Neither hears me. Perhaps it's the hiss of the rain or is it their age seals their ears? I call again, and now the old man looks about him and sees me at last. Finally she slides down into his arms, and though she's but a thin sparrow, I see he's barely strength left to hold her. So I leave my shelter, and the old man turns in alarm to see me splash across the grass. But he accepts my assistance, for wasn't he about to sink to the earth, his good wife's arms still circling his neck? I take her from him and hurry back to the trees, she no burden to me at all. I hear the old man panting at my heels. Perhaps he fears for his wife in the arms of a stranger. So I set her down with care, to show I mean them only friendship. I place her head against the soft bark, and well sheltered above, even if a drop or two still falls around her.

They came riding through the rainstorm as I sheltered under the pines. No weather for a pair so long in years and the sagging horse no less weary. Does the old man fear for the animal's heart with one more step? Why else halt in the mud with twenty paces still to the nearest tree? Yet the horse stands with patience under the downpour as the old man lifts her down. Could they perform the task more slowly were they painted figures in a picture? "Come, friends," I call to them. "Hurry and take shelter."

"No, no, Axl," she says. "It comes back to me, something more. How did we ever forget? Our son lives on an island. An island seen from a sheltered cove, and surely near us now."

"How can that be, princess?"

"It's just the fever talking, princess."

"Don't you hear it, Axl? I hear it even now. Isn't that the sea near us?"

"Just the rain, princess. Or maybe a river."

The old man crouches beside her, speaking words of encouragement, and I move away, not wishing to intrude on their intimacy. I stand again at my old spot where the trees meet the open ground, and watch the rain sweep across the moorland. Who can blame me sheltering from rain like this? I will easily make up time on my journey, and be all the better for the weeks of unbroken toil to come. I hear them talk at my back, yet what am I to do? Step into the rain to be beyond their murmurings?

"Just your fever, princess. We'll find shelter soon and you'll be fine again."

"We forgot it, Axl, with the mist over us, but now it starts to clear. There's an island near, and our son waits there. Axl, don't you hear the sea?"

"He's just a kind man came to our aid, princess. Why should he have any special wisdom of such things?"

"Ask him, Axl. What harm can it do?"

"Ask this stranger, Axl. He knows this country better than us. Ask if there's not a cove nearby."

Do I remain silent? What am I to do? I turn and say, "The good lady's right, sir." The old man starts, and there's fear in his eyes. A part of me wishes to fall silent again; to turn away and watch the old horse standing steadfast in the rain. Yet now I've spoken I must go on. I point beyond the spot where they huddle.

"A path there, between those trees, leads down to a cove such as the one the lady speaks of. For the most part covered in shingle, though when the tide's low, as it will be now, the pebbles give way to sand. And as you say, good lady. There's an island a little way out to sea."

They watch me in silence, she with a weary happiness, he with mounting fear. Will they not say anything? Do they expect me to tell more?

"I've watched the sky," I say. "This rain will clear shortly and the evening will be a fine one. So if you wish me to row you over to the island, I'd be pleased to do so."

"I'm a boatman, sure enough," I tell him. "It's more than I can remember if we met before, for I'm obliged to ferry so many and for long hours each day."

"Didn't I tell you, Axl!"

"Your horse still stands in the rain. Even though he's untethered and nothing to stop him seeking the nearby trees."

"He's an old battlehorse, sir." The old man, happy to leave talk of the cove, speaks with quick eagerness. "He keeps his discipline, even though his master's no more. We must see to him in time, the way we lately promised his brave owner. But just now I worry for my dear wife. Do you know where we may find shelter, sir, and a fire to warm her?"

"Are you then a boatman, sir?" the old man asks solemnly. "And can it be we met somewhere before?"

The old man looks more fearful than ever, holds his wife close as he crouches beside her. Judging it best to change the topic, I say:

I cannot lie and I have my duty. "As it happens," I reply, "there's a small shelter found on this very cove. It's one I stitched myself, a simple roof of twigs and rags. I left a fire smouldering beside it this last hour and it'll not be beyond reviving."

