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.

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.

Sugea is a shaman for the wheat, not a trophy for the enemy. To be taken alive would be a rot no spell could scrub away. For years he has trained to serve Daghnu, the Wheat Father, chanting and spilling blood into the dirt to make the grain rise. But with the Sheonni breaking through, the priest is gone. He wants to be a man. He rips away the heavy straw mask and tears at the itchy costume. He will not stand in the background like Daghnu’s shadow, shouting holy words while braver boys are butchered.

To his left, Zoreon—a seasoned warrior who had danced beside him for the harvest blessing—takes a mace full to the head. His peaked leather hat collapses into a bloody mess.

The air doesn't smell of burning husks anymore. It tastes of wet, hammered slate, sour sweat, and greasy cowhide. Boys Sugea envied only moments ago fumble blindly in the press, their wooden spear shafts slick with sweat, sliding right through their fingers.

A rope-turbaned Sheonni raider, reeking of the wolf-pelt on his shoulders, lunges at a fallen Leva boy. His movements are heavy, efficient, punctuated by a blunt grunt of effort. All the prayers for rain and the old litanies for the Wheat Father disappear. The earth isn't asking for a neat bowl of bull’s blood anymore—it is drinking everything his people have.

Sugea grips his greenstone axe until his knuckles turn white. The head is cold and smooth, polished by weeks of sand-rubbing. Flint-tipped arrows zip through the air, hunting for Leva skin. He lunges, swinging in clumsy, heavy arcs that pull at his shoulder. He aims for the face of a Sheonni boy who looks just as terrified as he is.

Then, something slams into the side of his head with a sickening crunch. His vision goes black. His knees fold, and he hits the stony ground hard. The last things he sees are the wheat stalks he was supposed to protect, swaying in the wind as if he weren't there at all.

When he comes to, a Sheonni warrior is urinating on his face. Sugea twists, fighting the rough ropes binding his wrists.

He spits his curses up at them. ‘Dung-eating wildborns! Clanless wolf-stinkers!’

They just laugh at his Leva tongue, kicking him with their birch-soled boots. They bind him spread-eagle inside a clay hut. For three days, their crones enter at their leisure to beat him and defile him.

By the third day, the fever takes hold. His body is broken, filthy, and reeking so badly that their Sun-priestess deems him unworthy of a proper Ireslari sacrifice to her pits. They drag him out and dump him onto a midden heap at the edge of the settlement, leaving the strawman priest to rot into the soil of their wheat gardens.

But he refuses to die.

He crawls from the stinking refuse mound. Weak, burning with fever, and unable to stand, he drags his useless legs out of the cultivated plots and into the margins of the dark forest. Among the trees, surrounded by the fallen fruits of the autumn wilderness, his breath slows. As soon as his legs will bear his weight, he sucks air through his swollen throat and limps north, toward the wilds.

 Sugea remains a thou.

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 archaeology, 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.

Image Source - my own, taken today, of a flint blade from an old finds box. Thetford Forest. It would have been recorded as a snapped blade, possibly transitional Mesolithic-Neolithic. Now in the 21st Century I understand that this blade was strictly, Mesolithic. I no longer believe there was transition.

I've written a novel. The story provided me with an escape from unbearable life. The tale has two primary settings, both circa 6,000 years ago.  One in what is now South Iraq on the edge of the marshes where civilisation starts to take shape, and the other in South East Britain, as Mesolithic hunter-gatherers meet Neolithic farmers. It is a little play on parts of the Genesis story.

I was cut off from all Nature. I am only just now starting to reconnect. It will be a very long healing experience if I decide to maintain it. Because I'm running short of hope. I had very little access to data. I had to scrap around in order to attempt any understanding of how the Mesolithic British may have experienced life, and was left with little more than contemplation. This is how I reconstructed a fictional South-eastern British environment 6,000 years ago:

Natural Britain during the Early Holocene

Birch scrub advanced first. Followed by pine, yew, and other evergreens.  This is the Age of Star Carr. The tundra grasslands receded with this rapid advance. Temperatures increased annually. Waters began to rise.

The birch grew taller. Alder joined them. Willow and holly. Followed by oak. Lime and hazel arrived on the British peninsular of North West Europe. Wych elm, hawthorn, blackthorn then ash. In South Eastern Britain, it was the lime which dominated as the most common tree.

Tree biodiversity was actually quite limited in Late Mesolithic Britain. Because the North Sea (Doggerland), and the English Channel, flooded with thawed out glacial waters to make Britain an island, before more species could shift across any land-bridge.

Later Mesolithic SE Britain.  Wild-woods or temperate-forests?

How I portray Late Mesolithic Britons in fiction