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begins to change between us when I am about thirteen winters old. In just a few months, I grow until I stand nose to nose with her. I no longer want to sit on her lap. Sometimes I hide in order to be alone or dally behind when we are walking together. I speak rudely to her, then look away so I will not see the hurt in her eyes. If she tries to soothe me with stories, I say that I am tired of her old tales.
    Now I see that even Mother’s nature is mixed. She is the twining ivy that holds fast to what it grows upon, sometimes choking it. I want to be free of her. But how? Everything in nature depends upon something else. How could I survive on my own?
    Thus I am tied to my mother and to Helwain as well. She and I are like two rams butting heads until our horns lock together. She stares at me with hard eyes and demands to know what is in my head. I stare back and refuse to tell her. When Mother is not around, she presses me harder still.
    “The warrior with the painted arms we met on the moor. Do you ever see him in your thoughts?”
    A noise like a hive of bees fills my ears. I do not want to remember that night. I press my fingers to my eyelids to keep away the dreadful images.
    “Why do you ask me? I have nothing to do with him!”
    Helwain picks up her heavy scrying stone and sets it on the table before me.
    “Look and tell me, what will he do?”
    The stone is round, with facets of shining quartz that scatter the light in a thousand directions. I close my eyes.
    “I do not care about the future. You cannot make me see it.”
    But Helwain takes my head, forcing my nose to the stone.
    “What . . . will . . . he . . . do?” she repeats. Her arms tremble as I push back against them. I am surprised by her strength.
    “I don’t know!” With a thrust of my hands, I send the scrying stone tumbling into the fire. The ashes and embers scatter and thick smoke billows up.
    “Cursed child, spawn of wickedness!” Helwain shouts, slapping me across the face. “Ungrateful wretch!”
    “I hate you—you foul witch!” I shout back, coughing on the smoke.
    I run from the house and into the sheepfold, where I curl up with the lambs. Their warmth stops my trembling. But I can still hear Helwain screaming.
    “She hoards the Sight! She will destroy, when she could save!”
    I begin to weep silently. I know my nature now. My heart is colder than the loch-water with hatred of Helwain. I am the cruel mockingbird, the bitter wormwood, the wrathful destroying fire. There is nothing good in me.

    “What do I see? A new ewe in the flock!”
    The cheerful voice awakens me and I sit up, rubbing my eyes. My cheeks are stiff with dried tears, and flecks of hay fall out of my hair. Colum leans on a staff, regarding me with his head tilted to the side. He wears a tunic cinched with a belt, sheepskin leggings, a pointed cap, and a bundle on his back. A waterskin, a slingshot, a pipe, and a horn hang from a strap across his chest.
    “What did you do that your ma made you sleep out here?” he asks.
    “No, the question is, why are you here?”
    “It is Beltane, the first of May, and I am taking your sheep to the summer pasture, remember?”
    Scrambling to my feet, I stumble against Colum, for my leg has gone numb. “I’m coming with you,” I decide just then.
    At the doorway of the roundhouse, Mother looks up; she knows. Without a word she gathers my clothing, a blanket, and food, including a small bag of oats and a honeycomb. Helwain is asleep, snoring like a dragon.
    “I will walk with you as far as Pitdarroch,” Mother says, putting on her cloak.
    Colum, whistling, leads the sheep, all crowding each other on the path out of the Wychelm Wood. Mother and I follow. I don’t know what to say that will not offend her. I wish she would try and persuade me to stay or at least hold my hand. But there is only silence and a space between us. When we come to the oak tree, the sun is rising, tangling us in the long shadows of its gnarled