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Gwen believed she had two theories why they died.

The men were in their thirties; all enjoyed drinking far too much and all were pranksters of the first order.  There was little doubt in her mind that they were all drunk and decided to play silly buggers. That was theory one. Theory two was more complex.

Mary Carfax was the widow of the other man, Robert. Mary found out that Robert was cheating on her with a wealthy widow called June Hanford.  She’d even been to June, told her to leave her husband alone, only to be rebuffed and mocked by the latter.

Gwen wouldn’t put it past Mary to use her father’s boat, a considerably larger boat, to ram the offending husband’s boat, as a lesson in marital etiquette. When the men died, Mary was excessively bereft, in Gwen’s opinion, so much so that she took an overdose of tranquilisers and thereby, her own life within a few weeks of the inquest.

Gwen never remarried, as she was comfortably well off, thanks to her parents’ will and her late husband’s insurance.  She brought the girls up alone, saw them into employment and recently into decent marriages and was now left to follow her own destiny.

Some in the town called her ‘fey Gwen’.  There was an opinion amongst some locals that Gwen had some form of insight into the supernatural.  She was certainly an authority on the old legends of the area, which was steeped in folklore and superstition at the best of times. The local vicar would avoid her studiously after one attempt to cajole her into church.

Gwen followed her own faith, a mixture of the old Celtic religion and early Christian teachings. God to her was a sort of Earth mother, who was inherently good.  Man assisted the evil side by encouraging sin in everyday life. Earth, nature and goodness were lined up against evil and man’s nasty side. She had no difficulty reconciling the basic Christian ideals and even the person of Christ with her idea as to the nature of God.

She just had a real problem with the hypocrisy of the church and many of its priests.  Supposedly, good Christian men and women were the worst at judging when they were told not to judge, the slowest at loving the unlovable, the worst at storing earthly treasures and living secret lives. The rumours abounded, some believing she was a pagan priestess or witch.  The truth was far from the rumours.

Gwen dreamed. Not that dreaming was unusual, but her dreams were. She dreamed of a land long forgotten and people long dead. For in her sleep, the ghosts of the past would come to her to seek answers of questions that she didn’t understand. She dreamed of a time when old treachery and betrayals were requiring to be put right, allowing the restless souls to find some peace.

Recently, she dreamed of a mystical sword.  This sword, she had little doubt, was linked with the legends of King Arthur, and may even be the Excalibur of those tales. These tales had sent her on a personal quest to glean as much information as she could about those days. Her job in the tourist office was ideal, as she could undertake research and adored living and breathing the legends to all who would listen.

Over the last few nights, she had read the legend of a Saxon warlord who had defeated the Celts in a battle, slaying the Royal family and riding off with the legendary sword.  However, he was nearly defeated by a valiant and beautiful princess, but through trickery and deceit, she was ambushed, and some believed her to be slain.  Gwen read how she gave the sword to her son, a mere lad of eight or so, to take it and hide it in the forest.  She also gave him her Sacred Torque to hide as well, chanting a mystical spell over the item, so that she could return from the underworld to regain what was rightfully hers. They said her body was never found, as the Saxon warlord was eager to display her head for all Celts to learn to fear him. He never fulfilled his desire.

The legends became real to Gwen, who often would dream in glorious Technicolor. After reading the legend of Tamsyn, she dreamed of the girl and her great courage.

Fascinated, Gwen had attempted to research the girl’s history, but found it almost impossible.  There was a link to the Tamsyn oak just outside the town, but like many legends, the truth was lost in the mists of time. Gwen liked to think the Tamsyn was the same princess, as there were many similarities to the stories.

She was earnestly explaining an aspect of one of the local tales to an elderly couple from London, when the bell above the door announced a new visitor.  Irritably, she glanced up, only to catch her breath in her throat.  Her heart almost stopped, and she felt the icy tendrils of excitement and fear creep through her whole being.

Standing just inside the small centre was the girl from her dreams.  Only she was far more beautiful and much younger than her memory recalled. Dressed in a modern skirt and a top that was one sold in the town’s boutiques, the girl was looking at a leaflet on the Tamsyn oak.

Tamsyn looked up and met Gwen’s eyes.  She smiled and Gwen felt very strange. She felt faint and yet, as she tried to tell herself that she was being silly, she saw the torque gleaming dully around the girl’s slender neck.

She never before experienced that cold feeling, and all the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

Seeing that Gwen was busy, Tamsyn tuned and browsed amongst the brochures and books.  It didn’t take Gwen long to lose the tourists, who never noticed that she suddenly wanted rid of them.

She got up from behind the table and walked over to the girl. She was shaking, as such was her excitement.  At the same time, she told herself that she was being foolish, as the girl may simply be similar to her dreams.

The girl turned and smiled.

“Hello, you must be Gwen. I’m Tamsyn.”

When Gwen came round, she was lying on the floor of the tourist office.  A cushion was under her head and a pretty face was looking down at her with a worried expression.

“Fatla genes?”(How are you?) the girl asked.  She wasn’t used to people fainting when she was trying to be as friendly as she could.

“Piw os'ta?” (Who are you?) Gwen asked, her voice trembling.

“Tamsyn ov.” (I’m Tamsyn)

It dawned on Gwen that she was speaking Cornish to someone she had never met before and in a manner so natural it made her cry.  The language was all but dead, with a few enthusiasts attempting to bring it back from the brink.  This girl spoke it so casually that it warmed the older woman’s heart. They continued in the same language.

“You’ve come!”

Tamsyn smiled. “It seems so, doesn’t it?”

“I thought you were a dream.”

“So did I.  I’m not complaining though.”  Tamsyn frowned, as she wasn’t sure what the woman was talking about.  It was if she was expecting her and knew she hadn’t always been a girl, yet there was something that made her feel they were at cross-purposes.

Gwen reached up and touched the torque on the girl’s neck.

“It’s real!” she said, with genuine awe in her voice.

“Yes.  I need your help to understand why I’m here.”

Gwen struggled to sit up, so with Tamsyn’s help, she stood and managed to get to her chair behind the desk.

“Where did you get it?”

“It’s an odd story.”

“Take it off then, dear, and I’ll have a look.”

The girl shook her head, “No, I can’t take it off.  I have copied all the letters and symbols on this piece of paper. It seems to say that the torque grants a special blessing to one of the True-blood, but I need to understand what it means.” She handed over the paper to Gwen, who took out her reading spectacles and was shaking as she took possession of it.

She looked at the paper from every angle and then asked if she could look at the torque.