The sun lowered into the western sky and the camp vanished into the heat haze behind them, and still they walked onward, drawing closer to the mountain. It had not looked very imposing from a distance, but as they approached, the immense weight of the place reminded him that men also worshipped mountains as gods. Perhaps these men did. Perhaps they were going to take him before their Mountain God for judgment.
Or sacrifice.
The party moved into a dry river bed, following it into a draw that carved down the slope. They encountered a bearded man stationed as a guard at the head of the trail leading up onto the mountain. Words were exchanged, and the bearded man gave him an appraising look before turning and heading up the trail.
The other men sat down on the ground. He sat down as well. It was hardly the strangest thing that had happened to him in the course of his travels.
Afternoon became evening, and then dusk was upon them. One of the group coaxed the coals of the watchman’s fire to life, and that seemed unusual. Where had they found wood to burn as fuel? He had not seen a single tree since being thrown up onto the shore of this strange land.
The men spoke to one another in their shared tongue, their voices not louder than a murmur, but he could sense their anxiety. They were nervous, scared even, but of what he could not say. Certainly not of him; he was in their power.
It’s the mountain, he thought. The setting sun revealed the fire behind the cloud of smoke that shrouded its summit. Lightning danced across its face, and peals of thunder rolled down the slope in an unceasing assault on the senses.
One of the men jumped up, the rest doing the same in the space of time measured by a heartbeat. He got up as well, and saw two men moving down the trail in their direction — the watchman and…someone? Something?
It was a man, or at least it walked upright like one, but his face was hidden behind a strange mask or veil. A faint glow emanated from the fabric, but it was surely a trick of the light.
In his earliest memories, the castaway king had heard stories of how the gods disguised themselves to walk among men. His pulse quickened.
The newcomer strode forward until they were almost face-to-veil.
“My ship wrecked,” he told the mysterious figure, repeating the pantomime he had used earlier.
“You are Grecian?” The voice, muffled by the heavy fabric, was weak and halting. An old man’s voice. The words however were in the king’s own language.
“I am,” he replied, and he thought better of saying more. If the old man spoke his language, then perhaps he also knew of his reputation, and that might not be such a good thing. “You know the language of the Greeks?”
There was a grunt from behind the veil. “You should go. It is not safe for you here.”
“I would gladly take my leave, but alas, I have no ship. I humbly beg your hospitality for myself and my men while we build another.”
“We have nothing to spare. Return to your men. Lead them elsewhere.”
The king frowned. “We are lost. This land is unknown to us. Without food and water, we will perish.”
The veiled figure sighed. “That is something we share, Grecian. If it is God’s will, we will survive until tomorrow. I do not believe he brought us here to perish.”
“Which god?”
“There is only one.”
The cryptic answer was no more frustrating than anything else the man had said, and the king sensed that further supplications would prove futile. At least these people were not openly hostile. Still, he could not return to his men empty handed.
“The herd that I saw.” He gestured to the dark hillside where he had seen the creatures. “Are they your animals, or wild beasts that we may hunt for meat?”
“Stay away from them,” the veiled man said, his voice not quite as weak as it had been a moment before. “Those are holy creatures. It is death to approach them.”
“Holy,” the king muttered. “Another god laughs at my misfortune.”
Despite the brusque reception from their leader, the men escorting him offered him a few sips of water and a mat to lie on, though the incessant thunder prevented him from sleeping. The next morning, they led him back to the seaward edge of the camp and bade him goodbye in their strange language. He took it as a hopeful sign. Perhaps the old man would reconsider.
He arrived at the shore to find the survivors gathering bits of flotsam from the sea. They had managed to catch a few fish, which were drying in the sun, but fresh water remained elusive, as did any source of wood. The sailors seemed almost disappointed by his return, as if they believed the gods might deign to show them favor once he was gone. They greeted the news of the nearby encampment more enthusiastically, and began plotting to raid the nomads.
“It seems I did not make myself clear,” the king told them. “This is not a mere tribe of tent dwellers. They are a nation. They would come down upon us like the sea.”
“What of these sacred cattle?” one of the sailors asked. “You say they roam wild outside the camp, with no herdsman to tend them.”
“Their god tends the herd,” the king reminded them.
“Their god,” the sailor spat back. “Not ours. We will go at night, under the cover of darkness. Surely their god can spare one cow.”
“If you slaughter their sacred animals, they will never help us.”
“We do not need to kill it,” another man said. “We can return it in exchange for water and food.”
The men were desperate beyond reason, and the king knew that opposing them would be as fruitless as his appeals to the leader of the nomads.
They set out after noon, traveling northeast across the scorching sand, giving the nomad camp a wide berth. Some of the men carried clubs and crude spears fashioned from timbers and other detritus, and knives of knapped stone. The king trailed along behind them, quietly protesting their rash course of action, but ready to cast his lot in with them if the need arose. They were his men after all, his subjects, even if they rejected his counsel.
By late afternoon, they passed the northernmost limit of the nomad camp, and continued toward the smoking mountain. It was not long before they caught sight of the strange cattle roaming the foothills.
Up close, he was less certain of his original impression of the beasts. There was no question that they were living creatures, but instead of fur, their hides looked as rough as the stony soil upon which they stood. They were big, too — bigger even, than the legendary Minoan bull. They were not behaving like cattle or any other kind of grazing animal, though. They were not grazing at all, but moving back and forth, slowly, ominously, never stopping.
What are those things?
“This is a mistake,” he said.
The men paid no heed. One of them, carrying a length of rope that had been left behind by the tide, approached the nearest animal. It gave no indication that it noticed his approach or was even aware of his existence. Emboldened, the man ran up alongside the animal — its shoulders towered above him — and he threw the loop of rope around the beast’s head.
The creature continued moving, dragging the hapless man along. Undeterred, he got his feet under him and tried to pull himself up onto the animal’s back, with the intent of mounting it like a horse. But as soon as he touched it, there was a loud crack, like the sound of a ship’s mast snapping in half during a gale. The man was flung away, crashing to the ground in a smoking heap just a few steps away from where the king stood, a distance of fifty paces. For a moment, the air was filled with a sharp smell — the smell of lightning — but it was just as quickly replaced by the odor of burning flesh.