Planting New Seeds
I awoke late the next day, Saturday, rising from a strange tangle of dreams involving silver oak trees, the labradorite gates of time, and dances with a hooded man whose fire clashed powerfully against my ice. When I sat up in bed, my eyes drifted first to the ring box on my nightstand and then to the silver acorn beside it. Memories of the previous night returned in a flash. The Eihalbe who embodies the silver oak in my own backyard saw fit to offer me one of its fruit, an honor attained by very few Teutons. And that means that I have to plant and nurture it so a new tree will grow, one to ultimately take the place of the hulking oak in the copse beside our stream. Hans said that oak is nearly seventy years old . . . .
I shook my head and looked away at the remembranc
