Johan Vesnic

Chelonia

Sometimes I wish I could live two hundred years.

And I often find myself thinking what I would do with all the extra time I would have. Maybe travel the world; maybe see things I never saw before.

It had been a rather rainy day, and as I lay on the sand, listening to the crashing waves, I tried to find a cloud with a shape that could tell me what it all meant, but the clouds were shapeless, drifting along with the soft breeze in their endless trip, and in the swirl of colors from the sunset and the sublime scent of the salt I slowly sank away into the world of dreams.

I thought I had slept for just a minute, but when I opened my eyes the stars were shining deeply in the sky and their beauty and their secret messages washed over me as though telling me to be quiet and listen. And so I did.

Among the waves and the wind and the distant noises of the world there was the faint sound of a thousand years, of a million miles, of a giant heartbeat.

I slowly sat up and looked around, and then I noticed a shape in the darkness right in front of me. I froze. Not with fear, but with curiosity, for this shape was not one that should make me afraid, this shape was lethargic, nostalgic, and it made me feel a little sad and yet, it filled me with a smile that I could not contain.

She was coming out of the water and quietly creeping into the darkness, almost by my side. She lifted her eyes and looked at me, and in a second I saw into the depth of her mind, into the lifetimes that she had lived, into the unimaginable things that she had seen. We held each other for a while, she measured me up and then she talked to me in a raspy voice, she said:

“Young one, such a short path have you wandered, so many other beaches you have still to see before you can even call yourself a grown man”.

I had so many questions for her, but I knew that I wouldn’t understand the answers, and looking into her eyes I learned that the questions were a good place to start anyway. And I realized how easy it was to see the world through our own judgment, and to believe that us, who have only turned around the sun a few times can realistically ascertain the truth about everything around us, and how flawed this idea turns out to be.

Because when a turtle looks at you and she can see who you are, and you know that she comprehends you to your deepest thread because she has seen you before in remote places; then you realize that we are a long way away from wisdom.

I didn’t move as she made her way into the darkness, and when she was but a shadow in the night, I respectfully took my leave from her and thanked her for bestowing upon me that single piece of perspective, one that I often forget.

Sometimes I wish I could live two hundred years, sometimes I realize how very short a time that is to learn anything at all.

The Pact

When I was a kid, I almost killed my older brother.

Now, it could be that the only reason for me to believe this is because of the inaccurate nature of memories, especially when the events happened so many years ago and are clouded by the judgment and the ideals of older age, but I almost fucking killed my older brother when I was a little kid.

The details of such horrific day are less important now than back then. Today, we can actually laugh at the terrible deed whenever it comes up in conversation and the story has a certain side to it that is endearing, or tender, or even almost sickeningly cute.

But, the most important thing today is that my older brother is alive, in spite of the fact that through my childhood there were so many frustrating days when I wished I was an only child, and that I wouldn’t have to share my ice cream or my burger or my toys, or that all the Christmas presents would be just for me.

I still remember the dread that I felt whenever I’d made my decision, only to find out that my brother had picked something better and now I wanted that and nothing else.

The day that I drove a metallic spike into my brother’s forehead a lot of things changed.

The first thing that changed was the ban on my proximity to pointy metallic objects, mostly if I could pick them up and fling them at someone, that someone being the person I found to be the most corrosive guy in the entire world; the person who could make me mad in two seconds flat, the person who would do it because he thought I looked cute when my face was red and my eyes were glassy and my fists shook uncontrollably.

The second thing that changed that day was something that I wouldn’t understand until many years later. Somewhere in my immature subconscious, a frantic search for control of my temper began. A search for learning how to not fly off the handle when my brother provoked me, a search that would lead me to become the much calmer version of myself that I am today.

But the main thing that changed the day I hit my brother right between the eyes with the stainless steel model of a blue mirage was the pact.

That day, an unspoken pact was made; and to this day, the pact still runs through our veins and is present in every conversation, in every phone call, in every email… It is the pact that we would be brothers.

That we would look after one another, that no matter how horrible the world could turn out to be, we would protect each other from harm.

The pact that we would maintain the secrets secret and that we would cover for each other whenever there was a party, or a girlfriend, or a fight, or too much to drink, or not enough to eat, or too much worry, or too little money.

And we became brothers, and we did so many things together, we played, we laughed, we broke stuff, we glued things together, we got ourselves into and out of trouble.

And each and every time we did any of these things the bond that was created by the pact only grew stronger.

We lived amazing adventures when my brother used his unbelievable motor skills to create monsters and robots and spaceships that were beyond my imagination, and we had to save the day and rescue the princess, and in that bond, in that pact, the younger years of my life blew by as a soft breeze of warm memories and lazy afternoons.

The pact was there when I needed my brother the most, when the darkest moments of my life came about and he was there caring for me in silence, watching over me from a place where he knew I wouldn’t notice.

And with pretexts and with sleigh of hand he followed me for half a country just so he could make sure that no harm would come to me, just so that he could keep the pact that made us brothers.

Today my older brother is a dad, and my nieces are the most beautiful things in the world, and I don’t say this because they are my nieces, I mean, I’ve seen some ugly babies and I never had any reservations as to voicing my opinion about them.

But my brother’s daughters are a light in my heart, a piece of my soul, the smile on my mind, and more than anything else, they are the purpose by which my bro gets up every morning and is the happiness when he comes home.

One day, not too long ago and after a rather eventful day of play with the girls I asked my brother if he ever regretted having two kids instead of one. His answer was that naturally two was the perfect number.

When I asked him what he meant by naturally he said: “Because the best memories of my childhood always come in the form of us playing, or fighting, or simply having a good time. I can’t imagine my life without my brother, and I want my daughters to have the opportunity to experience that as well.”

When I was a kid, I almost killed my older brother. What a loss for this world it would have been.

La Puerta

Me preguntó si había pasado por la puerta.

Yo no supe como responderle, después de todo, estábamos en medio de un bosque, y las puertas no son elementos comunes en un lugar tan remoto.

Al no escuchar mi respuesta, el fauno preguntó de nuevo si había pasado por la puerta.

Sin saber con certidumbre de que se trataba la pregunta, le dije que no.

