Philemon and Baucis

The rain clattered on the roof as the stranger drank his wine and smiled at the boy and girl across the table. "You took me in, when no one else would," he said, "so I'll give you the gift of whatever you choose." Under the table the boy's fingers twined around the girl's; the stranger was motionless, his eyes fixed on them; far away the river roared, and the boy had the sense that their guest would sit there forever, if necessary, waiting, but he willed himself to speak and said, "We want to stay together," at which the girl nodded. "It is granted," said the stranger, "and gladly, for tonight there is death enough."

"Who are you, sir?" asked the boy, but the stranger rose, kissed them both, and went out the door. They looked for him from their threshhold but there was only pouring rain, mud, the dark.

They held each other through the night. The walls of their hut, reverberating in the wind, were a fragile barrier against the storm, but they had nowhere else to go. When dawn came they found the sky clear and the forest shattered, the sodden hillsides collapsed, and the town down in the valley washed away. They climbed down the now-trackless slopes with the idea of helping but found only granite boulders the size of cattle, smooth swathes of black mud where houses had been, the fragments of temple pillars protruding from a silty pool.

They searched the hills for days, unable to believe that they'd been left quite alone, but they found nothing living except a few stray sheep, which they brought home. There were broken beams and building stones in the river's new eddies, and over the course of weeks Philemon dragged them up the hill and finally built a barn from them. The flood's silt made good soil and their crops flourished, where the village had been, though the first summer was lonely.

The first child came the year after the flood. Travelers came looking for the bones of their relatives, but found nothing, and left after praying for the river to keep hold of its dead. Years passed, and brush grew wild in the loess, and they had the land to themselves.

In the tenth year after the flood, summer was dry and winter so bitter that the wolves came down from the mountains, their howls curling through the valley as Philemon watched over the his sheep with bow and quiver. One freezing day when he was drowsing by his flocks in a snow-covered meadow he looked up to see half-starved men emerging from the wood, their spear-points gleaming, either escaped slaves or deserting soldiers but certainly desperate, and most likely a death sentence, for they'd already seen him and were coming straight on. He drew a deep breath and shouted that raiders had come, and to send soldiers, hoping the bandits would think he had friends, and that his wife would escape with the children.

In the evening his eldest son slipped out of the cave where his mother had hidden them; he had a sling, a pouch full of damp clay, and was too young to think that death could touch him. He found his father sitting on a stone watching ravens squabble over the bandits' corpses. Philemon said, "I shot at two, missed, and then they were upon me and I'd missed my chance to run. They tried to kill me, and I expected to die, but as in a dream their weapons wouldn't bite, and I kept thinking it was a mistake that I was still breathing. Finally I seized someone's sword and stabbed him in the neck, and then I killed the rest of them, one after another. The last two lost heart, and made signs against the evil eye as they tried to scramble off, but I caught up with them and they're dead too. One of them stabbed me with a spear when my back was turned, and hit so hard the haft broke—it tore my...