Have you ever heard, O best beloved, the pipes that play before the spring?
The elders of Lefka say it is only the wind. But they know better.
They warn the girls, every year, as sure as the violets bloom. Do not stray beyond the village on the first warm night. Do not listen to music that no one else can hear. But the pipes play anyway.
That night, Evdokia did not mean to walk so far. But the air was soft, the fields filled with sweet smells of spring. She thought of nothing. Until she heard the tune.
Light, breathless, calling.
A flute, or something older than a flute, trilling like laughter through the valley. The sound brushed her skin, ran its fingers through her hair, slipped under her breath like the scent of spting blossoms.
She knew she should turn back. And Evdokia did not.
She followed the sound past the old olive grove, up the narrow path where the stones stood pale in the moonlight. And there, in the hollow between two hills, the circle waited.
Mushrooms would grow here come autumn, grow in a perfect ring, but the grass inside was already unnaturally green, too fresh for March.
And in the hush, she stepped forward.
No one in Lefka spoke of Evdokia the next morning.
No one went looking for her.
The elders only watched the hills and crossed themselves.
The villagers had seen it before. They would see it again. The first warm night always takes one.
For Pan still walks these hills, his shadow slipping through the pines. His pipes still play, when spring is near.
And the girls of Lefka still answer, just as Chloris once did, and Daphne, Elpida, Marika, Fotini and others before her, too many to name.
The circle will grow wider.
And come autumn, the mushrooms will rise again.
jbbartram-illu
theartofmadeline
prguitarman
snowghoul
gummygunk
andulkaphoto
yousharknotpass
germansingergirl
