Doina Roman's Blog

Too Many Gods for One Desert








Written by Doina
In english section

Konos’ Journal

Vexhal Mountain Platform

Day 1

Dear Father,

If I call you this way, I hope that both of you, or at least one of you, can hear me. I never really understood why humanity decided to make me so important. Why couldn’t you just leave me alone? Why did you place such a heavy burden on my shoulders? No one asked me whether or not I wanted this. You sent me to the Yellow Eye to speak to the sand and prevent it from flowing cold. Well, now I’m here, and now I know that throughout my entire life, you’ve lied to me about who I was and who I belonged to. You burdened me with the mission of wearing the Yoanian Shirt and saving what you couldn’t. I want to tell you this: I don’t plan on staying in this wasteland to speak to any grains of sand. If you wanted to be rid of me, then you’ve done it! You’ve sent me to Purgatory! But I haven’t left empty-handed; I took two wancuy with me.

So, thankfully, I am not alone, and I will do whatever it takes to get out of here and give you this damned Shirt back.

Day 2

The landscape here is desolate; nothing but sand and mud. When the wind sweeps through the countryside, it smells like a predator spilling its guts after gorging itself on carrion. When the storm starts, everything is earthy and dark. Afterwards the sand bellows through the heavens like a cow that’s being slaughtered, even though here on the surface, there’s hardly even a breeze. Then, just a meter in front of me, the wind dies down, leaving me with swollen nostrils.

All I breathe in is this damned heat that continues to cling to us.

On my first day, I was instructed by a pair of veterans. Their eyes were full of sand, their nails were black, and occasionally they spat up nuggets of clay. The mud here clings to you like glue—only a Vexhal scalpel or scissor can overcome it.

One of my colleagues decided to try being funny and smeared his penis with the mud to keep it stiff. That caused his insides to turn to jelly, and urine to gush straight out of his scrotum. They had to cut off the mud…and most of his penis with it.

Each of us was given Vexhal jumpsuits, and this muddy earth can get through neither it nor our boots. So don’t worry yourselves—assuming it’s a good day, and the mud vortexes don’t shift their location, we will manage to return safely from this territory that’s been cursed by the despicable Sertazians!

I rest in the barracks with other miserable fellows, who—like me—hope to one day escape unharmed from this place you’ve sent me to.

The wancuy have adapted themselves well. During the day, when I’m asleep, they sit atop the wardrobe and watch over me. When I leave for the night, I lock them inside the filing cabinet. I hope they don’t decide to mate before autumn.

(…)

Day 90

I’m really upset with Kay! I still can’t forgive him for bringing me all this way, by his own hand no less, and then abandoning me here. He kept saying he’s organizing some “Resistance” no one has heard even a whisper of for many years. Despite all this, however, I really wish I could show him how the Clay-Women emerge from the Yellow Eye. The sight of them makes you break out in a cold sweat, and then your helmet visor gets foggy.

Whenever we go out, we take the ranculians with us: those big dogs with white manes that the Yoanians bred during peacetime. The hounds walk in front of us. They could smell a Sertazian if he’d blown his nose in the wind, much less if he’d left behind a bulbous deformity somewhere.

Once they find it, they return, sit on their hindquarters, and whine. Do you know how a ranculian whines? It’s heartbreaking—it sounds like the creature is giving up the ghost. But that’s when the bomb disposal team steps in to measure things with their double probes. Afterwards, they modify the map and we change course. It takes us a few hours to reach the Yellow Volcano.

We skirt the banks of the petrified river, mindful that our feet don’t slip towards the viscous shore. No one can pull you out if you fall in. No, you are stuck there in the clay, slowly being liquefied alive as the cold, sticky magma eats you and drags you into the depths. No one screams—they just bite their tongue and drown their tears. Nothing can be done except maybe commit suicide.

But wait, there’s more! Once we arrive at the summit of the gargantuan Yellow Eye, all we have is about two hours, because that’s as long as we can endure watching that boiling mass full of popping, sulphurous blisters. We need to know when to duck and cover, and when to hold our positions. It’s not easy to read the signs that indicate whether a Clay-Woman is about to emerge. Once they’re out, their naked golden phosphorescent skin gleams as they open their mouths and eyes wide. That’s when we need to operate the tractor device. The vexhal platform, with its net as thin as paper, needs to be lowered into position under the soles of their feet—any higher, and their legs are sheared off and the batch is worthless. It’s mostly guesswork, and you need to repeat the process in order to collect at least two or three that might be worth some money.

Anyway, I’ve got some experience now. So, the last time, I was able to pick up two creamy Earth-Pearls, as the Candlemakercalled them. In that moment, I felt a joy I’d nearly forgotten in my time spent here. You should have seen how I held my breath with my finger over the launch button; I was nearly paralyzed. You see, during my prior attempt, I had launched too soon and severed a pair of Clay-Women in two, right at the pelvis. They dropped back into the scalding basalt with their eyes wide open. My colleague– the one missing his penis–managed to catch only one of them. As he stood with the launcher on his shoulder, his finger was trembling, but he still managed to get her, even if a piece of her heel was missing.

When I finally returned that night, I did some calculations and figured out that it would take me about a year to gather about twenty-two Clay-Women. Only at that point could I finally return.

By day, I work with the Clay-Women, and they faithfully obey me as though I were their master. I try to stay humble and not let it go to my head.

It’s said they are the embodiment of people from the nations exterminated by the Sertani. They don’t speak, they don’t eat, and if you put them in a box, one atop the other, they sit like that until you pull them out of there. They learn to follow orders exactly as you tell them to, so I’m hardly surprised that humans decided to use them for law enforcement. We, however, aren’t allowed to touch them, which is fine. What the hell would we do with a woman made from dirt?

I’m lucky to have the wancuy! They’ve made their home in my drawer, and we sit and talk for hours on end. The male eats right out of my hand and then urinates on the bed pillow. The female always finds time to argue with him. The male keeps pleading for me to bring him along when I go out on my missions, and even though I would like to, I do not dare until he sires children.

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Day 107

I am well, my eyes have adjusted to this place, and I can hardly wait to see that scoundrel Kay so he can tell me everything that’s been happening back home. It had reached my ears he’d recently been named the new ambassador for Glotaria. Because what in the devil does diplomacy and resistance have to do with one another? I don’t get it.

I’m starting to regret that I had forgotten to bring some eye ointment with me; the kind Father Acron had obtained when he was burned in the doorway of his laboratory in Drigat would have been perfect.

I was scared I would be blinded here, in the Yellow Half, and that I might be eaten alive by the clay that was advancing slowly each day towards our camp.

Telling the administrators that we should move had proven pointless. These people want to hold on to every penny. Time and again, they’ve refused to relocate the metal mountain with their transporters, stating that it might aggravate the Yellow Eye, and that it hardly produced many fish-eyed women anyway.

Every night that magma chases after us and creeps closer. It burns our eyes while we sleep, and resting with your helmet on isn’t an option, unless you want to suffocate.

Otherwise, Tas worries me; the male wancuy is upset with me, all because I refuse to believe his story about a small blonde colleague who comes over to my bedside while I sleep and keeps making faces at me. If he so much as touched me, Tas would sting him in the jugular, or wrap his rope-like body around the man’s neck. But I don’t believe it, and Tas is sad because of it. He promised to sit in my pocket and wake me, should the blonde fellow come back to disturb me. That was the only way I could put his mind at ease.

Day 145

We don’t go hungry, and we aren’t lacking anything, but during the day, it’s hard being locked inside that metal bunker. Sitting with those clay dummies feels like watching a training session for monkeys. We aren’t allowed to touch them, since for at least two months, they’re still soft. During this period, we need to take things slowly, else they might get damaged.

Some rookie became impatient and went up to one of fifteen–because all of them are numbered in the batch, and they are mostly identical–and placed his hand on her breast. He became stuck to her almost instantly, his arm going in all the way up to the elbow. From behind, his fingers were sticking out, and we could all hear him howling in pain.

Juices of melted meat were flowing, mixed up with already putrid blood. Luckily for him, the instructor was nearby when it happened, and severed the arm at the shoulder. The rookie fainted, and number fifteen was walking about with his Vexhal glove sticking out between her shoulder blades. At least I hope this event taught everyone this is certainly no joke!

Some say these things will be the death of us, that after a few years, the Sertazian’s will activate them against us. Others say let the devil burn the economy, and that we should just tighten the belt on the army and police, and bring the dead inside our houses. However, after all these years our half has been defended by the Sand-Pearls. And it’s safe to say no one can defeat them.

I personally rather like these plain figurines. They don’t comment or argue. If you teach them to walk on all fours, they will crawl like that until you tell them to stop. God, how they look, they’re actually quite wondrous! They can resist grenades and even high caliber bullets without so much as blinking. The devil would find real enemies in these ones.

I prayed to God no one would decide to cause mischief, or I might send this division I’m training to confront them! They follow me blindly. What I wouldn’t give to have one of those scale helmets they’re wearing, but this is an impossibility; even if you tried to slice around the edges of the head, the helm still wouldn’t come off. Not that others haven’t already tried this. Then again, I never saw or heard from any of them ever again.

Tas pinched me when I was asleep, making me jolt towards the ceiling, and I almost crushed him.

Fema, his consort, became agitated from her perch above the dresser. I had not seen anyone. Fema explained Tas had gotten drunk on some fermented cider I had forgotten on my nightstand. This made the wancuy feel depressed again. When he becomes upset, he wraps himself into a ball. I read him a story, but it still didn’t help. Even I started feeling depressed because of his behaviour. I petted him for half an hour and then pretended to doze off. Only then did he unwind.

Day 181

I haven’t heard any recent news about Mother, and that’s the most painful thing. Tas has started ignoring me, he pretends like he doesn’t see me. I have to pull him by the legs and wrap him around my arm like a bracelet, but still he keeps silent. He’s probably waiting for me to apologise. I know I will need to; I have no one else to talk to, and I hardly trust anyone around here. Tas and his partner, Fema, are the only ones who listen to my worries. Besides, none of the others can speak their language, let alone see them.

No one knows who I am or how much I know. Every day, the Yoanian Shirt teaches me more and more information, but also advises me to stay humble. Fortunately, I am in fact so humble that no one takes me seriously.

Day 190

Tas believes I am a cold-blooded killer. I explained it to him; in fact, he and his lover Fema had witnessed a part of it. At this point, no one but us knows about this, but I’m afraid I might be discovered and will have to flee. In all likelihood, I think that’s what I will need to do before someone finds out the truth.

I hid myself as best I could, pretending to be a fool and working from dusk till dawn. Nobody would have suspected that I was wearing the Shirt of the Yoanian’s? Who would believe that a simple soldier (well correction Corporal now) knew everything there was to know in the world?

In a way, I knew today would come; the day Duncan’s damnable posse arrived at the Vexhal Mountain. Duncan, the same mercenary hired by the Glotan Commercial Lodge, who had sworn to hunt down mother, all because he’d learned why Father Acron had left, and how he had pulled the wool over all their eyes.

Apparently, he had orders to check absolutely everyone. We were all commanded to assemble at the platform from where we departed towards the Yellow Eye every day, and strip down to the waist. The shirt was now invisible; no one knew I had it; and it was sunk deep below my skin. Only if someone skinned my hide, like the Leranians did to Father Maximus, could they take it off me. Thus, I had to be brave.

For certain they would use intimidation, they were just waiting to see who would tremble, and use that as an excuse to skin the poor fellow alive. Even so, I was terrified, for they had brought fifty sniffers with them. It was said they could detect even the smallest drop of sweat that smelled of fear.

In order to fool the sniffers, I needed to smear myself with mezder fat, and since that couldn’t be found here, I decided to use rancul fat as a substitute. How could I anoint myself with dog grease without killing it?

Without telling anyone, I went to the rancul paddock. I knew one of the handlers there, his name was Udor. He let me inside and allowed me to take one of the rancul’s, so I told him to give me the oldest one he had so that I could take it out for a walk.

The dogs name was Maipo, and while he rarely wagged his tail, he appeared happy to be out of his cage. Udor gave him to me and I pulled the leash, making my way towards our barracks, walking calmly so as not to attract attention.

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I knew exactly where to make the incision to take out a piece of fat. The hound wouldn’t have to bleed, since I was using a cauterized scalpel. I even brought stitching needles and thread. Nothing else was overlooked, not even the sleeping serum with which I knocked him out for the same amount of time it would take for a walk.

I operated on him quickly, taking out a piece from under his neck, the place where the excess skin wouldn’t make any wound visible. I also remembered to take a vial of his blood to drink when I was out on the platform. Afterwards, I liquefied it, just to make it easier to swallow. When he awoke, Maipo was a little dizzy, but otherwise completely unharmed. I took him back and left a packet of cigarettes for Udor.

