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I walked across an island. It was a barren, arid place that the sun had relentlessly tortured for millions of years before. Each rock bore testimony to the span of timelessness as they waited by the path for some new traveller to walk past and ignore them; to ignore their history and their suffering. But I appreciated them as I sat a while and gazed across the rough, naked landscape, searching. For what? There were no living souls for miles, hardly a tree survived in the blasting heat so why would I expect there to be people there.

Not people, a person. Only a myth maybe, but a myth is still a hope.

I had been told, by those who said they knew and those who believed, that the myth was real. The old men who sat out their days in the silence of the village below had assured me. When they had discovered that I was interested in their myth they had broken their routine for me, had spoken and had wished me luck in my search; a search which had brought me to a high part of the island.

I could see nothing in this wilderness save for the sun battered rocks, the aggressive sharp bushes that clung desperately to life like they clung to the dry soil and the far away, flat sea that surrounded everything. It curved with the earth where it met the horizon and faded into the sky at some distant place that I would never reach. Nothing moved up there in the heated still hour, no wind to dry the sweat from my back, no breeze to tantalise me with a promise to cool, and no sound ...

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