"And Puissard," the old jailer warned, "Leave the poor girl alone."  

He gave the foul-smelling rabassier an unceremonious shove through the outer gate and into the cobbled alleyway behind the Périgueux jail. The grizzled Frenchman turned as he stumbled to the curb, and spat his disdain at the provincial gendarme, but the constable had already shut the gate behind him and turned the key, hoping the old fool wouldn't recidivate yet again. Gardien de la Paix, Fabien Fournier picked up a corn broom from a small storage closet in the rear of the jail and returned to Puissard's empty cell. As he tugged the soiled bedding off the vacated cot, a small, pointed trowel fell from between the sheets and clanked to the stone floor, peppering it with crumbs of black earth that had been caked on the curved blade and shaken loose by the impact with the already filthy floor.

Gobby Puissard stumbled down the dark alley, stopping to pick through the trash cans behind Cafe' Rousseau, looking for scraps of discarded food, then doubled over and threw up from the stench of the empty cans. He wiped his mouth on his dirty sleeve before stumbling up to the back door and pushing his way into the kitchen. The dishwasher turned from the scrub sink to see Gobby lifting the lids off a couple of steaming kettles of soup. He threw the scrub brush he was using on the dirty dishes, but missed Puissard, who had ducked out of the way. The soapy brush bounced off the smoke-hood over the stove and missed an open vat of bouillabase by centimeters.

Puissard cautiously pushed the double doors of the kitchen open a crack to peek into the dining room and spied the chef making the rounds from one checker-clothed table to the next, basking in the praise of the diners enjoying his fare. Letting the doors ease close again, the old scrounger scuffled over to a tureen of soup and lifted the lid, taking in the aroma of a thickened garbure. He grabbed a wooden spoon off the steam table and hungrily slurped the broth, dribbling it through his scraggly beard back into the vat.

"Puissard, you old scoundrel! Get out, before Jacques catches you!"

"Oh, shut-up, woman!" growled the disheveled bum to the scullery maid who grabbed the spoon from his hand and shoved him towards the back door. He stretched his tongue out at her and departed, grabbing a bulb of shallots as he left.

In the dining room, Jacques Mirabeau, Maestro and premier chef of Cafe' Rousseau leaned over between two men sitting at the table by the front window. One was a local, a regular customer of the chef's acquaintance, but the other was an impeccably dressed young man from out-of-country.

"Maestro, this fine gentleman, Don Mantegna has been enquiring about our local truffles, and whom he might engage in their procurement," said the local diner to the chef.

"Ahhh, the black diamonds? Puissard! Send him to Puissard," replied the chef, and added with a scoff,  "…if they ever let him out of the jail!"

"I was thinking, the girl," offered the local man.

"Ah, yes! The girl, the girl! She finds the best, but who can ever find her?" The chef straightened, making a hopeless gesture with his hand. "I cannot help with that."

"What girl?" the dapper gentleman at the table asked.

"Well, Monsieur, for a colorful tale, you have come to the right province. She is a local legend, but few know how to find her until she has treasure to sell. She is a waif, the grand-daughter of the greatest rabassier our forests have ever spawned. Truffles, they say, grow at his feet, or did. None even know if he is still alive, but his skill with the hunt for the black, went to the girl, his daughter's daughter. Look for her, whoever wishes to acquire the finest truffles in all the world."

"She is local then, in the village?"

"She seldom shows her face here. There is great rivalry among the hunters of the black. They all envy her uncanny skills, and many of them would steal her dog if they could. One of them is in our jail now for making another attempt on the beast."

"The…the dog?"

"Some use pigs, Monsieur. They actually have a better nose for the delicacy, but they also are more inclined to eat the truffles themselves, and to lose such a valuable find to a swine is a great loss. Dogs can be trained to sniff out the treasure without losing it to them, and this girl has the finest hound to ever hunt these woods."

"Where might this girl be found? What is her name?"

