It was just another day, I was walking through the forest on my way to some assignation on the other side of the river. Nothing unusual, the forest was dark as ever, the clearings were far between, and around each one a few songbirds were doing their morning routines. My staff helped when I had to step over the fallen logs, and kept me from slipping on the moss, and the sack over my shoulder was light... after all, how much does a poet need to travel with? When the people are gathered in the mead hall, waiting to listen, there's not much beyond just one's presence and voice: no props, no instruments, just the ancient stories I learned long ago. It's an easy way to make a living these days. Life has been peaceful for years.
It does get a little quiet in the forest sometimes, walking for miles alone, and it's slow going. I was listening to the sounds of the woods: the birds, the squirrels chattering, here and there in the distance a dog barking near a cottage. There's never anything new. But then, I thought I heard a voice, a melody. I moved more slowly, I could actually make out a few words of sweet singing. A woman's voice, and a song I never heard before. I thought I knew them all, but this was something different, something ancient, I could only catch enough to tell it wasn't in any modern tongue. I stopped. I tried to listen, to hear where the voice was coming from. It echoed through the woods, but if I turned west I could hear it better. I walked slowly towards it.
Since the ground was covered with ferns, I knew I must be getting close to a clearing. Yes: ahead, a few rays of sunlight came down through the branches. The singing was clearer now, the voice louder. Strange: the birdsong had stopped. It was like the sparrows and warblers were listening to her sing. I slowed down, and looked around me. The clearing was just ahead. I crept closer, and bent low when I got to the tree line. Peeking around an old oak trunk, I surveyed the scene.
She was standing in the middle of a small circular meadow, with the sunlight falling all around her. It was so bright, my eyes seemed to deceive me, and I thought of moving back a little into the woods. But I was drawn to that voice, I almost couldn't resist leaning closer. But I didn't want her to see me, she might have stopped, or even run away.
And I didn't want her to run: she was lovely: dark hair down past her shoulders, her skin white in the sunlight, her lips as red as the blood of a raven. She was wearing a dark cloak, with a clasp in a style I'd only seen a few times, the kind old wise women wore when they were curing their patients with the herbs they grew. Such things aren't made these days, they're passed down from mother to daughter, this one must have been generations old. Is it true that they carry the magic of the women who've worn them, building through time? I don't know, all I could tell was that it showed two falcons wrestling, as if they'd clasped talons in flight. But I was much more interested in her song.
