*There is one thing,' he said to me, *she did not think to bring.'

*What's that?'

*An audience. Maria and Placentia and that old bitch Volumnia are not here for her to impress, and what pleasure is there without it?'

I laughed. He even laughed too, with his odd, braying fox-bark noise. No one could say he did not know his mother.

Lucretia's irritation was increased by Balbus. He had not wanted to be parted from his work, but now he seemed to be enjoying himself. He made light of her complaints; and then, one day, he announced that he intended to go hunting, like a country gentleman.

*Hunting? Whatever for? Can't you send one of the slaves? I shall not go.'

*No, my dear, of course not. You stay and see to the decorating. The house is looking much better; I told you not to fret.'

And so, one morning at dawn, he assembled a team of footmen and set out on an aged stubborn hack, which the agent had sold to him. I watched from the top of the honeysuckle wall as he lumbered off, with the men spread out around him, holding nets and sticks to beat I know not what wild animal out of the tall grass.

Before midday he was back, with dirt in his hair and grazes on his elbows. The horse, when he had encouraged it with a switch, had cast him off into a bramble thicket. I saw it following some way behind, led in disgrace by one of the grinning bright-eyed beaters.

There was no more hunting.

Most of my days I spent swimming in the clear water of the dam-pool, and dozing afterwards on the bank beneath the willow branches.

It was here, one afternoon, when the shadows were lengthening, that something happened for which I have tried to seek answers since. But still I have none. So I tell it as it was.

I had swum, and was lying naked on the slope, when I was roused from my half-sleep by the sound of footfalls kicking through the dry leaves. I listened with half an ear for Albinus's reedy voice summoning me; but no one called, and soon the footsteps ceased.

Somewhere above, a bird stirred in the branches. Then, close by, a female voice said, *Greetings, young satyr.'

I bolted upright. A crone was gazing down at me, her face dark and weathered like old wood, her sharp green eyes appraising me like a hawk's. She had spoken in British a" the ancient language of the land.

I looked for something to cover me, but my tunic was still on a rock beside the water. She chuckled at my confusion and eased herself down beside me, laying her rough-wood walking-stick across her lap.

*Who are you?' I demanded, embarrassed, and angry at being disturbed.

She looked over my naked body shamelessly, dwelling on my chest and legs and groin. She seemed ancient beyond measure; yet her eyes were quick and young, and oddly luminous, like moss caught in sunlight.

When she was ready she spoke, saying, *I keep this place.'

*You do not. It is the property of Lucius Balbus the merchant, or have you not heard?'

At this she merely laughed, which annoyed me.

*Where do you live?' I said sharply. *Where have you come from? Are you a servant of the house? I have not seen you there . . . Well? Why don't you answer?'

She spat casually on the ground beside me.

*It is you,' she said, *not I, who is the intruder here.' She paused. *Whom do you serve, satyr of the woods?'

*Why do you call me that?' And then, when she did not speak, *I serve no one. I am a free man.'

She laughed, and in a gesture that was almost girlish flicked her long grey hair back over her shoulders. *Then think again, child. We all serve, if we are wise. What matters is whom, and how.'

*You talk in riddles,' I cried.

But she ignored this, and began casting her eyes about among the shadows. *Have you seen her?' she said.

*Seen who?' I turned and stared uneasily at the trees. *Who else is here?' It disturbed me to think I was being watched, when all the time I had supposed I was alone.

*Why, the nymph whose pool this is. She comes and goes, but perhaps she has not yet shown herself to you.'

I had had enough of these ramblings. Clearly she was some wandering madwoman. With an angry gesture I made to stand and get my clothes. But as I moved she placed a restraining hand on my arm.

*No? Then you have not looked, or perhaps she is hiding from you. That would not surprise me, when I see how full of rage and movement you are. Will you not be still, and learn to listen and to see? The place is sacred, or have you not sensed that yet?'

She peered into my face, and after a moment nodded, adding, *But I see you have.'

She was right, and her insight tempered my anger. Now that she had spoken the words, I knew what it was that drew me to this hillside and this pool. Some ancient presence hung all about, like the scent of the soil and the old leaves.

*Yes,' she said, *you understand.'

I settled once more, forgetting my nakedness.

*Was it you,' I said, *who put the flowers on the stone?'

*Was it you,' she echoed back, *who broke them?' She smiled, then said, *But no; it was not you. It was your friend who lives at the house, the Christian one . . . But you are not Christian.'

*No,' I said, though she had not spoken the words as a question.

In London, Ambitus, who believed in nothing but the coin in his hand, had once said, when I asked him, that there were no gods but man's invention: foolish night-charms to ward off simple people's terrors. I had thought these words clever and true at the time. Now they seemed somehow callow, incomplete, a statement of more than I knew.