"Monsieur, many have looked for her, but she moves around in the woods like a wil-o'-the-wisp. She is part of the forest, and as elusive as the truffles themselves. As to her name, more who wander the forests know the dog's name than hers. They have heard her call it distantly in the heart of the woods, but few have ever heard her name called."

Mantegna thanked the chef for his time and excused himself from his dining companion to return to the inn at the edge of Périgueux where he had quartered for his stay in this out-of-the-way village along the Voie des Stades. The young Spaniard bumped into a gruff and disheveled man emerging from an alley on his way back to his room.

"Excusez-moi, Monsieur!" the unkempt peasant said as he patted Mantegna's tailored suit to straighten it out. "I did not see you."

"Ce n'est rien," Mantegna replied, eager to disengage from the filthy man and be on his way. The old man grabbed his hand and shook it, thanking him for his understanding, then shuffled off across the street.

***

The spring rains had left a spongy mat on the forest floor that Bijou romped anxiously upon outside the burrow. The rope to which his collar was tied stretched just far enough from the ramshackle hut to let the hound run about without getting wound around any of the nearby trees, but close enough to hear if he was in any danger. Inside the burrow lay his silver-tressed mistress, curled up under a frayed blanket with Neryse, her young lover from Lalbenque. Their trysts usually occasioned outside the bois when his mistress took her baskets to market, for Lalbenque was the center of the truffle harvest where all the rabassiers in southern France sold their finds every Tuesday.

The young anthropology student had come to Lalbenque to study the ancient dolmens left during the Roman occupation, but when she met Peri, she chose to stay and write her thesis in the province rather than returning to Paris. Bijou loved the rare occasions when Neryse came to the forest because she usually brought him treats which Peri seldom had at her disposal out in the wild. Neryse also left his mistress in a decidedly indulgent mood where Bijou was concerned, for if she brought treats, Peri would give them to him at the outset to keep him occupied while they disappeared inside the burrow for hours. The morning found them still inside the dilapidated warren, and Bijou sensed there were truffles to unearth before the day was wasted.

"I can feel your heart beating," Neryse said softly, as her head pressed close upon Peri's bare breast. "So you are a real girl after all, and not the mysterious dryad of the sylvan glade that the local legends tell?"

"It's the hair," Peri laughed, referring to the lush, silver-gray tresses that reached almost to her waist. "But the mystery is how my mother had a daughter with such unusual hair color when no one else in her line or my father's has been so graced."

"At least it matches," Neryse teased, as she ran her fingers through the tuft of silver hair on Peri's mons. She wiggled her finger into the feathery thatch and felt the wetness beneath that she had pulled from inside her lover's cleft moments before. She brought the wet finger to her lips and sucked on it, then lazily circled Peri's puffy areole to arouse it to attention. She was fascinated with how responsive her lover could be to such subtle touches, and she was constantly exploring different avenues of arousal to bring Peri to new and unexpected orgasms.

A long night of passion had left little time for sleep, but the young lovers only seemed invigorated by hours of arousal, and came down from the euphoria of sex with lively conversation to catch each other up on what was happening while they were apart. Neryse usually carried the conversation since Peri was so isolated from the goings on in the outside world, and relied on her friend to bring the latest news to her retreat in the bois.

"I'm afraid things are pretty grim outside your woodland paradise, my love. Fascism is still spreading through Europe. France is now surrounded by warring powers. The Civil War in Spain grows worse. A little Basque village was bombed out of existence by the Germans in an air attack a few weeks ago. Refugees are streaming out of Spain. By way of poetic justice, the Germans lost the pride of their Zeppelin airship fleet in a fiery crash over New Jersey less than two weeks later. Many passengers were killed. Anti-Nazi sabotage is suspected."

"Is there nothing but sorrow in the wide world? Tell me something good is happening." Peri pleaded.

