The Love Of The Spring God

　　The scorching sun blazed like an overturned basket of ripe persimmons, its skin split and flesh burst, splattering thick, sweet light that dripped onto eyelids, gluing them almost shut.

　　It was even hard to breathe.

　　She was pressed down by this blinding light, sinking helplessly, her limbs so heavy she could hear the trembling, shattering sounds from her arm bones.

　　She struggled to open her mouth, countless chaotic and irritable emotions churning into an impulse to cry out. But as the sound rushed urgently to her lips, it vanished like a heavy punch into the air, leaving a hollow, unsettling numbness at the back of her head.

　　This goosebump-inducing numbness finally brought back some bodily sensation; her stiff fingertips felt a soft current gently enveloping her, rocking her as peacefully as a cradle.

　　She strained to keep her eyes sl*t open, staring fixedly at this blindingly white light. The glaring radiance sometimes coalesced into a solid mass, sometimes shattered apart, stabbing her eyeballs like needles.

　　This self-tormenting stare helped her regain a bit of focus. Her paralyzed mind finally began to turn sluggishly—where… was she？

　　It seemed… like a travel journal？

　　And then… sweet… sweet egg rolls.

　　Tuna…

　　My phone… where is it？

　　…Sicily!

　　The word "Sicily" was like a loose thread in a tangled mess, suddenly pulled taut, straightening out her muddled mind and connecting those scattered memories. She barely managed to recall that she was in the middle of a trip.

　　A five-day tour of Sicily…

　　The small ticket office, the blue ferry lanes, the bustling but faceless tour groups… what else？

　　She blinked in confusion, the fragmented light swaying with her gaze.

　　That gentle current, following her regaining sensation, lightly enveloped the back of her neck. As her stiff neck touched this comfortable warmth, the tendons immediately twitched twice, pulling at her scalp, and a sour, tingling sensation exploded from her head.

　　Her hearing was the first to be pried open by this pain. The world outside her ears, so quiet it felt suppressed by the ashes of death, was shattered by a rolling, gritty noise.

　　Ears that had been deaf for too long suddenly roared with the surge of the sea, arriving so abruptly it was like boiling water erupting.

　　Her mind was instantly blasted into a daze. Was she… floating in the sea？ The soft current enveloping her was seawater pressing in from all sides.

　　Then, some fragmented images were jolted out by this violent impact.

　　It was a scene on the Messina ferry.

　　The salty smell of the sea by the ferry railing still seemed to linger at the tip of her nose; the cars and motorcycles on the lower deck were dyed a vibrant lemon yellow by the sunlight.

　　The guide's instructions echoed beside her ear: they needed to take the ferry across the Strait of Messina, transfer to Taormina to check into a hotel and rest for the night, and the next day they could take the cable car to the old town to visit the ancient Greek theater. If the plan remained unchanged, they would head south to Catania a day later, following the road signs uphill to Mount Etna.

　　Sicily in summer lay at the southern tip of Italy's boot, and from a distance, the entire island was draped by the sunlight in a restless, fertile wheat-stubble hue.

　　These intermittent scenes, amidst the glaring orange-yellow light and mixed with the thunderous, gritty roar in her ears, rushed frantically into her paralyzed body.

　　All the sensations that had earlier seemed buried under stone were now completely torn open and ripped out by this immense, terrifying commotion. Pain and suffocation instantly surged over her; her nightmare-like, immobile body trembled violently several times, and her eyes reflexively squeezed shut.

　　In the darkness, her hearing instead began to sharpen.

　　The immense sound of the tide, mingled with a grating, teeth-gritting crunching noise, something slapping heavily with a muffled thud, gurgling bubbles bursting, sharp bird cries, and human—clamor.

　　People…

　　She was dazed for a moment, then suddenly realized she might have fallen from the ferry into the sea. Knocked unconscious, she hadn't realized she was drowning.

　　This horrifying thought fully ignited her will to survive.

　　She reopened her eyes, straining to lift her numb, heavy hand upward for help. Her fingertips touched the flowing, golden light. The voices above grew closer; someone seemed to have spotted her, shouting commands, accompanied by a distinct, rough whistle in response.

　　This strange whistle was deep and muddled yet sharp and chaotic, producing an utterly unfamiliar rhythm and melody？ She thought she might be hallucinating; after all, who plays music on a boat while rescuing someone？

　　The water her fingers touched was warm, and the resistance was unusually great. Even trying to bend a single finger joint was exceptionally difficult.

　　The grating sound became clearer against the water's flow—it was the ship's wooden hull being squeezed by the sea, causing the planks to rub and groan.

　　Her stiff fingers finally reached the water's surface, about to extend out to touch the sunlight and air, when suddenly, an ethereal yet incredibly gentle call softly sounded by her ear.

　　“Persephone——”

　　The voice was so smooth and round, devoid of any sharp edges, soft as velvet and almost nostalgic, more comforting than the amniotic fluid enveloping an infant.

