Epitimia. Part I: Under a Cypress Tree

Theological/psychological short horror story with transgressive and historical elements. Part 1/5

The folks say that sleeping under a cypress tree saps your mind. A babbling fool, foaming at the mouth, shall walk the earth - dancing under the scorching Mediterranean sun and sleeping in a puddle of his own piss beneath the moon and the stars.

People lived around cypress trees long before the writing and the logic and the scientific methods were invented. From that ancient time came the shapeless and unseen, who since then hid from the view, from the cameras and from satellite imaging, concealing themselves among the roots of the trees.

Nonsense. I pay no mind to any of that. I just want to take a nap

The sun is at its zenith when I wake with a splitting headache. I sit upright and dive inside my backpack. After several minutes of frantic digging a two-liter metal flask comes out. I drink stale warm water and pour it on the top of my head and shake the loose water droplets off, but the pulsing and pressing and incessant pain comes in crushing waves, blurring my vision, until among the halos of solar reflections in droplets hanging off of my hair a visage flickers - burning eyes and grinning smile - only to dissipate and never be seen again.

And then I hear the voice.

“Greetings,” says the voice.

“What the fuck?”

“No need to cuss on the hallowed grounds.”

I look around trying to find the source, but the voice comes again:

“You are not insane.”

“Where are you? Show yourself!” I yell, trying to stand up. My legs shake and my arms twitch in uncontrollable tremor as water droplets from my head land on my open palms, splashing in circles and disturbing the layer of fine dirt on my skin.

“You are not insane. You are diseased.”

“What the fuck?”

“You slept where you ought not to.”

I drop down and close my ears with my palms, feeling the heartbeat rocking me forward with every pulse.

“It won’t help,” the voice speaks again with the same intensity and clarity. My palms slide down and I sag on the ground, steadying myself by holding my road-construction-orange Osprey backpack.

“Good,” the voice continues as I lift my head up, losing my gaze with the green branches against the azure sky, “You shall carry me for a while.”

I pant and ask the first specific question I have in my mind, “What are you?”

“Polyglossos Dolios, I was called.”

“I’m not calling you that.”

“You are being inhospitable.”

“Fuck you, you hear?”

“You asked me what I call myself. You are being unreasonable.”

“I’ll call you Polly. Now, Polly, pretty please, fuck off away from my head.”

To my surprise, Polly responded in a kind and gentle manner, “Of course. I don’t intend to stay here long. Let’s go.”

Not a single living thing in sight - only cypress trees and short prickly bushes bleached by the year-round heat, embracing light-grey rocks. I walk half a mile towards the cliff side and the view of the Aegean sea occupies my view. The salty seaweed-infused breeze rustles my hair. In the distance, a white bullet of a super yacht pierces the choppy waves of the deep navy below, sending an expanding triangle of agitated foam to the sides. At least someone is having fun. Being truly rich. Without demons in their head too.

“Very insightful,” Polly’s voice slices my brain with a razor of stinging pain.

“You can hear my thoughts?” Not expecting Polly to read my mind, I give a surprised scream and stagger, sending a train of small rocks down the cliff. Seagulls, disturbed by sound, soar into the sky.

“Careful now.”

“Since when do you care?”

Silence.

“Oh, I see. You’re just the passenger.”

Seagulls circle around and head back towards their spots. Here is one, coming off from the sea on top of the wing. I didn’t realize they could land while dashing at top speed into the cliff. Wait, can they?

White arrows crash into the brown rock and drop down as stray feathers linger for a second longer around the bloody spots on the vertical walls. Thud. Thud. They aren’t even screaming.

I stand on the edge and gaze upon the macabre picture, until the entire flock of ten or fifteen birds is floating in the waves with their lifeless bodies tumbling with the pounding surf.

“What, you’ve never seen the dead birds? You must go,” says Polly.

With my lips stiff I say through clenched teeth, “You got something to do with that?”

“No.”

I take a step towards the edge and look down, “You got something to do with that?”

“I said no.”

“I have never seen seagulls do that.”

“I am not surprised. You are not local.”

“Are you?” I lean in, and my boot slides off of an unstable rock formation. I see more of the abyss than I ever cared to and a freezing wave hits my face.

“Step back. I shall explain myself,” says Polly.

Was that a tremble in his voice? I scared my demon and pressed him to answer my questions, however truthfully. I press my lips together and think, ‘What are you?’

“You said it yourself.”

‘Demon?’

“That is correct.”

‘Local?’

“I lived here for thousands of years.”

‘What do you want?’

“I want out.”

I scratch my scruffy chin, ‘I am surprised you exist. I am not an exoteric type.’

“That explains why you fell asleep in that place. Locals know better.”

I sigh and say, forgetting my resolve to remain quiet, “Explain the birds.”

Polly’s voice is jovial, as if he is smiling with his non-existent mouth, “As I said, I want out.”

“Then go.”

“It’s not that easy.”

I perk up, straining the ligaments in my knee, “Birds don’t cut it?”

Silence.

“So you want people, right? Well, joke’s on you. I am the solitary type and I am in no rush. Let’s go on a hike.”

I turn around and walk along the cliffside trail. Polly screams into my mind like a wounded goat, so I reach out to my first aid kit and take an ibuprofen pill. For the first time since being sick at the beginning of the pandemic, I feel the weight of carrying an invisible disease.

I should have listened to them old wives tales.