Free Moon Song by Elen Sentier Page A

shower gel in there and a flannel as well. Everything provided. She stripped off and climbed under the flowing waters, allowing them to rinse away the travel tiredness as well as the visions. She turned her face up into the water stream and allowed it to pour over her, then turned her head down so it beat onto the back of her neck. Slowly, the water did its job. She felt the muscles loosen, the tension relax, the face and the hare and the visions got out of her head so she could feel herself again rather than this weird invasion by spirits not her own.
    She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, pulling a warm towel around her. ‘Please, leave me alone!’ she whispered looking back towards the bedroom. ‘No more faces. I need my space. If you want to talk to me, tell me things, stand back now and give me some room. I’m not used to this and I don’t know what’s going on. Leave me alone tonight.’
    It was odd but she could actually sense a withdrawing, as though some presence which had filled the room was shrinking back, becoming smaller, less obtrusive. There was also a sense of apology in the air. ‘Thank you,’ she said to nothing visible. There was an answering feeling, like a smile.
    Later, dry, scented, hair shining, she pulled on a loose silk shirt and linen trousers, threw a long cardigan over her shoulders and went downstairs.
    At the bottom Isoldé found herself again in the wide hall, big enough for a large room in its own right. She stood still, looking, then turned around on her heel. There were several doors leading off, which one was he behind? ‘Mark! ’ she called. ‘I’m here.’
    A door at the back opened and he appeared, dry and clean in jeans and a jumper, a cooking apron tied round his waist. ‘Better?’ he asked.
    ‘Mmm,’ she nodded. ‘It’s wonderful what a shower will do for you.’ She was not going to tell him about the faces, not now anyway.
    ‘C’mon through, we mostly eat in the kitchen.’
    She followed him into a huge flag-stoned room, bright rugs on the floor. Steel and copper pans hung from racks on the walls around a Rayburn, a big beech table glowed in the soft light and good smells came from the pots on the stove.
    ‘Suddenly, I know I’m hungry,’ she told him.
    ‘Wine?’ He held a bottle over a glass. ‘It’s Margeaux, is that OK?’
    ‘Oh! Yes, thank you.’ She took the glass and sat down on the other side of the table from the stove, guessing he would want to be up and down serving. There was bread and oil on the table along with a paté and olives.
    ‘Tuck in.’
    She watched him watching her. He brought the casserole to the table and slid into the carver chair opposite her. For a few moments there was only the sound of satisfied munching as they dug into the olives. Mark was amused to see her dip her bread in the wine as well as the olive oil.
    ‘French habit?’ he asked her.
    ‘Uhuh.’ Isoldé’s mouth was full, she nodded.
    ‘It’s good you’re here in Caergollo.’ Mark coughed, his voice had gone throaty. He concentrated on serving the casserole, then poured more wine. ‘Sitting across the table from you …’
    ‘It feels slightly incredible to me,’ she replied, her own voicewas a bit choked too. Stay on target she told herself, don’t get into the real reason you came. ‘It’s somewhere I’ve always dreamed of, ever since I got into folk music, heard Tristan. There was always something about him, about his music. Still is.’
    ‘He was, is, special,’ Mark agreed, feeling a bit squashed that her first thoughts seemed to be for Tristan and not for himself. Maybe she felt as overwhelmed as he did. There was so much chemistry just being in the same room with her.
    ‘You knew him all your life, didn’t you?’ Isoldé tried to get the conversation level again.
    ‘Since I was ten, went for the choir as I told you in the interview.’ Mark decided that, actually, Tristan was a safe topic of conversation for the time