A harsh wind whipped through the air, chilling Lyra's fragile body. She shivered from the sudden onslaught, gripping her elbows and rubbing them against her forearms. A futile attempt to fend off the cold. The constant shaking made the ragged, patchy knapsack on her back bounce with every movement.
Despite her efforts, the cold persisted, blowing through her long black dreadlocks and causing her skin to pale. Her hollow eyes remained fixed on the tall trees surrounding her as she made her way down the hill where she had lived for years.
She followed a small footpath, reminiscing about the times she had watched her father walk alongside the thick forest. But it wasn't like that anymore. It was no longer the heartwarming "see you later!" she had always waved to him as he walked down the hill. This time was different. It was farewell. It was permanent, heartbreaking, and more sinister.
She looked back, hoping to see the house, but it was too far away now, having walked for hours at her slow pace. All she could see was high ground and trees, an unfamiliar landscape. It was disheartening.
The trees felt like piercing glares, watching her every step. The wind rustled the soft grasses beneath her bare feet and whispered through the frightening trees above her. Each gust made her body shake even more, and her heart raced in her chest.
Lyra felt confused and uncertain about what to expect now that everything she knew was gone. She didn't know how the outside world would treat her and had low expectations, especially since her parents had always discouraged her from venturing out. She felt lonely after watching everything she had ever known crumble. Unprepared for the life ahead, she was filled with fear about what awaited her.
"I think I packed something in here to keep me warm," she said, her voice shaking from the overwhelming cold.
She crouched down slowly, trying not to bruise herself against the rough ground and the sharp cold. She took off her patchy knapsack, placing it on the dirty ground. Despite the weather, she desperately searched the bag. She found the large blue fabric covered with patches and scribbles. It was her blanket, one she had always used while growing up, a gift from her father. It wasn't too soft, but it would serve as a barrier against the cold, though it wasn't ideal. That was all he could afford.
She dragged it out of the bag and held it, her hands trembling from a mix of fear, confusion, and sadness as she looked at the scribbles created by her father and herself. Her stomach rumbled, and tears filled her eyes. They rolled slowly down her cold skin, making the chill feel even harsher.
She lay down on the rough surface, which felt excruciatingly cold and wet, but she stayed there anyway. Her cheeks hurt, and her hands felt like they were burning from the cold. She pulled the patched blanket over her small body and lay there, softly crying against the grass.
Eventually, she closed her eyes, letting everything go and trying to forget what she had gone through. However, it was impossible. The memories kept flooding back. They never left… and they never would. She bit her thumb and fell asleep, for just a few minutes, until… she just let it flow. And it came running.
The night wind blew in the town below the hill. But there, it was warmer, lighter, and livelier. Lights, music, food, people were happy, festive. LED lights filled the area. Food stalls were stuffed with people hungry to savour meat, fruits, and other delicious delicacies. They wore animal skins, both men and women, adorned with ash and wine, various colourful masks covering their faces. Most knew not who was who. It was the last day of Dionysia, a celebration honouring Dionysus, the god of wine, fertility, and theatre.
Wines flowed through the town like water. Musicians performed lively on stage, singing various songs, while speakers pulsed through the festive air. Actors on another stage performed comedic plays. Laughter, drinking, and dancing filled the air. Children danced barefoot under the moonlit sky, bellies full from feasting. The entire town erupted in celebration. But that wasn't the festival; the real festival was just about to begin.
Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted, becoming more serious. The artists stopped performing, and the music halted. The actors still on stage froze, positioning themselves in formal, straight lines. The whole town fell silent as a man walked barefoot through the east gate.
His rigid body was smeared with blood and wine, and he wore only a small fur wrapped around his waist. This was his only garment, just like the rest of the townsfolk that night. His brown eyes stared unblinkingly through his lion mask at the scene, his expression stern and overly serious. The sight of him seemed to have brought the entire celebration to a halt.
He was a Torchbearer, wearing a handwoven ivy crown made from fresh green leaves. He held a Thyrsus, a long wooden staff wrapped in ivy and adorned with a blood-red ribbon. At the top of the staff was a small skull of a goat, looking eerie and ominous, contrasting with the celebration, though it didn't signify harm.
The entire town turned serious and began chanting in a foreign tongue. Their voices were loud, strange, yet rhythmic.
"Evoë! Evoë Dionysus!"
More men like him marched in, all holding the torches, also with blood and wine covering their skin. They chanted, commanding the crowd in the same foreign tongue, but their tone was more sinister.
"Kauson to kalyma, syntripson tēn sarka."
Just as they commanded, the crowd responded with a chant, even louder and clearer. The musicians amplified the sound with their melodic voices and microphones. It wasn't a beautiful sound, but it was harmonious in its coordination.
"To pyr hēmas elkytō."
After that, everyone joined in on the final line. Even the children sang along, their voices reaching up to the sky, but it didn't touch Lyra. She was still lost in her sea of uncertainty. Together, they chanted the final line.
"Evoë! Evoë Dionysus!"
With this, the Torchbearers marched through the town, their feet stomping firmly against the pavement. Moist stones bounced briefly, and water droplets rose into the moonlit sky. They were performing the Burning Walk.
The whole town followed - men, women, the actors, and musicians - all participated in the walk, except for the children. Those who were completely clothed took off their clothing. They put on robes to conceal their nudity. The rule seemed to be not to be fully clothed.
Those wearing accessories shed them, including footwear, leaving all of their belongings with the children as they carried flaming torches or cups of wine in their hands, marching fiercely into the woods on the hill.