But, as Joanna had sat alone in the forest clearing in front of the hut, staring into her own little fire and singing a soft chant to the Sun as he turned in his path and began the long, slow journey north again, her new people had not forgotten her. Margaret — Meggie, as Joanna had started to call her — was sound asleep inside the hut, well fed, snug and warm in her fur-lined cradle. There was a deep sense of peace in the glade. Joanna, breathing deeply of the smoke from the herbs she had cast on to her fire, had felt her eyelids growing heavy.
Then she sensed that someone was watching her.
Over on the far side of the clearing, in the thicket of hazel and brambles beyond Joanna’s herb bed, she could make out a dim shape. Tall — taller than most men — and broad. Dark — the whole of him was dark.
She opened her eyes wide, then looked slightly to the side, a trick she had learned to help with night vision. The figure was still vague, but now it seemed that she could make out two deep, dark eyes watching her. And she thought she heard a low, rumbling growl.
She was not afraid. Awe-struck — for she believed that she knew what this strange creature was — but not afraid. Very slowly and carefully she got to her feet and stood up straight, shoulders squared, to await his approach.
He came on out of the shadow of the trees, a dark being made, it seemed to her entranced eyes, of the very substance of the secret forest. The black, pointed muzzle was raised as he sniffed at her, the small ears erect on the rounded head. He was, she realised, taking her in with all his senses.
One great forepaw was raised, as if in greeting. With stirrings of real alarm, she saw the five long, sharp, curved claws. There is nothing to fear, she told herself. He is not what he seems, and he will not hurt me.
Then it seemed that the man animal smiled at her, with a human mouth. Perhaps he picked up both her moment of apprehension and the fortitude that followed, for now his approach was swift and suddenly he was right in front of her, between her and the light of her fire.
She said very softly, ‘Welcome to my hearth. You honour me with your presence.’ Then, prompted by something too profound, too ancient for her to comprehend, she gave him a deep bow.
She felt hands — hands? Clawed paws? — on her shoulders as he raised her up. She made herself stare up into the strange face that was sometimes a muzzle thickly covered in dark brown fur, sometimes the features of a man with delight in his dark eyes that sparkled with firelight.
Which was peculiar, she thought afterwards, since he had stood with his back to the flames.
A voice said, speaking directly inside her head, This is your place, child of Anu. And, spreading throughout her whole being, she felt such a joy that she had never dreamed existed. Weak with longing — for what, she did not know — she leaned towards him and smelt on him the scent of the forest, of greenery that never died, of the deep Earth that received back into herself every living thing that gave up its life beneath the trees.
She thought she heard him laugh, a rich, stirring sound that made her want to laugh too. Swaying against him, she felt the thick pelt brush her arm. She stood like that for some time, as if frozen inside a moment. Then she was aware that he had gone.
In the morning she would have thought it was a dream, the wonderful, generous gift of a very special trance because she was on her own and could not celebrate with the others. But, as she raked up the ashes of her fire and set the hearthstones ready for the next time, she found something on the ground.
It was a claw.
It is his gift, she thought, holding it in her hands and feeling its essence enter through her skin. He left it here for me, that I should keep a very small part of him with me.
Later, when Meggie had been fed, bathed, comforted, cuddled, told a story — Joanna did not think it mattered that her daughter did not understand the words; she certainly understood the love behind them — Joanna put her back into her cradle and carefully closed the door of the hut. The babe would soon be asleep, she knew, and would not miss her mother’s presence for a little while. Then Joanna took her knife, her flint, her chalice and a short, thin length of hide that she had recently cured and went down to the brook that ran close to her glade.
She followed it back upstream until she came to the spring that bubbled out from a large sandstone outcrop. Here the water was as clear as light, icy-cold and smelling faintly of the Earth from which it issued. Joanna rinsed out her chalice and filled it with fresh water, then washed her knife and the length of hide. Finding a reasonably flat piece of ground, she put the chalice down and, beside it, heaped up a handful of moss, some dead, dry leaves and some twigs for a small fire. She lit the kindling with her flint and when the little fire was burning to her satisfaction, she dried her knife by holding it in the flames and then cut off a length of hide, long enough to slip over her head when knotted. Then, picking up the claw, she put it into the chalice.
There was flesh on the thick end of the claw. It was fresh; as it lay in the water, some blood flowed out of it, staining the water red. Joanna began to chant; a long string of words that seemed to come to her lips at another’s prompting. Some time later, she took the clean claw out of the water and dried it in the flames.
Then she tied the leather thong tightly around the thick end of the claw, winding it round several times and tying it with a knot. She was good at knots; Mag had taught her well. Mag had had a knot for every occasion and they did not come undone.
Joanna put the claw on its cord around her neck.
There were, she had been told, silversmiths among her people, great craftsmen who understood the nature of the metal and worked it with rare skill. If ever she had the good fortune to meet one, she vowed, she would ask him to set her claw in a silver mount and make her a silver chain. Whatever he asked in return, she would gladly give it.
She emptied the blooded water from her chalice on to the ground, returning both blood and water to the Earth. She gave heartfelt thanks for her gift as she did so.
When the forest people came back from their Yule feasting, Joanna told Lora about the encounter. ‘It was a gesture of great kindness,’ she told the older woman, ‘for him to have left the festival just to come and see me. I hope he wasn’t away from the celebrations for long — I should not like to think that he missed anything for my sake. And his bear mask and cloak were really wonderful — he even smelt like a bear!’
Lora barely answered. Instead she gave Joanna a long, considering look and what appeared to be a brief nod, as if something she had suspected might happen had just in fact occurred. Allowing Joanna no time to ponder on this, she had straight away said, ‘Come on, my girl, we’ve got work to do — if you’re to be ready for the next festival, there’s much you still have to learn.’
Throughout December and much of January, Joanna had learned herb lore, charms, simples and the treatment of wounds until her head seemed so packed that it ought to burst. She learned the ways of her people, their beliefs, their relationship with the deity. Not everything was new, for both her old friend Mag and, latterly, Lora had already taught her much. She worked tirelessly, for she knew that Lora, as the person presenting her to the people, would be held responsible if Joanna were deemed unready. Or — frightening thought — unsuitable.