Looking for old images to use on my reconstructed Thetford Forest Archaeology website, I came across some photos of prehistoric struck flint that I had forgotten about. One day in 2019, I was facing a life-changing and very painful process. Consequently I took a walk around the Lynford and Santon areas of Thetford Forest, where I discovered some exposed soils close to the Little-Ouse-River.

Hyper-focus is my distraction method. I was in the heart of Frances Healy's Grimes Graves Belt of late prehistoric flint flake scatters. There in sight of the river meadows, I found some thick clusters of roughly struck flint. It almost felt as though I was walking through the workshops of knappers more than four thousand years ago. I imagined them roughing out flint to transport away on the river. These scatters appear to be multi-period, throughout late prehistory from the Mesolithic, through to the Iron-Age. But perhaps there is a relationship of increased productivity linked to the flint-mines during the Later Neolithic.

Among the rough flakes and waste debris, I saw several flint hammer-stones, including that which I hold in my hand in the image. I had AI time travel back to the very local, Late Neolithic Grimes Graves flint-mine complex. Perhaps the wrist watch spooked the locals. They were quite happy working when I first arrived:

Actually there are a few problems with the above AI-generated image. You see the pick? The shape of a modern pick, rather than a utilised red deer antler as found in excavations of the flint-mine shafts at Grimes Graves. The AI tried, by giving it an antler colour. And the people are possibly a little too fair for Neolithic EEF (Early European Farmers). The housing in the background might be more representative of a later prehistoric time. I discuss these issues of AI time travel reconstruction in another recent post. But I'm glad that the AI hasn't dressed them roughly like Og the caveman, in badly tailored furs.

You can see in the image below, the crazed, impacted face of that hammer-stone. Look how well it fits into my hand. When I pick up something like this, and hold, feel and examine it, I reflect on the unrecorded life of the last person to hold it over 4,200 years earlier. There wasn't much hard stone in the Brecks area, and clearly the late prehistoric knappers would manage to use flint to fracture flint. Perhaps along with soft, organic hammers and punches for finer work? Reconstruction archaeologists find that antler tines make great punches, and are useful for pressure flaking.

Time is a strange thing. Our lives are so brief. The person that made this tool, and who sat here close to a river, thousands of years ago left no name, no ethnicity. We don't know how they identified, or how they saw the Universe. We do not know the course of their life. There were no records. Perhaps, a 140 to 180 generations have passed between the knapper's life, and my own life. Other than this hammer-stone and some lithic debris, they passed through a process of existence that was no less important than that of any other living being. Looking at these artefacts in a landscape helps me deal with the difficult times. My life isn't so important. My issues do not matter across the great span of Time. I survive, as a process, as an observer for now. Just like the person who fashioned and used this tool.

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.

INTRUSION

The moon is a cold, silver weight, decorating the world in shades of grey. My siblings walk beside me, but their stares are hollow, fixed on a horizon I cannot see. There is a weightlessness to our stride that confirms it: this is not the waking world. We are moving through the dreamtime.

We reach the place where we left the guts and bone of our kill. A she-wolf stands over the red gore, her coat as dark as a cave. Her eyes are flat, reflecting nothing, yet I feel no instinct to reach for a blade. There is no snarl, no scent of musk or heat. She is a shadow given shape, a spirit keeping watch over what we left behind. I stroke her furry head as I pass by. She does not challenge my approach to the carcass she guards in death.

But someone is already here. It is not Qan or Xagu, for they stand behind me. Instead, a figure squats by the side of the Bearded Bull, stealing his gifts.

I holler out, ‘Who are you?’

The thief turns to face me. He is a young man, one of the barbarian sort, his features broken and desperate. I see something deep in his eyes, though I cannot discern what it is.

Then the moonlight pours into the remains of the Bearded Bull. The bones fill with a silvery light. The bull rises from his grave, and I see the stranger fall back in horror as the bovine skeleton resurrects to stand before us. I am drawn to stare into the darkness of eye sockets pecked clean by eagles. The darkness grows until I am engulfed back into the emptiness of sleeptime.

