Galhwyn was walking through the fields above Valleyhome. They sprouted around him, fallow and unused for now. Sometimes he would see flickers of movement from the corners of his eyes, as if the spirits were breathing in their sleep. The spirits of mud and black earth, his mother had always said, grow tired, feeding the crops. Just as men sleep, so must the spirits, for seasons at a time, and when they return the crops they nourish are stronger for it.
So Galhwyn walked, and he looked down into the Valley.
The shamans argued, sometimes, over whether Valleyhome and the garden of water that flowed through it was in fact The Garden, the one Crow had brought from gygo, where the world began. One would say it was, another would call that heresy, and then there would be many appeals to the spirits. Sometimes, if you were lucky, they'd come to blows. Nothing quite so funny as two old holy men slapping each other and quibbling.
All Galhwyn knew was that it was beautiful, and peaceful. From this distance, at least. It was a virtue to bend your back to work, but Galhwyn was not a particularly virtuous boy, and for all his joy and trickery, he appreciated a breath of peace most off all.
A crow fluttered overhead against the pale sky, and Galhwyn yelled the crow-call to it, coarse and raucous as the Spider-Eyed himself.
"CAAAAAW," shrieked something in his ear. Galhwyn screamed like a startled pony, fell off the the path, slid down the slope at the edge of the field, and landed face first in the mud on the next step down.
Up above, someone was roaring with laughter, a crow-laugh that was somehow reedy and rich all at once. When he'd wiped the mud from his eyes and looked back up, the tallest woman he'd ever seen was sitting gaily on the edge of the slope, mindless of the mud. She wore an odd style of clothing, dyed as rich as the sail of a ship, and her hair was piled with gleaming black stone ornaments cut in the shape of feathers. Where the sun cut down, her muscles gleamed - she looked strong enough to pick any two warriors Gal had ever seen and beat their skulls together.
And she was laughing, loud and deep and raucous.
"Crow below, you should have seen your face!" she managed, between gasps. "By freakin' me, that was hilarious!"
Gal pulled together the shreds of his dignity. "Who in gygo do you think you are, huh? Jumping at me like that? I could come up there and-"
She shifted suddenly, and the tiny flex sent ripples of corded muscle racing over her body.
"-ask you to apologize..."
She flashed a sun-bright grin at him. "I missed this. Everyone's all serious where I came from, it's always work, work, work, work."
"You're... from away?"
"Nah, I used to live here a while back. Decided to drop by, see how the old place is doing from the ground, you know?"
Gal scrambled up the side of the slope and sat besides her. Well, if she was a visitor, even one that was just returning, she got some leeway. Practical jokes were sadly frowned upon by most people he knew, and a bit of levity might be worth a few pranks turned his direction.
Also, she was... very pretty.
"So, what do you think?" he asked. "Changed much?"
He looked out over the valley, and the city in it. From here, you could just barely see the specks of cloth as people and goods bustled about, moving out to the farms and back to the town, or pulling slow wagons of wares to the square.
Gal was suddenly aware of a heat on his side. The strange woman was close.
"Oh, immensely," she said. "A thousand years will do that to a place."
And just as Gal had registered that, he felt a hand brush against his neck, and somehow he wasn't doing much thinking for the next good while.
Afterwards, lying there on the grass under the pale sky, Galhwyn closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the woman against him.
"What's your name?" he asked. He somehow felt like he'd forgotten something, lost a train of thought, but then, his mind had been pretty focused on other things.
"I was born Gwygoytha," she said. "But most people call me something else these days."
That word itched at him, clicked with something. A lecture from a shaman, maybe. Something about Crow, and the Garden, and...
A thousand years, she'd said.
"Gygowyn," Galhwyn whispered.
She chuckled, lying on the grass behind him, and it was a woman's laugh, deep and seductive, and it was a crow's laugh, high and reedy and mocking. "You're a real clever boy, Galhwyn."
"Why... why me?"
She clucked her tongue. "Well, I like the way you think! And you were out walking here, and it is such a beautiful day. That's something people seem to forget these days, with their iron tools and weird tax systems and crowded city life. Sometimes, you just have to go for a walk when it's beautiful out. Or, other strenuous outdoor activities. Here, look, you'll like this bit."
Gal rolled up to a sitting position and watched Gygowyn, who was First of Mankind, rise naked to her feet. She was magnificent, like the strength of an aurochs distilled, the cleverness of Crow himself made into a body. Mud streaked her, but she wore it like warpaint, like the blood of enemies.
And then she winked, and jumped, and as her feet left the ground, the black stone feathers in her hair rolled across her and spread. For a moment, she seemed to be a crow-shaped hole in the sky, infinitely distant and just as huge.
And then a ragged crow flapped off and up, wheeling once high above before flying away.
Galhwyn managed a single long crow-cry before the birdshit hit his forehead.
The harsh laugh of the crow echoed back at him as he gathered his muddy clothes. And somehow, despite his wonder and horror and confusion, he found himself wearing a rueful grin.
He'd never be able to listen to a lecture about Gygowyn with a straight face ever again, would he? And they'd ask him, "Young Galhwyn, would you perhaps like to comment on the sacred lore of Gygowyn," and he'd say, "Well, there's this thing she does with her tongue..."
Oh, Crow. He was going to be made a half-exile for heresy, wasn't he?
Somehow, he was having trouble regretting it.
