AWAKENING

The sun-witch uses her wisdom to entice Egella to stay. Utaria has much to share from her own traditions—not only her lore and understanding, nor just her potions and rituals, but also the secrets of the mind. Egella is no stranger to such practices; she has often sat to still the mind to induce powerful visions of her many lives before. But Utaria teaches her new techniques of inner exploration, and these teachings Egella adds to her own.

The time to leave the Sheonni settlement arrives. Her parting from the sun-witch is brief and formal. The cattle drovers guide her down the slopes of a nearby valley, leading her onto a marshy floodplain along a recently elevated trackway of oak planking. Wide marshes tower on each side, thick with tall reeds, bulrushes, and reedmace sitting in tea-coloured floodwater. The planks are supported by sturdy, crossed vees of alder stakes. With autumn here, the otherwise vibrant green beds are transforming to straw yellows and dusty ochres. The bulrushes will soon begin to buckle and tumble. Small, moustached bearded tits clatter as they ping through the reedbeds. Aromas hit the senses; stinking marsh gas rises through the biscuit scent of drying stalks. As they thud along the trackway, the roughly split oak planks squeak against their hazel withies.

Egella and her guides reach the terminal and open water, where a dugout oak canoe waits as promised by Utaria. One of the cattle drovers places gifts into the dugout, while others pack a pole, a baler, and fish traps. Finally, a drover hands Egella an oar of bone and wood. Deftly she climbs aboard and expresses her gratitude as they push her out against the flow.

Egella has to throw all of her gracile body weight into her paddle to make progress up the channel. Although the work is hard and the speed slow, it is still easier and safer than attempting to cross vast wildwoods by foot. Paddling against the river's current, she watches for dark shadows in the water that signal the snags of shallows and sunken timbers. These wild waters flow wherever they will, frequently splitting into two or three channels that sneak around riverine sandbanks and islets. Wide reedbeds are everywhere, acting as a border between the open waters and the grey trunks of the wild alder carr. At times these trees break through the reed margins to dip their roots and suckers into the water, their low branches forming another hazard. Beavers exploit this riparian world; this river is their domain, a kingdom they constantly remake.

The frog-witch finds a rope made from lime-tree bast in the bow of the dugout. Gritting her teeth, she uses it to drag the vessel over and around the obstacles of the beaver-kind. Climbing onto their dams, she takes care to avoid collapsing them. Other times, she uses channels made by the clever rodents to bypass a tricky river bend.

With so much focus on the hard work, Egella struggles to look away from the water and its hazards. When she does, she sees a vast wild forest on either side, draped over the valley slopes. For all her difficulties, she blesses Utaria and her drovers for their charity.

She knows she must catch wild food to supplement the gifts of her former hosts. In the afternoon, she spots a large family of otters fishing in the shallow water. Reading the clue, she ties her craft to an alder and steps into the river with her bone-tipped harpoon. Stealthily she hunts until she spots a pike. Her aim does not fail her.

Inevitably, the sun falls into the forests further west, casting a golden light across the reedbeds. Egella spies a route to higher, drier land—a place to cook, eat, and sleep. She follows her instincts up a small tributary stream before climbing out to drag the dugout by its rope out of its watery labours. On the edge of the dusky forest, she works with haste and skill, making fire with her little bow and drill. A hearth is established. The fish is wrapped in green water-leaf and roasted. She heats small flints in the fire and drops them into a water-skin to brew her mugwort tea. Soon, the frog-witch is sated. The sun is gone, and firelight dances through the trees and undergrowth from her sacred hearth.

Now, in this setting, she makes a choice. Egella combines the magical practices of the sun-witch with her own. She makes a cushion of furs and dead leaves to sit beneath a wonderful old hazel tree, its ten separate trunks radiating upward to hold a canopy of gold-brown leaves. Hairy nutshells prickle the ground. She pulls her bear skin over her shoulders and crosses her dirty, bare legs. Allowing her eyelids to drop halfway and resting her hands in her lap, Egella straightens her back, which aches from the hard paddling. She relaxes. Silently, in her mind, the frog-witch begins to chant her sacred words.

