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.
“We have been here before today, haven’t we?” The question was directed to me, yet I wondered who the “we” included. I guessed perhaps not me, or not just me. For I never was here, on my own or alone with her, but it might have been in a group, in the days “we” were travelling as a bunch of “tree-huggers”, as my son put it once.
Indeed I love trees, and cannot conceive life without them nearby. Trees are sensitive beings, they have their language, their signs, they love, suffer, and die, or rather they are killed. Like us.
I could not recall having been here with the lady, but it did not seem to bother her anyway. We talked about the strange way those trees seem to want to move higher, above the ground, to reach up, maybe for something we could not see. Their roots appear to be gliding, a little off the soil, still keeping contact, as if preparing to float. I had a vision of this part of the forest, resting on clouds, slowly moving, pushed by the wind…
“That would be something to see!” My companion must have had similar thoughts. Tolkien had written about slow moving trees. I looked again at the intricate pattern of roots, then at the magnificent crown of the trees.
We looked at each other, there was still time to explore deeper into those woods. I knew we were close to where fairies, and maybe even ancient dwarves, lived.
“This is where he lives, I am sure of that…” she said in a low voice as they observed the silent house from afar. The front grass was freshly cut, and although it was already dusk, no light was to be seen through the windows.
“There are lots of them there, in the deep cellars, but we won’t see any until it is much darker.” They looked at the sky and the dark clouds accumulating above the property.
“How old do you think this place is?” he asked finally. Their presence was the outcome of a long search. The origin of the house, the people who had built it, how it was finally acquired by the Count, the whole history was shrouded in mystery.
“It goes back at least to Tudor times,” she replied, “although there is disagreement about the exact dates. The Count’s ancestors had something to do with silver mines in South America, and we know that today he is rumoured to be the CEO of a secretive private equity firm…”
“Now is the time. Whoever commissioned us must have good reasons. They knew this sort of operation don’t come cheap.” They smiled.
Calmly, methodically, they pulled out the Uzis from their sheaves, loaded the guns and undid the security, then they started walking toward the building. Their instructions were simple: there had to be no survivors.
Beyond is our world: this is the threshold, how far mortals can trade.
Beyond is where we belong, we, who once lived and haunt these woods.
Beyond you can see us for who we are: the way humans were,
Before the Fall.
We are at the crossroad, there is no way back, we have to chose: darkness, or greed, or the Truth. If we chose the Truth we will have to fight. If we chose darkness we will be, finally, hunted down like rats – and we’ll deserve it. If we chose greed, we will be billions. And we will die, miserable putrefying ruins, in the middle of our riches.
So, Truth it will be. Then, along this most arduous of all paths, we will have to fight, against darkness, and against greed. The Archangel will guide us. For this fight began long ago.
But for Truth to triumph, over darkness and greed, we will have to sacrifice ourselves, like Him.
There, long ago, when we had space, and the air was pure, there we lived: us, the whole tribe, the children, the very old, the wise and the fools. At night we were safe, the sea protected us. We had many friends, and few enemies. We were poor, and strong.
The cave was our home, where we lived, loved, and died. The world wasn’t ours, but we knew our place, and this place was here, on the threshold. Far beyond was eternity.
Often we walked in those woods, you and me, when the bluebells shone, and the sky reminded us that Easter was close by. Today, the air is clear, the ground soft to our feet, as it was then.
“What is the difference?” we could ask. But we don’t. We both know. Our bodies have no shadows, we meet no-one, or rather, no-one meets us. We are invisible, though we still love these woods, the valley below, the old Roman villa nearby, the memories of our lives.
We hear voices too, far, far away: are they people we once knew? Or are they the dreams of ancient ghosts, like us?
“Once the ice was covering this ground, smooth, unchanging. Then the boulders were round still, and the humans nowhere to be seen. The world was young.”
You were reading my mind, but know better. You walked here, often, you and your tribe. Then there was no human eye to see you. Even now, I know you’re here, but only your voice reassures me that it is not a dream.
But I see you as you once were. Proud, agile, attuned to the ice, the rocks, the flying creatures in the air, the growing trees.
Now, you are waiting. The rift will pass, the ice will return. And we, unscrupulous hooligans, will go.
She read the legend under the picture: “the image shows a clouded sky beneath a full moon. There is a wordless sign showing only a pointed hat, of the kind often worn by wizards…”
How strange she thought, how and when had they managed to take this shot? The full moon was there alright, and the sign. But the clouds? There was none in this quiet corner of the Universe. She’d made sure of that. There was rain too, but, as visitors sometime said, it came from nowhere. She was proud of her work, the careful terraforming, the ever blue sky, the manicured landscapes, the small lakes… and, of course, the popular little village, with the delightful green, and the wizard cottage… The picture must have been doctored, edited as the saying went. Still, “they” hadn’t shown much respect, whoever “they” were.
Perhaps she should be more careful now when allowing those space transports to disgorge tourists on her planet. She should set rules, like “no editing of pictures!” Here there was no cloud, and the moon was always full. So she had ordained.
“What am I for you?”
I heard the question, almost a whisper, but I thought I was alone. I knew this corner of the lake well, a favourite for poets and lovers in the summer. I looked around, quietness and tranquillity, the surface of the water reflected the foliage…
“I know you heard me, don’t pretend!”
The voice was clear, a little high pitched, the voice, I imagined, of a mermaid, or perhaps of the Lorelei. But for sure that of a woman. It was getting warm, I fancied the coolness of the lake. I dropped my running shoes, shorts and top, no-one would object to nudity at this time in the morning. The sand was warm, the shallow water delicious on my skin. I knew there was a sharp decline and depth in front of me, hundred yards or so from the edge.
Once the water reached my shoulders I swam, it was a delight. I would get closer to the centre of the lake, then turn round. I had set out to run for another hour.
“I love to see you getting closer…”
Indeed this time the voice was close, I thought next to me. So sweet. I could almost see her, her reflection perhaps from an older dream?
“So, tell me now, what am I for you?”
I could not answer her question. The depth of the lake attracted me. I felt as one with the water, the light, her voice. So deep was the lake, so enticing her words…