I cry out once more, ‘Spirits, why have you summoned me here? Who is this thief? Why does the wolf guard your grave?’

I cannot find any understanding. The spirit has a prophecy or a warning I fail to comprehend. Something is coming into my life, some great change. Distraught, I beg for an explanation. Come back, I don't understand!

I scream out loudly.

With that scream, I wake to the daylight world. Droplets of cold water fall from a chilly sky onto my face. Evidently I failed to close the hatch last night, and the rain has arrived, carried by gusts to land upon my cheeks. Xagu’s limbs are wrapped around mine; we are tangled together in our nest of furs. My head throbs, and I stick out a furred tongue to catch a few drops of rainwater. I am so parched.

I rise from the den to boil a birch-bark kettle on our hearth. Qan joins me to enjoy a hawthorn tea. He is pensive, so I ask him, ‘Brother, you seem thoughtful this morning. Did you not sleep well following our feast?’

He looks at me as though asking a silent question, then replies, ‘You and Xagu were both in my dreamtime. We visited the grave of the Bearded Bull…’

I finish his statement for him: ‘You saw the wolf and the stranger?’

Before he can answer, I hear Xagu stir from our nest. She staggers out, sees us staring back at her, and exclaims, ‘You were both there in my dream!’

We talk excitedly about our collective vision until the conversation grows as cold as our brew. Only now do I recall my trance from the previous night, when the spirit of the Bearded Bull granted us permission to join the game.

I ask my siblings about this earlier dream. ‘The barbarian witch, and the stranger who spied upon our celebration—have you also seen them?’

They look at each other, their faces blank.

Qan asks, ‘Witch? A spy? All that I felt was the spirit of O A’killao as he entered our campsite. I saw no people.’

Xagu waves her hand to express agreement with her brother.

Perplexed, I rise from the hearth and wander to the edge of the camp, right where I had seen the eyes of the stranger reflecting our fire. Qan and Xagu join me, looking concerned and puzzled as we step into the treeline. I see ferns that have been trampled, and point them out to my brother.

Qan squats down, prodding at the ground before he looks up. ‘These shimmers are not ours. Someone else has visited our camp, just as you saw in your vision. We are not the only folk in this paradise.’

In response to a sudden chill, I pull my furs closer to my neck. ‘We should return to the corpse of the Bearded Bull to look for further signs of this spy and thief.’

My siblings respond by fetching their birch-bark boots.

We jostle our way down to the wild meadows where yesterday we had slain the bison. On reaching the spot, my jaw drops. Alongside the ruined carcass of the Bearded Bull lie the skinned remains of a wolf.

I stare across at my brother and sister, but the words refuse to leave our lips. We are too stunned by what we are seeing.

Qan points down to the bloodied stones left beside the beast. ‘These are not our tools,’ he announces. ‘These are the stones of the barbarians.’

I am flabbergasted. This poor wolf, the very one I had seen in my vision and whose furry head I had stroked, has been rudely scalped. I kneel down and offer my prayers to its spirit.

Qan trots off to the diminishing remains of the Bearded Bull. ‘Here too,’ he calls back. ‘I see the fat bones cut free by stone.’

Xagu searches the surrounding area, looking for tracks. She soon finds the clumsy marks of a barbarian and beckons us over. Holding our weapons tight, the three of us move with stealth into the undergrowth.

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.’

BEARDED BULL 

Squealing, Xagu sprints into our little camp. Qan and I get up from our fireside squat to calm her, but she cannot speak; her excitement completely overcomes her tongue. I give her a hot tea made from the lime-tree flower to steady her nerves and bring back her words.

I beg her, ‘Sister, please tell us—what in the wilds has stunned you?’

The calming tea does its work, and finally she shares her news.

