The Monster at the Barn Door

The old barn door shuddered beneath a heavy hand.

Betsy pulled Apollo closer. He had been crying for so long that his voice had turned thin and ragged, yet he could not stop. His little body trembled inside the cream blanket.

She tightened her grip on the iron rake.

Outside, something enormous crossed the gravel. Each step came slowly, with enough weight to make the loose boards under Betsy’s boots answer with a faint rattle. Daylight cut through the barn’s wooden slats, striping the hay and the rusted tools around her.

There was nowhere left to hide.

The door opened.

A Minotaur filled the entrance.

He stood at least seven feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to block most of the light. His bull’s head was light tan, his curved horns black and immense. Reddish-orange hair stood short between them, matching the fur at his neck and forearms. He wore worn farm trousers and carried a length of broken fence rail in one hand.

Betsy thrust the rake toward his chest.

“Stay away from my child!”

The Minotaur stopped.

His brown eyes moved from the rake to the bundle against her shoulder. Apollo’s cries rose again, sharp with distress.

“I wasn’t coming for your child,” the Minotaur said. His voice was deep, but quieter than his size suggested. “I heard him from the field.”

“Then go back to your field.”

“You’re in my barn.”

Betsy glanced behind him. Beyond the open door lay a yard, a farmhouse, and acres of sunlit land. She had run until she could barely breathe. She hadn’t known whose property she had entered.

“I’ll leave,” she said. “Just let me pass.”

The Minotaur set the fence rail against the wall. Then he held out both hands, palms open.

“If I meant to hurt you, that rake wouldn’t stop me.”

“It might.”

“It might scratch my shirt. If I had one on.”

Despite herself, Betsy looked down at his bare chest. The rake shook in her hands.

He noticed. His expression changed, some of its hardness giving way to concern.

“How long has he been crying?”

“Since morning.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No. I checked him. I checked everything.”

“When did he last eat?”

Betsy’s fingers tightened around the wooden handle. “He has eaten.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Her throat burned. She had tried to feed Apollo three times since dawn. Each time he had turned away, crying harder, as if hunger itself frightened him.

“An hour ago,” she said. “He wouldn’t take it.”

The Minotaur listened to Apollo for a moment. “He sounds hungry.”

“I know what my baby sounds like.”

“I believe you.”

The answer caught her off guard. People had been telling Betsy what she did and didn’t know since Apollo was born. This stranger, who looked like every nightmare she had ever been taught to fear, had simply believed her.

He took one step sideways, clearing the doorway.

“There’s water at the pump,” he said. “You can use it. You look ready to fall over.”

Betsy kept the rake raised. “Why are you helping us?”

“I haven’t helped yet.”

Apollo’s cry broke into a painful hiccup. Betsy looked down. A corner of the blanket had slipped, exposing the soft reddish hair at the crown of his head. She tucked it back with a shaking hand.

The Minotaur went still.

“What?” she demanded.

“Let me see him.”

“No.”

“Just the top of his head.”

Betsy backed against a stall door. “Why?”

The Minotaur’s gaze remained fixed on the blanket. “Because I think I know why he won’t eat.”

Betsy wanted to refuse. But she could feel Apollo weakening in her arms, his cries coming in shorter bursts. She eased the blanket back a few inches.

Two tiny horns rose through his soft hair.

The Minotaur’s breath stopped.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Sunlight crossed his face as clouds moved beyond the roof. Whatever he saw in Apollo seemed to reach past the barn and into a memory he had spent years trying to bury.

“Impossible,” he whispered.

Betsy covered Apollo’s head again. “You’ve seen this before?”

“Only in a story.”

“Tell me.”

He looked toward the fields, as though checking whether someone had followed her. “The story is older than the gods who tell it now.”

Apollo stretched one small hand out of the blanket. His fingers opened and closed in the air.

The Minotaur took a step back.

Betsy saw fear in his eyes. That frightened her more than his horns ever had.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Felix.”

“I’m Betsy. This is Apollo.”

At the name, Felix’s jaw tightened. “Apollo?”

Betsy wished she had chosen another. But the child was watching Felix now, his cries fading into soft, uneven sounds.

Felix crouched, bringing himself closer to their height while leaving several feet between them.

“I need to ask you something,” he said. “Who gave him that name?”

Betsy could not answer. She had no strength left for another lie.