Con su mirada malévola, el fauno se acercó y me olió, parecía como hecho de árbol y tierra, como una masa salida de las raíces secas de un tronco viejo. Pequeñas mariposas flotaban a su alrededor como esperando un suspiro de vida que viniese de sus labios.

Este fauno era viejo, eso era claro. Sus pies eran extrañas mezclas de cosas antiguas y patas de animal, quizás un día hace mucho tiempo el fauno había sido mas de carne que de pulpa, pero después de tanto tiempo de vivir en la arboleda es apenas comprensible que un ser se transforme de semejante manera.

Cuando se sintió satisfecho con mi aroma, se giró y estiró su dedo índice para mostrarme algo sorprendente.

Allí, en medio del bosque, y como salida de la nada, había una puerta.

No era una puerta como cualquier otra, lo cual es mucho decir. Aparte de haber aparecido en un instante y de estar en medio de un bosque, esta puerta tenía algo en particular. No parecía llevar a ninguna parte.

Erguida como estaba no separaba una habitación de un pasillo, o una cocina de una sala, como sus congéneres suelen hacer, sino más bien, separaba un lado de la puerta del otro lado, lo cual era un obstáculo fácilmente salvable si uno decidiera caminar alrededor de ella.

Mas cuando intenté mencionar tan obvia observación, el fauno me hizo callar con un chasquido de su boca hecha de cortezas, me dijo que semejantes comentarios no eran bienvenidos y que si quería llegar a tener el derecho, no, el privilegio de cruzar la puerta, iba a tener que comportarme mucho mejor.

La sabiduría de mis noches asoladas no es profunda, pero no se requiere a un hombre sabio para saber que tenía que callar. Así que callé y esperé a que el fauno caminara a mí alrededor castañeando sus dedos hasta que habló de nuevo.

El fauno me preguntó que si había venido a buscar la puerta.

Le dije que no. Después de todo, esa era la verdad.

Me preguntó que entonces que había venido a buscar. Le contesté que había venido a buscar un lugar sagrado donde las preguntas pueden ser contestadas, donde los misterios pueden ser revelados, donde las mentiras pueden ser descubiertas.

El fauno rió estridentemente y sus carcajadas rebotaron por el bosque como cañonazos de madera y polvo, como si mil tambores tocaran en un instante una melodía rítmica de mil años y luego callaran para no tocar nunca más.

Cuando finalmente paró de reír, me dijo que yo estaba buscando la puerta.

Lo miré con curiosidad y sin entender muy bien lo que me decía. Entonces me explicó que los únicos que podían hablar con el fauno eran aquellos que buscasen la puerta, y que aún si yo no supiera que lo que buscaba era la puerta, ya la estaba buscando, la lógica circular del argumento parecía revolverse en sí misma de manera escalofriante.

Le pregunté al fauno que si la puerta era el lugar sagrado.

Su sonrisa de pino y cedro se acentuó brevemente, me dijo que la puerta era el lugar que yo buscaba, el lugar donde todas las respuestas esperaban.

Me preguntó de nuevo si yo buscaba la puerta.

Le dije que si.

El fauno caminó lentamente hasta un tronco caído y se sentó. Una vez inmóvil hubiese sido imposible verle sin saber que estaba allí. Decidí preguntarle porqué me hacia esa pregunta. Me dijo que sólo aquellos que buscan la puerta pueden cruzarla. Le dije que entonces porqué me preguntaba si ya la había cruzado. El fauno guardó silencio.

Me miró fijamente a los ojos y me preguntó si yo entendía lo que estaba buscando, me dijo que cruzar la puerta no era un asunto sencillo y ligero, sino al contrario, era un contrato mágico, era un cambio de realidad, era una nueva vida. Me preguntó si estaba listo para semejante cosa.

Le dije que no entendía lo que me estaba tratando de explicar.

La furia del fauno vino de repente. En tan sólo un instante estaba sobre mí, empujándome contra la tierra como si fuese un insecto. Sus manos recias me lastimaban el pecho y el peso de su cuerpo me cortaba la respiración.

Me dijo que yo era un idiota por haber venido a este paraje, por haberme atrevido a buscar aquello que no comprendía completamente, me dijo que lo mejor que podía hacer era olvidarme por completo de ese lugar y no volver nunca más.

Le dije que yo había venido a buscar un lugar sagrado, y que esas búsquedas suelen traer cosas inesperadas. Cómo puede el hombre aventurarse a través de los mares y los desiertos si ha de tener comprensión de lo que le espera en su travesía. ¿Acaso aquellos que tocaron el polo norte, o llegaron a las cimas mas altas del mundo por primera vez, requirieron saber los riesgos del camino?

El fauno me miró con curiosidad y me permitió respirar una vez más. Luego me regaló una sonrisa suave y me dijo que este era de hecho, lo que él llamaría un riesgo del camino.

Fue entonces cuando el fauno me explicó qué era la puerta. Aunque lo primero que me dijo fue que él era su guardián. Nada ni nadie podía cruzar la puerta sin su consentimiento. La puerta como tal era un simple panel de madera de árboles que ya no se veían en la tierra, pero lo especial no eran los materiales, sino la forma como fue fabricada.

El fauno me contó que la puerta era tan vieja como el mundo, y que cuando todo comenzó, hace tantos, tantos años, la puerta fue cerrada y el fauno fue encomendado a la tarea de cuidarla. Al cerrar la puerta, los secretos de la vida y de la muerte quedaron atrapados en el otro lado, y los hombres que aparecieron en el mundo no supieron esos secretos.

Con el paso de los años, los hombres se hicieron pensantes y se preguntaron por el significado de la vida, del pensamiento, del ser y de la muerte, pero no encontraron las respuestas, sin importar cuánto pensaran en ellas.

No las encontraron porque las respuestas estaban al otro lado de la puerta.

Filosofías enteras fueron diseñadas, creadas, concebidas para tratar de explicar los significados de las cosas perdidas, mas por mucho que los hombres intentaron, las respuestas siempre fueron incompletas, subjetivas, absurdas o ridículas.

Hasta que el primer hombre encontró la puerta.

Había estado buscando respuestas, como sus hermanos, pero se le había ocurrido que quizás la naturaleza las poseía. Los otros hombres se habían burlado y lo habían expulsado de sus primitivas sociedades. Sin embargo, este hombre buscó las respuestas hasta que encontró al fauno. Este fue el primer hombre en cruzar la puerta.

