Across the steep wooded slopes, at a point where the Western Weald meets the Hampshire Downs, the forest waits for daybreak. The air is thick. Dry. Suffocating. The dense cloud overhead seems determined to hold on to the night. But, at last, a patch of grey dawn breaks through, casting its shadows deep into the dry cracks that streak across the forest floor. Bracken and bramble are in crisis, their lowly roots denied sustenance by the giant thirsts rising all around them. But they will prevail, for the deluge, long-promised, is here. A burst of dry lightning heralds its arrival. Deep in the forest something cracks and falls. Then the rain. At first, tight and hardened by drought, the alkaline soil proves impervious to the few drops that find their way down through the ancient canopy of beech and yew, hornbeam, hazel, sweet chestnut and alder. But more is to follow. Much more. And soon the parched ground is awash, tiny rivulets running in all directions, gouging their way towards the dried bed of a river-in-waiting. Withered leaves and tree litter are carried along with the flow. The riverbank swells, begins to crumble, flooding dusty burrows, dislodging tiny underground stores of hazelnuts and acorns, uncovering a single antler, a badger skull, a rusted can. And, close beside it, the slim fingers still delicate, a pale hand emerges from its shallow woodland grave.