That night we sat together at the fire and ate our meal. I said, 'I wonder how the Hill Folk know when we are here?' For the food had begun appearing once more, as soon as Arthur and the others had gone.

'There is not much that happens in the land that they do not know.'

'Why do they bring it?'

'It is their way of honouring me. Ken-ti-gern, they call me. Do you know the word?'

I shook my head. 'No – should I?'

The Emrys regarded me sadly for a moment. 'There is so much passing away,' he said heavily. 'The Summer Realm blooms and the old world must make way.'

He was silent for a time. I watched his face in the light of the dancing fire. He was old, though he did not look it. Long had he gathered wisdom in this worlds-realm, and its weight was becoming a burden to him.

By way of lightening the mood, I said, 'I saw one of the Hill Folk last time.'

'Last time?' The Emrys glanced up, his golden eyes glinting in the firelight.

'When I was here – after you left with Tegyr and Bedwyr. I was alone and I saw one of them when he brought the food. He came up to the shrine and stood in the doorway for a moment, then left. He probably thought we had all departed and he wanted to see the shrine. He did not come inside though, and it was dark. He did not see me.'

Myrddin Emrys stared at me long and hard. 'You did not tell me this before – why?' he demanded at last.

Aghast, I said, 'It was of no importance. Nothing happened. He left the food and disappeared. I did not see him again. Why? Have I done wrong?'

'It is not your fault – you could not know.'

'Know what?' I said, my voice rising indignantly. 'What have I done?'

'Has it never occurred to you that the Hill Folk would not bring food if they thought you had gone?'

His question pricked me. I felt the hot blood rise to my face and was grateful for the ruddy glow of the firelight to hide my shame.

'Well?'

'I suppose not,' I answered sullenly; he spoke the truth and I knew it well.

'No, they would not. If they brought the food, they knew you were still here. Knowing that, they would not have allowed you to see them.' The Emrys paused, then softened. 'Well, it was probably nothing, as you say.'

My heart beat against my ribs, telling me that it was not nothing. There was a deeper matter here than I had yet been told. 'If it was not one of the Hill Folk,' I said, 'who was it?'

'I cannot say.' The Emrys turned his face away abruptly.

'Morgian?' I said, little knowing what I asked.

The Emrys whipped towards me. 'Why do you speak that name?'

I stared back at him, horrified. 'Forgive me! I do not know what made me say it.' That was God's own truth – the name just leapt from my tongue.

The Emrys' golden eyes narrowed. 'Perhaps,' he said slowly. 'Or it may be there is another reason.' His tone was deeply forbidding.

'What do you mean, Wise Emrys?' I asked, frightened of the answer.

He stared into the fire, gazing at the embers glowing cherry-red in its flaming heart. What he saw did not cheer him. 'I mean,' he said at last, 'that I fear you have guessed aright – if guess it was.'

Nothing more was said all night. We slept, and awoke the next morning to a thin rain. The rain lingered most of the day, clearing at last towards evening. The Emrys and I went about our work and emerged only at dusk, when the clouds parted and the sun began to gild the hills and sea with fine white gold.

'Aneirin!' Myrddin Emrys called to me from the hilltop. I stood below him at the stream, filling the water jars for the night. 'Do you want to see the bhean sidhe? Come here.'

I hurried with the jars and hastened up the hill. 'Go into the shrine and stay there until I summon you.'

I did as I was bade and the Emrys cupped his hands to his lips and made a whistling call that sounded like waves rolling stones on the shingle. He made it again and waited, standing perfectly still. In a moment I heard an answering call, identical to the one he gave. Myrddin Emrys replied to it in kind, and out from the thickets at the edge of the stream stepped two young boys, slender and brown as willow wands, carrying between them the bundle of food.

The two ran quick as shadows up the hill and approached the shrine. The foremost of the two crept close and placed the food bundle on the ground; he took the Emrys' right hand in both of his and kissed it. The other did likewise, and they began to talk. I understood nothing of their speech – it sounded to me less like human utterance than anything I had ever heard. It was all rushing wind and rustling leaves; the hissing of snakes and the buzzing of bees, and the gurgle of falling water.

After they had spoken for a time, the Emrys turned to the shrine and held his hand to it. The two Hill Folk glanced at one another and nodded. 'You can come out, Aneirin,' he called. 'They will allow you to see them.'

I stepped slowly from the doorway of the rotunda and proceeded down the steps. It was only when I came to stand beside the Emrys that I realized our visitors were not children, but mature men. Men full-grown, yet they were smaller than me!

They stood regarding me with bright curiosity, and I them. They wore short, sleeveless tunics made of leather and birds' wings. Their trousers were soft sheepskin; their boots were the same. They carried small wooden bows, and each had a quiver of short arrows at his belt. They wore necklaces of tiny yellow shells, and each had a thick ring of gold around his arm. Tiny blue slashes, three over each cheek – their fhain marks – distinguished them as Salmon Fhain. Their hair and eyes were deep and black as polished jet; their skins were brown and creased as their tunics.

The Emrys spoke a word to them and I heard my name, whereupon the two smiled. The foremost one thumped himself on the chest and said, 'Rei.' He repeated this until I said it, whereupon the second one presented himself, saying, 'Vranat.'

I said my name for them and they repeated it, only they said, 'Nee-rin,' and laughed as if this was a most splendid jest. Then they grew suddenly serious and began speaking to the Emrys once more, earnestly, one after the other with some urgency. This entreaty lasted only a moment. Myrddin made some answer to them and they departed, each kissing the Emrys' hand before turning and racing away. They were gone in an instant.

'There,' said Myrddin Emrys, 'now you have seen the Hill Folk. Is there any doubt?'

I knew what he was saying. 'None,' I replied. 'Even in the dark I would know the difference – the one I saw was not like these at all.'

The Emrys turned and began walking down the hill to the sea. I followed and we walked together a goodly while. It was cooler near the water, and the smell of seaweed and salt filled my nostrils. The sound of the waves washing back and forth over the sand soothed my troubled spirit. 'What are we going to do?' I asked.

'We will do what is required of us.'

'Will we know what that is?'

'All is given in its season. All that is needful is granted. We have but to ask, and if our hearts are hi the asking it will be granted.'

'Always?'

'You are full of questions, boy,' the Wise Emrys chuckled. 'No, not always. We serve at the Gifting God's pleasure. In him we move and have our being; in him we live both here and in the world to come. If anything is withheld from us it is for the reason of a greater good to come.'

'Always?'

This time the Emrys became adamant. 'Oh aye! Always. Goodness is ever good, and the All-Wise God is a good god. From him goodness itself derives its meaning.'

'So, even if evil overtakes us, it is still for the greater good,' I said, trying to understand this philosophy.

The Emrys accepted my foolish answer, but corrected it gently. 'That is one way to say it, but perhaps not the best way. To see evil and call it good, mocks God. Worse, it makes goodness meaningless. A word without meaning is an abomination, for when the word passes beyond understanding the very thing the word stands for passes out of the world and cannot be recalled.