The gods have always flitted in and out of my dreams, their words never making any sense to me – a lowly human. They never seem to detect me listening in the dark or, if they are aware of my presence, they do not care. Only on that hot, humid night did any of them try to speak to me.
I am far from home. Knee-deep in the salt pond, with a shovel and a barrel, the sun flaming upon my head like fire, raising blisters on my skin. I sense a boil bubbling on my feet as my eyes crawl beyond the treeline at the mound of a hill, waiting for the sun to set. Our time is here. Our only chance. The barber witch of the woods has whispered her secrets into all our enslaved hairs, but I alone stand and wonder what my role is.