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Alum Rock Park: April, 1972

Strickland knew who Wilghe was the moment he emerged from the trunk of the old willow tree, near-naked, white-skinned, and twined about with greenly shining ivy. Wilghe stood on the dappled bank above the creek, gripping the dark earth with his toes, and smiling. His skin seemed like bark at times, but wasn't -- there was no telling his age. He could have been twenty or two hundred or two thousand. Strickland smiled, and offered him a cup of water from the fountain. Wilghe drank. Rainbow droplets clung to his bronze-colored beard. Srickland drew a deep breath and sighed "Hello, my love." 

"Hello to you, Alor," Wilghe murmured. His voice was barely distinguishable from the April wind combing down the wooded slope, and his blue-gray eyes were amused and knowing slits. "Have you been waiting a long time?"

"Yes," Strickland answered. He didn't know what Alor meant, but surely Wilghe did, and that was all that mattered.