I, Senias: A Saga of the Epic Struggle Between a Celtic People and the Ruthless Ambitions of Rome

By Samuel Drury Owens

I, SENIAS is a historical novel of exceptional quality, readability and high interest. After reading, you will never again think of the Celtic people in the same way.
Senias is the son of a prominent family living in first century B.C.E. Gaul. It is he who relates to the reader the often tragic story of a mighty army of warriors called the Romans, who roamed the Gallic countryside murdering folks, plundering villages, snatching women and children to sell as slaves.
The deep spirituality of Senias leads to his selection as an apprentice Philosopher and thrusts him into the cryptic world of Celtic mythology. On an eventful journey to the capital city of Gergovia, Senias meets the feisty Savrina. Though opposites in temperament, a deep bond develops between the two lovers.
Once the conflict between the marauding Romans and the people of Gaul reaches the point of all-out-war, Senias observes the intense personal struggles between Vercingetorix and Caesar for dominance and power.
The last significant battle between the two ancient civilizations is fought at the hill fortress of Alesia. The struggle for Alesia stands as an eternal testament to the determination, courage and sacrifices of the Gallic people in the defense of their independence, an independence so fierce that it lies, ironically, at the very heart of their eventual defeat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463405045

Samuel Drury Owens

Sam Owens earned a bachelor of arts degree in Spanish, history, and English from Marshall College and a master of arts degree in Spanish literary history from the University of Kansas. He studied Colombian history, geography and literature in Colombia, South America as a recipient of a Hayes-Fulbright Seminar scholarship, and Mexican literature and sociology for a summer semester at the Universidad Autonoma de Guadalajara. He also studied methodology and language at the National Defense Education Act Institute at West Virginia University. Mr. Owens has spent his professional career in the field of public education. He has taught foreign languages at all levels of education; elementary, secondary, and university. Prior to his retirement he served as Supervisor of Foreign Languages for Kanawha County Schools. Mr Owens is married and resides with his wife, Charlean, in the foot hills of their beloved West Virginia. Currently, he spends his time studying history, literature; gardening, writing, and volunteering.

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© 2011 by Samuel Drury Owens. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 08/22/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0506-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0505-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-0504-5 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011908585

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

CHAPTER 1

THE ENCOUNTER

CHAPTER 2

REBIRTH

CHAPTER 3

MY FIRST WAR COUNCIL

CHAPTER 4

YEAR 53 B.C.E.

A Year of beginnings

CHAPTER 5

VILLAGE LIFE

CHAPTER 6

THE INCIDENT

CHAPTER 7

THE REVOLT

CHAPTER 8

FROM VICTORY

CHAPTER 9

ALESIA

CHAPTER 10

A REPRIEVE?

EPILOGUE

Dedication

This novel is dedicated to Charlean, who has always been my Savrina.

CHAPTER 1

THE ENCOUNTER

"FATHER, YOU PROMISED. YOU promised. You did promise me, Father," pleaded a handsome, freckle-faced young man.

You paahmusted, added his young sister, whose fat, rosy, dimpled cheeks were her most notable feature unless, of course, as her father, you just happen to be bewitched by the allure of her flirtatious green eyes and light auburn hair.

Tell us about our land on the other side of the great water, Father. You know, father, over there where you said I was born. the boy persevered, as he pointed across the distant body of water that separated his present island home from that vast, mysterious land he already knew as Gaul. Tell us again the story of the beautiful robe you wear when you lead the people in the village, and tell us about Uncle Mahna and why he could not come with us across the water. Tell us about those awful, scary warriors with the big noses who came to our village.

Well, now just wait a minute, children, responded the young father to his eager children. I’ve told you these stories over and over again, but I think you may yet be a bit young to understand…

Then you can tell us those parts we can’t understand all over again when we’re older, the boy interrupted with his argument.

Go on; tell them, Senias, interrupted their weary mother, who was heavy with child, and eager for her children to become engrossed in one of their father’s tales. Tell them so they will know. You must tell the children the story many times, until they know it by memory, just as Arahbi would do, were he here with us.

