Eira did not seem inclined to investigate the green light immediately.
She glanced towards the hillside, listened for a moment, and then turned back towards the garden.
“It can wait,” she said. “There are more important things to attend to just now.”
Rowan looked relieved.
“Such as?”
“Lunch, for one.”
She led us back across the little bridge, where the stream ran clear and shallow beneath the willow branches. The bird flew from Merrick's shoulder to a low branch, hopped along it, and gave a cheerful little note. Then it disappeared among the leaves.
“Will it stay?” Nell asked.
“If it likes the garden,” Eira replied.
“And if it doesn't?”
“Then we'll have enjoyed its company while it was here.”
Eira's house was small but comfortable. The blue door opened into a kitchen with whitewashed walls, a broad hearth and a long table. Copper pans hung above the stove. A row of little jars stood on the windowsill, each labelled in Eira's neat handwriting. There were dried herbs, seeds, berries and several things we could not identify.
She set a pot of vegetable stew over the fire and asked Rowan whether he would like to help her mend a basket.
He accepted at once.
They sat outside beneath the willow trees, working with the rods Eira had offered him. Rowan examined her basket closely.
“You've used a rather unusual weave here.”
“It was taught to me by someone who lived in the garden before I did.”
“Is she still here?”
Eira smiled.
“Not in the way you mean.”
Rowan considered this, then returned to his work. He seemed to have decided that basket-making was a safer subject.
Nell wandered along the stream, collecting smooth stones. Merrick sat on the grass with the wooden bird beside him. The little creature had returned and was now perched on the back of the bench, watching him work.
I went with Eira to the far side of the garden, where a narrow path ran between two rows of old fruit trees.
There were pear trees, though their fruit was still small and green, and several apple trees with twisted branches. At the end of the path stood a low wooden building with a green door.
“What is that?” I asked.
“My storehouse.”
Inside were baskets, gardening tools, blankets, jars of preserves, a few pieces of crockery and several pairs of boots. On a shelf stood a collection of small wooden toys: a horse, a boat, a bird with one wing missing, and a little figure carrying a basket.
Eira picked up the figure.
“This was made by a boy who stayed here once. He wanted to give it to someone, but couldn't decide who.”
“Did he leave it?”
“He left it on the table. I put it here.”
She returned it to the shelf.
“Sometimes people leave things because they have finished with them. Sometimes they leave them because they don't yet know what to do with them.”
I thought of Merrick's many wooden birds.
“Do you know who made the bird that came back?”
Eira looked towards the garden.
“I do. But I think it would be better if he remembered for himself.”
We returned to the house.
Lunch was ready. Eira brought out the stew, thick slices of bread, cheese and a dish of stewed plums. We ate beneath the willow trees, while the bird moved from branch to branch above us.
Afterwards, Nell asked whether she could explore the garden.
“Of course,” Eira said. “But don't go beyond the old pear trees. The path there is not ready.”
Nell immediately wanted to know why.
Eira smiled.
“Because it hasn't decided where it goes.”
Nell accepted this with the patience of someone who had heard similar things before.
She wandered towards the stream, and Merrick went with her.
I remained with Eira, watching Rowan weave.
“Have you lived here long?” I asked.
“Long enough to know where the rain comes through the roof.”
“And before that?”
“I lived in another garden.”
“Where?”
Eira pointed vaguely towards the hillside.
“Somewhere beyond the water. It had a stone house and a very old tree. I left when the garden began to change.”
I thought of the house beneath the dark hills.
“Did you know Maelin?”
Eira nodded.
“She used to visit. She brought me a little wooden box once, and I gave her a basket of pears.”
“Does she still have the box?”
“I expect so.”
A breeze moved through the willows. The bird gave a sudden, bright note, and the sound seemed to travel across the water and into the hillside.
Eira looked up.
“There. It remembers.”
“What does it remember?”
“Perhaps the garden. Perhaps the way home.”
At the far end of the stream, Nell had found something. She called to us, and we went to see.
A little wooden bridge crossed the water beneath a pair of leaning apple trees. On the other side stood a small stone building, partly hidden by ivy. Its door was open.
Inside was a single room, with a stone floor and a narrow window. A wooden shelf ran along one wall. On it lay a blue cloth, folded neatly, and beside it a small brass bell.
Merrick picked up the cloth.
It bore the same embroidered pattern of silver leaves that Rose had given him.
He looked at Eira.
“Who left this?”
Eira stood in the doorway.
“Someone who knew you would come.”
“Who?”
“I don't know. It was here when I arrived.”
Nell rang the little bell.
Its sound was gentle, almost lost beneath the running water. But from the hillside came an answering note.
The green light beyond the stream brightened for a moment.
Eira looked at it, then at the bird.
“Well,” she said. “It seems the garden has decided to tell us something after all.”
She took the bell from Nell and placed it carefully back on the shelf.
“Not today, though. We have had enough discoveries for one afternoon.”
We returned to the house as the light softened among the trees. The bird settled on the windowsill, its blue-marked wings tucked close to its body.
For the first time since we had arrived, it seemed entirely at rest.
And somewhere beneath the hillside, the water continued to find its way.
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