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below, outside. How odd their
shine should find their way into my high bedroom.
    Eventually, I raised myself and
threw on a robe, belting it as I descended the cold stone steps beyond my room.
But not even the unforgiving stairwell felt sinister today. I could sense the
land stretching and awakening around me, beyond the stone. Tantalising perfumes
skimmed like dragonflies beneath my nose; the scents of the season.
    In my kitchen, I prepared myself
a plate of scrambled eggs, cooked in rich, yellow butter. Rinawne had also
supplied bread, wrapped in linen, which had been baked in the kitchen of the
Mynd. From this loaf I cut two thick slices and also slathered them with the
butter. Then I made tea, dark and strong. Perfect.
    While I ate, I gazed out of the
window opposite me. I could see beyond the green-hazy trees the low-slung
buildings of the farm. The only tall one was the barn. A couple of figures were
moving around, engrossed in their morning duties. Later I would call on them.
    I had left my notebook on the
table, along with a pencil, and now wrote upon the first page:
    Cuttingtide rite. Begin with
awakening. The sounds and scent. Dehar of the green. A song.
    Then I ate some more of my
breakfast.
     
    I didn’t know precisely when Rinawne intended to
call for me, but by the time I’d finished eating and had dressed, I wanted to
visit the farm. I resolved to leave a note for Rinawne. This I pinned to the
door, with one of the sharp little black tacks I found in a jar in a kitchen
cupboard: ‘Seeing about the regular slaughter of chickens below. Will be
back shortly or meet you there. Ysobi.’
    Already I felt absorbed by this
landscape. Pinning up my note was like leaving a message for a friend I’d known
for a long time.
    While a wider path wound around
the hill up to the tower, there was also a straight track down to the farm.
This was steep, little more than a gully, mulchy with last autumn’s leaves.
Green shoots were pushing through the earth all around me. Another image
flashed across my mind, and I got out my notebook. Dehar rising from the
earth, growing like a plant.
    Once the path evened out, it
widened, leading to the main yard of the farm. I was surprised by the
shabbiness of the place, somehow expecting every archetypal feature of this
land to be shining and perfect, a dream of what it should be.
    As I drew nearer, a noisy ruckus
broke out, of what sounded now like four dozen hounds or more. Some were
yapping, some uttering unearthly howls. I also heard the occasional threatening
growl, but the dogs were out of sight. In response to this alarm, a har emerged
from the farmhouse, the back door of which was open. He was a strange-looking
specimen, thin and tall, with lank, light brown hair hanging past his
shoulders. He was dressed in a woollen tunic and baggy trousers tucked into
boots, and over this he wore a grubby knee-length apron, once white, now grey
and also stained suspiciously across the chest and skirt with rusty patches. He
was drying his hands on a surprisingly clean white towel.
    ‘Yes?’ he demanded. At the sound
of his voice, the dogs fell quiet.
    I inclined my head. ‘Good
morning, tiahaar. I am Ysobi har Jesith, and I’m staying at the tower...’ I
turned and gestured back up the hill.
    The har followed the line of my
arm as if he’d never noticed the tower before. ‘What of it?’
    ‘Tiahaar Rinawne suggested I
speak to you about ordering a regular supply of dairy produce and meat. I
understand it’s acceptable for this to be charged to tiahaar Wyva’s account.’ I
groaned inwardly. Why when I tried to put hara at ease did such stuffy, formal
phrases drop from my lips.
    The har narrowed his eyes at me,
the ghost of a smile haunting his lips. ‘You’re that hienama,’ he said.
    ‘Yes.’ I shut my mouth before
another pompous set of words escaped.
    ‘Blue or white cheese?
    ‘Both would be... I like both.’
    ‘Milk with the cream on? Pint a
day?’
    ‘Yes, and a chicken