[Envinyatar]

Stamo’s long fingers curled about his staff as he leaned on it lightly. His head was cocked slightly as if to take in the whole of the sounds that played about the little building. He did not smile, only listened and nodded his head when certain of the night’s music rose above the seeming din . . . a certain harmony revealed.

It was Mori who answered the old woman’s question. And then with a half smile and nod of his own head, as if remembering some old admonition.

‘We attend to it as we may, Guðælfr Holtsdottir.’

His grey eyes considered the burning log. It was near spent, as were these last waning nights of the old year. The new was upon them, the tide turning toward the light. His voice took on a sing-songy note as he threw out the words they had first heard from her when they had entered the inn.

The Green Man gives us one of his great limbs to push back the darkness and holly from his hair with which to keep it lit. That and the good barley for the wassail, the wheat for the bread, and the fruits of the vine and flower for mead and wine. A good ‘un, he is.’ ‘Though he suffers no fools. ‘Pon you, it is, to keep from the darkness.’

Mori narrowed his eyes, nodding at her words.

‘Twas some wisdom you spoke. And glad are we that Men remember and keep to the task. For our part we can only lend what little wisdom we have, and hope that it will be enough. No power is given to us to lead your battles against the foe. And what might we may have had must be foregone when we are clothed in flesh and pressed with the fears of the world’s creatures. It is enough for us to have lent hand and eye and ear as we might to point you on your way.’

‘It goes well . . .’ Stamo’s words fell into the pause between his companion and the old woman. ‘. . . this little battle. Darkness and shadows recede; the fair light of morning comes again . . .’