Le pregunté al fauno cuál había sido el destino final de ese hombre, pero el fauno me dijo que callara y no le interrumpiera.

Con el tiempo, otros hombres habían venido, habían cruzado la puerta y habían descubierto las verdades del mundo, y aún cuando en ocasiones pasaban siglos entre uno y otro, siempre aparecía un nuevo sujeto buscando la puerta.

Y ahora era yo.

El fauno me miró a los ojos y me preguntó si deseaba cruzar.

Le dije que tenía preguntas.

Me dijo que eso era natural.

Mis preguntas eran más de forma que de filosofía, más que interesarme qué iba a encontrar al otro lado de la puerta, quería saber qué había pasado con aquellos que habían cruzado antes, pero mas que nada, quería saber por qué alguien habría de querer cruzar de nuevo.

El fauno me miró sorprendido, me dijo que yo era bastante inusual para ser humano, y que mis preguntas eras sabias. Me explicó que al cruzar la puerta se revelan todas las verdades, pero como tales y en sí mismas, las verdades sólo pueden ser vistas por aquellos que han cruzado. Muchos hombres antes de mí habían caído en la tentación de contarle a sus hermanos y a sus amigos acerca de las verdades del mundo, sólo para descubrir que nadie mas podía entenderlas sino ellos mismos. Con el tiempo se hacían huraños y solitarios, y morían de pena y de tristeza y de soledad.

Algunos habían regresado para cruzar la puerta de nuevo, tratando de volver a un mundo donde las respuestas son desconocidas. Pero las cosas no funcionaban así, cruzar de nuevo era convertirse en parte de esa existencia pura y serena, era trascender a las verdades inexorables del universo y no regresar nunca más. Le dije al fauno que no me parecía un destino terrible, mas su mirada me hizo entender que debería seguir callando. Me preguntó si yo tenía idea alguna acerca de lo que significaba convertirse en verdad inexorable.

Le dije que no.

Me dijo que entonces no abriera la boca para decir más sandeces.

El fauno me llevo frente a la puerta y me preguntó una vez más si quería cruzarla.

Respiré profundamente y pensé en lo poco que sabía, en lo mucho que había buscado este paraje a lo largo de los años y en las noches en vela que había soñado con este momento.

Luego pensé en aquellos que vinieron antes que yo, aquellos que habían encontrado la puerta y la habían cruzado, cuán sublime pudiese ser el sentimiento de saberlo todo, de estar tan cerca de los propósitos fundamentales detrás del mundo; mas cuán solitario el no poder compartirlo con nadie.

Pero al otro lado de la puerta estabas las respuestas a todas las preguntas. Todo aquello que había anhelado saber estaba allí, esperando por mí, esperando para dejarme beber de su esencia.

Parado allí, al borde de alcanzar todo aquello que anhelaba, me encontré temeroso de hacer mis deseos realidad, quizás el precio que debería pagar era demasiado alto. Tal vez me había embarcado en este viaje por el viaje en sí, y no por la meta final. La vida, se me antojó en ese momento, era más hermosa en el camino, no en la posada.

La divinidad del saber estaba a un paso. Más cuanta soledad puede traer la divinidad.

Finalmente produje mi respuesta, le dije al fauno que no deseaba cruzar la puerta.

Su sonrisa se relajó, me golpeó suavemente la espalda y me dijo que no había problema, que podía seguir con mi camino y buscar las respuestas por mi propia cuenta. Me indicó una dirección para continuar mi viaje y me dio un empujón para forzar mi primer paso.

Empecé a alejarme lentamente, cuando estaba al borde del claro en el bosque el fauno me llamó nuevamente y me dijo que si seguía por el camino en el que iba, directo hacia el norte, en tan sólo unos minutos llegaría al lugar sagrado donde las preguntas pueden ser contestadas, donde los misterios pueden ser revelados, donde las mentiras pueden ser descubiertas. Me dijo que por fin llegaría al jardín del edén, a la cuna del mundo, al primer paraje, al pensamiento original…

Le pregunté entonces que a donde llevaba la puerta.

El fauno sonrió malévolamente y se quedó inmóvil, haciéndose parte del entorno, como un árbol más en el bosque. Traté de buscarle con mis ojos pero al hacerlo noté algo aún más importante.

La puerta había desaparecido.

Corazón Verde

Arrastrose suave lagartija

Sola por el frio pavimento

La simple luz se coló por la rendija

Recordando así su oscuro sentimiento

Maravillas en negro invadieron sus recuerdos

Claras oscuridades a venir en sus sueños

Mas siempre simples fueron sus empeños

Por escapar al mundo y a sus cerdos

Y ahora arrastrose solamente

Pobre lagartija en nadie creyente

Suave su piel, verde su memoria

Simple su vida, vida entre escoria

Contempló la luz en último momento

Y cerró sus ojos tranquilamente

Descansó su alma, y de repente

Cometió el fin ya nunca mas redento.

Suicida

Aun resplandece lánguido el recuerdo que, en un momento inalcanzable, en un instante interminable, en un segundo eterno fuera el sublime pesar de sus sentidos; que en ardientes extravíos marcara la colision de soles y planetas, e hiciera de la existencia presente una sombra de momentos.

Anarkos dijera el poeta, pero su mente, incapaz de suscribirse a tan absurda propuesta, mató el trago del olvido para sumarse a la furia del mundo.

Dejó la vida y se acercó al infinito, se perdió entre zafiros y diamantes y se olvidó de su gloria, mas nunca desapareció ese lánguido recuerdo.

Viejo amigo, Nuevo amigo

Se encontraban sentados frente a frente en cómodos sillones cerca de la chimenea.

La situación era imposible de explicar, lo cual no era diferente a como había sido desde hacía varias horas. Sin embargo, todo parecía haber cambiado.

Iván contempló el vaso de vino que sus dedos abrigaban, tratando de recordar donde lo había conseguido, o mejor, qué vidas había destruido para obtener el licor.

La calma que su rostro demostraba era una ilusión perfeccionada a lo largo de los años. Hace algún tiempo hubiese usado esa misma técnica para ocultar sevicia, emoción o anticipación. En esta ocasión, Iván trataba con toda sus fuerzas ocultar terror y miedo.

