There were fifteen or more people inside reclining in groups on grass pallets covered with fleeces and furs around the central fire – men, women, children and several lean dogs that looked as though they would have been more at home running the hills in a wolf pack – all of them, men and beasts alike, staring at me as I stood uncertainly in their midst.

The she-chief motioned me forward and I was brought to stand before an old woman, no larger than a girl, but white-haired and wrinkled as a dried plum. Her black eyes were sharp as the bone needle in her hand and she regarded me with frank curiosity for a moment, reaching out to touch my leg, which she pinched and patted. Satisfied with her appraisal, she nodded to the she-chief who jerked her head to the side and I was led to a pallet and pushed down upon it.

Once I was well inside the rath, the hill people seemed to lose interest in me. I was left alone to observe my captors, who, aside from an occasional glance in my direction, and a dog that came to sniff my hands and legs, appeared oblivious to my presence. I sat on the fur-covered pallet and tried to see what I might discover about these people.

There were eight men and four women aside from the she-chief and the old woman; scattered among them were five naked children whose ages were impossible to determine – the adults looked like children to me! All the adults wore woad-stained scars on their cheeks – fhain marks, as I was to learn. Distinctive spirals which, at the time of cutting, had the deep blue powder pressed into the wounds to colour them for ever. Individuals of the same fhain – the word means family tribe, or clan – wore the same marks.

I puzzled over who they might be. Not Picti – though they used the woad, they were too small for Painted People, who anyway would have killed me outright upon discovery. Neither were they members of any of the hill tribes I knew about. Their habit of living underground marked them for a northern people, but if so they were far south of their beloved moors.

These, I decided, could only be the bhean sidhe, the enchanted Hill Folk, as much feared for their obscure ways and magic, as they were envied for their gold. The bhean sidhe were rumoured to possess great malevolent power, and even greater treasures of gold; both of which were employed in tormenting the tallfolk, whom they delighted in sacrificing to their crude idols whenever they could catch them. And I was their captive.

The clan settled for the night and one by one fell asleep. I pretended sleep, too, but stayed awake to be ready to make my escape. When at last, judging from the sound of the snoring, everyone was sleeping soundly and peacefully, I rose, crept from my pallet to the doorway and out into the night.

The mist had cleared and the night was ablaze with stars, cold and bright, the moon already set. The surrounding hills showed as a solid black undulating mass against the deep blue of heaven. I breathed in the mountain air and looked at the stars. Here all serious thought of escape vanished. I had only to look at the jet-dark night to know that running in such darkness invited disaster. And even if I had been so determined, on the wind I heard the bark of hunting wolves.

It came to me that this was why my captors had not bothered to restrain me in any way. If I were foolish enough to tempt the wolves, so be it; I deserved my fate.

All the same, as I stood looking at the stars, I heard the rustle of the closing flap and turned to see someone emerge from the rath. As I made no move, my companion came to stand near me and I saw that it was the she-chief. She put her hand on my arm but lightly, as much to reassure herself that I was still there as to remind me that I was a captive.

We stood together for a long time so close that I could feel the heat from her body. Neither of us spoke; we had no words. But something in her touch gave me to understand that these people had some purpose for me. While not exactly an honoured guest, my presence was more than a passing curiosity.

After a while, she turned and pulled me with her back into the rath. I returned to my pallet, and she to hers, and I closed my eyes and prayed that I would soon be reunited with my people.

What the hill-dwellers wanted with me I discovered soon after sunrise when Vrisa, chieftain of the Amsaradh fhain – their name for themselves; it means People of the Killing Bird, or Hawk Clan – took me out to their holy place on a nearby hilltop. The hill was the highest around and took some effort to climb, but upon gaining the summit I saw a menhir, a single standing stone painted with blue spirals and the representations of various birds and animals, most notably hawks and wolves.

In Her belt Vrisa wore a long, flat-bladed knife, polished and honed to mirror brightness. The man with the bells – Elac, as I would later discover – kept his hand tight on my arm all the way up the hill, and two of the others carried spears. The whole fhain made the trek up the hill, gathering round us as we came to stand beside the menhir, humming softly, with a sound like wind through dry leaves.

A braided leather rope was produced and my wrists were bound tightly. My cloak was taken from me and I was made to lie down on the sun side of the standing stone. They meant to sacrifice me; there was no doubt about that, and judging from the bones scattered around the hilltop, I was not their first offering.

But, though this might seem boastful to some, I was more fearful of being left by my people, than having my heart carved beating from my body. There was no hate, no deception or guile in these people. They did not wish me harm in the least. And indeed, did not consider the sacrifice of my life any great harm at all. In their way of thinking my soul would simply take up a new body and I would be reborn, or I would travel to the Otherworld to live with the Ancient Ones in paradise, knowing neither night nor winter. Either way, I was deemed fortunate.

That I would have to die to come into one or the other of these enviable benefits could not be helped, and consequently did not concern them over much. And since it was a journey all must make sooner or later, it was assumed that I would not greatly mind.

So, as I lay there on the ground, waiting while the sun slowly climbed its way clear of the hills round about – this would be the signal: when the first rays of the morning sun struck the menhir, Vrisa would strike with her knife – I did what any Christian would and prayed for swift deliverance.

Perhaps the knife was poorly made; perhaps it was old and should have been recast long ago. Nevertheless, as the sun struck the menhir the humming chorus loosed a mighty shout. Vrisa's knife flashed up and down swiftly as a serpent's strike.

I squeezed shut my eyes and in the same instant heard a cry.

Opening my eyes, I saw Vrisa, clasping her wrist, her face pale with pain, teeth bared as she bit back another cry. The knife's handle lay on the ground, its blade splintered into gleaming pieces like shards of yellow glass.

Elac, eyes starting from his head, gripped his spear so tightly the blood drained from his hands. Others bit the backs of their hands, some lay prostrate on the ground whimpering.

I rolled up into a sitting position. The clan's wise woman, the Gern-y-fhain, pushed her way through the others to stand over me with her hands outstretched while she stared into the-risen sun, chanting in their singing speech. Then she made a motion with her hands and snapped an order at the men looking on. Two of them came to me, hesitantly, the last act in the world they would have chosen, and untied the braided rope and unbound me.

Now, men will say that I broke the knife with magic. I have even heard it said that it is not surprising in the least that the knife should break since, as anyone knows, bronze cannot harm an enchanted being like myself.