At first, her sense of hearing distracts her from the task—the barking of roebucks, the sharp slap of beaver tails, a twig snapping somewhere nearby. The distraction reminds Egella that there are bears and wolves here in the wilds. The frog-witch was born to Leva gardeners who fear and disrespect the untamed forests, but she recognises that this fear is not hers. She returns her attention to her internalised words. Odours of woodland and river tease her senses: the sweet, sickly scent of damp earth mingling with the rot of fallen leaves and wet bark. Spores are carried to her nostrils from the flowering mushrooms throughout the forest. For some time, Egella reflects on decay, transition, and the connection between all these life forms.

This period of insight ends, and she returns to focusing strictly on the words. Her attention deepens. She no longer hears the deer, the foxes, or the beavers. All senses fade, even the feeling of touch. No longer do stray thoughts invade from her deeper subconscious. It is as though there are only the words, and the knowingness. Egella detects this observer in her mind as it draws closer, until the observer and the sacred words become one. Bliss. Peace.

But this trance is only the beginning, an early signpost along the way. Egella does not simply end her stillness; she is resolved not to stop until she reveals the mystery. The time of Awakening approaches. The frog-witch will soon be gone.

This stillness continues into the following days. Several times the sun arches over the forest canopy, painting the golden leaves first copper, then shades of grey. With unyielding focus, the explorer contemplates death, investigating transition, the inevitable cycles of decay, and the birth of new life. She explores that inner knowingness.

Sometimes she sits; other times she kneels, stands, or walks slowly around the hazel tree. Mindfully she sips from her drinking skin, never letting her stillness of mind be disturbed from its purpose. The days and nights continue to pass by.

Sitting cross-legged, Egella understands that she is nearing some great revelation. Distraction seems to make a final attempt to prevent her progress. Wild beasts approach her stillness, beetles and wood ants crawl over her legs, and black bees buzz around her tangled mop of hair. But her resolve is now too strong to break. Her body trembles, yet she cannot sense it. She no longer notices the beasts watching her.

A light ignites from the earth, passing through the layers of life into the hazel roots and straight up Egella’s spine. And then... things happen that cannot be expressed in words or even art. She reaches down to the earth with her right hand. Dead leaves and particles of rot lift from the forest floor, building into a swirl as slowly she lowers her hand. A hum of static fills the air. Her fingertips lock with Mother Earth. A prayer escapes her chapped lips. Her hungry features are by now gaunt, yet suddenly they begin to glow. She summons Athiratu to bear witness to her Enlightenment. She is no longer Egella the frog-witch. She is an Awakened One.

WITCHES

The boys use sticks to prod their long-horns whilst floppy-eared dogs scarper around the herd. One proud young barbarian cowboy, wearing his rope turban of manhood, lifts his stick and points to a lone figure strolling across the wild meadow towards them.

He alerts the older herdsman, ‘Look yonder, a girl comes our way. She looks odd—perhaps she is a stranger?’

The older, bearded man, who also dons the rope turban of the Sheonni, squints against the sun to assess the walker. She is a small, youthful woman, of early maidenhood. Such a young female is not safe to wander the lands unescorted. He sees that she wears the heavy fur of a brown bear over her shoulders. Feathers and small bones are knotted into her scraggy, bear-like hair, chalk covers her face, and she walks with a stick of twisted yew. As the bear fur swishes apart, he spots that beneath a necklace of dried amphibian skins, her painted breasts are small, her belly plump. A leather belt around her naked flesh suspends the prickly pelt of a hedgehog over her pubic region, and a cup fashioned from a human cranium lined with clay hangs by her side.

The bearded herdsman pronounces his verdict: ‘She looks to be of the Leva! One of their holy women, a servant of the frog-goddess.’

