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third and fourth birth day at the time, and I was able to walk the distance, though slowly. The day had dawned misty, but mild, and we took baskets to gather the mushrooms and fruits as we went. The season of bounty, which carried with it only the slightest breath of worry about the coming winter. Time enough to gather what we would need, to fatten the beasts and weave warm woollen coverings. The season was one of merrymaking, giving thanks for the harvest and savouring the deep blue skies.
    We reached the great hall as the people were seating themselves. Fires were blazing at both ends and children running wildly up and down, tossing hips and haws at each other. Their mothers gossiped comfortably and I looked about for familiar faces. Edd and I were outsiders from choice. When we had first come together, we had recognised that element each in the other. The high moors called us, away from human voices and battles. The village was crowded and busy at that time, with a festival every full moon, as well as songs and dances and dream-telling between times. We had turned away from the noise and hustle of it all, and had no regrets, but it was a joy just the same to be part of such a night as this.
    Spenna saw me and waved. There was a space close by her. ‘There,’ I said to Edd, nudging him with my elbow. ‘We can sit there.’ He hesitated at the sight of my friend, sighed and then followed me. Cuthie had been drowsy as we walked, but now he revived and began to show an inclination to join the other children. Wynn was more reluctant, and I saw for the first time what we were making of her - an outcast like ourselves, but with no choice of her own in the matter.
    â€˜You can go and play for a while,’ I said to her. ‘The stories won’t begin yet.’ She hung closer to me at that, one shoulder attached to my hip as if by tight thongs, a thumb in her mouth, acting like a much younger child. Wordlessly, she shook her head. Cuthie was very different. After a careful inspection of the crowded smoky stone-built hall, he trotted purposefully towards a group of boys much his own age.
    â€˜Watch him,’ I warned Edd. ‘Or he’ll be lost.’ Edd just nodded, and cracked another cobnut between his teeth.
    Some men were standing in a group, arms folded, waiting. One called over his shoulder, ‘Be ’ee coming, Bran? Or be it all merely a great prank?’ I couldn’t see whether Bran was really there behind him. But a drummer came in, and began to beat a rhythm which silenced us all. Then a piper played, and we knew from the tune that Bran was going to tell us a tale about Geat. Edd gave a whoop of satisfaction.
    â€˜â€˜Tis my favourite,’ he grinned. ‘Geat and the three maidens.’
    â€˜Could be Geat and his mother,’ I argued. ‘That’s the one I like best.’
    Spenna leaned over, her black eyes sparkling. ‘‘Tis Geat and Mathild,’ she hissed, as the hall fell silent. ‘Don’t you hear the tune? The part where he sees her beneath the water.’ The piper was playing the trilling liquid notes which conjured a river in my mind. I nodded at my friend. That was a fine story, and much longer than the one which told of Geat’s struggle to be a harper, against his mother’s wishes. I recalled the first time the village heard it, when a light-haired traveller came from the east, and stayed for five or six months, unfolding story after story, long and intricate, concerning Beowulf and Grendel and the tribe of Geats.
    Edd settled himself on my other side, a bag of chaff underneath us both for padding. Wynn nestled in her father’s lap, head lolled against his chest. It was plain she would hear little of the story. ‘Where’s Cuthie?’ I asked. ‘You’re meant to be watching out for him.’
    â€˜There he is,’ Spenna pointed. I could see the little head with its curls amongst a crowd of