Sour Grapes

One

Low, grey clouds had fused with the hills, turning the landscape to lead. Gone were the lush vines that terraced the slopes. Gone were the olive groves that swept down the valley. Gone were the pastures for sheep. All that remained was a keen wind that whistled, and a nearby rumble of thunder.

Bent forward into the gale, a torch of flaming pitch in the one hand, a stick of stout laurel in the other, the old woman shouted his name. She waited. Listened. But once again, it was only the whine of the wind that answered her call and, as she pressed on up the steep mountain path, the first drops of rain started to fall.

Could it be thieves? Aye, the lambing season was a dangerous time. Wolves would devour every last one, given the chance, though not all wolves had four legs. This time of year thieves were all over, so it could, you know. It could well be thieves, and they wouldn't care that they'd stole from folk who owned just a handful of sheep. The poor were easy targets. You can't steal from a rich man's estate.

'Tages? Tages, can you hear me, boy?'

As she lifted the torch to guide her way, a crack of lightning lit up the beeches and chestnuts. Branches thrashed, silver with menace, then thunder boomed right overhead and suddenly the whole forest was creaking — groaning — moaning — in unison.

'Tages?'

Twilight darkened to black, rain lashed at the landscape, chilling the air and turning the trail oily with mud. Across the valley, rheumy eyes watched the lights of Mercurium twinkling out a grid of warmth and reassurance through the storm, but Etha didn't waver. She'd raised this boy from a babe, loved him in spite of his birth killing her daughter. He was all the old woman had.

'Sweet Nortia, who holds our fortunes, I beseech thee.' Setting her stick to one side, she laid a hand on the earth in which the goddess made her abode. 'Vetha, who controlleth the seasons.' She held out her hand to catch the rain. 'Mighty Tins, who sendeth the thunderbolts and Uni, Queen of the Cosmos, hear me.' Earth, water, fire and air. 'Keep this boy safe, I beg of ye — and if it pleases ye that the Herald of Death visit tonight, let him visit upon me, not Tages. Tages is a good boy. An honest boy… '

She was unable to carry on for the lump in her throat, and, stumbling over the roots as thorns pulled at her skirt, the cold in her bones went unnoticed. Even when a blast of wind doused her torch, Etha didn't turn back, and though her fringed shawl flapped sodden at her breast, the old woman continued to climb.

'Where you are, Tages?'

It had to be thieves. What else could it be? He was a smart lad, and at seventeen he was skilled with the slingshot, so sure it was some dirty thief that had sneaked up on him. She paused for a moment to rest on her laurel stick. That would be all right, then. Thieves don't kill. Not for one or two lambs. She'd find him any minute, aye, that she would, with a bump on the head and a right tale to tell…

Wouldn't she?

As Etha called her grandson's name into the night, the wind echoed her pain.