*I am sorry about the flowers,' I said.

She touched my hand. Her old fingers were soft, like a girl's. *I have seen the darkness you hide from; your guardian spirit, your daimon, has brought you here . . . Ha! No need to give me that city-boy look, as if the world had no surprises for you. You have much to learn.'

*I do not believe such things,' I said.

*Believe?' She blew through her nose. *Now you talk like a Christian. What does the lamp-flame care if the moth does not believe; or the mountain if no man ever climbs?' Suddenly she took her stick and stood, supporting herself on my shoulder as she pulled herself up. *Your daimon is waiting. It is woven into your destiny. Think on it, and come later to the hilltop.' She fixed my eye and added, *But come tonight, or do not come at all. There will be no second chance.' And with that she turned and scrambled off up the ridge, like some woodland creature.

Afterwards I sat still, glancing about at the deepening shadows, feeling myself observed. But I saw no one, and heard only birdsong, and the bubbling of the stream.

Eventually I padded down to the pool-edge and pulled on my tunic, then set off back to the house.

As I went, I tried to recall the crone; but somehow it was only her green eyes I could remember.

I woke with a start to light shining on my face. I was on my bed, fully clothed.

I blinked. For a moment I thought it was dawn; but what had woken me was the beam of the rising moon, shafting through the open window. I sat up and rubbed my face. It was time to go.

The window of my room let out onto a yard behind the ramshackle stables. I climbed onto the sill and eased myself down, then stepped along the gully between the house and stable wall.

The main gate had been locked for the night. There would be a watchman there. But I had already planned my route, and turning off the path I climbed onto an upturned cart that lay abandoned in the long grass beside the outer wall. From here it was easy to hoist myself onto the ledge and let myself down into the darkness on the other side.

I had known from the start that I should go. I had reasoned with myself, saying it was an ambush, that the harmless-seeming crone was a lure for bandits hiding somewhere in the woods, who planned to kidnap me for ransom, or sell me to the Hibernians, or merely kill me for the joy of it.

So I reasoned. But all the time I knew these arguments counted for nothing against the deeper undertow of mystery and promise.

Her words kept coming back to me, that she had seen the darkness in my soul. How did she know? It was the place I dared not look, the place beyond the hidden door. Yet she, a stranger, had seen. It was that which drew me on, like the moth she had spoken of, drawn to the flame.

A cloud crossed the disc of the moon. I hesitated, listening. The breeze stirred the undergrowth. Somewhere far off an owl called. I went on, moving silently, following the familiar track.

When I came to the clearing on the hilltop, where the mighty yew was, and the stone altar, I paused in the moon-shadow, scanning the open ground. No one was waiting.

I shook my head, thinking, *She is not here; did you suppose otherwise? You have come out to no purpose, searching after a madwoman.'

And yet I remained. The air was heavy with summer scent a" clover and wild thyme and moist tree bark. I drew a breath and stepped out into the exposed open of the clearing. If, as I half supposed, I was to be set upon, then this would be the time.

But nothing stirred. Beyond the yew the altar-stone shone like blue crystal in the moonlight. The wind had picked up. It moved in the high branches, sighing and shifting. Then, somewhere behind me, a voice said, *So you have come, young satyr.'

I swung round startled. *Where are you?' I called, staring about at the shadows. *Show yourself.'

For a moment there was nothing. Then, from the deep darkness between the tree-trunks, a figure stepped out. But it was not the old woman; it was a girl. She wore a long white tunic as bright as the altar-stone. It shimmered in the light as she moved; and below it her feet showed pale and bare. She was, I guessed, about my age. She was handsome in the way of the Britons, with a round open face, and long black hair that cascaded over her shoulders.

She smiled; but after all my nervousness I was in no mood to be toyed with.

*What is this?' I cried, grabbing her arm. *Where is the crone? Do you take me for a fool?'

She did not struggle from my grip; she merely looked down with disdain at my strong hand locked around her wrist.

*How like a man you are,' she said softly, *angry and afraid at what you do not comprehend. Are you going to hurt me?'

I released her, ashamed.

*No.'

*Then come; the moon is waiting.'

She skirted the spreading yew, sometimes reaching out and touching with her fingers the overhanging pin-like leaves and scaly bark, as if the tree were something that must be mollified and soothed.

I followed, keeping my eyes warily upon her, until, at the side of the altar, she halted. I turned and glanced at the great flat stone. Then I started back with a cry. Lying on the slab, surrounded by a dark shimmering pool of blood, a cock-bird lay dead, its throat cut.