The four remaining members of a once great family sat down in the lush grass of that broad coastal plain that sits high above the channel waters. The sky to the east was alive with the seemingly pointless activity of thousands of water fowl that nest in the white chalk cliffs at the edge of the plain. Senias, a mature young man, wise beyond his years, sat regally and contentedly with his family about him. He turned his face toward the great water, while saying softly and with notable melancholy, sometimes, children, on a clear day I think I can see the coast of Gaul just there where the horizon meets the water. For a brief moment everyone’s eyes turned toward that great body of water, scanning, seeing, or at least imagining, that distant, illusive coastline. I’m never quite sure… , he said softly, pursing his lips and pausing in mid sentence, then he continued his thought, it may just be a taunting phantom dancing upon the horizon, or, more likely no more than a memory that seeks rebirth in my mind.

Well, my children, he began, my village, or I should say our village, was situated on a rise overlooking the waters of a small tributary of the river Loire. It was my childhood home, your mother’s childhood home, and the very center of our universe. In some ways it was not unlike the village in which we now live. I recall with great fondness the countless hours my young friends and I spent in and around the river. Eoghan, you’d really love that river. he said to the little freckle-faced boy who listened intently to his father whom he adored. The best times were the hot summer days, he continued, his eyes dimming to the present, while focusing on a distant time, "when the river’s muddy spring torrents had passed and the riverbed was reduced to sandbars and quiet pools of dark green water, teeming with fish. I remember we stood, naked, submerged above our knees in those warm pools, our sharpened sticks held to the ready, waiting for the opportune time to spear one of those large silver fish that would wiggle and squirm on the stick.

"One such summer day in my fourteenth year, children, something happened which foreshadowed events that were to consume much of my youth. Elffin, a tall skinny boy of nine years whose long brown hair fell to the center of his thin buttocks, had just speared the largest silver fish of the summer. I know you remember Elffin. He’s the same friend who was always playing tricks on the girls, making them scream and run to their mothers. Well, anyway, he was holding that big, squirming fish aloft and running down a sandbar toward us squealing with delight, when suddenly he dug his feet into the sand, and came to a dead stop. He looked past us, firmly fixing his gaze upon something behind us. We instinctively turned to look.

"Already halfway across the summertime ford, marching almost silently in single-file formation, was an entire cohort of Roman infantrymen, passing right before us. For a moment we stood frozen as we watched them pass. Each right fist clenched a long, iron-headed javelin; each metallic helmet, some sporting brightly colored plumage, reflected the light of the afternoon sun, and each pair of broad shoulders wore the tough, layered, brown-leather armor of the Roman legionnaire. Elffin was the first to break. The others followed instantly. For a brief moment, I stood with my feet buried in the sand, mesmerized by the soft, rhythmic crunch of their hobnailed boots upon the dry gravel of the riverbed.

Alerted by a sudden jolt of fear, I quickly turned to follow the younger boys who were charging wildly up the steep bank of the river toward the village. I ran with the frenzied excitement of a young hunter-to-be who had just encountered his first stag while alone in the forest. At times I ran off the path, my feet tangling in the thick ivy that covered the hill, causing me to fall face down into the steep bank; at other times the wild brambles that projected into the narrow path ripped into my naked flesh. At length, heart pounding and nearly breathless, I reached the well-worn dirt road that led through the open gate, and into the maze of cottages and workshops that made up our hilltop village. I took the left fork in the road that led directly to my father’s cottage. As I ran, I was animated to a state of near hysterical euphoria by the multitude of distressed alarms shrieked throughout the village by my panicked comrades’ piercing voices. The frightful cries: Romans! Romans! Caesar’s legionnaires!" shattered the calm of that lazy summer day.

"I ran, breathless and bleeding, into the dark, smoked-filled, great room of my family’s cottage. My mother, and Keriduan, my father’s other wife, were busy preparing our evening meal. They were both occupied explaining cooking methods to a slave girl my father had recently acquired.

My mother, noting my appearance, laid down the large knife she had been using to cut some long, thin strips of meat from the leg of a large, forest boar hanging from a ceiling rafter, and inquired in a voice defined by concern, What is it, Senias?"

Soldiers, Mother, I gasped, hardly able to speak. Roman Soldiers and lots of ’em, I finally blurted out with as much volume as my labored breathing would allow. "They crossed down at the dry ford and are on the village road. They’re coming here, Mother.

Wretched Swine! A curse on their thieving souls! My mother responded, more in anger than in fear.

"The four of us hurried through the front entrance of the cottage and into the street. My mother stood behind me, placing her strong arms around my shoulders to give me comfort. We waited, aware of the anxieties that each of us must be experiencing—although, to tell the truth, children, as I recall it, for me it was more excitement, more frenzy than fear.