‘I was foraging downstream for cat-tails when I heard them enter the wild meadows,’ she says, her breath still short. ‘At first I thought it a herd of aurochs, or those foreign cattle the barbarians keep. But when I looked, my eyes fell upon a beast only spoken of in our hearthside myths. A bovine creature, with a woolly head and a humped back.’

Qan cannot contain himself. ‘Xagu, you saw them? You saw the Bearded Bull? I knew it. I knew this was the sacred place.’ He leaps up, his spirit completely lifted. ‘Take me now. Take me to them. Come, sisters! I feel joy at seeing my brother’s spirit so lifted.

We crouch low behind the banks of sedge, peeping over the stems to see these mythical beasts. Our parents believed they were all gone from the world. I count a dozen or more bison, guarded by a prominent old bull with a pair of sons awaiting the fall of his rule. The rest are cows and young calves. They are tall and heavy, their heads set lower than the wild aurochs that patrol our woods, though they are no less formidable.

Never before have I seen Qan so elated. Unlike Xagu and me, Qan was born to the ancient Children of the Bearded Bull. I know what the appearance of this herd means to him; it is his chance to realise his dream.

‘Tonight we must dance to invite this bull to our game,’ he whispers to us. ‘Look, his sons are ready to fight for succession. If we do not extend our invitation, the wolves will beat us to the prize.’

Xagu lowers her voice, threatening to break his upbeat mood. ‘Brother, there are only three of us. Such a hunt brings great danger.’

‘Which is why we must take care with our prayers on this eve,’ Qan retorts, desperation showing in his eyes. ‘O A’killao wills that we honour his bearded sons.’

I remain quiet. I am quaking at the thought of challenging the bull when we are so few, but I understand that this is my brother’s moment. These bison are here for him.

‘I have seen enough and do not wish to spook the herd,’ Qan announces. ‘Let us collect their dung, then return to our camp and begin the preparations.’

Around the night-hearth, we three siblings beat our drums and chew the midwife’s fungi, prepared just as our parents taught us. We sip the enchanted tea and don our best hides. Qan wears the horns of the aurochs bull upon his crown, and together we dance to provoke the ecstasy of the spirit world, chanting our prayers to invite the Bearded Bull to our game. One by one, we drop to our knees as we visit the other realm. The spirit takes me.

I see the ghost of the Bearded Bull enter our little camp. His hooves strike the dirt and he bows to my brother, accepting our invitation. Without this permission, we could not hunt him. The bull turns toward where I kneel and looks down upon my weak form, his breath condensing in the chilly night air. When I look into his eyes, I see a figure reflected in his dark orbs—but it is not mine.

I see a strange young woman, a witch of the barbarian kind. She is naked, wearing only the pelt of a hedgehog over her groin, held by a thin belt that suspends the dried skins of frogs around her waist. Her small breasts are painted with chalk and clay in the swirled symbols of her alien sorcery.

I hear her voice calling my name in my own tongue: ‘I’teedo, look behind you into the woods.’

With that, the vision of the witch and the bull vanishes, and I snap back into the mortal realm. I feel eyes upon me. I twist around.

There, on the edge of our camp, a pair of eyes stares back, reflecting our hearthfire. These eyes are of this world, not the bull’s. They belong to a man—a stranger spying upon our rituals. Then they retreat into the darkness of the forest, and I lose consciousness.

A new day, and we are ready for the hunt. The bison remain in the wild meadows. On hands and knees, three of us crawl through the beige, fading summer grass, dressed in our functional hunting hides. I carry my bow and quiver, for I am quick with my darts. Xagu is a strong thrower, bringing a trio of sharp casting javelins, while Qan approaches with his stone-headed thrusting spear strapped to his back. It is our brother who must make the kill.

We use the breeze to hide our scent, having smothered our skins in the bison’s dung. We watch our quarry chew his cud. Our movements must be careful, or the herd will spook and melt into the wildwoods.

It is Xagu who leads the choreography.

