Betraktelser från Fronten

Prologen till mitt fantasyroman-manus som det aldrig blev något av.
Allt som allt blev monstret 260 A4, men fick aldrig någon uppföljare så berättelsen avslutades aldrig. Den är jäkligt lång, den här prologen – och antagligen ganska genretypisk – men jag laddar upp den mer som kuriosa för den som är intresserad av vad jag ägnade min tidiga tonårsperiod till, än något annat. ;)

Här förtäljs i all korthet om Ladror´quidrills Månar, ythriterna och hur Mörkret kom till Aëdron – legenden som ythriterna berättade den.
I Begynnelsen, medan världen ännu var ung, innan den första Månen ännu påbörjat sitt
första varv över himlavalvet, levde i världen endast Elementens Andar, Ladror´quidrill.
De dvaldes i det Vackra Mörkret tillsammans, samtalade i sina tankar och lyssnade till
Vattnets musik, som de själva skapade. Världen var på den tiden mycket vacker. Inget
ont existerade och till och med tystnaden var underbar. Dock var det mycket mörkt, ty
ingen ljuskälla utom Elden själv hade ännu fötts ur Andarnas drömmar.

De fem elementens andar, Eldens, Vattnets, Jordens, Luftens och Kraftens, hade ingen speciell inbördes rangordning, och ingen avundsjuka fanns emellan dem. Men det fanns en av Kraftens Andar, Jaëlidril, som hade speciellt mycket skönhet inom sig och beundrades av de andra Andarna. Hon hyste en stor kärlek för världen de själva byggt upp och format,
den som de kallade Aëdron, Livets Hem, och hon föraktade inte alls Mörkret. Dock visste
hon att allt bara skulle bli så mycket vackrare om det badade i Kraftens välsignade ljus,
och därför lät hon en av sina egna glädjetårar sättas att rotera i en bana runt Aëdron. De
andra Andarna förundrades över det nya Ljuset när Jaëlidrils måne steg över deras värld
för första gången. Det vita ljus som månen spred lade sig över Aëdron, och de såg för
första gången allt det vackra de skapat. Under den första månuppgången, innan månen
ännu hunnit fästa sig riktigt vid himlavalvet, föll tolv droppar från Jaëlidrils måne mot
marken. När de landade på den jord som ännu inte skådat ondskan och ännu var full av
Elementens oblandade kraft, tog de genast skepnad av tolv levande varelser. De var långa
och resliga, hade långt silverblankt hår på sina huvuden, spetsiga öron och vandrade på
två ben. De var de allra första varelserna av kött och blod, och när de vaknade och
skådade månen som steg fylldes de av förundran och kallade den Jaëlidril. Och de var i
sanning Jaëlidrils barn, de första ythriterna. De var Jaël´yidril, Kraftens barn. De
vandrade runt i Aëdron och såg allt vackert som Andarna skapat, och de blev vänner med
dem. Alla Andarna älskade dem, men mest av alla älskades de av Jaëlidril. De liknade
henne till både kropp och själ. Hon gav dem Odödlighetens gåva och ingöt sin kraft i
dem. De blev ett vackert och mäktigt folk som bemästrade Kraften, som de en gång
föddes ur, och de byggde många underbara städer runt hela Aëdron där de levde och blev
fler. Den främsta av deras städer kallade de Draéfirell, Ljusa Staden. Det var den
vackraste staden världen någonsin skådat. Dess vita torn kunde ses långväga ifrån, och
dess gator var kantade med blå, slätslipade acridasstenar. Och till sin ledare valde de den
av dem som till själen mest liknade Jaëlidril. Hans namn var Aëridan, vilket betyder
Livets Vän. Han var en mäktig men rättvis härskare och hans maka var Níka, som var den
vackraste av alla Jaël´yidril.

Hennes hår var som glänsande månsilver, och hennes ögon gröna som de klaraste
Pailiter. Hon gick alltid klädd i vitt, där hon dansade genom Aëdrons skogar i Jaëlidrils
ljus. Och hon älskade det mest av alla. Nu var det dock så, att medan Jaëlidrils måne
snurrade runt världen, belyste den ythriternas hem bara hälften av dagarna. Det var därför som Níka dansade runt i världen. Hon jagade alltid efter det försvinnande månljuset som hon ville hålla kvar runt sig. Hon var sannerligen vacker där hon dansade mellan träden, och det var just så som Drimor fann henne. Han var en av Eldens Andar, och vid första anblicken blev han hjälplöst förälskad i detta Jaëlidrils barn. Han fylldes av sorg när han såg hennes förtvivlade kamp för att hinna ifatt månljuset, och bestämde sig för att hjälpa henne till varje pris.

Detta var ungefär tusen år efter det att Jaëlidrils måne för första gången höjt sig över horisonten, men Drimor mindes dock fortfarande hennes berättelse om hur hon format sin måne. Drimor var nämligen Jaëlidrils bäste vän, och hon hade delat med sig av sin hemlighet mot löftet att han aldrig skulle använda sig av den för egen del. För så mycket älskade Jaëlidril Jaël´yidrils släkte, att hon inte på några villkor ville att de skulle behöva dela världen med några andra varelser förutom de fyrbenta djur som dvaldes i Aëdron.

Nu glömde Drimor ändå alla förmaningar och löften; så stor var hans kärlek för Níka.
Han besteg det högsta berget i Aëdron, det berg som senare skulle komma att kallas
Edroth Dorlumn, Eldmånens Berg. När han stod där på berget, sände han upp sina tårar
av olycklig kärlek mot himlen, och de bildade en måne som var långt större än Jaëlidrils.
Den var blodröd och lyste med ett dimmigt rött ljus. Och han kallade den just Dorlumn,
Eldmånen.

Just när Níka satt där i sin förtvivlan, mitt i en av Jordanden Cashiro´s skogar, och såg
uppgivet på Jaëlidrils måne där den sänkte sig i det stora Havet, fylldes hon av förvåning.
För samtidigt som den silvervita månen försvann bak horisonten, höjde sig plötsligt
Drimors blodröda på samma plats där den andra försvunnit. Först blev hon rädd, ty ingen
av Jaël´yidril hade någonsin skådat något annat ljus än slivermånen, men kände sedan en
översvallande lyckokänsla. Hon fann den nya månen mycket vacker, då den fick världen
att skimra på ett helt annat sätt än den gamla, och hon dansade nu av glädje i stället för av
sorg.

Under hela Dorlumn´s färd över himlen dansade hon runt i skogen, men hemma i
Draéfirell oroades Aëridan över hennes frånvaro. Hon brukade alltid vara hemma när
Jaëlidrils ljus dog bort i Havet, men nu hade hon varit borta mycket länge. Och när han
skådade Dorlumns blodröda ljus över Aëdron fylldes hans hjärta av farhågor. Och för en
som aldrig förut känt av någon sådan känsla, med tanke på den lycksalighet de levde i,
var den överväldigande. Övertygad om att något hemskt hänt Níka, gick han ned i sitt
slotts djupaste salar och smidde där svärdet Nóglur, det första vapen som någonsin
tillverkats i Aëdron. Sedan gav han sig av att söka Níka.

Det var då som Drimor talade till henne för första gången; han hade stått dold bakom ett
träd och bevittnat hennes dans. När hon först hörde hans röst fylldes hon av rädsla, ty
ingen hade någonsin förut sökt upp henne under hennes dans, och inte heller kände hon
igen rösten. Hon såg honom inte, men förstod att detta inte kunde vara en av Jaël´yidril.
Han ropade på nytt hennes namn och den här gången svarade hon honom.

”Vem är det som talar från träden, och som inte vill eller vågar visa sig för mig?”
Och han svarade: ”Jag är Drimor. Jag har många gånger förut sett er måndans, och nu
har jag givit dig en egen måne att lysa din väg vart du går.” Sedan tillade han: ”Jag visar
mig inte eftersom jag är rädd att jag inte på långa vägar kan mäta mig med er skönhet.
Men jag är en av Dor´quidrill, eldens andar.”

Då förundrades hon, för ingen av Andarna, förutom Jaëlidril, hade förut talat med någon av hennes folk, och än mindre hedrat henne själv på detta sätt genom så storslagna ord och gåvor. Hon bad honom att stiga fram så att hon kunde se honom.

Och det gjorde han också. Elementens Andar äger ingen bestämd gestalt, och när de väljer att visa sig i en sådan är det bara den de själva väljer att klä sig i.
Och för att inte skrämma Níka på flykten, tog Drimor en skepnad som liknade hennes
eget folks. Trots det översteg han deras skönhet så pass att hon ändå överväldigades. Han
liknade Jaël´yidril, men ändå inte. Hans hår var rött som eld, och hans ögon svarta som
kol. Och runt honom stod ett eldsken så starkt, att hon bara genom den skyddande magi
han ingöt i henne kunde utstå det. Vid åsynen av honom fylldes hon av en kärlek så
mycket starkare än hon någonsin känt för Aëridan, och Drimor visste detta och fylldes
med lycka. Ty han förstod att hon aldrig skulle vilja lämna honom igen. Så stod de bara och såg på varandra, medan de utbytte tusen tankar.

Det var då Aëridan fann dem. Han såg kraftfältet som Drimor inneslutit Níka med, och
han förstod att han hade förlorat henne till honom. Då uppfylldes hans hjärta av hat mot
Drimor. Det hade aldrig tidigare funnits något som hat i Aëdron, och det var en helt ny
känsla för Aëridan. Dock förstod han inte vem Drimor var, att han var en av Dor´quidrill.
Han trodde att han var en Jaël´yidril, och han kunde inte tåla att en av hans eget folk tog
Níka ifrån honom. Ty sådan effekt hade hatet på den störste konungen av Jaël´yidril. Han
som aldrig tidigare sett de sina som undersåtar, utan som jämlika fränder, såg nu sig själv
som härskare och han ville till varje pris ta tillbaka det som han ansåg som sitt.

Han höjde Nóglur över sitt huvud och rusade mot Drimor. Men Drimor upptäckte
honom i tid och lyckades avvärja attacken. Níka såg bestört på medan Aëridan och
Drimor slogs. Dorlumn stod just då på sin fulla höjd och kastade ett rött sken över
slagskämparna. Aëridan måttade slag på slag mot Drimor, som hela tiden lyckades hoppa
undan. Nóglurs klinga var svart som Drimors ögon, och dess fäste glänste av silver. Trots
att han iklätt sig en ythrits skepnad ägde han fortfarande alla sina magiska egenskaper,
och därför var Drimor för Aëridan en övermäktig fiende. Men Aëridan upptäckte sitt
misstag försent.

Níka, som först nu var förmögen att röra sig, rusade fram för att skilja dem åt. Samtidigt höjde Aëridan Nóglur för att utdela ett sista, dödande hugg mot Drimor. Men när Níka rusade emellan dem träffade han istället henne. Hon föll till marken, och chockad föll Aëridan på knä bredvid henne, den enda han någonsin älskat.

Hon flämtade fram några sista, ansträngda andetag, och i sitt dödsögonblick såg hon upp
på honom. Rakt in i hans ögon. Då uppfylldes han av sådan sorg att han vände sig bort,
höll sig för ögonen och grät. Mitt framför sin fiende, glömsk om striden och faran för sitt
liv. Men Drimor såg ned på Níkas döda kropp och fylldes av samma hat för Aëridan som
Aëridan känt för honom tidigare. Han böjde sig fram och drog Nóglur ur Níkas döda
kropp. Det droppade av hennes blod, Níkas blod. Níka, som blivit dräpt av den som
älskade henne. Han gick fram mot Aëridan, som satt med ryggen mot honom. Han skulle
just utdela ett dödande hugg när Aëridan vände sig mot honom, och likgiltigheten lyste i
hans klargröna ögon. Deras blickar möttes under bråkdelen av en sekund, och sedan föll
svärdet Nóglur över Aëridan. Han visste att han skulle dö, men han rörde sig ändå inte ur
fläcken när Drimor högg mot honom.

Nu låg både Níka och Aëridan döda i den månbelysta gläntan. Dorlumn stod
fortfarande på sin högsta höjd, och gjorde så att hela den sorgliga scenen badade i ett
blodrött sken. Drimor kastade svärdet Nóglur ifrån sig. Det sägs att det fastnade i en stor
sten mitt i gläntan, och att ingen någonsin har lyckats dra loss det. Och där sitter det ännu
som en påminnelse; det första vapen som någonsin spillde blod i Aëdron. Sedan föll han
ned på marken och grät. Länge låg han där, oviss om världen runt omkring sig.

Till slut utstötte han ett sorgfyllt skrik och kastade av sig sin ythritgestalt. Sedan lät han
sig själv sväva upp mot himlen, upp mot månen Dorlumn som blivit Níkas och Aëridans
död. Det var sista gången någon i Aëdron såg honom, men den natten fällde den nya
månen sju blodröda tårar. De landade runt Edroth Dorlumn, och där de landade växte de
till sju ythriter. De var lika Jaël´yidril, men ägde inte deras ljuskraft. Deras skepnad var
den samma som den Drimor burit sina sista timmar i Aëdron, men de ägde inte hans
makt. Inte heller ingöts i dem samma kärlek eller magi som hos Jaël´yidril.

Ladror´quidrill försköt dem och ägnade dem ingen kärlek. Allt detta för att de kommit till
genom dråpet på två av de mest älskade av Jaëlidrils barn. Men genom Dorlumns
eldmagi fick de gåvan att kunna bemästra elden, en gåva som de senare fick mycket god
användning för. Och precis som Jaël´yidril gavs till dem det eviga livets gåva av Drimor.
Antingen han gjorde det medvetet eller inte, det är det ingen nu levande varelse som vet.
De var Dor´yidril, Eldens barn. Eftersom det inte rådde någon större vänskap mellan dem
och Jaël´yidril, höll de sig till sitt berg där de vaknat. Och i och runt Edroth Dorlumn
växte deras rike fram. Till slut var hela berget och dess omgivningar ett blomstrande land,
och de var mycket framgångsrika i allt de tog sig för, trots att de förbannades av
Jaël´yidril som gav dem skulden för Aëridans och Níkas död. De två släktena låg ofta i
krig med varandra och djupt i Edroth Dorlumns inre smidde Dor´yidril sina vapen.

Det land som tidigare varit besparat från död och plåga, fläckades nu ofta av blod när de två brodersläktena dräpte varandra. Ty det var det enda sättet som ythriterna kunde dö.
Genom att bli dräpta.

När Jaëlidril såg detta fylldes hon av sorg; hon ansåg att allt detta var hennes verk, då
det var hon som lärt ut Månkonsten till Drimor, och hon förbannade sig själv. Hon levde
fortfarande en tid efter detta kvar i Aëdron, men till slut tynade hennes själ bort och hon
ansåg det för gott att lämna världen som hon älskade. Precis som Drimor gjort, tog hon
farväl av Aëdron och svävade upp mot sin måne Jaëlidril. Ingen såg henne efter det, och
de andra Ladror´quidrill sörjde över sin förlust och förbannade än en gång Dor´yidril.
Så fortgick det under många hundra år.

Dor´yidril växte sig starkare, men skulle ändå inte ha kunnat mäta sig med Jaël´yidril i strid om det inte hade varit för Dorlumns magi.
Under den tiden då Jaëlidrils måne vandrade över dem, höll sig Dor´yidril undan.
Stängde in sig i sina starka fästen djupt inne i Edroth Dorlumns hjärta. Men det var under
Dorlumns dagtid som de attackerade sina fiender. Ty det var då de hade övertaget.
Drimors måne hade nämligen den egenskapen att den först och främst värnade om
Dor´yidril, som ju var Drimors folk. När den röda månen visade sig på himlen, vem de än
låg i strid med, fylldes deras fiender av fruktan och tog till flykten. Även det allra
tappraste hjärta blev tvunget att böja sig för Drimors makt, och på så sätt hade Dor´yidril
lika stor framgång, om inte större, i kriget.

Jaël´yidris folk förlorade lite av sin glans på den tiden, när deras hjärtan fylldes med uppgivenhet och när kriget mot deras egna bröder blev en del av deras vardag. Flera av dem blev också dödade, om inte av kriget så av sorg över någon de förlorat. Detta, måste ni förstå, var på tiden före Tíriglam, och ythriterna visste ännu inte vad som hände efter det att deras liv tagit slut.

Tíriglam, vars namn betyder Stjärnglitter, var en av Qérell´quidrill – Vattnets Andar.
Hon dvaldes på ön Wairn, som låg mitt i det Största Havet. Det var den vackraste av öar,
dit ingen ondska nådde, och där, mitt på ön, hade hon sin boning – det högsta tornet som
någonsin byggts i Aëdron. Där hon stod, högst uppe i det höga tornet, och blickade ut
över världen, sörjde hon över striderna mellan Jaël´yidril och Dor´yidril. Hon hade varit
vän till Jaëlidril, och sett henne som sin egen syster. Men trots det var hon den enda av
alla Ladror´quidrill som inte föraktade Drimors folk. Hon älskade dem och satte dem lika
högt som Jaël´yidril. Därför ville hon inte tillåta att dessa brodersdråp fortsatte. Hon såg
att de båda folken själva sörjde och förbannade kriget. Och i och med att Jaëlidril färdats
upp till sin egen måne, hade den nu fått mycket större glans än Dorlumn någonsin kunde
få. Därför hade Jaël´yidril åter fått övertaget i kriget, och Dor´yidril vara nära sin
undergång.

Så hon beslutade att det än en gång var dags att bryta Drimors ed mot
Jaëlidril. Men istället för att väcka sitt månfolk ur sina tårar, så som Drimor och Jaëlidril
gjort för länge sedan, kastade hon sig upp mot himlavalvet och stannade där. Och när de
två folken blickade upp mot skyn den kvällen – ty det var alltid kväll i Aëdron innan det
Varma Ljuset kom till – såg de, när Dorlumn var på nedgående i havet i väster, och
Jaëlidril i öst, en ny, isblå måne höja sig vid horisonten i norr. Det var Tíriglam de såg.
Och inför deras häpna blickar sändes en kraftig ljusstråle ned mot Aëdron. Ur ljuset
vandrade tio ythriter, de som var Tíriglams barn. Även efter det att det starka ljuset från
Tíriglam mattats ut, strålade de ändå med ett sällsamt sken. De var mäktiga, ty Tíriglam
hade ingjutit all sin kraft i dem. Och trots det kunde de inte på något sätt mäta sig med
Jaël´yidril i kraft. Men de andra ythriterna fruktade dem, då de kommit från skyn i ljuset
till skillnad från dem själva. Och de båda folken böjde sig för dem och kallade dem Ilien
der Darun, Nordens Härskare.

Tíriglam blickade förnöjt den på scenen som utspelade sig mitt på stridsfältet, ty detta
hade varit hennes avsikt. Hon hade enat de stridande folken under en gemensam
härskarskara. Nu höjde hon sin bleka hand över sin nya måne och formade den till ett
underbart land i skyn. Ett land så vackert, så att det till och med kunde mäta sig med
Draéfirell under dess glansdagar för länge sedan. Där växte de mest underbara träd och
växter, och där formade hon månstaden Ithglam, vilket betyder Silverglans. Allt i hennes
nya rike glänste som vit marmor i skenet från hennes iskrona där hon satt på Ithglams
högsta tron. När allt var fullbordat, tog hon en handfull stoft från marken och stödde ut
över himlavalvet. Där bildade de en stjärnstege upp mot Ismånen, som bara Ilien der
Darun, alltså Tiri´yidril, och de som var dessa trogna kunde hitta efter det att deras
jordliga liv släckts ut. För andra, som var deras fiender, var stjärnorna bara en
oframkomlig labyrint där de var dömda att irra omkring ända tills den dagen då världen
bytte skepnad.

När hon var nöjd med sitt verk, slöt hon ögonen och skulle inte komma
att vakna igen förrän Lumn´yidrils – månarnas barns – blod än en gång spilldes i Aëdron.
Tíri´yidril blev mäktiga härskare över de tre folken, och de flesta var dem också trogna.
De var också bland de vackraste av lumn’yidril. De var mer än något av de andra folken.
Deras hår var isblått och gnistrade som stjärnor, och deras ögon var som de klaraste
acridas. Under deras regenttid växte sig Lumn´yidrils hantverksskicklighet så stor, att
deras verk många mansåldrar efteråt var berömda för sin skönhet. Och deras riken
blomstrade.

De översteg inte de två andra folken i makt, men ändå underkastade de andra sig. En
del på grund av vördnad för Nordens Härskare. Andra av rädsla att inte få komma till
Tíriglam efter sin död. För även om de inte dog av ålder eller av sjukdomar, och det var
en godhetens och fredens tid i Aëdron, fanns det ändå de med svaga och falska hjärtan
som fruktade döden. Detta påskyndade den bara, men det var inget som de själva var
medvetna om. De utvecklade en desperat rädsla för mörkret, som de såg som någonting
ont. De andra ythriterna, som ansåg denna skara vara otacksamma som Tíriglam och att
de bar på ondska i sina hjärtan, försköt dem.

Denna skara, som fruktade mörkret och döden, skapade sig ett eget rike i Aëdrons södra delar, eftersom de var rädda för månarna och fruktade att de skulle bli bestraffade för sin otrohet mot Tíri´yidril. Detta folk bestod av små grupper av både Jaël´yidril och Dor´yidril. Dock hade ingen av Tíri´yidril anslutit sig till dem. De kallade sig Linérli Drilien, ljustjänarna. De två främsta inom deras skara var sönerna till Dor´yidrils och Jaël´yidris konungar. De hade flytt från sina fäders länder när Tíri´yidril kom, och fått med sig en grupp från sina läger. Nu härskade de över Linérli Drilien, och enade dem i sin desperata kamp mot det mörker som de fruktade. Men de såg dock att deras folk vacklade mer och mer.

De gömde sig djupt inne i skogarna för att undfly månarnas ljus, och utan det livgivande ljuset från dem blev de bara svagare. Deras ledare, som hette Valnyr och Coldrimor, såg det som sin plikt att rädda sitt folk från detta hemska slut, att sakta tyna bort i Aëdrons skogar. De ägde båda sina speciella egenskaper, eftersom de var av olika släkten. Valnyr hade förmågan att bemästra Kraftens element, och Coldrimor hade eldens makt inom sig.

De uppbådade sina gemensamma krafter och formade ett gigantiskt klot av eld och energi.
Det lyste med ett annat sken än Ladror´quidrills månar. Det var ett starkare och
annorlunda sken. Till att börja med nöjde de sig med att placera det över sina fästen i
Sinyarskogen. De tyckte alla att det var mycket vackert, och de växte sig starka åter igen.
De kallade det nya ljuset Dorvilny, eldsdans. Dess varma röda sken föll över deras hem
och de gladdes. Den liknade Drimors måne, men ändå inte. Ty detta ljus innehöll Kraften
och Elden i sin samlade kraft.

Ljuset från Dorvilny hade ännu inte vuxit sig så starkt, och klotet var till formen inte
större än att det kunde hållas uppe av deras högsta torn. Men medan Linérli Drilien
gladdes, skrämdes dock alla de fyrfota djur som under deras vistelse i skogarna blivit
deras vänner. Till en början, medan klotets ljus fortfarande var svagt, stannade de
pliktskyldigt kvar hon sina vänner. Men allt eftersom det växte sig starkare drog de sig
mer och mer undan, ty de var månvarelser och under månen hade de fötts. Enhörningarna
var de sista att dra sig undan från ythriterna. De var trogna i sina hjärtan och älskade
månarnas barn. Men till slut blev klotets sken för starkt även för dem, och de försvann in
i skogarna. Och efter den dagen är det få som ens har sett dem vandra runt på Aëdrons
månbelysta slätter i natten, än mindre talat till dem.

