01
Freezing water roared, pounding in a rough crescendo on the head of the ancient warrior. The falls pelted her scalp, plastering the short white hair to sun spotted pate. Glacial runoff from the distant snow covered peaks crashed against her loose flesh in a violent but welcome massage.
Stark naked, the old woman sat rooted at the base of the icy waterfall, looking like a wizened mushroom. She perched on the largest of several flood worn rocks -still as any of their number.
Water punished her wobbling skin in an irregular tattoo. A constellation of forgotten scars danced, undulating under the current. The elder wore her drooping decades tented on a frame of tough bones held taught with thick ropes of muscle. Faint rainbows curled in the dense mist surrounding the sun browned figure.
The eyes held closed tucked below terraces of wrinkles; passive. Her posture; erect and light, gave the appearance of a meditating monk. The cascade battered against the motionless body, legs crossed, fist touched fist under the overhang of a fledgling paunch. To avoid inhaling the torrent, she pulled frigid air through her teeth with painstaking slowness, and vented from the nose.
The creased face pinched for a moment, before she rocked into a better position, and settled again.
An enormous and lurid burp erupted through the downpour. Swollen bloodshot eyes snapped open under the rush of water and bulged at her own gutstink. They blurred, stinging from a stench like rotting pork and turned goat milk.
The woman slowly creaked her stiff neck to the left then right, wincing as the world pitched and spun. Another sour burp bubbled loose, tainting the serene air. The rank miasma of her own surly acids pitched her stomach again.
She leaned to her side under the falling river. Bile dripped from her lips as her gorge rose, joining the deluge. She burped yet again. Mouth yawning, aching for the relief of vomit, yet nothing came but acidic croaks.
The old woman forced retching noises, trying to expel the noxious half-digested gallon of beer in her gut. Again, nothing.
Shrugging, she turned back to resume her meditation. The ancient figure relaxed into the hammering falls, and continued to ignore the monumental hang over.
Feeling clean, if not exactly fresh, the old woman swam, then waded, to shore, through the turquoise water. Her trunkish calves quivered as she tromped through the river weed, where the scent of wild mint curled into her nostrils.
She groaned as she stooped and grabbed a clutch of the fragrant herbs. When she stood, the earth pitched suddenly, but the drunk quickly found her balance. Closing her eyes to the sun, she tottered a moment, then continued to half-walk half-stumble toward her waiting supplies.
The brilliant green river that fed this waterfall ended in an overgrown quartz quarry. Glittering monoliths of grey and white shimmered in the morning light. They poked up, like errant teeth, from the verdant trees and tall ferns reclaiming the small lake.
The old woman unceremoniously plopped herself on large warm hunk of flat granite. Her skin puckered as the water dripped over her thick belly in the sun.
She felt something brushing against her thigh, lifted her hand, and squinted at the weeds in her fist. After a few confused blinks, she remembered, and then began beating her thighs, her stomach, and chest with the long stemmed herbs.
When the plants had lost their snap. She crushed them in her palms, then ground them into her armpits, and through short cropped snowy hair. Just forward of her right ear, she found the two long white mats that had once been braids. After scraping the mint against them, she pitched the spent plant matter away. A giggle bubbled at the gelatin wobble of her flesh as she closed her eyes and focused on the brilliant red radiating through her eyelids.
Spread eagled, naked as a newborn, the old woman began to snore. Small brown birds, rooting for breakfast nearby, flittered away in alarm. The mountain lake glittered under the sun, and the distant waterfall carried on grumbling to the sky.
Some time later, the white haired lady grunted in her sleep. A frown shadowed her face, then a sleepy sneer. Her eyes darted under closed lids. She mumbled something unintelligible and moaned.
“No…the shadow…don’t…she’s…” the woman croaked.
The dream turned, and her head jerked. The wrinkled brow furrowed sharply. She growled, then hissed.
Like a white mongoose, the elder suddenly leapt into the air. She landed light on the balls of her feet, her form low and coiled. Corded muscles twitched, like tightly wound springs, ready for anything. Her squared and gnarled hands were half clenched, all at once, tiger claws…and warhammers. Her right arm was smooth, rather than wrinkled and bagged like the other. Patchy scars of an ancient and nasty burn journeyed from fingertips to shoulder blade, and up the neck just under her right ear.
The twin matted white braids dragged along her shoulder, as she cocked her head. Heavy earlobes twitched absorbing the sounds of the forest. The waterfall pulsed in the distance, birds chattered and played, insects tunelessly thrummed. High above, green leaves burbled in the trees as wind slithered among the branches.
Once dull, the eyes glinting under the folds of flesh were clear, alert, and pure aggression. She remained frozen for a moment, ready to strike through mountains. Then she hitched. Her razor focus slid, and the murderer’s gaze collapsed becoming glassy.
“Stupid,” she said to no one, sniffling. Worn knuckles dabbed at the creases of her eyes.
The gravel crunched when the old woman dropped from her rock perch, pleased to find she was much steadier now.
Tucked under the slab of her napping stone were her clothes, hide boots, and a long object wrapped in sheep skin. Part of it glinted dully in the shadow.
The naked woman crawled half under her hiding spot, retrieving the lumpy bundle of clothing. She pulled free the light fabrics of her under clothes, and wrapped her hips in the crude loincloth before binding her breasts snug against her chest. After donning the hide pants and a long sleeved linen jerkin, she laced her boiled leather bracers to her forearms. Finally, the drunkard hugged into her heavy traveling vest.
Grunting, she plopped on her rump, picked her toes for a moment, then wrapped her feet in smooth cloth, and slid into her road-beaten boots. She groaned a complaint as she rose, dusted off, went through a familiar routine of creaky stretches, and at last, stooped to retrieve the great sword.
The old woman stood only slightly taller than a lumberer’s cart wheel. She was human, but short and a little thick. At a distance, she could understandably be mistaken for one of the small folk; farmers and craftsmen that kept to themselves, far far to the south.
The weapon she pulled from beneath the large rock towered a foot taller than she, almost six feet long. Sheepskins wrapped the huge sword in a tight scabbard. The woolen interior completely enveloped the blade from tip to cross. Strapping expertly bound the leather sheathe.
A double-handed hilt -the only clue that the tall object she hefted was a sword- rose from its permanent scabbard and twinkled in the sunlight.
The handle stood plain, erect, inglorious. A weapon well crafted; smithed from a pale dully glinting metal.
Each side of the crossguard hove straight, terminating in a faceted open metal ring. The grip was fine and comfortable, wound with thick straps of strangely textured leather. Crowning the sword’s length, a pommel constructed of another simple O. Though, much larger and heavier, it bore the same rough hammered faceting.
The old woman planted the sheathed tip of the great weapon on the ground, and brushed the scabbard free of dust. She smiled a wry grin at the wrapped thing, as though greeting a dear friend. Plucking a square of dirty cloth from her vest pocket she polished each of the three rings with care.
She hefted the massive sword comfortably, and settled the flat of the wrapped blade against the groove of her clavicle.
The elderly warrior moved from the rocky clearing, and picked her way through the high ferns. The fronds scraped at her clothing as she tracked her drunken ambling path back through the verge.
When her feet finally rediscovered the rutted road she squinted up at the dusty sun. Flies buzzed on small towers of nearby horse dung.
It was early afternoon, but she had developed a thirst only a clay mug of cool beer might slake.
