The Pursued Traveller

It was midnight when Joseba of Aizarnazabal was returning from the cattle fair in Azpeitia. He knew he should not be walking so late along mountain trails, but the wine of the tavern had filled him with false courage. When he reached the crossroads where five paths met, he heard a bellow that made the stones tremble.

Out of the shadows came Zezengorri, the bull red as blood with eyes burning like live embers. It was no ordinary animal: a reddish glow streamed from its hide and sparks jumped from the stones when it struck the ground. The beast lowered its horns toward Joseba.

The man ran as he had never run before, feeling the monster's hot breath at his back. Zezengorri did not merely bellow: it roared words in a language older than all languages, cursing anyone who dared profane the hours of the night. Joseba stumbled, fell, and saw the beast looming above him.

But he remembered a prayer his grandmother had taught him, ancient words in Basque, and spoke them with his last breath. Zezengorri stopped as if frozen. When Joseba opened his eyes, dawn was breaking and the beast had vanished. On the ground, where the bull had stood, the grass was scorched in the shape of a hoof. Joseba never again walked by night.