She rises from the grass, waves a javelin at the old bull, and taunts him. ‘Bull, your ugly calves are scrawny, but they’ll fit our spit just fine!’ She pretends to throw at a nearby calf and laughs. ‘Come dance with Xagu, bull, or I shall stitch new breeches from your calf skins!’

The bull takes the bait. He spits his cud and, unaware that two more dancers are hidden in the field, launches his mighty charge at my sister.

We await our chance. I feel the thunder of his hooves striking the earth. Fear and excitement mix in my chest. He lowers his head, presenting his crown of horns. Xagu stands her ground until the last moment, then leaps and rolls into the tall grass just as death bears down on her. As the bull rushes past, she hurls her first javelin deep into his rump. I rise from my crouch, my bowstring snapping as my first arrow pierces his shoulder.

The herd corrals the calves, just as we hoped. The bull must be lured further away. Pained by our projectiles and annoyed by my pesky sister, the Bearded Bull comes to a dusty halt and looks around. I vanish back into the cover while Xagu crawls to safety. Now, it is Qan who leaps up from the grasses further afield.

He hollers his invitation cheerfully. ‘Grandfather! O A’killao! I am Qan of the Galarri, and I am here today to dance with you!’

The bull turns and charges my gangly brother. While he is distracted, Xagu lands her second javelin near his rear hamstring before the shaft snaps. My next arrow pierces his ribcage. Already, the Bearded Bull’s charge begins to falter. Last night’s prayers have been heard.

The bull reaches Qan, who jumps and rolls aside, avoiding the deadly horns and hooves. With his flint-spiked spear, Qan jabs and rips the underside of our quarry, spilling blood across the wild orchids. The bull is weakening fast.

Still on my feet, I sprint further from the herd to take the next position. My heart beats like last night’s drum. I yell out to the bovine creature, ‘Over here, pretty bison! Come and play with I’teedo, daughter of Tashkilla, of the Goshawk! I wish to dance with you!’

The Bearded Bull snorts, blood showing at his nose. His wounds are already fatal, but his spirit is determined and he comes for me anyway. The ground shakes with the clatter of his heavy hooves. Taking steady aim, my yew wood bends before I release the tension. The arrow pierces him directly in the eye.

The Bearded Bull bellows mournfully and falls. The dropping leviathan tumbles toward me; his horns could still dispatch me to the spirit forests. I jump and roll almost too late, escaping the crash as he collapses into the dirt. He kicks wildly, casting up a cloud of dust as his legs try to find purchase on the earth. Through the haze, I see Qan run forward. I want to scream in ecstasy—this is my beloved brother’s dream. His time.

Qan lifts his brave spear.

‘Do it!’ I scream. ‘Do it now!’

He plunges the flint point down into the Bearded Bull’s chest.

The kicking subsides. Xagu runs over to join us, falling to her knees by my side. Together, we sing our prayers, beseeching the Bearded Bull not to haunt us.

Qan withdraws his bloody spear and wails his chant. ‘Grandfather, I pray for you to move on peacefully to the next realm, where you may join the ancient herds. We promise not to further damage your family in this world. Your strongest son will be free to lead your cows and grandchildren. My kin are grateful for the gifts you bestow upon us.’

It is done. The Bearded Bull is no longer a sacred being, but meat and hide for us to butcher. Qan pulls a sharp flint blade from his belt and leans down to slice the hairy throat. Xagu places her alderwood bowl beneath the wound to catch the flow.

I stir out the clots using a wooden fork, and we take turns toasting the spirit. The blood of the sacred bull energises us. This has been our finest day. As we slice into our prize, we are soon drenched in the red spill.

Concealed in the elderberry scrub, Sugea tracks the kill, his breathing laboured. In the communes, he was taught that the wild-born people were barely human—lazy, starving wretches who survived only by eating their own kind. Yet the three before him defy the herders' lore. They speak in strange sounds full of dry clicks. There is a dark-skinned, long-limbed man and two girls; one shares the man’s deep, earthen skin, while the other looks enough like Sugea’s own kin to make him blink.