The old man hesitates still, but feels his wife shiver in his arms, and his eyes look to me with desperate entreaty.

"Axl, what are you saying?" the woman says, opening her eyes. "Hasn't our son waited long enough? Let this good boatman lead us to the cove."

"If you wish," I say, "I'll carry the good lady and make the way to the cove easier."

He hesitates, searching my face carefully. The old woman's eyes are now closed and her head rests on his shoulder. He says, "Boatman, my wife spoke just now in a fever. We've no need of islands. Better we shelter beneath these friendly trees till the rain's gone, then we'll journey on our way."

What to say to this, the husband now almost as weak as the wife?

"The cove's not far," I say gently. "But the way down's steep, with pits and twisted roots. Please allow me to carry her, sir. It's the safest thing. You'll walk close beside us where the way allows. Come, when the rain eases, we'll hurry down, for see how the good lady trembles for cold."

"I'll carry her myself, sir," he says, like one defeated yet defiant. "If she's not able to go by her own feet, then she'll go in my arms."

"See there," I say, and crouch beside the slumbering fire. "There's the island."

Only a small turn of the head gives the woman a view of the sea, and she lets out a soft cry. He must turn on the hard pebbles, and stares bewildered here and there at the waves.

The rain stopped before long and I carried her down the hillpath, the old man stumbling behind, and when we came out to the beach, the dark clouds were swept to one side of the sky as if by an impatient hand. The reddish hues of evening all across the shore, a foggy sun falling towards the sea, and my boat rocking out in the waves. With another show of gentleness, I laid her down under the rude cover of dried skins and branches, placing her head against a cushion of mossy rock. He comes fussing about her even before I can step away.

"There, friend," I say. "Look there. Midway between the shore and the horizon."

"They'll be trees, friend, for it's a gentle place." I say this all the while breaking twigs and attending the fire. They both look out to the island and I kneel down, the pebbles harsh against my bones, to blow at the embers. This man and woman, did they not come of their own will? Let them decide their own paths, I say to myself.

"My eyes aren't so good," he says. "But yes, I believe I see it now. Are those the tops of trees? Or jagged rocks?"

"I see the island, Axl," she says, and how can I but intrude upon this intimacy? "That's where our son awaits. So strange how we ever forgot such a thing."

He mumbles a reply and I see he grows troubled again. "Surely, princess," he says, "we're not yet decided. Do we really want to cross to such a place? Besides, we've no way to pay for our passage, for we left the tin and coins with the horse."

Am I to remain silent? "That's no matter, friends," I say. "I'll gladly take what's owed later from the saddle. That steed won't wander far." Some may call this cunning, but I spoke from simple charity, knowing well I would never come upon the horse again. They talked on in gentle voices, and I kept my back to them, attending to the fire. For do I wish to intrude on them? Yet she lifts her voice, and one more steady than before.

"Do you feel the warmth now, princess?" he cries. "You'll soon be yourself again."

"Boatman," she says. "There's a tale I once heard, perhaps as a small child. Of an island full of gentle woods and streams, yet also a place of strange qualities. Many cross to it, yet for each who dwells there, it's as if he walks the island alone, his neighbours unseen and unheard. Can this be true of the island now before us, sir?"

I go on breaking twigs and placing them carefully about the flame. "Good lady, I know of several islands to fit such a description. Who knows if this one is among them?"

An evasive answer, and one to give her boldness. "I also heard, boatman," she says, "there are times when these strange conditions cease to prevail. Of special dispensations granted certain travellers. Did I hear right, sir?"

"Dear lady," I say, "I'm just a humble boatman. It's not for me to talk of such matters. But since there's no one else here, let me offer this. I've heard it said there may be certain times, perhaps during a storm such as the one just passed, or on a summer's night when the moon's full, an islander may get a sense of others moving beside him in the wind. This may be what you once heard, good lady."

