Once we walked along this shore, through these dunes, you and I, hand in hand, when the world was young.
Now, our children stand tall and strong, and they and their mates look just like us, as we were.
So you see, dear love, despite all the mistakes, sometime the doubts, we saw through our future with much clarity, as the waves told us we would, once, there, along this shore, long ago.
Thursday photo prompt
This is your place, your home, far away, inaccessible. The lake is deep, a secret within many secrets. History has passed this castle by, and you, live on. In those dark waters, perhaps, lies a clue. But I will never know.
I cannot see you, except in one of those winter dreams. Silent, how can I be sure you notice me? You watch out, across those clouds, beyond our world, beyond eternity. Only now, only now I have lost you, do I understand who you are.
You, my love, in the castle.
What we see, the beauty around us, the clear water, the trees… We do not have words, in your language, to express our admiration, no, our love for your world. Where we come from, but you could not start imagining what it means, there is no such beauty. I should say, there is no longer such beauty. You would understand why we have travelled for so long, so far.
So, we are here now, though you don’t know it yet. But you will, soon. You see, we have longed searched for a world like yours, still full of the marvels of nature. We know you are not worthy of it, and possibly, some of you know it as well. But it does not matter.
Across the universe you are not alone, to spoil the beauty, to destroy every gift you received, in the name of greed. Sheer stupidity. As those old stones, on the ancient bridge, can testify. Blinded by your own delusion, you don’t even sense that your end is nigh.
So, we are here now. Just in time. We will eliminate you, that is so easy, we will clear the damage, restore the earth and the oceans to their pristine state. We will plant trees. For we are small, but immensely strong, we do not need much to live on, and leave no trace. We are the future of this world, and of all its other inhabitants. We are your Nemesis.
She had received the invitation just two days before. She knew the place, it had a rather dark reputation. But then, one had to chose: the appeal of the dark side, or the fear of the unknown. This was an old house, surrounded by ancient trees. She was not surprised the entrance door was open. There was no sound, no sign of any presence.
The letter had just said the owner would welcome the opportunity to show her the property, as a prospective buyer. So she was. How he – but was it a “he”? – knew that, was a puzzle.
In front of her was a long corridor. Rays of light, it was early summer, pierced through the darkness. Old wood, old walls. The air was cool, a faint smell of decaying roses and beeswax…
When she heard the voice, she knew: it wasn’t a he, “she” was the owner. The witch of her childhood, the shadow of her dreams. The voice was sweet, sweet as poison, coercing her to enter, to walk the long corridor, to meet “her”.
She knew where she was waiting, she’d seen the scene many times in her dreams. The house was open, but there was no return. She had to meet her fate, the fire, the ecstasy, her slavery. As a little girl she had known: there was no escape.
No, we haven’t forgotten: through this gate we walked, you and I, when the wall was new, the grass so green, and the sky so clear. We believed, the future was a wide alley, bordered with roses, your hand in mine, our eyes to the horizon.
Then came the clouds, and the blizzard, metal locusts. I held the shield high, and you were safe. That haven would not be taken. But outside, down in the valley, beyond the wall, the hordes of demons attacked, days after days. We could no longer breath, they scorched the earth, killed everything. The companions and I retreated, and stood by the gate.
There we died, one by one, till the sea of Evil receded. The last one who stood tall, alive, you know. He’s your Lord now, a Saint, in shining armour.
I, haunt these woods, remembering the day, when we crossed the gate.
“This is only an exercise”, he kept repeating to himself. But he knew that the exhaustion was catching up with him. He still had everything: the map, the compass, enough water, and the grains of black pepper. Black pepper… They’d told him that it would keep him going for miles… So he’d walked all night, and the day before, and the day before that. According to the map he’d already gone for nearly seventy miles, through woods, cañons and swamps. And the bag, the awful bag, some forty kilos of spare clothes and gear…
He also knew he would soon have to kill. Anything. To eat. For in front was the valley, and then he would have to go up, to climb. Now was morning, it would take him some twelve hours or more to reach the hills. He would have to rest, just long enough. Perhaps this was when he would get ambushed. No paintball then, no Sir. Just knives.
He thought back, his school friends, the barracks, at the time he thought it would be a good idea, to become a tough guy: he had choices, but, really, he wasn’t made for this.
Emulating Kafka, on the shore, I watch the waves, and wonder.
Is time a mere oscillation of the sea?
Is Gaia alive only for as long as the waves roll in?
This water world, will it dry out, like Arrakis?
Who are the Fremen of this world?
I do not know.
I am so small.
I know, you’re hesitating. For good reasons. It looks familiar, the small neat garden, the lavender, the path that leads to the ancient door… Yet, there is something different, or has something changed? You look at the old stones, at the bench, yes the bench, where you used to sit, next to him, waiting for nightfall. Someone still looks after the garden, and it’s not him.
If he were still there, he would be in front of you, welcoming you, welcoming you back. Or would he? After all, much time has passed, much has happened. You haven’t counted the years, of course not. You just know something has changed.
But, perhaps, it’s you? If he were there, at the gate, would you still see him? Would you acknowledge him? Now, look: you’re staying in the shadow, why? You know this place, you were once happy here, weren’t you?
Ha, I see… yes, I understand why you hesitate. You know why he’s not here. You know full well. And now, I am afraid. I am beginning to understand who you really are. Are you inviting me to sit, on the bench, waiting for nightfall? Are you moving me back, to where you were, to where he was… to where I am now?
Silent, we wait. Sooner or later you will come round. They all do. And our patience knows no bounds. You will come our way, and find us. Whether you recognise us or not, we don’t care. We will draw no pleasure from your destruction. It is your fate, and it is ours.
We are mere facilitators. We undo knots. We clear the way. We remove the pieces that don’t fit. And you and your kind certainly no longer fit.
A reading of Killing Commendatore by Haruki Murakami
This is Mr Murakami’s latest work, published in Japan in 2017, and translated by Philip Gabriel and Ted Goossen (I guess: a tour de force). First of all, I must say that, in my view, this is Mr Murakami’s most accomplished work thus far, a fascinating, troubling and at time challenging novel. To be sure, long haul readers will find there a familiar atmosphere, but also the unknown. I will not spoil anything, but mention some ideas and metaphors.
There is a young artist, a portrait painter, and his beautiful, estranged wife. There is a, now dead, beloved little sister. There is a lone timber house, high up in the mountains, which belongs to a famous old painter. There is an owl in the attic. Across the valley, there is a big, strange house, with a stranger owner.
The young artist teaches drawing at a local school. He lives on his own, in the timber house, with the owl in the attic, visits the attic, walks in the woods. Behind a little shrine he discovers a pit, the pit in the woods. There is the start of the quest, with a surprising painting, and a bell.
There is Vienna, at the time of the Anschluss, there is the war in China, but this is the past, with deep consequences for the present. The old painter is famous for his classical formal Japanese paintings, but this one painting…
The novel oscillates between dream and an even more unfathomable reality. There is a lovely, pubescent young girl, her beautiful aunt, and two portraits, or is it three?
Once started this, as with all of Mr Murakami’s work, the book becomes desperately addictive: one dreads the prospect of finishing the book.
Yet the quest has to be completed, through sacrifice and ordeal.
I must add a warning: if readers wish to cross the river, between absence and presence, they must pay the ferryman. So, have your penguin ready!
That’s about the size of it.
Image: der Zeichner (the young draughtsman) by Jean-Baptiste Siméon Chardin (Gemäldegalerie, Berlin)