They move through the bush with absolute confidence. The bull is a mountain of muscle, yet it goes down with terrifying efficiency. Every spear and flint-tipped shaft finds a vital spot. No fumbling. No wasted breath. These wild-borns are not the broken remnants he has seen dragged into the farming settlements as breeding stock. They are providers, and they are thriving.

He waits until they take their fill of the meat and vanish into the treeline. Only then does Sugea emerge, dragging his injured leg through the dust. He is a scavenger now, his dignity traded for a full belly and a warm hide. His stone blade works frantically, hacking at the cooling mounds of red muscle and prying loose the heavy marrow bones the hunters left behind.

The first snarl does not come from the undergrowth. The wolves simply appear—a grey perimeter closing the distance without a bark or a posture. Sugea freezes, his hands slick with sticky bison grease, his sharp stone flake suddenly feeling uselessly small. One brute, larger than the rest and scarred across the muzzle, breaks into a steady trot toward the midden. It does not rush; it moves with the easy pace of a predator that knows injured prey has nowhere left to run.

Where the Wildwood Fades: Prehistoric Fiction Series (Idyllea Master Index)

Welcome to the master index for the Idyllea series, a collection of prehistoric fiction exploring the raw, visceral transition between the nomadic hunter-gatherers of the British wildwood and early farming communities. © Paul Brooker.

The master index for the Idyllea series, a collection of prehistoric fiction exploring the raw, visceral transition between the nomadic hunter-gatherers of the Mesolithic wildwood and the early Neolithic farming communities. Set against the shifting landscape of ancient Britain, these chapters chronicle a deep-time collision of life-ways, beliefs, and human survival. From the muddy, transactional world of the early cattle herders to the deep, silent animism of the untamed forest, Idyllea captures a pivotal moment in our ancestral history where, 6,000 years ago, the ancient canopy begins to break apart under the stone axes of a new age.

What drives this creative writing project—and what makes this specific era so vital—is a profound underlying cultural shift: a massive transformation from a time when humans saw themselves as an intrinsic part of Nature, to the moment they began to view themselves as masters over it. Author Paul Brooker draws inspiration from landscape history, British prehistory, and deep genetic threads to explore this psychological fracture—the very roots of our modern-day ecological crises. This master directory provides an ordered pathway through the complete series, allowing readers to navigate the intersecting journeys of the farmer-born frog-witch Egella, the broken scavenger Sugea, and the wild-born siblings of the deep woods.

Index

Idyllea: Where the Wildwood Fades by Paul Brooker

1. Chapter One: Peace  - 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.
2. Chapter Two: War  - The bark shield-wall shatters in a spray of dry splinters. The Sheonni pour through the gaps, their faces smeared with ochre, wielding lethal flint. Sugea feels the soil tremble under his feet—the hard, wet thud of birch-bark boots packing down earth that just this morning was consecrated for growth.
3. Chapter Three: Bearded Bull  - She rises from the grass, waves a javelin at the old bull, and taunts him. ‘Bull, your ugly calves are scrawny, but they’ll fit our spit just fine!’ She pretends to throw at a nearby calf and laughs. ‘Come dance with Xagu, bull, or I shall stitch new breeches from your calf skins!’
4. Chapter Four: Witches  - 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.
5. Chapter Five: Intrusion  - A she-wolf stands over the red gore, her coat as dark as a cave. Her eyes are flat, reflecting nothing, yet I feel no instinct to reach for a blade. There is no snarl, no scent of musk or heat. She is a shadow given shape, a spirit keeping watch over what we left behind.
6. Chapter Six: Awakening. - 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.
7. Chapter Seven: Meeting  - He pulls his wolfskin wrapping tight as though it will protect him from our anger. He utters no more of his insulting sounds. Does he not understand how offended we are to see this grown baby desecrating wolf-kind this way?
8. Chapter Eight:
9. Chapter Nine:
10. Chapter Ten:
11. Chapter Eleven:
12. Chapter Twelve:
13. Chapter Thirteen:
14. Chapter Fourteen:

