Several centuries ago, in rural England...
"Where've you got to, you daft beast?"
Brendan cursed as he ducked under an overhanging branch, battling his way through the thick undergrowth of the dark forest. Thorns snagged at the thick wool of his cloak. Twigs brushed his arms like skeletal fingers as he stumbled onwards through the growing gloom.
With a squelch his right foot sank into a patch of mire -- ground ever more sodden than the rest of this damp and overgrown wood. He tugged his boot free then cursed again as a wet and mouldy leaf slapped him right across the eye.
God, this was a fool's errand! He should just turn around now, before it got any darker -- return to the crippled Richard who was watching the rest of the flock in the open field by the big oak. Yes, Godfrey might throw him back out onto the road for losing the animal, but that was still better than falling and breaking his ankle in this treacherous tangle.
How unfair life was, he thought, that he was back doing boy's work. Just because he had struck back at Davies, the blacksmith, when the old fool had clipped him round the ear for letting the furnace cool. Wasn't a lad allowed to day dream about the lasses from time to time? It wasn't fair! It was hardly
his
fault that the doddering half-wit had fallen and cracked his skull on the anvil then gone into some kind of fit and died a week later. It had been an accident. Surely anyone could see that? But the men of the village had been set against him anyway, suspecting him of being free and easy with their daughters, and the word was that come the next manor court day he'd be sent to town to face the assizes and most likely the gallows.
So he'd run. For three days and three nights, until he was faint from starvation, exhausted and desperate.
He'd been damned lucky to find someone willing to take him in -- someone who needed help badly enough that they were ready take a chance with a complete stranger, so long as he looked able to work. Food and a lice-ridden straw pallet in the barn was all he was getting from Godfrey, but he'd managed to sneak a few extra lumps of cheese and bread, preparing a stash that would see him over the Welsh border to safety as soon as his strength was back.
And now one errant sheep threatened his plan. He wondered whether to go back to Godfrey's smallholding and throw himself on the old man's mercy again, or retrieve his stash and sneak away without anyone knowing.
Or maybe he should head straight for the village and join in the All Hallows Eve celebrations first, dancing round the fires that were meant to scare off the shades of the dead before creeping -- a last evening of revelry before creeping away once everyone else was senseless with drink and heading out on the road again under cover or darkness. Maybe he'd even manage to talk one of the girls into taking a walk with him to the grove beyond the meadow; a last night of fun before he had to go. Love 'em and leave 'em: that had always been his way.
He smiled to himself as he turned, taking what he guessed to be the most direct route back to the village, along a narrow dell where a sluggish stream trickled between the tree roots. Perhaps he had a chance with Clemence? She'd smiled at him when she thought no-one else was looking. Or maybe Emma...?
He was so busy pondering whether the redhead or the brunette's hair would look best spread across the grass below him that he almost missed the flash of off-white between the trees far to his left.
Was it the thrice-devil-damned sheep he'd been trying to catch for the last half hour? The glimpse was gone before he could make it out properly, but finding the animal would solve all his problems for the now so he left the stream-bed and set off deeper into the wood to follow.
There it was again! Closer, now, Brendan could see the shape was too tall to be a sheep but once again it flitted behind a tree trunk out of sight before he could make out anything more.
He stumbled closer. Suddenly there was movement from behind a tree, off to his left this time. Some fifty yards away, in the failing light, a white-clad knee poked out. Then, slowly, teasingly, a leg unfolded, draped in a long skirt of unbleached wool cloth. And, from what he could make out, a young, shapely leg too!
There was a giggle, too brief for him to recognise the voice, then a face peeked round the side of the trunk. She wore a mask, as was traditional on All Hallows Eve to conceal the identity of revellers from any vengeful shades looking for those who had wronged them. It covered all of her face from cheekbones to brow, where her linen cap took over, concealing her hair so that he didn't even have that as a clue to her identity.
She giggled again, drawing a lazy circle with her foot before nipping back behind the tree trunk out of sight, leaving the astonished Brendan standing frozen as her laughter faded into the undergrowth.
With a shake of his head he threw off his momentary paralysis. Grinning, he set off up the slope towards the ridge she seemed to have disappeared over, stumbling over roots and fallen branches in the growing gloom.
Just as he topped the rise, he tripped and fell. His shoulder hit a tree trunk with a painful whack, sending him toppling sideways onto the slippery, leaf-strewn forest floor, his ankle screaming with agony as he went over it. He threw out an arm to brace his fall, only for it to jar painfully too, and then he was rolling over, sliding down the slope, gaining speed, crashing through bushes, collecting twigs and mud as he went, thorns ripping his hands as he reached out in panic at every branch he hit, trying to arrest his fall.
Then, with a sodden squelch, he stopped short. It took a moment for his dizzied vision to clear, and then he realised he was sat in a muddy puddle at the foot of the ridge, cold and filthy water seeping through the seat of his britches.
And the mystery girl was standing over him, her mouth curled upwards in amusement.
"Who... who are you?" he began, but she raised a finger over her lips to shush him. Then she held out her hand to help him up.
Grasping her arm, Brendan used his other hand to heave himself out of the puddle, his feet working to propel himself clear of the gloop.
Suddenly, before he'd regained his balance, she let go, snatching her hand away, letting him fall back onto a low hummock a yard or so clear of the water. She laughed again as his sodden breeches squelched.
Annoyed, now, Brendan tried to lift himself up off his back but she reached out with a foot to push him back down.
"What...?" he began.
"My, oh my," the girl teased. "Not the dapper ladies' man I remember, now, are you?"
That voice, bubbling like a stream cascading over rocks, seemed familiar. Her figure too, concealed by her workaday dress though it was.
"Don't you remember me?" she asked. "Last All Hallows Eve, behind the haystacks in Footroad Meadow?"
