The wind drives the rain in sheets against David’s body. He winces as the cold stings his face. The path is muddy and slightly treacherous. Ahead clouds skim the folding slopes and hide the horizon. His world becomes only what is immediately around him. He reaches the peak and the land flattens off, filled with the warp and weft of streams, and heather. Startled, a moor hen suddenly cries out ahead of him and flees. He keeps on. On the peak of a small lip of land the blackened stones stand out against the sky. He runs up to the first of the three and kneels beside it. His hands run over the rough surface of the stone looking for the faint cups and spirals that remain after centuries of weathering. He feels the vibrations pass through his fingers and leans closer to listen. Amidst the ringing beats of the rain against the rock a thin membrane between worlds is being shaken and sings out with an alien song. Beneath the hard surface of the stone another world is bubbling up against ours.