I knew you wouldn’t be afraid, Father, Eoghan interjected with undisguised adoration for his father.

Well, as I was saying, children, continued Senias, "we waited there in the street, keeping a guarded silence, and watched. Young men of the military caste began running through the streets toward the south gate, some still fastening the chain belts that supported those long, heavy, two-edged, slashing swords, which had forever been the weapon of choice of the Celtic warrior. I could hardly contain my excitement, though I tried, I really tried. I thought my mother might scold me for such impulsiveness, or even, may the gods forbid, send me back to the cottage. I noticed that few of the young men had taken the time to grab shields, helmets or other articles of warfare that an individual warrior might hold in his personal armory. The sudden appearance of the legionnaires had obviously taken my village by surprise, for at the moment we were quarreling with no one, not even those savage Romans, and therefore, we posted no sentries outside the walls of the village. Suddenly, my hysteria, my curiosity, my imprudence, my intractable youth overcame all caution, and I bolted, abandoning the three women who remained in the middle of the street, loudly and frantically protesting my departure. Reaching the now abandoned and roofless carpenter shop, I climbed, along with dozens of other young men, to the top of the remaining stone foundation wall from which I was able to see much of the area outside the south gate. By the time the advanced party of the cohort reached the outer walls of our village, the gates were closed and the walls teemed with our armed, Arverni warriors.

Father, I’ve heard about those Roman people, but what’s an Arverni? Senias’ young son questioned.

Don’t interrupt your father, Eoghan, his mother said.

That’s all right, Savrina, they certainly must know what an Arverni is, don’t you think? We are Arverni, son. The Arverni were one of the largest and most important tribes in Gaul. Our village was an Arverni village. When I say our village, I’m referring to our old village in Gaul, explained Senias. Little Eoghan seemed satisfied, so Senias returned to his story.

"Five soldiers of the Roman vanguard quickly formed a linear formation facing the outside of the closed gate. The cohort standard-bearer stood in the center of the formation, holding high a brilliant, bronze standard that, from where I stood, looked like the head of an alpine ram, beneath which, in a bronze circle, was the Roman numeral three. To his right stood a trumpeter who stood at attention until the arrival of the officer-in-command, whereon he raised the instrument to his lips and sounded a loud, melodious, formation call. This musical discharge initiated the most spectacular event that I, or for that matter any other young man of the village, had ever witnessed.

"No sooner had the sound of the trumpet pierced the tense atmosphere than columns of Roman soldiers began to trot behind the line of point soldiers. First right feet then left feet hammered the ground simultaneously, creating a synchronic thumping as though the earth’s surface were a tightly stretched skin over a great kettledrum. Ever more soldiers poured into the open field that sloped gently downward from the south gate. I could feel the vibrations in the stones beneath me, generated by hundreds of feet in hobnailed boots, pounding the dry earth in perfect cadence. A heavy, yellow dust, the post harvest remains of the spring wheat crop, began to rise slowly from the surface of the field, creating a golden haze into which flashed wondrously, the piercing beacons of scintillating sunlight reflected from that sea of bobbing helmets. A trumpet sounded; the signifer raised the tall standard brandishing the cohort’s bronze insignia then turned smartly to the left. Centurions’ commands reverberated through the ranks and the vast moving formations came to an abrupt halt. The command to face left was given, and unexpectedly, as if by some unknown magic, I now faced a vast sea of some three hundred red and yellow rectangular shields and total silence. The yellow dust, as if obeying a Roman command, returned obediently to the surface of the field.

"The Roman commander, a tribune by title, wore a finely-tooled, leather breastplate over a pure-white tunic with short sleeves, a full-length, woolen cloak of the most brilliant scarlet I had ever seen, and a highly polished, bronze helmet with a stiff, horsehair plume that matched the scarlet of his cloak. He sat astride a beautiful white horse, very erect, and directly in front of his troops. The universe became silent. Even the village warriors in their traditional, brightly-colored, checked breeches and tartan shirts stood mesmerized, swords still sheathed, motionless and silent upon the outer wall. Not a dog barked. The sound of my heart pounding in my ears only underscored the great depth of the silence.

"There, illuminated by the afternoon sun, the warriors of two great cultures stood facing each other. For our people in the village, it was the first encounter with those fabled Romans, who several years earlier had entered, uninvited, into the great expanse of our national territory, forming alliances with some tribes, while raiding, looting and otherwise despoiling the territory of others.