During this time Tas and Fema stood watch, ready to sound the alarm should any unwelcome guests arrive. I left them to guard the room and tell me about everything that moved during my absence.

In an hour I was at the platform, oiled from head to toe in Maipo’s fat. My new fear was that I would vomit due to the blood I had consumed. Keeping a low profile was essential, but my face was as white as a sheet and because of the heat, I was worried I might sweat profusely. I didn’t know what I was going to do if the sniffers caught me, but I was determined not to let them catch me. Jumping off the Vexhal platform straight into the viscous mud and drowning in the cold deadly clay that flowed nearby might have been preferable.

All of them passed me by, their huge nostrils opened wide like wet pits taking in my scent. Only one stopped; he tilted his nose in my direction and smiled with lips that resembled two pieces of twine.

I calculated the distance it would take to reach the edge of the platform. Less than thirty seconds. I propped myself up on my boots and tightened my muscles.

The sniffer came up to me and asked.

“What is your name, Corporal?”

“Sir, Konos, sir.” I answered curtly.

“Where are you from?”

“Sir, from the Digrat Belt, sir!”

“From which side?”

“Sir, Crater number 2, sir!” I stood there with my eyes fixed on his right shoulder.

The sniffer went around me, searching me up and down while I didn’t dare take in breaths of my own. My fear was long gone, I knew exactly what I had to do. He wouldn’t have placed a finger on me unless he wanted to be liquefied.

After he had finally gone, I released the air I held in my lungs in stages and calmed my erratic heartbeat. When I returned to the barracks, Tas had come out through the keyhole and was waiting there, hanging on the doorknob. In one breath he told me everything, so I was ready when I entered. Udor was in the room with the dog, and on his face was a vicious grin. He threatened to expose me unless I gave him all the credits I’d earned from so much hard work. It wasn’t that I cared too much about the credits, it was the fact I knew he would betray me anyway.

In his hand was the container in which I had liquefied the blood. It was clean; but still, after a laboratory analysis…I couldn’t take that risk. I hacked him in zigzag patterns to make it look like he’d been attacked by a savage beast. Afterwards, I opened the rancul’s wound, tattered it and closed the door.

After a few minutes, I raised the alarm.

Tas no longer left my side. Fema kept trying to reassure me, saying I had no other choice and that I shouldn’t feel guilty.

Day 191

They found Udor and took him straight to the cremation chamber. Thankfully, no one wondered what he was doing in the barracks. The only pity I felt was for the rancul. They found him covered in Udors blood, with the wound on his neck from which his own blood was still flowing, but they still ultimately shot the dog. Sometimes, I dream about the rancul and then cry in my sleep, remembering the taste of his blood. One day, I will take a rancul puppy and raise it, just as soon as this madness is over. Afterwards, I will let no one else touch it. I will keep it by my side to wash away the guilt I have for Maipo.

My wancuy are more attentive than ever. Whenever I’m roused from my sleep, they smile at me and chase each other on the bed’s headboard. I know they only do that to raise my spirits. Tas no longer speaks about the blonde comrade who comes to stalk me. He started liking the idea of me carrying him around whenever I left for the platform. Every time I look at him standing there with his tail sticking out, he reminds me of a diffused grenade pin; not to mention how quickly my heart beats, knowing he is in fact there.

Day 203

Usually, we returned from the Yellow Eye in the morning, exhausted with swollen eyes and spitting out saliva mixed with dust. Our mouths are like dry bags when we leave, anyway. When finally we do arrive, typically the water bottles are all empty, including the reserves for the rancul’s. The smell of wet clothing and manly sweat mixes in the hot dry air. We’ve gotten so used to the situation that we just don’t care anymore. It’s only when the straps of our helmets start rubbing and rash the flesh on our chin, that we feel really uncomfortable. It would be possible to loosen them, but no one dares risk losing their helmet.

If that ever happened, and a dust storm started out here, the meat on our heads would simply be sandblasted away.

Today, I had a small heart attack. Tas and Fema were missing from my room. Some hours later, just as I was really starting to panic, they returned. For fear of losing them, I decided not to scold them. Later, they told me they went to see the rancul’s. When I heard this, I tightened my jaw and did my best to bottle my rage. The reason for their absence was because they wanted to see if the hounds could detect their scent. Now I understood why there was such a stampede and inexplicable racket at the paddocks earlier. I only brought myself to kiss them, happy with the knowledge that they were safe.

Day 230

As dirty as we were corporal Artium told us to stand in formation so he could proceed with the counting. He did this by reflex and he was never wrong on the count. First he started with the ranculs. When not a single hound went missing, that was considered a good day. When he numbered the men not a single muscle in his body twitched if someone failed to answer the call. He called the sergeant over, placed a thumbprint on the file of the missing in action presumed dead soldier and that was all. After that we start unloading thevessels. During all of this all you could hear is Artium’s voice, short like the growl of an animal; if I didn’t know what he was about to say I’d have trouble understanding it.

“Hold position! Align to the right! One step forward! Sit, Leave the rancul! Lift up! Good! Get back! Hold position! Protect the back line! Dismissed!”

Just growl-growl! And the stamping of our boots against the vexhal platform that made the mountain yelp and reverberated the sound back into the metal framework. Today I checked to see if there were any marks left behind by the millions of stampeding feet we made each day. Nothing, not even the dust settled on that structure. It was anti-abrasive, even though it was designed to perfectly mimic a high adherence field.

About Too Many Gods for One Desert

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Published in 2017























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The Threshold – The Last Oserp Envoy








Written by Doina
In english section

Chapter I

“I will have mercy on whom I have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I have compassion. It does not, therefore, depend on human desire or effort, but on God’s mercy.”

(Romans 9:14-15)

 

In the luxury residence where Kor had been locked up only the furniture made a cracking sound from time to time.

His beard had grown and his face, with the black eyes the colour of burnt-out embers, had sagged. Each line on his face was drooping down as if trying to touch his knees.

He was talking to himself, he was shaking his head, he was starting a phrase pacing from one end of the desk and was finishing it at the other. That was a calculated move. At times, he would pause, his leg hanging up in the air, so as to be able to utter his words in time to his moves. He was no longer articulating his words, he was merely mumbling:

– Why do you keep me away from you, Dad? Don’t tell me you don’t think about it, if not every single day, at least when you’re alone. Pride gets nice and brown with every passing moment, that’s right, you watch it shrinking like a roast in the oven, with the fat dripping as it melts, the yellow fat that browns the skin. The skin that turns golden brown, just perfect to eat. And you eat your pride while it’s hot and steaming and it sits in your stomach like lead, it makes you fat, it ruins your gallbladder and it makes you walk around pressing your right hand on the tender spot. And it hurts like hell, you feel like throwing up, you shudder, you cannot sleep, you walk on tiptoes and you wait for the pain to go away. But it doesn’t. You should admit it, you should surrender, you should lie on your back to be trampled over. And, for the life of you, you don’t want to be alone, you don’t want to admit that you made mistakes, that you fooled them all so you can be the top dog, the hub of the universe, so you can feel important and kid yourself that you’re the smartest and the toughest, that nothing will move on without you, that everyone will cry after you, that you will be implored and praised; you can already see yourself cheered from all sides. What now? I’m sitting here crouching, waiting for those beasts to hatch and eat me alive. I can already feel their smell and I guess though their lids will be still shut they will throw themselves at me to recognise and glorify me because I’ll be their creator… A Poultryman, an unlucky poultryman… I was at the top, I gave orders, and now here I am watching some eggs and waiting for my death or for the return of my glory. I could crush them right now, I could destroy them completely, but what if that moment, that moment when they hatch, when the spooks hatch out of their eggs, is my salvation?

Kor was certain the creatures would be able to break the prison’s wall for him.

He had to take that risk and that was why he was hatching the eggs in his armpits. He wanted to feel when the hatchlings came out so he would not be taken by surprise. There will be several minutes before the hatchlings open their eyes and then they will either acknowledge him as their parent or they will devour him.

The basket filled with eggs was the only gift he had left of Onion Head. Despite his skills, he could not tell them apart, so he picked two eggs at random. He hoped they would be Bicram or Fibos eggs. At night, he placed them on his chest and during the day he kept them in his armpits until his arms got numb.

A Welstg brought him food once a day. He pushed it through the air vent. He pleaded with the Welstg to widen the vent and get him out of there. The Welstg did not speak, he was mute. He just pushed the bread wrapped up in a thick Sola leaf.

At first, he wouldn’t eat, he furiously marched up and down that stupid prison along virtual paths, he roared, he scratched the stone with his nails, he cried and then he was silent for days on end until he finally touched the bread and the water. The hardest part was that he had no one to talk to. He had no idea what had happened in the City after his flight. Sometimes he would hold his breath trying to hear a sound, a word, anything that might have brought him news in this place that was growing narrower and narrower, quieter and quieter.

Suddenly he put his thoughts aside, the egg shell had cracked and something warm was wriggling in the hollow under his arm. He was sweating, large beads of sweat had already formed on his forehead as a tremendous joy like he had never felt before overwhelmed his whole being.

It was night time, but he had got used to the dark long before, and he was happy no one would see the little ones coming out.

The first hatchling’s head was disproportionately larger than his body. Kor couldn’t believe his eyes. He had placed the egg on his old desk and he had stood there, leaning over it, to catch the moment when it came out. The jelly-like head was the first to emerge and then the body followed, sliding on the broken shell. A body that looked like a white-dotted eel.

Kor rubbed his hands and prepared the basket where he planned to lay the hatchling, smiled to it and, keeping his long beard clear of the creature, spoke to him slowly like you would to someone who has to understand and to learn:

– You are my salvation, little one! My darling tiny baby!

The eel-creature seemed to smile too, so he stretched out his hand to caress it and he scooped it up in his palms. It felt cold and wet. It was then that the second hatchling cracked the egg shell and popped out. Kor and the first hatchling were watching him shaking off the jelly that had been its home. The man couldn’t see their faces very well but he could sense they were smiling. He reached out a trembling finger toward their mouths and in the split second of his gesture a bolt of lightning travelled through his body, his eyes rolled back into his head, his legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed to his knees. His hair had suddenly turned grey, his skin looked like that of a 100-year-old man and his clothes were hanging from the bones protruding through his skin.

The creatures slithered towards the drain and vanished.

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Chapter 8

The Lord Secretary frowned:

– Calm down, Rose, you damned witch, you’ll mess everything up, now when peace talks are about to start…you won’t succeed!

The storm was spreading out going round Lia as it would a well-anchored rock.

The Lord Secretary tilted his head and spoke in the language Lia was using.

– Karde vada ne! (Nothing will be heard anymore!) That’s better! I’ve always been bothered by the stupid roar of the storms Rose stirs up. He moved his hand and the tornado dropped with a hiss like a popped doughnut.

– Can’t you find a place where you can sit and calm down, woman? I gave you a cave and a farm and you’re still acting silly. Are you running a fever? the Secretary asked Rose, spitting his words out in disgust.

Rose opened her mouth to say something but no sound came out. Actually, everyone was shouting, you could tell they were screaming by reading their lips and yet there was no sound at all.

– How do you like that, my dear, see how I left them without a voice? I can do anything to anyone, Lia, anyone but you, with you I have to ask, my dear, I have to ask!

– Ask away! Lia barked.

–  I want you to sacrifice yourself, dearest, here and now, and if you won’t do it we’ll do it for you. I can’t let you get away. Your fate will be the same as Crius’, you’ll be half-dried out. I wouldn’t recommend it.

–  What for? If I only knew why the hell you are chasing me, hunting me down and why you want my sacrifice here and now.

–  Whoa! Whoa! Take it easy or you, too, will be without a voice! Give us your heart for the Courier, you know, to present him with something when he arrives, the poor thing has been travelling for millennia, all alone, and he has brought us so many gifts, we should offer him something.

–  You and the Courier are probably as crazy as Kor; are you going to take a bite of my heart when you long to jerk off? You’re lying, I don’t believe you!

– Ha-ha! The Lord Secretary laughed. You have absolutely no respect for those who like you. And you got it all wrong, the Courier is a ship, a cargo ship that travels through the node of our world once every ten millennia.

Think about it, we’ll be able to reset all the worlds as we please, we’ll live forever, we’ll be able to find and prick all the Mixers’ udders and if only one of them gives us the Grenol, imagine what the others could offer, imagine the places we can infiltrate, where we can make folds, taking a fair share of everything these huge cavities of time collect, imagine that we’ll be the true masters of the world. You and I. You know I’m fond of you. You do remember the good time we had the night we met, so, c’mon, stop thinking about the trivial things around you! Think of how it’ll be like when you know everything, when you have all the wisdom of the worlds at your feet. After all, woman, we were meant for each other.

