What art thou… that fearest not the sea?

– Moschus of Syracuse, Europa.

The Indo-European thunder god, like most of his kin, goes by various names; in Sanskrit he is Rudra The Howler, in the Norse sagas he is called Thor, in Italy proper under Rome he was called Jupiter. But in the Sicily of classical antiquity he went by a more primordial name; Zeus. As Zeus Brontios, The Thunderer, he assumed his most terrible aspect.

Claudia swiftly understood how the ancients had come to revere the name and dread the ire of this god of storms. For several hours she had watched the thunderstorm as it lashed the coast around Agrigento. She had seen it roll in slowly from the east at around dusk then, gradually, unleash the full compass of its power. She quickly realized that this was a thunderstorm unlike any that she had ever experienced. It was tangible and immediate in its presence, daunting in its violence, and awe inspiring in its scale. Nothing could have prepared her for the sheer cacophony of thunder or the brilliance and frequency of the accompanying lightning. Yet she was unafraid; fascinated rather by nature’s ability to mount such a thrilling spectacle. Something inside told her that it was wiser to feel a kinship with the elements, to respect them and glean insight from their awesome majesty.

She stood at the conservatory windows, hot espresso in hand, and surveyed the teeming rain-scape outside. The rain had started just after sunset and had steadily poured down, veiling the garden and softening its outlines. Then the howling winds had come and the all- enveloping darkness. As she watched, the swaying trees blurred, becoming abstract kinetic forms until they were brought back into sharp focus for an instant by the lightning. Many vague shapes formed in the gloom only to be dispelled from her imagination by the light. She saw wyverns and hippogriffs, basilisks and chimeras. But no, they were merely the fig trees, acacias and olives, the mulberries and bay laurels that her grandmother had known and loved.

Later, around midnight, after having tried to sleep for over an hour, she arose only to discover that the ferocity of the storm had increased. She clicked the inbox on her laptop only to read, No new messages, for the third time and for the third time she re-read Sabina’s e-mail of four hors ago,

“Just arrived in Lausanne. Hmm, feels like my second home. The staff at the hotel La Rochfoucauld were very happy to see me. I have an appointment at the clinic on Wednesday at 9am sharp. Wish me luck Claudia. Btw, I still get a tingle whenever I think about our night together. Love Sabina.”

A week had passed since Claudia had kissed Sabina goodbye at the airport. Barricelli had been there but only briefly. The professor had looked troubled and did his best to hide it; making his excuses and departing shortly after Sabina’s plane to Switzerland had taken off. Tired and drained, Claudia had wandered aimlessly through the shops and boutiques in the neighborhood of the airport for an hour before heading back home to Tintamare.

On the previous night, Sabina had slept soundly after drinking the mysterious glass of water. Claudia, in total contrast, has stayed up all night; constantly checking her friend’s heartbeat, her breathing and watching over her vigilantly. Her initial frustration and anger at seeing Sabina collapse after drinking whatever it was that the entity had given her, had led to feelings of powerlessness and deep anxiety. Still, something deep in her mind also told her that there was nothing more she could do. At dawn, as in her dream, Sabina had woken; happy, totally unconcerned and rested.

Claudia smiled and shook her head as she recalled her friend’s calm, fresh face that morning, right before Sabina had said,

“Oh dear, you look dreadful.”

She now poured herself a small glass of Courvoisier, swirled it slowly several times and took a sip. Its immediate effect was marvelous; mellow, warming and soothing. She paced around the room and soon drained the glass. Pouring herself another, she was reminded of Josh who had introduced her to it back when they were first dating. Never having tried it himself, and wanting to impress her, he had brought a bottle with him when she had first invited him home to dinner.

“Loser,” she whispered teasingly and laughed.

The bottle had remained unopened but their evening together was something that she still remembered fondly. She had met Josh in their first year at university but had not been particularly impressed by him; thinking him vain and a little arrogant. He was a swimmer and had won many state and national championships. She had seen him at several parties, always in the company of various girls, all of whom seemed to follow in the wake of the college’s latest male sporting hero. He had eventually asked her out on a date and she had flatly refused. He had tried again several weeks later and she had again said no. But during the summer holidays that year he had intrigued her with an invitation,

“Saturday, 9am, Silver Sands Beach – come watch me surf.”

It was just a simple, handwritten slip of paper, placed in her letterbox, but it did impress her.

“Oh, so you can swim, surf and write,” had been her initial reaction. But later that week the prospect of visiting Silver Sands; one of her very favourite beaches, seemed too good to resist. Josh certainly cut a fine figure on the waves. She found herself watching him with growing interest as he competed against a strong field of local and international surfers.

There was poetry in his limbs and the grace of a true athlete in his body as he moved over the surging water, becoming one with the waves. Each time he caught a wave, the sea picked him up with gentle, loving hands as though he weighed no more than a feather and she played with him and he with her. As the day wore on, the pure, liquid gold of the setting sun silhouetted him against each curling wall of white and blue. He would vanish utterly as he slid into the iridescent barrel of each wave, to emerge at the other end before the whole fragile structure came crashing down chaotically behind him. Time and again she saw his body rise triumphantly from the teeming white water to venture out again into the bass roar of the waves and the mournful paean of the breeze.

She had never believed in predestination or in astrology, but with the benefit of hindsight, she now felt as though some peculiar alignment of the spheres or some rare blend of nature’s elements had indeed taken place on that Saturday. The sultry, late November heat had, as always, worked its magic upon her; loosening her limbs and making her skin tingle. As she sat on the beach that evening, the salt laden sea-breezes revived her senses and the delicious aroma of the surf filled her with a deep, unspoken longing; a longing to live and to experience life to the fullest.

At the close of the day’s competition, she had watched Josh catch his last wave and ride it faultlessly until, with its energy spent, it brought him into the shallows. With the breakers crashing against his body and the breeze running its fingers through his shoulder length blonde hair, she saw him then as the very epitome of an athlete and a man.

As she watched him in silent meditation, he hauled his surfboard up onto the crowded beach and then, with no idea that she was there at all, he did something that would make a permanent impression upon her; he unzipped his black wetsuit to the waist and let it hang behind him. As the black neoprene was peeled back, there emerged a beautiful, glistening torso, whose every muscle spoke eloquently of frequent, prolonged exertions. He turned to face her momentarily, without seeing her, and at that moment Claudia felt something of his innate energy, the energy required to compete against the fierce sea itself.

Her eyes never once strayed from him as he strode lithely towards the podium but gradually his form was obscured by the crowd. It was then that Claudia felt the first true stirrings of desire. They were, as always, instinctive and deep-seated. She massaged the warm sand with her toes, adjusted her bikini bottom, collected her things then padded towards the podium. She was just in time to see him accept his trophy for second prize. The trophy was a modest affair but he still held it up proudly to the crowd’s applause.

“Second huh? That’ll bump your ego down a notch surfer boy.”

She moved closer to the steps and looked up at him as he came down. For a moment she thought that he wouldn’t see her but she was wrong.

“Claudia,” he said wide-eyed. “So you came.”

She did not reply but merely nodded her head disconcertingly.

“See,” he smiled, “I scored second prize.”

“Nice little trophy,” she replied offhandedly without looking at it.

“Um, I’m finished here for the day. Would you like to go grab something to eat?”

“Ok….but I’ll drive.”

“I was just going up to the Boardwalk Café.”

“No. I know a much better place.”

“Okay, I’ll just say bye to my crew.”

Without reply, she turned and walked briskly away, leaving him staring at her mass of black hair.

“…Claudia…?”

“Lose them!” she called over her shoulder as she strode towards the car park.