" ‘They divide and conquer, these Romans,’ my older brother once said to my father. As I stood there in the afternoon heat, awestruck by the perception of overwhelming power, occasioned by the magnificent armament and the extraordinary discipline of these fearless invaders, I noticed movement to the far right. There, where the road leaves the forested riverbank and enters the clearing, were two colorfully clad human figures, expeditiously approaching the formation of soldiers, followed, at a short distance, by several armed legionnaires. Through undulating waves of afternoon heat I made out the tartan shirts and the brown breeches with narrowed ankles which were the traditional dress of my own Gallic people.

"The two Gallic gentlemen, whom I later learned were members of the Intellectual Caste from the Aedui tribe, walked directly to the Roman tribune. The three men conversed for a brief period. The two Aedui gentlemen then turned away from the stern-faced tribune and approached our village fortifications, stopping a short distance from the wall. I quickly turned my attention to our men on the wall. There was a momentary uncertainty among the warriors, some milling about, some conversing in low voices, and then decisions were made. Two warriors descended the wall, while singling out by gesture three senior members of the tribal council. After a brief conference, the gates were opened wide and the five men walked out to face their Aedui brothers and their Roman escort. The meeting was short. None of us knew at that time what message the Aedui had delivered on behalf of their Roman allies. I did notice, that for reasons I did not fully understand, some of our warriors referred to the Aedui as the traitor people. Later, when our village council revealed the rather trivial substance of the verbal exchange, we all knew that the commanding presence of that awesome cohort with its magnificent colors, terrifying weapons and incredible discipline was itself the real message. It was clearly a portentous warning from Caesar himself: Don’t trifle with the Roman Eagle! And perhaps even more threatening to the Gallic spirit, the warning implied: Your land is my land. The Roman menace had just touched us in the village for the first time. We continued to live our day-to-day lives as always, but from that day on, anger, fear, anxiety, hostility and hate lurked deep within the Arverni soul.

CHAPTER 2

REBIRTH

THRASHING, ROLLING, TOSSING, TURNING, sleeping, not sleeping, I struggled to break free of that murky, ethereal state of mind between oblivion and consciousness. A nervous, uneasy sensation in my stomach grew in intensity until finally in one bold thrust I broke through the chaos of the dream world and sat straight up. Immediately I became aware that throughout the night I had wrestled with surrealistic visions of violent and tragic struggle, inspired, no doubt, by yesterday’s ominous appearance of that Roman cohort, but then, perhaps as well as, or even more so, by my nervous anticipation of the very personal events of the coming day. The fury of those twin anxieties was stirring a flurry of butterflies in my stomach such as I had never before experienced.

I had long awaited that day, both eagerly and with dread. I was learning that such conflicting and contradictory feelings were not at all uncommon to me. I pushed away the soft, warm, dog pelts that made up my bed, pressed my hands to my face, ran my fingers slowly back through my hair, and then surveyed the great room. That interminable, god-awful night began fading away into the many shafts of soft, smoky-blue light penetrating the small openings where the roof thatch met the stone foundation wall of our family cottage. Those shafts of light provided a dim, pale illumination within the smoky atmosphere of the great room. In that great room I had spent most of the nights of the last fourteen years with my family. I folded my hands in my lap and stared into the blue light. A dog barked in the far distance. An ember popped in the smoldering fire. I listened to the soft breathing of my sleeping family. Those familiar sounds had comforted me every night I had spent in the great room. Under the watchful protection of my family, I had never experienced any real fear before in my entire life; at least, not any that I remembered. Yet, after yesterday’s worrisome invasion into our idyllic life, coupled with the anticipated events of this day, I knew my childish comforts were crumbling away like the stone walls of the old carpenter shop.

Today would mark a beginning, as well as an ending. It would signify an end to the simple comforts of youth; an end to unbounded free time to spend in the river and fields with my young friends. I would still visit and take my meals at home on occasion, but I knew life would never be the same again. Halfheartedly I arose, pulled on my tan, linen breeches, tied the straps on my leather sandals, and put on the shirt that my mother had lovingly sewn for me from a length of green and yellow tartan cloth she had purchased from the weavers. I completed my dressing by tying the leather cinch around my waist, all the while eying, as was my habit, the large loaf of bread and the jug of sweet mead on the wooden table. But, I realized my usually ravenous appetite was much subdued that morning. Instinctively, I placed several sticks of wood upon the smoldering embers of last night’s fire and walked out into the grey light of dawn.