Era una esperanza perdida e Iván lo sabía. A pesar de su relajada expresión, Iván sabía que en ese mismo instante Jacobo estaba oliendo el miedo emanar de su cuerpo. El mismo miedo que hacía pasar cosas por la mente de su amigo, cosas que Iván conocía bien, pues de no ser por los eventos de la noche anterior, esos pensamientos serían los suyos propios.

Como resultado de semejante deducción, Iván sabía exactamente cuál era el dilema en la mente de Jacobo: si matarlo, o dejarlo vivir.

Al otro lado del salón, casi de espaldas al ya extinto fuego de la chimenea, Jacobo miraba a Iván con hambre en sus ojos. “Y bien, mi viejo amigo… ¿qué vamos a hacer ahora?”

Iván se permitió una pausa antes de responder, los latidos de su corazón le resultaban ruidosos y entrometidos, y al mismo tiempo le llenaban de alegría. Iván no había sentido su corazón latir en mucho tiempo, y a pesar de que no era la primera vez, el mundo entero le parecía un lugar nuevo de repente.

“Tenía la esperanza de que me permitas salir de aquí con vida” dijo Iván finalmente.

“Pero por supuesto,” respondió Jacobo. “Si ya te has ganado ese derecho”

Iván parpadeó y con horror descubrió que Jacobo se había movido. El movimiento en sí no era problemático, sino la velocidad con la que había ocurrido. Parecía como si hubiese pasado de estar sentado en la silla a estar parado junto al bar de manera instantánea. Iván notó cómo Jacobo estaba sorprendido también, era la primera vez que usaba sus nuevos músculos, y con una sonrisa en su rostro aprobó sus nuevas habilidades. El mundo entero era un lugar nuevo de repente, eso también era cierto para Jacobo.

Parado junto al bar como estaba, abrió un gabinete y extrajo una botella encallada en el hielo, procediendo luego a servir el rojo líquido en una copa. El líquido, Iván estaba seguro, era sangre.

“¿Como lograste el cambio?” Preguntó Iván, tratando de mantener su calma exterior.

“Bueno… pasé muchos años investigando tu… condición, fui a lugares lejanos y hablé con hombres santos y mujeres curanderas. La respuesta que encontraba una y otra vez fue que sería imposible, que tu condición era permanente y eterna. Todos aquellos con quienes hablé me recomendaron que lo mejor era terminarte y poner fin a tus sufrimientos.

Pero yo no estaba preparado para rendirme. Fui mas lejos de lo que otros han ido. Y finalmente, en un lugar sagrado, del cual no puedo hablar, encontré los principios y los ingredientes que me llevaron a la solución: una hierba que crece en la oscuridad, una hierba santa que sólo crece en un paraje.

Probé cientos de infusiones, mezclándola con otros ingredientes hasta que encontré la poción perfecta. La poción que una vez ingerida, sería la cura de tu maldición.”

“Pero yo nunca bebí poción alguna” afirmó Iván.

“El plan no era que tú la tomaras” respondió Jacobo.

La comprensión del acertijo le llegó a Iván lentamente. “La poción era para ti.”

“Así es,” asintió Jacobo.

“Entonces tu plan todo el tiempo fue que yo te mordiera.”

“Ese era el plan.”

La revelación de las intenciones de su viejo amigo fue un duro golpe para Iván, por un momento se sintió mareado y confuso. Jacobo parecía comprender lo que estaba ocurriendo.

“¿Recuerdas cuando éramos pequeños y solíamos jugar al rescate?” Preguntó Jacobo.

“Nunca lo he olvidado,” respondió Iván lacónicamente.

Jacobo sonrió brevemente. “Siempre pretendíamos que yo estaba en alguna clase de peligro inminente, quizás colgando de un precipicio, y tu tenías que arriesgar tu propia vida para venir a salvarme… y al final siempre lo lograbas.”

Iván sonrió. “No creo que el juego hubiese sido divertido si te dejaba morir.”

“Pero tu siempre me salvaste, aún cuando necesité quien me diera dinero para comer, o ropas para vestir, incluso cuando jugábamos, tu siempre arriesgaste todo lo que tenías para salvarme, en mi corazón siempre sentí que te debía mi vida. Así que por una sola vez, tenía que arriesgar la mía para salvar la tuya.”

“Pero tu no arriesgaste tu vida, tu la entregaste. Supongo que tú sabías bien lo que te iba a pasar si venías a buscarme.”

“Así es, yo esperaba morir, pero no encontré otra manera de hacerlo. Supongo que no había considerado todas las posibilidades”. Jacobo sonrío malevolentemente mientras caminaba despacio hasta su sillón. “Nunca se me hubiese ocurrido que tu escogerías no matarme.”

“Bueno, a pesar de todo tu eres mi mejor amigo” respondió Iván. “Me fue imposible terminar con tu vida.”

“¡Y me alegro por ello!” dijo Jacobo, “al mostrarme tu piedad me entregaste el mas poderoso de los regalos.”

“Yo no lo veo de esa manera… ya no.”

“Por supuesto que no.”

“Pero recuerdo muy bien como se siente. Tan solo ayer mi respuesta hubiese sido diferente si tú me hubieses preguntado si quería recuperar mi humanidad. Te hubiera dicho…”

“Nunca, ni por toda la eternidad,” interrumpió Jacobo.

Iván asintió.

“Y qué piensas ahora…” preguntó Jacobo. “¿Te gustaría recuperar tu Inmortalidad?”

“Muchas gracias, pero me temo que no,” respondió Iván con calma. “Supongo que puedes entenderlo, es lo mismo que hubieses respondido a esa pregunta ayer.”

“Ayer…” Jacobo suspiró. “Ayer yo era un niño que nunca ha abierto sus ojos, un insecto ignorante que va por la vida siguiendo las ordenes y las reglas y las expectativas de otros. Ahora soy libre mi viejo amigo, gracias a ti ya no soy un esclavo. Una vez mas, me has salvado.”

“No mi amigo,” respondió Iván, al tiempo que lagrimas se formaban en sus ojos. “Tu eres el que me ha salvado esta vez. Quizás no te des cuenta por un buen tiempo, pero un día vas a extrañar el latido de tu corazón, y vas a desear que la sangre que corre por tus venas sea la tuya propia. Un día sin sol vas a preguntarte que ha pasado con tu alma.”