För Linérli Drilien var det en stor sorg när Enhörningarna lämnade dem. De var ännu
inte beredda att helt bryta banden till Lumn´yidrils land, och varelserna som levde däruti.
Men Valnyr och Coldrimor såg inte sitt folk sorg, och inte heller märkte de hur deras
vänner lämnade dem. De hade bara ögon för sin skapelse, och de hade börjat smida
lömska planer, giriga som de var efter mera makt. Ingen av deras fränder märkte det i tid,
men lika sakta som säkert började deras ledare förändras. Ett stort mörker började växa i
deras hjärtan, tills de var helt uppslukade av sin önskan att få makten över Aëdron. De
ansåg sig som oövervinneliga, och deras blindhet växte sig allt större samtidigt som
Dorvilny.

I sin dumhet trodde de sig kunna besegra till och med Ladror´quidrill. De ingöt
allt mera kraft i sitt ljusklot, tills det blev så stort så att inte ens deras största torn orkade
bära upp det. Dess eld började förtära på den vackra skogsstaden, som var till största
delen av trä. Dess eld brände den, och folket flydde från sina hem. När de stod där,
alldeles ensamma, fångade i sin egen fälla av dumhet, vaknade Coldrimor och Valnyr
plötsligt ur sitt fruktansvärda mörker. När det förstod vad de hade gjort, förskräcktes de.
Detta var det värsta som kunde ha hänt deras älskade land; att sakta men säkert förtäras
av sin egen eld. De ångrade djupt sitt svek mot Tíri´yidril, och tänkte göra allt i sin makt
för att ställa allt till rätta igen.

De stod nära Dorvilny. Så nära att de sveddes av dess eld, och uppbådade sina sista, nyvunna krafter av godhet till att kasta upp eldklotet mot himlen. De såg att det inte föll tillbaka utan stannade på sin utsedda plats. Först blev de lättade, men sedan såg de att klotet bara fortsatte att växa inför deras ögon.
Det var mångas ögon som riktades uppåt den dagen, för detta var den första dagen i
Aëdrons historia; solens första uppgång. Men blickarna som skådade Dorvilny var
skrämda och inte alls lyckliga över det nya ljuset, ty Linérli Driliens Varma Ljus bara
växte i storlek, absorberade kraften från allt omkring sig.

Valnyr och Coldrimor förstod att deras älskade skapelse skulle bli Aëdrons undergång om de inte förhindrade det. De iklädde sig Räddningens Vingar, och flög upp mot Dorvilny. Där, uppe i Intets Mörker, stred de mot eldklotet och lyckades tvinga bort dess kraft, tills det inte var varken större eller mindre än Jaëlidrils måne. När deras kamp var fullbordad gladdes de. Inte för sin egen del, utan för Aëdrons. Ty den dagen hade de räddat livet på mången godhjärtad varelse. Men de kunde aldrig mer återvända till det jordliga livet. De visste, att om de var ouppmärksamma även för bara en liten stund, kunde Dorvilny åter växa sig stor, och det kunde bli alla deras undergång.

Så blev slutet för två av de Tidiga Släktenas största ledare. De var dömda att för alltid sona sitt svek mot Tíri´yidril med att i eviga tider vakta sitt livsverk från att åter hota den värld de älskade.
De flesta av deras fränder återvände till Draéfirell och fick förlåtelse av invånarna där.
De övriga, som av stolthet eller ondska inte ville återförenas med dem de svikit, flydde
djupare in i skogarna och historien förtäljer inget mer om dem.

Nu var Månljusets tid för eviga tider förbi, och det var numera bara på de mörka
nätterna när Dorvilny hade försvunnit i norr som man kunde skåda de tre månarna.
Många var det som sörjde över detta, men allt eftersom solåren gick glömde fler och
fler bort hur världen hade tett sig före Dorvilnys tid. Och om man blickade upp mot klotet
när det roterade runt Aëdron, kunde man, på varje sida om det, skåda Valnyr och
Coldrimor där de för alltid vaktade elden från att bryta ut; de är de enda stjärnbilderna
som syns även på dagen.

Och med Dorvilnys första färd över himlavalvet påbörjades också en ny tidsålder.
Samtidigt som de två ljusväktarna stred mot elden på himlen, kom ett nytt folk vandrande
in i Aëdron från söder. De var de första Dödliga, som älskade Dorvilny mer än månarnas
ljus. De kallade klotet för Solen, och de var Danar´yidril. Solens barn.
De var mycket lika Lumn´yidril, men de ägde inte odödlighetens gåva eftersom de inte
kommit till genom någon av Ladror´quidrills godhet. Och inte heller hade de samma
skönhet som de tidigare släktena. Det var med dem som döden och ondskan kom till Aëdrons förlovade riken, ty samtidigt med dem dök också de stora Drakarna upp långt i söder.

Många av Danar´yidril anslöt sig till ythriterna, och var dem trogna i hela sin livstid;
då, i deras grynings dagar ägde de i sanning en lång livslängd. Men andra av dem
föraktade ythriterna och avundades dem deras skönhet och det eviga livets gåva, som
missunnats dem.

Det var de som letade sig fram till drakarna i det fjärran södern och blev
deras tjänare. Till en början hade de nog planerat att tämja drakarna och göra dem till sina
trälar. Men de kände inte drakarnas natur och föll snart för deras sluga ord. Drakarna
snärjde dem med ont förtal mot Ljuset och löften om makt. På så sätt kom det sig att
dessa människor blev drakarnas bundsförvanter och deras hat mot Ljusets barn växte sig
allt starkare i och med drakarnas lögner och listiga tal. I mörkret i södern bidade de sin tid
och smidde hemska planer mot ythriterna och deras vänner tillsammans med drakarna.

Dessa människor som aldrig vandrade mot norr och aldrig skådade månarnas vackra ljus,
levde inte speciellt länge jämfört med sina stamfränder i norr. Men drakarna ingöt sin
ondska i dem, och därför levde de ett långt med ångestfyllt liv som var fyllt med plåga
och hat. Det var dessa människor som kallades Drokkaszidren, Drakarnas slavar. Men
detta hade ythriterna ännu ingen kännedom om.

Under denna första tid, då solens ljus var ovant och skrämmande, drog sig också
Ladror´quidrill undan allt mer från Aëdrons levande varelser. Några av dem färdades till
och med iväg från världen och bosatte sig i Tíriglams stjärnstad. De som stannade kvar
visade sig sällan eller inte alls för de levande, och till slut levde deras andar bara kvar i
träden, vattnet, luften och elden. De övergav inte ythriterna helt och hållet, men de talade
inte längre till dem och vandrade inte runt kring dem som deras jämlikar.

När ungefär fyrahundra år gått sedan Dorvilny för första gången stigit ur havet i söder,
lade sig en stor oro över Lumn´yidril och Danar´yidril. Deras spejare vid den södra
gränsen hade sett stora moln välla upp från horisonten. Ythriternas ledare, Tridélon, som
besatt en stor vishet, förstod vad som var i görningen. Och det var kanske det som
räddade hans folk från den slutliga utplåningen i det som senare inträffade. Under berget
Edroth Drokkas, drakarnas berg, var fienden i full gång med att smida sina vapen. De
hade väntat länge på att den rätta tiden skulle vara inne för ett anfall, och nu kände de sig
säkra på att inget sådant var väntat från ythriternas sida. Lumn´yidril hade aldrig hört
talas om att det levde andra människor i söder än de som de själva kände. Och än mindre
anade de att drakarna kommit till deras land.

Tridélon lät mönstra sina arméer och beredde sitt folk på vad som kunde komma att
hända. Det var då många familjer som lämnade Draéfirell för att fly in i de stora
skogarna. Dock stannade också många kvar, ovilliga att så lätt ge upp sin vackra stad och
sitt land till fienden. De trodde, att med Ladror´quidrills hjälp skulle denna nya fiende
inte vara någon svårighet.

Vad de inte visste var att Andarna hade somnat in i naturen, och inte kunde hjälpa dem även om de hade velat. De kände heller ännu inte till drakarna.
Dagen grydde, då fiendens arméer marscherade ut ur sina mörka fästen i söder. Med
dem följde ett stort mörker. Ett helvetesmoln som bolmade fram ur Edroth Drokkas, och
som förmörkade både solen och de tre månarna. Om det inte varit för det molnet, hade
det hela kanske kunnat sluta annorlunda. Ty som redan nämnts här, hade Drimors måne
en sällsam makt över Dor´yidrils fiender. Men nu blev det ändå inte så, och de blev
tvungna att strida på lika villkor.

Tridélons spejare fick syn på dem när de nådde Tírimadril, Stjärnfältet, och han sände då ut sina styrkor att möta dem. De två härarna möttes på Stjärnfältet under drakarnas svarta moln. Himlen ljungade av ilskna svarta blixtar, och drokkaszidren var fruktansvärda och skoningslösa. Under all denna tid, allt sedan de kommit till drakarna för många solvarv sedan, hade de fått höra förvrängda sanningar om ythriterna och alla de som var dem trogna. Hatet var det enda som höll dem vid liv när de egentligen skulle ha avlidit av ålderdom för mycket länge sedan. De var som tomma skal med endast svart hat på insidan, och Tridélon såg det i deras ögon. Han förskräcktes, ty först nu såg han hur stora och fasansfulla fiendens härar var.

När han stod där på sin fästnings bröstvärn och skådade ut över Tírimadrils vida vidder, såg han hur de två härarna brakade samman. Skrik och vapenskrammel genljöd genom luften den dagen, och mången fager ythrits blod fläckade Stjärnfältets välsignade mark.
Det såg först ut som att de skulle förlora slaget. Att allt skulle vara förlorat. Men
Ladror´quidrill hade ändå inte glömt dem.

Filëador, vindarnas herre, lät en stark vind blåsa över Aëdron. Och för ett ögonblick skingrades molnen och de tre månarna, som den natten stod på precis samma höjd, kastade ett fruktansvärt ljus över de stridande. Då ryggade fienden tillbaka i fasa, ty de hade aldrig tidigare träffats av månarnas ljus, medan ythriternas trogna fylldes med nytt hopp och genomsyrades av Kraften. Då vände striden, och drakarna och deras anhängare dräptes en efter en.

Den dagen dräptes så gott som alla drakarna från södern, men några lyckades undfly
ythriternas silverglänsande svärd och pilar, och de återvände till Edroth Drokkas för att
läka sina sår och ruva på sin hämnd. Till slut återstod av drakarnas väldiga här bara ett
lika stort antal som av ythriternas.

Tridélon började tro att slaget var vunnet, men då hade han inte räknat med Ondskan själv. Den äldsta av drakarna, han som var äldre än tiden själv, och som hade levt djupt i sina grottor medan Ladror´quidrill ännu dansade mellan träden. Han kallades Zikíador, helvetets eld. När allt såg ut att vara förlorat för hans trupper, hade han vandrat ut från sina starka och hemliga fästen i söder.

Allting hade vissnat bort där han gått fram, och hans eld hade förtärt allting i hans väg. Medan ythriterna och de goda människorna ägnade sig åt att göra slut på resterna av drakarnas trupper, kom han vandrande över fältet. Hans röda ögon lyste som av eld, och hans hat var större än hos någon av de människor som följde honom. Ty nu var det så att han i begynnelsen varit en av Ladror´quidrill. Han hade tillhört eldens andar och liksom de
andra andarna hade han älskat Aëdron. En sak hade dock skilt honom från de övriga. De
hade också älskat mörkret, men när Jaëlidrils måne steg hade de älskat den desto mer.

Men Zikíador hade föraktat den. Mörkret hade varit hans sköld, hans hem. Nu hade
Jaëlidril tagit det ifrån honom. Han hatade henne för det, liksom han hatade hennes måne
och hennes barn, ythriterna. Men dock hade han skådat världens skönhet, och han ville nu
äga den. Han strävade efter makten över Aëdron. När de andra hade upptäckt det hade de
förskjutit honom. I många dagar flydde han från dem, och till sist hade han tagit sin
boning i Edroth Drokkas. Han tog sig en skepnad av en jättelik drake, och han visste att
han skulle få sin hämnd.

Där han nu kom gående över fältet i sin drakgestalt, fyllde han många med skräck. De
tappra som inte tog till flykten vid hans åsyn började avfyra sina pilar mot honom.
Ythriterna var skickliga bågskyttar och inte en pil missade sitt mål. Men de studsade av
honom, ty inget mänskligt vapen skulle någonsin kunna komma att skada honom i hans
rasande styrka. När de såg att deras vapen inte gjorde någon skillnad, var det flera som
flydde in i skogarna runt Draéfirell. Och de som stod kvar och kämpade in i det sista
trampades ned av den jättelika draken. Det var inte dem han var ute efter, och han märkte
dem inte ens när han krossade dem under sina kloförsedda fötter. Även de människor som tjänat honom, och som låg i sina dödsplågor på marken trampade han ned.

Hans hatfyllda blick var riktad mot Tridélon, där han stod på sin mur och sorgset blickade ned över fältet där hans fränder och bröder nu låg döda. I sitt hjärta längtade han bara efter dödens vind, men han tänkte inte på några villkor ge upp sitt land till detta
helvetesvidunder. Dessutom visste han att hans fästning var byggd under den Ljusa tiden,
och att ingen förutom Ladror´quidrill någonsin kunde få den att rasa. Han kände sig trygg
i sin borg, och i sin dumhet hånade han draken som stod vid hans portar.

Men Zikíador log slugt under sin drakmask, ty han fann det mycket roande att hans fienders främsta borg skulle vara så lättintaglig för honom själv, om han nu hade önskat förstöra dess murar. Men nu var inte det hans främsta uppsåt. Han ville död åt alla ythriter och de som tjänade dem. Sedan tänkte han utropa Draéfirell till sitt och själv härska i Aëdron.
Men detta visste inte Tridélon. Och han visste inte heller om Zikíadors makt. Han hade
sett mången drake under den natten, och trodde att detta bara var en av dem. De som lätt
kunde dräpas med ett skarpt svärd om man bara visste om vart pansarfjällen var tunnast.

Han drog sitt svärd Cingílon och ropade ned till draken:
”Drake! Du står vid mina murar och ser på min borg som om du vunnit slaget. Men se -
alla dina vänner har flytt eller ligger dräpta på Stjärnornas fält. Du är alldeles ensam och i
mina händer ligger makten att döma dig efter mitt rikes lagar. Varför flyr du inte som de
andra ynkryggarna till reptiler du hade i ditt sällskap? Denna fästning är byggd genom
Månkvinnans makt, och kan bara falla på befallning av någon av hennes likar. Ge dig av
tillbaka till dina helvetesdjup, eller stanna och mottag din dom.” Medan han talade syntes
det som att han växte i storlek, och ett fruktansvärt sken lade sig runt honom. Jaëlidril
viste nämligen vem denna varelse var, eller hade varit, och hon förskräcktes vid tanken
på vad som skulle hända hennes älskade värld om han lyckades inta staden. Därför ingöt
hon sin kraft i Tridélon.

Zikíador förstod detta, och i sina tankar sände han en förbannelse över henne. Men han roades också av de andra andarnas förtvivlade kamp att rädda detta rike där de inte längre dvaldes. Ty han hade aldrig känt medkänsla med någon, och visste
inte heller vad det innebar. Något han dock visste var att ingen av de andra andarna
kunde besegra honom nu; hans kraft och hat hade växt sig för stark. De enda som kunde
mäta sig med honom var borta från denna världen; de hade färdats mot skyn för att leva
på Tíriglams måne, eller på sina egna.

Därför svarade han Tridélon på detta sätt:
”Månkvinnan är ett namn på den svekfulla Jaëlidril som jag aldrig förut hört. Dock
föraktar jag också detta namn. Hennes makt är ringa, om ens befintlig i denna värld nu
mer. Vad får dig då att tro, att jag inte med bara ett andetag skulle kunna välta ditt
stenhus mot marken? Och vem är du själv, O ythrit, som vågar stå där och hota den
mäktigaste bland Ladror´quidrill med ditt rikes lagar, när det är du själv som snart skall
vandra uppför den förmodade stjärntrappan? Svara mig på denna fråga, du furste över
döda män.”

När han avslutat sitt tal tog han formen av en jättelik helvetesfågel, bredde ut sina
svarta vingar, flög upp och landade på muren helt nära den förskräckte Tridélon, som
ryggade tillbaka och höjde sitt svärd Cingílon framför sig som en bräcklig sköld.

Väl uppe på muren ändrade Zikíador skepnad på nytt, till det utseende han haft innan han
jagades bort från Aëdron av sina forna vänner. Men nu var han ändå förändrad. Hans förr
så vackra drag hade förbytts i en ondskefull grimas, och hans ögon glödde som brinnande
kol. Det långa, svarta håret kröntes av en pannring i svart, lysande järn, och han var klädd
i en lång, svart kappa med spetsiga axlar och ett rödskimrande band runt midjan. I sin
hand höll han svärdet Jidrach, vilket på hans egna, hemska tungomål betydde Ljusbane.
Dess klinga var svart som den mörkaste natten, och det glänste av den ondskefulla eld det
smitts ur, djupt under Edroth Drokkas för mången tidsålder sedan. Dess fäste var som
silver, men inte alls vackert i Tridélons ögon; runt kring det slingrade en svart orm i drilit,
den kalla metallen.

Vid anblicken av den fruktansvärda och mäktiga varelsen, ångrade Tridélon bittert sina hånfulla ord. Han hade nu mött en fiende som översteg hans egen fantasi, och någonstans inom sig visste han att han var förlorad. Men att fly var uteslutet.
Han var Draéfirells härskare vare sig han ville eller ej, och han skulle uppträda som en
sådan. Han fruktade inte döden, men han undrade oroat vad som skulle komma att hända
hans själ om hans död bringades med detta förbannade svärd.

De sade inte ett ord. En kall vind blåste över fälten, och rakt genom Tridélon.
De bara stod där på den starka muren och mötte varandras hatfyllda blickar. Blickar
som gav löften om död och hemska plågor.
Det fanns ingen rädsla i Tridélons hjärta när han svingade sitt svärd, samtidigt som han
visste att det inte skulle kunna skada denna övermäktiga fiende. Han hade rätt. När han
träffade sin fiende, som inte ens besvärade sig med att undvika hans attack, kände han en
iskall smärta som blixtsnabbt högg till genom armen. Han stönade av smärta. Zikíador
stod kvar, oberörd, och hånskrattade åt detta släktes svaghet.

Tridélon fylldes av ilska men förblev ändå orörlig. Smärtan i armen var outhärdlig. Men sedan rätade han på sig.
Om han nu skulle dö, skulle det inte vara ihopkrupen som en feg ynkrygg. Återigen höjde
han sitt svärd, men Zikíador var snabbare. Blixtsnabbt utdelade han ett hugg mot
Tridélon som träffade honom i vänstra sidan då han inte hann hoppa undan. Han skrek
till, tog sig för såret med handen och lutade sig mot murkrönet. Hans ansikte förvreds i en
lidande grimas.

Zikíador trodde nog inte att han skulle resa sig igen, men han hade trots
allt misstagit sig på Tíri’yidrils uthållighet och envishet. Ty ännu hade inte Tridélon fått
sitt banesår, och han var fast besluten om att kämpa ända till slutet, som han var säker på
skulle komma mycket snart. Men den onde kämpen hade ändå ingen brådska; han kunde
lätt ha dödat honom snabbt och smärtfritt med ett enda hugg innan striden ännu hade
börjat. Men han njöt av att se sin fiende plågas, och han hade all tid i världen.

Innan Tridélon hunnit utdela ännu ett misslyckat svärdshugg mot sin fiende, högg
Zikíador mot honom där han stod, lutad mot muren. Han lyckades nätt och jämnt parera
slaget.
Det blev en vild fäktningskamp där uppe på murkrönet, men de som såg på nedifrån
staden visste ändå att deras konung bara fördröjde det oundvikliga. Att han offrade sitt liv
för att de skulle hinna rädda sig undan fienden. Därför flydde de flesta ythriterna och
människorna i staden i skydd av stormen, och försökte hinna upp sina vänner som redan
flytt mot skogen. Men vissa av dem stannade, väl medvetna om att de grävde sina egna
gravar, men de kunde ändå inte förmå sig att lämna sin konung som offrade sitt liv för
dem. Det var de som höll stånd mot portarna när de drakar som flytt återvände med
starkare trupper.

Tridélon kände hur hans krafter sinade, men gav ändå inte upp. I tankarna återvände
han till lyckligare tider. Tiden innan Dorvilny och innan drakarna. Han tänkte att det inte
var lönt att kämpa emot längre; sådan effekt hade Zikíadors onda tankar på honom. Och i
ett ögonblick av svaghet och bristande uppmärksamhet snavade han på den regnvåta
stenmuren. Zikíador tog tillfället i akt och lyckades pressa upp honom mot murkrönet,
med svärdet Jidrach mot hans hals. Han pressade det så hårt att en rännil av Tridélons
röda blod rann nedför svärdets klinga och droppade ned på muren. Tridélon pressade ihop
tänderna för att inte skrika av smärta, och en dimma lade sig över hans ögon.

Det sista han såg var Zikíadors ansikte, när han böjde sig fram emot honom med ett elakt hånflin och sade:
”Nå, kan du nu svara mig på min fråga, O du allsmäktige ythritfurste? Du vars svärd
inte ens har märkt din egen baneman. Hör du hur ditt folk skriker? De skriker efter nåd.
Men jag ska inte ge dem nåd. Det skall bli mig ett rent nöje att döda dem allihopa!”
Fiendens hånskratt var det sista som ringde i Tridélons öron innan Zikíador med ett
snabbt snitt skar av hans hals, för att sedan kasta hans döda kropp från murkrönet. Ned
bland de myllrande drakarna och de blodtörstiga, onda människorna.

Den natten intog Zikíadors arméer den Ljusa Staden, och de dödade alla som dröjt sig
kvar där. De som överlevt massakern flydde genom Aëdron och byggde sig nya hem på
undangömda platser. De fruktade Zikíador och Mörkret, och vågade sig inte tillbaka för
att strida om sin forna stad. Det förr så stolta folket förvandlades till splittrade stammar
av vandrare. Ythriterna vågade aldrig slå sig till ro igen, av rädsla för att Zikíador eller
hans anhängare skulle finna dem och döda dem. Men de människor som överlevt, som
inte stod på mörkrets sida, skapade sig efter hand nya riken där de höll stånd mot fienden.

Tridélon kom aldrig till Tíriglam, precis som han själv hade trott. Ingen berättelse finns
som förtäljer om hans vidare öde, och hans folk sörjde honom i många tidsåldrar efter
hans död. Zikíador härskade i Draéfirell och gjorde det till en ondskans hemvist. Ingen
levande som trätt in genom de mörka portarna kom någonsin ut igen oförändrad. Stadens
flyktingar drömmer ännu om de Ljusa åren, då ondskan ännu inte kommit till Aëdron,
och de har en djup önskan i sina hjärtan om att få återvända dit. Inget av de anfall som
gjordes mot staden lyckades, och de sörjde alla djupt över sin förlust, samtidigt som
rädslan för mörkret höll dem borta.

