Quintessence of Dust

by KUBOA

  ***

  John had known the Minotaur since they were kids, and in that time he’d never seen him scared of anyone or anything. The Minotaur’s family moved to John’s street in the summer of 1977. It was the day of the Queen’s Jubilee and all the neighbours had dragged out tables and lined them in the middle of the road. Union Jack bunting traversed from gutter to gutter, and when the wind blew, the sound of a hundred rattlesnake tails filled the sky. People wore blue, white and red hats and waved flags and all the women baked cakes and made sandwiches. Everyone was happy and laughing, except for John. John didn’t see what all the fuss was about. From what he could gather, the Queen was rich and didn’t do much but look down on people who were poor. She lived in a big house in London, whereas John and his family lived in a little damp two-up-two-down terrace with an outside toilet. John was about to go back in his home when a small van stopped at the end of the street. The man behind the wheel sounded his horn and people pointed at the tables and shook their head. When no one moved, the back doors to the van opened and the Minotaur got out. He was only six years old at the time but he was at least five feet tall, and with his horns, you could add another six inches. He had a broad chest covered with course brown hair, arms were thick and muscular, like his legs, and each hand was big enough to crush a human skull. Everyone stopped laughing and looked on in shock as the Minotaur dragged the heavy tables to one side so that the van could pass.

  John found the Minotaur behind his house a few days later pouring lighter fluid in a long line near an ant’s nest. He watched John approach and didn’t think much of him.

  “Whatcha doing?” asked John.

  “Killing stuff,” replied the Minotaur, indifferently.

  The Minotaur reached into his pocket, brought out two green leaves, and tore them up between sausage fingers. He sprinkled the leaves along the line, leant down and waited. A black ant emerged from the crack in the earth.

  “This ‘ere’s a worker,” said the Minotaur. “It’s a worker’s job to protect the queen and bring her stuff. In a minute there’s gonna be loads of ‘em, you watch.”

  And John did. He knelt beside the Minotaur, consumed by his vast shadow. There he waited in the cool shade for all the tiny worker ants to leave the nest and pick up the tiny pieces of leaf with their pincers. To help coax them out, the Minotaur slammed his huge fist near to the gap and more ants came scurrying out, running around in a frenzy. The Minotaur pulled out a match from his pocket, struck it on the wall and threw it on the ground. What ants weren’t burnt to death in the blaze, the Minotaur stomped with his foot.

  John asked, “Why kill ‘em?”

  The Minotaur grunted and replied, “Cos, I hate royalty.”