– Don’t come close to me for I’d rather die! You can all go to hell, with your madness and your worlds and all! Lia said as her fingers were turning blue from gripping the coffer handle.

– Wait a minute, Lia! said Monkey, who had jumped into the Lord Secretary’s arms.

As the woman grabbed a Blocking Arrow pointing it at her chest, a sign that she’d rather sacrifice what was inside than be at their mercy, the Lord Secretary took off his mask. A familiar face emerged before the woman’s eyes, the face of a lot younger, thinner Crius, the mark on his forehead still there, his eyes still hazelnut brown.

– See? Alk made an exact replica of me, I am the original.

– You’re lying, you can turn into anyone you want! You want to lure me! That’s what all of you have done, all the time, to you I was and still am just the bearer you don’t give a damn about, a travelling bank, one to carry your medicines, your memories, your entrance keys, you can all go to hell! I’m going to leave now and you, she was talking to Monkey, you are a worthless traitor, a Krabor with no character, you don’t know that meanwhile the pure love I had is gone! I feel nothing in here, and she pointed to her chest, all that is left is a big heart and the dowry they put in it, but this love isn’t mine and it’ll never be an offering to anyone! It should go back to where it came from!

As she was smiling sadly and was keeping them at a safe distance using the Blocking Arrow in her hand, a crack was heard and thunder, broken into pieces, fell over the wormgrass-covered plateau.  

A ring of light pulsating a withered yellow colour dropped suddenly and it was followed by another one, which settled down on top of it, and another one and one more, until they formed half a sphere. Very soon, a hot, greenish liquid started oozing out from under the half sphere digging deep furrows into the plateau.

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A ring of light pulsating a withered yellow colour dropped suddenly and it was followed by another one, which settled down on top of it, and another one and one more, until they formed half a sphere. Very soon, a hot, greenish liquid started oozing out from under the half sphere digging deep furrows into the plateau.

The seals and the rest of the crowd pulled back to the edge of the hill.

The Lord Secretary and Lia were standing facing each other, both stone-still and determined, surrounded by Piping Grindars.

She felt nothing, she was not afraid, the silence around her made her walk without thinking, like in a trance. No sound came out of the sphere, nothing could be seen inside it except that yellow colour, like sulphur steam, swirling around the rings. And all of a sudden millions of cilia and small feet emerged from under each circle.

Rose went up to Lia, pushed the Lord Secretary away and whispered in the woman’s ear:

– Go to the sphere, this is the Courier, you’ll find your way in.

Lia walked a few steps backwards and, still holding the Blocking Arrow in her hand, headed for the sphere.

She drew near, touched the outer walls of the rings with her hand and felt them to be warm like the skin of an animal. An immense sense of peace and quiet, of tranquil joy flooded over her. She pressed her lips against the pearly yellow skin and found herself passing through to the other side, first the head and then the rest of her body.

The viscous green liquid was gushing down now, like hot lava, and some of them could not get out of the way. She climbed her way up quickly, stepping over people, seals, Piping Grindars, trucks and tents. In a few seconds, the vast plateau was full of people and creatures stuck inside jelly figurines.

Lia found herself in a room that looked very much like the Bunker. Only that the violet blue stone walls were now yellow and transparent.

Transparent carts filled with people firmly stuck inside the greenish jelly were running along the railway tracks in the middle of the room.

The same liquid was climbing the walls of the Bunker and, with thousands of small legs, just like those emerging from the rings of the sphere, it was wrapping the weapons, the vessels filled with Grenol and the paintings and she even saw a Danseur Launcher that was carried lying horizontally.

–  Don’t you worry! the woman heard a crystalline voice behind her and she turned.

A pale-faced, thin child with blonde hair, eyes as big as two ripe plums and arms folded in his lap, was looking at her and he said once again:

– Don’t you worry! We’ll remove everything except what you’d like to keep. After all, this Bunker should have been taken away a long time ago. We kept missing it because it had been so skilfully hidden. Starting tomorrow, you are my Agency, you will be able to enter inside the Mixers. Take care nobody cut them and torture them ever again!

I’ll never allow anyone to use a Mixer as a bank just for youth and immortality. Access the seal when you want to go in, it’s simple, you have it in you, and the Mixers will recognise you and they’ll let you in!

 

Reset your world! Give the dragons their world back. Be careful, the Monkey won’t live long, she gave us the correct location when she activated the communication module near the Lord Secretary. I know what you’re thinking about. You’re thinking about Algar and all your friends. A fresh chance will be good for everyone.

I have some spare time so let’s discuss what you can do for Taiss, Baconling, Cat, the Middle-Aged Lilac, Onion Head, Neell, even for the Lost Shadows like Josette. Take your time, there are so many people who believe in you!

The Lord Secretary is coming with us. I need him, such a brilliant mind needs to be scanned.  We will leave you alone for a long time, for a very long time!

Lia swallowed hard, knelt and looked the child in the eyes.

– Who are you?

The boy put a palm to his cheek and answered simply:

– I am the Master!

A blast of wind blew past her ears, a distinct cracking sound was heard in the yellow walls and the redhead in her creased skirts landed right next to them.

– Red Hair stays here, as always! I know you’ll never get used to her. But I’ll confiscate her glasses so she won’t play anymore. I’ll also take away the Grindars’ cross, the old one that belonged to my great-great-grandfather, the one that was used to make the Blocking Arrows. Just to make sure that nobody will ever separate our worlds again and that you’ll be able to give everybody what you have here! he said pointing to the woman’s heart.

 — And remember: You are NOT a mere bearer! You are MY bearer! …Oh, there’s one more thing: make the grass again as I have made it: green!

About The Last Oserp Envoy

About

The Tracus Arte Publishing House







Published in 2016























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The Threshold – The Witness Shadow








Written by Doina
In english section

Lia woke up that morning as a ray of the autumn sun was tickling her eyelashes. She gave a start sensing that something was amiss, the creature sleeping by her side since she had got on the train. A somewhat loyal, sticky pain she had grown fond of and felt too sorry for to simply push off the bunk. She looked rather downcast and frail as it was. She could feel the pain increasing, digging into her flesh and never letting go. She had got used to her and, feeling distressed and sometimes shedding dry tears, she could even fall asleep near her purr that sounded like that of an upset cat. Well, what do you know, come morning and she was gone!

“Where the hell did she go? That’s the height of callousness! She has always acted silly, driving up my blood pressure and draining me and I said nothing and now she has the nerve to leave? the woman mumbled as she was rubbing her eyes. Am I supposed to see that everything changes, that people are beautiful and kind? Impossible! Am I supposed to actually see kindness and loyalty? No way! They do exist, but they are so rare. Treachery, betrayal and temptation are in store for them, too!”

 

While she was putting her blonde hair up in a ponytail, she talked to herself and also answered herself back like a hermit in his cavern who does nothing but preach to the walls.

“Where the heck is that grey Shadow of Pain of mine? She smelled good, like futility. She had a fire-red nightgown on. You have no idea how Pain looks in red,” the woman pouted at her image in the small mirror above the even smaller washbasin. It’s total temptation. You take her in your arms, you can even die with her. And you won’t be sorry. Oh, God! She looked gorgeous with her hair down! Yesterday, she even kissed me goodnight. I couldn’t go to sleep, I cried all night long for the fate of mankind and for the scarcity of love. Oh, well! This morning I intend to have my coffee laughing happily because I’m alone and I feel no pain!”, she went on and was about to draw the curtains aside when a knock made her go to the door and open it.

There she was, on the threshold, Pain, pale as usual, haggard, the dark circles under her eyes as big as coffee cups, holding the hand of a child, who looked even more haggard and pale.

– I’m leaving, Pain said and two pearly tears glittered in her eyes. And she’ll stay with you. Her name is Doubt and she’s God-given. Accept her! She won’t stay too long.

– And you? Where are you going? Lia asked shyly, half-heartedly.

– Back to where I came from, answered the beauty in red, we take turns – Doubt, Regret and I…

– What about Joy? she asked, some frail hope in her voice.

– We ran out of budget for this year, maybe next year. Take the little one in your arms! Pain said in a subdued voice and placed Doubt in Lia’s arms.

– Trust no one! the child whispered and stroked her head, circling her arms around her. Not even her! she added, her head gesturing towards the one who had brought her there.

– OK, alright, Lia answered handing her a T-shirt to change …

– Not even the shirt on your back! the child went on examining the red T-shirt.

The sun’s ray had disappeared. A foggy shadow descended into the small space where Lia was trying hard to wake up as one of her eyes would not get unglued from the dream.

Chapter 1

Josette was holding a hand above an elegant white basket the size of a beach bag. She was restless, in fact she had always been fidgety, she would fret over nothing, she would shake her head and she would talk fast. People coming in contact with her would ask her to talk slower and the politer ones would pretend they understood and would nod whereas in fact they did not comprehend much.

Most of the times, she was under the impression that she was understood and therefore she was content, but she could not understand why some people criticised her, others asked her to repeat what she had said and still others got downright annoying the way they stood up in the middle of a conversation and moved their hands as if they could not breathe.

Anyway, the woman who was tossing and turning on the bench as if she were itching all over made sure, at almost regular intervals, that the balls in her bag were safe and that the air flow around them was sufficient. The balls were wrapped in perforated paper and the dry raffia-woven bag with small loops was the ideal place for them. The only inconvenience was that the bag did not deaden the high-pitched voices coming from inside the yellowish balls and they could be still heard, though muffled. When they started to quarrel their dampened sounds could be heard, giving her away.

The train’s rattling sound was loud enough to cover the tiff and yet voices issuing from inside the bag could be heard clearly.

He:

– I like standing naked before your eyes! Not that you have eyes! I have absolutely no idea how you look, I can’t feel you, but you do have a very beautiful voice. Now, imagine taking off your clothes and lying on your back. I don’t understand why you can’t sleep naked just once. It’s so hot in this shack, which I don’t see, but I think, I feel it’s a shack, that I’m truly choking.

She:

– Take it easy, I just can’t sleep naked! As a matter of fact, since, against my will, I am here with you, lying in the dark, I can’t figure out how you could make me imagine this. You’d better tell me how you actually look like and I might make an effort to picture it in my mind!

 

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He:

– You, little slut, what’s the use of telling you that I look like a stud with tanned skin and a butt you’d empty your bank account just to touch. You’d better think that you have a wet pink pussy and I’m on top of you, perfect like a 27th -rank legionnaire, blue-eyed, slim waist and thighs you can cling to, that I thrust my tongue into your mouth right up to your throat, that you can feel my hardness when I grope for you and then you choke, you push me and… give me your pussy! So warm! So hot! C’mon, give me your hand and play with my…!

She:

– Uh-huh… Oh, yes! I can do it, I can be aroused a little. You like it when I talk dirty, c’mon, you like it!  Higher, higher! Don’t bite my lip, nibble my nipples! That’s it, kiss, suck! More, more, oh, oh!

He:

– Turn around! C’mon, turn your bubble, plump, perfectly round butt to me, slide your big boobs over my buttocks and go down!

– Darn! What the hell is going on, is it an earthquake? Stop wriggling, stop it, stop it!

Josette shook the bag slightly, stuck her head inside it and, flushed, spoke over the ball:

– Keep it down Loverboy, everybody can hear you!

– Down, indeed! Damn you, Josette! It is down because of you! I’ll be out of here and I’ll fix you good, I’ll knock your eyes out of your head!

– I’ll leave you gasping for air if you don’t stop it! the woman said and folded the top of the raffia bag down.

The voices died down and Josette sighed, leaned against the back of the First-Class bench and closed her eyes. She was not sleeping, it would have been great if she could have slept, but as she had to deliver the balls and she did not know where she was supposed to take them, she had to be careful.

She had no clue who the purchaser was, the goods were prohibited so she was rather restless and she was extremely cautious.

She had been on the train for days and she had no idea whether she had travelled far enough from the railway station in the Land of the Lakes. She needed to be patient.

 

She was alone in the compartment and was quite happy about that. She felt safe. It was dark most of the time but by now she had got used to it; moreover, the residents of the balls were there to keep her company.

Josette shook her short black hair; she had a funny gap between her two front teeth and her eyes were the colour of olives.  She had a beautiful, short laugh, her mouth wide open and white teeth shining in the darkness of the train berth.

She had done this and that all her life hoping to make some money, but she never finished what she had started, simply moving on to something else.