The Author

Paul Brooker is an East Anglian writer and researcher with a lifelong connection to the landscapes and hidden histories of the British wildwood. His work on the Idyllea series is deeply informed by decades of engagement with landscape archaeology, surface-collection lithic studies, and the deep genetic threads that bind us to our ancestors. Fascinated by the profound psychological and ecological fractures that occurred when humanity transitioned from being an intrinsic part of Nature to attempting to master it, Paul uses fiction to explore the visceral, unwritten realities of our shared past. He documents his ongoing research and deep-time writing projects on his blog, Journals of a Time Traveller.

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.

Back to the Future: Time Travel and Haplogroup Index

The Cradle of the Zagros: 7,500 BCE In a mountain valley in Southwest Asia—modern-day Iran—the Aceramic Neolithic is in full bloom. As I visualize an early goat herder in this landscape, I have to ask: is this man my direct ancestor?

Roughly 9,500 years ago, my paternal lineage (identified by the Y-DNA marker L-FGC51036) likely moved through this transformative agricultural culture. A few millennia later, as the Aceramic period evolved into the Sarab and Guran cultures of the Pottery Neolithic, the next genetic variant appeared: SK1414. Following this mutation, "cousins" of my direct line radiated outward, eventually establishing separate paternal lineages in the Levant, Anatolia, the Indus Valley, and Europe.

My ancestors here were the heirs to accidental selection processes initiated much earlier by the Zarzian culture. Having survived the harsh climatic collapse of the Younger Dryas, these people emerged from their refuges to find their relationship with wild grasses deepening into a state of total interdependence. Over generations, wild flora adapted into domestic strains of einkorn and two-row barley—crops that now relied on human threshing to survive.

Simultaneously, the wild bezoar ibex was being transformed into the world’s first domestic goat. It is highly probable that this region saw the very dawn of goat domestication. These animals were perfectly evolved for the Zagros terrain, turning rugged scrub into high-quality protein for Aceramic farmers. Beyond meat, these goats may have already been exploited for dairy, supplemented by gathered legumes and wild nuts.

However, domestication was neither intentional nor entirely beneficial. While agriculture anchored people to the land and allowed for more children, it also planted the seeds of the global population explosion. In time, humans were conditioned by these new species-to-species relationships. For millennia, early farmers suffered from malnutrition, stunted growth, and zoonotic diseases that jumped from livestock to humans. The status of women often declined; skeletal remains reveal the toll of increased childbirth and the grueling physical labor of milling grain on their knees. Yet, agriculture permits a viral, expansive growth that the old ways could never match.

The Material World of the Aceramic Zagros The inhabitants of the Aceramic Zagros clung to several ancient technologies even as they innovated. They continued to produce delicate flint microliths, though toward the end of the period, they began crafting polished stone axe-heads. They had not yet adopted fired pottery; instead, much like their hunter-gatherer ancestors, they relied on woven baskets and skin bags. Yet, a shift was occurring: they had begun partially firing the clay walls of their storage pits and sculpting small clay figurines. These figures suggest that their belief systems were evolving in tandem with their economy and their changing relationship with the landscape. As visualized in the accompanying images, my ancestors were already fashioning sun-dried clay bricks to build multi-level houses within the Zagros valleys.

Historically, there has been a significant emphasis on the western "leg" of the Fertile Crescent—the Natufians, early Levantines, and Anatolians. However, the importance of this eastern leg in the Zagros has long been underrated. Many population genetics enthusiasts now suggest that Zagros Neolithic Farmers form a distinct genetic cluster that later radiated outward, carrying these foundational agricultural practices with them. I am but one of many descendants of this influential lineage.

Early Fertile Crescent. Home of West Eurasian agriculture.

Source ©  OpenStreetMaps Modified by myself.

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Back to the Future: Time Travel and Haplogroup Index