Together with your mother you waited at the crossroads, lost somewhere in the region of where she grew up, back in the home country. It used to be around here somewhere, she said. So you stood at the crossroads waiting for a lift to pass by. Supposedly a crossroads can symbolise where one confronts the necessity of choice and the immensity of fate. Well, anyway, that was according to your well read mother. Meanwhile, a soldier could be seen approaching, dressed for battle, a full pack on his back, eyes fixed to the ground, determinedly walking along. He never looked up once, even as he passed, as if you and your mother were not even there. Of course, she said, as the soldier slowly shrank into the distance, Jung has it that the crossroads is a mother symbol, where the roads cross and enter into one another, symbolising the union of opposites, or something to that effect. The kids who next came along spoke so free and effortlessly. Gift of the gab. There were four of them. The oldest, a girl of about fourteen, spoke about silver, which made you think of the moon. They assured you a lift would be coming along soon enough. Then, before pressing on, she managed to quieten the others for a moment so she could inform you that some fishermen had recently pulled from the sea a green statue of the god Apollo, but those eejits from Isis had nicked it and stored it somewhere unknown, for later ransom, or to be smashed to smithereens as an example of ancient idolatry. Effing tools have got no idea what they’re dealing with now, said the girl. The gods are returning, she added, the gods are returning, the gods are returning.

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