f quiet places.Quite suddenly, he had a vision of his mother, one of the small portraits that his mind hoarded. He had been hunting rabbits on ahillside, hot and sweaty, his fingers pricked with gorse and his shirt stuck to him with mud and damp. He had seen a small groveof trees and gone to them for shade. His mother was sitting in the greenish shadow, on the ground beside a tiny spring. She satquite motionless--which was unlike her--long hands folded in her lap. She had not spoken but smiled at him, and he had goneto her, not speaking either, but filled with a great sense of peace and contentment, resting his head against her shoulder, feelingher arm go about him and knowing he stood at the center of the world. He had been five, maybe, or six.As suddenly as it had come, the vision disappeared, like a bright fish vanishing into dark water. It left behind it the same deepsense of peace, though--as though someone had briefly embraced him, a soft hand touched his hair.He swung himself down from the saddle, needing the feel of the pine needles under his boots, some physical connection withthis place. He stood still for a moment, then turned himself carefully to the right, facing the north.He no longer recalled who had taught him this--whether it was mother, father, or Auld John, Ian's father. He spoke the words,though, as he turned himself sunwise, murmuring the brief prayer to each of the four airts in turn, and ended facing west, into thesetting sun. He cupped his empty hands and the light filled them, spilling from his palms.[Celtic prayer]With an instinct older than the prayer, he took the flask from his belt and poured a few drops of wine on the ground. It wassacramental wine, but not consecrated--not 'til now.Scraps of sound reached him on the evening breeze; laughter and calling, the sound of horses making their way through brush.The caravan was not far away, only across a small hollow, coming slowly round the curve of the hillside ...