I ambled along the deserted, cobbled streets of my village, reminiscing happy times. Briefly, I pondered the future, but, like an old man, I fled back into the past. I walked past many fine, thatched houses with strong masonry walls, a few of which proudly exhibited one or more grinning skulls placed in special niches carved into the stone around the entrance ways. Those skulls, trophies from raids upon distant villages, represented the traditional ways to which a few older warriors obstinately clung. I wandered on into the familiar craftsmen’s quarter. Later in the day that neighborhood would be alive with the sounds of the chattering of looms, turning out great lengths of brightly colored tartan; the hammering of smiths, shaping pickaxes, pots and long swords; the sawing of carpenters; the squealing of grindstones; the scraping and rasping of coopers, as they carved the staves for the wooden barrels for which our village was well known. They said, with pride, that one could find superbly crafted barrels from our village all over Gaul and even down into the land of the Romans. In the family cottages, women were busy preparing the first meal of the day, and the pleasant smell of fat-laden smoke began permeating the atmosphere. I wandered on.

Without conscious inclination, I found myself back at the south gate. I climbed once more the crumbling, stone walls of the abandoned carpenter shop to view anew the land beyond the wall. The wheat fields, now wanting both the golden grain and the magnificent soldiers, lay silent before me. I remained there for some time contemplating the mist-shrouded landscape until it became red, then orange, then aglow with a bright yellow light. I turned east to face the rising sun. Bathed in its brilliant, golden light, I raised my arms in praise and thanksgiving that the sun had again made its way through the Underworld, and would grant us another day of divine light. Praise be to you, oh, venerable, Bellen, light of the world, father of all gods and men. Thank you for granting us another day. Help us to be worthy of your three benevolent gifts: illumination, warmth and life.

I took the morning meal at home and participated in family prayers honoring our ancestors. The mood was somber. There was not much conversation among us that morning. Whatever needed to be said was said long ago in anticipation of that day. I took leave of my family. I was a man now. I knew what I must do, and that was that. I made for the Philosophic School of the Children of Danu. In that context, the day was not unusual. I had attended that school in the ancient oak grove since I was ten years old. There, I had taken instruction in the lore of our people on the last day of every moon, as had every other village youth over the age of ten. That day, however, I did not go there as just another child to receive the required instruction. I had been chosen by Cateo, chief instructor at the school, and a greatly respected member of the Caste of the Wise, to undertake studies, which would, in time, result in my own acceptance into that highest of social castes. I must say, I was never sure if my selection was due to my own aptitude and spiritual interests, the influential position of my family, or to the sway of my older half-brother, who was well known throughout the entire Arverni territory as well as much of Gaul itself. No matter, it was apparently the will of the gods. My family was pleased; I was pleased. I was also apprehensive, fearful and eager. I cannot stress enough the enormous significance of this appointment and the pressure I felt to succeed. I wanted so very much to achieve mastery, and become a Philosopher, a Speaker, a Seer of the Arverni people.

Once through the village gate, I paused for a moment where the road forks. For a brief moment I wanted to make for the river where I knew my young friends would soon gather. Never in my life had I appreciated the lure of that river as much as I did at that moment, but I mustered the courage to dismiss the temptation. There would be less of that river from now on, and besides, the adventure I was about to experience, I thought to console myself, would be far more wondrous than any thing I could imagine. I continued on my way toward a large grove of ancient oaks that dominated the ridge just above our village.

In the midst of that cool, obscure grove was a stone altar. Near to which sat Cateo and six other Philosophers. They were comfortably couched upon the soft, leaf-littered earth. Tense, yet confident, I entered that great cathedral with its high, vaulted ceilings of filtered light, supported by immense oaken columns, and sat down in front of the seven bearded men, who stared stoically at me. A prolonged silence ensued, interrupted almost imperceptibly by a gentle breeze high up in the oaken canopy. Above, that breeze whispered softly, causing the images of dappled light on the groves littered floor to waver about ever so slowly. Cateo rose to his feet slowly, with the help of his long, beech wood staff. He wore his hair long and straight, as did all Celtic Philosophers—we usually called them Speakers because they speak to the gods. His beard was full and mostly white. As the morning was yet cool, he wore, over his tartan shirt, a full-length, yellow and brown, woolen plaid, draped over his left shoulder, joined on his right by a large, golden broach, and tightened around his waist with a finely tooled leather belt, secured by an ornate, bronze buckle. Around his neck, and only partly visible through his beard, he wore a magnificent golden torc, the universal Gallic emblem of nobility.