"Remember that beautiful Austrian actress you were so in love with?" Neryse tugged on Peri's nipple with her thumb and forefinger as she looked her in the eye. She often teased Peri about other women she lusted after, and none more than Hedwig Kiesler, whom they had both become enamored with after seeing her in an erotic Czech film in the cinema at Lalbenque. "She finally left that pig of a husband she married for his money, and ran off to Paris."

"Hedy's in Paris?" Peri fell for the bait, and brightened at an imagined prospect they both knew was beyond their reach in any practical sense.

"Well, don't get your hopes up. She'll be on her way to America soon with Louis Mayer. Her next romance will probably be onscreen with Clark Gable. You'll just have to learn to share her with Clark."

"Or maybe she can share Clark with me!" Peri teased back, knowing Neryse had no interest in men sexually. Peri was more versatile in that respect, and had lain with as many men as women.

"Well then, you'll be happy to hear that a very handsome, very rich young man has been asking about you. Someone in Périgueux suggested he look for you in Lalbenque, so he showed up a couple of days ago asking around about the legendary girl who was purported to be the best truffler in the region."

"Purported?" Peri sniffed with feigned indignation. "What does he want with me?"

"Apparently, he's writing a book. His father is said to be a wealthy shipping magnate in Spain, a well-known connoisseur of haut cuisine, so black truffles would no doubt be among his favorite delicacies. I suspect his son is just a spoiled raconteur, hoping to please his father and avoid becoming involved in the bloodshed of the Civil War at the same time by traveling abroad."

"So, through me, he hopes to gain background for his book, or access to a supply of the Périgore Black. Which?"

"No idea. Both perhaps. He's been delayed in his search for you, having been robbed of his purse in Périgueux by some bum on the street, and by the fact that I'm the only one in France who knows where to find you. I wanted to first find out from you if you wanted to be found. He'll be in Lalbenque waiting for his family to wire money to replace his stolen funds, so I knew I'd have time to ask you what to do."

"Well, I'm not averse to rich, handsome young men seeking me out, assuming you wouldn't be distraught with jealousy," Peri teased.

"I'll live. Just scour your pussy with lye before I'm in your bed again! Once he sees you, his mind won't be on truffles. And knowing your lusty libido, truffles and their biology won't be the only biology you'll likely be sharing with him!"

With that, Peri dived her face into Neryse's wet pussy, and pushed her tongue deep into her lover's silky pink vulva. Outside, Bijou perked up his ears and howled along with the loud moans coming from inside the hovel.

***

Puissard had plans for his newfound windfall. His previous attempts to steal Bijou had only landed him in the local hoosegow, and Fabien Fournier's jailhouse cooking was not an inducement to return to that establishment. If he could somehow persuade the girl to part with her prize hound for the tidy sum he had purloined from the Spaniard, his fortunes would improve. The girl had more than one hut her grandfather had knocked together in the scattered oak groves where the richest troves of the Périgore Black could be unearthed. At this time of year when the yield was low, she could be quartering in any one of them, and hiking through the forests around Périgueux until he found her would be exhausting.

On the other hand, staying in town was risky. The Spaniard had undoubtedly given the police a description of the man who picked his pocket, and sooner or later Puissard would be fingered as the prime suspect. Considering the amount of the theft, the local constabulary were no doubt pursuing the matter diligently, so, quietly disappearing from sight seemed the most prudent course of action. He could wait till the girl eventually came to town for supplies, and corner her with his proposition.

He ventured into the bois to lay low, but to his surprise, the silver-haired beauty was strolling towards him from the deep woods with a companion by her side. The dog was trailing not far behind. Seeing Puissard, the animal crouched low and growled. The two young women tried to avoid the old man, turning aside, but he made a bee-line to intercept them before they could reach the edge of the woods and enter the village.

"Leave me alone, old man! And leave my dog alone." Peri demanded.

"But you will change your tone when I show you what I have to offer for the animal."

"He's not for sale!"

The old man rummaged through his pockets and flashed a thick wad of banknotes from the Bank of Spain.