The young cowboy bunches his cheeks and splutters, ‘Ha, a Leva girl? Then we should catch her and have some fun.’ He lurches forward as if to chase the lone girl, but the older man lifts his cattle stick to block his path, adding a caution:

‘No, you fool. She might not be of our kind, but she is a frog-witch, a priestess of Athiratu. It would be bad magic for us to cause her harm, or to prevent her progress. We should encourage her to visit our Sun-priestess. Now, humble yourself.’

Both herdsmen bow in submission as Egella reaches them. She grins, sensing her power over these rope-turbaned, foreign men. They are delighted when she raises her voice over the bellowing of their beasts and speaks in their own Sheonni tongue:

‘I am Egella, of the Frog-Mother. I seek alms and sanctuary as I pass through this land.’

Momentarily, the bearded twinehead grins at his younger charge, before he addresses Egella. ‘We’ve a famous Sun-witch whose reputation is known across all lands—the priestess Utaria. We are taking our cattle back to our camp. Please, Sister Egella, follow us and we shall seek an audience for you.’

The bearded man stoops once more, then punches a cautionary fist into his young friend’s chest, hissing at him, ‘Stop gaping, you idiot, you’ll cause offence.’ Submissively, they start tapping the hindquarters of the long-horns whilst whistling to the dogs. Egella proudly follows behind.

At the camp, they point Egella towards the den of Utaria. As she walks through the settlement, Egella feels unfriendly eyes fall upon her gait. These folk are the enemies of her own; they harbour a hatred of the Leva, yet her holy role protects her from assault.

Utaria’s den stands out among the other clay-walled huts. Her dwelling alone is built of more natural materials—pine sprays and reeds from the river. A wooden lintel over its low doorway has been carved with magical symbols, and small window ports align with critical points of the sunrise. A bear skull is mounted in the thatched roof directly above the lintel, the beast’s claws fixed on either side. The herdsman tells her that Utaria is inside, ready to receive her.

Egella crouches low and enters the abode. It is smoky inside, yet she can see herbs, charms, and ritual staffs stored along the edges of the roundhouse. Large, round-bottomed, thick-walled pots are scattered about, some containing the Sun-priestess’s potions. The hostess herself crouches by the central hearth. Egella had expected an ugly old crone to match such a reputation, but finds Utaria to be nothing of the sort. She is a handsome woman in her prime, dressed only in a netting decorated with raptor feathers. Like the rays of the sun, a headdress of bright white swan feathers crowns her fair, perfectly plaited hair. It seems that whilst the frog-witches of the Leva folk indulge in dirt and mess, these Sun-priestesses of the Sheonni take great pride in their regal appearance.

Utaria waves a slender hand for Egella to sit with her at the hearth, breaking the shy silence in a common dialect:

‘Welcome to my abode, sister of the Leva-kind. I trust that you have arrived unharmed by my neighbours. They are still spooked by recent battles with others of your tongue, and may not be inclined to friendly hospitality.’

Egella opens her hands to reveal them devoid of fists or any weapon of violence. She smiles innocently and says, ‘These wars are not with any close kin of mine. I have travelled far from the south to be here, passing through many lands and visiting the hearths of other farmers. These days, war plagues us all. Sheonni against Leva, and even Leva commune against Leva commune.’

‘This is also true for my own folk. We live in violent times,’ Utaria agrees. She squints and purses her lips with inquisitiveness. ‘But Sister, I have not yet introduced myself properly. I am Utaria of Saaba. I understand you of the Leva follow the holy trinity?’

‘This is true. I am Egella, daughter of the famous Amaia who dwells by the Serpent’s Estuary. Our folk do recognise your Saaba under another name, as a divine mother, and we also seek her blessings for the solstice. However, we first fear the trinity of ancestors: Ilua, Daghnu, and Athiratu. It is the Frog-Mother, Athiratu, who offers me protection.’

