Spires of Spirit by Gael Baudino Page A

touch of an elven hand. Nor could she lay her finger upon any given manifestation of it so as to call it unmistakable evidence of a change. All-pervasive and yet as ephemeral as a soul's bond with its deity, it had seeped into Saint Brigid as though that first healing had opened the smallest of chinks for a slow but steady influx of compassion; and year by year its influence had grown.
    Had anyone noticed? Possibly not. Certainly the Fair Ones were no more visible in the village than they had been before, but Andrew and Elizabeth were known to entertain Varden now and again, and their adopted daughter, Charity, had once given Roxanne to understand that that immortal being had been in the habit of giving her pickaback rides through the forest.
    She smiled at the image as she reached her bundle and slid out of the cloak, but as she pulled on her clothes, she recalled that she did, in fact, have herbs to gather this morning . . . and it was for Charity that she would gather them. Elizabeth had come to her the evening before to tell her that her daughter had nightmares, and as Roxanne was a healer—well, perhaps something to send the girl sweet dreams?
    All-heal, the witch thought as she laced her bodice. And chamomile. And vervain. And . . . and maybe just a touch of the white sandalwood her mother had left her. It was rare, and valuable, but Charity was worth it. Charity was worth a great deal.
    Fully clothed now, she threw the cloak once more about herself and set off along the path, her ebony-handled knife stuck firmly in her belt. She had a favorite place for herb gathering, but it was some distance away. If she did not dawdle, she could be back home by noon, and Charity would have the mixture that night.
    There was a hearty feeling about the forest that day, as though now, at the height of summer, the trees were stretching themselves to their fullest in the sunlight. Roxanne could not help but reach out now and again to touch a trailing bough or a gnarled trunk. How are you today? Wonderful, is it not? And blessings upon you, too.
    She was reminded of a morning in early spring, years ago. She had been initiated by her mother the night before, and with the coming of the new day she had taken to the forest in boy's clothes: breeches, shirt, and cloak. The air had been cold, but she had been warm, and she had climbed a hill that, bare at the top, had given her a view of the sunrise, The wave of morning light had rolled across the land, washing her in the dawn, and she had instinctively lifted her arms, feeling, in that moment, the sure and immanent presence of Another in her own being; and thereafter, Roxanne, then thirteen, had sat down on the grassy slope and had cried and laughed the morning away, her heart so full that it hurt.
    Now, her boy's clothes put away, she felt it, in a gentler fashion, once again: the Mother of All walking in the world, greeting Her children this Midsummer Day.
    The path she traveled took her to a stream, one of the many that wound through the forest, tributaries to the Malvern River. Barefoot, her skirts belted high, she picked her way across a series of half-submerged stones; and it was not until she was sitting on the far bank, tying her shoes, that she noticed that someone was watching her.
    He was slender, clad simply in green and gray, and his dark hair fell smoothly to his shoulders. His face was gentle, almost womanly, and something about his eyes made her think of the light of the stars on a clear night. Roxanne recognized him: Varden. She had met him once before, when he had healed the smith's hands. At that time, she had been awed by his power. Now, though, under the spell of the day and her Goddess, she smiled graciously at him, a fellow traveler in this forest on this splendid morning, and she lifted a hand in greeting. “Blessings upon you this day, Master Elf,” she called. “The hand of the Lady be on you and your folk.”
    Varden blinked in surprise, although Roxanne had not