“Pequeñeces comparas con mi libertad,” respondió Jacobo descartando la idea con su mano. “Y mientras tanto que será de ti… un día vas a envejecer y morir. ¿Acaso eso no te preocupa?”

“Moriré feliz sabiendo que mi alma ha sido salvada.”

“¡Que cosa mas ridícula! Ayer nunca hubieras dicho algo así,” dijo Jacobo a través de los dientes.

“Ni tu tampoco” respondió Iván.

Jacobo meditó por un momento, y luego la malévola sonrisa retornó a su rostro

“Me imagino”, dijo finalmente mirando a su alrededor, “que ya no vas a requerir los servicios de esta lujosa mansión.”

Iván había estado esperando la pregunta, y ya tenía su respuesta preparada. “Te la entrego, tómala, puedes quedártela. Hace algunos años maté a los dueños y me mudé con un grupo de sirvientes que con el tiempo también murieron, ahora tengo que cargar toda esa muerte y destrucción hasta mi propia tumba.”

Jacobo rió estridentemente como si Iván acabara de hacer una broma. “Bueno… supongo que voy a tener que conseguirme mis propios sirvientes.”

“Supongo que si,” dijo Iván mientras se levantaba de su silla. “Y ahora, si me excusas mi querido amigo, ya es tiempo que me vaya.”

“Pero por supuesto,” respondió Jacobo, en su voz más oficial. “Pero antes de que te vayas, tengo un favor que pedirte.”

“Lo que sea,” respondió Iván, con algo de temor en su voz.

“No vengas a buscarme nunca mas, no trates de regresar a salvarme, nuestra amistad termina aquí y ahora.”

Iván miro a su viejo amigo con ojos de roca y madera. “Acepto,” dijo finalmente. “Y también tengo un favor que pedirte.”

“No tienes sino que preguntar.”

“Si tu camino y el mío se cruzan de nuevo, y tu decides beber de mi sangre –lo cual por cierto, es lo que vas a decidir con seguridad – quiero pedirte que no cometas el mismo error que yo he cometido. No me muestres piedad, tan solo mátame.”

Jacobo miró a Iván estupefacto por un momento pero se recuperó rápidamente, y aceptó el pacto.

Los dos hombres se dieron la mano una última vez e Iván salió de la habitación y bajó las escaleras buscando la salida de la mansión, lugar que ahora consideraba maldito. Su corazón le dolía de latir y el peso de los crímenes que había cometido empezó a caer sobre sus hombros. Los rostros de todos aquellos que sufrieron por su diversión se hicieron claros en su mente, para seguirle por siempre, incluyendo el rostro de Jacobo, su mejor amigo en todo el mundo.

Al caminar por el sendero que lo llevaría de regreso al pueblo sintió la sangre navegando por sus venas, y un ligero dolor de baso en su costado, y el aire apurándose a llenar sus pulmones, estaba vivo de nuevo, y con cada paso se encontró silbando una melodía dislocada.

Era feliz por primera vez en mucho tiempo. Su amigo había arriesgado su vida para salvarlo… había esperanza para su alma, después de todo…

The Door

He asked me whether I had gone through the door.
I had no answer, after all, we were in the middle of a dense forest, and doors are not quite common elements in these remote places.

Not hearing me say anything, the Laudam asked again whether I had gone through the door.
I wasn’t sure what his question meant, but I hadn’t gone through any doors, so I said no.

He fixed me with a malevolent stare, and then bounded closer to me quick as lightning; he seemed to be made out of wood and earth, like something that had crawled out of the dry roots of an old oak. Tiny butterflies floated around him as though waiting for a single breath of life to come out of his lips.

This was an old being, that much was clear to me. His feet were a strange mix of elder things and animal parts. I thought that maybe one day, a long time ago, the Laudam had been more made of flesh than pulp, but after so many years living in the woods, this transformation seemed almost expected, and almost welcomed.

Once he was satisfied with my scent, he turned and stretched is finger to point at something amazing.
Right there, in the middle of the forest, as if it had been there the whole time, there was a door.

It wasn’t a door like any other, which is saying quite a lot. Aside from the fact that it hadn’t been there a second before, and aside from the fact that it was in the middle of a forest, there was something rather particular about this door. It didn’t seem to lead anywhere.

Standing as it was it didn’t separate a room from a hallway, or a kitchen from a living room, like its cousins, the more normal doors, usually do. It was as though this door separated one side from the other, which was no obstacle at all if one decided to simply walk around the panel.

However, when I tried to point out such an obvious observation, the Laudam made me quiet with a crack from his barked lips, he said to me that such comments were not welcome, and that if I wanted to ever achieve the right, or rather, the privilege of walking through the door, I would have to be in my best behavior.

The wisdom of my lonely nights is not a deep one, but it doesn’t take a wise man to know when to be quiet. So I closed my mouth and waited for the Laudam to walk around me snapping his fingers until he spoke again.

He asked me if I had come looking for the door.
I said no, since that was the simple truth.

He asked me then what was that I was looking for. I told him that I was looking for the sacred place where all questions can be answered, where all mysteries are revealed, the place where all lies can be uncovered.

The Laudam laughed with a terrible and resounding laughter, and his voice echoed through the forest like an explosion of terror, like a hundred drums were suddenly playing a thousand year old melody only to go quiet the next instant, never to play again.

When he finally stopped laughing, he told me I was in fact, looking for the door.
I looked at him bemused and not understanding very well what he had just said. He then explained to me that only those who were looking for the door could talk to the Laudam, and since I was talking to him, even if I didn’t know it, obviously this was the door I was looking for. The logic of the argument revolved upon itself in a manner that I couldn’t quite comprehend, but that I was ready to accept.

I asked him if the door was the sacred place.
His oaken smile was briefly accented; he told me that the door was the place I had been looking for, the place where all the answers await.

He asked me once again if I was looking for the door.
I said yes.

The Laudam walked slowly to a fallen tree and sat down. Once immobile it would be impossible to spot him without the prior knowledge that he was sitting right there. I hesitated for a moment and then asked him about his own question. He told me that only those who sought the door could walk through it. After another apprehensive pause I decided to ask him why would he wonder whether I had already crossed the door. The Laudam looked at me quizzically.

