Chapter 1: The Green Woman

A man stood over a vile smelling pot on a stone-ringed fire, his work overlooked by the shadows of large, trembling leaves. The concoction he was staring into spat and bubbled which was causing him concern. He took a pinch of powder from a pocket of his worn but stylish jacket and dribbled it into the dirty yellow mixture with an air of hopeful expectation on his young and inquisitive features. When nothing appeared to be happening he turned half his attention to the open book set up on a pile of rocks beside him, which was precisely when something did happen. Very suddenly.

The contents of the pot heaved itself into the air, spitting drops of hot, sulfurous muck. A couple of these landed on the man’s neck.

He gave a yip, like a dog, and the next moment there was a gentle white flash from the spot where an old satchel lay about a meter from the fire. Then the only living creatures in the clearing were a gray wolf, where the man had been standing, and one very long suffering horse which looked up from the important work of grazing to see what the noise was about. The horse snorted at the smell from the splattered contents of the pot but saw nothing out of the ordinary in the scene apart from that, and having cleared its nostrils moved away as far as its tether would allow and proceeded to munch grass.

The gray wolf was less complacent than the horse. He stood with his front paws braced, lips snarling at the smell of sulfur and hackles raised along his back. When he could not immediately identify any threat connected with the smell, he relaxed enough to pace about the camp with his nose down.

The wolf’s nose led him to the satchel that had given off the silent white pulse. Eager now, he scrabbled at its fastenings with his claws, wagging his tail in anticipation. The satchel’s bindings came loose easily. With a jerk, the wolf spilled its contents and put down its muzzle to snuff at a stone the size of a man’s palm. The stone was covered with a fine white powder that the wolf immediately began to lick, its tail whipping back and forth with broad enthusiasm as its quick tongue revealed the warm glint of gold beneath the frost of fine white powder.

A shout spoiled the wolf’s joy. Head up, muzzle dusted in the fine white powder, the animal froze to listen with a curious expression in his yellow eyes. He swung his head in the direction of a new smell as his lip curved and one ear twitched at the sound of bodies moving through the forest. Then he licked his muzzle, shook his head, and paused as if to contemplate life. For a moment, he was very still and thoughtful. Then the silent flash occurred again, making the horse look up as if to say “Make up your mind!”, and the man was back, albeit on his hands and knees.

Clapping a hand to his neck with a wince for the burn there, the man straightened up with a soft curse. He saw the satchel at once and exclaimed, with more vigor, “Oh, Fanga! No! Not again!”