For less than a year she had been selling smuggled goods together with her sister. Most of the merchandise came from army warehouses from beyond the lakes, from the reservation. She would collect the goods from one of the Ur soldiers and would sell them by the piece. Small pieces of dry mushrooms were in demand as they supressed any twinge of hunger. The soldiers got them as food rations and she sold them as slimming products. The truth is that you went hungry for three or four days and smiled like an idiot all the while. There were no side effects and you lost weight noticeably but they were addictive if you swallowed them one by one.

She had to stop selling them as there had been complaints from women who looked like walking skeletons and the Krabors had already put her under surveillance.

She then started to sell Kemoline pills, which also came from the Urs’ supplies and which were recommended in serious, traumatic injuries to soften and erase such terrible memories. Josette sold those pills also by the piece to wipe out memories and heartaches.

She almost got beaten up by some parents who claimed that their daughters not only cried over the morons they had fallen in love with but they also failed to remember the names of immediate family members.

That is why, she gave it all up and for a few months she lived on what she had managed to accumulate until one day she met the Middle-Aged Lilac. Tall, past his prime, either a mixed breed or the descendant of a degenerate clan from the South since he himself was unaware of his origins and of his relatives. He had approached her directly and the rascal had a voice that hit you right in your ankle and made your hair stand on end from the top of your head to the soles of your feet.

 

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– Good morning, young lady! The weather is bad, it’s raining and it’s cold, I’ve been watching you sitting in this coffee shop run by two hairy earthworms and I’d like to buy you a cup of tea. I know a nice place a block away.

Josette said yes to the invitation without knowing why. She thought the voice in her ankle made her relent, so she followed Lilac. They drank Dimstale tea and smoked Sola.

Lilac looked her in the eyes, touched her thighs, cupped her breasts with uncommon boldness, while Josette was staring at him like a cow, making no gesture and uttering no word. She was absolutely fascinated by his smell, his white skin and his eyes; one look and she was drowning in their depths.

When she went to the toilet she realised that as she had been sitting down in the same posture her buttocks were now square and her pants stuck to her skin, that she merely sipped at her Dimstale tea and that the day was almost over. She could not even remember what they had been talking about…

Lilac took her hand and led her to the small district in the City, to the Bran Poplar Inn, and it was there that it all began. He gave her the first ball and a delivery address. For the first time ever she received so much money, as much as she had earned in six months selling mushrooms and Kemoline. Now she had three balls that had to be delivered when the train stopped next and she would get her money. She could live a year or even more on the money she would make from running these errands.

All she had to do was to deliver the goods correctly and on time and to talk to the minds inside from time to time to make sure they were in good condition.

***

The train was humming a dull staccato song – clack-clack-clack! getting a long screech of iron scraping iron – choo choo! in reply from the railways, and then it was fading into the night. The berth was an invitation to sleep and it was impossible not to doze off. A thin, frightened voice came from the other ball:

– Time destroys everything.

– What’s wrong? a male voice was heard, sounding rather firm and protective.

– I’ll tell you what’s wrong, the thin voice replied.

– What’s your name?

– What does it matter what our names are as long as we only have our minds? Can this be the afterlife? I thought we’ll go to heaven or to hell immediately, I’ve never thought we’ll travel by train, our souls and our minds in the dark, coping with fear.

– Lady, we’re not dead and this isn’t hell and later on we might wish we had stayed here in the dark, with no body and no work.

– I don’t think anyone would want that. I believe we are in Purgatory, condemned to be tormented, to ponder over the sins we committed and to pray, the woman spoke again.

– Pray, yes, it sounds like a good idea, the man mumbled. I think this is all we have left.

– I don’t know any prayer. And why should I pray? Never in my life have I heard anyone in our clans mention churches and prayers.

– That’s because the first time we had to pay for something we all paid in Humility.

– Have you any idea what Humility is?

– I don’t know, I think I was born without it, the woman answered.

– Humility is the opposite of Pride. 

– Are you a priest? the woman inquired in her thin voice. 

– No, it was everything the man got to say before they were shaken as if by an earthquake and they could hear Josette’s muffled voice:

– Hey, enough of your confessions! Now go to bed! You’ll talk in the morning, right now I’m sleepy and I want to get some sleep.

–You have been saying that for days, Josette! I must speak to someone in the Agency, tell them what happened, the calm voice said.

– You’ll tell them tomorrow when we get there, Josette went on and shook her head again.

– But I absolutely have to! I know a lot, the man said in a monotone voice, showing no fear but rather a well-grounded insistence.

–  Don’t worry, you’ll tell them everything! Josette grumbled and once again shook her head from left to right as if under attack from an ugly fly.

– Josette, don’t sell me! the woman said in a whimpering voice. 

– You bet I will. You’re worth some dough, the dealer said, letting a short laugh escape.

– I’ll kick up a fuss, I’ll scream! the voice sounded angry and determined.

– I’ll leave you gasping for air, you, lifeless creature! Keep your trap shut if you plan on staying conscious before the Big Darkness, shut up! the woman uttered what sounded like a sentence, though not a very firm one.

About The Witness Shadow

About

The Tracus Arte Publishing House







Published in 2015; Reprinted in 2016























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The Threshold








Written by Doina
In english section

Chapter I

That year, a long, sweltering, dusty summer, a seemingly endless summer had fallen over the City. By mid-day, it looked as if the air were rising from the ground and from the sand, spurting hot from stones, climbing along scorched branches and leaves only to drift back down in a dizzy spell triggered by the heat.

It was Saturday morning and he woke up tired though he had slept a bit longer. It felt like he had been moving logs all night long. He had a slight headache. He had dreamt of his mother looking at him lovingly and then starting to sing something. A nightmare… her singing was very bad, so he decided to go to the beach.

The beach between the lakes was narrow, a sandy strip that was grey in one place and golden in another and full of pebbles.

Cat slouched near Uncle Sandu’s terrace because he was alone, because he wanted to enjoy his beer, to feel its bitter taste, to gaze at the cool and misty amber-like yellow in the glass; but then, he also had to keep an eye on his new T-shirt, the one he fell for the moment he saw it. In fact, the Ur, the guy who brought it to him, had driven a hard bargain.

– Hey, listen here Cat! You won’t have it unless you pay! You know what I mean, I don’t want favours in return…

He had been so taken with that black T-shirt, with its chartreuse yellow phosphorescent stripes, that, for the first time in his life, after allowing the Ur to complain about his tough life, about the dear price of milk and of bread and about how hard it was to find a job those days, he softly snarled at him:

– You’re a two-bit racketeer…

– You’re right, I’m a wretch, said the Ur in a sugary voice and, like the con he was, went on praising his merchandise and telling his tales… You can tell it’s the real deal, right? It’s worth ten times what I’m asking for it, but, you know, I have a large family and I don’t want them to know I gamble and I lose money.

– Are you trying to swindle me? Don’t you think I can see right through your tales?

– Listen, boss… it wasn’t easy to get it… for two days I lay in wait so I could get it!

– You lay in wait my foot…   you’re not only stupid, but you’re a liar too! You simply can’t lie in wait, your stench can be smelt from a mile away… the Krabors would smell you from afar!… C’mon, take the money and scram!

Cat’s answer had been short and had sounded bored; afterwards, he simply produced two pieces of blue paper and, not caring anymore, paid up.

This came as a surprise to the Ur who had expected first to get a thrashing and then to be paid a ridiculous amount…

***

He had moved on to the terrace, shaking the sand off his sandals. He was savouring his beer as if it were an eternal youth potion, his hand was stroking the glass and his narrowed, admiring eyes were sweeping over his beautiful, soft olive skin and the tattoos on his arms …

They were something to brag about…. most of them made by true masters and all of them having a meaning.

His first love, ah!, the wounds the blonde woman with eyes the colour of violets had carved deep… she’d taken away everything that was good in him, leaving behind an unhealable fury, the name of his first son… his beautiful boy whom he hadn’t seen for a year… his rank in prison… a high-rank offender, that’s what he was, and you couldn’t ignore that… to make a long story short, if you knew the language, if you found yourself on the same terrace with him and accidentally met his gaze you couldn’t help being startled, dropping your fork even.

It was no joke… only that out here, at the end of the earth, no one knew that was his first beer after having escaped from the Island, no one knew how much he’d missed this small, colourful community where clans, civilians, thieves, crooks, recruits and veterans mixed…no one knew he’d do almost anything to stay and be spared further trouble.

These people here at Uncle Sandu’s, the ones eating anchovies, were real suckers, they were “normal people” who knew nothing about Cat and his clan… Take, for instance, the family sitting at the first table, near the entrance – He, She, and two children; the two kids were too naughty for his taste, the way they were toying with their food and chewing half-heartedly, stomping their feet and turning up their noses as if they had poop on their plates. Their mum, though young, had dark circles under her eyes already and the corners of her mouth were turned down, a sign she was not happy; she was nagging the kids in soft whispers while cutting their food into small pieces which she was resolved to shove down their throats. Her husband, bent over his plate, was gulping down his food untroubled, oblivious to what was going on around him. They had left all their unpacked luggage on the floor, an open invitation to the Tarcats, who could already smell the suckers’ wallets.

Another three young ladies, wearing dresses with shoulder straps and large earrings, were smoking leisurely and were sipping still water with a lemon slice; their beach bags had been hanging on the backrests of their chairs for about an hour and the girls were giggling every time a man stepped in alone.

They, too, could be a “target of opportunity” for the Tarcats, but they weren’t, the girls were of no interest to them. They surely had just enough money to buy still water… therefore, their bags, mere replicas of famous brands, were still hanging on the high backrests undisturbed.

* * *

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Cat had noticed the two women the moment they stepped in and sat at a table. There was something special about both of them, in the way they walked and in their gaze, and he found that slightly annoying as he couldn’t say what it was… it was something vague, something he couldn’t grasp, something that slipped away leaving no trace behind …

He felt neither anxiety nor joy. As a rule, he felt anxious when around the League and he felt a sudden, intense joy when he was around a descendant of the Sines. So, there was no great danger but his innate curiosity gnawed at him.

He looked at them more attentively from under his pitch-black eyelashes.

Both women had blonde hair… dyed blonde hair, but not an obvious dye job. They were both tall… one of them was younger, she had slanted black eyes and a penetrating gaze and a sensual, well-contoured mouth… there wasn’t much you could read in her eyes. They were like two dark lakes in the depth of which you couldn’t imagine anything but death or complete mystery.

Just for a moment he caught her eye as she was looking around, her gaze on his skin for about two seconds, long enough to feel its warmth, and then he watched her lighting a cigarette and starting to talk to the other woman.

 The other woman was obviously older, still beautiful though, and there was a distinguished air about her which she clumsily tried to hide. But it didn’t work, you could see from afar that she was a character from another movie, as he used to say… however, she didn’t command too much attention. You could tell that had been her behaviour for quite a while and she didn’t really care if it was working or not. As a matter of fact, she no longer made even the slightest effort. The moment you saw her, even if you looked at her for only a few seconds, you knew she was something else. There was sadness behind her greenish eyes which she smothered and kept unwatered…

He suspected the first woman was a last-generation replica, but he couldn’t be sure. There were many imperfections and he couldn’t believe they’d already come up with one that good. While in jail, he heard many stories about how they’d released several replicas that were being tested …

But, take for instance this one, she had freckles and dark circles under her eyes… and replicas don’t drink and don’t smoke… while this one enjoyed her beer and smoked like a chimney…

“It’s out of the question! Out of the question!… this is something else…,” Cat muttered to himself.

And the other one is a “Civilian”, definitely!

You place her on a tray and have her for breakfast!

They were talking quietly to each other, they were laughing, they didn’t seem to have any valuables though the Civilian was wearing a gem-studded ring on her left hand which was a dead giveaway.

His trained eye couldn’t have possibly missed such a piece of jewellery. Unless in her naivety the woman didn’t pay too much attention to what she was wearing. Her clothes were not expensive, they were the kind of clothing the penniless class wore, but her ring and her bag raised some questions.

Her black leather bag, which looked a bit out of fashion, had magnetic clasps which…a-ha!… that was it … the clasps took double fingerprint scanning to unlock … So, the woman did have something of value unless that was the latest fad in bags.

Anyway, he had grown more watchful, his eyes glued to the T-shirt and his gaze on the girls.

He was genuinely startled when the She-android stood up, walked over to him and, with no introduction at all, said:

– Excuse me, I’d like to get a tattoo and, if you have a moment, could you tell me what’s the thing with tattoos? … I’d be real grateful!

Cat didn’t seem surprised to be approached like this and he quickly reckoned the girl already knew what kind of tattoos he had and her walking over to him was no accident. He answered half-heartedly:

– My expertise isn’t for free.

– It’ll be for me, the girl retorted.

