Microbiome; Chapter 6; Zeus and Apollo

In the morning when a city is about to come to life at first things are quiet, in the time before the wind, and there is no cloud, and the sky, not yet blue, nor dark, but a mixture of the two that could, if you wanted, be the colour of ridiculous potential. There is potential for something each and every morning, whether we know it or not. Even death, of all things, but you and I would much prefer life, I hope.

The day's possibilities are endless, even when we have created within ourselves an unwavering routine that we adhere to like mechanical glue. But what do we call it when something out of the ordinary happens? Something unexpected. Maybe this is what we call fate. I'm sure we could call it other things, like fortune or karma, providence or God's will. I think we will, for today, stick with fate.

When the sun is ready to rise and the air is cool there is little traffic, foot or motorcar, in this most ancient of ancient cities. Doors open and faces of all shapes look out to see what kind of day this will be. Eyes look up searchingly towards the clear blue heavens and then perhaps these same eyes will come back to earth to dart back and forth to see if anything has changed overnight on unchanging streets. Mostly things remain the same.

Zeus and Apollo meet every morning at the corner where the little bakery serves hot biscuits through a little opening that we in the uncompromising West would call a window. There is no glass, but there are wooden shutters that remain closed until the biscuits are ready. The aroma of baking bread sifts out from around uneven edges where the shutters meet a time worn wall and people press in close to take in the thick yeasty scent. It was, if anything, comforting and familiar.

They were on foot, Zeus and Apollo, for they have no automobile and their motor scooter had long since died, soon thereafter it being savagely scavenged for parts by strangers, and friends, and its remaining bones left to collect dust and be slowly buried in the sands of time at the foot of a tall Akashic tree. Let the records show, they arrived at the little bakery then waited patiently in line, and when it was their turn they purchased four biscuits, two for now, two for later, and when leaving, they next stopped for coffee, rich and black and sweetened with sugar, an alchemist's concoction of bitter balanced with sweet that is a perfect metaphor for life if ever there was one, to go with their still warm biscuits, and in no hurry, continued walking down the narrow dusty streets, not saying a word, towards the dock, where they kept their little aluminum boat.

Oh, but you know what happened when they arrived at the dock, coffee in hand, biscuit in mouth. The boat was not there where it should be. Ah yes, fate has played a card, as it sometimes does in this vast and incomprehensible world of bittersweet.