last glance in her eyes, the last sallow smile, the subtle movement of her lips as she whispered goodbye.
Then he stepped out of the hill and onto the open land. It was icily cold, and in the dead of night. The field that stretched away from him, down towards the villa, was frosted. The villa was a dark sprawl of buildings with bright torches along its outer walls. There was a sense of desertion about the place. The moon was crescent. The surrounding hills were dark in the gloom, though against the pale night cloud the valleys that led away from here could be seen as cuts in the ridge.
A man was standing in the middle of the field, holding a guttering torch. He was leaning forward, peering hard at the hill, at the cleft in the hill where it opened below the tree line.
Silver gave Jack the lightest of pushes with her finger. He glanced back to acknowledge her as she withdrew into her own darkness. Then he stepped out into the frosting night and called for his father.
Steven Huxley dropped the torch and bowed his head, and Jack went down to greet him.
‘I’m home,’ he called. ‘I’m home! And I know where Yssobel has gone.’
PART • TWO
The Villa
The Valley
At dawn on the day of her fifth birthday, Steven took Yssobel to see the valley through which her mother had returned, several years ago, after her time in Lavondyss, the land beyond time, the place of healing. Yssobel was a strong and robust child. Steven had hoisted her onto his shoulders for the walk, and she gripped his hair with small fists of iron. Her legs, clamped around his neck, threatened to strangle him.
‘Easy, girl. Easy. My neck’s not as young as it used to be.’
Yssobel was excited by the dawn treat, although as yet she had no idea of why she was being taken to see the valley known as imarn uklyss. All she knew was that imarn uklyss meant ‘where the girl came back through the fire’.
The air was fresh, the light stark and clear.
‘The valley! The valley!’ she chorused as her father walked her through the enclosures, towards the tall gate that separated their homestead from the wild. And though she shouted the words in English, she also called them out in other languages.
Aged five, Yssobel could already speak in tongues, and her favourite was the language of her mother Guiwenneth, which had a ring to it and which could be used effectively in arguments with her older brother Jack because of its rich content of abusive expression.
The valley opened before them, forested on both sides, wide, with the silver gleam of three rivers that seemed to flow from nowhere, disappearing into the distance to where the valley narrowed. There it curved away to the right, taking its secrets with it, to begin its dangerous course towards Lavondyss itself.
But here, beside a stream, in the overhang of willows, sitting on the smoothed grey edges of rocks, Steven let his daughter down to survey the passageway through which her mother had returned. There were no creatures to be seen this morning, other than birds: a flock of starlings, the usual crows, and a solitary eagle circling in morose fashion, as if half asleep.
Yssobel stared into the valley. The sharp breeze caught her auburn hair and she brushed at it; but her green eyes searched only for the unknown. Her feet kicked at the rock, her hands clutched the cold stone; curiosity made her pale face glow.
Steven watched her for a while.
How like Guiwenneth. That half of you that is Guiwenneth. The wildwood half.
It was not the same with seven-year-old Jack. The boy, tall and edgy for his age, was human in all respects; or if not, then the wildwood had not yet exerted its force upon him.
This was not Jack’s day. This was Yssobel’s.
The sky brightened, the valley shed its gloom. Slowly.
‘That eagle’s seen its prey,’ the girl announced suddenly, just as Steven was about to speak.
‘How do you know?’
‘The gleam in its eye. It flashes with the sun. It’s cocked its head three
Then he stepped out of the hill and onto the open land. It was icily cold, and in the dead of night. The field that stretched away from him, down towards the villa, was frosted. The villa was a dark sprawl of buildings with bright torches along its outer walls. There was a sense of desertion about the place. The moon was crescent. The surrounding hills were dark in the gloom, though against the pale night cloud the valleys that led away from here could be seen as cuts in the ridge.
A man was standing in the middle of the field, holding a guttering torch. He was leaning forward, peering hard at the hill, at the cleft in the hill where it opened below the tree line.
Silver gave Jack the lightest of pushes with her finger. He glanced back to acknowledge her as she withdrew into her own darkness. Then he stepped out into the frosting night and called for his father.
Steven Huxley dropped the torch and bowed his head, and Jack went down to greet him.
‘I’m home,’ he called. ‘I’m home! And I know where Yssobel has gone.’
PART • TWO
The Villa
The Valley
At dawn on the day of her fifth birthday, Steven took Yssobel to see the valley through which her mother had returned, several years ago, after her time in Lavondyss, the land beyond time, the place of healing. Yssobel was a strong and robust child. Steven had hoisted her onto his shoulders for the walk, and she gripped his hair with small fists of iron. Her legs, clamped around his neck, threatened to strangle him.
‘Easy, girl. Easy. My neck’s not as young as it used to be.’
Yssobel was excited by the dawn treat, although as yet she had no idea of why she was being taken to see the valley known as imarn uklyss. All she knew was that imarn uklyss meant ‘where the girl came back through the fire’.
The air was fresh, the light stark and clear.
‘The valley! The valley!’ she chorused as her father walked her through the enclosures, towards the tall gate that separated their homestead from the wild. And though she shouted the words in English, she also called them out in other languages.
Aged five, Yssobel could already speak in tongues, and her favourite was the language of her mother Guiwenneth, which had a ring to it and which could be used effectively in arguments with her older brother Jack because of its rich content of abusive expression.
The valley opened before them, forested on both sides, wide, with the silver gleam of three rivers that seemed to flow from nowhere, disappearing into the distance to where the valley narrowed. There it curved away to the right, taking its secrets with it, to begin its dangerous course towards Lavondyss itself.
But here, beside a stream, in the overhang of willows, sitting on the smoothed grey edges of rocks, Steven let his daughter down to survey the passageway through which her mother had returned. There were no creatures to be seen this morning, other than birds: a flock of starlings, the usual crows, and a solitary eagle circling in morose fashion, as if half asleep.
Yssobel stared into the valley. The sharp breeze caught her auburn hair and she brushed at it; but her green eyes searched only for the unknown. Her feet kicked at the rock, her hands clutched the cold stone; curiosity made her pale face glow.
Steven watched her for a while.
How like Guiwenneth. That half of you that is Guiwenneth. The wildwood half.
It was not the same with seven-year-old Jack. The boy, tall and edgy for his age, was human in all respects; or if not, then the wildwood had not yet exerted its force upon him.
This was not Jack’s day. This was Yssobel’s.
The sky brightened, the valley shed its gloom. Slowly.
‘That eagle’s seen its prey,’ the girl announced suddenly, just as Steven was about to speak.
‘How do you know?’
‘The gleam in its eye. It flashes with the sun. It’s cocked its head three
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