The Burning Man

7

A scarlet sun hung hot and heavy in the black sky. Ruth walked along the main street of Myloi with a sound like the sea in her ears. Next to the low, white-walled village school stood a tomb, reeking of age, and on either side a labyrinth of alleys ran off into shadows. There was a coffee shop with the steam still rising from the gleaming machines behind the counter, and a bar with a bottle of ouzo on the table nearest the door, and shops selling olives and dried meats. But there were no people anywhere.

Somnambulantly, she took in every detail without contemplating the strangeness of it all. She was there, and there was no other place she should be.

In the middle of the road stood a large bull with eyes that mirrored the sun. It snorted a blast of hot air and dragged a lazy hoof in an unthreatening manner. Ruth came to a halt before it.

‘Listen,’ the bull said, ‘can you hear the music?’

And then Ruth could, the lilting tones of a flute floating down from the hillside somewhere ahead of her.

‘And look, there is ivy and wine,’ the bull continued. The houses and shops on either side were now festooned with ivy, and nestling amongst the leaves were large stone jars of wine. Ruth could smell its heady, fruity scent.

‘The season is turning once more. New shoots of growth break through the hard ground. And you, woman, tend to them with the serpents in your wake. The season is turning within you, too, but first what is hidden must be revealed.’

Ruth found herself swallowed up by the bull’s red eyes and realised that it was not a bull at all.