“This way,” said the kind voice, low and gently. “You are nearly to my hands, little one.” A girl, about nine years of age, walked unsteadily along the muddy road towards her aunt’s voice. A small crowd stood behind her, murmuring their surprise with soft exclamations. How much the child had improved over the past few weeks! Fiddlis’s cheeks were already bright with the highland sunshine to kiss them, and her patchwork dress was dusty with good rich earth. Fiddlis had been born blind, poor child; her vacant blue-green eyes often spilled tears for the sights she could only touch and hear. Yet since she had come to live with her Auntie in her hillside cottage, the young girl had grown fond of exploring her surroundings with her fingers. Many times she had burned her little hands in the fire pit, and her feet had often trod right into trouble; but Auntie loved her, she would forgive her every error and so Fiddlis was rapidly maturing into a happy, healthy, sturdy girl.

Fiddlis fell into Auntie’s arms as the crowd erupted with wild clapping. “You are so strong!” they said. Fiddlis blushed as they spoke excitedly about what her future would surely be. “You will run on the highland moors without fear of anything and you will brave the fierce winters like a hearty shepherdess!” Auntie scooped her niece up into her capable brown arms and carried her towards their squat cottage. As Fiddlis’s aunt poured some fresh goat’s milk out for her guests, a burly ironsmith roared, “You might even grow to fight the invading Yule!”

Instantly there was a somber lull. The ironsmith realized he had spoken with little wisdom, and he hastily gulped the rest of his warm milk. “What are the Yule?” Fiddlis asked innocently. Auntie sighed and began to usher her guests from the kitchen. “Thank you all for coming to encourage her,” she muttered as she flapped her apron at the curious washerwomen and big-eyed children.

“My faith, how will you explain the Yule to that child?” demanded a stringy-haired boy.

“Hush!” snapped Auntie. “I shall find a way. Now be gone!” Soon she was alone in the cozy kitchen with her blind niece.

“Auntie, what was the big ironsmith talking about?” Fiddlis said, setting down her brown earthenware cup. Her aunt bit her lips together and sat down in her carven chair before the fireplace. She drew Fiddlis to her ample bosom and hugged her close. “Pay no heed to his hasty words, my dear.” Fiddlis pushed away and ran her hand through her tangled sandy hair. “Auntie…what did he mean, that I might fight invaders? What invaders? Are we going to be fought with, Auntie?”

Knowing she would have to tell her intelligent niece the truth about the Yule monsters, Auntie braced herself and spoke. “Fiddlis, first of all you must understand that you are in no danger.” Fiddlis interrupted.

“Danger? Ha! I like danger; it likes me. Do not worry about that.” Her blank eyes seemed almost to sparkle as if Auntie had been teasing.

“Assuredly, my dear, I do not jest!” Auntie was shocked. One did not make light of the Yule. “Even high in the hills where you and I, your friends and that ironsmith live, we are in danger of becoming prey to a heathen race of monsters.” Fiddlis’s hands punched the air. “Monsters? Goody!” Auntie wrung her hands in distress. “No no, dearie, these monsters are the twisted spirits of the trees! They care not for sanity, nor do they heed sharpened broadswords. Blades bounce off their scaly bark like so many rain drops.” Fiddlis slowly sank to a crouching position.

“What about bows and arrows?” she whispered.

“Nothing can stop the Yule from destroying their enemies. They are invincible.”

Fiddlis felt a sudden cold creep over her flushed face. She brushed away a spider web that floated by her eyelash and felt frantically for the warm stones of Auntie’s floor to sit upon. “Then…if these tree monsters whom we highlanders call the Yule try to attack us here in the village…there is none whom can stop them?” Fiddlis’s merry tanned face grew a shade pale. Auntie sighed, tears pricking the inside of her eyelids. She had never lied to her niece. Fiddlis was too smart to be lied to, she took everything as it was said.

“Yes.”

The word hung in the middle of the small toasty kitchen, taking the warmth from the marrow and shoving it out through the open wooden door. An angry black cloud passed over the sun and Fiddlis gasped and jumped into her aunt’s lap.

“There now, what have we on your face! That is not a look of fear, is it?” Auntie hugged the precious child close. Fiddlis trembled for one second and then jumped down to the ground, her bare feet making no noise. “Fear? Me? Never.” Auntie laughed after the child as she ran out the door and into the dimmed sunlight.

Fiddlis ran wildly over the highland moors, loudly braying like a horse and barking like a dog. She scared a flock of sheep and fell into a fresh mountain stream, wetting her ragged dress. The black cloud was soon chased away by her throaty screaming and the sun once more shone down upon the little blind girl. Grinning widely, Fiddlis threw out her arms into the sunlight and twirled around and around until she was dizzy. Falling to the thick moor grass, Fiddlis wondered idly when their Greenleaftime would come. In the lowlands, in Crescent and Warwick, Greenleaftime was already upon the people. Snow had blanketed the heaths and marshes, driving the tender hens to her den and the rabbit to his burrow. Soon the winter would be upon the highlands, sweeping the warm afternoons from Auntie’s cottage and Kentle, the neighboring town. When that time came, Fiddlis would join the other village children in gathering and binding the golden wheat and luscious golden corn; the women would collect their spun wool to knit sweaters and socks for their families, and the men would travel down into the lowlands for hunting. The pine trees that decorated the distant hillsides would bear big prickly cones for homemade gifts, and the holly bushes would grow bright red berries. Fiddlis would chase the skunk into her comfortable hillock home and the bear would disappear from the highlands until the snowtime was over. And all the while, I will be growing big and strong and more able to protect my Auntie from the Yule, Fiddlis thought stubbornly. She believed that the tree beasts of whom Auntie had spoken could be defeated. It just took the right person.

Fiddlis’s shaggy brown puppy ran up to her and pushed his wet nose into her palm. The young girl squealed with surprise and threw her arms around her puppy. Together the happy pair wrestled in the mud on the highlands as a great billowing wind blew another black cloud before the sun.

Conan groaned and opened his eyes.

He could see nothing. A frosty draft hit his skin and he realized his cloak had been taken. His mind was as foggy as the heath mists and the minstrel could recall nothing about what had happened to him. He only remembered that beautiful warm feeling that had pervaded his limbs, melting the stiffness and lowering him to the soft heath grounds.