– Is that so? What are you? Cat asked calmly. An android, right?

– No, she said without smiling and without blinking.

– A clone?

– No! was her terse, monosyllabic answer as she took another drag on the cigarette she seemed to never put out.

 

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– Gingerbread? Red Riding Hood? asked the man raising his voice in an attempt to joke or to slap her down delicately, waiting to see if she would get it…

– You’re an ass! The girl replied gracelessly and at that moment her slanted embers blinked once.

– What are you then? He went on, ignoring the insult.

– I am a Katena of the Krabor kin.

– You don’t say! And so what? You have no jurisdiction here… so, stop hitting on men with lousy pickup lines!

– I don’t need to bank on my kin to show you your place, I have the necessary training so I can tell you that you are a felon, that your rank is low, that you are not a petty crook, that you spent at least two years in jail, so move your ass to our table and start telling your tale!

– Ha-ha! Cat laughed… OK, I’m coming! Let me get my beer and my T-shirt from the beach; I really don’t feel like having to chase a stupid, robbing, dwarfish Tarcat and get myself into a tangle in this heat.

He had actually burst into laughter, he really liked the girl’s insolent boldness.

When he got to their table, Katena was smoking and the Civilian was looking at him with her big eyes, staring like a stupid child, and you could tell she was not paying too much attention to his face. She seemed a bit distracted and Cat couldn’t say why, but her silence and her timidity, which contrasted with Katena’s arrogance, aroused him more than they should have. He looked at the ring, at her hands that were like the hands of a teacher, at the bag left there on the backrest as an invitation… and decided a little bit of conversation before anything else would hurt no one.

The Civilian’s offer to buy him a beer simply snatched him away from his thoughts, which had grown drowsy from the heat, and also made her downright interesting. Had she kept it low, he’d have probably ignored her.

Most Civilians are down-and-outers, pretty boring toilers who have to work long and hard since they’re not too bright. As a rule, they are very fond of the pieces of blue paper they keep in the bank. They count them, they kiss them, they invest them and then again they count them, they kiss them…

How about that! A Civilian buying someone a beer…!

This was indeed out of the ordinary.

Katena said bluntly:

– I want to get a tattoo to drive my folks crazy…

– Will they give you permission?

– Well, I’ve just told you, I want to piss them off!

– Piss the Krabors off? You’re out of your mind!

– Do I look in my right mind?

– What rank are you?

– On my mother’s or on my father’s side?

– Your mother’s side, of course…

– The 27th.

– Oh… Here’s my advice: you’d better argue with them, it’s more constructive, you know words can hurt more than a lizard tail tattooed forever on your white, freckled skin. You’ll be happy with your lizard, but then you’ll want a Gnuc and then an inscription in the old Gowsca language and you’ll end up looking like me….

– So, what’s it to you?

– Well, you said you wanted my advice.

– No, I asked you to tell me about getting a tattoo…

– Are you sure you’re a 27th-rank Katena? You should be smarter.

– I am! said Katena…don’t get me started…

– OK! Don’t get a tattoo because you’ll get addicted!

– What does that mean?

– It means that’s what happens! You become an addict! You’ll eventually want to have a church tattooed on your blond scalp and I assure you not even I could hang around with someone looking like that…

– Are you married?

– I was. I have a son…

– When the hell did that happen? While you were in jail?

– You’re being ridiculous…I drifted a lot, but now and then I took a break…

Their talk was like a game of tennis, with the two of them tossing the ball over the net and unembarrassedly staring each other in the eyes. So, when the Civilian spoke they both turned their heads as if they had just discovered she was there too.

– Where have you been drifting, Mr. Cat? she asked softly and looked through both of them, as if through glass.

He voice was clear, cultured, like she had attended a most exclusive private boarding school.

– I’ve been everywhere… in Ennis, in Gowska, in Skillden…

– Have you been in Brosem? she asked again and for a moment there seemed to be a sparkle in her eyes.

– Yeah…screw the boring bunch…the man answered and this time he looked at her through squinted eyes to see her reaction.

The Civilian sat there, mouth agape. He eyes were big and surprised, a little sad but inquisitive nevertheless.

She couldn’t abstain, it was as if those words had brought her to life somewhat.

– Boring bunch? Brosem is absolutely wonderful. It is the only land that still preserves works of art within legal boundaries and despite difficulties, despite everyone. It is unique in this crazy world. Have you seen the museum, Mr. Cat?

It was Cat’s turn to gape! Never in a million years would he have expected such a question.

About The Threshold

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Published 2014; Reprinted 2016







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Konos’ Journal

 

Vexhal Mountain Platform

 

Translated by Voinescu Marius

Day 1

Dear Father,

If I call you this way, I hope that both of you, or at least one of you, can hear me. I never really understood why humanity decided to make me so important. Why couldn’t you just leave me alone? Why did you place such a heavy burden on my shoulders? No one asked me whether or not I wanted this. You sent me to the Yellow Eye to speak to the sand and prevent it from flowing cold. Well, now I’m here, and now I know that throughout my entire life, you’ve lied to me about who I was and who I belonged to. You burdened me with the mission of wearing the Yoanian Shirt and saving what you couldn’t. I want to tell you this: I don’t plan on staying in this wasteland to speak to any grains of sand. If you wanted to be rid of me, then you’ve done it! You’ve sent me to Purgatory! But I haven’t left empty-handed; I took two wancuy with me.

So, thankfully, I am not alone, and I will do whatever it takes to get out of here and give you this damned Shirt back.

Day 2

The landscape here is desolate; nothing but sand and mud. When the wind sweeps through the countryside, it smells like a predator spilling its guts after gorging itself on carrion. When the storm starts, everything is earthy and dark. Afterwards the sand bellows through the heavens like a cow that’s being slaughtered, even though here on the surface, there’s hardly even a breeze. Then, just a meter in front of me, the wind dies down, leaving me with swollen nostrils.

All I breathe in is this damned heat that continues to cling to us.

On my first day, I was instructed by a pair of veterans. Their eyes were full of sand, their nails were black, and occasionally they spat up nuggets of clay. The mud here clings to you like glue—only a Vexhal scalpel or scissor can overcome it.

One of my colleagues decided to try being funny and smeared his penis with the mud to keep it stiff. That caused his insides to turn to jelly, and urine to gush straight out of his scrotum. They had to cut off the mud…and most of his penis with it.

Each of us was given Vexhal jumpsuits, and this muddy earth can get through neither it nor our boots. So don’t worry yourselves—assuming it’s a good day, and the mud vortexes don’t shift their location, we will manage to return safely from this territory that’s been cursed by the despicable Sertazians!

I rest in the barracks with other miserable fellows, who—like me—hope to one day escape unharmed from this place you’ve sent me to.

The wancuy have adapted themselves well. During the day, when I’m asleep, they sit atop the wardrobe and watch over me. When I leave for the night, I lock them inside the filing cabinet. I hope they don’t decide to mate before autumn.

(…)

Day 90

 

I’m really upset with Kay! I still can’t forgive him for bringing me all this way, by his own hand no less, and then abandoning me here. He kept saying he’s organizing some “Resistance” no one has heard even a whisper of for many years. Despite all this, however, I really wish I could show him how the Clay-Women emerge from the Yellow Eye. The sight of them makes you break out in a cold sweat, and then your helmet visor gets foggy.

Whenever we go out, we take the ranculians with us: those big dogs with white manes that the Yoanians bred during peacetime. The hounds walk in front of us. They could smell a Sertazian if he’d blown his nose in the wind, much less if he’d left behind a bulbous deformity somewhere.

Once they find it, they return, sit on their hindquarters, and whine. Do you know how a ranculian whines? It’s heartbreaking—it sounds like the creature is giving up the ghost. But that’s when the bomb disposal team steps in to measure things with their double probes. Afterwards, they modify the map and we change course. It takes us a few hours to reach the Yellow Volcano.

We skirt the banks of the petrified river, mindful that our feet don’t slip towards the viscous shore. No one can pull you out if you fall in. No, you are stuck there in the clay, slowly being liquefied alive as the cold, sticky magma eats you and drags you into the depths. No one screams—they just bite their tongue and drown their tears. Nothing can be done except maybe commit suicide.

But wait, there’s more! Once we arrive at the summit of the gargantuan Yellow Eye, all we have is about two hours, because that’s as long as we can endure watching that boiling mass full of popping, sulphurous blisters. We need to know when to duck and cover, and when to hold our positions. It’s not easy to read the signs that indicate whether a Clay-Woman is about to emerge. Once they’re out, their naked golden phosphorescent skin gleams as they open their mouths and eyes wide. That’s when we need to operate the tractor device. The vexhal platform, with its net as thin as paper, needs to be lowered into position under the soles of their feet—any higher, and their legs are sheared off and the batch is worthless. It’s mostly guesswork, and you need to repeat the process in order to collect at least two or three that might be worth some money.

Anyway, I’ve got some experience now. So, the last time, I was able to pick up two creamy Earth-Pearls, as the Candlemakercalled them. In that moment, I felt a joy I’d nearly forgotten in my time spent here. You should have seen how I held my breath with my finger over the launch button; I was nearly paralyzed. You see, during my prior attempt, I had launched too soon and severed a pair of Clay-Women in two, right at the pelvis. They dropped back into the scalding basalt with their eyes wide open. My colleague– the one missing his penis–managed to catch only one of them. As he stood with the launcher on his shoulder, his finger was trembling, but he still managed to get her, even if a piece of her heel was missing.

When I finally returned that night, I did some calculations and figured out that it would take me about a year to gather about twenty-two Clay-Women. Only at that point could I finally return.

By day, I work with the Clay-Women, and they faithfully obey me as though I were their master. I try to stay humble and not let it go to my head.

It’s said they are the embodiment of people from the nations exterminated by the Sertani. They don’t speak, they don’t eat, and if you put them in a box, one atop the other, they sit like that until you pull them out of there. They learn to follow orders exactly as you tell them to, so I’m hardly surprised that humans decided to use them for law enforcement. We, however, aren’t allowed to touch them, which is fine. What the hell would we do with a woman made from dirt?

I’m lucky to have the wancuy! They’ve made their home in my drawer, and we sit and talk for hours on end. The male eats right out of my hand and then urinates on the bed pillow. The female always finds time to argue with him. The male keeps pleading for me to bring him along when I go out on my missions, and even though I would like to, I do not dare until he sires children.

Day 107

I am well, my eyes have adjusted to this place, and I can hardly wait to see that scoundrel Kay so he can tell me everything that’s been happening back home. It had reached my ears he’d recently been named the new ambassador for Glotaria. Because what in the devil does diplomacy and resistance have to do with one another? I don’t get it.

I’m starting to regret that I had forgotten to bring some eye ointment with me; the kind Father Acron had obtained when he was burned in the doorway of his laboratory in Drigat would have been perfect.

I was scared I would be blinded here, in the Yellow Half, and that I might be eaten alive by the clay that was advancing slowly each day towards our camp.

Telling the administrators that we should move had proven pointless. These people want to hold on to every penny. Time and again, they’ve refused to relocate the metal mountain with their transporters, stating that it might aggravate the Yellow Eye, and that it hardly produced many fish-eyed women anyway.

Every night that magma chases after us and creeps closer. It burns our eyes while we sleep, and resting with your helmet on isn’t an option, unless you want to suffocate.

Otherwise, Tas worries me; the male wancuy is upset with me, all because I refuse to believe his story about a small blonde colleague who comes over to my bedside while I sleep and keeps making faces at me. If he so much as touched me, Tas would sting him in the jugular, or wrap his rope-like body around the man’s neck. But I don’t believe it, and Tas is sad because of it. He promised to sit in my pocket and wake me, should the blonde fellow come back to disturb me. That was the only way I could put his mind at ease.

 

Day 145

 

We don’t go hungry, and we aren’t lacking anything, but during the day, it’s hard being locked inside that metal bunker. Sitting with those clay dummies feels like watching a training session for monkeys. We aren’t allowed to touch them, since for at least two months, they’re still soft. During this period, we need to take things slowly, else they might get damaged.

Some rookie became impatient and went up to one of fifteen–because all of them are numbered in the batch, and they are mostly identical–and placed his hand on her breast. He became stuck to her almost instantly, his arm going in all the way up to the elbow. From behind, his fingers were sticking out, and we could all hear him howling in pain.

Juices of melted meat were flowing, mixed up with already putrid blood. Luckily for him, the instructor was nearby when it happened, and severed the arm at the shoulder. The rookie fainted, and number fifteen was walking about with his Vexhal glove sticking out between her shoulder blades. At least I hope this event taught everyone this is certainly no joke!