He asked me if I even understood what I was looking for. He told me that walking through the door was not a simple matter, but rather the opposite, it was a magical contract, it was a change of reality, it was a new life. He asked me if I was ready for it.

I told him I didn’t understand what he was saying.

His rage came so quickly I didn’t even notice it. In an instant he was kneeling over me, pushing me against the earth and the mud as if I were an insect. His rough hands were cutting into my chest and the weight of his old body was stopping my breath.
He told me I was an idiot for coming to this remote place, for daring to search for that which I didn’t fully understand, he told me that the best thing I could do was to forget this place completely and never come back.

I told him I was looking for the sacred place, and that these kinds of quests often bring unexpected things. How can a man adventure beyond the known seas and the charted deserts if he required knowledge and comprehension of what he would find at his destination? Did the first men to touch the North Pole, or those who climbed the highest mountains on the earth, fully understand the risks they would find on the path?

The Laudam looked at me curiously and shifted his weight so that I could breathe again. He gave me a fleeting smile and told me that he was what he would call, a risk on the path.

It was then that the Laudam explained to me what the door was. Though the first thing he said was that he was its guardian. Nobody could walk through the door without his approval. The door itself was a rather simple looking panel made of wood from trees that no longer live on the earth, but the most particular thing about the door was not the material it was made of, but rather, the manner in which it was constructed

The Laudam told me that the door was as old as the world, and that when everything started, so many years ago, the door was closed and he was given the task to guard it. When the door was closed, the secrets of the life and of the death were trapped on the other side and the men than came to be later didn’t know these secrets.

As the years went by, the men that were became sentient and asked themselves about the meaning of life, of thought, of being and of death, but they didn’t find any answers, no matter how hard they tried.

They couldn’t find them because those answers were behind the door.

Entire philosophies and religions were designed, crafted and conceived to try and explain the meaning of the lost things, but for all their efforts, the answers they invented were always incomplete, subjective, absurd or just plain ridiculous.

That was, until the first man found the door.
That man had been looking for answers just like his brothers, but he thought that maybe those answers could be found in nature, and in the old things. Other men made fun of him, they expelled him from their primitive tribes, but the man was not discouraged and on he looked, one day finding the Laudam, and becoming the first man to walk through the door.

I started to ask what had been the fate of that man, but the Laudam hushed me with a glance and continued.

With time, other men had come, they had walked through and had discovered the truths of the world, and even though sometimes they were many centuries apart, there always came another man looking for the door.

And now that man was me.

The Laudam fixed me with his most terrifying stare yet, and asked me if I wanted to walk through.
I told him I had questions.
He told me that was natural.
My questions were more of form than of lore, more than being curious about what would I find on the other side, I wanted to know what had happened to those men who had crossed, but more than anything, I wanted to know why would anyone want to cross again.

The Laudam was surprised, I could tell. He told me I was a rather unusual human, but he was satisfied with my questions, which he considered wise. He explained that by walking through the door all the truths are revealed, but such as they are unto themselves, these truths can only be understood by those who have crossed. Many men before me had yielded to the temptation of telling their brothers and their friends about the truths of the world, only to discover that no one else could understand them. After a fashion, they became weary and lonely, and died of sadness and abandonment.

Some had come back to the door, trying to go back to a world where the answers are unknown. But that is not they way things work. To walk through the door once again was to become part of that all encompassing existence, pure and serene, it was to transcend the inexorable truths of the universe and to never come back. I told the Laudam I didn’t think that to be such a terrible destiny, but his eyes made me understand I should remain quiet. He asked whether I had a single clue what it was like to become an inexorable truth.
I told him I didn’t
He told me in that case I should not open my mouth to say stupid things.

The Laudam took me in front of the door and asked me once again if I wanted to walk through.
I took a deep breath and thought hard about how little I knew, about all the hardships I endured when looking for this place and the sleepless nights that led to this moment.

Then I thought of those who had come before me, those who had found the door and had crossed, I though how sublime must be the feeling of ultimate understanding, to be so close to the fundamental purpose of the universe, how lonely it must be to not be able to share it with anyone.

But on the other side of the door lied the answers to all the questions, everything I had dreamed about was right there, waiting for me, waiting to let me drink of its essence.
Standing there, on the verge of achieving everything I ever hoped for, I found myself afraid of making my wishes come true, realizing that the price to pay was perhaps too high.
I couldn’t remember why I had started this journey, but I remembered having more fun looking for the door than actually finding it. Life, it occurred to me, was more beautiful out on the winding path, not in the static destination.
Divinity was a step away from me, but divinity was solitude.
I found my answer, I told the Laudam that I did not wish to walk trough the door.

His smile was kind for the first time and he patted my back and told me that all was well, I could go on and find the answers by myself, he pointed me in a direction to continue my journey and gave me a sharp push to help me get started.

I walked slowly to the edge of the clearing and the Laudam called out to me and told me that if I continued in the direction I was going, straight to the north, it would be only a few minutes until I reached the sacred place were all the answers can be found, where all the mysteries are revealed, where all the lies can be uncovered. He told me on this path I would reach the garden of beginnings, the cradle of the world, the first place, the original thought…

I asked him where did the door lead to then.
He smiled malevolently and stood still, becoming a part of the canvas, like another shadow in the forest, I tried to keep him in my sight but soon discovered something more important.

The door was gone.

The Keeper

Ulegu was paralyzed with shock. Maybe shock mixed with a bit of fear. The shock was quite understandable; he was, after all, in the presence of his dead brother, of whose death he had no news of until this very moment.

Finding out this way was definitely shocking, not to say, unwelcome and rather sad. And yet, Ulegu was almost sure that this was the way he would find out about his brother’s death, if he was ever to receive the news at all.

The fear was however, a strange sensation. Ulegu had not expected to feel fear upon his brother’s death. But upon consideration, fear was after all not unwarranted.

Nobody, absolutely nobody, knew that Ulegu had a brother. And nobody could ever find out.

“This is the last of the Warriors”, said a voice. Ulegu turned surprised and his heart skipped a beat.
“Is everything all right, Keeper?” The man speaking to Ulegu was a General, and yet his tone was appropriately respectful for one addressing the Keeper of the Dead. But Ulegu saw a suspicious glint in the General’s eyes; he had been staring at his brother’s body for too long. He was an anonymous soldier of no importance, and Ulegu knew that he should have paid him little attention and instead concentrated on the great Warrior Parakel, whose body rested on another table only a few feet away.

