The treetops are cold back home, still too early for the task of gathering berries. I sleep a while in that world while my eager feet, moving to the beat of a silent drum, carry me into Spring Country. Here, green valleys and hillsides are almost overcome with blossoms of orange and heliotrope. Small coppices of birch and apple appear from time to time, along the path I have made. I follow a stream that runs pale blue. A school of golden fish look up at me from time to time, making sure that I am following their lead. I giggle at the thought, wondering wherever they could be leading me. Do they hear the drum as well?

Tugroot is especially glad to have shaken off the ice and snow of winter. Perched upon my shoulder, he favours the luxury of an alderleaf shade which he holds over himself when a cloud passes, allowing the sun's life-giving warmth to descend upon us.

My blackthorn shillelagh is strong and makes a perfect walking stick. It always has. It, too, seems to swell at the sudden change in weather. From it hangs a pouch wherein I know I still have a hazelnut or two. I fish around in the leather pouch with two fingers and a thumb until I recognise the feel of them. I withdraw two and pop one into my mouth. The other I toss to the salmon that seem to be guiding me. The canniest of them gulps the hazelnut and speaks to me. "Thank you, Lass. My, aren't you a clever one."

"I am Wood-elf, my dear Salmon," I answer him. "My folk know well the secrets of leaf, seed, and root." He smiles back. My clan's wisdom has earned our race a special place among the fish, fowl and fauna of the Wild. Through the earth's yield we have learned the woodnotes, which connect us to bird and beast in languages that mortals have long forgotten. "So tell me, Wise Salmon, where do you lead me?" Tugroot squawks and chirps in annoyance. He thinks I've forgotten him. "Pardon me. Where do you lead us?" Tugroot grins and sighs with satisfaction.

"To the Huntsman's Keep, Wood-elfmaid!" My new salmon friend leaps with glee and splashes his friends. "There is treacherous forest ahead, but the Huntsman is a Woodland King. In the North he is called Staghorn. The Westfolk know him as Prince of the Black Boars. If you are to cross his forest with safety, you had best make friends with him!"