One is Come

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  The old man watched the three boys leave. He straightened a little, appearing younger in an instant. He murmured to himself, his accent changed from Spanish to something else, something old. “Such trouble— fear and its mongers.” He turned to look to where Haylwen had scampered off, and shook his head. “You have such a fragile potential, Little One. Pity you were not born in the old times when one such as I could have guided. Fire is right, in that part, at least. What could you become with a little help from a friend…?” He paused, his eyebrows jumping up, eyes wide in surprise. “Could it be?” He held his eyebrows up for a moment longer, then shook his head. “Our good Head is right, what I think does not matter. The Flow of Destiny needs no help, and all will be as it should.” His face, as if with a mind of its own, resumed its thoughtful pose. “But our good Head will not be Head forever.” He looked down at the street, into the tiny stream of water in the gutter. “You will not mind, Great Flow, if I, ah, cooperate just a little, yes?”

  He laughed a tinkling little laugh and stepped into the gutter. The tiny stream of water running there was briefly stopped at his feet, then flowed around to dive down the drain. He glanced quickly around, and disappeared.