I drew an angry breath. The sight of the dead creature had shaken me, bringing out all my pent-up fears of the night. But before I could speak she reached out and touched a finger to my lips, silencing me.

*Understand,' she said, *there are times when the gods demand a death, the loss of some precious thing. Put your fear aside, satyr of the woods. It is as it has always been.'

She took a step forward, gesturing for me to approach, and as she moved the moonlight touched her face. Only then did I notice her eyes.

They were luminous green. Like moss.

I gathered my wits, telling myself it was nothing. There was no mystery a" how could there be? She was the crone's granddaughter, that was all; or some other of the bloodline, part of some peasant country priesthood handed down through the ages.

I swallowed, suppressing a shudder, determined to hide my fear. Then I stepped up to the blood-spattered altar, as she wanted.

She reached out and ran her hand over my nose and along the line of my mouth, parting my lips until her fingers touched my teeth. *You shake,' she whispered. She reached then into a small leather purse at her waist, and from her closed hand scattered barley and tiny yellow flower petals over the stone. Above me, the yew branches creaked in the breeze. She looked to the sky. *It is almost time. Take off your clothes; go to the pool and wash, and then return.' And, seeing my face, she added in a voice of infinite tenderness, *Dispel your fear. It is what you came for, though you did not know it.'

Silently, without comment or protest, I obeyed her command. When I returned, naked and dripping, her hands were outstretched and, as I drew closer, I heard she was intoning a charm or a prayer, speaking in some lilting melodic tongue, part British, part something else, far older, which I could not follow.

She fell silent, then said, *The god has chosen. She has been waiting for you.'

I stared at her. Water was running from my wet hair and into my eyes. I wiped it away with the back of my hand.

*Who?' I whispered. *What god?'

She raised her eyes and gazed up between the branches, to where the brilliant moon shone down.

*She goes by many names. Luna or Selene or Diana; sister to the Sun and to Dawn, daughter of ancient Hyperion, last of the Titans. You have sought the Mother, and she has found you.' She dipped her finger in the black blood, and reaching out traced a line from my throat, slowly down my chest and stomach to my groin.

Suddenly then I caught my breath. Fire surged through my innards. My thoughts ceased and it seemed I cried out loud. My being was nowhere, or everywhere, fleeing with the moon-shadows. I closed my eyes, and felt the touch of lips on mine. I rose to meet her, my body like a light-filled vessel, caught in a place outside time.

The moon had shifted when next I spoke. I was lying on the grass, looking up at the night sky between the treetops.

*Are you the water-nymph?' I whispered, touching her face. *Are you my daimon come to find me?'

She leant over me and shook her head, and her long hair fell over my chest, soft on my skin.

*Not I,' she said, smiling. *But your daimon is with you now, and you will hear her, if you listen. She comes in dreams, or speaks through signs, or shows herself in mortal men. For each it is different, but you will learn the ways to bring her close.'

Eventually, though I did not wish it, I must have slept. I woke to birdsong, and the half-light of dawn. I called for the girl, and my voice sounded raw and strange, like some other man's. But she was gone, and no answer came. After a while I walked back to the altar, expecting to see the dead cock-bird there. But the slab was clean as when I had first seen it.

Then, as I turned, something caught my eye and I looked down.

At my feet, bright among the crushed grass, yellow petals lay scattered like specks of gold. And on my naked chest, with the contour of my muscle, there was a dark dry line of blood.

The hot, close weather broke in a night of wind and thunder. Each day I went up to the hill and the altar, or waited by the pool; but I encountered no one.

I questioned the servants, asking if there was a settlement nearby. There was not; only their own simple huts behind the house, and those of the neighbouring landowner some way off. Nor had they seen anyone of the description I gave.

Then, a quarter-month later, after I had run out of ideas and ceased to look, I walked out under the gateway and saw in the distance on the path an old woman. She was dressed in a hooded cloak, and stood gazing out across the overgrown fields, leaning on a rough-wood stick.

I ran, and though she must have heard my footfalls she did not turn. But when I was close she said in a soft, amused voice, *Greetings, young satyr.'

*Where have you been?' I cried. *Where is the girl?'

With no warning her hand darted out from beneath her cloak and locked with a grip like iron around my wrist.

*What is it you seek, boy? An end to mystery? Have you learned nothing at all?'

She paused, studying my face from under the dark shadow of her pulled-up cloak. Then, with a grunt, she released my arm. *What you had, you had. Think on it. Forget the girl; she is gone.' Then she made a luck sign over me, and with a laugh she turned and hurried off.

I stood rubbing my wrist, watching until she had disappeared into the dark forest beyond the fields.