Men profetian förtalte om en, Licír Aldror – Frigivaren, som skulle komma med de tre månfolkens samlade krafter inom sig, störta den mörke fienden och åter bringa frihet till landet Aëdron.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2002)

Detta är en av de stämningstexter jag skrivit till rollspelskrönikan jag spelleder i WoD: Mage – the Awakening. Protagonisten i texten är en av de viktigaste birollerna i rollspelskrönikan, och texten är tänkt som en del av hans bakgrundsberättelse för att spelaren ska förstå hur han blivit som han är. Denna serie av texter kräver inte att man är införstådd i krönikan, de fungerar fristående.

Ökenvinden piskade upp vassa sandkorn i hans ansikte, samtidigt som den med sin torra, tilltagande nattkyla svalkade svettdropparna på hans rygg och panna. Han blundade mot månen, drog ett djupt andetag, medan en kall rysning startade vid ländryggen och sedan gick som en isande blixt upp genom hans överarbetade, utmattade, såriga kropp.

Han blundade för att hans ögon var fulla av yrande sand, men även för att utan synen blev alla de andra sinnesintrycken bara så mycket starkare. De avlägsna ljuden från staden långt bakom honom, fortfarande kämpande i den döende kvällningens sista dödsryckningar innan den oundvikligen skulle lägga sig ned till vila vid insikten att den gångna dagen var ett kadaver redan på väg att kallna och stelna. Den nästan sensuella smekningen av den vassa, ljumma vinden över huden, som fick en allt för tjock hinna av perspiration att svalna hastigare än vad som var helt angenämt. Torrheten i munnen, som smakade järn mer än något annat. Den svaga doften av ingenting och sand; en doft som han för länge sedan lärt sig förknippa med glömda gåtor och krackelerade hemligheter. Allt detta tog han in medan det djupa andetaget hölls kvar, och allt detta lagrades omsorgsfullt i minnets album av avgörande upplevelser medan samma andetag sakta, sakta blåstes ut igen och för ett ögonblick blev en del av den icke särskiljande, aldrig upphörande vinden.

Det fanns förstås andra sinnen, andra intryck. Sanden under hans fötter fullkomligen utstrålade dem. Tusen och åter tusen år av död vilade på varierande djup. För varje sandkorn mot hans hud kunde han räkna ett liv, en död och sandens vikt i blod. För varje uns av syre som passerade genom hans lungor kunde han förnimma en värld av skälvande energi och slumrande potential. Platsen må ha utstrålat en atmosfär av meditativ tystnad och inaktivt, övergivet lugn, men för den som visste att lyssna på rätt sätt avslöjade sig den tålmodigt, utomvärldsligt avvaktande närvaron som drömlöst vilade över scenen för vad den var. Mönstret var starkt här, och det var därför han kommit hit.

Han öppnade sakta ögonen och lät den vita fullmånens ljus chocka hans pupiller till sammandragning. Framför honom, en bra bit bort men ändå nära, tornade pyramiderna upp sig. Uråldriga monument till det faktum att människan en gång varit mer än hon blivit – åtminstone mer än de flesta blivit. Definitivt mer än han själv blivit. Men just i denna stund kände han sig stark, och känslan av misslyckande som så ofta hemsökte honom var fördriven för natten – begravd tillsammans med det blodlösa lik som nu vilade under massiva tyngder på Nilens botten. Ett av liken. Han visste att floden var full av dem. Han började gå igen; sakta, andaktsfullt, med armarna hängandes längs sidorna. Den vibrerande energin under sanden reste sig tyst för att möta hans varje steg.

De uråldriga kolosserna kom allt närmare, och han visste med en nästan desperat otålighet att när han kom fram skulle han kunna dricka sig hämningslöst otörstig på den enda dryck som stillar den rivande, dödliga törst som enbart en uppvaknad själ kan erfara. Ivern och törsten gjorde honom tillfälligt oförsiktig, och han märkte först inte den främmande gestalt som avtecknade sig i siluett mot den månreflekterande stenytan en bit framför honom. När han väl gjorde det stannade han inte upp. Driven av ett sällsamt lugn och den klösande törsten som dunkade i hans själ förde han sin högra hand bakom ryggen och slöt fingrarna kring pistolens kolv och avtryckare medan han målmedvetet fortsatte framåt. Det slog honom hur strävt och konstigt greppet kändes, och han insåg med en nu avlägsen del av sitt medvetande att det svettblandade blodet på hans händer hade panerats i virvlande sand. Han lät vapenhanden hänga vid sin sida medan han fortsatte framåt. Gestalten vände sig inte om, trots att hans annalkande måste ha gjort sig känt vid det här laget; de som lyssnar med samma sinnen känner av varandra, och han visste bortom allt tvivel att främlingen inte var en av de sovande. Själv sade han heller ingenting, och inte heller höjde han sitt vapen. När insikten kom till honom slöt han bara upp bredvid gestalten som delade hans tystnad, och lät blicken vandra upp längs sidan på den enorma stenbyggnaden som tornade upp sig framför dem, nu helt nära, i det kalla månskenet. Han kände ingen blick på sig, och visste att den andra gjorde detsamma. Det fanns vibrerande historia i vinden som omslöt dem och virvlade upp längst den sluttande fasaden, och historien berättade tyst på ett främmande språk om tusen och åter tusen par som stått just där, på just detta sätt, tusen och åter tusen gånger förr.

”Vad gör du här?”, frågade han slutligen. Hans röst lät torr och ovan vid användning, och ljudet av den när den bröt den sällsamma tystnaden skar i hans egna öron likt en trubbig kniv genom märg.

”Sch”, förmanade Lajka stilla, fortfarande utan att titta på honom.

Och de var tysta en lång stund, tills hon på nytt tog till orda. Hennes röst, när hon talade, skar inte alls genom tystnaden utan spann mening runt den med silkestunna trådar. Som om hon kommit att förstå tystnaden och gjort den till en del av sin egen styrka. ”Varför är du är?”, frågade hon.

Han förstod spelet med att inte titta på varandra, han förstod att det var en form av ritual de var tvungna att ta sig förbi innan deras slumpmöten alls kunde ha någon mening. Ändå hann han påbörja den reflexiva huvudrörelsen åt hennes håll innan han lyckades hejda sig själv och åter riktade blicken mot pyramiden framför dem. ”Det var min fråga till dig”, svarade han med mer sårad otålighet i rösten än han hade velat.

”Ja”, svarade hon lugnt – roat? – med en antydan om förebråelse i rösten. ”Och det var även svaret på den frågan. Jag är här av samma skäl som du, om jag inte misstar mig fullkomligt.”

Hon vände ansiktet halvt mot honom och höjde retsamt på ett ögonbryn. ”Du ställer alltid så dumma frågor.” Hon gav honom ett snett leende när han mötte hennes blick, och med ens var den spända stämningen bruten, ritualen över.

”Mönstret?”, frågade han, och kände sig dum så fort han hörde frågan. Självfallet var det Mönstret.

Hon nickade, tog hans hand och lade den mot den kyliga stenyta de betraktat tillsammans. Det första han reagerade på över huvud taget var den påtagliga känslan av hennes hand över sin, och han slöt ofrivilligt ögonen medan han i allt känslotumult desperat försökte spara upplevelsen i sitt inre, likt ett barn som famlar efter ett guldkorn i en flod. Sedan sköljde floden över honom med full kraft, när all den samlade energin i massan under hans hand slog upp mot honom likt en kraftig elstöt, och fick samtliga nerver i hans hand att halvdomna. Han slog upp ögonen, nästan i panik, och såg att hans hand skakade. Faktum var att hela hans kropp skakade. Han ryckte bort handen ur hennes grepp och backade reflexivt tillbaka ett steg. Lajka stod kvar, fortfarande med handen mot stenen och till synes oberörd, betraktades honom med sina mörka ögon.

”Mönstret”, sade hon, som svar på hans fråga.

Han lät åter blicken löpa upp längs fasaden, fortfarande skakad och plötsligt skräckslaget medveten om platsens mäktiga aura. Som om han tidigare naivt halvblundat, och först nu öppnade ögonen och på allvar förnam den fruktansvärda, uråldriga ljusstorm som rasade här, alldeles under verklighetens yta.

Han måste ha visat mer av sina känslor än han varit medveten om, för hon nickade och tog ett steg fram mot honom. ”Du har aldrig varit på en sådan här plats tidigare, eller hur?”

Han skakade uttryckslöst på huvudet, varpå han förläget insåg att han fortfarande hade vapnet draget och snabbt stoppade undan det igen.

Om hon märkt något låtsades hon inte om det, utan fortsatte: ”Jag gissade det. Mönstret är starkt på vissa platser, och de platserna blir mäktiga och åtråvärda för alla varelser som lever på makt. Men sedan finns det en handfull platser i världen…” Hon gjorde en svepande gest med armen som för att indikera hela omgivningen. ”Platser som den här, som är så gamla och så märkliga att människor och väsen sökt sig hit i alla tider och kanske innan tiden med.”

”Folk har dött här”, försökte han trevande – mer som en fråga än ett påstående.

”Ja”, svarade hon kort. ”Men det är inte därför platsen är mäktig. Inte bara därför, i alla fall. Det finns mycket jag inte tror att du kan se här, men det du kände säger en hel del det med. Även en blind kan höra musik, trots allt.”

När hon började gå tog det honom ett par ögonblick att samla sig tillräckligt för att reagera och följa efter. De vandrade genom sanden, sida vid sida i månskenet, en stund innan någon av dem talade igen. Luften hade en annan doft nu när hon var med honom; över den ålderslösa lukten av krackelerade hemligheter låg nu en svag doft av liv. Han sneglade på henne då och då. Självfallet såg hon äldre ut än när han sett henne senast, det gjorde han själv också. Men på henne märktes inte tiden på samma sätt – det var som att hon inte blivit så mycket äldre som hon blivit mer. Han hade aldrig kunnat gissa hennes ålder. Hon såg inte gammal ut. Alls. Men i hennes sällskap kände han sig alltid ung, och inte alltid på ett bra sätt.

”Följde du efter mig hit?”, frågade han till slut.

Först var hon tyst, och han blev rädd att han irriterat henne igen och att hon inte tänkte svara. Sedan började hon skratta. Inte ett sällsamt, hemlighetsfullt skratt, den typ av skratt han lärt sig att förvänta sig från henne när hon ens skrattade alls. Utan ett roat, otvunget skratt som inte slutade genast. När hon samlat sig något vände hon sig mot honom, bitande sig själv i läppen för att inte börja skratta igen. ”Trodde du det?”, fick hon slutligen fram.

Han vände bort blicken och fortsatte gå vid hennes sida, med hettande kinder och alldeles för förlägen för att svara. Dumt. Dumt, dumt, dumt. Han harklade sig efter en något för lång stund. ”Nä, så klart inte.”

Det passerade några ögonblick, där det var alldeles för tydligt att hon tyst analyserade hans rodnad och hans svar. ”Du verkar ju egentligen inte vara här för Källan, du visste ju inte ens hur speciell den är”, sade hon till slut, nu helt utan skratt i rösten. ”Jag antar att du är i landet av någon annan anledning, och drogs hit av styrkan i Mönstret. Som en mal mot en glödlampa. Du kanske trodde att det här var en helt vanlig Källa dit du kunde komma och vila fötterna lite. Tur för dig att jag var här, som kunde varna dig innan du kastade dig i handlöst och drunknade.”

Han öppnade munnen för att svara emot, men stängde den igen, mållös och lite skrämd. Det var precis så det hade gått till. Han blev plötsligt smärtsamt medveten om hur lite han faktiskt visste om den sjukligt onaturliga värld han ramlat in i för bara ett par år sedan, och samtidigt smärtsamt angelägen om att hon inte skulle inse till vilka gränser hans okunskap faktiskt sträckte sig. Det trodde han sig, efter en stunds överläggning, bäst uppnå genom att just nu hålla munnen stängd.

Hon verkade lite förvånad över hans tystnad. Verkade nästan avvakta lite extra för att ge honom tillfälle att svara. När han inte gjorde det, ryckte hon på axlarna och fortsatte själv prata. ”Jag kom hit ikväll för att undersöka den här platsen. Det är därför inga vakter eller människor är här. Jag har skickat bort dem. Jag har varit här förut, och kommer säkert att komma hit igen.” De gick en bit till, och kunde börja se andra stora byggnader torna upp sig längre fram. ”Du har blod på händerna”, tillade hon efter en stund. Han hade hunnit börja torka sina handflator frenetiskt mot byxbenen, innan hon fortsatte: ”…men, det har du ju alltid haft.”

Han slutade, och stoppade händerna i fickorna istället. Och stannade tvärt.

Hon hann gå ett par steg till innan hon insåg att han stannat, och vände sig om mot honom med en frågande blick.

En känsla av vanmäktig irritation hade börjat växa inom honom redan när de började gå tillsammans över sanden, men nu hade den slutligen vuxit sig så stark att han inte kunde ignorera den längre. Medan hon vände sig mot honom hann han dra ett djupt andetag, och i det andetaget försökte han uppbåda så mycket målmedvetenhet som han bara kunde. Hon gjorde det inte lätt, för så fort han mötte hennes blick kände han sin irriterade övertygelse flacka. Men inte försvinna.

”Roar jag dig?”, frågade han sammanbitet medan han med all sin vilja höll hennes förvånade blick i sin. ”Uppskattar du att gå omkring här med mig, anmärka på allt jag säger och gör och skratta lite lagom åt hur otroligt värdelös och naiv jag är? Går du igång på att alltid veta exakt allting om mig, varenda helvetes jäkla liten detalj, och samtidigt veta att jag inte vet ett jävla skit om dig förutom vad du heter, om ens fucking det? Får du någon sorts pervers njutning av att veta att jag går och väntar på nästa jävla tillfälle du ska råka dyka upp, nästa gång stackars idiotiska Malcolm ska föräras med din blotta närvaro? Du får nån jäkla kick av det, va? Så att du kan vara fyndig på min bekostnad och roa dig en liten stund med hur fruktansvärt bra på allting du är ju jämförelse med ett jäkla kräk som jag…” Han drog et djupt andetag för att fortsätta, men insåg att han sagt för mycket redan. Att han i sin vredgade vilja att sätta henne på plats hade råkat vräka ur sig precis vart den ömma punkten fanns, precis vart hon skulle behöva sätta kniven för att såra honom dödligt. Han insåg även att han stod och skakade. Ilskan rann av honom som en iskall våg, och han kände sig plötsligt tom, sårbar och inte minst ensam. Han suckade och höll upp händerna framför sig, uppgivet. Han såg att hon hade haft rätt om blodet. ”Ja, jag har blod på mina händer”, sade han trotsigt. ”Vad gör det för skillnad? Om jag är så misslyckad och tragisk kan det väl lika gärna få synas.”

Hon fortsatte att möta hans blick under några sekunder, och han letade efter minsta antydan om ett hånleende eller en road glimt i de där mörka ögonen. Han fann inget av detta. Istället tog hon ett par steg mot honom och täckte avståendet som skilt dem åt. Sedan tog hon båda hans händer i sina, och synade dem. Därefter mötte hon hans blick igen, och han upptäckte till sin förvåning att hon log. Inte ett snett, hånfullt leende som tidigare, inget retfullt ögonbryn höjt likt ett sarkastiskt frågetecken den här gången. Ett ärligt leende, om än kanske lite sorgset. I vilket fall som helst var chocken över att sådant leende från henne nog för att resten av hans ilska skulle upphöra att existera till förmån för något annat han inte riktigt kunde sätta fingret på.

”Vi har alla blod på händerna”, sade hon. ”Att ditt blod syns ändrar inte på det. Och mer blod kommer det bli för oss båda innan allt är slut.” Hennes grepp om hans händer hårdnade innan hon fortsatte tala, och för första gången sänkte hon blicken. ”Jag… Om jag har sårat dig ber jag om ursäkt.” Det verkade som om hon var på väg att säga mer, som om hon letade efter rätt ord. Istället tittade hon upp igen, och mötte hans blick. Han slogs av hur vackert hennes ögon glittrade i månskenet, och plötsligt var ögonen väldigt nära hans. Hon kysste honom. Det var inget han varit beredd på, och han besvarade inte kyssen genast. Men när han väl gjorde det, och trots att stunden varade nog så länge, kändes det som att det var över innan han hunnit förstå vad som hänt.

Han stirrade på henne, och åter gav hon honom sitt sneda, skinande leende. ”Det är inte helt lätt för mig heller”, nästan viskade hon, och på något sätt visste han att det var sant.

Han följde hennes blick när hon tittade uppåt, till vänster om dem där de stod, och såg att månen precis var på väg att passera in bakom något stort som redan skymde halva ljuset. Tjugo meter ovanför sanden tornade den jättelika, uthuggna kattvarelsen upp sig, pinad och slipad av tiden och av vinden under tusentals år. Åter drabbades han av insikten om den urstorm av energi som pulserade alldeles under ytan på platån, precis utom syn och räckhåll för han sinnen. Känslan var nästan överväldigande och definitivt fascinerande på ett skrämmande sätt. Energin som omgav dem förstärkte dessutom den skälvande spänningen mellan dem där de stod, och han vågade nästan inte möta hennes blick igen. När han väl gjorde det såg han att hennes leende var självsäkrare igen, men utan minsta spår av den nedlåtande attityd hon bemött honom med tidigare.

Leendet övergick i ett illmarigt flin när hon märkte att han tittade på henne, som om hon roat övervägde något. ”Vi är ju ändå här”, sade hon. ”Och vi har ju kommit såhär långt. Ska jag visa dig nåt du nog aldrig upplevt förut?” Flinet blev lite bredare, men snarare utmanande än nedlåtande.

Han vågade inte tro att det första han tänkte var det hon faktiskt menade, men han nickade ändå medan förvirrade tankar brottades i hans huvud.

Lajka tog tag i hans hand igen, och började leda honom mot den enorma skulpturen. När de stod mellan dess jättelika framtassar stannade hon upp, och vände sig mot honom igen. Han noterade att hon stod närmare än tidigare. Mycket närmare. Hon släppte hans hand och placerade istället sina händer på var sida om hans ansikte, varsamt. Hon såg honom djupt i ögonen, och han förväntade sig att hon skulle kyssa honom igen. Istället började han se saker han inte sett tidigare. En aura började framträda kring henne, men även luften bakom och runt henne började pulsera. Han kunde skymta rörelser i ögonvrån, och han vred loss huvudet ur hennes grepp för att se sig omkring. Hela världen glödde, och det blev bara starkare och starkare. Likt när man blinkar sömnen ur ögonen på morgonen och successivt ser bättre och bättre, började framför hans ögon en värld av intryck framträda som han aldrig ens skymtat tidigare. Plötsligt kunde kan se stormen han förnummit tidigare. Energin på platsen piskade mot honom likt ursinniga vågor, och snart kunde även hans andra sinnen börja uppfatta stormen. Den dundrade i hans öron, slog och smekte mot hans hud, forsade in i honom i form av oräkneliga smaker, lukter, känslor. Förundrat stirrade han omkring sig. Verkligheten kändes mycket verkligare, alla tankar blev med ens mycket klarare. Det var fantastiskt. Det var…

När hon drog honom till sig insåg han chockat att han glömt bort att andas. Han drog ett hastigt andetag, och när han tittade på henne igen var det som om även hon blivit tydligare, mer lysande, mer fantastisk. Han förstod hennes leende så mycket bättre nu. Faktum var att han plötsligt förstod henne. Inte på ett empatiskt, logiskt sätt, utan på riktigt, som om hela hennes väsen sträckte sig ut mot honom och lät honom lyssna. Som musik…

Malcolm Hanotrivic hade varit full tidigare. Han hade varit hög. Han hade haft sex. Han hade haft sex när han var ful och hög och möjligen ännu fler saker. Men när Lajka drog ned honom i sanden i månskuggan under detta uråldriga monument till det faktum att människan en gång varit mer än hon blivit, liknade det inget han någonsin upplevt tidigare. Allt var mer. Allt var bättre. Allt var mer medvetet, mer sant. Som om verklighetens blodomlopp pulserade genom dem, med dem. Som om de var en del av allting samtidigt, av varandra. Som om de tillsammans var ett okontrollerbart crescendo i ett uråldrigt musikstycke som spelats hela tiden, av alla verklighetens aspekter och utan uppehåll, sedan tidernas begynnelse. Och som alltid fanns där bara man visste att lyssna på rätt sätt.

Och han visste från den stunden att han var förlorad.

Senare, när han vaknade i sanden, inte kall trots den isande nattvinden som piskade upp sanden utanför det lä som Sfinxen gav, kunde han inte längre höra musiken, bara känna den som en avlägsen rytm precis utanför hörhåll. Precis som förut. Tre insikter kom till honom, medan hans medvetande och kropp förblev stilla för att inte alltför tidigt slå hål på upplevelsen och på stunden. Han insåg att det var hon som låtit honom ta del av hur hon själv kunde se verkligheten när hon valde det. Han insåg även att hon var borta. Hon hade försvunnit i natten medan han sov ruset av sig som en annan idiot.

Men innan denna insikt hann hugga honom i magen och kasta tillbaka honom i det uppgivna sinnestillstånd han så ofta erfor när hon lämnade honom, slogs han av en tredje insikt. Hon hade aldrig svarat på hans fråga. Följde du efter mig hit? Hennes skratt hade fått honom ur balans, och han hade tolkat det som svar nog. Men nu, i skenet av allt som passerat mellan dem, var han inte så säker på den saken längre…

Och med dessa tankar i huvudet, och till de ohörda tonerna av en monstruös evighetssymfoni pulserande i marken under sig, vände han blicken mot natthimlen långt där ovanför och lät stjärnornas sakta bana leda honom tillbaka ned i en lugn, fridfull sömn med drömmar om henne.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2013)

Detta är en av de stämningstexter jag skrivit till rollspelskrönikan jag spelleder i WoD: Mage – the Awakening. Protagonisten i texten är en av de viktigaste birollerna i rollspelskrönikan, och texten är tänkt som en del av hans bakgrundsberättelse för att spelaren ska förstå hur han blivit som han är. Denna serie av texter kräver inte att man är införstådd i krönikan, de fungerar fristående.

Rummet var mörkt och kvavt, stearinljuslågan på bordet droppade och flackade och ritningen framför honom made no sense. Eller snarare, den var fullkomligt logisk. Problemet var bara att den fullkomliga logiken motarbetade honom på alla tänkbara sätt. Frustrerat vände han på pennan och suddade hastigt ut de noggranna linjer han ritat. Oförsiktigt råkade han göra ett hål i papperet på ett ställe, och svor till. Det var inte första gången, dock. Ritningen var redan full av små tejpbitar där han, provocerad av dess ointagbara motiv, blivit tvungen att laga den. Med en irriterad suck reste han sig från stolen så hastigt att den välte och slog i golvet med ett träigt ljud. Det sket han fullständigt i, utan övergick genast till att irriterat vanka av och an i det lilla rummet.

Utrymmet var så litet att han precis kunde ta tre steg – tre och ett halvt om han gjorde dem mindre – från vägg till vägg innan han tvingades vända sig om och ta lika många steg tillbaka. Han gjorde detta flera gånger, precis som han gjort med jämna mellanrum de senaste två dagarna. Det förvånade honom nästan att det inte bildats en fåra i golvet där han gått. Konturerna på den sjabbiga, grådassiga rullgardinen glödde med kvällningens sista ljus och bländade honom nästan när han vände ansiktet åt det hållet. Gardinen hade varit fördragen när han kom hit, och han hade inte gjort någon ansats att dra upp den. Dels för att han misstänkte att den bar på allehanda icke önskvärda könssjukdomar, men även för att det vore att röja sitt cover. Ingen hade bott i någon av husets lägenheter på åtminstone femton år, och vad Marcus beträffade fick den allmänna uppfattningen gärna fortsätta att vara att huset var obebott.

