The Burning Man

8

The afternoon was already drawing on when Ruth found herself sitting in the shade of a grove of olive trees on a hillside overlooking the village. Her head rang and her throat was dry. The details of her escape from the car and encounter with the bull were already fading like a dream, but the impressions remained at the back of her head, making her queasy with the sense of mysteries and secrets.

‘Are you all right?’

The woman’s voice was rich and deep and heavily accented. Ruth squinted against the sun until a figure emerged from the glare, black hair, olive skin, a shapely figure accentuated by a tight-fitting white dress. Ruth estimated she was in her early forties.

The woman helped Ruth to her feet, carefully inspecting the raw marks on Ruth’s wrists. ‘You have been attacked?’

‘No … yes.’ Still dazed, Ruth fought to order her thoughts. ‘A man kidnapped me. I managed to get away, but he might still be around. He’s dangerous!’

Ruth tried to place herself in the landscape and estimated that somehow she was on the other side of the village from where the car had been parked.

‘We must call the police-’ the woman began.

‘No!’ Ruth had visions of spider-controlled authority figures swarming from vans. ‘Just … just take me somewhere till I can get back on my feet. Please.’

The woman nodded and took Ruth’s arm. ‘My name is Demetra. My grandmother built this place. It was the first of its kind in the Peloponnese.’

Ruth could now see a small but well-tended white farmhouse surrounded by more modern buildings. Beyond them were olive groves and fields that contained rows of what looked like cabbages. Ruth could see several women working diligently.

‘What place?’ she said.

Demetra looked puzzled. ‘A refuge. For women like yourself. Who have suffered at the hands of men.’

‘But … I didn’t come here because of that …’ Ruth caught herself. She couldn’t begin to explain why she had come there.

It was cool inside the main farmhouse. The kitchen was clean and modern with a white stone floor and pine furniture. Instead of sitting at the table, Ruth ran from window to window, searching the rolling landscape.

‘Do not worry. You are safe here,’ Demetra said in a soothing voice. She placed a coffee pot on the stove.

‘You don’t understand. He’s not like other men. He can do things …’ Ruth realised how she must sound and quietened.

‘We have very good security here. Fences and cameras. No one can get onto the site without us knowing. No men,’ she stressed.

Anxiously chewing a nail, Ruth sat at the table as she considered her options. Veitch was relentless and brutal. She could only presume he hadn’t killed her instantly because somehow she fitted into his plan, and if that was the case he would not allow her simply to walk away. But was it best to lie low there at the refuge, or to attempt to lose herself in Europe? And Veitch still had her spear. She wasn’t wholly sure what powers lay within it, but she knew it shouldn’t be in the hands of the Enemy. It was her responsibility to get it back.

‘We have space. We can offer you a bed.’ Demetra sat opposite her. ‘Do not feel you have to talk about your experience. But I should warn you, this is a difficult time.’ She paused. ‘And a strange time, too.’ Her smile faded to reveal a troubled, weary expression.

They were interrupted by a tearful woman in her thirties, slight and verging on anorexic. ‘It’s Roslyn,’ she said in a desperate American accent.

Blanching, Demetra rushed from the kitchen after her. Ruth found them near the security fence that surrounded the farm. Five other women had gathered, of different ages and nationalities, but all their faces were shattered by grief. Demetra knelt over the body of another woman. She was probably in her twenties, Ruth guessed, but it was difficult to tell for her face had been beaten so badly it was a mass of bruises.

Demetra cried silently. ‘Why did she leave the compound?’

‘He told her he was going to hurt the kids if she didn’t see him.’ The American’s voice cracked.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ruth said. ‘The police-’

Demetra shook her head. ‘Roslyn’s husband is a powerful man. He pays to get what he wants, and he has already ensured that the police and the other authorities support him.’

‘He’s been trying to shut us down,’ the American sobbed. ‘Just because we took Roslyn in.’

With surprising strength, Demetra picked up Roslyn and carried her with dignity towards the farmhouse. ‘We will not inform the authorities,’ Demetra said in response to Ruth’s querying expression. ‘Roslyn requested to be buried here in accordance with our beliefs.’

‘What are those?’

Demetra smiled, but gave nothing away.

‘Look.’ The American pointed behind them with astonishment. Along the path Demetra had taken with Roslyn’s body, tiny golden beings with gossamer wings were appearing from nowhere, rising up like moths to catch the sun before flitting towards the trees. In their wake, they left a feeling of contentment.

The women watched in amazement. ‘Magic,’ one of them said quietly.

‘But the land is supposed to be dead,’ Ruth said quietly to herself.

‘The season is turning.’ Ruth felt a frisson at Demetra’s echo of the bull’s words. ‘The land is waking.’