Although the path seemed to stretch on forever we eventually came upon the first of the guardians we had be warned of. Standing on a bridge spanning a bubbling brook a curious apparition awaited us – what was it, a Faerie Lady clad in a cloak of lustrous feathers with an obscuring mask or the spirit of some brightly plumed bird, in that odd silver light, I could not tell. As we approached this fair creature 'she' spoke, telling us that she was the Songbird and that we could only pass if we too could give voice to a song. Not for the first time on that strange evening we were taken aback, the requirements of a Cassandra 23 operative did not generally include the ability to sing.

Nonetheless, if we wished to pass the Songbird that is what we must do. One by one we approached the threshold and did our best to satisfy the silver-voiced guardian's demands. I cannot say that the songs we recited would be pleasing to all ears but most seemed to meet with approval from the songbird. I managed a halting rendition of "When the saints come marching in" and, more worringly, Mortimer gave us a virtuoso performance of the stormtrooper anthem, the "Horst Wessel" song, in flawless German. Only the often-reticent Jones displeased the Songbird, his first effort being a Scandinavian drinking song that seemed to lack variation in either tone or content. Terrified at the thought of being lost in this land of Dreams, the sergeant summoned up his inner reserves and gave a burst of song that satisfied the guardian. Once Jones passed the Songbird bid us to go on our way and she flitted away into the surrounding trees.

We had passed the first of the guardians that Herne had warned us about but our spirits were not lifted, for with each passing step the silver path we were on seemed to become less inviting. In places other paths and tracks appeared to run off the main thoroughfare, attempting to draw the unwary from the correct route. We also began to pass under great arches of stone, some of which had great central columns which seemed, in the dim half-light, to have been carved into the shapes of grotesque beasts or gargoyles. Although these illusions were dispelled as we passed by them none of this improved our confidence. It was further dented when we saw, waiting off to the side of the path under another of those great stone arches, the figure of a Fey Lady, blank faced but nonetheless alluring.

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