' she says, 'you _could_ call me your mother; for it was _my_ foolish curse that set all this in motion.'

*

# Chapter 41

The encircling, wheeling strands of golden light, of slate grey darkness, are spun into glittering threads of green, of brown, are woven into interlacing stems, entwining branches, the whole being rapidly embroidered with the yellows, pinks and whites of buds and blossoms.

I'm half lying, half sitting, in a forest of early spring flowers. Naissance is peacefully lying by me, and the 'map', my bedspread, is curled up within my lap, the corners touching, the green pastures of the island only partially overlapped by the gem-like colours of the spring forest.

A short distance away from us, there's a crunching of branches, the neigh and snort of a horse, the metallic jingling of the harnesses of approaching riders.

Two riders.

Gwydion and King Math.

*

I hope they simply pass by, as the riders led by Prince Lleu had ridden beneath the tree I'd suddenly found myself lying in.

But Gwydion and Math are curiously peering at the trees and bushes they are riding by, observing the tangled foliage around them with the intensity of someone hoping to identify the specific nature of each plant.

They are almost upon me when they thankfully draw to a sudden halt, exclaiming in excitement at what they have found, at what lies around them.

These blooms, it seems, are exactly what they're looking for, exactly what they need for the most impressive, miraculous charm of all time.

*

# Chapter 42

Elatedly slipping down off their horses, Gwydion and Math immediately set to work.

With the long fingers of accomplished musicians, of consummate charmers, they begin to draw out the strands of the materials they require for their task.

The primrose of the mountain, and the shady bean.

The intertwined broom, meadow-sweet, and cockle.

The spectral whites of the blossoms of the nettle, thorn, chestnut, and oak.

With further deft twists of their fingers, so long, so manipulative, they begin to interweave their source materials, to create new forms from the old.

From the well-established growth of the land, they will grow for themselves something new.

They will take nature, the land itself, and bend it to their will.

Nine buds of plant and tree.

Nine powers of nine flowers.

And in their creation, all this will be combined.

Their creation begins, at last, to take its form, to fluidly rise up from a nature so cleverly rewoven.

*

'He'll never get a wife, from any race that's in the world today!'

Arianrhod's curse, it appears, was a far more bitter curse than it had at first appeared.

Without a wife, without an opportunity to forge his connection to the land, Prince Lleu – despite his naming, his arms – could never be king.

Yet Gwydion and Math didn't see this as an obstacle to their ambitions for the prince.

They were powerful sorcerers in their own right, of course.

They would circumnavigate Arianrhod's curse, utilising their own ways.

They would transform the land itself into an image of their own desires.

They gasp.

Their creation is complete, fully formed.

It's a child.

A young girl.

*

# Chapter 43

A young girl formed of the flowers themselves.

Her skin, for the moment, still bears the colourful blemishes of those buds, those blossoms, that she has been born from.

The brighter of the greens, the sunny yellows, the sharp pinks.

She's a girl of the land, of spring and autumn.

A girl who looks like me, when I was younger.

Who _is_ me.

A girl with neither father, nor mother.

*

# Chapter 44

This girl is far too young, of course, for the purposes of Gwydion and Math.

They're disappointed with their creation.

What went wrong with their enchantments?

What had they failed to consider?

Many charms have weaknesses or faults we don't originally appreciate.

Nature possesses its own mysterious ways to ensure it isn't completely thwarted.

Bending silently towards Naissance, I whisper into his ear.

*

Long and white are _my_ fingers.

They pull on the strands of all life, they spin and intertwine threads; they release men from the pain of disappointment, from the agony of consciousness while they remain awake.

Thinking themselves exhausted by their work, crestfallen by its lack of fruitfulness, Gwydion and Math slip into sleep as easily as they slipped down off their mounts.

Quietly rising up from our nest of blooms, Naissance silently strides towards the young girl, bowing down before her so that she may so easily mount him. Then he turns and returns, returning her to me.

'Are you my mother?' the girl asks sleepily as I help her down off Naissance's back.

