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Sgorr,’ said Eloin, ‘you must promise me not to harm Bhreac or Blindweed. They’re old. They can do nothing to you.’
    Sgorr peered back into Eloin’s huge, proud eyes. Again he felt that strange confusion.
    ‘Such tenderness,’ he said. ‘Perhaps one day I too may hope to receive a little of it myself?’
    Eloin’s eyes flickered.
    ‘Perhaps,’ she nodded bitterly.
    ‘Very well, then. Release them. It is time we were at the Home Oak’.
    With that the Draila surrounded Eloin and, with Sgorr at her side, they led her away. As Eloin ran she felt as though her heart was being torn out. To leave little Rannoch with another doe was almost more than she could bear. But then she thought of Brechin and the sadness overwhelmed her.
    ‘There’s one thing I swear,’ she whispered between her teeth, ‘by Herne and by the ancient Lore. I shall never have a calf again.’
    As the group were crossing the valley they passed Bandach’s body lying still on the bloodied ground. Bandach, who had won them time to take Rannoch over to Bracken. Time to explain a little of what was happening. Time for Blindweed to drag Bracken’s dead fawn to Eloin’s side.
    ‘Thank you,’ whispered Eloin.
    On the meadow two old deer were standing stock-still and a new-born fawn was nuzzling up to a bewildered hind. Bracken shook her head sadly as she watched Eloin being taken away. She had only just learnt the terrible pain of loss that a hind can feel for her young. She looked down at her own dead calf in the grass and quickly looked away.
    ‘I don’t understand any of this,’ she said softly, but with that she felt a strong, new life tugging at her belly and, though she knew that this little fawn at her milk wasn’t her own, she felt the powerful forces of maternal love rising inside her.
    ‘Eloin will be all right, Bracken,’ whispered Bhreac. The old deer turned to Blindweed.
    ‘Come, you old fool,’ she said. ‘Let’s get Bracken and Rannoch away from here. Blindweed. Blindweed?’ But Blindweed wasn’t listening.
    He was looking at Bracken and the tiny fawn with a smear of mud across his forehead.
    ‘What? What’s that you say?’ said Bhreac.
    ‘Changeling child shall be his fate,’ muttered Blindweed.
    ‘It’s the Prophecy. The Prophecy.’

3 The Edge of the Trees
    Give it an understanding, but no tongue. William Shakespeare, ‘Hamlet’
    So autumn came. The bees broke their honeycombs with sweetness and the apple began to drip on the stem, fattening with burrowing grubs that bruised its skin to ochre. Petals fell and, on the stirring earth, turned sickly with their scent, until every Lera that understood the seasons caught a warning breath on the breeze.
    In a meadow on the edge of the home valley two fawns, little more than four months old, were running through the grass. They had both lost their white spots and their coats were no longer woolly. They tossed their heads gleefully as they ran, full of excitement at being allowed to wander so far from their mothers’ sides. But as they came to the bottom of the meadow a third fawn called to them. He too had lost the snow leaves on his back.
    ‘Hey. Wait for me,’ he shouted and was preparing to launch himself after them when a grown-up voice called him back.
    ‘Rannoch. Rannoch. Where are you going?’ called the hind sternly. It was Bracken.
    The calf’s ears dropped and he hesitated. Then, dejectedly, he turned and walked slowly back to his mother who was grazing by some ferns.
    ‘Tain and Thistle are going to the tree stump, Mamma,’ said Rannoch, wagging his tail enthusiastically, ‘and I want to show them. . .’
    The little deer raised his head expectantly.
    ‘Not today, Rannoch,’ said Bracken. The hind looked about her nervously.
    ‘The tree stump’s a long way off for such little legs and evening isn’t so far away. You know I don’t like you wandering off.’
    ‘But, Mamma, the other fawns are allowed to play on their own. Why must I always