Ulegu knew all this, but the shock and the fear had paralyzed him the instant his eyes had recognized his older sibling, his only family left, the one he had not seen for so many years.

He made a gesture of grandiose elaboration and pronounced in a pompous voice.

“Not everything is all right General, so many of our children have come back to us in eternal sleep… it saddens me that I now must take care of them all.”

The General was slightly taken aback, but gave Ulegu an understanding smile.

“The war has been crude”, the General said. “And many of our warriors have given their lives so that our Kingdom may flourish and grow, especially Parakel. Oh Keeper, he deserves your magic and your care more than any other we have brought to you tonight!”

“Do you mean to tell me my art?” Asked Ulegu enraged. He wasn’t mad at any transgression on the General’s part, though one had occurred. He was mad that the appropriate thing to do was to ignore his own brother altogether as if he was nobody. He would not, he could not…

“Forgive me, Keeper. It was not my intention…” The General trailed off, he was positively alarmed as he bowed deeply and then continued apologizing profusely.

“Leave me to my matters!” pronounced Ulegu and with this, the General and his soldiers left the Chamber of Preparation and closed the doors behind them. Nobody would disturb the Keeper now, no one would come knocking for any reason, no one would dare interrupt the rituals of preparation that the Clerics of the Kingdom had to perform on the recently deceased, even less when a figure of the importance of Parakel the warrior was one of the departed. In many other occasions, an underling would do these complicated and mystical rituals, but this time, given the importance of the warrior, and the historical relevance of the battle in which he had fallen, the Master himself, the Keeper of the Dead would perform the rites.

“There is neither class nor status that will keep me from being” Ulegu whispered to himself as if chanting a mantra. Then he started crying.

He cried for what it felt like an eternity, Ulegu cried until he felt he would run out of tears. He cried for his brother, for the lifetime that separated them. He cried for his father, who gave his life for both of them so many years ago. He cried for his mother, who had chosen to suffer quietly so that her two sons would have a chance in the world.

Ulegu knew that if anyone saw him right now, prostrated at his brother’s lap, they would suspect strangeness and questions would arise. And even though he had been very careful to conceal his past, a thorough review of his life was certain to uncover facts that must remain hidden.

Among those facts, clearly, was Ulegu’s relation to this warrior in front of him. But there was also the fact that Ulegu had not been born a Cleric, or that his brother had not been born a Warrior.
They had both been born servants; they had both been born dirtmouths.

There wasn’t much to do when one was born a dirtmouth, that was what one would be until death. The mandate imposed by the Kingdom was clear: You are what you are from birth to the last trip; pray you have a good life so that the spirits on the other side have compassion on your soul.

Ulegu had never believed. His brother had never believed. They both had learned to not believe in the lies the Kingdom told to all the peoples, they had been taught well by their father, for he always said: “There is neither class nor status that will keep you from being who you want to be”.

Ulegu had been a young boy when fate had proven his father right.

Servants as they were, they always found themselves at the mercy of the higher classes. And if it was their whim that they should starve, then starve they would. And starving they were. Ulegu’s father was sick on the bones and could not properly serve, and his mother as a maid was more abused than rewarded. Both Ulegu and his brother were still too young to work the mines and were used as errand boys by an aristocrat who had a knack for hitting them both with a cane.

“Fate will provide something better than this” his father always said. He kept on saying so until the day he died.

Ulegu remembered as though it had happened yesterday, it was a day of summer and the heat was scorching. The Aristocrat had brought his two new protégés from a far land, and as a welcome gift he was going to give each a personal slave.

And so they had come to see Ulegu and his older brother, in their fine clothes and their snobbish manners, pointing at the poverty and the precarious houses that surrounded them and laughing; laughing at the dirtmouths and their cursed existence.

Then, Fate struck.

Ulegu had never been in an earthquake before, much less one so strong. The ground shook and heaved, and the rage of the planet came upon them all.

Ulegu and his family survived. The same was not true for the Aristocrat and his two protégés. They very structures they had been mocking came tumbling down upon them. Their young faces still had expressions of hilarity as they lay there, in the middle of the chaos that ensued.

Ulegu’s father came to them and said: “There is neither class nor status that will keep you from being someone else, someone with a better life, are you ready?”

There had been very little time to do all the things that had to get done, and each step along the way weighed heavy on Ulegu’s heart.

They had stripped the two boys of their clothes and their jewels, and they had said their goodbyes, and they had prayed to never be discovered in this, the biggest crime one could ever commit against the Kingdom.

When the Guards came looking for survivors, for they had received news that some where in these parts, they found a young Cleric apprentice and a young boy born as a Warrior; both whom had come from far away lands and were injured, dirty and confused, after a house had collapsed on top of them killing their mentor and protector. Only the fortune of those born in noble crib had saved them.

The Guards also found that a dirtmouth had burned the bodies of his two dead sons, which was a grave crime. Disposing of the dead, helping them in the last trip, giving them departure from this world lest they stay trapped here forever: that was the work of a Cleric.

It didn’t matter that the two dead were simple servants. Naturally, the Great Keeper would not be preparing them himself, but rather one of his lower underlings. Still, for a dirtmouth to have burned the bodies to ashes was a transgression of the code punishable by death.

And so the execution had been carried out, and a servant woman had been left to mourn the death of her sons alone. It was said that she never spoke again.

Ulegu had taken the place of the young Cleric, for he was of more agile mind and could learn refined manners. His brother instead, was broader on the shoulders and more fit for the field, so he became the Warrior.

That day, after dishonoring the dead bodies of two young boys, Ulegu had said goodbye to his family. He knew he could never see them or seek them again.

More tears shed out of Ulegu’s eyes as he remembered all of this. He missed his mother, the wonderful woman who had made him promise he’d never try to find her again. Ulegu had broken this promise, though it would be many years before he managed it.

The high classes had taken care of the young Cleric that had survived the earthquake. A new mentor had been found for him and the things he had forgotten after his trauma were taught to him again. He was an avid student and before too long he became an underling to the Keeper and started learning the arts of the dead.

