It is the beginning of spring, and the night is luminous. Fireflies circle above and all manner of living things scurry about, quick-glimpsed but not truly seen.

Moon is full and trees silhouetted make gorgeous motions. There is music in the forest this night. It tangles and transforms.

There stands a remarkable beauty. Lit from within, she glows faintly green, hair like black serpents twining her shoulders. Her eyes are bright, her lips full and red shining. Her clothing is rich coloured and flowing, extending and enhancing each movement. Her hands move, fingers swirling and twirling, as she dances forward through the night. Her hips undulate, swaying and circling. Her feet fall softly on the ground.

This is the Lady of the Creatures; carved magnificent from trees, wound with vine and leaf, painted with berries and blood. An exquisite artifice, elegantly executed. A dead thing moved by string. Each arm steered in delightful progression, face’s expression – enigmatic - exacted, her hips articulated by her little masters. Their dance is complex, synchronised. Merry are these masters of their marionette, but they make mischief of their magic.

Forward they drive this vespertine vision to the village. Louder grows their music, its urgency increases. In the village, children start to laugh and sing. They are sensitive to such things, still living half in the world of enchantment.

She appears on the hill: eyes bright, lips shining, hips hypnotising; such beauty, such movement, such music. The men grow solemn, wistful. Eyes glow faintly green. They desire to dance.

The children point and shout, excited. Mothers pull them into warm protecting arms. Women draw their lovers to their sides. Hands in hands, caught up and safe. This is their magic.

One man has neither mother nor lover, and he stumbles towards the fascinating forgery. Close he gets, when she smiles wide and begins to dance away from him. He laughs and joins her game, chasing her from the village to the forest. Close he gets, and faster she dances. Her feet float on the ground. Greener does she glow, as darker and deeper is the forest.

And soon no moon can be seen.

He catches her up in his arms and his lips kiss hers. Lips made of smooth hard wood, painted with berries and blood. Confused, the man feels her crumble to nothing in his arms, and falls in dismay over the pile of whispers and wind. He doesn’t even see the creatures as they circle around him, advancing.

Soon there is nothing left but the echo of his screams.

It is the beginning of spring, and the night is luminous. Fireflies circle above and all manner of living things scurry about, quick-glimpsed but not truly seen.