Marcus, förresten… Han hade inte presenterat sig vid det namnet på snart ett år. Inte för att han över huvud taget presenterade sig ofta, men när han väl gjorde det använde han ett annat namn. Namnet på hans ID och alla hans plastkort. Det hände att han till och med, allt oftare nu faktiskt, tänkte på sig själv med det namnet. Kanske hände det i takt med att mer och mer av den han varit försvann, glömdes bort, tvingades undan av den person han ofrivilligt blivit – formats till. I takt med att det som först hade känts som en ångestladdad fälla mer och mer övergick till att bli morbid rutin. Kanske, tänkte han i ett osedvanligt ögonblick av psykoanalytisk medvetenhet, klarade han inte av det nya livet. Kanske hade han behövt bli en ny person för att kunna copa med det. Han böjde sig ned och öppnade luckan till den lilla minikylen han installerat i rummet. Skenet från dess kalla belysning sköljde över honom tillsammans med en ganska unken lukt av gammal korv. Snabbt plockade han ut de två burkarna han var ute efter, och stängde luckan igen. Kanske var han bara en feg jävel som hela sitt liv letat efter en chans att vara någon annan. Well, han var någon annan nu, alright.

Med ytterligare en suck ställde han ned de två burkarna på bordet, plockade upp stolen från golvet och satte sig på den. Åsynen av den blå helvetesritningen som genast stirrade tillbaka upp på honom fick honom att sucka igen. Och öppna den större av de två burkarna. Den gav ifrån sig ett välbekant, pysande ljud, och han tog flera djupa klunkar av den beska, skummande vätskan innan han ställde ned den på borde igen. Ryska fanskap… De gjorde inte riktig öl i det här jäkla sovjetlandet. Motvilligt vände han åter sin uppmärksamhet mot det enorma, blå papperet med alla sina precisa, vita linjer. Han studerade dem en lång stund, försökte verkligen koncentrera sig. Men fyrtioåtta timmar av intensivt, fruktlöst studerande av samma papper med minimal sömn och ännu mindre näringstillförsel hade börjat göra sig påmint och han märkte knappt när tankarna åter började vandra iväg.

Det började med att han tänkte på uppdraget, så klart. Det var ju trots allt därför han hamnat i den här gamla tattarstaden på gränsen till Ukraina, utan någon att prata med och utan en jävla clue på hur han skulle lyckas med det de betalade honom för. Frustrerat tog han ett par klunkar till av den kvalmiga, alkoholhaltiga vätskan. Den hade en lugnande effekt även om den även talade ganska övertygande till hans kräkreflexer. Att ta sig in på en hårdbevakad militärbas för att göra vad de förväntade sig av honom kändes ganska overkill, särskilt i jämförelse med hans tidigare uppdrag. Det här skulle bli hans sjunde, och i och för sig var det väl inte så konstigt att uppgifterna blev större. Hans lönecheckar blev ju åtminstone också det, och när han hade kontaktats angående det här uppdraget hade han fått intrycket att det rörde sig om en form av sista duglighetsprov. Kunde han klara av det här skulle han nog börja få ta del av de riktigt stora jobben, och kanske få betalt på mer än uppdragsbasis.

Linjerna och konturerna framför honom stack i ögonen när han försökte följa dem med blicken. På mer än uppdragsbasis… Han hajade till. Hur morbidt lät inte det? En ofrivillig rysning fick håret i nacken att resa sig på honom. För mindre än ett år sedan hade han brutit ihop och kräkts i flera dagar efter vad som hände med syrrans äckel till pojkvän. Nu ville han imponera så pass att han blev permanent anlitad av en firma som livnärde sig på skiten. Vad var det för fel på honom? Mer öl. Det värsta var dock kanske att han inte lyckades hålla fast vid den äcklade känslan i mer än några sekunder. När han väl tömt ölburken och knycklat ihop den i handen fick han redan kämpa för att ens känna minsta spår av give a shit. Så nog var det något fel på honom, allt. Frågan var bara om han, Marcus, alltid hade varit sjuk i huvudet, eller om det var den nya snubben, Malcolm, som var det. Det var inte första gången han ställde sig själv den frågan, för han hade ingen annan att fråga. Problemet med inre dialoger är ju dock att de sällan kommer med ny input, och just därför kom han aldrig fram till något övertygande svar. Han hade kunnat döda – ja, faktiskt – för någon att prata med, om så bara för en liten stund. Inte för att luska ut information inför en stöt, inte för att förhandla om en betalning eller bli hotad när han då och då, särskilt i början, krackade och naivt ville dra sig ur. Inte för att halvt ursäktande förklara för sitt objekt att det inte alls rörde sig om ett rån och att det inte fanns något att vinna på att be för sitt liv. Nej, någon att prata med på riktigt. Någon som fattade, som brydde sig.

Syrran hade han inte alls hört något av efter ett ganska misslyckat telefonsamtal han ringt från Moskva några månader tidigare, då hon förklarat att hon fattade varför han hade gjort det han hade gjort, och att hon var så mycket lyckligare nu med en ny snubbe som hette Walter eller Scott eller något i den stilen. Han hade lagt på luren rakt i örat på henne när han kände igen den omisskännliga, kuvade tonen i hennes röst. Den nya jäveln slog henne antagligen precis lika mycket och hårt som den där Ricky någonsin hade gjort. Hon var en fucking idiot som lät sig behandlas så, och själv var han inte i någon som helst position att hjälpa henne om hon inte ville eller kunde hjälpa sig själv. Han var fast i Ryssland, dammit. Det bästa han kunde göra för henne var att hålla sig borta så att detaljerna kring det första mordet inte kom fram. Det bästa han kunde göra för sig själv var att aldrig prata med henne igen. Han behövde inte ytterligare en källa för guilt trip. Verkligen inte.

Samla tankarna. Fokusera. Ritningen skulle inte gå någonstans, men risken fanns att personen han sökte på basen skulle göra det. Hans eget plan tillbaka till mer civiliserade breddgrader skulle definitivt röra på sig snart, och tiden var knapp om han skulle lyckas utföra uppdraget inom tidsgränsen och hinna på det. Det måste ske i natt. De vita linjerna stirrade hånfullt tillbaka på honom när han återigen försökte finna någon brist i konstruktionen, någon spricka i säkerheten. Han lade upp andra ark på bordet, ark med utskrivna, suddiga övervakningsfoton på både basens interiör och exteriör. Han organiserade dem utefter kanterna på ritningen för att återigen försöka få en helhetsbild av sin betongbeklädda fiende.

Han skulle nog kunna ta sig in på området, i alla fall de yttre delarna, utan större problem. Allt som krävdes var timing och en del verktyg. Men rondschemat han lyckats få tag på såg otroligt intimiderande ut, och den känslan hade bara förstärkts när han efter många om och men via sin dator och en krypterad anslutning lyckats hacka sig in mot några av basens säkerhetskameror. Och larmen, sen. Det var verkligen en prövning han hade framför sig, och det oroade honom att han efter två dagars intensivt planerande inte hade lyckats komma längre än fram till själva huvudbyggnaden. Han hade ingen aning om hur han skulle ta sig in, även om man bortsåg från den hårda manuella bevakningen. Det hela var helt klart över hans nivå.

Uppgivet öppnade han den andra burken och sköljde bort de kväljande resterna av ölen med den välbekanta, i jämförelse underbara, smaken av vanlig, hederlig Redbull. Det här var omöjligt. Han skulle behöva ringa sina uppdragsgivare och erkänna sig besegrad. Hoppas på att de ville ge honom en andra chans med något lättare. Hoppas att de inte lackade ur på hans inkompetens och avbokade hans flygbiljett och lämnade honom i den här stinkande, prostituerade avkroken Gud glömde…

Det var då han såg det. Insikten var så chockartad och överraskande att han satte energidrycken i vrångstrupen och hostade upp den färgglada vätskan över ritningen på bordet. När han lyckades få andan tillbaka efter ett utdraget hostanfall stirrade han vantroget tillbaka ned på ritningen. Läsken hade bildat stora pölar på den blå, glansiga ytan, och papperet hade börjat suga åt sig. Otåligt och nästan maniskt strök han hastigt med handen över fläckarna och sopade ned vätskan på golvet. Lite av den hamnade i hans knä, men han brydde sig inte.

Där, precis mitt i en av fläckarna på ritningen, hade han plötsligt upptäckt en bräcka i försvaret. En svaghet. Något han av någon anledning inte tänkt på eller sett tidigare. Så tydligt och utstickande nu, dock. Det syntes inte på ritningen, men ändå visste han på något sätt att det fanns en ventiltrumma som ledde in i ett system av gångar som kryssade genom hela bygget som hålen i en schweizerost. Fram till den via rutten han redan tänkt ut, in via ett hopp från containern en och en halv meter bort längs väggen. Tre meter in, sedan höger. Sju meter. Undvik nedåtgående trumma. Vänster. Upp. Rakt fram tio meter. Upp. Vänster. Nio och en halv meter till. Stopp. Galler i golvet, sikt ned genom spjället. Där sitter han, den jäveln, pratar i telefon som om han inte hade ett bekymmer i världen. Skruvmejsel, pistol. Lätt skott, två och en halv meter rakt ned…

Han blinkade. Så tydligt, så… Hjärtat dunkade snabbt. Alldeles för snabbt. Han var där, men ändå inte. Han märkte att han hade pistolen i handen, riktad nedåt. Mot korkmattan. Mot mannen i stolen på andra sidan spjället i metalltrumman. Hur i helvete… Stearinljusets låga mörknade framför honom, tonade bort. Två motsägande syner tonade hastigt ut mot svart, synfältet krympte, tjutet i öronen växte i styrka medan han föll bakåt och nedåt.

Mörker. Mörker och kyla. Nej, inte kyla, snarare avsaknad av värme. Avsaknad av allt. Hårt underlag, snarare sten än någonting annat, men inte sten heller. Trevande ljud i mörkret. Skrapande. Droppande. Sökande. Dropp. Dropp. Dropp. Någonting som faller någonstans längre bort – eller var det nära? Svårt att avgöra, lättare att resa sig. Dropp. Dropp. Ett svagt ljus någonstans. Inte här. Eller? En trötthet som sakta faller bort. Vart är jag? Steg bakom. Tunga steg. Målmedvetna. Inte mänskliga steg, alldeles för många fötter. För långa naglar mot stenen. Ett djupt andetag, luften är tunn och kvalmig. Luktar blod. Litervis av blod. Vanvettig skräck. Vill inte dö, vill inte vill inte vill inte vill… Flykt. Vanvettig flykt. Vindlande gångar, vad är det här för jävla ställe?! Öppnar ögonen allt mer. Irrar nyvaket, skräckslaget, desperat. Detfinnsögonimörkretohnärduserdemserdedigocksåspringflyseintebakåt. Gångar. Gångar. Gångar, gångar, gångar. Fler steg. Skrik. Metalliska ljud i mörkret. Hjärnan vill stänga av sig och bara bli galen en gång för alla men det går inte för Marcus Yershov Malcolm Hanotrivic jag vem är jag jag vet inte har just börjat vakna och är inte ens trött längre och hela medvetandet skriker efter blackout men den kommer inte och han är nästan helt vaken nu det här är ingen mardröm det händer faktiskt och hur han än svänger kommer han inte ut och stegen är fortfarande bakom. Någon skrattar i mörkret, en kör av skratt i dissonans och det skär sig i öronen, skär som knivar mot märg eller revben mot sten. Skräcken växer och han börjar öppna ett tredje öga – hur?? – men det hjälper honom inte här, det finns inget att se och den här platsen liknar inte någon annan plats han någonsin sett. En krök tillbaka, en omöjlig vinkel. En öppen yta. Äntligen ute! Nattluft? Nej, samma tunna, svavelstinkande luft här också. Det är bara en stor sal. Enorm. Väggarna försvinner i mörkret högt där uppe. Ekande tystnad, stegen försvunna, skratten kvävda. Tystnad. Dropp. Dropp. Dropp. Ensam. Nej, inte ensam. Ögon långt där uppe. Syns inte, finns inte. Tornet. Inte sten, det blänker svagt i det avlägsna ljuset. Några steg fram. Järn. Ett torn av järn. Följer det med blicken, så högt att det försvinner i mörkret där uppe, går inte att se toppen. Några steg till. Det ekar metalliskt här. Oändligt stort, oändligt brett. Mörkret delar sig lite, ljuset lite starkare här. Lukt av järn. Av blod. En port, svart, gjuten i sin ram. Låst. Oändligt, evigt låst inifrån och utifrån och ovanifrån och det vet han bara för att det har alltid varit så och kommer alltid att vara och han känner snarare än ser att tusentals ögon är på honom men ingen rör honom, inte än för han har något han måste göra först. En bok. Uppslagen, enorm, författad under tusentals år, allt sedan… Allt sedan världen föll Vem var det? Är det någon där? Skriv Skriv bara Vi vill slita dig i stycken och bygga ihop dig igen Vi vill forma om dig och göra dig perfekt Vi vill väcka dig Vi vill plåga dig Så skriv Skriv ditt namn Ge det till oss Nu Och han gör det. Skriver sitt namn, och det sjunker in i den uppslagna sidan som en blytung nyckel i blod. Marcus Yershov. Och han vet att det är hans namn, men det är mer nu också, det är viktigt som en skatt och han kan inte ta tillbaka det från boken nu. Och nu är stegen tillbaka, och en röst ovanifrån viskar. Och rösterna skrattar. Och bakifrån kommer de, och framifrån, och ovanifrån och under men aldrig från tornet, nej aldrig där för tornet är låst och gjort av järn och där kommer man varken in eller ut, varken in eller ut. Händer. Klor. Knivar. Naglar. Eld. Smärta.

Och Pandemoniums demoner slet honom i stycken och byggde ihop honom igen. De formade om honom och gjorde honom perfekt. De väckte honom och plågade honom och plågade honom och plågade honom tills han bad dem att döda honom och då byggde de ihop honom och gjorde alltihopa en gång till.

Och han vaknade.

Han försökte sätta sig upp, men kroppen ville inte sluta skaka. Spasmerna gick genom alla hans lemmar likt elektricitet genom en död gris, och hur han än försökte kunde han inte tvinga sig upp ur den iskalla panik som fortfarande hade hela hans medvetande i ett fast grepp.

Var han död? Nej. Hade han varit det? Han visste inte. Det enda han var hundra procent säker på var att han inte hade drömt. Gångarna, grottorna, stegen. Tornet… Åh, herre Gud vad han hade velat kunna bortförklara allt som en fruktansvärd mardröm, framkallad av sömnbrist, undernäring och panikångest. Men medan han låg där på golvet, fortfarande skakande och med rusande puls, visste han sanningen. Han hade varit någonstans. Hur länge visste han inte. Vad som hade hänt med honom visste han inte heller. Men de där plågorna, den där skräcken, hade varit äkta.

Slutligen – han visste inte efter hur lång tid – började han kunna andas regelbundet igen. Pulsen lugnade ned sig i samma takt, och skakningarna hade upphört utan att han tänkt på det för ett obestämbart tag sedan. Taket han inte lagt märke till tidigare fortsatte att stirra tillbaka ned på honom i dunklet, och hans malande medvetande registrerade diskret och banalt att ljuset måste ha brunnit ned. Andas. Andas…

”Har du lugnat ned dig nu?” Rösten från skuggorna var tonlös, lugn, utan hörn.

Han stelnade till och satte sig spikrakt upp. Den lilla, irrationellt banala delen av hans medvetande chockade åter intresseklubben genom att registrera att han förvånande nog inte hade ont någonstans, trots de fruktansvärda minnena. Eller jo, möjligen en svag, molande värk i armen, i ena sidan…

Det här var inte hans rum. Han noterade det genast, trots dunklet. Ett skymt ljussken, elektriskt, inte fladdrande som en låga, lyste upp till en viss grad men det var tillräckligt. Det här rummet var större, renare, nyare. Men det var rösten som oroade honom mest just nu. Han var inte ensam, var han nu än var. Och i hans fall betydde det fara.

Han lyckades urskilja gestalten bland skuggorna längs väggen, precis där det dunkla ljuset nådde som minst. Sittande på en stol, betraktandes honom intensivt med mörka ögon. Han kravlade sig bakåt tills ryggen slog i den motsatta väggen, och fortsatte stirra in i skuggorna – alldeles för skärrad, rädd och uppjagad för att ens börja tänka på en flyktplan. De hade hittat honom – vilka de nu än var. Hittat honom och fått tag på honom. Tagit honom någonstans. Han började famla efter pistolen han nu för tiden alltid hade nedstucken i byxlinningen bakom ryggen, under skjortan. Paniken stegrade sig när insikten gick upp för honom att den inte fanns där. Den var borta. De hade avväpnat honom, så klart. Han var körd. Ingen visste vart han var, och de som eventuellt skulle kunna räkna ut det brydde sig inte nog för att komma efter honom. Han var expendable. Han var ingen. Han var…

”Är det den här du letar efter?”, hörde han från mörkret, och såg det skarpa blänket när den okände, fortfarande sittande, vände pistolen – hans pistol – i sina händer. Nästan fundersamt.

Alla tankar frös när gestalten på andra sidan rummet reste sig upp och gick mot honom, hållandes pistolen framför sig, mot honom. Men med kolven först… De frysta tankarna smälte bort till ingenting när främlingen klev ut ur skuggorna, och han för första gången insåg vem det var.

Han hade bara träffat kvinnan en gång tidigare, men flyktigt skymtat henne fler gånger än han kunde hålla räkningen på. Det var hon som nästan avbrutit honom under Emmersonuppdraget för nästan ett halvår sedan, som hade försvunnit med den där disketten, som flera gånger skymtat förbi i en taxi, i ett fönster, på ett tak… Han ryggade reflexmässigt undan när hon kom fram till honom där han satt, och lugnt räckte honom pistolen. Sedan ryckte han hetsigt vapnet ur hennes hand, och siktade det snabbt som blixten mot hennes ansikte. Det var dock någon del av honom som hindrade honom från att genast trycka av, och istället satt han bara där, misstänksamt stirrande och med den darrande pistolpipan pekande mot henne likt ett anklagande finger. Hon förblev stilla, lugnt betraktande honom.

”Du är rädd, eller hur?”, sade hon slutligen, med en röst som inte avslöjade något mer än själva orden den uttalade. Hon släppte aldrig hans blick, och han kände sig fångad trots att det var han som höll i vapnet. Han svarade inte. Hjärnan började sakta men säkert arbeta igen, undan för undan kasta av sig sitt paniska sirapslager, och han rannsakade den febrilt för att komma fram till en fungerande plan på hur han skulle ta sig ur det här levande.

”Var är jag?”, kastade han slutligen ur sig, mer för att köpa sig tid än något annat. ”Vart har ni tagit mig?”

Hon undslapp sig ett snett leende, som snabbt kvävdes igen. ”Jag har inte tagit dig någonstans. Snarare tog du dig hit själv och jag följde efter dig. Och ‘vart’ är en väldigt irrelevant fråga, i det här fallet. Avstånd är ju relativt, trots allt.” Det sneda leendet återvände, och han förvirrades av intrycket att hon på något sätt mätte hans reaktion på det sista uttalandet – som om det var en fyndig referens som hon inte var helt säker på om han skulle förstå eller inte. Han förstod ingenting.

Han gav henne en vildsint, jagad blick och gjorde en hotfull gest med vapnet. Skalet, den där andra personen han tagit till för att klara av det här nya, hårda livet, kickade in. ”Jag tänker inte sitta här och ta några jävla fyndigheter. Backa, och visa ut mig härifrån, annars får du leva med en extra näsborre!” Hans irrande blick fäste sig i linje med vapnets sikte, och trots sin skakande hand riktade han hastigt pistolens och ljuddämparens mynning i linje med en punkt mellan kvinnans ögon. Ögon som till hans förvåning och skräck mötte hans med ett stilla, oberört lugn.

Hon stod kvar, mötte hans blick utan reaktion, i så många sekunder att hans mod åter sjönk. Självklart hade hon laddat ur magasinet. Självklart var hon inte rädd. Hon sade inget, men släppte slutligen hans blick och rörde sig oberört bort mot den delen av rummet där det svaga ljuset kom ifrån. Han skakade irriterat, förvirrat, på huvudet och vände ansiktet för att följa henne med blicken. Ett stort, modernt och inte helt obekant skrivbord stod där dit hon rört sig. På skrivbordet låg flera papper i oordning, en kullvält telefon, och bakom bordet kunde han skymta en tom, påkostad kontorsstol. Det dunkla ljuset kom från en stor skrivbordslampa som han nu kunde se hade fallit ned från skrivbordet, och nu låg på golvet bakom det. Dess ljus skymdes från resten av rummet av den stora möbeln, och lysröret i den surrade irriterat nu när han var vaken nog för att höra det.

Kvinnan stod med ryggen mot honom, i silhuett mot ljuset, tittandes ned på något som skymdes från hans sikt av skrivbordet och hennes egen gestalt. Han tog sig snabbt upp på fötter, och kontrollerade magasinet i pistolen. Laddat, fortfarande där. Förvirringen över detta faktum höll bara i sig i något ögonblick, innan han antog en på ytan självsäkrare ställning och åter riktade pipan mot hennes rygg. ”Jag varnar dig”, väste han mellan hopbitna tänder, medan han med tummen ljudligt osäkrade vapnet.

Hon vände sig till hälften om, ett nästan förbryllat uttryck spelande över hennes ansikte. Som om hon inte förstod vad han höll på med. När hon rörde sig lade han märke till vad hon stått och tittat på. En hand, tillhörande en uniformsklädd arm, stack ut på golvet bakom skrivbordet. Den rörde sig inte. Han kunde även se blod, en stor pöl som fortfarande växte från någon punkt bakom möbeln. Han frös till. Någonting började gnaga på hans medvetande, någonting med rummet som han inte noterat tidigare. Mot bättre vetande släppte han henne tillfälligt med blicken, och lät ögonen svepa över omgivningen.

Det var fortfarande mörkt, men ögonen hade börjat vänja sig. Tavlor på väggarna, intyg och utmärkelser. Bakom skrivbordet, på väggen, en stor anslagstavla med pedantiskt placerade lappar, papper och plakat. Ovanför, i taket, ett öppet ventilspjäll som hängde stilla på sina gångjärn… Insikten slog honom med full kraft. Han hade sett det här rummet tidigare. Han hade planerat i flera dagar för att ta sig in hit. Ta sig in hit för att döda en viss man… Han behövde inte titta på linjerna som signalerade gradbeteckning på den uniformsklädda armen som stack ut bakom skrivbordet. På något sätt visste han redan. Men hur…?

”Hur du dödade honom, menar du?” Hon gav honom en sarkastisk blick. ”Antagligen med ärtbössan du håller i handen. Sänk den, förresten, du kan råka skada någon.”

Han hajade till och sänkte pistolen i ren chock. Han hade väl inte sagt det där högt?

”Nej, det gjorde du inte. Men jag skulle önska att du började prata med mig, för den här formen börjar gå mig på nerverna.”