Some say these things will be the death of us, that after a few years, the Sertazian’s will activate them against us. Others say let the devil burn the economy, and that we should just tighten the belt on the army and police, and bring the dead inside our houses. However, after all these years our half has been defended by the Sand-Pearls. And it’s safe to say no one can defeat them.

I personally rather like these plain figurines. They don’t comment or argue. If you teach them to walk on all fours, they will crawl like that until you tell them to stop. God, how they look, they’re actually quite wondrous! They can resist grenades and even high caliber bullets without so much as blinking. The devil would find real enemies in these ones.

I prayed to God no one would decide to cause mischief, or I might send this division I’m training to confront them! They follow me blindly. What I wouldn’t give to have one of those scale helmets they’re wearing, but this is an impossibility; even if you tried to slice around the edges of the head, the helm still wouldn’t come off. Not that others haven’t already tried this. Then again, I never saw or heard from any of them ever again.

Tas pinched me when I was asleep, making me jolt towards the ceiling, and I almost crushed him.

Fema, his consort, became agitated from her perch above the dresser. I had not seen anyone. Fema explained Tas had gotten drunk on some fermented cider I had forgotten on my nightstand. This made the wancuy feel depressed again. When he becomes upset, he wraps himself into a ball. I read him a story, but it still didn’t help. Even I started feeling depressed because of his behaviour. I petted him for half an hour and then pretended to doze off. Only then did he unwind.

Day 181

I haven’t heard any recent news about Mother, and that’s the most painful thing. Tas has started ignoring me, he pretends like he doesn’t see me. I have to pull him by the legs and wrap him around my arm like a bracelet, but still he keeps silent. He’s probably waiting for me to apologise. I know I will need to; I have no one else to talk to, and I hardly trust anyone around here. Tas and his partner, Fema, are the only ones who listen to my worries. Besides, none of the others can speak their language, let alone see them.

No one knows who I am or how much I know. Every day, the Yoanian Shirt teaches me more and more information, but also advises me to stay humble. Fortunately, I am in fact so humble that no one takes me seriously.

Day 190

 

Tas believes I am a cold-blooded killer. I explained it to him; in fact, he and his lover Fema had witnessed a part of it. At this point, no one but us knows about this, but I’m afraid I might be discovered and will have to flee. In all likelihood, I think that’s what I will need to do before someone finds out the truth.

I hid myself as best I could, pretending to be a fool and working from dusk till dawn. Nobody would have suspected that I was wearing the Shirt of the Yoanian’s? Who would believe that a simple soldier (well correction Corporal now) knew everything there was to know in the world?

In a way, I knew today would come; the day Duncan’s damnable posse arrived at the Vexhal Mountain. Duncan, the same mercenary hired by the Glotan Commercial Lodge, who had sworn to hunt down mother, all because he’d learned why Father Acron had left, and how he had pulled the wool over all their eyes.

Apparently, he had orders to check absolutely everyone. We were all commanded to assemble at the platform from where we departed towards the Yellow Eye every day, and strip down to the waist. The shirt was now invisible; no one knew I had it; and it was sunk deep below my skin. Only if someone skinned my hide, like the Leranians did to Father Maximus, could they take it off me. Thus, I had to be brave.

For certain they would use intimidation, they were just waiting to see who would tremble, and use that as an excuse to skin the poor fellow alive. Even so, I was terrified, for they had brought fifty sniffers with them. It was said they could detect even the smallest drop of sweat that smelled of fear.

In order to fool the sniffers, I needed to smear myself with mezder fat, and since that couldn’t be found here, I decided to use rancul fat as a substitute. How could I anoint myself with dog grease without killing it?

Without telling anyone, I went to the rancul paddock. I knew one of the handlers there, his name was Udor. He let me inside and allowed me to take one of the rancul’s, so I told him to give me the oldest one he had so that I could take it out for a walk.

The dogs name was Maipo, and while he rarely wagged his tail, he appeared happy to be out of his cage. Udor gave him to me and I pulled the leash, making my way towards our barracks, walking calmly so as not to attract attention.

I knew exactly where to make the incision to take out a piece of fat. The hound wouldn’t have to bleed, since I was using a cauterized scalpel. I even brought stitching needles and thread. Nothing else was overlooked, not even the sleeping serum with which I knocked him out for the same amount of time it would take for a walk.

I operated on him quickly, taking out a piece from under his neck, the place where the excess skin wouldn’t make any wound visible. I also remembered to take a vial of his blood to drink when I was out on the platform. Afterwards, I liquefied it, just to make it easier to swallow. When he awoke, Maipo was a little dizzy, but otherwise completely unharmed. I took him back and left a packet of cigarettes for Udor.

During this time Tas and Fema stood watch, ready to sound the alarm should any unwelcome guests arrive. I left them to guard the room and tell me about everything that moved during my absence.

In an hour I was at the platform, oiled from head to toe in Maipo’s fat. My new fear was that I would vomit due to the blood I had consumed. Keeping a low profile was essential, but my face was as white as a sheet and because of the heat, I was worried I might sweat profusely. I didn’t know what I was going to do if the sniffers caught me, but I was determined not to let them catch me. Jumping off the Vexhal platform straight into the viscous mud and drowning in the cold deadly clay that flowed nearby might have been preferable.

All of them passed me by, their huge nostrils opened wide like wet pits taking in my scent. Only one stopped; he tilted his nose in my direction and smiled with lips that resembled two pieces of twine.

I calculated the distance it would take to reach the edge of the platform. Less than thirty seconds. I propped myself up on my boots and tightened my muscles.

The sniffer came up to me and asked.

“What is your name, Corporal?”

“Sir, Konos, sir.” I answered curtly.

“Where are you from?”

“Sir, from the Digrat Belt, sir!”

“From which side?”

“Sir, Crater number 2, sir!” I stood there with my eyes fixed on his right shoulder.

The sniffer went around me, searching me up and down while I didn’t dare take in breaths of my own. My fear was long gone, I knew exactly what I had to do. He wouldn’t have placed a finger on me unless he wanted to be liquefied.

After he had finally gone, I released the air I held in my lungs in stages and calmed my erratic heartbeat. When I returned to the barracks, Tas had come out through the keyhole and was waiting there, hanging on the doorknob. In one breath he told me everything, so I was ready when I entered. Udor was in the room with the dog, and on his face was a vicious grin. He threatened to expose me unless I gave him all the credits I’d earned from so much hard work. It wasn’t that I cared too much about the credits, it was the fact I knew he would betray me anyway.

In his hand was the container in which I had liquefied the blood. It was clean; but still, after a laboratory analysis…I couldn’t take that risk. I hacked him in zigzag patterns to make it look like he’d been attacked by a savage beast. Afterwards, I opened the rancul’s wound, tattered it and closed the door.

After a few minutes, I raised the alarm.

Tas no longer left my side. Fema kept trying to reassure me, saying I had no other choice and that I shouldn’t feel guilty.

Day 191

They found Udor and took him straight to the cremation chamber. Thankfully, no one wondered what he was doing in the barracks. The only pity I felt was for the rancul. They found him covered in Udors blood, with the wound on his neck from which his own blood was still flowing, but they still ultimately shot the dog. Sometimes, I dream about the rancul and then cry in my sleep, remembering the taste of his blood. One day, I will take a rancul puppy and raise it, just as soon as this madness is over. Afterwards, I will let no one else touch it. I will keep it by my side to wash away the guilt I have for Maipo.

My wancuy are more attentive than ever. Whenever I’m roused from my sleep, they smile at me and chase each other on the bed’s headboard. I know they only do that to raise my spirits. Tas no longer speaks about the blonde comrade who comes to stalk me. He started liking the idea of me carrying him around whenever I left for the platform. Every time I look at him standing there with his tail sticking out, he reminds me of a diffused grenade pin; not to mention how quickly my heart beats, knowing he is in fact there.

Day 203

 

Usually, we returned from the Yellow Eye in the morning, exhausted with swollen eyes and spitting out saliva mixed with dust. Our mouths are like dry bags when we leave, anyway. When finally we do arrive, typically the water bottles are all empty, including the reserves for the rancul’s. The smell of wet clothing and manly sweat mixes in the hot dry air. We’ve gotten so used to the situation that we just don’t care anymore. It’s only when the straps of our helmets start rubbing and rash the flesh on our chin, that we feel really uncomfortable. It would be possible to loosen them, but no one dares risk losing their helmet.

If that ever happened, and a dust storm started out here, the meat on our heads would simply be sandblasted away.

Today, I had a small heart attack. Tas and Fema were missing from my room. Some hours later, just as I was really starting to panic, they returned. For fear of losing them, I decided not to scold them. Later, they told me they went to see the rancul’s. When I heard this, I tightened my jaw and did my best to bottle my rage. The reason for their absence was because they wanted to see if the hounds could detect their scent. Now I understood why there was such a stampede and inexplicable racket at the paddocks earlier. I only brought myself to kiss them, happy with the knowledge that they were safe.

Day 230

As dirty as we were corporal Artium told us to stand in formation so he could proceed with the counting. He did this by reflex and he was never wrong on the count. First he started with the ranculs. When not a single hound went missing, that was considered a good day. When he numbered the men not a single muscle in his body twitched if someone failed to answer the call. He called the sergeant over, placed a thumbprint on the file of the missing in action presumed dead soldier and that was all. After that we start unloading thevessels. During all of this all you could hear is Artium’s voice, short like the growl of an animal; if I didn’t know what he was about to say I’d have trouble understanding it.

“Hold position! Align to the right! One step forward! Sit, Leave the rancul! Lift up! Good! Get back! Hold position! Protect the back line! Dismissed!”

Just growl-growl! And the stamping of our boots against the vexhal platform that made the mountain yelp and reverberated the sound back into the metal framework. Today I checked to see if there were any marks left behind by the millions of stampeding feet we made each day. Nothing, not even the dust settled on that structure. It was anti-abrasive, even though it was designed to perfectly mimic a high adherence field.

The mountain encompasses the heat into massive balls within the interior and these ensure us with everything we need, then at night we hear them tumbling about from side to side, maintaining balance should the clay become unstable. Floating brackets don’t help; they just become stuck at any sudden movements.

Beyond our division was a landing field for the hecators. To us, this is a restricted area. They come in pairs, one after the other. Each month they come to pick up the vessels straight from the warehouse. I am glad to see their fat backsides when they shove each other forward towards the mouth of the loading area. They tighten their legs and wait for their bellies to be filled.

I imagine they breathe a sigh of relief and shut their eyes because of the exhaustion after such a long way. They stay there overnight while the loading continues. By morning they are full and they take off at sunrise. They don’t let out even a single sound, in mute silence they split the morning light like a pair of birds curving the tall space towards who knows what destinations.

We start everything over, we shove the helmets on our heads, listen to Artium’s grunting, hold the ranculs with a steady hand and, with some luck, we are alive for yet another day.

Fema confided to me that she was waiting for Tas to ask her hand in marriage before they would be mated. I promised her that on my first day off we would hold a wancuy wedding, but without any yelling. She was so happy, and then said we would like to make a dress out of bandage cloth from the infirmary.

Day 240

 

Today we didn’t go out hunting, we were wrapping vessels; all things considered we worked in the warehouse the most, until they hardened and we could bundle them up. We placed them on pallets then placed them in crates, packaged like bottles standing upright, four could fit in each crate, beautiful and cold, beautiful and strange, placing their hands on their chest and shutting their eyes in unison.

We no longer jump back in surprise at this, we know it doesn’t hurt them anyway, they feel nothing, no hunger, no cold. We always search for even the smallest signs of deviation, a twitch, a finger moved in a different way, a smile, a bowed head, or a glance. Nothing like that had ever happened. All I ever heard was Artium’s voice.

“Check it!”

And I needed to go around the container and wrap the belts tightly.

“Fasten it!”

Now I need to push the lever securing the pallet holding the vessels

“Pull!”

And the lid tightly seals the crate holding the four Sand-Pearls.

“Let it go!”

Then you hear the trigger for the conveyor belt going off.

“Crate 103 was loaded! Dismissed! Gather at the mess hall!”

 

Day 243

After he’d eaten, Artium the growler started playing the class clown. He read his letters out loud and laughed:

“Take a look at these two ladies slapping and beating each other up because of me!”

And, passing his palms in front of his eyes waved us a photograph of two rather plain looking, overweight women, who are past their prime, tussling on the ground. Artium just started laughing by himself like a fool, flexing his muscles.

“I wonder why I act badly with the women? Maybe it’s because I hate my mother. That’s why I let them bicker isn’t it?” He asked himself. He shook his head and continued to rattle on about all the many lovers he’d had.

