A fine mist came from the gray sky as Doeth sat by the shore of Llyn y Aberthau. Countless interlocking circles marked the fall of tiny droplets of rain. The whole surface rippled in a gentle breeze from the northwest. Several curlews circled overhead, calling to one another their plaintive cour-lee, cour-lee, then headed out over the eastern sedge meadow toward the marsh. Doeth sat on the large gray rock from which offerings were dropped into the waters. All around her was water. The lake, the grass, the sedge and marsh, the sky, her long dark hair and woolen cloak, all were wet, cold, and uniformly gray. Waters fell from the gray sky, mists rose from the gray sea. Doeth was caght in the middle.
"We have been making offerings to you for countless cycles of the moon," Doeth said aloud, looking out over the lake. "Yet you do not answer, and the waters rise. What are we to do, Goddess? How are we to live?" No sound answered her but the hiss of rain falling on the lake surface . . . |