Han bara stod där, stirrande på henne, i flera sekunder. Till slut öppnade han munnen. ”Eh… Va?”, var dock det enda hans skärrade medvetande kunde förmå honom att säga. Han skämdes över att hans röst lät så osäker, men den omisskännliga graden av irritation som ändå letade sig in i de där orden kände han sig fullkomligt tillfreds med. Han kände många känslor just nu. De rasade inom honom, förvirrade honom, skrämde honom. Men irritation, oavsett hur stor andel, var definitivt en av dem. Och det var den känsla han helst av allt ville förmedla.

Kvinnan blinkade och tog ett djupt andetag, nästan självförebrående. ”Ursäkta”, sade hon sedan. ”Jag ser att det inte är läge för skämt.” Hon vände sig mot honom igen, tog ett kliv över en samling papper som förirrat sig ned på golvet, och sträckte ut en hand mot honom. Han tvekade, såg vantroget på henne, men hennes aldrig vikande, uppfordrande blick i kombination med det bisarra i hela den här situationen fick honom slutligen att acceptera handslaget. Förvirringen bara växte. Pistolen hängde fortfarande i hans vänstra hand, och han hade fingret på avtryckare. Minsta lilla rörelse…

”Jag är Lajka”, sade hon sakligt samtidigt som hon tryckte hans hans i ett fast handslag. Han drabbades av en fåfäng impuls att matcha det säkra handslaget, men hans hand darrade fortfarande och han lyckades inte riktigt. Hennes blick var så jävla intensiv, så helvetes… vaken? Fullkomligt avväpnande. Han öppnade munnen innan han förstod vad han höll på med.

”Ma…-”, hann han börja innan hon barskt avbröt honom.

”Inga sanna namn här”, nästan snäste hon. ”Vi känner inte varandra, och vi vet inte vem som lyssnar.”

Han tyckte det lät fullt begripligt och logiskt, och skämdes över sin tanklösa impuls. Vad var det med honom? Han kände sig helt ur fas med sig själv. Han kände dock att han lyckades dölja chocken och skammen ganska väl, och gav henne en blick som han hoppades var både självsäker och lite nedlåtande. ”Självklart inte”, sade han som om det var det mest uppenbara i hela världen. ”Malcolm, kan du kalla mig.”

”Jaha”, svarade hon hastigt, och bet sig tankfullt i läppen som om hon kände att hon missbedömt honom. Han kände sig otroligt nöjd med sin räddning, och kunde inte låta bli att ge henne ett flin som svar på den tankfulla minen. ”Bra”, sade hon slutligen. ”Då vet vi vad vi ska kalla varandra. Kom.” Hon började röra sig runt skrivbordet.

Han kände misstänksamheten som på något sätt avväpnats av hennes blick komma över honom igen. ”Vart? Och varför skulle jag?”, svarade han med en defensiv ton i rösten.

Hon vände sig om igen, något mer otåligt den här gången. ”För att du väl lär behöva bekräfta att det är rätt karl som har dött innan du kan ge dig av? Det är väl så ni jobbar, ni också?” Hon lät aningen irriterad, men blicken hon hastigt kastade över axeln på honom, mot den del av rummet där han tidigare noterat att det fanns en dörr, vittnade om att hon även var stressad – även om hon i övrigt dolde det väl.

Även han kastade en blick över axeln mot dörren, plötsligt väl medveten om att de inte stod och samtalade i ett vakuum. De befann sig i själva hjärtat på en tungt bevakad, rysk militärbas, och han hade tydligen just (för hur länge sedan?) tagit livet av en av basens högsta officerare. Det var rena självmordet att fortfarande vara kvar på platsen. Adrenalinet kickade in och hjärtat började slå fortare. Utan att tänka sig för stegade han hastigt fram och rundade skrivbordet från andra hållet, fortfarande hållandes ett behörigt avstånd och ett blödande lik mellan sig själv och den mystiska kvinnan. Lajka. Han kände hennes ögon på sig, men brydde sig inte om att titta upp.

Kroppen bakom skrivbordet tillhörde mycket riktigt en man, och gradbeteckningen på både ärmslut, bröst och axlar bekräftade vad han redan antagit. För säkerhets skull böjde han sig dock ändå ned och, efter att ha tagit på sig de mörka skinnhandskar han numera alltid bar med sig i byxfickan, undersökte ID-brickan som mannen hade burit fäst utanpå bröstfickan. Rätt namn, rätt ID-nummer, rätt utseende. Det var ingen tvekan om att detta var samme man som han fått i uppdrag att döda, men han ryste till när han insåg att det inte var referensfotot från uppdragsgivaren som först dök upp i minnet när han tänkte på den här mannen. Istället dök minnesbilden upp av hur han sett ut, snett uppifrån, genom spjället på en ventil i taket på sitt kontor. Det här kontoret…

Han ställde sig upp, och kastade en blick upp mot taket där ventilens lucka fortfarande hängde vidöppen, cirka två och en halv meter ovanför golvet. Han kände instinktivt att smärtan han kände i sidan och i sin högra arm mycket väl skulle ha kunnat komma av ett illa genomtänkt fall från den höjden. Även hans placering i rummet när han först vaknade upp här stämde överens med den förklaringen. Men han visste även att om han hade krälat genom ett femtiotal meter ventilationssystem – hur visste han så säkert hur långt det var? – för att ta sig hit, skulle han ha känt det i både knän och rygg, och hans händer, tidigare ju utan handskar, skulle ha varit mycket smutsigare. Det som talade mest mot att det var så han tagit sig in var att han dessutom inte mindes ett jävla skit av att han tagit sig in den vägen. Det sista han mindes innan… – en kraftig rysning vid bara tanken, han sköt snabbt bort den – …var det lilla rummet. Ritningen. Ljuset. Tröttheten. Någon sorts insikt…

”Vi måste dra nu!” Han hade glömt bort att hon var där för ett ögonblick. Nu blev han plötsligt påmind om detta av den nu väldigt tydliga tonen av oro i hennes röst.

Han vände bort blicken från ventilen och tittade på henne över den orörliga kroppen som skilde dem åt, oförstående skakande på huvudet. Han visste att det var bråttom, visste det med en mycket kall och rationell, i vanliga fall väldigt dominerande del av sitt medvetande. Den del av honom som kallade sig Malcolm, den del som tog emot uppdrag att mörda okända män och kvinnor – andras politiska fiender – för pengar. Det här var inte professionellt beteende, försökte den säga honom. Krisa inte ihop just nu, skit i henne, skit i hur du kom hit, du måste ut, nu! Men den andra delen av honom – den del som fram till bara helt nyligen inte varit mer än en bortkommen tonåring och som på senare tid efter ett idiotiskt vansinnesdåd tvingats in i en roll som i ärlighetens namn äcklade honom och skrämde skiten ur honom – den delen var in control just nu.

”Hur fan kom jag hit?” Han hörde oron, rädslan, darret i sin egen röst. Blicken som mötte hans gjorde ingenting för att lugna honom. Den var full av medömkan, otålighet – och vetskap. Hon, Lajka, visste precis vad som hänt, och övervägde helt tydligt om det skulle vara värt att ta det med honom nu, eller om det inte fanns tid för honom att förstå, hantera, acceptera.

Hon verkade komma fram till ett beslut. ”Det är en rondare på väg hit. Vi har fyra minuter. Jag ska berätta, men inte här. Kom nu.” Hon viftade honom otåligt till sig med ena handen, samtidigt som hon satte den andra mot väggen. Även hon bar handskar, märkte han först nu.

Han tittade på henne, sedan upp mot ventilen igen. Han fattade inte hur hon kunde veta att någon var på väg, men anade plötsligt med ett molande obehag att det nog fanns värre saker han ännu inte visste… ”Vi måste ta oss upp i ventilen igen, då”, sade han osäkert. ”Vi kan ju inte direkt ta ytterdörren ut.” Men hon bara fortsatte stirra på honom och skakade på huvudet, utan att ta handen från väggen. Hon såg inte bara stressad ut, märkte han. Ansträngd. Hon svarade inte, men han såg hur hon rörde på munnen. Som om hon viskade något. Han hörde inte orden, men en krypande känsla kom över honom när han stirrade på rörelserna hennes läppar gjorde för att forma dem. För ett ögonblick var han tillbaka i mörkret, i de vindlande tunnlarna, i skuggan av tornet av järn, betraktad av hundratals, tusentals suktande, illvilliga ögon…

”Sluta”, utbrast han. ”Vad gör du?” Han var rädd igen nu. Rädd för en insikt som han visste låg och gnagde alldeles under ytan på vad han kunde uppfatta och förstå just nu. En insikt som han mer och mer misstänkte snart skulle gå upp för honom med full kraft. En insikt han inte ville ha. Hon slutade. Blinkade en gång. Verkade omvärdera.

”Du var med om något nyss”, sade hon med en röst som var både stel med koncentration och brådska, men som även ansträngde sig för att vara lugnande. ”Något hemskt, antagligen. Du var på en plats du inte kan beskriva, och du såg ett torn.” Han nickade sakta, chockad över att höra henne säga det. Hon fortsatte: ”Jag har varit med om samma sak, fast antagligen inte exakt lika. Det är olika för alla.” Hon tog en paus och drog ett djupt andetag, som för att ge sig själv tid att välja sina nästa ord. Han visste inte om han gillade vart det här var på väg. ”De som kommer till en sådan där plats… Platsen förändrar oss. Du har förändrats, precis som jag gjorde när det hände mig. Det låter oss göra saker som vanliga människor inte kan göra.” Hon stirrade på honom, med en desperation i blicken efter att han skulle förstå. Det gjorde han inte.

Han hann dock inte ens börja tala om för henne hur fucked upp det där lät, förrän en skarp knackning på dörren fick honom att hoppa till. När inget svar gavs, upprepades knackningen efter bara några sekunder. ”Herr, Gribanov, sir? Är allt som det ska?”

De stirrade på varandra. Marcus, Malcolm, whatever, förstod att de bara hade några sekunder på sig när han hörde ljudet av klirrande nycklar på andra sidan av den förhoppningsvis låsta dörren. Instinktivt började han hastigt röra sig mot ventilen i taket för att försöka sig på ett vansinneshopp, men Lajka högg tag i hans underarm innan han hunnit ta ett steg. Hon drog honom till sig med mer styrka än hon såg ut att kunna uppbåda, och väste: ”Kom här! Jag ska berätta allt du behöver veta, jag ska försöka hjälpa dig att fatta allt det här. Men då måste du lita på mig och komma med mig nu!”

Hon knuffade honom mot väggen bakom skrivbordet, och han hade i ärlighetens namn inte så mycket att sätta emot hennes styrka. Han snubblade över liket på golvet och föll bakåt. Men där han förväntade sig att hårt slå ryggen mot en vägg, möttes han av ingenting. Han bara fortsatte falla, som om ingenting hade funnits där. Han hörde ljudet av en nyckel i ett lås, och såg dörren långt, långt borta på andra sidan rummet sakta börja öppnas. Men innan den hunnit öppnas helt, medan han fortfarande var mitt i fallet bakåt, såg han hur Lajka kastade sig efter honom genom hålet som tydligen uppstått i väggen. Sedan slog han handlöst i marken som tydligen fortfarande existerade trots allt, och luften slogs ur honom. Allt snurrade.

När han slutligen kom till sans igen och stirrade upp mot mörkret ovanför såg han stjärnor. Under sina händer kände han gräs. En frisk vind fyllde hans näsborrar, och för ett ögonblick – nej, mycket längre än ett ögonblick – förstod han ingenting. Hjärtat slog fortfarande dubbelslag, tankarna snurrade fortfarande i panik som hos ett traumatiserat marsvin. Han satte sig tvärt upp och förväntade sig nästan halvt att finna sig omringad av en garnison sadistiska, ryska soldater redo för arkebusering av officersmördaren. Men ingenting sådant fanns att se här.

Han befann sig på en höjd, en grästäckt kulle. Månen och stjärnorna lyste obehindrat ned från en himmel som helt saknade moln. Långt nedanför slänten lyste hundratals små gula ljuspunkter upp natten, speglandes den oändliga stjärnhimlen. Han kände igen staden. Men hur i helvete…

”Visst är det vackert?”

Han vände sig hastigt om. Halvt i skuggan kastad av en stor ek som växte på toppen av kullen satt hon som kallade sig Lajka, med benen i kors och blickande ned över staden med ett fridfullt uttryck. Han hann tänka att hon såg väldigt ung ut i månljuset. Ung och oskyldig.

”Vad hände?”, var det enda han kom på att säga för att bryta tystnaden, och för att överrösta de distraherande tankarna som vid anblicken av henne i månskenet genast började mala i hans huvud. ”Hur kom vi hit?”

Hon tittade upp på honom, helt lugnt och utan minsta antydan till den stress och panik som han avläst i hennes röst bara ögonblick tidigare. Eller hur länge hade han legat här? ”Det är en liten hemlighet jag har stulit från de av din stig”, smålog hon. ”Avstånd är relativt, du kommer förstå vad jag menar snart nog.”

Han kände på sig att han ändå inte skulle förstå svaren på alla de mer pressande, mindre jordnära, frågorna som snurrade runt i hans huvud just nu, så han nöjde sig med den mest banala av dem. ”Varför hjälpte du mig?”

Hon svarade inte genast, utan vände istället en tankfull blick upp mot stjärnhimlen som om hon inte genast visste svaret själv. Hennes osäkra dröjsmål förvånade och skrämde honom av anledningar han inte ens kunde definiera för sig själv. Sedan såg hon på honom igen. De där ögonen…

”När jag förstod vad som hänt dig så… Jag antar att jag minns mitt eget uppvaknande, och önskar att någon hade kunnat vara där för mig då, och förklara allt. Så jag tänkte att jag skulle göra det för dig. Både för din skull, men även för att du inte ska löpa amok med saker du inte förstår dig på och på så sätt avslöja alla oss andra.”

Han höjde på ett ögonbryn. ”’Oss andra’? Finns det många som du?”

Hon skrattade ofrivilligt till, tyst för sig själv. ”Ja, Malcolm, det finns många som oss. Som du och jag. Fler än du någonsin skulle kunna föreställa dig. Det finns andra saker också, monster i natten och saker du inte skulle tro på ens om jag berättade.” Hon drog efter andan. ”Men du och jag, Malcolm, vi är två av dem som har uppvaknat från den här världens begränsningar. Vi kan se saker som andra inte kan se, vi kan känna saker som de sovande aldrig får uppleva. Vi kan ändra på verkligheten så som det passar oss, bara genom att vilja det.”

Han visste inte vad han skulle tro. Hon talade som om hon var galen, men samtidigt hade han sett och upplevt så mycket underliga, skrämmande saker de senaste timmarna – saker han inte kunde förklara på något annat sätt än att hon hade rätt eller att det var han som höll på att bli vansinnig – att han inte bara lätt kunde skaka av sig hennes ord. ”Vadå, som nån sorts magiker menar du?” Han skrattade lite nervöst åt sin egen fyndighet. Hon skrattade inte, och för honom var det svar nog.

”Precis”, sade hon slutligen, efter att ha låtit tystnaden sjunka in.

Han svalde tungt och vände åter blicken ut över den sovande lilla staden med alla sina varma ljuspunkter.

”Var inte orolig”, fortsatte hon till slut. ”Det kommer att vara skrämmande och svårt i början, det tänker jag inte hymla med. Det är det för alla. Och saker och ting kommer inte att bli precis som förut. Men du kommer märka till slut att du har vunnit mer än du förlorat. Vissa saker blir så mycket enklare när man väl lärt sig hantera det.” Hon blev tyst ett tag, innan hon åter tog till orda. ”Och som jag sade. Jag ska förklara saker för dig, jag ska lära dig saker och se till att du klarar dig. Jag kommer inte alltid finnas till hands, och jag kommer inte hålla din rygg längre än du behöver för att kunna klara dig själv. Men jag vet hur det känns att vara ensam, och jag vill hjälpa dig så gott jag kan.”

Marcus – nej, Malcolm; det gamla namnet kändes plötsligt, av någon anledning, alldeles för heligt för att ens använda i hans egna tankar om sig själv – svarade inte utan drog upp knäna mot bröstkorgen och nickade tyst medan han lät blicken dröja vid den artificiella speglingen av stjärnhimlen som bredde ut sig nedanför honom. Han var rädd, det tänkte han inte förneka. Han var rädd, och förstod ingenting. Vad hade hänt med honom? Vad skulle det bli av honom? Han visste redan nästan inte vem han var, och nu påstod hon att det fanns ännu fler saker som han ännu inte hade upptäckt eller förstått kring sig själv. Han kände sig plötsligt grymt ensam och kall. Vem fan är jag?

Det var då han kände hennes hand på sin axel. Inget fast grepp, knappt mer än en lätt, markerande gest. Men den gesten gjorde någonting med honom. Jag vet hur det känns att vara ensam. Så hade hon sagt. Kanske hon kunde förstå honom, trots att ingen annan kunde eller ens ville försöka? Han höjde sin egen hand och lade den över hennes, plötsligt så desperat efter någon form av närhet – vilken som helst – att han nästan skrämde sig själv. Han kände hur hon ryckte till vid beröringen, men handen stannade på hans axel.

Han hoppades att hon tänkte stå vid sitt ord, att hon inte tänkte lämna honom ensam igen mitt i den här kalla, okända världen som han än så länge bara anat de yttersta gränserna på. Något väcktes inom honom, som en reaktion på allt helvete som han varit med om det senaste året. Något som bara legat och väntat på att få slå rot, ta fäste, bryta ut. Lämna mig inte, tänkte han, och en panik spred sig i hans kropp vid bara tanken.

Tårar började tyst rinna längs hans kinder, och han sket i om hon såg det. Sket fullständigt i om hon kunde höra hans tankar eller se hans själ eller vafan det nu var hon menade att hon kunde göra. Hans grepp om hennes hand hårdnade likt i en drunknandes desperata dödskramp, och han insåg att vad som än hände, hur sjukt det än lät, hur störd och creepy det än gjorde honom att han tänkte så om en person han knappt träffat, så ville han – tänkte han – aldrig släppa taget. Aldrig.

Lämna mig inte ensam med mig själv igen. Jag skrämmer mig. Jag dödar mig. Låt mig inte ta mig, Lajka.

Lämna mig inte.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2013)

Detta är en av de stämningstexter jag skrivit till rollspelskrönikan jag spelleder i WoD: Mage – the Awakening. Protagonisten i texten är en av de viktigaste birollerna i rollspelskrönikan, och texten är tänkt som en del av hans bakgrundsberättelse för att spelaren ska förstå hur han blivit som han är. Denna serie av texter kräver inte att man är införstådd i krönikan, de fungerar fristående.

Aldrig hade han varit så förbannad. Alkoholen hjälpte nog till, men den rasande känslan bakom tinningarna kunde inte enbart komma av kemiska medel. Nej, den här snubben visste inte vem han jäklades med. Han kunde höra sina vänner bakom sig, ropandes svordomar och smädelser de också. De backade upp honom, och det var skönt att veta. Men i det ursinnesrus där han befann sig fanns inte utrymme för tacksamhet. Inte alls.

”Du låter bli min syster, hör du det ditt förbannade missfoster!”, hörde han sig själv ropa genom ett töcken av billig whisky och adrenalin.

Killen i täten för klungan framför honom höjde ett ögonbryn och flinade. ”Du vet att hon gillar det, dego”, kontrade han med en obscen handgest, utifall undertonen hade gått förbi obemärkt. Det hade den inte.

”Jag har fan sett hur hon ser ut ibland när hon kommer hem. Ditt jävla as!” Situationen höll på att spåra ur. Han knöt ofrivilligt nävarna och kände själv att det var nu eller aldrig. Slumpen hade sett till att de båda gängen möttes här på gatan den här natten, men vad som väntade den här killen hade överhuvud taget inte något med slumpen att göra.

Den andre tog ett utmanande steg framåt, ut ur klungan som stod redo att försvara honom vid minsta tendens till våld. Flera år äldre, äldre än syrran till och med, och stor som ett hus. ”Fan vad gulligt att lillebror steppar upp. Marcus, var det så? Du ska ge fan i saker som inte angår dig.” Han flinade därefter stort, berusat, provocerande. ”Du vet lika väl som jag att den lilla spagge-fittan bara får vad hon förtjänar”.

Det slog slint, hela synfältet blev en suddig massa av ilska och hat när han kände hur han kastade sig själv framåt, mot den fortfarande flinande killen. Slaget träffade den jäveln rakt över kinden innan han ens hann reagera, och han kom på sig själv med att redan ha måttat nästa slag när det första föll. Den knutna vänsterhanden träffade killen i mellangärdet så att luften gick ur honom. Sedan var snabbhetens fördel förbrukad. Den större mannens första vedergällningsslag tog honom rakt i tinningen, och han kämpade fortfarande för att hålla sig kvar på fötterna när slaget följdes upp av en spark. Han försökte värja sig, fortfarande med ursinnet bankande i ådrorna, men motståndaren var över honom nu. Han lyckades få in en spark någonstans under midjan på angriparen, och i de ögonblick som följde av smärtfylld förvirring fick han även tag i killens krage. Drog ned ansiktet hårt i marken, och medan den andre vrålade i smärta och ursinne lyckades han tack vare sin betydligt mindre kroppshydda åla sig loss från den andres grepp. Nästa spark satt hårt i magtrakten på den jävlen innan han hunnit ställa sig upp igen, och när han väl gjorde det syntes tydligt ett blödande jack i pannan, där han slagit i asfalten.

Han kände fortfarande hatet som pulserade i tinningarna, tillsammans med blodet som rusade till huvudet där han träffats av det första slaget. Gutturalt vrålande tog han sats för att än en gång kasta sig över den andre, men nu var denne beredd. De flög ihop igen, men den här gången hade turen vänt. Slag på slag träffade honom, och i samma takt byttes ursinnet ut mot rädsla. Förgäves försökte han få in en träff, men den andre hade en kampvana som han själv saknade. Den roade men matta blicken i dennes ögon skvallrade om andra preparat än alkohol, och när han slutligen kände sig själv slå i marken och panikslaget insåg att han inte skulle kunna ta sig upp var ilskan begravd under ett stretande lager av dödsångest. En spark i magtrakten tog luften ur honom. En andra spark fick det att knaka oroväckande någonstans. En tredje fick allt att svarta för ett ögonblick. Han blinkade smärtsamt för att återfå synen. Det värkte överallt och ingen kom för att hjälpa honom. Mannen som misshandlat och brutit ned hans storasyster verkade ha fått nog av sparkandet. Han kände en spottloska träffa honom över kinden där han låg, redan genomdränkt av svett, blod och det vatten som fortfarande glänste på gatorna efter regnet. Det varma kletet rann ned längs hans ansikte och samlades sakta i en blåslagen ögonhåla. Bra, kom han på sig själv med att apatiskt tänka. Då kan de inte se att jag gråter. Utan ett vidare ord, utan ens ett segervisst hån, vände den andre sig sedan om och gick. Otydliga röster vittnade om att han slutit upp med de sina igen en bit bort, men när de slutligen avlägsnat sig blev allt tyst. Själv låg han kvar på asfalten, ensam. Ingen hade backat upp honom, insåg han plötsligt. Ingen.

Han hade ingen aning om hur länge han gått, eller för den delen hur länge han legat kvar på gatan innan han kom sig för att resa sig upp. Allt gjorde inte ont på honom, men han misstänkte att det som inte gjorde det hade domnat bort eftersom det var alldeles sönderslaget. Benen fungerade, men det ena släpade. Han antog att vänsterarmen var bruten på åtminstone ett ställe, för den gjorde så förbannat ont att han inte ens kunde låta den hänga längs sidan. Höger öga såg suddigt. Han hoppades att det berodde på blodet som rann ned i det från pannan, men han vågade inte torka bort det i rädsla att det skulle avslöja att blindheten egentligen berodde på något annat. Andningen gick trögt. Han ville inte tänka på vad det kunde innebära.