‘You speak my tongue with great fluency, Egella. I sense that one day you shall share your mother’s fame across the gardens and pioneer halls of your people. Tell me, Frog-witch, what inspires your journey into the lands of the Sheonni?’

Egella cocks her head, as if carefully considering her answer. ‘In this lifetime and in others, I have seen too much misery in our world, and I am resolved to end it. I wander northwards seeking the guidance of other great witches, be they Leva, Sheonni, or otherwise. Tell me, Utaria, is it true there are still wild folk in these parts?’

Utaria prods at her fireplace, then answers at length: ‘In these parts, wild folk have become rare. But our gossiping cattle drovers wander far, and I hear their rumours of signs being found further north still. These survivors are said to still hunt ancient wild beasts passing through the upland forests.’

With an edgy look, Egella fidgets with her cranium cup, as though impatient to move on. ‘My mother prophesied that it will be on a quest to find a savage girl that I will encounter the truth to end all misery. I am hopeful of your drovers’ gossip. Yet, I fear the inhabitants of this camp may be hostile to my spending time here with you. I should leave with urgency. On my approach, I spied the outline of some dragon uplands in the north. Perhaps I should resume my trek and leave this place in peace.’

Utaria offers a friendly smile as she reaches out, pressing Egella to stay. ‘No, please do remain to refresh yourself. Perhaps first we may exchange wisdom. I see from your grey face that you are in need of rest. The hills will soon be cold and hostile to all advanced folk. I can assure your safety here. Please, stay in my lodge before you venture further. I will make enquiries concerning the reports of savages.’

It would be rude for Egella to refuse the hospitality of her Sheonni counterpart; to turn down such an invitation might cause offence. That, and her little legs are so very weary.

Egella responds, ‘In which case, I would gladly exchange my Mother’s magic with your own of the Sun.’

PEACE

I am one of three. I have a brother named Qan, and a sister called Xagu. Together, we are the children of the wilds and we are among the last of our kind. My name is I’teedo.

My brother Qan leads, as always. He is several years the senior of both Xagu and me, well guided by the spirits whom we follow. We have spent all summer resting beneath rock shelters whilst hunting on the hills, but the game is dispersing into the valleys now. The babbling brook we choose to follow down is not deep enough to float upon; we must trek on foot along the hazardous shallows.

Xagu groans at the cumbersome legwork. ‘Qan, are you sure that this is the best way to reach the low valleys?’

Our older brother, his chest high and narrow like a bird’s, turns to flash a grin. The sun has baked his skin to a deep, permanent shadow—a stark contrast to Xagu. Despite her proud, athletic build, my sister's face still holds the round softness of a girl, her skin the pale hue of a fresh-shelled hazelnut.

‘This is the way of the Bearded Bull,’ Qan tells her. ‘He will lead us to safe winter quarters, free of strife. Xagu, the spirit of the Goshawk will grant you a reunion with your fabled other sister.’

He smirks in my direction. Ever since our mothers told us the dream stories, Xagu selfishly brags of her destiny to meet this barbarian sibling. It is her own pride, though I must not be mean. I love Xagu dearly; aside from her ambitions, she is a quiet, thoughtful, and clever person, fiercely loyal to her family.

The brook twists around a bend of its rocky gorge, and we stumble over the mossy stones of the limestone vale. I watch carefully where to place my bare feet to avoid slipping. Xagu follows suit, stepping exactly in my footprints.

Qan disturbs our meditation. ‘There. Look down ahead.’

We both pause to see what has caught our guide’s attention. My jaw drops in wonder. The hillside brook descends to become a wide trout stream, wiggling through a steep-sided gorge before spilling out onto a broader floodplain. Thin forests suggest many browsing kinds—both deer and bovines. Already the leaves are changing to autumn colours. They will be heavy with nuts, and the understory thick with berries. It is a beautiful landscape, the kind that only savages—we wildborn folk—can fully appreciate the true meaning of. This will be where the herds shelter from the cold hillsides; it looks like a very good place to spend the winter.

