Moon Song by Elen Sentier Page A

crept into Isoldé’s stomach and the hair on her arms stood up. She kept perfectly still as the hare’s face began to shift, melting, flowing into the face of the girl, just for a moment. Then the creature flicked away, leaping and rolling on the bright grass, all hare again. The last Isoldé saw of her was her white scut disappearing over the rocky outcrop. Slowly, she returned to the house and the smells of breakfast.
    ‘You went for a walk?’
    Mark’s smile, over his shoulder as he turned eggs in the frying pan, lit her up. ‘I did so …’ She hesitated slightly, unsure how to tell him. ‘I went down towards the sea, as far as the waterfall.’ She paused again. ‘I met someone …’
    Mark glanced at her, slightly down his nose, as he pulled plates of food out of the oven where they’d been keeping warm, added the eggs and brought them to the table. ‘Who …what …did you see?’ he asked as he sat down opposite her.
    ‘I saw a hare,’ she began then forked some bacon and egg into her mouth.
    ‘You did …?’
    Isoldé hesitated again. ‘It was like a fairy story coming to life …I saw a hare begin to turn into a girl. It was only for a moment, then she was gone, as a hare, leaping back over the cliffs.’
    Mark let out a soft, whistling breath. ‘The faer …’ Mark breathed. He paused, then ate a mouthful. ‘Tristan used to see them all the time,’ he went on. ‘Sometimes I do too, glimpses. I’m not good at that, like Tristan was. Seems you are though.’
    He was smiling, just a slight wistful look at the back of his eyes that Isoldé could see. ‘He wrote his songs for them,’ Mark added
    ‘He saw this hare-girl?’ Isoldé prodded. ‘Who is she? What is she? Are there more of them?’
    Mark let out a long breath. ‘Where to begin,’ he said. ‘Well …the shapeshifters in the old stories are real. There’s some I’ve seen in the valley here, including the hare-girl who met you this morning, but I only see her very rarely. There’s the root-mother who’s often out in the woods. Her face is all folds, like the petals of an old rose and her clothes fold round her in layers too, like mossy green leaves and browns with faded yellow edges like autumn leaves. Then there’s water-sprite-girl, all blue-white skin and silver-blue hair, with a long pointed face and elfin ears. The air spirit, dryad-girl is all silver and green like a beech sapling, very young, thin, skinny, with wispy clothing like cobwebs, and green-gold hair. The fire-spirit is slender with creamy skin and red hair threaded through with autumn vines. They’re all small, short, only about waist high on me. They’re faer folk, the spirits of earth, water, air and fire.’ Mark paused.
    ‘Then there’s Gideon,’ Mark went on. ‘He’s strange. Most of the time he just looks like a good-looking Gypsy of about thirtyfive, in fact that’s what some people think he is,’ Mark paused. ‘But you see he’s been looking about thirty-five since I first met him, when I was ten.’
    Isoldé swallowed a piece of fried bread too fast and began to choke. Mark came round and patted her on the back.
    ‘Ye gods!’ Isoldé croaked once the coughing had stopped. ‘You mean they’re immortal?’
    ‘I don’t know about that but time works differently for them than us.’
    Isoldé was silent.
    ‘They are the faer folk, the woodfolk,’ Mark repeated, ‘the fairies of the stories. They’re real. Like the little people in Ireland I expect.’
    Again, Isoldé was silent for a moment. ‘My Uncle Brian, who brought me up, he was a druid. He believed in the faer. I don’t know if he ever met any though. I never did when I used to go out in the woods with him. He was good with animals too but not like you, although, one night, an adder came and crawled round his wrist. It lay coiled there for ages, keeping warm, before it slithered off.’
    ‘I thought there were no snakes in Ireland,’ Mark said.
    ‘There aren’t.’
    They sat