Reconstruction of the “Lindow Man” bog body. Courtesy of Wikipedia.
Samhain–the night of the dead. Yevetha knew from the ice around her heart there was one more ghost to walk the night and haunt her dreams. She clutched a tiny fur blanket to her sunken chest and rocked back and forth, keening. Sixteen summers ago she had ripped a bloody baby from the womb of her dying daughter and had wrapped him in the fur.
Yevetha had searched in the bogs for the rare herbs that would bring on her milk and had endured the pain caused to an aging body as it prepared to nurse the tiny infant. Her love had been rewarded as Bohumil grew into a fine strong young man with his mother’s blue eyes.
At the waning of the last full moon, Bohumil had come of an age to marry. He had packed for the hand of days it would take him to travel to the ocean tribes and set out through the forest to trade for a bride price. The full moon returned. Bohumil did not.
Yevetha pulled her worn skin cloak tighter about her shoulders and turned to the fire pit at the back of the hut. The cramped space reeked of peat smoke and the herbs drying in the thatch ceiling. She pushed at a tangle of coarse gray hair, leaving a smudge of soot across one cheek.
Yevetha had seen forty-six winters. She was weary and there was no one to replace her as healer now that the Sun priests had outlawed the worship of the Great Mother and all Her arts. She spat on the fire. For twenty years the Sun priests had cursed her life. They had converted the village men to their Sun worship and fewer and fewer women met in the secret glade to keep the covenant with the Mother Goddess.
Yevetha pulled a bronze knife from her belt and stretched to cut several herbs from the store in the ceiling. Bitter rue for grief, sweet rosemary for remembrance and rough hemp for dreams. She took a figure made of twigs from a plain reed basket and tied the tear-stained fur around its waist with a twist of straw. (more…)
I occasionally run across a book that challenges me; that makes me work for the story and enjoy the labor; that awes me with the craft of the writing. Usually these are considered “literary novels.” I also find a lot of literary novels tedious, because I’m partial to plot-driven stories. But Latro in the Mist surprised me. It’s a fantasy novel with gods and ghosts (which may not be real, see my discussion below.) It’s a historical novel about real events set in Greece in 479 B.C., and populated with historic characters. It’s also a finely crafted literary novel that makes the reader think beyond the story and characters about the nature of memory and self, friendship and loyalty, and the journey that is life. 
Historian's Notebook 