I have no roots in the cove’s red mud, burrowing like clams and filter feeding geneaology. These pupils at the Arts Integration Academy have been “medicated in the form of music, dispensed as prescription concertos in the key of Rx.” Mozart expanded their craniums until they swelled like sponges with sharps and flats. It is medication to them, but to me it is the music of the Mabinogi: sung softly under the breath, unintelligible as Gregorian shapenote chant.

Gofyn ’rwyf am galon hapus,
Calon onest, calon lân.
I ask for a happy heart,
an honest heart, a pure heart.

They have names like Bookcase, Wingspan, and Metric, but they think that Nerys is strange. I’ll use my strangeness to pilot the Avalon barge, with priestesses parting a veil of mist and revealing an isle that only I know exists.