/ SILVANA \  prologue (continued)

A tawny owl drifted past on silent wings.  Fabiom smiled, despite his predicament.  He was not really afraid of the woods, even in the dark.  There was nothing about the wildwood of Deepvale he did not love, except perhaps the nettles, he decided, as he rubbed his elbow with plantain leaves.  The brambles he forgave, despite the damage they had inflicted on  him.  Soon he would be able to enjoy their sweet berries; that was worth a few scratches.

‘Fabiom –’

The crushed leaves fell from his hand.

‘Fabiom –’

The voice was enticing, sweet and kind.  Leading him away from the path, over grassy hillocks and through dense bracken.

‘Fabiom –’

He followed without hesitation, until he came out into a small grove of well spaced ash trees.  Between the trees, the gently undulating ground was sprinkled with violets and anemones growing in profusion.  

Though he was uncertain whether he had really heard the voice calling his name, or had just imagined it, Fabiom had no doubt that the giggling he heard now was real enough.  His mother had told him stories of the merry and mischievous woodmaids, denizens of holly and hazel, whitethorn and rowan and other small trees of the wildwood.  

And they had led him here. . . .

Awed, he stood staring at the ash trees towering above him.  They had to be Silvanan.  Why else would there be woodmaids here?

“I would have brought some flowers, if I’d known,” he whispered.

Laughter like dry leaves in the breeze greeted his words.  Fabiom paid the woodmaids no heed.  He would be safe here, that was certain; and the roots of one of the huge trees formed a circle, like arms, where he could sleep.  He was hungry and sore, but most of all he was tired.  With a whispered word of thanks to the Silvana of his tree, he curled up in the woody hollow and fell asleep almost at once.

Dreams came in the night.  He was in a dark, tight space, not even sure which way was up.  There was no way out.  His body jerked and he cried out.  Suddenly he was out of the basket and running, but they were chasing him and they were catching up, trying to put the basket over his head again.  He glanced over his shoulder as he fled.  They had heads like wild pigs, with tusks and fierce red eyes and through their piggy mouths, with squeals and grunts, they called his name.  A branch lay across his path, too late he saw it and tripped.  Triumphant squealing bore down upon him. . . .  And then silence.

He had not heard her sing to him but suddenly only soft and gentle sleep was his.  And the song remained in his mind – for the rest of his life.