"These are pesetas, but easily converted into francs! This is a fortune I offer for one small animal." Puissard pleaded.

The girls turned and walked away as Bijou took a nip at the old man's heels and scampered away behind them. Puissard kicked a pile of damp leaves at his feet into the air after them, but they took no heed. "Whores! Dykes!" he shouted after them in frustration as they left him behind.

After visiting the constabulary and reporting the incident to Fabien Fournier, Peri saw her friend off at Le Gare de Périgueux station for her return trip to Lalbenque by rail. She then purchased supplies she'd need for the next month or two and the young girl ventured back through the forest toting a heavy sack of her purchases with her dog following close behind.

***

Neryse left the train station at Lalbenque to return to her apartment, but stopped at a small cafe near the truffle market to grab a bite to eat before returning home. After awhile, she spotted a well-dressed gentleman weaving through the crowds at the market and recognized him to be the Spaniard she had encountered the week before. She picked up her croissant and made her way through the crowded market, casually positioning herself in his path, pretending to observe the bidding for the truffles.

"Well, hello again!" she greeted, as he tapped her on her shoulder. "You're still here! Did you find your mystery-girl, the renowned truffler?"

"I've learned they are called rabbasiers, and no, I've been stuck here in Lalbenque waiting for money to be wired from home. The war seems to have disrupted the operation of the banking exchange in Spain. And I've had no leads where to find her in the days since we last chatted. I've been coming to the market hoping she will appear to sell her goods, but no one has seen her."

"And the police have offered no leads in your case—your stolen money?"

"No. It's been a very unproductive week since we last talked," Don Mantegna sighed. "If money doesn't arrive soon I may have to give up the whole endeavor, although returning to Spain now may not be safe."

"Well, it's a book you're writing, correct? You want the girl for nothing more than her expertise?"

"I have to admit, her reputation has intrigued me. It has grown more so with every person I interview in the market. She sounds like a story unto herself. I have since heard she is very beautiful, with remarkable silver hair. A young girl living alone in the deep woods with skills that have made her a legend? It is a remarkable story. Almost unbelievable."

"I have just seen her today," Neryse said casually. "She will meet with you."

"What?" Don Mantegna stepped back, flabbergasted. "You know her?"

"One of the few who do. And those of us who know where she can be found, protect her from outsiders, the curious, and those who would do her harm. In Quercy, where truffles are like gold, her abilities are much sought after, and much resented by others who would exploit her."

"You went to her, to tell her about me? Is that so?"

"She will let you come to her abode, a mere shack in the woods southeast of Périgueux. Her name is in fact Peri. Her mother named her after the old province Périgord, in which Périgueux lies in the center. I will show you the way to find her. But you must follow my directions carefully."

***

In the deep woods of Périgord Noir, a 'hive' of the Stregherian coven of Quercy gathered its members to a Skyclad ceremony for the Sabbat of Litha, the summer solstice. At dusk, the celebration began as the High Priestess invoked the Charge of the Goddess after bringing the thirteen naked men and women of the coven into the prayer circle. A small campfire in the center of the circle illuminated the nude bodies of the revelers as night fell over the assembly. The prayers to the triple-goddess were solemn at first, then the supplicants became more vociferous, dancing in place, then pairing off for more sexual liaisons to honor the Goddess.

On the immediate left of the High Priestess stood her favorite, a silver-haired beauty whose bare breasts glistened with a sheen of moisture which made them glow in the firelight. Her pointed nipples cast shadows across the curvature of her breasts. The two women paired off to make love under the night sky, as the others also paired off, some male to female and some female to female. In the shadows of the forest surrounding them stood Don Mantegna, watching the orgiastic spectacle from the darkness under the trees. His eyes stayed focused on the young girl in the arms of the priestess.

