It is night; I am running through the woods.  I am barefoot, dressed only in a chemise; the thorns are stabbing my feet, tearing at my shift and my flesh.  My hair is wild and streaming behind me, much longer than it is in my waking self.  

The moon is full though, and I can see that I've come to a path, hopefully leading out of the wood. I run, as if fleeing for my life, it is easier on the path, for it is worn smooth with use, but the occasional rough spots tear at my feet, yet I fly on, heedless.  

At last I get to a cross-road.  There is a signpost.  There are but two ways marked, though there are four directions at the cross road.  The way I have come from is unmarked; the way ahead is also unmarked.  To the right lies "Carterhaugh".  To the left, "Tir Na Nog".  The post itself reads “Miles Cross.”

I shake my head, it is chilly just standing, but I have something to do, a task of some sort, I don't know what it is, my mind has not grasped it yet, but I know that it is here.  I look around.  I see a well, though it is more of a pool than a well, the water is still, and the rising moon is reflected in it, full.  There is a cloak lying beside the well, it is deep green and I gladly put it on, covering myself from the chill.  It is woolen and very warm.  The clasp is Celtic knot work , a hound, and the eyes of the hound glitter red in the bright moonlight.  

I sit by the well, in the shadow of a hawthorn bush, waiting, waiting, waiting.  

The moon is now overhead, the night is so bright, I can see every detail at the cross-roads.  The light makes every leaf stand out, a spider web glistens, the spider asleep at the center; the stones in the road are highlighted individually, the water gleams.  

I hear a sound.  Somehow I know this is important.  My ears strain, I listen with every particle of my being and the sound comes once more; the clink of a harness, the creak of leather, the soft footfalls of an unshod horse in the road.  No, more than one.  No, many.  I pull the hood of the cloak up, I fall back further into the shadows.  I wait, heart pounding.  It's almost time.

Soon, a horse rides by.  There is a lady, a beautiful elfin featured lady, dressed in gossamer and silk and fabric that flows like water or fog or something that clings perfectly, yet reveals nothing.  She glows.  

I gasp, and she looks around sharply, but she does not see me.  And there are more - more beautiful, unworldly beings, all coming up behind her in a line.  Each dressed more fancifully than the last.  As the awe dies away a bit, overwhelmed by the abundance of stimulae, I can see that each outfit has a theme, an idea behind it.  The first lady, she was Sunshine on the Water, some are creatures of the wood and mythological beasts, such as harts and unicorns, and some are images, such as Wind in the Trees, or Butterflies Mating, or Earth Decomposing.  I can see it so clearly now, now that I know each has some sort of ‘theme’.  I can see Oak in Autumn; a Waterfall in Winter; a Snowy Owl, so many I lose track of what I am seeing. 

And there are Others joining the first Sidhe; And yes, they are dark.  Of these, most are horrible and frightening.  I see monstrous images, the Death of the Sun, a Bloody Moon, Slaughter at Harvest, even one dressed as nothing more than the idea, the vision of War.  How these images are transported into my mind, I don't know, but each being is clearly dressed, each is clearly who they portray and it is more frightening than anything I have ever seen before.  The innumerable horrible beasts, the deaths that are portrayed make me faint, but I must cling to consciousness, time is fleeting.

Their horses are calm, none of this bothers them, but I can see they are not normal horses.  They look similar, they are grey, dappled, appaloosa, many different colors, but they are different in some intangible way I can’t name.  Their eyes are more firey, their legs more flexible, I do not know and don't want to guess.

It is then that I realize, I AM looking, seeking a certain horse, a certain rider.  I catch my breath, which one though?  It cannot be any of these, they are all wrong.  I am in an agony of indecision.

Then a sound comes from another fork of the road, unmarked also, and there ride human knights.  Each more elaborate and fair than the last, but it is the first three I am watching, waiting for.  

Yes, a black horse.

Yes, a brown.

YES - a milk-white steed.  That is the one.  That is the one.  

I wait, it rides closer, joining with faerie band, melting in, the horses nickering to each other, the knights silent behind their faceplates, the Sidhe are smiling cold smiles.  

Or not, and I can't say which is more frightening.

As the white horse enters the cross-roads, I launch myself forward, running for all I am worth.  I think for a moment that I will trip on the heavy cloak, but I don't.  I keep my balance and in a flash, run to the knight on the white horse, and pull him down.  I take off the helm, and it's him; my Thomas, my Tam Lin.  

I wrap my arms around him and brace myself, for some part of me knows what’s coming.  I hold him as tight as I can and wait, love and fear warring within me, for I know the trial will begin now.  

He changes in my arms - he is a lion, I grip at the mane.  He is a snake and tries to slither away, but I put both hands around him and hold him to my breast, heedless of fangs or poison.  He is a stag, the antlers tossing wildly, but I hold to its neck and don't let go.  He is a briar, a great thistle as big as a man, and I press it to me and let the thorns go where they may.  Finally, he is a burning brand, an iron, red-hot.  The pain is immeasurable, but I hold fast and run with him to the well, where I leap in, still holding as tightly as I can.

Then, I feel the slippery naked flesh of a man, and throw the half-soaked mantle over the both of us, dripping, bleeding, gasping for breath in the chill.  

And then a storm of rage breaks over us, buffeting like nothing the real world has to offer, lightning smashes into the signpost, blasting it into splinters.  Rain pours, and it turns to sleet. My burns throb, my wounds well with blood that drips slowly into the well, coloring it pink where it falls, then diluting and fading.  

Still I hold fast, and the storm gradually eases.  My eyes have been shut, I am shivering, shuddering with fear and pain, and at first I don't notice.  But at last I hear the silence, save the drip of water and the creak of leather harness and tack and, without loosening my hold, slowly open my eyes.  

It's Her.  The first one - Sunshine on Water.  I somehow knew all along it was she.  She is angry and amused.  She is enraged and excited and titillated and surprised and more full of wrath than I have ever imagined.  I see these things flashing from her eyes and almost, I let go.  But I don't.  

Finally, she laughs.  In that laughter is all the cruelty and all the kindness in the world.  It holds all of the joy and all of the pain and all of the rapturous misery that ever man has suffered.  

I shudder, and tears leak unnoticed from my eyes, my muscles trembling with exhaustion, the baby in my womb quickening at that moment to the sound.

She says three words that hold everything:  "Keep him, then."

And she turns and rides away.

I don't know until I've done it, but I speak, my voice husky with emotion:

"I will."