Travel through the swamp terrified Eibhlin. Between the shadows and the water’s moonlight mirror play, it was impossible to tell depth. Barely any time passed before she stepped in a pool so deep she sank below the surface. She managed to scramble to shore, but her mouth tasted like slime and mud. She was also cold and wet again. After that, she found a walking stick among the rare fallen branches and used it to check for drop offs. Every now and again, a branch broke and hit the ground or splashed into the water, violating the atmosphere. Although it was crowded with trees, sound echoed in that place as though the air was fighting over it, forbidding its escape. What never changed were the taste and smell. The smell of standing water and musty air, the taste of dirt and age and rot. Like unwashed dishes. It made Eibhlin nauseous until she adapted to it. Then it only made her shudder. Her shoes had almost no purpose. When she was not wading through water, her feet sank into mud and squelched into the grassy or mossy ground. She wanted to remove the chafing footwear, but she didn’t trust the ground enough to expose bare skin to it.

Just follow the Moon. Ignore the shadows. Ignore the sounds and tastes and smells. Watch out for sinkholes and drop offs. Just head toward the Moon.

When the black sky began to gray, Mel called a halt. Eibhlin collapsed against a tree, her back aching and legs burning. Physically, her body heaved and shuddered, but her mind was awake. Although she knew her body needed to use the short daylight hours for sleep, she struggled to do so, spending several restless hours tossing and turning on roots and moss, staring into the twilight then back into shadows and water, till sleep finally accepted her, and she dreamed of happier days.

The second night was much like the first, a dreary march toward the unnatural full moon. However, this night Eibhlin rationed out her supplies. As of yet, she had not come upon any food or drinkable water. The forest remained as silent, dead, and indifferent as ever, like a picture instead of a real place.

By the middle of the third night, Eibhlin began to doubt. “Mel, are you sure this is the way to go? Everything looks the same.”

“No, I am not,” confessed Melaioni. “However, I have no other ideas of what to do. I only know this has worked before.”

“Has it?”

“Unless I remember falsely.”

“You’ve been here before?” Eibhlin asked, brushing aside some hanging moss.

“Once, though also many times. I would need to turn back many pages of my memory to know exactly when. It has been so long. And yet this place has not changed. Stagnant as its water. More evidence of its mistress’s corruption.”

“Why did you come here?”

The kithara’s voice dropped an octave. “Oh, Milady, please, do not make me recount that story, not here. Some other time, some other place, but not here. Although… although I suppose you do need to hear it, to hear some of it so that you might understand a little more the woman we go to see.

“The last time I came here, to this dreadful swamp, my master was a young man whose ladylove had died in an accident. He, despite knowing the warnings against it, came here to ask the Witch of Hours to send him back in time so that he might try to save his love.”

Eibhlin’s eyes widened. “Back in time? Can she do that?”

“Why else do you think she is called the Witch of Hours? Yes, for the price of three months of his future, she sent us back. But, alas, my master failed to save the woman he loved. And so, foolish youth that he was, he returned to the Witch and bargained away more of his time, and when he failed again, he returned yet again. And again, and again until, at last, he had no more time to sell, for those born within Time’s domain cannot change the past, no matter how much they might wish to. He died in despair.”

“How cruel!” cried Eibhlin. “Why didn’t Arianrhod stop him?”

“Why should she?” the instrument replied. “Milady, you must remember who Arianrhod is. She is a sorceress of the black arts. It is her business. Why should she dissuade someone from the allure of her wares, even if they are false hopes? Fairies are shrewd merchants, Milady, in every sense of the word, especially those who have severed all connection to the Mortal Realm, as has the Witch of Hours, Arianrhod.”

Eibhlin did not have a reply.

“Milady,” said Mel, its voice a gentle thrum, “you should rest now. Dawn approaches, and I know your weariness. Do not fear. If any danger draws near, I shall wake you.”

The girl nodded.

After eating a few pieces of salted meat tinged with swamp water, she folded up her cloak and laid it against a tree root. Soon, she slept, dreaming of long-lost love and days under the bright sun.