Honestly, I had no desire to explain to him that the reason he was rude with women is because that’s all he knows. Besides, I don’t like how he shakes his butt in front of the soldiers. And it’s not like I want to judge people, it’s none of my business, his words just passed by my ears as I thought about the last Clay-Woman I discovered the night before.

She’s different somehow, her eyes are green and when she came up to the surface the clay melted off her like milk. Her long hair reached down to her hips, and she’s not perfect like the rest of them. When I saw how thin she was a thought passed through my mind that she might be discarded as a reject. When she appeared she was holding her hands in front of her breasts.

That made me remove her as quickly as possible with the paper-thin rake. On the return trip I was anxious she might break before reaching the warehouse. I got as close to her as I could and wrote my name on her back and left palm.

I claimed her as my own and it was all I could have done. The rules stated I could pick one, I had chosen her out of fear she might be wasted.

All my colleagues laughed about it, Artium pointed at me, saying I chose a lame mare with green eyes. Damn me if I cared what they thought. She had her eyes open when I scooped her up. In two months she would harden, then I would have someone to tell all the stupid things that passed through my mind, and we could see the Hecators and feed the ranculians.

Artium pokes me with his bony finger and drives me up the wall.

“Hey man, are you listening to me?”

“Yeah, I’m listening.” I answer and leave without understanding what he wanted.

Tas was happy I had found myself a partner, he even suggested I bring her from storage into my room so that he could have a Godmother. Fema had made herself a dress; she looked like a bandaged rope.

I told her she looked beautiful and her cheeks flushed red. When a wancuy blushes they become thinner. Tas made a remark that she should stay that way because she looked better. That made Fema rather upset, but Tas kissed her as an apology and no harm was done.

I can hardly wait to bring my Sand-Pearl home.

Day 269 

 

“Man I’m going to get on that doesn’t complain about anything. As in she won’t stick her nose into my business when I waste time with whores or at the bar all day. She would stand at attention, understand! One of those women who would love me so much she would wet herself when she saw me, and that’s before I had even touched her. I would turn her into a lady and it would be enough! Maximum happiness.

Artium spoke as he looked in a mirror and pulled a string of hair out of his nose.

“Get out of here, Artium.” One of the boys in the company retorted, it was the quiet blonde with the wide shoulders and a serene look on his face that made him look like a different species of human.

“What’s your problem man, are you envious you couldn’t find one?” Artium replied.

“If I wanted to look for one, I will find her. But devil take me if I could keep up something of the sort. Besides, spending too much time with a woman like that might make my dick go limp forever, especially if we aren’t right for each other.”

“Brother, there is a soul in her too. Even if she’s ugly she still needs to be good in bed.”

“Man, do you see what just happened? Remember how this discussion started, and look how much we’ve deviated. Doesn’t matter who you sleep with, all that matters is you, and you’re the guy who said he hates his mother. That’s how it started.”

“Oh just shut it and go to bed you two, it smells like burned eggs in here. Tomorrow we need to head off again in the middle of the night, and you guys are arguing about the guy who has no penis and sticks his fingers up his ass!”

“Boys I am going to get up right now and release the ranculians. If I incite them they will start barking like mad, then you will wish you were in hell. Tomorrow night your eyes will be as big as saucers.”

“Go back to your fat mama you slimy trout, and who needs sleep anyway. Eventually we are all going to die on this metal hulk. My god, how long do you think we will survive hunting for these clay vessels? Huh, how long? I’m sick of jerking off, and if you keep looking at me while I undress I’m going to head-butt you, or tomorrow someone might find you with your neck slashed open.”

Everyone was reduced to silence when an explosion rang out in the distance. Afterwards another one erupted, followed by smaller ones, like metal shrapnel ricocheting at the mouth of a cavern. This made us all jump to our feet.

“The Sand-women warehouse just exploded! Mother of God, curse this wretched existence, all our hard work this month has gone up in smoke!”

“Grab your suits and masks ladies, and let’s go. On the double!”

I felt the sting of what felt like a thousand needles in my heart as I rushed around with the leaking canteen holding the wancuy, worried that any misstep might cause me to crush them. I couldn’t have left them alone in this chaos. I would never have forgiven myself if anything had happened to them.

Every now and again I stopped to open the bottle. Tas just shouted at me to stop shaking them around so much. I had placed the brides dress at the bottom so they wouldn’t hit the walls of the flask. I would have to make another one for her later.

I was just searching for my Sand-Woman. Fema asked me where she was and advised I forget about everything and everyone and rush into the ruined warehouse to look for her.

I’m in hell mother, and I don’t know if you are all right.

I’m in hell father, and I don’t know if you’ve suffered a similar experience.

I’m in hell everyone, and you don’t even realize it.

Însemnări din Bangkok (II)

Ajungem pe Suvarnabhumi, un aeroport modern, în care se lucrează zi și noapte pentru optimizarea fluviilor de călători care se revarsă în interior și care apoi pleacă spre centrul orașului aflat la 28 de km distanță, cu taxiurile, cu autobuzele sau cu trenurile rapide care pleacă de sub clădirea terminalului. Călătoria cu expresul durează 15 minute și costă 90 de bahti, aprox 9 lei iar cea cu taxiul costă 1500, adică 150 de lei. În ambele cazuri diferența între ei și noi e ca de la cer la pământ. Și cândte miri, doamne, ce bine o s-o duci la asiatici, vezi că trebuie să iei viza de intrare unde sunt cozi uriașe, ca la intrarea în paradis pe semne, numai că aici sunt vreo zece șiruri interminabile unde stai că boul, pentru că ei nu vorbesc engleză, dau doar din cap, ceea ce nu e de ajuns. Inscripțiile cu Emigration visa, nu te ajută, deci stai ca vita, mai vine și o pitică îmbrăca[image error]tă în uniformă de armată de frontieră, și țipă , nimeni nu înțelege de ce, eu pricep cu îngrijorare că vrea să stăm la coadă câte doi de mână în rând, pitica are față de khmeră, mi se cam zbarleste părul, în fine ajungem la un ghișeu după ce am stat în picioare o ora, altă khmeră țipă și în păsăreasca for că să ne ducem la altă coadă, una mai mare; ne ducem, stăm și acolo 2 ore, curge apa pe noi, khmerii urlă, noi completăm formulare, răspundem cu calm, în sfârșit ne pun câte o ștampilă în pașaport și ne dau o bucățică de hârtie pe care trebuie să o păstrăm să o arătăm la ieșirea din țară.

Al dracu cine o să stea cu ochii pe hârtia aia, normal la prima ocazie am pierdut-o, ceea ce va avertizez că nu e bine.

Pentru ei e un prilej să-ți dovedească că dacă vor pot să te țină acolo în aeroport la întoarcere, până îți bagi mințile în cap, ceea ce s-a și întâmplat, la plecare, fiindcă n-am avut biletul ăla penibil, m-au dat afară din rând, cu riscul să pierd avionul, și mi-au zis să mă întorc 150 de kilometri, la hotelul în care am stat să caut hârtia vieții lor.

Ehei, atunci să va văd față în față cu niște asiatici supărați că nu le dai ce trebuie, tu stând fără nici-o speranță în nomenland, butonând telefonul să cauți numărul de la ambasada ta, de la un ziar, o televiziune, o organizație de drepturile omului, ceva , cineva care să te scota din rahat și să te aducă acasă.

Și în sfârșit, când mai ai puțîn și crapi de disperare, i se face milă unei asiatice, una mică cât un șoricel și vine cu două hârtii de alea micuțe, zice să le scrii din nou și să stai la coadă și să taci. Bine, asta am înțeles din semne și din gesturi, așa mă făcut, khmerul cu trese pe umăr de la control pașapoarte a fost mulțumit că i-am dat kktul de hârtie, și ne-a aruncat pașapoartele înapoi pe geamul ghișeului.

E bine când ai noroc, e bine când știi că peste 12 ore de zbor o să fii acasă, Doamne, vreau acasă în Bucureștiul meu murdar, isteric, haios, unde o să mă întâmpine careva cu ,, Hai să-mi bag p..la”, zici că nu-i mișto la asiatici ?

Însemnări din Bangkok (I)

Nu știu mare lucru despre pietre prețioase, dar cunoștințele mele dobândite prin ambiția stupidă de a mă documenta tot timpul în orice domeniu, puse laolaltă cu gustul pentru frumos, cu ceva zestre de la tatăl meu, pictor de biserici, artist rătăcitor, părinte ratat, bărbat fatal nedreptățit de spiritul galactic, ofițer dat afară din armata pentru preacurveală, m-au ajutat întotdeauna în cele mai diverse sitiuatii și așa se face că stând la o cafea în cel mai tare business julerry center din Bangkook, n-am rămas cu gura căscată, și n-am căzut în depresie când am fost martoră la tranzacționarea unei geme de jad de o mărime considerabilă , cam cât capacul unui sicriu de lux. Pur și simplu am avut impresia că mă uit la un film și că cei trei thailandezi plictisiți care cumpărau capacul și scoteau niște teancuri de bahti din genți, făceau asta ca și când cumpărau covrigi din piața Matache, iar arabul care vindea gema de jad , și care nu clipea când lua banii, era mai preocupat de cele două fiice ale sale care se jucau printre giuvaeruri ca niște pui de cămilă printre bolovani de sare.

Am încercat să nu mă pierd cu firea, că de, femeie sunt, uitându-mă la vitrinele interioare ale Expert Gems, la colecția superbă de bijuterii sofisticate, la pietrele prețioase montate în inele, pandative, broșe și cercei (în argint și aur) unde fiecare piesă este etichetă ca ediție limitată sau ca element unic.

Ei , și când căscam eu gura la etajul de safire roz, un bărbat tânăr cobora pe scara rulantă către etajul de safire galbene. Mi-au căzut colțurile gurii, am uitat de toate bijuteriile din Centrul de comerț, lumea toată s-a redus la o singură imagine, a unui bărbat asiatic, frumos ca lumina lunii coborâtă la picioarele unui zeu tânăr și fertil, cu părul de culoarea abanosului, pielea albă și mătăsoasă, cu ochi care îți tăiau gleznele dintr-o privire, lăsându-te într-un suspin dureros.

Și cum mă uitam după el ca după zilele unei tinereți zvăpăiate, gata să mă întorc ca un copoi de urmă și să-i număr pașii, a scuturat din cap, a băgat mâna în buzunar, s-a uitat fix la mine , secundă în care am regretat din străfundul sufletului că mai aveam de stat în Bankok doar o zi, și cu o mișcare studiată, a scos un ruj și și-a conturat buzele de înger.

Am fost atât de nefericită încât n-am mai vorbit cu nimeni, spre seară m-au împăcat câteva beri Tiger.

 

Era duminică , început de toamnă când încă se  mai simte la amiază căldura  verii și mai pe seară un vânt subțirel te face să  grăbești pasul spre casă.

Pe mine mă bătea un gând încă de dimineață, să îmi fac curaj să mă târăsc afară din lenea mea de weekend și să-mi iau o supă de la turc.

Face nevasta turcului o supă de linte cu mentă de te lingi pe degete, așadar ar fi trebuit să mă grăbesc pentru că se termina destul de  repede.

Nu sunt singurul suflet din cartier care  știe asta, așa că am aruncat pe mine un hanorac și am coborât să prind  bunătatea de supă pentru prânz.

Magazinul nu era departe, am trecut de Yula care vindea legume și fructe, naiba știe de unde le aducea că aveau niște prețuri de ziceai că vinde roșii de cinci stele. E drept că arătau bine, miroseau bine, dar erau toate la fel …de mă speriau pur și simplu, ai fi zis că sunt bibelouri.

Eu o bănuiam pe femeie că era în legătură cu molosarii de pe fâșie și ce se fura  acolo ajungea la noi în piață, vrac.

Pur și simplu nu voiam să știu mai mult. Se vorbea că îngrașau pământul cu substanțe interzise și că ar trebui să protestăm.  Eu îmi vedeam de treabă, nu mă bagam in bucluc. Chiar nu-mi păsa. Nici când mi-a țipat în față vecina:

-Dacă taci ești complice !nu i-am răspuns. Am lăsat-o la coadă, să se descurce.

Tot cartierul era dependent de roșiile molosarilor. La șapte dimineața erau direct la taraba Yulei, cu ochii cârpiți,  să cumpere.

Cumpărau răsaduri și bălegar la cutie, și îsi lăsau loc la cozi cu schimbul.

