ciryawen

'Set your work aside, daughter'

My father bids me, and a dutiful daughter I do as I am asked - tying the last few curd-filled cloths above the bowls swiftly. The whey begins to drip immediately, by morning there will be sharp-tasting fresh curd cheese for my parents and myself.

Adunzil snaps small twigs and feeds the fire. I observe his graceful, spare movement through half-closed eyes as we change our watch and I prepare for sleep. The air is cool, though not too chill, the half-moon westering as night continues.

I shrug further into my cloak and hood. The night is peaceful, we are close enough to Nenuial for the eyes of our folk to keep the land quiet. I feel safe, as though held in the palm of my father, cradled by the solid earth and roofed by the trees.

Such a gathering! To see so many folk of the star together. I do not know how long it has been since we met in such a number. I should ask Oldgrove - he prides himself on history. Perhaps he will recall it.

A gathering by chance at the shore of the lake at Tinnudir, though Adunzil and I had hastened there at Filrean's call some days earlier. A hard fast ride for me. The pain that results from so many hours in the saddle, offset by the thrill and ease of movement that being a-horse always brings.

One can find the strangest creatures deep in the woods.

I hear him before I see him. A bass woody rumble of tune, without words. The sound of  a man content and busy with his task. The song is wholly familiar, I form the words silently to myself as I step carefully forward. I edge though the trees as though I hunt deer, not him.

Baby-season slows and my pack is lighter. The mothers and their newborns have exhausted most of my herbs and simples. I like the new life coming into the world bringing a wriggling, slippery hope. Yet  there comes a time, when my work is done, that I long to turn my back on the crowded little town, its noises and squabbles and pervading smell.

Barliman is a kind soul, for all his fluster. I have a little space in the Pony's hayloft, warm from the horses below and sweet with the scent of this summer's hay. The baby-season is here, and so I will take a few weeks in Bree. A rest from wandering, although not from work. In the dark of winter there is little to do at night to amuse man and wife ... and so, the results appear now, nine months on. A time filled with women and their needs, a joyful time for most, every year I pray it is so.

The soft rain is more a mist, drifting about me. I do not mind it. At times it brings an ache to my leg... but that is so much a part of me now that I rarely heed it.

I have left subtle signs for him. I give him seven days. If he is about, he will find them and come to me on this hill. I think at times he needs no signs deliberately set to find what he wants. I could wander, but in truth it is better he comes to me. I am not chasing him up hill and down dale. He is likely to turn it into a challenge, once he knows I am on his scent.

Now the rain has stopped it is time to move on. The raindrops along the top of the door rest in a line, like sparrows on a branch and glisten enticingly. The beautiful green world is washed and refreshed. Time to go.