Free Beneath the Tor by Nina Milton

tendency to boil out of my scalp. I brushed and brushed, eventually it shone like a halo of black gossamer.
    The therapy room felt chilled after two days of inactivity. I lit candles around the entire room. I held a flame to a charcoal disc until it fizzed with heat and laid a sprig of garden sage across it, throwing a pinch of frankincense resin on top. The grey smoke spiralled up, filling the room with secret scents. When the room was ready for work, I sat on a cushion and meditated for a while, trying at first to empty my mind, but actually recalling the journey I’d experienced at Stonedown Farm—the land of worms, the ancient black man, and the clearing in the woodland. I had a strong desire to use my drum to journey again, but in the scurry to get out of Stonedown Farm, I’d left it behind.
    So instead, I pressed the remote to start the drumming CD, lay back on the floor cushions and rested a scarf over my eyes.
    When I’d guided the workshoppers yesterday, I’d told them to find their shamanic portal. Every shaman should have a haven of safety—the place where, if possible, they begin and end their journey. For me, this is the bank of a fast-flowing brook. I have never been to the Highlands of Scotland (I’ve never been to the Lowlands, for that matter), but I’ve seen photos of the burns that flow there. Like Scottish streams, my haven is green with moss and blue with heather, which makes a cushiony place to sit.
    I dangled my bare feet in the stream now. The water rushed over them. My otter came splashing out, shaking his coat like a dog and scattering droplets over my black dress.
    â€œWhat is your purpose?” he asked.
    â€œI’m here to touch base. To check out two new possible clients and to calm myself for the day ahead.”
    â€œYou should go to the Lady of the River.”
    I always felt wary of the Lady of the River. I wouldn’t disrespect a guardian, but she was a hard taskmaster, more strict headmistress than goddess. She never quite seemed on my side. Or, rather, she gave the impression that my best life choices were not the ones I tended to make. She was prone to offering difficult advice and I’d avoided her since the last time she’d insisted on helping me, which was half a year back.
    â€œI don’t know how to find her.”
    â€œTrue,” said Trendle, as if he also thought it my excuse.
    He trotted ahead on his short paws, leading me along the bank. As we walked, the brook altered. The bank became high and slippery, the water below wider and deeper and muddy brown. Every so often a tiny wave of frothing white slipped and skidded along.
    On my right hand, the woodland had grown deep and Trendle was weaving through the trees while my bare feet glided along the country path. I felt the hazy sun struggling to shine through a layer of cirrostratus. All at once, I stopped in my tracks. A tantalising scent came at me on the breeze. “There’s honey in the air,” I said. “As if someone is pouring it from warm combs.”
    I quickened my pace. Ahead was a single massive lime tree in full leaf, shaped like a green heart. Standing under the tree was the Lady of the River. Her grey eyes were as sad as forgotten lakes.
    I bent my head in humility. “Lady of the River … I witnessed something. Something terrible. A young woman’s death. I …”
    â€œYou have done well,” the Lady interrupted.
    â€œHave I?” I shook my head, even though she would not want me to disagree.
    â€œYou are a support to friends, new and long-standing , in this world and in the apparent world.”
    â€œI can’t be of help to Alys,” I whispered. “She’s gone …”
    â€œI see such tenacity in you, Sabbie Dare. You do not let go until you have your answer.”
    â€œYeah. Hell or high water.”
    â€œTenacity. Commitment. Love. Hell and high water. You have faced those things and you will