　　She felt the voice was very familiar and, as if bewitched, couldn't help but open her mouth to respond. Immediately, a large gulp of salty water flooded her windpipe, crushing her voice. The suffocating sensation of near-death piled up in her chest. Her outstretched hand feebly flailed, about to sink once more into the deeper sea.

　　With a splash, a huge shadow slapped down over her head, and then the circular shadow abruptly contracted, trapping her and swiftly dragging her upward.

　　Before she could even struggle, the intense gurgling of water rushed past both ears as her entire body was hauled out of the sea. Her eyes were caught off guard by the indigo sky and drenched in a headful of sunlight. Shattered streams of water tumbled and danced in her ears, then flowed down along her cheekbones. Her face was marked by the net's pressure, and her mouth accidentally caught in a mesh, the pain sharp enough to make her teeth ache.

　　In her wet hair, something was desperately slapping her head… Huh？ It was a fish caught in the net along with her, flapping against her skull.

　　The rescuers had actually used a fishing net to haul her up. While she was immensely grateful for being saved, this rescue method was truly… inventive.

　　She felt like a burnt waffle, her body covered in distorted grid-like patterns.

　　Probably because she was too heavy, the net swayed several times mid-air, unable to be smoothly hauled up, making her dizzy. Finally managing to open her eyes, she saw beyond the coarse knots of the net—the wooden hull, crafted by hand.

　　The reddish-brown ship timber was covered in wavy grain patterns, with several water-soaked cracks splintering open, revealing black tar-like substances and messy rope-like materials stuffed inside to prevent leaks.

　　Her eyes, squeezed out of shape by the net's mesh, couldn't help but blink twice. She couldn't shake the feeling… this ship had seen its fair share of years.

　　Just as she was about to figure out what kind of tree this wood came from, the people on board yanked hard on the net's edge. The sudden upward force tightened the net, transforming her from a waffle into a takoyaki ball. Her face slammed against the hard deck, the pain nearly bringing tears to her eyes.

　　Her sense of smell was suddenly pierced by the pain, as the stench of fish and the rotting odor of the ship's hull rushed into her nostrils. She opened her mouth, but the irritated sneeze refused to come out.

　　It nearly suffocated her.

　　The dragnet encountered another resistance as it rubbed against the ship's upper beam, forcing the rescuer to immediately grab the net's mesh and haul it, dragging her and the net together onto the deck.

　　Some fingers tangled in her hair, making her gasp in pain. She struggled to look up, trying to see who was pulling her hair.

　　Her seawater-soaked eyelashes met the bright light, feeling as if they were sprinkled with fine salt grains. In the blinding glare, she could only see a few hairy legs swaying back and forth. As her vision slowly cleared, she realized most of those legs were barefoot. Only a few wore shoes—flip-flops with worn wooden soles, their straps resembling rough, fibrous ropes made from plant material. Even if they were meant to be handmade for sentimental value, these shoes looked far too haphazard.

　　A strange feeling flickered in her heart—this suspicion had already arisen when she saw the aged wooden gunwale.

　　Then she blinked, straining to lift her neck, and saw that the hairy legs were clad in flax-yellow short skirts—more like poorly cut, wrinkled fabric than actual skirts. The cloth hadn't been bleached or dyed, so simple it felt… primitive？

　　Her water-soaked eyes ached, yet she even forgot to blink, finally pinpointing the source of that eerie sense of dissonance in her heart.

　　It was unfamiliarity. Even when traveling to another country she'd never visited, she had never encountered such an overwhelming, vast sense of the unfamiliar.

　　The crowd surrounding the fishing net weren't the Europeans she was used to seeing as a tourist, nor did they share the features of her fellow countrymen.

　　They bent over, reaching out to untangle the knotted stone weights along the net's edge. Their sun-tanned brown skin was covered in rough sun-weathered lines, their black hair matted into dirty clumps, as if they hadn't bathed in ages.

　　They weren't wearing the familiar shirts, T-shirts, or jeans either. Most of these strangers encircling her were bare-chested, with only a short wrap of cloth around their waists. Some had bare chests adorned with unfamiliar shell-and-stone necklaces in an exotic style, their faces painted with blue and red stripes, giving off a bizarre, fierce aura.

　　After they untied the net weights, one of the middle-aged men with brown skin turned and shouted. The shout seemed to be squeezed out from deep in his throat—a high-pitched voice that abruptly plummeted, its flat and low tone unsettling.

　　The language was utterly unfamiliar, completely unheard before.

　　She huddled in the hanging net, hands gripping the mesh. Sunlight smeared across her face with a stinging, bee-like pain, a constant reminder.

　　Was this… not a dream？

　　Her eyelashes brushed against dark seaweed clinging to the net, and she instinctively jerked her head back to avoid the irritation. Her gaze suddenly collided with a vast expanse of billowing white canvas.

