The willow tree that sat on the edge of the hollow was like a great, old man with a long, trailing beard. She could see him swaying his head lazily in the cool, night wind. Countless leaves, slender and small, rustled as he moved over her. A watchful, patient sentry with the moon behind him, peeking through his boughs.
The grass invited her to remain exactly where she was. Gone was the dry, crunchy, scratchy turf of winter. This new carpet was lush and soft, and it cradled her weary limbs. Her garments were piled carelessly nearby, crusted with dried mud and burs. A splash of crimson stiffened a small patch of fabric on the rumpled shirt sleeve.
As the spirit of the night grieved over the rolling plains, drops of dew began to arise beneath her invisible tears. Tiny, perfectly round, trembling on grass blade and leaf. The naked woman's flesh was too warm for their kiss, but her hair was not. It's honey-hued tendrils snaked through the grass about her head like a dark halo. So still did she lay that after a time, crystalline beads shimmered along the furthest tresses.
Though dawn remained little but a promise in the velvet pitch overhead, a gentle warbling drew her hazy eyes to a low bough of the willow. There in the silvered starlight, a tiny robin cast the shining bead of its eye downward. The slender beak trembled, and another flutter of wistful tones came forth.
"I don't know," murmured the sprawled-out woman. "I cannot remember." A hand wandered absently to rest upon the tawny skin covering her ribs. The padded fingertips played along the faint ridges of a scar there.
The grey wings flurried, and the robin darted to another branch. His clear, high voice was full of sweet curiosity, free of judgement.
"They are looking for me. I know," said the woman. "They will not find me. Men cannot see shadows."
The lull of sleep whispered in the back of her mind, and she closed her eyes, sinking obediently towards its warm embrace. But the journey was interrupted when the lilting birdsong veered abruptly into a jarring, off-key dissonance. Something cold and wet was pressing against her shoulder. Her brow rippled into an annoyed frown.
"Dunnian!" she fussed, and her amber eyes opened. The soot-grey wolf had already leapt away at her scolding voice. All that was left was the sound of stealthy paws hurrying through the tall weeds along the ridge.
She sat up and looked at the willow tree. No wind swayed the old, bearded head. No robin spoke to her. Her hair was damp and cold against her bare shoulders, and she shivered. Where were her clothes?
She curled forward and rose onto her feet in a crouch. The pile of carelessly-tossed clothes were quickly spied. She crept over without standing. A thumb and forefinger found the crimson stain, and felt it carefully. It was not fresh. But she had no recollection of where it had come from.
"Not again," she breathed.