Han passerade genom ljuskäglan som kastades av neonslingorna som prydde ingången till en liten biograf. Dödligt Vapen 4. American History X. Han hade gått och sett båda filmerna under den gångna månaden, och kunde just nu verkligen identifiera sig med vissa karaktärer i av av dem; det var definitivt inte Riggs och Murtaugh. Mel Gibson stirrade hårt på honom från filmaffischen medan han sakta släpade sig vidare.

Gatukökets fönster lyste lockande ut mot honom, paraderande med stora menyer, värme och en plats att sätta sig ned. Efter att ha kommit på sig själv med att som en fattig gatunge ha stått och stirrat från andra sidan gatan i flera minuter, fortfarande inte riktigt klar i huvudet, hasade han sig fram till dörren och stapplade in. Dörren plingade välkomnande, men mannen bakom disken gav honom en misstänksam blick. Utan att bry sig om detta mumlade han en beställning och satte sig ned vid fönstret. Att sitta inne i värmen och ljuset och stirra ut genom en skyddande glasruta på det skrämmande mörkret utanför förmedlade en viss känsla som hade tilltalat honom enda sedan han var liten. En ur personalen svepte förbi och placerade en tallrik på bänken framför honom i farten. Frånvarande tog han upp kniven och började skära maten i små, små bitar medan han fortsatte stirra ut genom fönstret. När han delat allt en gång, började han om från början och delade bitarna i ännu mindre bitar. Vänsterarmen lät han vila mot bordsskivan, obrukbar. Han bytte till gaffeln och började apatiskt peta i sig de bitar han skurit. Inte för att han var hungrig, men han anade att han var i någon form av chock. Förhoppningsvis skulle den inte släppa snart, för han ville inte ha tillbaka tankeförmågan och börja tänka igenom det som hänt. Att han misslyckats och gjort bort sig var redan tydligt, men insikten om detta var som en saklig observation – ingenting som rörde honom personligen. Ännu.

Han var halvvägs genom sin portion, och hade precis börjat inse att han såg ut som skit i den spegelbild han stirrat på i flera minuter men ändå inte sett, när en ensam person passerade förbi utanför fönsterrutan. Hjärtat stannade nästan i bröstet på honom, och en känsla av blandad dödspanik och återuppväckt, kallt ursinne kom över honom när han insåg vem det var. Rent instinktivt greppade han den tandade diner-knivens träskaft och stormade ut genom dörren. En röst ropade upprört bakom honom, men den dog hastigt av när dörren slog igen.

Mannen hade inte sett honom, men det hade ändå inte spelat någon roll. Den skakade armen dinglade längs sidan när han joggade längs husfasaden, och en oerhörd smärta fyllde honom för varje steg han tog. Han brydde sig inte om det heller. Mannen framför honom vinglade till då och då, men det berodde nog inte på skador han själv kunde ta åt sig äran för. Troligare var att han och hans vänner firat segern i den tveksamma fighten med att dra upp pulver på någon krogtoalett. Men hans vänner skulle inte kunna hjälpa honom nu…

”Hey, asshole!”, ropade han, högre än han menat, när han var nästan helt ikapp. Ropet ekade upp och ned längs den tomma och mörka gatan. Mannen vände sig sakta om, men när han fullbordat den klumpiga, okoordinerade rörelsen var det redan för sent. De nu ännu mattare ögonen spärrades upp. Inte först av smärtan, som man hade kunnat förvänta sig, utan av igenkännandet som sakta dagades bakom den drogade minen när han fick syn på den yngre mannen som stod bara någon decimeter ifrån hans ansikte. Sedan verkade hans bedövade nervbanor äntligen sakta, sakta börja registrera att den trubbiga, tandade kniven i den andres högra hand brutalt och med desperationens styrka hade körts in ända till det skitiga träskaftet i hans buk. Han vrålade, och kastade sig klumpigt framåt, men hans motståndare var snabbare.

Kniven drogs hastigt ut, och ett raspande ljud – inte olikt det ljud som uppstår när en sågklinga går genom poröst drivved – kunde precis höras över den större mannens svordom när han missade sitt mål och i ett klumpigt försök att vända sig ännu en gång föll framstupa mot asfalten.

Angriparen själv kände ingen tvekan i sitt medvetande när han kastade sig över den drogade, bedövade och sårade mannen som blödande kravlade runt på marken, ännu en gång – den här gången bakifrån. Kniven gick inte in lika lätt den här gången. Han antog först, som en flyktig logisk tanke i ett medvetande i övrigt nu plötsligt fyllt av rovdjurets mordiska instinkt, att han träffat ett revben. När han högg till igen insåg han att spetsen på kniven gått av vid det första hugget mot mannens mage. Det gjorde inget – det betydde bara att han behövde ta i hårdare. Mannen försökte streta emot, men den hela tiden växande blodpölen under honom gav en trovärdig förklaring till varför dessa försök blev allt vekare. Det gick att utnyttja tandningen på kniven för att väga upp att spetsen blivit kvar någonstans inne i den förbannade satens njure. Mannen skrek. Bilder av systerns blåslagna, blödande ansikte såsom hon sett ut senast han lyckats övertala henne att träffa honom spelade genom hans medvetande, gång på gång på gång medan han gick lös på den skrikande, allt mindre kämpande kroppen under honom. Vänster hand var det tydligen inget fel på, för någonstans i processen hade han lyckats grabba ett krampaktigt tag i de andres hela tiden allt rödare vita t-shirt. Likt en besatt lät han kniven arbeta över den sargade kroppen i hastiga hugg och stick, långt efter det att mannen slutat skrika, slutat kämpa. När insikten väl sakta men säkert träffade honom att mannen var död, satt han i flera minuter över det blödande liket och andades tungt. Adrenalinet ville inte lägga sig, och hjärtat slog fort i hans bröst. Det var inte förrän han började kunna höra sirener som hastigt närmade sig i fjärran, som han utan vidare omsvep reste sig, kastade kniven och sprang.

Ingen hörde av sig på flera dagar. Varken hans så kallade vänner, eller polisen. De kunde alla hålla sig borta, för allt han brydde sig. Lägenheten hade börjat lukta riktigt instängt, och förutom de paket med torra snabbnudlar som han allt mer sälla orkade samla nog med kraft för att koka upp vatten till – det fanns ändå inga rena kastruller – fanns det inget kvar i hans köksskåp, som inte ens under de bästa av omständigheter var välfyllda. Katten hade börjat äta fimpar ur den överfulla askkoppen, och den överhängande insikten om att cigaretterna snart skulle vara slut var det enda som fick honom att ens överväga att gå ut genom dörren. Helt slut var de dock inte än, och han orkade inte tänka på det just nu.

Han hade dödat en man. Den första natten hade hans egna skador och den värsta chocken varit hans värsta problem. Dagen efter hade insikten börjat komma över honom. Först hade han varit nöjd, på ett otäckt, psykotiskt sätt. Det var då han hade ringt sin syster, för att berätta den goda nyheten. Han visste fortfarande inte vad han hade förväntat sig. Beröm? En medalj? Något hade han i alla fall förväntat sig från sin syster, som han ju faktiskt hade räddat. Men hon hade skrikit, gråtit, panikat. Vrålat att om hon någonsin hörde eller såg av honom igen skulle hon ringa polisen. Slängt på luren i örat på honom. Först hade han blivit arg, men efter att ha tömt en flaska starköl och lugnat ned sig hade han börjat tänka efter – och då hade apatin släppt, och ångesten hade satt in. Det var tre dagar sedan. Vad fan hade han gjort?

Han väcktes ur sina tysta, alkoholdrypande funderingar när det skarpa och oväntade ljudet av dörrklockan bröt den rökiga tystnaden och fick katten att flyga upp ur soffan bredvid honom. Misstänksamt och med ett litet stygn av panik i bakhuvudet släpade han sig bort till dörren och kastade en snabb blick ut genom kikhålet. Mörkt. Dörrklockan ringde igen, och han hoppade ofrivilligt till. ”Öppna nu, jag vet att du är där inne. Du har inte varit ute på snart en vecka.” Rösten var hård och uppmanande, men ändå lugn. Kanske var det denna lugna ton som i slutändan på något sätt fick honom att glömma bort sig, och öppna dörren.

Mannen utanför dörren tog bort handen från kikhålet samtidigt som dörren öppnades. Han var medellång, blond och uppvisade ett bistert leende som inte nådde ögonen. Överrocken hade antagligen kostat mer än stereoanläggningen i lägenheten hade kostat om han betalat för den, var den första tanken som gick genom Marcus huvud när han öppnade dörren och fick syn på mannen.

”Vad vill du?”, var det enda han ilsket kom på att fråga.

”Marcus Yershov, förmodar jag?”, kontrade den andre och höjde ett ögonbryn. Han nickade bara till svar, och mannen fortsatte: ”Bra. Jag har ett jobb åt dig.”

Han gjorde en ansats att stänga dörren igen. Det här var ju bara för mycket. Men mannen satte sin fot i vägen, och skakade på huvudet. ”Nej, det är inte så det går till.”

Han satte ned handen i en djup rockficka, och för ett ögonblick verkade det som att han skulle dra ett vapen. Det gjorde han i och för sig också, men vapnet var inte en pistol, utan en kniv. En vanlig, tandad matkniv, inpackad i en genomskinlig zipbag. ”Du känner kanske igen den här?”

Han kände sig själv stelna till. Vad i helvete var det här? Han sträckte sig efter påsen, men mannen drog undan den. ”Vafan…?”, utropade han.

Mannen skrattade till, men det var inget vänligt skratt. Han sänkte rösten ytterligare. ”Ja, det har kommit till vår kännedom att du, i och för sig ganska oförfinat, gjorde dig av med en viss Ricky Traynor härom kvällen.” Han pausade i några sekunder och lät det sagda sjunka in. ”Jag och de mina hade inte så mycket till övers för herr Traynor. I själva verket letade vi just efter kontraktorer att lösa det lilla problemet åt oss.”

En hemsk känsla började sprida sig i maggropen. De visste att han hade gjort det, och de hade hittat kniven… Det mannen sade utöver det fick liksom inte riktigt plats att sjunka in. ”Vafan vill du?”, muttrade han igen och skakade förvirrat på huvudet, men hur han än kämpade kunde han inte skaka av sig fem dagars konstant fylla och rökförgiftning.

Mannen log kallt. ”Jag vill att du ska fortsätta göra uppdrag åt oss. Eller snarare, det ska du. Annars kanske det händer att den här -” han viftade med plastpåsen ”- hamnar i helt fel händer. Capish?” Mannens något slaviska brytning förtog lite av tyngden i hans italienska, men andemeningen gick inte att ta miste på.

Känslan i maggropen började evolvera till en krampaktig, förlamande kyla, och han kom på sig själv med att stå och nicka innan han ens hunnit ta medveten ställning till det sagda. ”Vadå för jobb?” Han hörde själv hur ynklig hans egen röst lät, men lyckades inte omfördela nog med koncentration från mannen framför sig för att hinna bry sig.

”Det förstår du nog själv”, kontrade mannen, medan han lade tillbaka påsen i rockfickan. Därefter sträckte han in ena handen innanför rocken och plockade fram en liten mapp ur en innerficka, som han sedan räckte över.

Mappen buktade märkbart på sina ställen när han tog emot den, alldeles för skärrad för att ens tänka tanken att vägra. Han stod med mappen i händerna och bara stirrade ned på den i några ögonblick, utan att veta vad han skulle göra. Till sist öppnade han den.

”Du kommer att finna två namn däri”, förklarade mannen sakligt under tiden. ”Det ena, det i rött – det är personen vi vill att du… söker upp. Det andra namnet är till dig. Vi tog oss friheten att ordna alla papperen åt dig redan innan jag framfört förslaget – jag hoppas att du inte tar illa upp.” Tonfallet lämnade dock inget utrymme för misstycke i frågan. Mannen fortsatte, allt emedan innehållet i mappen storögt granskades av dess mottagare: ”Vi förstod det som att din pappa är från Ryssland, och din avlidna mamma var italienska, stämmer det?” Han fortsatte dock utan att vänta på en bekräftelse: ”Och du talar både italienska och ryska flytande hemifrån, utöver engelskan. Det är främst ryskan vi har nytta av just nu, för det är dit vi ska skicka dig. Vi valde även namnet på dina identitetshandlingar därefter.”

I mappen låg mycket riktigt en tjock bunt papper, somliga skrivna på engelska, men de flesta på ryska. Några av papperen pryddes av Marcus egen bild i ena hörnet, liksom gjorde ett körkort, ett pass och ett enkelt ID-kort i plast. Det var inte de enda plastkorten i mappen. Alla korten pryddes av samma namn, men det var inte hans. En mobiltelefon av liten modell, utan synlig antenn, som han aldrig sett i någon affär tidigare låg också i mappen. Nokia 3210 upplyste den elektronikdoftande plastfickan den var inpackad i. Mappen innehöll utöver allt detta en tjock bunt flygbiljetter, en ännu tjockare bunt sedlar av blandad valuta och en postitlapp med ett annat namn skrivet i rött. Han stängde mappen utan att röra vid någon av sakerna. ”Men… Jag kan inte sånt här!”, lyckades han få ur sig. Hela situationen var surrealistisk.

”Vi är medvetna om det, och därför kommer vi att förse dig med en kontaktperson som kommer att assistera dig genom uppdraget. Han kommer att möta upp dig på flygplatsen i Kiev, där du kommer att mellanlanda. Vi ger dig en chans här, kasta inte bort den.”

Han lyckades samla tankarna nog för att i alla fall vagt inse att allt inte stod rätt till. ”Varför skicka mig till Ryssland? Ni lär väl ha folk som är bättre på sånt här?”

Mannen nickade, kanske något överraskad men vad det verkade ändå nöjd med att få frågan. ”Det har vi, tro mig.” Han log slugt. ”Men det här är ett jobb som kräver låg profil från vår sida. Om attentatet misslyckas är det fördelaktigt för oss om gärningsmannen verkar vara en nolla som handlat på eget bevåg. Förstår du?”

Det började gå upp för honom vilken fruktansvärd situation han faktiskt försatt sig i, och hur han än försökte rannsaka sin hjärna efter utvägar insåg han ganska snabbt att han inte hade något val. Gjorde han inte som den här mannen sade, skulle han – om inte den här organisationen bestämde sig för att döda honom, förstås – hamna i fängelse eller värre. Och det var inte det värsta. Han syster skulle behöva leva med skammen att ha en dömd mördare till lillebror. Han tog ett djupt andetag, och nickade igen.

Mannen verkade nöja sig med svaret. ”Bra. Du kommer att få mer information när du möter upp med din kontaktman i Kiev. Du behöver inte veta hans namn i det här skedet, han kommer att söka upp dig.” Han sträckte ut handen, som för att sluta en överenskommelse. Marcus tog den motvilligt. Handslaget var fast, och lite för hårt. Det knipsluga leendet återvände i mannens ansikte, när han höll kvar handslaget i några sekunder för länge. Hotfullt. Slutligen släppte han, och vände sig för att gå. ”Missa inte flyget”, ropade han över axeln medan han rörde sig mot trappan. ”Vi har höga förväntningar på dig”, tillade han, och avslutade sedan flinande efter ett ögonblicks konstpaus: ”Malcolm Hanotrivic.”

(Christina Smedbakken, 2012)

Julian Jersey’s job sucked, and on a particularly sucky day at the office things got so dull that he decided to summon a demon from another dimension.

You see, writing user instructions for cheap furniture and electronics was boring at the best of times (although it included several stimulating challenges including but not limited to formulating bullet-proof how-tos that deprived the customer of any and all legal claims if the worst should happen and somebody lost a finger. Or a hand. Or a reproductive organ), but ever since Rich Gimmons, the only person at the office not totally dull, was sacked after being sent to prison, it totally sucked. Sometimes this dull job of his became too much to handle even for such a master of daydreaming and distraction as himself.

Julian had actually even begun to suspect that nobody really read his work anyway. Sometimes he fancied himself in league with the great masters. Homer. Shakespeare. Franklin W. Dixon. Surely their contemporaries didn’t afford them heroic status during their lifetimes? The latter, even, he wasn’t totally sure was a real person. Well, the same could be said about the former. And Master William? He could as well be grouped in with the other two, as far as Julian was concerned. At least non-existent people didn’t have to suffer lousy jobs and lousy payment for lousy jobs. He sat sometimes looking out his twelfth story window, dreaming away to a time in the distant future when his work, too, was afforded the attention it deserved, and he himself was contemplated in the same way as scholars of his own time pondered the writers of the Iliad, Macbeth and The Hardy Boys.

That people of today didn’t seem to acknowledge and appreciate his masterly user instructions was of course only natural. For heroes and poets, after all, fame is a benefit that comes with death. Therefore he struggled on, making the best of the situation and even occasionally squeezing in small bits and pieces of verse in between the third and fourth steps of How-to-Build-Billy-the-Shelf. Nobody would read the crap in his lifetime, anyway.

The ritual he found on Google, and the demon came with a loud explosion in a puff of smoke and a nice symmetrical cardboard-box with its name printed in a tacky font across the front label. Julian eagerly tore open the box and started digging around in the compact mass of Styrofoam flakes that welled out of the package as soon as he opened the lids (he always wondered how the people at the packing department even managed to fit that much Styrofoam into boxes in the first place, because he never managed to fit it back in).

One of his hands closed around a paper folder, the other around something small and furry. The flakes fell away, and he retrieved from the box some kind of manual, and a little hairy demon the size of his thumb. It grinned demonically at him, and he knew that this was the real deal. Sadly, the manual was written in some strange font that he couldn’t read – but what the heck, who read manuals anyway? He held the demon in one hand, and lifted the box with the other. More Styrofoam fell soundlessly to the floor. Shalyoo was the name written on it – along with more letters he couldn’t make out.

“Schalyoo…”, he muttered to himself and glanced at the fluffy evilness in his right hand. It already seemed to have grown a little. Perhaps they came in travel size and expanded on unpacking? What an idea… The little creature looked back at him with a defiant grin. The next moment the door to Julian’s office swung open and his boss’ head poked inside.

He wanted to know what the fuck Julian was doing making all that noise. When he saw all the Styrofoam he raised his eyebrows, and when he laid eyes on the little creature from another dimension his expression turned into a rather even mixture between incredulity and fear. He wanted to know what the fuck that thing was as well. Julian answered conscientiously that he thought the creature’s name was Schalyoo, and that he had summoned it from Hell in a moment of boredom. Schalyoo itself, which had apparently been growing some more while Julian was talking to his boss and was now the size of his hand, soberly jumped up into the air and bit Julian’s boss’ head off.

The first emotion to strike Julian’s mind at this rather drastic turn of events was not, as might be assumed, fear and disgust at the limp body falling with a thump to the floor of his office and the blood gushing out of its severed neck. No, initially he was simply amazed that such a relatively small creature could fit a man’s entire head into its mouth and then swallow it whole. Then the full impact of what had transpired before his eyes struck him, and he fell to his knees and yelled “Schalyoo! No!”

The creature grinned at him, displaying several rows of oversized, very sharp teeth, and grew some more. Its belly was round now, Julian observed, and he imagined he could discern the contours of a human nose poking out through the soft, furry skin of the demon’s abdomen. Then it licked its lips and jumped away, out the door. It was not until Julian heard the screams of fear and pain drifting up the corridor that he was able to muster up the will to defy his paralysis and stumble out the door after it, avoiding the sight of the limp body as best as he could.

The creature called Schalyoo ate the heads of ninety percent of the people in the building. Some areas it would simply not enter, so some of the cleaning staff, at least, got away safely. Julian it never touched, but stopped and purred smilingly every time he caught up with it and called its name. Then it grew and jumped off again on its killing spree. When the building was empty, it left through the front door and snapped the head off of a passing Chihuahua in a by-the-way fashion when crossing the street. Julian tried to follow, but was soon thrown off the chase by crossing cars and inquisitive press and police. The last he saw of the creature was its silhouette, now twice man-sized, in front of the burning wreck of a car a couple of blocks away, before it disappeared between the buildings.

Julian told the police everything, and after some consideration he gave the press the whole story, as well. The police set to work immediately roping off the stricken area (although the fact that the stricken area all the time expanded made their efforts quite futile), and did their best to make sense of the situation. The journalists were more effective, and soon Julian’s face was on every TV-screen in the city, and the name Schalyoo on every person’s lips. People were ordered to stay inside and keep away from doors and windows, and this helped for a while – before the creature had grown to such proportions that it could begin cracking houses like nutshells and plucking people from their homes like very small grapes, dropping their bodies back to the ground like apple cores after their tasty heads had been devoured. The National Guard was called in before long, but by then Schalyoo had grown so much that none of their weapons affected it – and they didn’t dare try a nuclear strike.

Things exploded everywhere, people were crawling around in the streets and police and military fought for space in a city that more and more began resembling an outright war zone. The president appeared on TV conducting a speech with lots of mentions of our Lord and Saviour. The speech had to be interrupted, however, when Schalyoo stepped down close to the White House and Mr. President with family had to be evacuated. Simply put, it was mayhem – and all the while the creature continued to grow.

Julian became something of a national celebrity, appearing regularly on TV and radio broadcasts simultaneously as Schalyoo sacked the country. He was allowed to publish several of his user instructions in a large anthology, with every other how-to alternated with a little poem or story of his own. This, of course, made him happy – but he could never quite shake off the feeling that he was responsible for the terror (no shit).

The disaster finally turned into some kind of strange every-day situation, and people began to adapt. The weather report began to include Schalyoo-reports as well, informing the public about where in the country the creature should be expected to rampage in the next twenty four hours. People could thus plan their lives, and most often not too many died as a result of miscalculations on this front. The problem was that there was no way to really adapt to the crisis since Schalyoo kept growing all the time. Nobody knew why. Then one day the creature crossed the sea, and the entire world was in turmoil.

Julian Jersey watched the live broadcast from his new penthouse apartment as the crossing was reported by all news bureaus at once. He had an important press conference in a couple of hours about his new book, but at the moment he was caught up in an inescapable vortex of guilt. It was not so much that he had summoned the creature from another dimension that plagued him, as the feeling that he should have read the user instructions before unpacking it. Now he sat with the cardboard box in his hands, struggling to make something out of the strange letters crammed over the sheets that came with it. All to no avail. And what was worse was that he didn’t even know where to send his complaints about the poor manual.

 

He was not alone in watching this broadcast. In another dimension the Dead Poets’, Manual Writers’ and Pseudonym Authors’ Society had gathered before their altar to observe the commotion. Franklin W. Dixon smiled sinisterly, Homer shook his head and William Shakespeare eagerly produced quill and scroll from somewhere inside his robes to document the mortals’ tragic misfortune. Behind them in the darkness several voices began muttering while pens and notepads were retrieved from pockets and little convenient fanny-packs. This was proving to be a very productive month, and the Society never missed out on an opportunity to occupy themselves. Fame really was a benefit that came with death (for some), but it was also the only benefit that came with death. Homer looked troubled, as always. He’d never liked the idea of tricking people into hubris, because that would imply that the ones doing the tricking had the right to meddle in the affairs of mortals – the task of the gods – and to him that equaled hubris in itself. He’d much rather have had the mortals tricking themselves, leaving him to record the comical or tragic outcomes. William just smiled, always loving the drama following in the wake of a good misunderstanding. Dixon just hated everybody. In fact, this affair with the summonings had been his idea to begin with. Maybe it was because he wasn’t entirely sure of his own existence. Who knows.