"No, boatman," she says, "it was something more. I heard it said a man and woman, after a lifetime shared, and with a bond of love unusually strong, may travel to the island with no need to roam it apart. I heard they may enjoy the pleasures of one another's company, as they did through all the years before. Could this be a true thing I heard, boatman?"

The fire now burning steadily I rise to my feet. "See there," I say, pointing out to sea. "The boat stirs in the shallows. But I keep my oar hidden in a nearby cave, dipped in a rockpool where tiny fish circle. Friends, I'll go now to fetch it, and while I'm gone, you may talk here between you, unhindered by my presence. Let's have you come to your decision once and for all if this is a voyage you wish to make. Now I'll leave you a moment."

"What you say fills me with happiness, boatman," she says, and appears to sag in relief. Then she says, "And who knows? During a storm, or on a calm moonlit night, Axl and I may glimpse our son close by. Even speak with him a word or two."

"Very well, good lady. I'll speak to you frankly. You and your husband are a pair as we boatmen rarely set eyes upon. I saw your unusual devotion to each other even as you came riding through the rain. So there's no question but that you'll be permitted to dwell on the island together. Be assured on that point."

"Yet there's no one here now but you to guide us, boatman. So I ask this of you, sir. If you now ferry my husband and me, can it be we'll not be parted, but free to walk the island arm in arm the way we go now?"

"I'll say it again, good lady. I'm just a boatman, charged with ferrying over those who wish to cross the water. I can speak only of what I observe in my daily toil."

"Good lady," I say, "I'm grateful for this reminder. In my haste I may easily have neglected what I'm bound by custom to do. It's as you say, yet in this case only for the sake of tradition. For as I said, I saw from the first how you were a pair tied by an extraordinary devotion. Now excuse me, friends, for my time grows short. Have your decision for my return."

They both gaze at me, the evening light upon their faces, and I see his filled with suspicion. I meet her eyes, not his.

But she will not release me so easily. "One word more before you go, boatman," she says. "Tell us if when you return, before you'll consent to ferry us, you intend to question us each in turn. For I heard this was the way among boatmen, to discover those rare ones fit to walk the island unseparated."

So I left them then, and walked across the evening shore till the waves grew loud and the pebbles turned underfoot to wet sand. Whenever I looked back at them, I saw the same sight, if each time a little smaller: the grey old man, crouched in solemn conference before his woman. Of her I could see little, for the rock she leant on hid all but the rise and fall of her hand as she spoke. A devoted couple, but I had my duty, and I went on to the cave and the oar.

"Then let's hasten to the boat, for I'm already much delayed," I say, and move away as though to hurry towards the waves. But then I turn back, saying, "Ah, but wait. We must first go through this foolish ritual. Then, friends, let me propose this. Good sir, if you'd rise now and walk a little way from us. Once you're out of hearing, I'll speak briefly with your gentle wife. She needn't stir from where she sits. Then in time I'll come to you wherever you stand on this beach. We'll soon be done and return here to fetch this good lady to the boat."

When I came back to them, the oar upon my shoulder, I could see their decision in their eyes even before he said, "We ask you to take us to the island, boatman."

"There's no concern, Axl," she says. "I'm much restored, and safe under this kind man's protection."

Away he goes, walking slowly to the east of the cove and the great shadow of the cliff. The birds scatter before him, but return quickly to peck as before at their seaweed and rock. He limps slightly, and his back bent like one close to defeat, yet I see still some small fire within him.

He stares at me, a part of him now longing to trust me. He says at last, "Very well, boatman, I'll wander a moment about this shore." Then to his woman, "We'll be parted but an instant, princess."

"Don't fear my questions, good lady," I say. I would wish now for a long wall nearby, to which to turn my face even as I speak to her, but there's only the evening breeze, and the low sun on my face. I crouch before her, as I saw her husband do, pulling my robe up to my knees.

The woman sits before me looking up with a soft smile. What am I to ask?

"I don't fear your questions, boatman," she says quietly. "For I know what I feel in my heart for him. Ask me what you will. My answers will be honest, yet prove only one thing."