Solemnly, with neither greeting nor preface, Cateo asked of me: Senias, of what is this world?

I responded just as I had been taught, earth, sea and air, my Lord Speaker.

And of what is nature? he asked.

Of all things that are animal, vegetable and mineral, I replied.

And of what is man, Senias? he inquired, stoically.

Man is of three parts also, my Lord.

Which are? he asked.

Body, soul and spirit, my Lord.

Which part of man is eternal, Senias?

Only the soul, my Lord, I answered.

And what is whiter than the newly fallen snow, Senias?

The Truth, my Lord, I replied, with heightened confidence.

And how might one experience the eternal Truth of Danu?

Only by going to the land of the Truth, that is, the Otherworld, my Lord.

And, Senias, how does one cross over into the Otherworld?

I hesitated, swallowed softly, and then said, only by death in this world and rebirth in the other, my Lord.

Senias, declared Cateo, we have appointed you apprentice to the brotherhood of Arverni Philosophers, because of your intelligence, your introspection, your devotion to the gods, and of course, your eagerness. We believe that in time you will take your place in our community as a seeker of Truth, a revealer of the Word, an intermediary with the gods for our people, a healer of the ills of body and mind, a mentor of youth, a historian of our past, an interpreter of visions, a propitiator of spirits, a counsel to the leadership, and a guardian of the collective knowledge of all Celtic people: the Knowledge of the Oak.

At that point Cateo paused a brief moment and then said solemnly, Senias, as you know from the many discussions we’ve had, that in order to enter the noble Cast of the Wise, you must spiritually die, pass into the Otherworld and be reborn into this world. By so doing, Senias, you will acquire a personal knowledge of the Otherworld; you will become a ferry for revelations between that world and this. This process of rebirth is, as you have been told, as you have been warned, terrifying; it is not uncommon for a young apprentice to fail to return to this world. So, tell us now, Senias, if you are willing to endure this ordeal.

I remember well that I did not hesitate in offering a reply to Cateo’s poignant question. I have thought of little else for the past two moons, my Lord Speaker. I do wish, my Lord, to enter into apprenticeship with you and I seek, willingly, the rite of resurrection. Please, my Lord, it is my earnest desire, though it frightens me greatly.

Then, so it shall be, Cateo said in a grave voice, while striking the soft earth with the end of his ornately carved, beech wood staff. The other six Philosophers arose and repeated, So it shall be, while striking the earth in unison with their staffs.

All to be said had been said; the first ordeal was now ended. I knew well what I had been instructed to do next, and I would do it like a man of distinction. I departed the shaded grove alone, taking only the clothes I was wearing and my sheathed knife attached to my leather cinch. As I left the ancient stand of cathedral oaks and walked into a more open area, I noted that Bellen had nearly completed half of his daily journey across the sky. I imagined the resplendence of Bellen, rolling overhead in his magnificent four-wheeled chariot. Behind his great chariot he pulled, by means of a great golden chain, that colossal solar furnace, that dazzling glory of the day. Fortunately, the sparse canopy of the forest trees offered me some shelter from his solar furnace’s scorching rays. As the day wore on, a growing thirst increasingly intruded into my consciousness. Seeking diversion, I focused my mind upon the relief that awaited me not far away in the great forest, with its cool shadows, massive trunks that shot skyward into cathedral-like canopies, and cool glades, kept eternally fresh by the chilling waters from crystalline springs. You see, I already knew something of the great forest, having accompanied my father there on many occasions to hunt the boars and stags that range there.

At long last, as Bellen’s furnace reached a low level in the western sky, I began entering the ancient forest, my journey’s end. I was now quite thirsty. My plan was to find a glade with a spring, and perhaps a nearby cave or overhang where I could spend the night in relative safety. Darkness, however, always comes early to the primeval forest, and soon I could see only murky, shadowy images. To proceed further would be both foolish and dangerous. I fell to my knees and began making preparations to pass the night, and very soon thirst yielded to exhaustion and exhaustion to sleep. From time to time, my uneasy sleep was disturbed by sounds in the forest. Whenever I opened my eyes, I saw legions of softly glowing illuminations from forest insects, and the occasional blinking eyes of night birds and rodents, keeping their nocturnal vigil. Again I was awakened, this time by the disagreeable scream of a jay marking her