Following Neryse's directions he had journeyed into the oak forests looking for Peri's remote hut, but had been drawn off his path by the distant firelight, halfway into the bois. He recognized the girl as soon as he saw her hair, shining in contrast to the other Skyclad members of the meet. Seeing her naked body, perfect in its youthful sculpture, took his breath away, riveting him to his hidden vantage point where he could watch the sensuous pagan ceremony unfold.

All he could see at this point were the rounded globes of her bare ass, undulating erotically as her body ground against the hips of her priestess. Her silky curtain of hair danced around the small of her back like willow fronds in a breeze. The Spaniard began sweating and loosened his clothing, stunned by the unanticipated sighting of his interview subject nude among a coven of neopagan witches. Her legs were entwined with those of the dark-haired older woman who led the revelry. Don Armando Mantegna came in his pants.

Shortly after midnight, the coven broke company. Peri hugged all the departing members and spoke briefly with the High Priestess. They kissed and said their goodbyes. To Armando's surprise, Peri turned, facing him and walked directly towards him, still naked. Her breasts jiggled with every step and the Spaniard was mesmerized by her stunning beauty. With no modesty whatsoever, she clasped her hands behind her back and tilted her head, throwing her long silver mane over her shoulders. She stood at the edge of the clearing and waited for him to emerge from the cover of darkness.

"Would you mind putting out the embers of our fire? My feet are bare and you have boots on," she said, raising an eyebrow and glancing down to his feet.

"How… how long have you known I was here?" he asked abashedly.

"We noticed your approach before dusk. The sun glinted on your rather ornate buckle through the trees. None of us minded you watching. We are proud of our celebration to honor our Goddess, and I knew you would be coming." She reached down, grabbed a lantern he hadn't noticed before, and handed it to her guest.

Don Mantegna walked out to the center of the clearing, lighting the lantern with one of the last sticks aglow with fire, then kicked dirt over the glowing mound of embers until all light was extinguished. When he turned to join Peri, she had reached her hand out inviting him to follow her. A moment of bewilderment at the impropriety of a refined Spanish gentleman being led through the forest in the middle of the night by a beautiful naked woman assailed his chivalrous sensibilities. He shrugged at the absurdity of the situation and handed Peri the lamp so she could lead the way, wondering at her bravery and self-assurance.

She led him through the winding forest trail without a misstep, and he realized she knew every centimeter of the bois like one of the native animals of the woodland. She was a nymph, a denizen of nature who shunned civilization and its pretentious customs. Her body, silhouetted by the lamp-light she held in front of her, glowed around the sensual curves of the outline of her figure, and he fell under a spell as if she truly were a bewitching and magical creature. Here, under the dark woodland canopy, he felt the presence of her Goddess more than the deity of his own Catholic upbringing.

They arrived at her camp. She had never asked his name nor given hers, but offered him a bed for the remainder of the night. She disappeared to bathe in a nearby brook, and returned toweling off her naked body. She tossed him a ragged but clean towel and handed him another lantern she had lit.

"Your turn!" She said it with such innocence, he realized his modesty and sense of decorum were not norms in her world, and he was now in her world, not his. He resolved then and there to surrender his civilized sensibilities, if only to develop a rapport with this free-spirited woman and learn her amazing story. She was seductive in ways he had never known in any other woman, without guile or insincerity. He was beginning to understand what Neryse had meant. Those few she lets into her world love her and protect her and will always do so.

Armando bathed by lantern light, sitting on a large rock with his legs submerged in the dark, rushing stream, wondering if he had the girl's courage to be naked in front of the opposite sex without embarrassment. He decided there was still a difference. She was a manifestation of natural beauty. The perfect female form was a subject of art and aesthetics since the Classical Age. She had nothing to be ashamed or self-conscious of. He was not so certain he could say the same about his naked body. He knew that her immodesty was not merely because she was a beauty. He suspected she would be the same libertine regardless of her appearance. She was wholly genuine.