　　A massive square sail was entangled with fore and aft ropes, thick hemp-colored cables hanging from the mast. The round mast looked like a stripped tree trunk, its coarse, wild texture starkly evident.

　　It was so simple, devoid of any trace of modern tools—even the ropes weren't made of durable synthetic fibers.

　　Her bewildered eyes followed the ropes downward, landing on a wooden mast step with no metal fittings. The mast plunged into a deep wooden hole, extending straight down to the load-bearing keel below.

　　The mast base was wrapped in a protective layer resembling rawhide, with several broken arrows stuck in it, their bent tail feathers gleaming silver. Dried black bloodstains clung to the lower part of the mast, and a bundle of simple-looking javelins lay beside the blood, tied together with leather straps.

　　Next to the javelins rested a crude, turtle-shell-shaped shield. The protective hide covering the shield was riddled with cracks, revealing the wood beneath.

　　This ship seemed to have sailed directly from an ancient naval battle, carrying a primitive, violent aura of killing intent that instinctively sent shivers down one's spine.

　　Her view was obstructed, allowing her to see only partial details, but the more she looked, the more confused she became. Even if it wasn't a rescue vessel but a passing fishing boat, where on earth had she drifted to—what undeveloped waters—to encounter such a primitive ship？

　　And fishing boats that go out to sea… shouldn't look like this either.

　　The people surrounding her spoke more clearly now, yet she still couldn't understand which language it was. She only noted the strong aspiration and distinct tongue sounds. They were discussing something, and the circle around her had unconsciously loosened considerably.

　　The surrounding space suddenly opened up, and she could clearly see that she was lying on the deck at the bow of the ship.

　　The structure of the ship extending down from the deck differed from any normal vessel she had ever seen.

　　A large section amidships had no deck, only a central plank walkway with rows of deeply recessed oarlocks on either side. At a glance, there were at least dozens of bare-armed men sitting in them, facing the stern.

　　Their hands rested on the oar rests, their dark, sun-reddened backs appearing rough and thick under the sunlight.

　　A short-haired old man, carrying a large reed basket, stood on the broad wooden plank walkway in the middle of the ship, bent over distributing black olives to them.

　　Ahead of the old man, someone was removing long planks from the stern deck, hauling out two narrow-necked, double-handled jars about a meter tall from the lower hold. The small, tray-like bases looked precarious, while the bulging, rounded bellies were encircled with black geometric patterned bands, shimmering with watery ripples under the blazing sun like sliding snake scales.

　　She stared dumbfounded at the ocher-colored, oval, long-necked large pottery jar. A page in her memory slowly turned, recalling a past experience of seeing a similar object.

　　It was during a trip to Italy when she had visited an archaeological museum filled with ancient Greek artifacts, among which were similar pointed-bottom vessels.

　　If she remembered correctly… they were for storing wine？

　　Or was it water, or some other liquid？ She sluggishly searched her memory, feeling as if her head had been dazed by the seawater pressure, her brain misfiring and no longer functioning properly.

　　A middle-aged man standing at the stern, who seemed to be the helmsman, was looking down to observe the ocean currents, his hands pushing against the stern steering oar, trying to control the wooden boat's direction.

　　The blades of the long oars slapped against the seawater, emitting dull thudding sounds.

　　The sky was a piercing blue, the full sunlight so intense it felt like pinching it would splash out burning apricot jam.

　　The world beyond the fishing net was so bright it was suffocating, so unfamiliar it was incomprehensible. It filled her, who had suddenly intruded, with a sense of disoriented panic.

　　A man tugging at the net muttered rapidly in a language she couldn't understand, his tone revealing a fierce impatience. He flipped the net open and extended a filthy hand to drag her out.

　　His movements were filled with terrifying brutality, as if she were just a worthless sea fish, devoid of any gentle savior's touch. In an instant, he seemed ready to haul her out and gut her.

　　Her fingers, gripping the net, reflexively clenched, and her whole body arched backward, instinctively trying to avoid this contact that felt dangerous to her.

　　Although her mind remained sluggish and confused, she was acutely aware that this place, where everything felt wrong, was not safe.

　　Had she encountered pirates at sea？

　　As she shrank back, her foot scraped against the deck, the shoelace digging painfully into the flesh between her toes, a dull, numb ache. Her hands, gripping the slick netting, rose to shield her face from the impending attack. The wrinkled pads of her fingers went numb from the coarse rope fibers, and her pale fingernails were smeared with shattered sunlight, blurring her vision.

　　The man seemed caught off guard by her evasion; his outstretched hand only managed to seize the net. His overly rough tug on the ropes jostled her violently within its confines.

　　Her already weakened body swayed from the force, and her blurred vision darkened, nearly causing her to collapse backward.

　　So, it really was a pirate ship—

　　Just as she began to suspect she had fallen into the hands of sea traffickers, the man trying to drag her from the net let out a sudden, sharp cry.

　　A heavy stick struck his arm, and he doubled over in pain. Before he could dodge the unex