Dark Horse

Twenty-Nine

Alone in her isolated cottage on the hilltop, Clio strained to listen.

'Come out, I know you're there.'

The heat throbbed like a pulse, creating mirages on the stone path and shimmering the far horizon. Cicadas rasped in the harsh, dry grass, vultures wheeled and a snake slithered under a boulder.

'You don't scare me,' she shouted.

Maybe she was over-reacting. Suppose it was just that runt of a priest, hoping for a free peep show? Children, perhaps? She listened for sniggers, for Llagos's ragged, aroused breathing. Despite the searing heat, Clio's teeth were chattering.

There was only one door to the cottage.

'Don't think I don't know what you're trying to do,' she called to the shrubs beyond the clearing.

Legends linger. Like precious date palms, they were nourished and fed, giving every attention to make sure they stayed alive here on Cressia. Centuries back she suspected some recluse had settled up here, perhaps a healing woman, and perhaps this woman had a daughter, and so on. Gradually, with the passage of time, generations of solitary dwellers had rolled into one creating a legend of immortality endowed with all kinds of mystical powers. Circe!

A goat bleated far in the distance, and four or five small birds twittered over her roof and were gone. Clio shivered and hugged her arms to her body. Why, oh, why couldn't the islanders have seen her as a reincarnation of the enchantress? Embraced her as Circe, four maybe five hundred years old, to be left offerings to win her favour and left in peace to work her magic powers. Instead, they interpreted Clio's long black hair as a cloak of evil. Her clear, unwrinkled skin as the result of a bloodlust. Made her a scapegoat for the island's misfortunes. Drought last year? Blame the witch. Olive blight three seasons ago? Plague of thistles? Bad harvest? Even though she could not see them, she felt the islanders' malevolence outside her cottage.

'How many of you cowards does it take to frighten a woman? Four? Five? Twenty-five?'

Her worst fears had been realized in the night.

The carpenter's eight-year-old son had succumbed to the same wasting disease that had claimed the fisherman's wife. Leo's murder was the final straw the ultimate affliction on the islanders' fortunes, having the security of Rome whisked from under their feet. Someone must pay.

And once the witch was dead, the evil spell would be broken.

From the single window, she could see higher piles of whitethorn, more heaps of intestines, rotting, stinking in the midday heat. But the islanders' hex had proved ineffective. The 'vampire' had still managed to carry off two more victims. And all the while, the crickets rasped.

'You iss alone now, pretty one.'

The disembodied voice made Clio jump. 'Who's there?'

'No ones to protect you, iss there?' called another.

'Becoss Leo is dead,' a third piped up.

'Dead as your wicked black soul,' the first voice sneered.

Enough! Clio slammed the door, bolting it loudly behind her. That second voice! That was Llagos the priest! With shaking hands she slammed the shutters closed, plunging the cottage into Stygian blackness. Now even the temple was beyond refuge! If only she'd taken Leo's thirty gold pieces. She'd be on that little freighter sailing to Pula.

The prediction of Leo's astrologer was common knowledge across the island. Before the sun stands thrice more over our heads, a woman shall die.

Her breath was ragged, her body wracked with convulsions she could not control. Sweet Janus. She was alone up here in this isolated cottage. Alone. And trapped. With no one to turn to — and a prophecy that needed fulfilling.

Tonight, she thought. That's when they'll come for me. Tonight.

Clio sank to her knees. She had never prayed before in her life, but this was as good a time as any to start.