I make my way to my resting place inside the great cavern. The sound of dripping waters echoes eerily. I build a small fire to help ward off the chill of stone floor and walls. I take a small pail and walk to the icy stream that cuts across the cavern. Dipping the pail in the water, I fill it to the brim and carry it back to my fire. It has been long decades since I last stood in this place, but all is as I remember it. Hidden in their secret places are my treasures. Some of great value, others whose greatest value lay in their usefulness. One of these is a great robe, made from the furry hide of a giant elephant I had hunted and killed long ages ago. I spread the robe out on the stony floor. I take a large wooden cup and dip it in the pail, sloshing some of the water on the floor. I gather some of the dirt from the stone and sprinkle it in the water. Muttering a few words, I drain the cup and lay back on my rough-shod bed. Finding a comfortable position, I drift off to sleep. I sleep to see what was and what may yet be. Seeing into the past is like looking in a mirror. One sees what is already there. Seeing into the future, though, is like looking at mirage in the desert. Is it real or not? The future one sees in visions or dreams is only a tale yet to be told, with many twists and unpredictable turns hiding in the shimmering illusion of truth. The tale I hear this night is a mish-mash of symbols and pictures. There is a large gathering of people at the manor. Among them, I see Amalie, my granddaughter so many times removed, striving against the assistant innkeeper, Shawn. About her I see the spirits of my Anarane and my daughter Amalie. They are trying to speak to her, but she cannot hear them any better than I can. I also see the young girl Artie, shrinking from something hiding in the darkness, her hand clenched tightly around something. She, too, has spirits gathered about her. From their ghostly resemblance, I believe they are her parents. A mystery, dark and disturbing, surrounds them. I also see cowled figures moving in and among the shadowy figures. Monks or priests? It is difficult to tell. Occassionally, a face appears. Valenta, Brighid, Cidwm are among them. There is a strange girl. Her eyes are mismatched, one blue and one brown. She moves slowly and awkwardly, as a child taking her first steps. Beside her appears a strange man. His face appears normal enough. The girl-child says something. The man’s face twists into an evil mask as he grabs her and shakes her, shouting. A man appears, his visage weathered by time and sorrow. About him are gathered ghosts, spirits of those who had been close to him in life. A raven flies about him, occasionally alighting on his shoulder to whisper in his ear. His keen eyes look about him as he searches the streets of the village and the halls of the manor. What he searches for is hidden in the shadows that flee before his lantern. The manor house. Drakesheath Hall. Ancient seat of an ancient family, part of my heritage. Its dark windows, streaming yellow light, stare like baleful eyes into the black night. There is a strange glow, a sullen, orange glow, that shimmers about the whole building. Cold emanates from it. A cold more chill than the Arctic winds that blow across the North Sea in winter. It is an evil blight on the land. And over all of them towers the gigantic form of my ancient enemy. His hands reaching out and casting their giant shadows over all in my dream. Behind him, the air is disturbed. It shivers as though cold and has a dim, bluish cast. Another presence I can feel hiding in that eerie place. I wake with a start. I must go to the manor. Tonight. Something is in the wind and I must find out what it is.