Usually, when the church bells strike eleven, the postman’s round is over at last, and it’s time for him to enjoy a much deserved pause at the pub that sits on the main square between church and town hall, before getting back to his office.

But not today. Today, he has a last parcel to deliver. And that’s not going to be an easy task, because that parcel is addressed to the old coot who lives alone in a chalet high above the village. A chalet poised on the brink of the precipice, a lofty fortress whose only access is a small and precipitous path which slithers along the mountainside, until it crests a high pass and falls away on the other side.

No need to say, it’s asinine to think one could use the postal van to climb up there: the path is much too narrow and steep and rocky. The only possible way is to summon one’s courage and walk. A two hour hike at least, not taking into account the fact that it snowed last night, which will undoubtedly make the trail slippery and almost invisible at places.

But such are the hardships of the postal service, and its rules and regulations, however dour, are not meant to be tampered with.

The postman pulls his van over where the path leaves the main road, removes the hefty parcel from the trunk and shoves it into his threadbare burlap bag. He looks up and along the path, where drifts of snow occasionally blotch the dull garb of the rocks, until his eyes pinpoint the minute shape of the house, crowned by a ghostly cloud of smoke. He sighs, checks his shoes and sets forth.

The first half-hour is easy, as the trail gently slopes amid the aspens whose fallen leaves, yellow and brittle with Autumn’s first icy breath, blanket the ground. There is hardly any sound, save for the one-off chirp of a bird or the occasional scurrying of a squirrel, caught off-guard in its morning errand.

But as soon as the path exits the spinney, the difficulty ramps up. No more are the feet greeted by the soft touch of decaying organic matter, but by the rough bite of bare rock, scree after scree. The slope increases, and each step now calls for all the experience of a seasoned hiker to ensure a firm purchase and avoid the rogue cobbles ready to roll under the instep, with unpredictable consequences.

The foot might be unerring, the effort is unchanged. At noon, the postman marks a brief pause, swilling down what water is left in his flask while contemplating the village below, whose houses seem so small they could be inhabited by ants, before resuming his ascent.

Half an hour later, he braces up for the most perilous stretch, as the path tapers off to a mere track veering vertiginously between two plumb faces. Soon, fortunately, the difficulty is over. After a last hairpin, he surmounts the major ledge, entering a wide expanse of flat land that stands as if suspended in the middle of the cliff. The path widens again, and runs straight to his destination, now at hand.

The postman finally arrives at the threshold. A strong, dark wooden door bars the entrance. Above it, on a transom, a mysterious word “XAIPE!” is carved. Undaunted, the postman fishes the parcel from its bag and knocks.

“Ah!” a voice says inside. The door hinges open, revealing an old man, with a wrinkled face and a long, white beard. He extends a gnarled, enormous hand.

“Mister… Hades Pluto?” the postman hesitates. “Is that your name?”

“Of course!” the elder replies, giggling. “I was expecting you. Please come in and have a seat.”

“With pleasure!” the postman replies. He steps in and walks to a wooden table, on which an ancient, exquisite hourglass stands. He puts the parcel on the table, then grabs a stool and sits.

“Here is a parcel—”

“I know,” the elder cuts in, sitting in turn. “I know. Have you guessed what is inside?”

“Sir, the regulations prohibit—” replies the postman as the other rips the parcel off, freeing a boulder which tumbles on the table.

The postman eyes widen. “I… I don’t understand…”

The elder chortles. “Maybe one day, maybe one day…” he booms, as he turns the hourglass round and darkness suddenly fells over.

[hr]

Usually, the postman’s round is over at eleven. But not today. Today, he has a last parcel to deliver.