He kicks the ground with characteristic impatience sending dust clouds across the floor and snorts before it can settle. Head bowed and horns steady he charges as the clamour of metal against brass rings around the world; thus heralding that trading has begun.
Hedges flourish or crumble in the wake of his thunderous hooves, futures are tossed into the air to be scattered across the globe and commodities are bartered for in the yo-yo movement of flippant economics.
His minions bow to him, circuit the floor of his Temple and minister from one electric icon to the other. Like the master they serve, they bellow and scream the odds: for if their prayers are answered, profits beyond the clutches of greed are promised.
A short walk from this mighty Temple, ritzy wine bars await custom and restaurant owners rub their hands, knowing they can sell Champagne for four figures a bottle. Within these enclosures, these brave warriors let down their hair, dance to the rhythm of the day and snort their well-earned pleasures until the wee small hours.
A ragged man carrying a placard warning that the end is nigh stops outside one of the bars, peers through the brightly lit windows and shakes his head. Will anyone hear his plea, heed his warning and repent? He shuffles on, knowing they close their minds to the inevitable.
The Temple shook on an ordinary Monday sending shock waves through every time zone and both hemispheres: by Friday the fiscal world had fallen. Bleeding and bewildered the mighty bovine took a few steps back crushing those standing too close in his tread.
Headline news carried no other stories – with the sweep of a magical wand – wars were trivial, crime abated and nobody cared if a kitten was stuck up a tree.
Institutions once trusted with pensioners’ savings, vanished without a trace. What was solid and true one moment – was gone with the blink of a wrinkled eye.
Does this Market move in mystical ways not bound by the laws of mankind? Are the glowing figures magical runes – meant only for the Temples’ priests to read and interpret? Has all this happened before, has this mighty Taurus roamed the Earth from the beginning of time, craving worship, snorting to the tempo of chants – and demanding sacrifices?
But hidden in the shades of turmoil another creature of the Market’s circus stirs his ursine head and gives a low growl. He moves slowly picking up the fallen scraps. A berry, once bulging with ripe juices now bruised and going for nothing finds his clawed paw. He takes it, placing it alongside the other perishable commodities strewn in his path. The marketplace holds its breath; the minions change the tune of their hymns and dance to his slow, careful rhythm. Tart sharp wines are now the pleasurable sips of the bars, fruity and white to be savoured and not rushed.
The following week closes with hope, as new runes replace the old, their mystic significance lost to those who cannot see: yet the rhythm is there, slower, more cautious than before, steady, the tempo beats and is heard from longitude to longitude, meridian to meridian pulsing stronger with each stage.
And when the dusts settles and we mere mortals dare to breathe a sigh of relief, will we heed the ragged man’s warning or dance to the full blooded snort of the bovine, who waits by the side of the pit, licking his wounds ready to charge once more?
(c) 2024 Pat Barnett