I ask a question or two, the usual questions, for have I not done this often enough? Then every now and then, to encourage her and to show I attend, I ask another. But there's hardly the need, for she speaks freely. She talks on, her eyes sometimes closing, her voice always clear and steady. And I listen with care, as is my duty, even as my gaze goes across the cove, to the figure of the tired old man pacing anxiously among the small rocks.

Then remembering the work awaiting me elsewhere, I break into her recollections, saying, "I thank you, good lady. Let me now hurry to your good husband."

"I have no searching question, friend. But your good wife just now recalled a day the two of you carried eggs back from a market. She said she held them in a basket before her, and you walked beside her, peering into the basket all the way for fear her steps would injure the eggs. She recalled the time with happiness."

"How goes it, sir?" he asks quietly.

"A pleasure to listen to your good lady," I reply, matching my voice to his soft tones, though the wind grows unruly. "But now, friend, let's be brief, so we can be on our way."

"Ask what you will, sir."

Surely he begins to trust me now, for why else wander so far from his wife? He hears my footsteps and turns as from a dream. The evening glow upon him, and I see his face no longer filled with suspicion, but a deep sorrow, and small tears in his eyes.

"I think I do too, boatman," he says, and looks at me with a smile. "I was anxious for the eggs because she'd stumbled on a previous errand, breaking one or two. A small walk, but we were well contented that day."

"Don't be afraid of those waves, friend," I say, thinking here's the source of his worry. "The estuary's well protected and no harm can come between here and the island."

"It's as she remembers it," I say. "Well then, let's waste no more time, for this talk was only to satisfy custom. Let's go fetch the good lady and carry her to the boat."

And I begin to lead the way back to the shelter and his wife, but now he goes at a dreary pace, slowing me with him.

"Friend, as it happens," I say, for why not fill this slow journey with a little more talk? "There was a question I might have asked just now had we more time. Since we walk together this way, would you mind my telling you what it was?"

"I'll readily trust your judgement, boatman."

"I was simply going to ask, was there some remembrance from your years together still brought you particular pain? That's all it was."

"Do we still speak as part of the questioning, sir?"

"Not at all, boatman."

"Oh no," I say. "That's over and finished. I asked the same of your good wife earlier, so it was merely to satisfy my own curiosity. Remain silent on it, friend, I take no offence. Look there." I point to a rock we are passing. "Those aren't mere barnacles. With more time, I'd show how to prise them from the rockside to make a handy supper. I've often toasted them over a fire."

"Your wife spoke of the same, friend," I tell him. "And she said she's to blame for his leaving."

"If she convicts herself for the first part of it, there's plenty to lay at my door for the next. For it's true there was a small moment she was unfaithful to me. It may be, boatman, I did something to drive her to the arms of another. Or was it what I failed to say or do? It's all distant now, like a bird flown by and become a speck in the sky. But our son was witness to its bitterness, and at an age too old to be fooled with soft words, yet too young to know the many strange ways of our hearts. He left vowing never to return, and was still away from us when she and I were happily reunited."

"Boatman," he says gravely, and his steps slow further still. "I'll answer your question if you wish. I can't be certain how she answered, for there's much held in silence even between those like us. What's more, until this day, a she-dragon's breath polluted the air, robbing memories both happy and dark. But the dragon's slain and already many things grow clearer in my mind. You ask for a memory brings particular pain. What else can I say, boatman, than it's of our son, almost grown when we last saw him, but who left us before a beard was on his face. It was after some quarrel and only to a nearby village, and I thought it a matter of days before he returned."

"I forbade her to go to his grave, boatman. A cruel thing. She wished us to go together to where he rested, but I wouldn't have it. Now many years have passed and it's only a few days ago we set off to find it, and by then the she-dragon's mist had robbed us of any clear knowledge of what we sought."

"A cruel thing I did, sir. And a darker betrayal than the small infidelity cuckolded me a month or two."

"This part your wife told me. And how soon after came news of your good son taken by the plague swept the country. My own parents were lost in that same plague, friend, and I remember it well. But why blame yourself for it? A plague sent by God or the devil, but what fault lies with you for it?"