There were others there in the dark dimension with them, all dressed in that kind of black robes favoured by evil cultists, ring-wraiths and sith-lords, but these three were the leaders. They had long been watching Julian Jersey, knowing him to be a potential victim and maybe also a future member of their Society. After all, they had all started out just like him (with the possible exception of Franklin W. Dixon).

Behind them in the darkness loomed uncountable rows of symmetrical cardboard boxes, all ready to be delivered in the blink of an eye to whomever wished to incorporate a little dangerous excitement into their everyday lives. They were all adorned with a laminated label on the front, with the name of the contents printed in big, bright, common letters, and below was a lengthy disclaimer written in a language the Society had made up themselves, as a joke. This same language comprised the exhaustive user’s manual that was included in every package, informing the customer how to handle the product in order to ensure the most beneficial outcome for everyone involved. For example the manual warned the user about the risk inherent in calling the product by its label name too frequently, since this triggered its inbuilt proliferating function. It also encouraged the user to keep the product away from domestic animals, children, wild animals, receptionists, firemen, grownups and all other species and persons the user didn’t want dead, or at least beheaded. It should also not be fed after midnight.

The last pages were entirely made up of a collection of very witty formulations (sometimes in rhyme) that effectively deprived the user of all legal claims should he or she refrain from following the instructions and advice provided in this folder. There actually was a phone number at the very bottom – in fully legible, though very, very small, numbers this time – but nobody every called it. And this was probably just as well, since it had long since been taken over by a pizza baker in your town. Homer always thought this was stretching it a bit – I mean, someone might want to call and ask something, especially since the language used in the folder was one nobody knew save for the Society themselves. But Dixon irritably dismissed this notion at once; being famous after death (if assuming one had in fact actually lived and existed at one point) is really quite boring, and they could not be blamed for wanting some fun at least. Besides, he drily observed, nobody reads these fucking instructions anyway.

And somewhere in the darkness behind them another box dematerialised with a loud explosion and a puff of purple smoke.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2012)

Ten o’clock, Monday. Facebook time. Of course she’s checked in at irregular intervals throughout the entire day, but this is the time when she really sits down and goes through all the updates and messages accumulated since yesterday. Perhaps with a glass of wine (in a favourite cup perhaps, rather than a glass, in line with her semi-boho lifestyle/self image), and perhaps naked. Perhaps not. Back from rehearsal, nice to be h (hesitation, backing up seven characters) to finally sit down with my favourite red. haha… Of course, Monday night. That’s where she’s been the entire evening. It’s a bad sign when you start losing track of the week days. Obsessed Internet habits can do that to you. Obsession with someone else’s Internet habits definitely does that to you.

Playing an app-game, Mafia Wars. Pointless, but still interesting. She’s that kind of person who gets something out of that kind of game. She’ll probably tire of it in time, then what? FarmVille? No, never FarmVille. Too mainstream and silly. She’s too sophisticated, at least in her own mind. Maybe no app-game at all. In the end she was always a console gamer. God bless the online generation, now even gaming consoles are wired to the heaven of information that is the Net. She likes to play that Bethesda game, Oblivion. Non-public information that’s still available if you’ve got the proper hacking skills: she’s a magician with the thieves’ guild, moonlighting for the dark brotherhood and collecting magical artifacts in a drawer in her over crowded house in Leyawiin. She’s created her own class, kind of a spell-sword but not quite. She always did strive to be original. That’s my girl, that. The name of the class is probably an in-joke, based on one of the LARP games she plays. Too bad those are IRL, no way to follow her there. It’s quite bothersome when she’s not online. Quite hateful.

Oh, not so restful a night after all. Open Office.org 3.3.0. A remnant from the time when she was broke and couldn’t afford a proper work-processing program, or just a consequence of her failure to pirate a working copy of one? Torrents can be a pain in the ass, you never know which ones are corrupted and full of infection. Just like real life interactions. Ah, an essay. Three paragraphs written already at opening it up, but she’s tired. The prompt is blinking but she presses no keys. Nor does she switch back to Mozilla Firefox in an attempt to escape the inevitable. Is she, too, just sitting there, staring at the screen at a loss for what to do? Imagined solidarity. Wait, now something… okö23gvswssssssssss What? Just random typing or… No, she has a cat. Of course. Three cats, to be precise. She always posts photos of them on FB when she’s nothing better to do. So that means she’s not at her computer at all just now. What’s she doing then… Tea? Toilet? Telephone? The three t’s that sometimes keep her away from the keys. She only FB-reports on the first and last of the three, but logic necessitates the middle one, too. Sleep, of course, also does that. Hopefully it’s not the telephone. Cells can be bugged, but her’s, unfortunately, isn’t. Bugging something requires going outside. Not worth it. She downloaded Skype in order to keep in touch with a friend in South Korea, but never got around to using it. Hence the sound of her voice is a mystery reserved for the bastards she socializes with when she’s off… Program-switching! Facebook again… Not many weeks ’til VACATION!!! Three likes within the minute. Damn, that’s right. She’s going away for two weeks. Hopefully they’ll have Internet at the hotel.

Late night, but she will not go to sleep. Not just yet. Her boyfriend… is away at a friend’s place for the evening. She’ll use this opportunity to do some gaming. Yes, that was a correct estimation. PS3 system has power up, she’s logged in at the PSN. It’s quite hateful that her login is a combination of her own name and her bf’s. How cute, but she doesn’t understand. One of her male friends has sent her a message via PSN while she was offline. Hellu! And they live almost next door from one another. Online interaction just for the sake of it. That’s pitiful. Well, she isn’t. Never her. It’s just that I don’t want them to be all up in my face with the fact that they’re friends IRL. Omg, time to get my act together.

Before PSN it was hard knowing what she was doing when not at her computer. Now a whole new piece of the puzzle that’s her life is unveiled. Ah, Arkved’s Tower. A given favourite, lots of cool visuals. Her frequent use of the invisibility spell, coupled in a spell-maker with a Summon Xivilai, has to be considered her trademark gaming style. Risk-free and deadly. Could be a sign of cowardice, but I know she’s just smart. Watching her screen as she plays is almost as watching her for real, analysing and savouring every move, every dialogue choice. A meagre substitute perhaps, but it will have to do for now. Haste is the mother of all mistakes, after all. But oh, do I want to reach out and touch that flowing robe… I have to switch windows and watch some of her pictures. I have many.

I can’t believe I ventured outside just now. Today was a fine day, warm, light, carefree. The jacket is old and worn, never noticed before. I’ll have to order a new one online. Google Street View helped me find her house, it looks just like in the pics. Amazing to see her balcony with my own two eyes. She writes much about it on Facebook. There was a cat leaning over the railing, looking at me. I almost fainted from the blood rush of seeing it IRL, I’ve seen so many photos… It felt almost as if it was my cat, too. When I walked up to the front door I was almost able to pretend this was my house, with my balcony. Well, nothing of this beats the emotional storm when I pressed the button on the entry phone and finally got to hear her voice. I didn’t say anything, of course. She’s curious. I know she looked down from the balcony to see if anyone left when she didn’t unlock the main entrance. But I waited, waited for full half an hour before running back home. I didn’t want her to see me. Not yet.

She’s been offline for two weeks now. Must be she’s abroad with that friend of hers. Luckily it’s a female friend. No threat there, I hope. Or maybe…Anyway. Two weeks offline, means she’ll be back again very soon. The trip was only supposed to last for fourteen days. Fourteen checks in my calendar… It was easy hacking her bf’s computer. It’s on my screen now, too. At first I hoped he would give me some/any clues about her health and doings, but he doesn’t. He’s one of those forum-hangarounds. I don’t know why I watch his screen, it only makes me angry. He plays Skyrim, I watch him playing it sometimes. I hate his damn orc. Soon she’ll be home.

I welcomed her home today by paying a visit to her entry phone again. I tried to leave her a message by making my cell play the key A into the receiver – I want her to know I know she plays the violin, and that I care. I’m sure he doesn’t. Hearing her voice again after all this time was like music to sore ears. I said nothing, of course. But I’m sure she caught the message. I know her so well.

The mother of all mistakes. Three is a charm, I reckoned. But this time he answered the entry phone. He’s beginning to suspect something, I can sense it. My little prank of leaving his phone number all over the Webb doesn’t seem to have frightened him off, either. Now my day was totally and effectively ruined. I must do something about my situation, soon.

Omg, this was the last drop. She just wrote on Facebook *Celebrates her first evening off in a long time by drinking Somersby, playing RE5 and looking at bridal gowns*. Does she want to make me angry? Doesn’t she know what statements like that does to me? This must stop. I must put an end to this. But I wont be percipitous. Everything must be planned carefully. Risk-free and deadly. Invisibility and Summon Xivilai, all in one.

One more trip to the entry phone. It’s her, this time. I wouldn’t have tolerated anything less. Breathing into the receiver, letting her know that soon, very soon. I hope she gets it. Hope she packs her bags right away. Leaves no note, just leaves everything behind. I’ll let her continue with music, writing and games. I’ll be that tolerant. I know when she’s going to work next time, because her boss has begun sending her instructions via email now instead of calling her. I know all the dates and times, because she has a nice habit of always enrolling for the events she’s gonna cover on FB. I’ve used Google Maps to measure the time it will take for her to walk the distance between her house and her destination. I’ve made all the necessary preparations. Now all I have to do is wait. Her birthday is coming up soon, after all, and this generation’s willing tendency to reveal all their deepest secrets, all their routines and all the private aspects of their lives to complete strangers on the Net just proves that there is place in the world for our kind of relationship. I know she wants it.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2012)

Den skönlitterära varianten på det avslutande äventyret i första delen av den långa rollspelskrönikan jag spelleder i WoD: Mage – The Awakening.  Andrei är den spelade karaktären (en nyuppvaknad magiker som redan lyckats skapa sig många fiender), medan alla de andra är s.k SLP:s. Innan händelseförloppet nedan har många andra saker hänt som det bara hintas om här, men jag tror texten kan vara spännande även för den som inte varit med från början.

He could feel Anzhela pressing herself against him, hiding her face in the fabric of his jacket, even as the wind got stronger and whipped sharp snow flakes into his eyes. The chill from the frozen ground was beginning to get through his damp clothes, and he shuddered unwillingly. He hoped for his life that they were invisible below the low roof of the improvised shed where they had thrown themselves when they spotted the helicopter, but fear was rising inside.

If what Malcolm had told him was true, those who were now coming were not normal human beings but something else entirely. And based on Malcolm’s – and his own, lately – definition of “normal”, that would have to mean something quite radical. Had those in the helicopter come to help Sender? Was it true that he had found something with which to do bargain with these people – and did it have anything to do with Rodja’s sudden show of power? These and other questions flashed through his head as he watched the big helicopter land on top of the factory roof, just some two hundred yards away.

“Who are those people?” Anzhela nearly had to scream to make herself heard over the roaring of the wind. Strands of her blonde hair had escaped from her braids and were now blowing into his face.

Andrei raised his head and cast another glance in the direction of the factory. The helicopter had landed, and the rotor blades were slowly coming to a stop. Three people were climbing out of it even as he watched, and his breath caught in his throat as one of them, visible only as a silhouette against the full moon, turned his head and looked straight at him. Even from this distance the figure’s gleaming spectacles could be seen reflecting the moonlight, before he let his gaze continue its wandering over the city below – almost as a ruler assessing newly conquered lands.

Andrei was quiet for a moment. It must have been his imagination playing tricks on him; noone should be able to spot them from that distance, in almost total darkness on top of that. “I don’t know, but they are probably trouble. Come!”, he said finally and dragged Anzhela onto her feet. “We have to get out of here!”

Together they ran in the opposite direction from the factory, several times slipping on the sheet of ice that lay concealed under the feathery snow. The full moon cast its light upon them as they ran between the abandoned warehouses, their every breath standing in the air like heavy clouds of ice. Finally they reached the right warehouse, and Andrei threw himself on the door handle and at last managed to drag it open in spite of the thick layer of snow that blocked it.

Bright light fell upon the snow outside as the door swung up and revealed the empty room to which Andrei had grown quite accustomed over the last couple of days. The building-site lamps on the floor illuminated the inside of the warehouse with its uncountable paint buckets scattered everywhere, the wooden chair with the laptop upon it, and the big, yellow car in the middle of the room. Malcolm was sitting directly on the floor, his back against one of the car’s back wheels, a tired and despondent look on his face. He hardly turned his head as Andrei and Anzhela entered, closing the heavy door behind them and at the same time blocking out the storm’s din.

“They’re here”, Andrei stated, trying to catch his breath after the sprint. “The Eyes of Night. They just landed on top of the factory with their helicopter.”

Malcolm’s shoulders, if possible, sagged even more. “As I said, then. We’re fucked. Congratulations.” He was quiet for a moment. “I wonder why they would travel by helicopter, though…. When there are so much quicker ways to do it.”

Andrei just shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, yeah. It doesn’t matter. They are here now and they are going to kill us.” Malcolm seemed first now to notice Anzhela, who was still cautiously keeping herself behind Andrei. “I see you brought your girlfriend. Lovely.” A forced smile passed his face before he resumed his defeated look and pose.

“I’m Anzhela”, she answered irritably. “And I’m certainly not his girlfriend. “And you are…?”

“Malcolm”, he said, extending and then instantly dropping an outstretched hand. “Nice to meet you, here at the end of things. Make yourself at home, I guess. We have a chair and lots of hotdogs.” Then he leaned his head back against the car’s body and stared up into the ceiling.

Andrei stared at him for a moment, while Anzhela shrugged and went about exploring the warehouse. He could hear the rattle of paint buckets as she followed Malcolm’s advice, but didn’t turn around to see what she was doing.

“So you are just going to sit there and let them kill us? Shouldn’t we do anything?”

Malcolm cast him a skeptic look. “What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know. But we have to do something! We can’t just let them take Rodja…”

“Rodja?” He hadn’t noticed Anzhela showing up from behind. She was holding a dried up paint brush and was trying to scrape the paint from it even as she spoke. “What about Rodja?”

He realised suddenly how little she actually knew. He sighed. “Those people we saw in the helicopter… We fear they have come to take him away. That’s why I’m here, I’m trying to protect him.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Why would they want to take him? I mean, sure, you told me before about this mobster-thingie you’ve gotten yourself mixed up into, but Rodja? Have I missed something?”

“It’s no ‘mobster-thing’, alright? It’s much more complicated. It’s… Ah, forget it. You would never believe me anyway.”

Without warning he was hit across his nose, backing away a couple of steps from the impact. He covered his face with his right hand and stared at her. “What the hell are you doing?” He hoped he would not get a nose bleed. He hated nose bleeds.

Anzhela was rubbing her right hand knuckles with her left hand. “I’ve had enough of your secrets, moron!” She stared at him. “Are you calling me stupid or what? Just tell me, and let me be the judge about whether I believe you or not. I’ve about had it with this town being all fucked up, people dying and nobody telling me nothing about what’s going on. So quit trying to be cool and mysterious and just tell me, okay?” Her voice was calm and just as cocky as always, but somewhere below the surface he thought he could detect a hint of fear. “I was the one found Kit, remember? I think I’m smart enough to see things are complicated.”

“Okay, okay…” No, no nose bleed, luckily. “But you didn’t have to hit me.” How in hell was he going to explain all this to her? “Okay, as you wish. I’ll just break it to you, then. Those people that we saw… They aren’t normal. Hell, I’m not normal, and Malcolm here certainly isn’t. They have, like, abilities, okay? Like… Aw, what the fuck, Malcolm, you explain it to her!” He looked helplessly to Malcolm, who was still staring at the ceiling.

Malcolm gave him a look that seemed to say ‘You are the source of all my suffering’. “Must I?”, he said. Andrei nodded. “Okay, what part do you want me to explain? That we are wizards that can do magic and create fire from nothing or turn people into cupcakes? That you have pissed off one of the most powerful magicians there is, and that he has called for help from people even more powerful? That these people are coming here to beat us up, flay us and then kill us, probably raise us from the dead and then kill us again? That we are royally, indisputably, inevitably, fucking mightily fucked? Fuck!” He beat his fist against the concrete. “Satisfied?”

Andrei cast a hesitant glance in Anzhela’s direction, preparing to be laughed at and ridiculed. Instead he was surprised to see her staring at Malcolm with eyes wide with fascination.

“What, you’re trying to tell me that it’s all real, like in the books? You know, Gandalf, Sauron and stuff? All real?”

“Well”, Andrei said hesitantly, “I’m sure that didn’t really happen. It’s just a novel, after all…”

For an instant he was sure she was going to strike him again, but she didn’t. “No, silly, I know those characters aren’t real. But they could be, right, if what he’s telling me is true.” She turned back to Malcolm. “Show me something. Something… magical. So I know you’re not pulling my finger.”

Malcolm sighed helplessly. “Must I really? Alright…” He snapped his fingers, and instantly a small flame appeared in his hand. Anzhela reached out to touch it, but Malcolm closed his hand over the flame before she had a chance to do so. “Ah ah, no touching!”

Anzhela withdrew her hand, a little disappointedly. Andrei could see a sudden hint of fascination

in Malcolm’s eyes as he looked at her, however. “Andrei, I be damned if you haven’t found yourself a Sleepwalker.”

“And what is that?”, Andrei said, having no idea what Malcolm was getting at.

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Man! Sometimes I forget how nooby you actually are! Okay, a Sleepwalker is a person who does not know magic, but doesn’t intervene with it, either. You know, normal people make casting spells complicated. She doesn’t. Ergo, she is a Sleepwalker. Okay?”

Andrei shrugged. “Okay, whatever…” He was tired of people calling him inexperienced, and had accepted long ago he would never be able to understand everything about his new existence.

“So these people we saw on the roof…”, Anzhela interrupted, clearly oblivious of the speculations directed at her. “They can do this stuff, too?”, she said, looking from Malcolm to Andrei.

“Yeah, or I mean, maybe not exactly the same thing but close enough. I guess I know a couple of tricks myself…”, he added, awkwardly scratching his neck.

Now she looked even more amazed, if possible. “You? What, you can make fire from thin air, too? Or what can you do?”

Andrei drew a deep breath and realised she was not going to be satisfied until he told and showed her everything. And he did need her he felt, in some strange way. “Okay, look”, he said, and started to concentrate. As she stared at him he began to gather shadows to himself, calling them out from the darkest corners of the room to do his bidding. And after a few heartbeats he began to experience the now rather familiar sensation of darkness congregating at his feet, in the otherwise brightly lit room.

Anzhela kept staring at his face, not noticing the shadows gathering on the floor. “Well?”, she said, rather smug but also a little disappointed. “I don’t see anything.”

He motioned with a nod for her to look down, and when she did she drew a quick breath. “What the hell is that?” She backed away from the crawling shadows on the floor, reaching for her like tentacles of night. Andrei watched with an amused half smile on his face. “This is my type of trick”, he said, and pulled the shadows back, ordering them to return to their respective corners. One by one they dispersed, melting away like ice under a bright sun.

Anzhela took a quick look around, assuring herself that none of the weird shades remained in sight. “Okay, I believe you”, she then said. “You and your boyfriend here can do magic. Can you teach me?” Both she and Andrei looked to Malcolm, questioningly.

“I can assure you I am not a boyfriend of Andrei’s, miss. And magic can not be taught, if, of course, a person is not subjected to enough of it to awaken of his own accord”, Malcolm said tiredly. “And by the way, I would have guessed you two had something going, the way you are bickering and all. Am I wrong?”

“Couldn’t have been farther from the mark, dude. But you two look quite cute together, I’d say.”

“Yeah, well, if you don’t want him I’ll be happy to take him, or whaddyah say, Andy boy?” Malcolm blinked in Andrei’s direction, momentarily losing his moody attitude. Then his face froze when a determined knocking on the warehouse door broke the calm atmosphere inside.

“Hell, they’re here! Quick, hide!” He sprang to his feet.

“Who’s here?”, Andrei whispered. “Sender?” Anzhela stared in fright and confusion at the door.

Malcolm motioned for them to take cover behind his car. “No, no. My boss! Stalker! Now hide for heaven’s sake!”

The knocking on the door was getting more aggressive, and Malcolm hurried over to open it. Andrei and Anzhela had just enough time to dive behind cover before the door opened, letting in the cold and roaring of the wind. What was also let in were, as far as they could see from their hiding place, five pairs of feet.

The door closed, offering once again sheltered silence to the room. Then a deep, calm voice, filled to the brim with self-conscious authority, broke it once more. “What took you so long, Malcolm?”

“Well… Er… I was naked. Taking a shower. Thought that you, Mr. Stalker, wouldn’t want me to answer the door dressed in just a towel… So… Well…”

Andrei had heard Malcolm speaking to his employer before, if only over the phone. But he knew that this William Stalker made Malcolm really nervous. Malcolm was stammering, and really not lying that well. This was not something that Mr. Stalker seemed to notice, though.

“Very well. So this is where you have bunkered yourself up?”

Andrei could see Malcolm’s feet from under the car, moving a couple of steps into the room. “Yeah, I mean, I’ve been kind of busy actually, of course… I’ve not been sitting around here all the time. Ah, sitting! Please take a seat, gentlemen. I… Well, I’m sorry to say I’ve only got one small chair, but…”

“I see six chairs, Malcolm”, said Mr. Stalker. And suddenly Andrei could actually see the legs of six oaken chairs appearing on the other side of the car.

“Oh… Of course, Mr. Stalker, what was I thinking. Here, take a seat, all of you!”

The five pairs of feet moved across the room, towards the chairs. Malcolm waited for the new arrivals to sit down before taking a seat himself.

One pair of feet was dressed in shiny, black shoes that didn’t seem to have been much used. Another pair had practical winter boots that nonetheless seemed expensive and, thought Andrei, somewhat familiar. The others, excluding Malcolm, were dressed in some type of military boots, black and uniform. Andrei guessed that the shiny ones belonged to William Stalker, the American businessman magician. The three military pairs must belong to some kind of bodyguards, he thought. But the fourth man… He had no idea. Until the man spoke up, that is.

“Mr. Hanotrivic, have you found out anything about my son?”, Andrei’s father said anxiously.

Andrei hurried to produce his cellphone, and sent Malcolm a text message. ‘Don’t tell him anything!’ He didn’t want to drag his father into anything, and besides, he had heard enough about the man in his company, this Mr. Stalker, to think twice about revealing himself. Terriam had warned him about Stalker, saying he would want to use Andrei as a tool or weapon now that he knew about the thing inside of him. And Andrei was done being used by power hungry magicians.

He heard Malcolm’s cell beeping, and could hear the sound as he opened the message. “Er”, he said at last, having taken far to long a time to answer James’ question. “I’m still working on finding him, Mr. Winters. I think I’ve found some clues, though.”

“Very well, Malcolm”, Stalker interrupted, calmly. “If you manage to find the boy, that would be good. But don’t forget your true mission, the one you’re getting paid to do. Have you found anything out about Ashton Sender and the… people he has contracted?”

But James Winters would not have his inquiry dismissed so easily. “What do you mean, ‘his true mission’? Didn’t we agree to find Andrei the first thing we did? What is this, Mr. Stalker?”

William Stalker sighed. “Yes, Mr. Winters, we agreed to that. But you have to understand that I would not have come here if it weren’t for me having certain… errands of my own.”

