It is high noon. He guides his horses to a holm oak. He is in no hurry. His brothers are scattered throughout the slopes of the mountain. They bask in the sunlight and hardly set an eye on their prey. The hares and the partridges amble near the forgotten bows. It is a day of inactivity. Or, in the paternal words, of communion. They have learned from their father that labor and rest are interwoven gifts. And why should they be skeptical? Cadmea’s walls endure.
The opaque luster of the limestone has long attracted view-hunters. Here and there a foreign head appears among the pine trees. He has made peace with the evanescence of solitude: the motherland is found wherever a foot can tread.
As he dismounts, one of the horses begins snorting. He waits for it to calm. But the horse is increasingly startled.It stirs up the rest. There is nothing around that can account for the sudden turmoil. He slowly walks away, trusting it is all an excuse to expend energy.
The sharp silence that follows catches him off guard. It settles as a thin himation over the landscape, revealing the pallid artistry that lurks beneath the whole of creation. He is seized by an overwhelming reverence. Yet it is a fleeting moment, for the ground on which he stands grows scarlet. And the trail leads to a golden arrow.
He feels a blaze traversing his every limb. It robs him of resistance. He falls with his back to the sun. He hears the flight of five arrows. He strains to see. Far from reach, his youngest brother kneels. To whom does he surrender? Whom has he wronged?
His senses wither.
A trembling cold embraces him. He wishes for the cold to turn him toward the sun. But it is stubborn. It reeks of guilt.
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