"Gain? There was nothing to gain, boatman. It was just foolishness and pride. And whatever else lurks in the depths of a man's heart. Perhaps it was a craving to punish, sir. I spoke and acted forgiveness, yet kept locked through long years some small chamber in my heart that yearned for vengeance. A petty and black thing I did her, and my son also."

"Ah, so that's it," I say. "That part your wife was shy to reveal. So it was you stopped her visiting his grave."

"What did you hope to gain, sir, preventing not just your wife but even yourself grieving at your son's resting place?"

"I thank you for confiding this, friend," I say to him. "And perhaps it's as well. For though this talk intrudes in no part on my duty, and we speak now as two companions passing the day, I confess there was before a small unease in my mind, a feeling I'd yet to hear all there was. Now I'll be able to row you with a carefree contentment. But tell me, friend, what is it made you break your resolve of so many years and come out at last on this journey? Was it something said? Or a change of heart as unknowable as the tide and sky before us?"

"I've wondered myself, boatman. And I think now it's no single thing changed my heart, but it was gradually won back by the years shared between us. That may be all it was, boatman. A wound that healed slowly, but heal it did. For there was a morning not long ago, the dawn brought with it the first signs of this spring, and I watched my wife still asleep though the sun already lit our chamber. And I knew the last of the darkness had left me. So we came on this journey, sir, and now my wife recalls our son crossing before us to this island, so his burial place must be within its woods or perhaps on its gentle shores. Boatman, I've spoken honestly to you, and I hope it doesn't cast your earlier judgement of us in doubt. For I suppose there's some would hear my words and think our love flawed and broken. But God will know the slow tread of an old couple's love for each other, and understand how black shadows make part of its whole."

Can I allow this? It will make my task no easier. "These pebbles make hard walking, friend," I say. "What will be the cost of your stumbling as you carry her? I'm well used to the work, for she'll not be the first to need carrying to a boat. You can walk beside us, talking to her as you wish. Let it be like when she carried those eggs and you went anxiously beside her."

"Don't worry, friend. What you told me merely echoes what I saw when you and your wife first came through the rain on that weary steed. Well, sir, no more talk, for who knows if another storm will come our way. Let's hurry to her and carry her to the boat."

"I'll carry her myself this time, boatman," he says. "I feel my strength restored to me."

The fear returns to his face. Yet he replies quietly, "Very well, boatman. Let's do as you say."

She sits asleep at the rock with a look of contentment, the fire smoking beside her.

He walks at my side, muttering encouragement to her. Do I stride too swiftly? For now he lags behind, and as I carry her into the sea I feel his hand grasp desperately at my back. Yet this is no place to loiter, for my feet must discover the quay where it hides beneath the chilly water's surface. I step onto the stones, the lapping waves grow shallow again, and I enter the boat, hardly tilting though I carry her in my arms. My rugs near the stern wet from the rain. I kick away the soaked early layers and lay her down gently. I leave her sitting up, her head just beneath the gunwale, and search the chest for dry blankets against the sea wind.

I see the fire in him well enough now, for it blazes through his eyes. "I thought it well understood, boatman," he says, "my wife and I would cross to the island unseparated. Didn't you say so repeatedly, and this the purpose of your questions?"

"Please don't misunderstand, friend," I say. "I speak only of the practical matter of crossing this water. It's beyond question the two of you will dwell on the island together, going arm in arm as you've always done. And if your son's burial place is found in some shaded spot, you may think of placing wild flowers about it, such as you'll find growing around the island. There'll be bell heather, even marigold in the woodland. Yet for this crossing today, I ask you to wait a while longer back on the shore. I'll see to it the good lady's comfortable on the opposite one, for I know a spot close to the boat's landing where three ancient rocks face one another like old companions. I'll leave her there well sheltered, yet with a view of the waves, and hasten back to fetch you. But leave us for now and wait on the shore a moment longer."

I feel him climb into the boat even as I wrap her and the floor rocks with his tread. "Friend," I say, "you see the waters grow more restless. And this is but a small vessel. I daren't carry more than one passenger at a time."

