A crude, obsidian monolith loomed over the rocky precipice of Tossa de Mar, its countless chaotic facets reflecting an eerie glint. The village elders claimed the arid, clifftop garden beyond the stone was infested with Espantamainades--goblins who took pleasure in tormenting children that wandered too far from home. Others had seen a ferocious Dip limping on bent legs near the forbidden plateau, waiting to sink its canine teeth into the nearest trespasser. Such outlandish fairytales served well to keep curious children at bay.
As a relative newcomer to the village, I was woefully ignorant to local legends. My inadequate grasp of Catalan only exacerbated the situation. Feeling increasingly isolated, I daydreamed about building a little fort amongst the grey-green foliage atop the nearby cliffs—somewhere quiet where no one could judge me. The mysterious black stone continued to taunt me from the precipice until one morning I decided to just start climbing. Jagged rocks cut into my bare feet and scraped my legs but my determination never waned. My muscles and lungs were burning by the time I hauled myself over the final stony outcropping.
I arrived atop a short plateau dense with poplars and thorn-covered bushes. Waves of alfa billowed in the warm wind. Between the short humps of grass laid mounds of golden sand, each grain smooth as a silken scarf as it slipped between my toes. A pair of wind-ravaged trees surrounded the black slab I had found so fascinating, its planar surfaces reflecting the rising sun at obtuse angles.
I approached the rough-hewn stone with a weird sense of dread, despite knowing nothing of its history. An inscrutable symbol had been carved on its southern face—a tilted cross cradling small orbs at both ends. I ran my hands across the monolith's glassy surface and traced the glyph with my fingertip.
That's when my life changed forever.