'Yes, yes; who else could I be?' I reply with a joyful smile, tenderly carrying her towards the bedspread I've laid out over the mattress of flowers.

I lay her down beneath the patchwork bedspread, kissing her lovingly upon her warm cheek.

'You'll wake up soon in your bed; and I'll be with you,' I promise her as she drifts off into sleep. 'Mummy will make sure _everything's_ all right for you.'

And as she sleeps, I step out of my hiding place, and I lie down as if asleep where she had been brought to life from amongst the flowers.

When Gwydion and Math awake, won't they be pleased?

Won't they be so full of conceit that their charm, their taming of the land, has been successful after all?

For here they'll have their bride for Lleu.

Not that forced marriages _ever_ end up well, of course.

*

# Chapter 45

When I wake up, I briefly think it's just a normal morning, the sun bursting through the window just like the beginning of any other day.

But then I remember.

'Mummy will make sure _everything's_ all right for you,' she'd said, as she'd tenderly tucked me up in bed.

What did she mean?

_What_ needed putting right?

Does she mean the strangely bright blemishes on my skin, the fresh greens, the sunny yellows, the sharp pinks, that I'm worried the other children will notice when I start school?

And then another, stranger thought strikes me; Mum _hadn't_ returned last night, had she?

And the owl: an owl had somehow become embroidered on the very end corner of my patchwork eiderdown.

I leap up from beneath my bedspread, urgently scrambling across it towards the end of my bed, searching out the far corner patch, the one of the island of green pastures.

The sun's blindingly sharp rays strike the silvery embroidery of the square's wheeling stars, merging their light into a glare as bright as the moon's. It flutters, this light, as if alive, as if possessing beating wings, any other sense of form evaporating against its brightness.

The owl rushes directly up from the glare, as if breaking through from the other side of the moon herself.

And then, as I've seen so many times before, the owl turns, briefly whirls in the brightness of the sun's rays: and my mother is standing at the bottom of my bed, smiling lovingly at me.

Leaping into her arms, I kiss her lovingly upon her warm cheek.

'Mum, mum,' I blurt out excitedly, relieved that she's back, that everything I'd feared might have happened to her was all just foolish worrying, 'I'm so, so glad you're back!'

She chuckles, hugs me, tenderly kisses my own warm cheek.

'Of _course_ I'm back,' she says with her tinkling laugh, 'you should know that I can _never_ leave you!'

And her smile is as full of love as mine.

End

If you enjoyed reading this book, you might also enjoy (or you may know someone else who might enjoy) these other books by Jon Jacks.

The Caught – The Rules – Chapter One – The Changes – Sleeping Ugly

The Barking Detective Agency – The Healing – The Lost Fairy Tale

A Horse for a Kingdom – Charity – The Most Beautiful Things (Now includes The Last Train)

The Dream Swallowers – Nyx; Granddaughter of the Night – Jonah and the Alligator

Glastonbury Sirens – Dr Jekyll's Maid – The 500-Year Circus – The Desire: Class of 666

P – The Endless Game – DoriaN A – Wyrd Girl – The Wicker Slippers – Gorgesque

Heartache High (Vol I) – Heartache High: The Primer (Vol II) – Heartache High: The Wakening (Vol III)

Miss Terry Charm, Merry Kris Mouse & The Silver Egg – The Last Angel – Eve of the Serpent

Seecrets – The Cull – Dragonsapien – The Boy in White Linen – Porcelain Princess – Freaking Freak

Died Blondes – Queen of all the Knowing World – The Truth About Fairies – Lowlife

Elm of False Dreams – God of the 4th Sun – A Guide for Young Wytches – Lady of the Wasteland

The Wendygo House – Americarnie Trash – An Incomparable Pearl – We Three Queens – Cygnet Czarinas

Memesis – April Queen, May Fool – Sick Teen – Thrice Born – Self-Assembled Girl – Love Poison No. 13

Whatever happened to Cinderella's Slipper? – AmeriChristmas – The Vitch's Kat in Hollywoodland

Blood of Angels, Wings of Men