"I hold the oar, sir, and it remains my duty to pronounce how many may ride in this vessel. Can it be, despite our recent friendship, you suspect some foul trickery? Do you fear I'll not return for you?"

The red glow of the sunset on him, or is it still the fire in his gaze? "I'll not step off this boat, sir, while my wife sits within it. Row us over together as you promised. Or must I row myself?"

"I accuse you of nothing, sir. Yet many rumours abound of boatmen and their ways. I mean no offence, but beg you take us both now, and no more dallying."

"Boatman," comes her voice, and I turn in time to see her hand reach at the empty air as though to find me there, though her eyes remain closed. "Boatman. Leave us a small moment. Let my husband and I speak alone a while."

Dare I leave the boat to them? Yet surely she now speaks for me. The oar firm in my hands, I step past him over the boards and into the water. The sea rises to my knee soaking the hem of my robe. The vessel's well tied and I have the oar. What mischief can come of it? Still I dare not wade far, and though I look to the shore and remain still as a rock, I find I again intrude on their intimacy. I hear them over the quiet lapping waves.

"He stands in the water, princess. He was reluctant to leave his boat and I'd say he'll not give us long."

"Yet we've often heard of their sly tricks, isn't that so, princess?"

"How can you be so sure, princess?"

"Axl, this is no time to quarrel with the boatman. We've had great fortune coming upon him today. A boatman who looks so favourably on us."

"I trust him, Axl. He'll keep his word."

"Has he left us, Axl?"

"I know it, Axl. He's a good man and won't let us down. Do as he says and wait for him back on the land. He'll come for you soon enough. Let's do it this way, Axl, or I fear we'll lose the great dispensation offered us. We're promised our time together on the island, as only a few can be, even among those entwined a lifetime. Why risk such a prize for a few moments of waiting? Don't quarrel with him, or who knows next time we'll face some brute of a man? Axl, please make your peace with him. Even now I fear he grows angry and will change his mind. Axl, are you still there?"

"I'm still before you, princess. Can it really be we're talking of going our ways separately?"

"What does it matter now, Axl? Mend your friendship with the boatman, and let him ferry us over. If it's one of us he'll row, then the other, why quarrel with him? Axl, what do you say?"

"Tell me, princess," I hear him say. "Are you glad of the mist's fading?"

"I suppose it was, princess."

The sunset on the cove. Silence at my back. Dare I turn to them yet?

"I do, Axl."

"It may bring horrors to this land. Yet for us it fades just in time."

"It's only for a moment or two, husband. What does he do now?"

"Still stands there unmoving, showing only his tall back and shining head to us. Princess, do you really believe we can trust this man?"

"It went happily, husband. Wasn't it the same for you?"

"So leave me now and return to the shore."

"Very well, princess. I'll do as you say."

"I was wondering, princess. Could it be our love would never have grown so strong down the years had the mist not robbed us the way it did? Perhaps it allowed old wounds to heal."

"Your talk with him just now. Did it go happily?"

Do they embrace now, even though I left her swaddled like a babe? Even though he must kneel and make a strange shape on the boat's hard floor? I suppose they do, and for as long as the silence remains, I dare not turn. The oar in my arms, does it cast a shadow in this swaying water? How much longer? At last their voices return.

"Then why do you still linger, husband? Do you think boatmen never grow impatient?"

"I'll do so, princess."

"We'll talk more on the island, princess," he says.

"Farewell then, Axl."

"We'll do that, Axl. And with the mist gone, we'll have plenty to talk of. Does the boatman still stand in the water?"

"Very well, princess. But let me just hold you once more."

"He does, princess. I'll go now and make my peace with him."

"Farewell, my one true love."

I hear him coming through the water. Does he intend a word for me? He spoke of mending our friendship. Yet when I turn he does not look my way, only to the land and the low sun on the cove. And neither do I search for his eye. He wades on past me, not glancing back. Wait for me on the shore, friend, I say quietly, but he does not hear and he wades on.