I rise to the surface and swim toward the shore. I spot Tyler sitting beside my clothes. He does not see me. His eyes are on the night sky. Is he like me? Is he troubled by those strange stars?

I splash the water to get his attention.

He looks out over the lake, hearing but not seeing me. “Rosemarie? Everything okay?” he asks.

I call out over the water. “I did not think you would come,” I say.

“Sorry. I got your message late. Then I got busted by the gate man. Had to sneak out the bathroom window,” he says.

I swim to the shore and emerge from the water. He turns around to protect my modesty. I slip on my long tunic, which covers me well below the hips, but I do not put on my leggings. I want him to see my tattoos. I want him to see who I really am. I am not a green student. I am not a mental patient. I am not even the wolf-girl that Mrs. Allen raised. What I am came before all those things. I just wish I could remember.

“Tyler, you may turn around now,” I say.

He points to the protective tattoos on my upper legs, dark lines in the moonlight. “Those look … authentic. Celtic knots?” he asks.

“Pictish protections. They extend only to my knees. But when I was a child, they ran all the way down to my ankles,” I say.

“What happened to the tattoos below your knees?” he asks.

“When something bad happens, something that would injure or kill me, one of the knots protects me, and then it fades away,” I say.

Tyler whistles. “Then it looks like you’ve led a pretty wild life,” he says.

“Knowing I am protected, I can be reckless at times. As you can see, the tattoos are disappearing quickly. They will not preserve me forever. I must try to be more cautious,” I say.

Tyler turns away, lifts his tunic and pulls down his leggings, exposing a dragon tattoo on one of his buttocks. “Got this in Cardiff. I like the way the tail curls into Celtic knots,” he says.

I resist the urge to reach out and touch it.

“What is its meaning?” I ask.

“Meaning? I don’t know. It’s there to remind me not to get stinking drunk,” he says.

He chuckles, pulling his leggings back up. Never before has a man shown me his buttocks. It did not feel awkward or strange, and that in itself is odd.

I turn around, lifting my tunic to expose the deer on my back.

“I have animal tattoos on my upper body. This is the deer. It grants me sharp hearing, night vision and high leaps,” I say.

I turn to the side, showing him the fish.

“With the fish, I swim quickly and can breathe underwater,” I say.

I turn to the other side, exposing the horse.

“The horse gives me speed, strength, and endurance,” I say.

I face him, exposing the eagle on my belly. But I cover my breasts with my tunic, and my genitals with my hand.

“The eagle gives me sharp eyes and a powerful grip,” I say.

He reaches out and traces the design with his finger. His dracoform skin is hot and smooth. His touch tingles, and makes me warm between my legs.

He whispers, in awe. “These tattoos are amazing. What are you, some sort of shaman? A druid?” he asks.

“A druidess, yes. Among my people, there were many druids, each with their own specialty. Some were healers, some poets, some historians. They were our educated people, our professionals. I believe my father was a magician. I don’t remember him well. He died when I was young. It was he who marked me. Our clan, the Draig, protected the dragons of the land. The ink in my tattoos was made from dragon scales,” I say.

His hands have wandered to my hips, and he slowly moves closer.

“There’s something about you, Rosemarie. Something I can’t explain. Please tell me you feel it too,” he says.