Well, I was surprised and did not feel the least little bit enchanted. Also, I had not yet learned the secrets of the ancient art. I tell you only what happened. Believe what you like. But, as Vrisa's sacrifice knife flashed through the air towards my heart, there appeared a hand – a cloud hand, Elac called it. The knife struck the palm of this mysterious cloud hand and shattered.

Vrisa's wrist was already swelling. The force of her blow and the shock of the shattering knife nearly broke her wrist, poor girl. I call her girl now, for I soon learned that she was but a summer or two older than I was at the time, yet already chief of her Hill Folk tribe. Gern-y-fhain, the wise woman with the flint-sharp eyes and puckered face of a nut-brown apple, was her grandmother.

Gern-y-fhain was not slow to recognize so powerful a sign. She stepped in, raised me to my feet, and gazed long into my face. The sun was up now and my eyes filled with new morning light; she scrutinized me and turned to the others, speaking excitedly. They stared, but Vrisa advanced slowly, raised a hand to my face, pulling down my cheek with her thumb, and stared into my eyes.

The light of recognition broke across her face and she beamed, forgetting her painful wrist for the moment. She invited the others to see for themselves and I was subjected to a painless ordeal as the entire clan examined the colour of my eyes by turns.

When they had satisfied themselves that I did indeed possess the golden eyes of a hawk, Gern-y-fhain put her hands on my head and offered up a thanksgiving prayer to Lugh-Sun for sending me.

The clan had felt they needed a powerful sacrifice to offset a run of extreme ill fortune they had been having for the last three summers: poor grazing and worse lambing, two children had died of fever, and Nolo's brother had been killed by a boar. Their prospects for improved fortune were decidedly bleak when Elac, returning home from a spoiled hunt, heard me shouting on the hilltop in the fog. They thought their prayers had been answered.

Elac climbed the hill and verified I was there, then hurried to the rath, told the others what he had found and, after chewing it over among themselves, decided to fetch me along and sacrifice me in the morning. The shattered knife put a new face on it, however, and they decided that I must be a present from the gods… unfortunately disguised as a sub-human tallfolk youth, it is true, but a gift nonetheless.

I do not mean to make them sound like backward children, though childlike is a fair description of them in many ways. Still, they were anything but backward; on the contrary, they were wonderfully intelligent, with sharp, accurate memories and a vast store of instinctual knowledge that comes to them through their mothers' milk.

But the strength of their faith was such that they lived their lives in unquestioning acceptance of all things, trusting their 'Parents,' the Earth Goddess and her husband, Lugh-Sun, for rain and sun, for deer to hunt, for grass to graze their sheep, for the things they needed to live.

Thus, to them anything was possible at any moment. The sky might suddenly turn to stone, or rivers to silver and hills to gold; dragons might coil in sleep under the hills, or giants dream in deep mountain caverns; a man might be a man or a god, or both at once. A hand might appear in their midst and shatter a knife as it slashed towards the heart of their much-needed sacrifice. And this, too, was to be accepted. Does this make them backward?

With faith like this it is little wonder that once they learned the Truth, they carried it a long, long way.

I thought that when we returned to the rath I would be set free. In this I was mistaken, for if I had been desirable as a potential sacrifice, as a living gift I was even more valuable. They had no intention of letting me leave. Perhaps when the purpose for which I had been sent to them was fulfilled I might depart. But until then? It could not even be contemplated.

This was communicated to me in no uncertain terms when I tried to leave the rath later that day. I was sitting beside the door to the rath and, when no one was looking, I simply got to my feet and started down the hill. I escaped but ten steps and Nolo called the dogs. Snarling, growling viciously, the dogs surrounded me until I retreated to my place at the door of the rath.

The days crawled by, and each passing moment my heart grew heavier. My people were in these hills somewhere, searching for me, worrying over me. I had not the skill to see them then, but I could feel their anxiety across the separating distance, and I knew their misery. I wept at night as I lay on my pallet: stinging tears for the sorrow I was causing my mother, and the hardship my absence meant.

Great Light, I cried, please hear me! Give them peace to know I am unharmed. Give them hope to know I will return. Give them patience to wait, and courage to endure the waiting. Give them strength so that they will not grow weary.

This prayer was to become a litany of comfort to me for a good long time. Often spoken with tears, it is true. The next day, after nearly four days of judicious contemplation, Gern-y-fhain took me by the arm and sat me down on a rock at her feet and began speaking at me. I understood nothing of what she said, but paid close attention and soon began to discern the rhythm of their speech. I nodded from time to time just to show that I was trying.

She puckered up her wrinkles and made a gesture which included the rath and everyone and everything in it. 'Fhain,' she said, repeating several times until I did the same.

'Fhain,' I said, smiling. The smiling worked wonders, for the Hill Folk are happy people and smiling indicates to them a soul in harmony with life, and they are not far wrong.

'Gern-y-fhain,' she told me next, thumping herself on the chest.

'Gern-y-fhain,' I repeated. Then I thumped myself on the chest and said, 'Myrddin.' I used the Cymry form of my name, thinking that would be closest to their speech. 'Myrddin.'

She nodded and repeated the word several times, much pleased to have such a willing and able Gift. She then pointed at each of the other clan members as they went about their various tasks, 'Vrisa, Elac, Nolo, Teirn, Beona, Rhyllha… ' and others. I did my best to keep up with her, and managed for a while, but when she turned to naming other things – earth, sky, hills, clouds, river, rock – I fell behind.

That ended my first lesson in the Hill Folk tongue, and began a custom that was to continue many months after that: beginning my day sitting beside Gern-y-fhain, as at Blaise's feet or Dafyd's, practising my lessons.

Vrisa took it upon herself to civilize me. For a start, my clothing was taken away and replaced with skins and fur. This concerned me until I saw that she carefully placed my things in a special basket lashed to a roofpole in the rath. I might not be leaving soon, but at least when I did it would be as I came. She then led me back outside, chattering at me all the while and glancing at me from time to time to smile, showing her fine white teeth, as much as to say, 'Be welcome, tallfolk-wealth. You are fhain now.'

It pleased her when I said her name and taught her mine. Indeed, they roared with delight when I was finally able to tell them that my name meant 'Hawk' – that confirmed them in their belief that my coming was ordained by their Parents. They watched my progress hungrily; any little thing I did pleased them all enormously. They found endless pleasure in recounting my achievements to one another around the supper fire at night. At first I considered this was because of my status as Gift; later, I learned that they treated all children that way.

Children were held in specially high regard among them. Their language proved this in that 'child' and 'wealth' were the same to them: eurn. This one word served both meanings.