Folks had not spoken of the event and had silenced the children's queries-everyone recognized an omen, a portent of disaster. And day by day, people cast glances over their shoulders, waiting for it to arrive.

Today was the day. Two thunderbolts close together, a weird floating bladder of jibbering rascals. What…

Gull whirled at a slithering behind him. A snake…

No, his sister.

Greensleeves clutched her ratty shawl and chirruped like a raccoon, a question full of fear.

"Damn it!" her brother snapped, for the noise had startled him. "I told you to stay!"

The simpleton bobbed her head, flinched as if he'd struck her. Tears ran down her cheeks and wet her lips.

"Oh, very well. Come along. But quick, now!" Gull never could resist her crying. But half the time he couldn't guess what she wanted.

Gull brought Greensleeves to the woods each day to keep her from the village. Between her uprooting gardens, shielding animals from harm and work, poking in the bread ovens, filching babies from their cradles, and otherwise being a pest, everyone agreed the woods were best for her. There she was happy, could poke and pry and play with animals to her heart's content while Gull watched over her-as best he could. By unspoken agreement, and the brawn of the brother's arms, no man in the valley would molest her, and strangers were rare, but sometimes Greensleeves would be gone for hours, and Gull worried. Otherwise, he found his sister no trouble, welcomed her company as he would a dog's.

Yet, that the two prospered in the Whispering Woods was another sign of queer natures. No one else in White Ridge ever ventured near. The leaves and trees were too full of talk, of "whispering," for normal folk to abide: they hinted the voices came from monsters or devils or elves or other dark beings. The unending mumble and chatter and hush of the leaves had bothered Gull as a boy, but now he scarce heard it. It touched Greensleeves with less effect than rain.