Am ocolit mulțimea, am evitat-o pe vecina care nu mai avea glas și șoptea:

– Complici, sunteți toți complici la hoție…

 

Se importaseră în acel an milioane de tone de bălegar din Ynutk,  a fost un mare scandal, au căzut capete, s-au dus iar gologanii poporului,  a urlat guvernul,  a urlat presa, și gata …au murit oameni și animale. După un timp

nimeni nu a mai știut ce s-a întâmplat cu bălegarul,  unii spuneau că o să-l îngroape cu  butoaie cu tot într-o mlaștină, undeva la sud de fluviu unde nici muștele nu trăiesc.

Așa că eu o suspectez pe Yula …  prea are ochii dați pe spate, prea mă înghiontește când mă vede, să iau ceva… prea îmi vorbește șușotit…

-Ia și tu niște dovlecei, pâraie de cruzi ce sunt, îți ajunge unul toată săptămâna, ai să vezi, nu-ți mai trebuie altceva.

Să fie ea sănătoasă,  unde a mai auzit că un om poate să trăiască cu un dovleac toată săptămâna ? Doar dacă dovleacul ăla care pâraie, nu e  dovleacul ursului de la est de fluviu și nu crește pe răzorul hrănit cu bălegar din Ynutk.

Trec de Yula, ocolesc taraba  prin spate și mă strecor pe străduță unde e o parcare privată cu gard de sârmă împletită  prin care nu vezi nimic .

M-am oprit să văd ce e acolo, pentru că un fuior subțire gri se ridica în bucle de după gard. Era să-mi scot ochii în sârma aia nefinisată. Are a naibii niște zgrunțuri pe ea mai răi decât ăia de la sârma ghimpată, vineții și înțepători. M-am zgâriat pe nas. N-am văzut nimic înăuntru, ba poate mi s-a părut că aud fluierături și înjurături într-o limbă ca un lătrat de bulldog înfuriat, și imediat a ieșit un paznic disperat care m-a repezit:

-N-aveți voie să faceți poze, n-aveți voie să puneți mâna, să intrați cu înghețată, să va rezemați de gard, să mâncați semințe, să va suflați nasul aici…

Era mic de statură, negricios, avea ecuson și ridicase glasul în timp ce ochii i se roteau în cap cercetându-mă de la pantofi până la gluga hanoracului. Am dat din umeri și i-am vorbit calm:

-Scuze, n-am știut.

-Ba știați, treceți pea aici în fiecare duminică, scuipă paznicul vorbele.

-Așa este dar pînă acum n-am vrut să văd ce e în parcare, i-am ținut și eu piept.

-E o parcare, ce să fie ? și se uită suspicios la mine

-Am vrut să văd cum arată. I-am răspuns și nu m-am dat înapoi niciun pas.

-Cum să arate o parcare ? Ca un mall? Nici nu e asfaltata. Aveți mașină? Părea mai îmblânzit dar nu crăpa afurisita aia de poartă niciun centimetru mai mult.

-Nu! Am scuipat și eu sec.

-Dacă aveați atunci va lăsam să o vedeți. Și bărbatul iar roti ochii peste mine de parcă era lovit de rău de mare.

Mie mi-a sărit muștarul.

-Și dacă n-am ? n-am voie să o văd ?

-Nu!

-Poate vreau să închiriez un loc, plătesc!

-Fără mașină nu se poate…  si fără să fii consumator de rosii ! și mi-a trântit poarta în nas.

-O să stau eu acolo, în fund, pe locul mașinii, i-am strigăt furioasa…  iar rosiile să ți le bagi în nas ! și-am dat să plec.

Pufăiam ca o locomotivă, mă  sugruma o furie neputincioasă.  Pe piticania de paznic, l-aș fi tras de păr în parcare să-mi arate el cât e de neasfaltata… să văd ce e în locul ascuns după gardul de sârmă. Eram sigură că acolo era camionul molosarilor care aducea roșii. Se umpluse cartierul de ciudățenii de când  veneau cu prelatele alea negre, noaptea.

Când m-am întors să îmi continui drumul către supa turcului,  că deja îmi ploua în gură de poftă,  hop peste capul meu , razant un papagal colorat îmi trage o pleașcă de găinaț  direct pe punga în care țineam termosul pentru supă. Bine că nu m-a nimerit în cap să mă umplu total de nervi. Am auzit că găinațul lor e acid ca al ciorilor și că atacă până și tabla. Scot termosul, arunc punga,  mă uit precaută în sus  și slavă Domnului  grăbind pasul ajung la turc.

Intru, apuc una din ultimile porții de linte cu mentă și pînă mi-o împachetează Lale, nevasta turcului, pe cine văd eu cocoțat pe tăblia unui scaun de afară ?

Papagalul !

Măi oameni buni, era cât pe ce să scap termosul în care era bunătatea mea pentru prânz.

Așa de țanțoș se plimba dând din piciorușe, se înfoia tot și se benocla la ușa magazinului că nu cred că ați fi rezistat. Mi s-a rupt inima, trosc, pleosc, gata s-a dus naibii. Am făcut un nod la sacoșă să nu se răstoarne, am ochit un fursec cu susan, l-am luat pentru arătare și am ieșit. Lale a strigat după mine:

-Nu-l băga în seamă, mie ieri  două vrăbii mi-au făcut ciur parbrizul. Am scăpat de ele cu  foi de varză murată și usturoi, Uită-te !

Așa era, dubița lui Lale era împăturită în foi de varză acră ca o sarma uriașă. Am dat din umeri. Turcii ăștia, mai ales bucătarii, câteodată o iau razna . Li se trage de la gătit . Auzi să faci dubița sarma cu varză acră. Pe la amiază o să pută toată strada .

Am chemat zburătoarea cu mîna întinsă .Nici nu s-a uitat la fursec, m-am înfuriat,

-Mă , după ce ești papagal,  nu știu ce naiba cauți aici, te-o fi pierdut careva, după ce că te-ai găinățat pe mine, după ce or să te omoare ciorile  în parc  mai faci și pe nebunul!  Mănîncă că te altoiesc !

A scos un hârâit subțire, un chițăit ca de șoarece și a înclinat capul să mă vadă mai bine cu un ochi .  După care pur și simplu a fluierat ca un golan când vede o demoazelă . M-a pufnit râsul. Bandit ce să zic?

-Să-ți fie de bine, i-am lăsat fursecul jos și am plecat, nu m-am uitat în urmă.

Papagalul zvrr după mine,  zbura, se mai oprea , ba pe-o creangă , ba pe-o sârmă de unde înclina iar capul să mă vadă .  M-am oprit să-l gonesc:

-Pleacă  că nu te iau la mine, nu primesc  papagali în casă ,  am alergie !

Ajung acasă, și atât am apucat să beau o gură din supă, să răsuflu și să încerc să mă relaxez, când aud un tropăit  ritmic pe tabla de la fereastră.

-Pleacă! Am strigat așa cu jumătate de gură. Și m-am dus să văd dacă sunt porumbeii care sunt coșmarul meu  și se găinățează și ăștia de zor la geam.

Când, văd papagalul tropăind  din gheruțe și în clonț cu o bucățică de hârtie.

Am luat plicul, era întocmai ca pliculețele alea de le trag  ei dintr-o cutie la iarmaroace când vrei să-ți ghiceasaca de dragoste, l-am desfăcut, înăuntru o vedere din  Ynutk. Mare e grădina Domului ! Îmi scrie mie cineva din Ynutk ? Ce ? ,, Mi-e dor de voi , ai grijă de Morena ! ,, Cine e Morena ?  Vorbesc cu arătarea !

-Morena ?   și zburătoarea fluieră  afirmativ , scurt ca un golan.

Îi dau drumul în casă, zboară sus pe bibliotecă și începe să-și pigule penele .

Îl las în pace, și îi dau apă. Clipocește, îi cade clonțul de somn.

 

Adorm, Morena doarme sus pe dulap, sunt liniștită. Visez un câine care pune capace la o stiva de conserve.  Din când în când aruncă înăuntru câte o roșie mare și zemoasă și clatină conserva să vadă dacă e plină.

Mă trezesc, Morena nicăieri. Îl caut, strig… hai la mama Morena… nimic. Fluier, mă urc pe dulap, mă trec transpirațiile. Atât îmi trebuie să fi pățit ceva și să nu știu unde s-a ascuns. Un papagal mort în vre-un ungher atât îmi trebuie acum. O să mi se umfle ochii , o să fac apă la urechi. Și era și simpatic, cum tropăia el și cum fluiera. Așa îmi trebuie dacă nu l-am închis într-o cușcă. Da de unde cuscă… ?

Obosesc, o să iasă el cumva…

 

Dau drumul la televizor. O blondă cu un microfon pe care mai are puțin și îl băga în gât, cu ochii mari și cu alunițe pe frunte, că se poarta… sâsâie o știre :

-De la inspectoratul general de urgență am fost avertizați că ultimul model de infractori folosesc papagali Morena aduși din nordul Ynutzkului pentru a jefui cetățenii și nu numai. Astăzi la prânz  din Banca Centrală o pereche de papagali Morena a sustras  o monedă datată înaintea erei noastre, de o valoare inestimabilă.

Mi se face rău, mă reped la cutia cu bijuterii, unde am și eu o amărâtă de brațară de la bunica-mea.

Brățara e acolo, slavă Domnului ! îmi sărise inima, lângă ea o monedă mică, arămie, ștearsă de vreme, pe care nu o mai văzusem pînă atunci.

Și lânga bilețelul cu,, Ai grijă de Morena.,,  încă unul cu un scris lăbărțat și abia inteligibil.

 ,,Acum ești complice ! Cumpără-mi rosii de la Yula!

Iscălit,

Morena

 

 

 

 

 

-Aveți săpun ?

-Da, la kilogram.

-Nu mai aveți la bucată?

-Nu, s-a terminat, nu știu ce i-a apucat pe toți ieri, era coadă la săpun.

-Atunci dați-mi la kilogram.

-Trebuie să cumpărați și un metru de anghilă congelată, e deja porționată și ambalată la snop: la promoție primiți un kilogram de săpun cu sulf și un metru de anghilă.

-Și dacă vreau doar săpunul?

-Trebuie să luați și anghilă. E la același preț.

-Uite, vreau săpunul, anghila păstrează-o dumneata. N-am ce face cu peștele ăla de un metru.

-N-aveți de unde să știți, anghila la metru e muză bună dacă stă la soare.

-Pute, un pește la soare se descompune.

-Normal da,  dar asta e anghilă absurdă la metru, poate să facă orice. Ieri     mi-a spus un client că  a lăsat-o în fața coliviei și s-a împăcat foarte bine cu papagalul, chiar s-au mutat amândoi în acvariu.

-Nu m-ați convins, vreau doar nenorocitul ăla de săpun cu sulf, care e bun doar pentru râie.

-Luați la kilogram cu anghilă la metru.

-Vreau să mă spânzur! Nu pot să mă spânzur cu un pește.

-Încercați ! ar fi absurd să nu reușiți.

 

 

 

Nu suntem singuri în univers. Există noduri de lume, populate, care ne sunt ascunse sau care se lasă extrem de puțin văzute. Probabil au existat populații mai vechi decât pământul și sigur vor exista într-un viitor pe care nu putem să-l cuprindem cu mintea, civilizații care pot comunica între ele prin mijloace neconvenționale, care pot să călătorească folosind tehnici atât de evoluate încât, pentru noi acum, par mai apropiate de magie.

Am creat o lume, care poate fi plasată pe pământ, într-un timp atât de vechi încât nu poate fi încă datat, sau poate fi chiar viitorul imprevizibil al acestei planete sau al alteia, acolo unde un nod de lume începe să se dezvăluie cunoașterii umane.

Fiecare om se simte bine în universul lui. Universul meu este unul fantastic, având propria sa logică, justificare şi coerenţă. L-am populat cu oameni şi fiinţe stranii, dar care se comportă, acţionează şi poartă dialoguri în mod firesc, realist și credibil.

Este un univers în care Seniorii Timpului schimbă lumi, le populează cu monştri, distrug civilizaţii, condamnă popoare la dispariţie, pun stăpânire pe elixirul tinereţii veşnice…  un loc în care, în loc de bani sau proprietăţi, colectorii iau datornicilor sentimente, amintiri sau ani din viaţă… în care timpul poate fi oprit, oamenii întorşi din moarte, iar pragurile dintre lumi nu sunt o piedică pentru cei hotărâţi să le treacă. Este o lume organică, fără arme așa cum le cunoaștem noi, unde până şi obiectele capătă viaţă, devenind personaje, unde umanul și non umanul, dragostea și ura, realul și irealul, destine și proiecții ale destinelor se îmbină, în viziunea mea, într-o poveste pe care am trăit-o și am scris-o în mai mult de cinci ani, cât am locuit în Ținutul lacurilor, în lumea lui Alk și în lumea Agenției, cele trei părți ale acestui roman.