Xagu spoils our wonder. ‘There will be barbarians there! It will not be safe for us. They’ll have found this sheltered valley before us. Those thinly wooded meadows beyond look too perfect for their cattle.’

Qan raises his eyebrows. ‘No, sister. I tell you that this is the place for us to take shelter from the winter winds. The Bearded Bull is my guide.’

Qan is uniquely in communion with that representation of the bovine—a legendary beast that neither Xagu nor I have ever set eyes upon. My mother told me she once saw Qan conjure up a ghost of his guide when he was a child, but otherwise, the Bearded Bull features only in our stories.

I look at the scenery to the south. I want to reach this paradise, and I hope that Xagu is wrong. Together, we resume our hobble along the stones, climbing down towards the promised land.

To encourage my sister, I offer a mischievous grin. ‘Little Vole, maybe there are folk down there? Others of our own wild kind? There may be pretty boys there to entertain us.’

Xagu snorts, snapping instantly. ‘Boys! Yes, boys of the barbarian sort. Those that would beat you, then enslave you as their concubine-thing to work and to enjoy.’

I look over my shoulder, stick out my tongue, and pull an ugly face at my holier-than-thou sister. I really do love her, even if our desires are sometimes estranged.

From ahead, Qan calls back, ‘There are falls ahead! We will need to walk around.’

Behind me, Xagu groans with despair.

We make it down to lower, less steep ground where the stream grows wider, snaking out of the gorge and across the upper reaches of a foundling floodplain. We have little chance to explore the valley before Xagu offers another thought.

‘Brother and Sister, here we should forage and make camp.’

Her suggestion is, as always, sensible. I leave her to build the overnight den, for she is best suited to that duty. Qan uses his magic bow and drill to coax heat from a small hearth, while I explore the wilderness in search of its fruits. I need not look far. Despite the efforts of squirrels, pigs, and bears, the hazel trees are heavy with nuts, and berries are plentiful within the understory. As I wander around, my nimble fingers picking away the fruits, I dream of bumping into a handsome boy of these woods. I am a young woman, keen to start my own life; despite the pleasant company of my siblings, I feel so horribly alone.

On my return, I find a bivvy constructed under the low bough of a great, spreading yew, which serves as its main beam. It is well insulated with a thick carpet of fresh fallen leaves. A hearth burns at a safe distance in front of the opening. Our new camp is devoid of its creators, however, and I guess that my sneaky siblings have ventured out to hunt without me. The rotters.

I make myself comfortable by the fire and shell hazelnuts for roasting. The scent of the cooking will soon lure them home.

It works. My brother returns with a guilty-looking boomerang in his hand and a small pig slung over his shoulders. The poor thing had barely grown out of its stripes when struck by the throwing stick. Xagu accompanies him, grinning with victory. Tonight, we are going to feast very well.

Xagu cheers up with this success, her tone turning to a cheerful taunt. ‘Beautiful!’

Ugh, she calls me that just to tease me.

Xagu continues, ‘The spirits of this wilderness are generous, and I must beg your forgiveness, for on our jaunt, we saw no evidence of the barbarians.’ She sticks out a rude tongue. ‘Nor of any pretty wild boys!’

Did she really need to say that?

I let her teasing fly free. We busy ourselves with cooking and eating, agreeing that in the morning, with our bellies full, we shall explore more of this magical valley and follow the stream further. Sleep soon follows.

A full day we saunter further down this bountiful valley, continuing to see no sign of any folk, let alone the barbarians who plague our world. We decide to make a more permanent camp. Together as a family, we build a sturdier pair of dens—one for Qan, and another for his sisters. I find heavy stones and establish the magical hearth of our winter camp. This place is deeply enchanted. Now we need to secure our stores of autumn excess. Tomorrow, Xagu and I will set out to forage for nuts to be roasted.