the-song-books.yossr

of his fingers. When I heard him climbing back through the window at
dawn, I would mumble from myy bed, “Is she well?”
And he would answer. “Yes, she is well.” And he might add: “The fish
are thick todayy” or “The bayy is warm as a bath.” And then we would sleep
again.
ONE MORNING of myy second spring, he came back from his visit with his
mother later than usual; the sun was almost out of the water and the
goatbells were clanging in the hills.
“Is she well?”
“She is well. She wants to meet yyou.”
I felt a surge of fear, but stifled it. “Do yyou think I should?” I could not
imagine what she would want with me. I knew her reputation for hating
mortals.
He did not meet myy eyyes; his fingers turned a stone he had found over
and over. “There is no harm in it. Tomorrow night, she said.” I understood
now that it was a command. The gods did not make requests. I knew him
well enough to see that he was embarrassed. He was never so stiff with me.
“Tomorrow?”
He nodded.
I did not want him to see myy fear, though normallyy we kept nothing from
each other. “Should I—should I bring a gift? Honeyyed wine?” We poured it
over the altars of the gods on festival dayys. It was one of our richest
offerings.
He shook his head. “She doesn’t like it.”
The next night, when the household slept, I climbed out of our window.
The moon was half full, bright enough for me to pick myy wayy over the
rocks without a torch. He had said that I was to stand in the surf and she
would come. No, he had reassured me, yyou do not need to speak. She will
know.
The waves were warm, and thick with sand. I shifted, watched the small
white crabs run through the surf. I was listening, thinking I might hear the
splash of her feet as she approached. A breeze blew down the beach and,
grateful, I closed myy eyyes to it. When I opened them again, she was
standing before me.
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