He returned to her shack wrapped in his towel carrying his clothes neatly folded in his arms. He didn't know whether she was affected by sexual attraction, but he found it disconcerting looking at a naked woman without feeling the call of nature. Perhaps she realized that and used it to her advantage, but he didn't think so. He had nothing but admiration for her and soon accepted her naturism at face value, while struggling to conceal his own urges.

"Please excuse my discomfiture. I'm not accustomed to being unclothed in front of a woman. I was not told you were a naturist," he began hesitantly.

"Only in the warmth of summer," she replied with a smile. "Clothing only makes sense in cold weather, don't you think? Skyclad is part of our beliefs."

"I had imagined you living a solitary life out here when I first learned of your reputation. When I saw you part of the coven, I realized my preconceptions were misplaced. You are Wiccan then?"

"Not in the Gardnerian sense. Our Priestess was a disciple of Aleister Crowley, one of his mistresses in fact. She was vaguely Thelemist for a time, but evolved after they parted. We are an amalgam of pagan beliefs, but our rituals share the practice of Skyclad and reverence for the triple-goddess. We were once members of a coven which grew too large in membership and became unbalanced. Our Priestess hived our coven from the larger group which was largely Stregharian, but we have evolved since leaving them."

"You are in a relationship with your High Priestess, it seemed. She appeared to favor you." Armando observed.

"She is grooming me to replace her one day. I am to become the hierophant of the coven. But you did not come here to talk about paganism, I think."

"I came to learn truffle-culture. I am writing a book on the subject, and you are apparently the undisputed hierophant on the subject."

"Why do you write this book?" she asked, puzzled.

"My father would appreciate the endeavor as he is an epicurean," he confessed. "My father and I are not in agreement regarding the conflict in Spain. He is a Nationalist. I believe in the Republic. I could not join the fight against him, so I hope to mend our rift in some way with this work."

"Tomorrow, Bijou and I will teach you what you came to learn. We will also go recover your stolen money. By now, the constable will have apprehended the man who stole it, and my dog will be safe once again." Armando was mystified by how Peri knew so many things about him, but was enthralled by her magical ways. All he wanted to do in this moment was kiss her.

"Tonight, we pagans celebrate the Sabbat of Litha. We must make this a merry meet. Will you lay with me tonight?" she offered with a smile. "There is only one bed, after all."

Armando suddenly realized that neo-pagans were usually advocates of free love, and all his desires might actually come to pass this night. He wanted her to feel the same attraction for him that he felt for her, and was unsure whether her offer indicated real sexual desire, or simply the offer of physical communion he had observed her giving the members of the coven. Sex to him was a matter of some enormity. He sensed however that this girl had given herself to many, and quite casually.

It did not diminish his desire for her. Perhaps he had to forego the thrill of the conquest he had enjoyed with previous lovers, but that was a small sacrifice for bedding a goddess. For that was what she seemed. She was the embodiment of all that pagans worshipped in their Goddess—beauty, purity, power, and nature. He would abandon his Spanish Catholicism this night, and embrace all that she represented.

She welcomed him into her bed, and he worshipped her, in the strangest venue he had ever made love to a woman—in a dilapidated shack under the trees, under the stars, far from the cares of the world outside the bois. They joined their bodies for hours, learning every intimate secret, enjoying the utter pleasure each could give to the other. It was the shortest night of the year, but seemed the longest. He learned more of love that night than he had known with any other woman.

It was the first of many such nights of passion. Armando stayed with her through the summer and fall, and felt blessed. She taught him the rhythms of nature, where and how the truffles grew. When winter came and the harvest was plentiful, he learned the intricacies of the marketplace every Tuesday in Lalbenque. She never seemed less than a goddess to him, and he learned to share her with Neryse, her coven, and others who were also her worshippers. She could not be possessed by one alone.

His book was never written, however. All his intentions prior to meeting her dissolved as inconsequential in her companionship, and he learned to stay true to his own convictions. His motives of reconciliation with his Carlist father were abandoned, and he returned to Spain after the harvest to fight the Fascists.