Another object flies up from the southeast at high speed. It appears to be on an intercept course with the object from the north--which now is close enough to be distinguished as three objects.
By the time you've reached the edge of the field where the road begins to be occluded by the trees, the objects have come together and have started circling each other and making noises--which, you suddenly realize, is speech, and that the objects are three people coming from the north, and another person from the southeast, some of them riding brooms and some simply floating or flying in the air. The three from the north have been laughing loudly, gleefully, for some time, as if flying were great fun. The one from the southeast is definitely a woman--a rather good looking girl in her late twenties, perhaps, riding on a broomstick. As she approaches the other three, you pick up some of what they are saying.
One, a boy, says, "Rejoice my children! 'Tis Lady Gwen!"
Another of the threesome, a girl, says, "Hast thou, then, come at least to be mother to our coven, Gwendylon?"
"Thy beauty hath but waxed, sweet Gwendylon!" the boy exclaims. "How dost thou?"
The one called Gwendylon is apparently the one from the southwest, the good-looking one, and she now answers, "Not yet robbing cradles, Randal," and the wind shifts, carrying their voices elsewhere.
They appear to be descending on the spot where you arrived, though, the girls coming in gradual circling descent aboard broomsticks, the boys simply lowering themselves from the sky.
--M. J. Young
