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horsemen, and women too, in pink coats, all thundering hooves and sweaty, nervous horses and baying dogs. They scared the goats and the sheep and the sick animals in the hospital.
    They scared us, too, with their lashing words and the way some of them looked at us, looked us over. I’d never realised before in quite that way that we were all of us women in the community. I didn’t think the pink-coated, purple-faced women would be much help.
    My hands were shaking, and I’m not at all sure how much of that was rage and how much fright.
    All I could think was No, no, no.
    But I couldn’t do a thing.
    Then from somewhere sprang a frightened rabbit, white tail bobbing madly as it tried to run for safety.
    Somebody raised a gun, and laughed.
    â€˜ No ! ’ I roared. The bullet stopped in mid-flight.
    Nobody moved.
    Nothing moved.
    Nothing at all.
    I scooped up the rabbit and held it for a moment, feeling its rapid heartbeat.
    When I set it down, I caught a movement at the edge of the trees. It was somebody walking. Coming towards us.
    A woman, older than me, quite a bit older, plump and sunburnt; walking with long, easy strides.
    She took in the scene in front of her, stopped at one of the hunters and snapped her fingers in his face. He made no move.
    She laughed.
    I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
    I swear the trees rustled and whispered although the wind never stirred, and everything around me sang, blackbirds and skylarks and nightingales and wrens and banshees, and the vixens in the hills shrieked and howled with joy.
    I knew who she was.
    I had spent half my life waiting for her. I had never entirely stopped dreaming about her.

    D
    I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was a blazing fire. Sparks flew from her hair and her finger tips. Her eyes shone brighter than the sunlight.
    I leapt into the flames.

    We left the hunters where they were. The horses and dogs had woken up soon enough and wandered away, bemused but unharmed. The hunters had been turned to stone.
    Learned people are even now travelling to the remote spot and writing about the discovery of a hitherto unknown stone circle in the hills of North Wales. Some of the more enlightened ones ask the women in what they call the New Age community nearby whether the stones hold any religious significance for them, and the women speak of a miracle.
    Then they laugh at the scientists who try to explain to them about rope pulleys and slides and wooden rollers.

    She’s teasing me for my old-fashioned language. But darling, I say. What do you expect? I have been living alone for so long. I was born back in the Dark Ages. I am an old woman.
    Not that old, she replies, laughing, and kisses me. Not that old.

Arganhell
    Sixth century

    Arganhell, or Arianell, was the daughter of a man of royal family in the early sixth century, in Gwent. She was said to have been possessed by an evil spirit and was kept in bonds by her family for fear she would throw herself into the river or into the fire; and to keep her from biting and tearing her clothes and the people about her. Her illness was cured by St Dyfrig (St Dubricius) who cast out the evil spirit. After her miraculous recovery Arganhell devoted herself to God for the rest of her life.
    There is a stream in Monmouthshire that was once called Arganhell.

You are Arganhell.
    I know that because you answer when I call you, although I cannot understand what you are saying. You talk to me. They take the body out here every day and tie it down so that it does not move, and then they go away and I don’t see them again until evening.
    You are Arganhell. You talk to me and sometimes you throw glinting lights into the body’s eyes that dazzle them so that they can’t see. Your waters mumble and sigh and rush over the stones, they tinkle and they laugh; but their laughter does not hurt. People’s laughter hurts and I want to hurt them back. I want to cut their throats to stop the laughter