After many nights spent sending souls on their last trip, the Keeper had deemed him his apprentice, an honor so unique that it gave Ulegu a higher status among his peers.
The first thing he did with his new status was to request a servant. Using his contacts, his connections and the respect he had earned by others in the Kingdom, he had procured himself an older woman who had gone mute the day she had lost her sons in a catastrophe almost forgotten.

For Ulegu, this had been what had made it all worth it. To be able, at last, if only in the privacy of his quarters, to give his mother the care she always had for him. She was old and tired by then, but she had smiled every day she spent in the company of her son.

They spoke often about the choices they had made, and she always repeated the words that Ulegu’s father had taught them all: neither class nor status could keep him from being who he was.

When she died of old age, happy and well fed, it was Ulegu himself who prepared her soul for the last trip. It had been Ulegu’s most perfect ritual.

Ulegu cried for her mother once more, and evoked a prayer so that her soul would make it through the long trek of darkness and find peace at last.

Ulegu had also used his connections to try and find the Warrior that had survived with him that fateful day, but was never able to hear news of what had happened to him. He had been sent to far away camps where letters didn’t arrive and responses never came back.

But now he had his news at last. His brother had not been as fortunate as he had. Starting as a Warrior, he had never raised himself above that status. A nameless warrior he had remained his whole life.

Ulegu could easily deduct how the end had come for his brother. At some point, he had been assigned to the great Parakel and sent to battle in the name of a Kingdom that would see them live in misery and laugh at them. And now here he was, with no rank, with no name, next to the acclaimed Parakel, who would be honored for all history, the great Parakel who would be embalmed tonight and preserved as a hero among the people of the Kingdom.

Ulegu stopped crying suddenly as an idea formed in his mind. It started as a small thought, but it had soon rolled down the crevices of his brain gaining speed like a snowball. He looked from his brother to Parakel, noticing the similarities in build and height, noticing that the famous warrior had his legendary sword by his side, the one that would accompany him in his honorable place among the greatest of the Kingdom.

Ulegu considered the implications of his idea. If the truth was ever found he would be sentenced to death and his body would be tossed aside so that he’d never make the last trip. But if he succeeded… it would be his last act of rebellion against the Kingdom that never gave him a chance. This deception was greater than any other he had ever planned, and he had become a master of deception in his time.

Ulegu laughed at his own daring, and his laughter bounced off the walls of the chamber in a resounding echo that none but the dead could hear.

Fate had struck again.

It had been only weeks since the previous Keeper of the Dead had taken his last trip and Ulegu had ascended to the post. It had been the natural progression of things, as he was the highest apprentice at the time and therefore it was his duty to become the Master of the Clerics. He hadn’t given this much thought, he had simply done what must be done. But now, he felt as though fate had put him in this place so that he may do exactly the thing he was planning on doing.

All the dead in the chamber be damned, Ulegu took the sword from Parakel’s side and lay it next to his brother. A long night waited ahead. He would have to do much preparation and reconstruction. He would have to draw Parakel’s tattoos in his brother’s skin and change hair and eyes, and he knew how to do all these things, he was the Master of the Clerics, the Keeper of the Dead, none but him could take a body and make him look young and in all his glory again. He had done this many a time for Kings that wanted to look powerful in death, or Queens who wanted the beauty of their young years before the last trip.

He would do it this time, for his brother, so that he may have a name that would last forever, so that his soul would be revered as a warrior who had done nothing different than he had. Ulegu thought this would be a lie, but then again, so it had been his whole life, just like Ulegu’s own.

Still laughing at the absurdity of this world, he chanted the old mantra to his brother: “Neither class nor status will keep you from being Parakel”, and set himself to work.

Bird

Oh Great Bird that soars the sky
was long ago too small to fly
and if someone then had said to her
that she would never make it there
she might have given up in despair
and never try to jump up in the air

For how could wings with hardly a feather
ever take her and withstand the weather
and if she had seen others try and fall
she could have wondered about it all

But little bird was bold and brave
willing to risk falling to her grave
her conviction far stronger than her fear
her desire to fly up, to never shed a tear

So she tried and fell down to the ground
strange eyes on her, danger all around
the toil of climbing back up to the nest
to jump again without taking a rest

She could give up, stay down in the dirt
but she tried again, even when it hurt
and so it happened in one of her attempts
a breeze came to her and the sky made amends

She caught the wind, her wings now strong
her body aching from falling for so long
but now she soared and all was well
she felt deep things, too deep to tell

And so Great Bird rose into the skies
flying away from my sad and teary eyes
where would she go, I would never learn
but I’ll keep the lesson she gave me: To Yearn

Anastasiya

I fell in love once.

No, it wasn’t the only time I ever fell in love, but it was the first one.

Now, if it’s ever been true that being first in life is important, then being first in love must be… well, everything!

Her name was Mariana, and she as beautiful as a morning and so smart she shined. I used to call her Mary for short, but when I wanted to drown in the agony of her name I would use all the letters she had impregnated with her beauty:
Mariana Anastasiya Melnikova, Daughter of Ariadna.

I remember when I met her. I remember that day because the clouds had shapes of elephants and bunnies and of good omens.
And then I saw her walking towards me in all her presence… and I never talk to strangers, but her… I knew her since the day that I was born.

And I asked her “Do you want to take a walk?” but what I really meant was “Do you want to fall in love? … Do you want to spend the rest of your life with this poor soul that would die for you?”.
She said yes.
To the walk.
And later, to other things as well.

They say that love is blind, and I think that I was blind. I never saw it coming. I never saw him coming, or going, as many times as he did, and I never saw her going. Going to a place I could not follow.

And I would have never known if not for the tragedy that walked into my life. And I damn the world for being so unfair, and unpredictable… and natural. And I cried an ocean inside when I found out that the rage and the filth of this world had taken her away. And her funeral was somber, but not as somber as my soul.

One day, I was sitting on a solitary bench, just as reality came crashing down on my head and I was ready to give up. That’s when this old man sat next to me and then he looked me in the eye and said “Love Should Always end with Hope”.

And I understood, I understood what he meant. Because that day I started remembering my love.
And I hoped.
I hoped with my heart out to the sun.
I hoped like the man that has nothing else to hope for that I would not forget to love.

And it worked.

Today, I know that love… was not Mariana Anastasiya Melnikova, may her soul rest with the light. I loved her.

But the love… the love is mine.