I.

I see the hero asleep two kilometers from the round citadel. Inside the same, the women speculate about the beauty of the hero and the men, some of them frightened, the other scornful, are anxious because of the need of getting out to the field before the afternoon to gather the cattle.

The hero leans the broad back on a flexible palm tree, against a rigid carob tree, relaxing extended on the grass. From time to time he takes the insects away from him, for him the Fierce one, with the infinite hand of the sleepwalkers, that does not take anything and sleep in the nothing. In the dream, the hand has a lethal club; in that noon, a recent scar.

A  child of the citadel at last animates itself and twists the path toward the river, so as to avoid the known plain. But it is still a brave one, not a hero. This one has a skin of a panther and since six months a borrowed horse. The brave one has goats, a roof, dogs and shepherds that push their sheep from sun to sun and a woman at night, almost always pregnant. The brave one leaves dates or wheat or corn about ten meters from the hero.

He traces a magic sign in the air. When arriving to the doors he will say that the other one is a giant and he touches the face.

There in the citadel the old ones and the priests and the fools will have begun to do their work with the hero. Some of them will have seen an announcement in some monstrous births or in a comet that fell moreover the horizon. Others in the sudden distraction of the blood, before fluent and exact, of the young daughters. For compensating the hero, a sleeping traveler, they will have to seek the Fierce, scared of the forgotten in the dark imagination of harvest and drought, before, the dawn is urgently pronounced.

Because if the hero is present, the sinister has to be, so that everything is in order.

Someone at last has to remember the ambulant shadow of the swamp, to invent the wonder coming out from a field of mud, raising a furious balance for the sleep of the hero.

Another one assures that he has seen the same.

A third one assures with a convinced chin.

II.

The combat and the hero meet the next morning. At the citadel pray the ones that now know they had to get rid of the appearance of the hero. And bless the apparent thunders of this neighbor valley: there are the blows of the hero. And the rain is the blood of the found and the sinister, that emerges from the skies due to the big size. There is a sinister moment of calmness. The hero of the violent defense that followed the attack has relaxed. The universe is in danger. The evening, the afternoon, the mornings, the clear noon are all in danger. Someone brings a goat and from its neck the victory of the hero comes out with its blood. It owes the hero. It owes that cattle that everybody eats at the pyre, elevated to the joy and secondarily to God father of the hero, that injected just in time the immolated blood in the live arm of the hero and directed the arrow, the mass, the knife blow.

Where the battle scenario is assigned, one will see winged horses from the abundantly poured, another one will see very strange flowers, that he assures were not there before.

A third party will see in the scene the most prodigious birth of tobacco. But the hero owes. This is the true, the real, the committed one.

III.

Someone exerts the armor of a badge. Another one remembered a chain that was covering patiently of urine in a cereal field. Someone still trusted his  honors  to the August moon, to Hecate, to the Great Triform Goddess, the  Mother.

The hero, flaccid the muscle and the forehead beaten by the fever brought from other ill landscapes, lets himself carry away in a dream up to the bonfire foreseen in the center of the place, that also belongs to the world, like it happens in all villages worldwide.

He needs three days in dying and this is not because of neglection, but for all virtues of the hero. A party of the citadel opposed after the death of the hero and after the immediate and legitimate field war, made themselves the future harvests, the consequent executions and the immediate turn of history.

From the ashes of the hero, mingled with cattle dung and dust, a monument heaves that will be venerated by children and the old ones with different honors and at different times.

IV.

The son of the hero was born on a perdurable day. The one that had sworn to have touched the face of the father , the glowing one, in a forgotten afternoon in the citadel, just died, as well as the last chief, whose cut hands referred the anger of a diffused battle.

The son of the hero has the features seen over the fire and the potent members and a malaria fever that verifies its origin. His mother was stoned by a long chain of hands that passed over lumps, projectiles and pointed stones, and when she just leaves the world she is put in a tomb on foot of the monument. The day is included among the celebrations of the year. The dead has given birth to the son of the hero thirty years, three months and three days after the death of the father. The repeated, auspicious number assures what everybody knows and share. The child is thrown away from the citadel.

The path is expecting him and the tiredness after a long march, when he is a man that continues the lineage of fear and of the heroes.