Stone Cold

One

Deep in the dense, dark forests of south-west Gaul, a young woman gathers berries in the afternoon. From time to time she pauses to nibble on brambles that shine like ravens' wings, or clusters of ripe red raspberries that scent the air and show the teeth marks of mice. There is no wind in the forest, and what little sunshine manages to penetrate the aromatic canopy is sprinkled with butterflies and powdered with fine particles that float in the stillness.

Passing slender rowans, their branches heavy with ripening fruits, the girl is reminded that her father uses this bark in his tannery, just like he uses the bark from holm oak and the young branches of sumach. She smiles, revealing dimples in both cheeks. Soon she will be married, and then (praise the Hammer God!) there will be an end to the stench of stale urine that every tanner uses to loosen the wool and hair from the hides.

Brigetia had never grown used to it.

Even though she was born here, she has never grown used to scraping the slime off the skins then shunting the sludge into the river, but, come the next quarter of the moon, she'll be free of all that, andfor ever. Her sister can jolly well take over the task of collecting piss pots from the homesteads and emptying them into cisterns that are sited far too close to the house for her liking. Brigetia will be moving into her husband's house in the village! Then his widowed mother will have to give up her place by the hearth and Brigetia can start raising chickens and children, her hams hanging from the rafters, her stews bubbling in cauldrons without taint from any damn tannery.

Brigetia smiles again, and the dimples in her cheeks turn to pits. Ah, but what a strapping fellow Orix is, with thighs like tree trunks to sire lusty sons and a strong back to make the siring a pleasure! As she tucks rosehips into her basket, she pictures him preparing for their wedding, first looping his long hair into the traditional Santon war knot before donning the tribal Virility Helmet adorned with stout prodding horns. What feasts and celebrations are in store! Stretching on tiptoes to reach an overhang of elderberries, she sees drinking cups brimming over with foaming ale and can almost smell the ox roasting on the spit as the pipes and drums of the marriage dance echo round the forest. The sun begins to sink, and as Brigetia tosses her gold braids over her shoulder, flycatchers trill in the ancient gnarled oaks, turtle doves coo and, in the distance, a woodcutter's axe chops with rhythmic regularity.

Behind a holly bush, eyes monitor Brigetia's every move.

They follow the curve of her ripening breasts, the sway of her pubescent hips, the velvety plumpness of her dimpled cheeks. For a split second, the eyes flicker back towards the village, where coils of grey smoke spiral up from the treetops, testimony that food is being prepared over cooking fires by the womenfolk for men who will not cease labouring until the sun has sunk a lot lower yet. Not that it makes a jot of difference. Nobody walks this woodland path, for it ends at the tannery and there are better — and more fragrant — routes to the river for those who live in the village.

The Watcher's attention reverts to Brigetia.

To the clearness of her complexion and the brightness of her blue eyes.

Every now and again she stops to hold up her left hand and admire the betrothal ring that gleams on her thirdfinger. That the ring has been exquisitely crafted the Watcher can tell from here. The intricacy of the whorls etched in the bronze reflect the skill of the engraver, which in turn reflects the esteem in which her young bridegroom holds her. Quite right, too. The girl is perfect. Perfect in every way.

The Watcher waits until Brigetia bends down to gather a handful of bilberries.

The woodland floor is soft and springy.

The Watcher's feet make no sound.