Daniel's Dream by Peter Michael Rosenberg Read Free Book Online Page B

about his sandalled feet in small, almost imperceptible eddies. The aroma of pine needles, quite distinct and tinged - curiously - with the faintest hint of fresh coffee, wafted past him like a gentle breeze. In the distance, barely audible, he could just make out the familiar and haunting sound of the bouzouki.
     
    As he walked, he became increasingly aware that there was something disconcerting about his situation. He tried to remember where he was, but it did not come easily to mind. But he had been here before, hadn’t he? Daniel wasn’t sure. Still, it didn’t seem to matter. There was nothing overtly dangerous or threatening about it; it was just odd.
     
    And hot. So very hot.
     
    Droplets of perspiration condensed between his shoulder-blades, gathered into little pools of sweat, then separated into dozens of spidery rivulets which trickled down his back. Daniel slowed his pace and gazed around him inquisitively. He appeared to be completely alone. To his left he could see parched fields that led down to a brightly shimmering sea. From this distance the sea was mirror-like and motionless, more like a photograph or a painting than the real thing. Daniel wiped a dry forearm across his damp forehead; the sea looked immensely inviting he would go down for a swim, to cool off. Yes, that would be nice.
     
    Directly in front of him, in the middle of the road, was a circular wooden platform, about eight feet in diameter and one foot high. The raised dais formed what could only be a traffic roundabout, but there were no vehicles of any kind to be seen or heard: no cars, trucks or even bicycles.
     
    I wonder where everyone is? thought Daniel, listening carefully for any evidence of human activity, but all he could hear was an increasingly familiar melody, ringing out in distinctive tones, and drawing him ever closer to its source.
     
    Daniel stopped walking for a moment and studied the wooden roundabout. In the centre of the platform stood a rusted old hand-pump that clearly had once raised water from a well. He was tempted to climb up on to the roundabout and work the pump; he was starting to overheat under the relentless, direct sunlight, and thought the gushing water might cool him down.
     
    He was about to clamber on to the dais when his attention was distracted by a rustling from over his shoulder. He looked behind, expecting - or perhaps hoping - to see someone. But all he saw was a crumpled sheet of newspaper, tumbling along the dirt track towards him, nudged along intermittently by the occasional breeze. He watched, disappointed, as the sheet of newspaper zigzagged down the road, stuttering now and then before again picking up speed, its passage halted periodically by a stone or twig. It came to rest by his feet, its progress impeded by the roundabout.
     
    Curious, Daniel picked up the newspaper, and made an attempt to prise its stiffened folds apart, flattening the many creases with the palm of his hand. It was not in English. Daniel studied the page for a few moments, before identifying the familiar, but incomprehensible script: it was Greek. He could not remember arriving in Greece, could not recall any specific events leading up to this moment, or indeed any events that related to his present circumstances. It was all very strange.
     
    And yet, if he examined his feelings, it was also evident that he was neither uncomfortable nor afraid. If anything, he felt pleasantly relaxed. How fine it was to be wandering in such sunshine, even if the heat was making him thirsty. And those wonderful, sun-baked odours; it was undeniably, quintessentiully Mediterranean, and as such deeply evocative of holidays, travel and freedom. No wonder he felt so at ease. If only there were some other people about; he wanted to know the name of this place, to discover exactly where he was.
     
    Daniel took one last look at the newspaper, then crumpled it up into a tight ball