No rituals can help me now. No ancient words or incantations will work. What must effect my change is pure nature. What lies within me. What magic spark I was born with, when I was kissed with the blessing of my visions and given the name Arianaidd. I form no thoughts. I call upon no deities or forces. I merely allow myself to change. Change or die, for the two paths sit side by side, and I could with the greatest of ease slip along the wrong one, never to return. I feel my hands and feet twitching, my muscles tense and jerk. Are these the beginnings of my transformation, or of my death throes? There is a burning in my chest now, as it squeezes in upon itself, robbed of air. Am I shrinking to my other self, or have I drawn my last breath in any earthly form? I feel as if I am falling from a great height, and there is a rushing sound in my ears, as if the waters of the lake were flooding into me, into my body and my soul. The darkness presses down on me. Whatever alterations are taking place, I cannot resist nor influence them, but merely be carried by them.
And I am changed!
As I am, I can raise myself from my death-cold snow bed and stand, teetering, on four paws. My head hurts me, but my strong new body is better built to withstand such pain, better made to run than to think. The winter air has cooled my wound so that the blood does not flow from it. I am unsteady. I am still a broken thing. But I can carry myself. I can! My fur is so wonderfully warm, and that warmth revives me. My low stance means the top of the snow is level with my eye, so that I must stand up on my hind legs, using my short tufted tail to help me balance. Now I have a clear view of the land around me. I hop cautiously away from the lake, for I am not a creature of the water. How strange to move across the ground on silky paws, ears flicking to pick up sounds, to warn me of danger, of swooping owls, of hungry foxes. With every tentative step, my courage builds so that soon I am bounding toward the crannog, covering the distance in no time, the speed making my tiny heart beat like a war drum, and my spirits lift. It is a joyous thing to be so nimble. I am so reveling in my newfound strength that I am at the wooden walkway to the crannog before I notice my wound is bleeding again. I can feel the hot blood, sticky on my fur. I must go on. The watchman is pacing along the boards, blowing into his hands to keep them from freezing. He looks this way and that as he is bound to do, but his line of vision is well above even the black tips of my ears. I move swiftly across the construction that links the crannog to the shore and slip behind the smithy’s workshop. I know where my prince lies sleeping, and I take the most direct path to the great hall. Everyone else is in their bed. A lazy cattle-dog in the doorway to a barn raises its head from its paws as I pass, but tonight he has no appetite for a playful chase, and a belly too full to care that a meal is walking past. The door of the hall is closed. I wonder how I will get in, but at this moment it opens. One of the villagers has come out at the urging of his bladder. While he stands facing the wall and lets loose onto the snow-white ground a stream of steaming yellow, I slip inside unnoticed. It is so very hot in the hall, though the fires have burned down to nothing. There remain several torches burning low in sconces fixed to the walls. So many men, women and babes lie packed within, snoring and filling the borrowed air with their stink. How base humans can be! I glide between their slumbering forms, taking particular care not to wake the sleeping hunting dogs by the hearth. At the far end of the hall sits the stately royal bed with its heavy drapery. I wriggle between the closed curtains. Now I see my prince, still dressed, as are most following their lengthy celebrations. He lies atop the coverlets, his princess sleeping beside him. Will he know me? How will he react to find me as I am? Will I succeed in making him understand or will he fear he is in the grip of a nightmare? I have no choice but to try. For his sake, if not my own. He sleeps with one arm flung out so that it dangles from the bed. I reach up my nose and sniff his palm, letting my whiskers tickle his skin. He flinches, the sensation stirring him. I raise my front paws up onto the bed beside him and nudge his arm. He shifts, pulling his hand in from the cold to tuck it beneath his head as he turns on his side. At least now he is facing me. I hop up beside him and for a few seconds watch him sleep. The notion of lying down next to him is an appealing one, but it would be my last act. Droplets of blood from my broken head spill onto the prince as I lean over him, dropping onto his cheek. He murmurs, and his eyes open. He peers at me through the smoky gloom, frowning. I see that he is about to swat me away and go back to sleep. How can I make him see who I am? If I cause a commotion and the hounds awake, that will be the end of me. When he tries to shoo me from the bed I do not shy away, as he might expect, but sit tight. His frown deepens as he raises his head, puzzled by my curious behavior. He puts his hand to the blood on his cheek and then sees the gaping wound between my ears.