“I only contacted you with this information because I needed your help in finding my son, and I still intend to do that. We had a deal, as far as I can recall. We spoke about it as recently as just before we left San Francisco some minutes ago, remember?”

“Yes, I remember our agreement. I have certain things that need be taken care of before I can honour my part of it, however. And I would prefer it if we could continue this conversation in just a little while, after I have had a chance to hear what Malcolm has to report. So if you’d please, Mr. Winters…?”

Andrei could hear no answer from his father, but he could tell form the tension in the air that James Winters was not content with how things were turning out.

“Very well then!” Stalker clapped his hands together in a business like fashion. “So, Malcolm. If you would please continue your account…?”

Malcolm released a breath he seemed to have been holding. “Of course, Mr. Stalker. Of course. And yes, I have actually found out a couple of things. For one, they are here. The Germans, I mean. They’re here.”

“They are already here?” Stalker seemed slightly surprised but not taken aback by this news.

“Yeah, they arrived by helicopter just a little while ago, I heard from A… Er, I saw this myself, actually.” Now Malcolm was beginning to sound a little smug, despite his nearly giving himself away.

“By helicopter, you say? That is interesting. How many? Do you have any names? Descriptions?”

Malcolm went silent. “Er… well… Descriptions… Er… Hehe”

Andrei hurried to send another text message, describing as well as he could the men he had seen on the factory roof. Right after sending it he could hear Malcolm’s cellphone signal notifying its arrival. Why couldn’t the man turn off the sound? Andrei hoped they were not being all to obvious, but of course realised they were pushing it.

Malcolm read his text and then resumed, a little more sure of himself now. “Well, one of them seemed to be dressed like some kind of SWAT-guy. And then there was one who was wearing a hat and a coat or whatever. And the third guy wore round glasses and a long coat… And had long hair. Hmm, could it have been a woman? No, it was a man, I guess.”

“I see. These descriptions tell me nothing, but maybe they will come in handy later. So, have you found anything out regarding the deal Sender has made with this group, these Eyes of Night?”

Malcolm swallowed. “No, nothing.” He was quiet for a moment, maybe trying to keep his questionable poker-face before Stalker’s scrutinising gaze. “I’m working on it, though!”, he added, when the silence obviously became too much for him.

“That is all very well, Malcolm. Well, if that was all you had to report right now, I guess you can get back to work. I’m sending you to the factory. Get inside and find out as much as possible about the newcomers.” Stalker’s voice was calm and even, but had a certain determined authority to it that left room for no misunderstandings. This was an order.

“Of course, Mr. Stalker. Or, do you mean now? As in… right away?”

Silence.

Malcolm quickly rose from his chair. “At once, Mr. Stalker, at once! But… Well, if you would please come with me, I’m sure I can arrange for somewhere more comfortable for you to spend your time while you’re waiting…”

“No, Malcolm, we’ll be just fine here. This place is good enough for a war council, don’t you think? We will stay here, so hurry now and get me some information.”

This sent Malcolm backing towards the door, clearly at a loss as to what to do.

Andrei suddenly realised what was happening. Malcolm was being sent away. To the factory, where a full scale war was going on between Sender’s men and Stalker’s own. And on top of that, inside the factory building were the three men he had heard so many terrible things about. And of course Ashton Sender, who was not to underestimate, either. It would be suicide to go in there. And as if that wasn’t enough, Malcolm would be forced to leave Andrei and Anzhela here, hiding as best as they could from William Stalker and his men who were apparently not going anywhere. Anzhela was staring at him nervously, but he put a calming hand on her shoulder as Malcolm backed out the door and closed it behind him, all the while murmuring his “Yes, Mr. Stalker, of course, Mr. Stalker.”

Silence reigned for a couple of heartbeats, during which Andrei did his best not to breath. Then he flinched as his father’s voice, suddenly having taken on a subtle edge of anger, broke the silence.

“Now, Mr. Stalker, would this be a good time to continue our conversation?”

William Stalker laughed quietly; the kind of laughter Andrei associated with businessmen suddenly turning from salesmen to fierce predators. “Mr. Winters. James, can I call you that?” He continued without waiting for Andrei’s father’s approval. “It would seem we have run into something of a misunderstanding.”

“You don’t say”, James Winters replied sarcastically.

“Well, yes I do, as a matter of fact. You say you contacted me with this information on Ashton Sender’s whereabouts with the sole intention of asking for my help in reclaiming your son, Andrei. And this is probably true. What makes me wonder, though, is your refusal to accept that I had my own agenda all along. I mean, with your heritage you should be well aware of my kind’s… strife.”

“That is of no importance, Mr. Stalker. We still had an agreement. I would give you information about this Sender character, and you would help me find Andrei. And now suddenly you’re telling me you have no intention of helping me at all?” Andrei could hear the all too familiar tone of irritation rising in his father’s voice.

“Ah, please, do not tell me you did not see this coming. That would only force me to conclude you are even more naïve and ignorant than your father let shine last he mentioned you. Which was a very long time ago, by the way.”

James didn’t reply to this, but rather seemed to have taken it as a slap in the face. Andrei recalled Terriam’s regretful story about his disappointment when James showed no potential for magic whatsoever, and realised how below the belt that last comment had actually been.

“So, James. Please understand that your problems are way beneath me and my attention. I know I have been acting nice and civilised towards you this far, but if you become a problem you must know I will not hesitate to take measures. You are nothing more than a Sleeper, after all. But if we happen to find your son, no one will be happier than me. I would very much like to have a talk with Andrei, after all.”

Suddenly one of the chairs fell over, and Andrei realised his father had gotten up. Stalker remained seated. “Now, Mr. Winters…”

“I will find my son, Mr. Stalker, with or without your assistance. I don’t give a damn about this Ashton Sender or any other of your problems. And if you will not honour our agreement, I will gladly end it here.” James started walking towards the door, anger in his stride.

Just before he opened it, William Stalker spoke up again. “I really must say, Mr. Winters, that in stubbornness and stupidity you certainly are your father’s spitting image.”

James Winters didn’t even turn around. “Fuck you, you bastard. I hope you burn in hell.” Then he disappeared out into the blizzard, slamming the door shut behind him.

Andrei hurried to send his father a text, telling him to stay within the industrial area. Malcolm had told him this was the only place in the entire town where Sender and his lackeys could not detect activity, and he didn’t want to risk his father wandering straight into a trap of any kind. He got a reply right away. ‘Andrei, where are you? Just tell me and I will come and get you!’ A lump caught in his throat. He could not tell him, could not risk involving James in any of this. ‘I can’t tell you’, he wrote. ‘But stay in the area. I’ll contact you later.’ He barely had time to send it, before he got a reply. ‘How do you know where I am? Can you see me? Andrei, please don’t do anything dangerous! Where are you?” Andrei tried to come up with a good reply, but ended up putting away his cellphone without writing anything at all.

Inside the warehouse things had been very quiet ever since James stormed out. William Stalker sat absolutely quietly, not moving at all, as if waiting for something or conducting an invisible conversation inside his own head. The three guards, however, could be seen growing more and more restless by the minute. Boots scraped against the concrete floor, necks were scratched and throats were cleared. Anzhela poked Andrei in the side. ‘How long are we supposed to sit here?’, she mouthed, staring at him irritably. Andrei shrugged, and motioned for her to keep down as he continued to spy on the other men in the room.

He blinked, and when he opened his eyes after a split second, he was somewhere else. He had seen the corridor before, recognised its red carpet and the glowing sphere lamps on the walls. He also recognised the heavy oaken door at the end of the corridor, now slightly ajar which was highly unusual. Another thing that was unusual was his point of view; he saw everything from a distinctly lower angle than what he was used to. It was as if he were crawling on the floor…

And then he started to slither forward, towards the door at the end of the corridor. Slither like a snake. He reached the door and reflexively felt that he wouldn’t fit through without widening the chink, but barely had he completed this thought before he was through.

Inside the room an orangeish illumination reigned. Andrei was used to a more yellow hue of light in this place, but everything seemed slightly off-colour in his current state of being. More red. The first thing he laid eyes upon was a pair of boots, not completely unlike the boots worn by Mr. Stalker’s guards, standing right by the wall on his left. He looked up, and saw that the boots were attached to a pair of legs dressed in black, continuing in a torso covered by a Kevlar vest and ending in a head hidden behind a helmet with visor closed. The man (or woman – Andrei could not be completely sure) was armed, holding a rifle Andrei recognised from movies as an automatic.

Further into the room were two more pairs of feet, and as he looked up he saw two more men standing with their backs to him. One of them was dressed in a black trench coat, and a black hat crowned a head of short, blonde hair. In front of him, slightly to his right, stood the other man. He wore a long, purple coat – velvet, Andrei thought – and his hair was long and auburn. Under his right arm was a huge, leather bound book. From both of the men emanated some kind of dark energy, awakening thoughts in Andrei’s head that he didn’t want to think.

Behind the round table Ashton Sender was sitting, hands clasped in front of him, an unsure expression on his face. “Yes, I have found what you are looking for. At least, that’s what I suspect. A creature, a boy, who has abilities rivalling my own but still without being one of us. I suspect he does not even know the extent of his own powers.”

The man dressed in purple nodded calmly. “And how do you know?”

Sender laughed nervously. “The Hallow me and my former colleagues prepared in this town some thirty years ago… He sealed it. Sealed it to another boy, barely Awakened, and now I cannot use it. I know the boy magician didn’t do it himself, because the spell left a resonance I did not recognise. Until I met the creature in question, that is. He came here, threatening me. And then I knew at once who had sealed the Source. And it was not done by any kind of magic I’m familiar with.”

“Very well”, said the man in purple, speaking English with only the slightest hint of German accent. “This could certainly be what we are looking for, Mr. Sender. I take it you have already done us the service of securing this creature?” He looked around, as if expecting the person in question – and Andrei was with growing dread getting more and more certain the ‘creature’ they were talking about was nobody else than Rodja – to materialise out of thin air.

Sender shifted nervously. “I know where he is”, he said, bracing himself as if expecting a blow.

The tall man straightened himself, suddenly seeming even taller than before. “Are you telling me that you dared wasting our time – time I can assure you we, and definitely I, could have spent in much more useful ways – without even having secured the item with which you are bargaining? Do you even know who you are dealing with?”

Sender lowered his gaze. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Obeah…”

“No you are not, Mr. Sender. But we could easily and with pleasure make you so. Gentlemen?” He turned and looked to the two other men, both at ample attention. Ashton Sender tensed, obviously expecting to be punished for his infraction. But he looked up in surprise as nothing the likes of this happened. “Let us leave, we have nothing to gain here”, continued instead the man in purple, and started to turn away from Sender. The other two turned as well, and for the first time Andrei could see the face of the man in the trench coat. Fair features framing two piercing, clear blue eyes. It was as if something forced itself upon him at laying his eyes on this man, implanting the word Aryan in his thoughts – even though Andrei had never followed such lines of thought before in his life.

“No, please don’t go!”, intervened Sender, almost throwing himself across the table, reaching for the man he had called Obeah. “I know exactly where to find him! And his friend as well, the boy with the Shadow inside of him!”

Obeah paused and turned back towards Sender. Andrei could see a faint, malevolent smile on his face as he turned, and wondered suddenly if the man had ever intended to leave at all, or if it had all been a rhetorical trick to make Sender more nervous than he already was.

“You know exactly where he is, you say?” His voice was sly as that of a wolf, had wolves had voices to speak with.

“Yes, Mr. Obeah. Or, I mean, I think I know. I’m almost certain. There’s an area in town that has had me curious for a long time… That must be the place they are hiding. Please let me send my men there to help you find the creature!” Eager like a child suddenly, this otherwise so extremely confident man, Andrei thought.

“Help us?” Obeah laughed quietly. “No, you are going to help yourself, you foolish man. You will go yourself, as a display of good will towards our cause. And then you will come back here with the catch, and we will be gone. Otherwise, you will be.”

Sender just stared at the man. “But… I thought that with your resources, you’d be able to secure the creature in no time…?”

Obeah nodded. “And surely we would be. If we lowered ourselves to that. But now you have promised us something that you apparently do not possess, and therefore it is your responsibility to make sure we get what is our due. And when – and only when – you have done that, we will consider being more reliable than you and actually honour our part of the bargain, helping you against your enemies. But”, he added, raising a warning finger, “should you return empty handed, we will take pleasure in killing you painfully. Verstanden?”

Sender nodded silently, clearly defeated.

“Good. Now go!”

Sender rose to his feet and started walking towards the door. Andrei thought he had never seen the man so overcome, despite Sender’s best efforts to walk with dignity, obviously straining not to take too quick steps out of the room.

When he was gone, the man called Obeah walked over to the window – the same window where Sender had stood himself so many times, gazing out across his kingdom and probably keeping a lookout for Andrei as well. “An idiot, this Sender”; he said, without looking at either of his companions. Andrei realised that he was not speaking English anymore, but in some inexplicable way he could still understand what was being said. “An idiot, but hopefully a useful such. Erich?”

The man in the black trench coat, standing at attention already, straightened even further. “Yes, Mr. Obeah”, he answered in an almost military fashion.

“I do not trust that fool to find what we so desperately crave. I want you, with your refined sense of finding, to go as well. Find me that Celestial – alive, of course – and his friend as well if you can. I understand it he is a feudatory of our Master, just as yourself. I have no doubt we will be able to turn him to our cause, once his mortal misconceptions have been suspended.”

“Yes, Mr. Obeah”, the man called Erich said, and turned on the spot and started walking towards the door. No, not walking; almost marching. Andrei just had time to notice a small medal shaped like a black, overturned cross hanging from a purple ribbon on his chest, before he, as well, disappeared down the corridor.

“Very well, Heinz”, Obeah said, obviously addressing the Kevlar man but still staring out the window at the snow and darkness beyond. “Now all we can do is wait. Perhaps this Sender will not find our quarry, but Erich Von Bremmer certainly will. And once we have the creature in our possession, the ritual can commence.” The man by the wall said nothing, apparently recognising his superior’s statement as strictly rhetorical monologue.

“I certainly hope we can secure the other one as well, but he is of course far from as essential as his friend.” He was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Maybe I’ll actually help this Sender character, clearing some space for him so to speak. It never hurts to make allies, or display one’s power, every now and then. Anyway, Heinz”, he said, turning to look at his subordinate for the first time, “you would do well to make peace with all your doubts. Our Master will soon be born.”

Andrei opened his eyes, and was at once back inside the warehouse. Anzhela was holding his shoulders and was staring at him, obviously frightened.

“Andrei, what happened?”, she whispered.

He didn’t know what to answer. Something had happened, alright. It hadn’t been a dream, he was sure of it. And somewhere inside his head a raspy voice was laughing hissingly. ‘You sssssaw what you ssssaw, obviousssssly’, echoed the words inside his scull. Nobody else seemed to have noticed anything.

“They’re coming”, he hissed. “Sender and someone called Heinz.” Or was it some other name?

Anzhela’s eyes grew wide. “How do you know that? Never mind, we have to get out of here!”

Andrei looked across the hood of the yellow car, at the four men sitting in the centre of the room. “Yeah, but how?”, he replied absent-mindedly.

“We’ll take the car”, Anzhela said. “We sneak into the car and hit the gas!”

She seemed really determined, but Andrei shook his head. “It will never work, they will see us and then they’ll know where we are.” He was silent for a moment, thinking. He really didn’t want to attract attention from this Stalker, but if this was impossible to avoid – and it certainly seemed that way right now if they wanted to get out of here before Sender and the other man arrived – at least he didn’t want to make another enemy by running away. He took a deep breath and rose to his feet, totally exposing himself to all in the room.

“What the hell are you doing”, Anzhela whispered.

But it was already too late to return into hiding; he had been spotted. One of the guards hastily rose to his feet, overturning his chair with the sudden movement. The two men next to him stared at him in confusion for a second, and then realised what had happened. They got up as well, each drawing a weapon and aiming it at Andrei.

William Stalker didn’t move a muscle, and his voice sounded hardly surprised at all when he said: “I see. So we meet at last, Andrei Winters.” And he stood up, turned around and looked straight at Andrei. A smile spread across his face, as he extended his right hand in a businesslike manner.

“Pleased to meet you, Andrei. My name is William Stalker. I’m a friend of your father’s.”

Andrei only looked at the extended hand, without taking it. After a couple of seconds, William Stalker casually withdrew it without comment.

“I’m really glad you turned up finally. Your father will be so relieved, and I myself have some very interesting things to discuss with you. Please sit down.” He motioned towards one of the empty chairs, still smiling.

“Last I checked, you and my dad were not on such good terms, Mr. Stalker. I’d rather stand.”

Now the smile died on Stalker’s face. “Sit”, he said. And against his will Andrei found himself thinking that this was a really good idea. He approached a chair and sat down.

William Stalker took a seat on the chair across from him, and was just about to speak when a sudden noise from the direction of the car caught his attention. Anzhela had stood up as well, and was looking uncertainly at Andrei.

“Ah, I see you brought a demoiselle, Andrei. Please take a seat, milady, and join us!” He motioned at the chair next to Andrei.

Anzhela shook her head and hurried across the floor, positioning herself behind Andrei’s chair. He could feel her hands on the backrest. “I’ll stand”, was the only thing she said.

Stalker nodded, seemingly indifferent to this and to her as a whole. “Very well then. Where were we? Yes, we had just started discussing our mutual problem: Ashton Sender, right?”

Andrei shrugged. “I think you have bigger problems to worry about than him.”

Stalker leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and eyeing him in a curious fashion. “Is that so? Then please tell me about my ‘bigger problems’, if you would be so kind.”

Andrei sighed and made a sarcastic face. “No, nothing. It’s just that the people Sender has contacted are here, and that both Sender and one of the newcomers have seen through this area’s protection and are on their way here right as we speak.”

Stalker leaned back. “Ah, interesting. And how do you know this?”

And what should he tell him? He couldn’t very well tell him about the vision, could he? Both Terriam and Malcolm had warned him repeatedly about not discussing the shadow with this man.

“Malcolm told me”, he said at last – maybe speaking a bit too quickly. “He managed to get inside Sender’s building, and he texted me.

Stalker did not seem at all pleased at hearing this. “Malcolm? So you’re telling me Malcolm Hanotrivic, the same Malcolm who is working for me, is sending you – and not me – information that I contracted him to gather?”

“Yeah, I guess…” Andrei shrugged and tried his best to look casual.

After collecting himself for a couple of moments, Stalker took a deep breath and smiled. “Okay”, he said. “And has Malcolm told you anything else I should be aware of? Any names, for example?”

“Er… Yeah. One guy was called Obeah, and another one was named Heinz.”

At this, Stalker just stared at him. “Obeah, are you sure?” He didn’t wait for Andrei’s confirmation. “This is quite bad. The name Heinz tells me nothing, but if Malcolm is right and one of them is calling himself Obeah…” He went silent for a moment, and then resumed his soapy smile. “But let’s leave those troublesome matters for later. Now let us discuss our potential cooperation.”

“So you mean you’ll do nothing about the fact that there are people coming for us this very second?” Andrei was actually quite shocked by Stalker’s apparent lack of worry. What was the man playing at?

“I will certainly do something. But there’s no point in rushing outside and getting myself killed, is there now. Instead, I want you to join my cause.”

Andrei gave him a sceptic look. “Which is…?”

“Well, the same as yours, obviously. I want Ashton Sender dead, for reasons I think I need not state. And you want vengeance, yes? I trust he has treated you and your kith and kin somewhat… inconsiderately, has he not? So by giving him what he deserves you are also helping me, indirectly. And I will of course aid you in this endeavour in any way I can.”

“And how would we get rid of all the Germans running around, if they are so bad as everyone says they are?”

Stalker’s smile grew even bigger. “Not by killing them, that’s for sure. I feel no urge to make myself such powerful enemies. No, I am sure that the only reason they are running Sender’s errands is that he is in possession of something they want – something important. And I suspect that you, Andrei, know what it is. Because you have been living quite close to him for a while, haven’t you?”

Andrei felt himself tensing. “And what would you do if you found out?” This man could not, under any circumstances, know about Rodja.

“Take it from him, obviously. If Sender were no longer in possession of the prize they’re after, they would no longer hep him. And perhaps I could make myself some useful allies by handing it over to them myself…” He looked to the ceiling for a moment, dreamily, before again fixing Andrei with his gaze. “So, do we have a deal?”

Andrei hastily rose to his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about”, he said quickly. “I’ll be right back, I have to make a phone call.”

William Stalker rose as well, smiling at him. “Of course, Andrei. Make your phone call, and make up your mind. When you get back inside I expect an answer from you. Okay?”

Andrei just nodded, and then turned and ran towards the door. “Come, Anzhela”, he called over his shoulder. But she was already following him. William Stalker was watching them from the same spot, a smile on his face that told Andrei he expected no complications to his schemes.

Once outside the blizzard hit them with full force, slamming the door closed with its pure magnitude. “We have to get you into hiding”, Andrei shouted to outvoice the storm. “Come!”

He led her towards the warehouse where Malcolm had kept his base when Andrei had first met him, and dragged the door open just wide enough for them to pass through. Anzhela squeezed through and Andrei followed. Inside the warehouse everything was dark except for the spot where a small desktop lamp on top of a crate broke the darkness. The warmth emanating from its bulb turned the cold air around it into smoke that danced in the gust as they closed the door behind them.

“There, hide behind those crates!” He motioned towards the boxes closest to the wall. Anzhela looked at him reluctantly, but still did as he said and crawled into shelter behind a row of crates.

Andrei looked down at her where she sat huddling against the wall. “Okay, stay there. I’ll go and try to stop Sender before he finds Rodja.”

She looked at him, and he thought he could see fear and something else in her eyes. “But why must I hide? I can defend myself…”

“I’m sure you can. But against these people only one of their own stands a chance. Try to keep hidden, I’ll come back for you!”

She drew a small knife and held it up in front of her. “Will this help?”

Andrei sighed. “Maybe. I don’t know. Hopefully we’ll never find out. I have to go now!”, he said and hurried away, out into the blizzard once more.

Towards the gates of the industrial area he ran, careful not to slip on the ice beneath the snow. He had to know if these people were already here, and if they weren’t, he would have to stop them when they arrived. He got out in the open as the row of warehouses ended some thirty yards from the fence and the gates. The full moon made everything seem very bright, and the snow was glistening. And for a moment, the wind seemed to take a deep breath, holding it.

There at the gates a silhouette loomed. The silhouette of a man. And it was slowly walking towards him. Andrei froze.

“Ah, so there you are”, Ashton Sender said calmly. He seemed to have regained some of his posture since last Andrei saw him, and was apparently not aware of Andrei’s having observed his previous humiliation. “I was just wondering when you would show up. You see, this area has puzzled me for some time, and your being here now is indisputable proof of my speculations being correct. So, now, where is your friend?”

Andrei clenched his fists. “And why in hell would I tell you that? You’ve done enough already, leave him out of this!” Inside his head something was getting increasingly excited. ‘It’sssssss tssssime, atssssss lasssst it’sssssss time for vengeancccccce….!’ Andrei tried his best to suppress the alien will inside his mind. This was not the time to lose himself to this thing, not at all.

Sender continued walking towards him. “Ah, but you see, Andrei, this is not about you and me anymore. Of course you’d still be welcome to join me, but I suspect you have no such intentions. No matter, I have much more powerful allies now, and all they ask of me is that I capture your friend and bring him to them.”

“Then why should I help you? If you want to get to Rodja you’ll have to go through me.”

“You don’t have to help me, but I have more urgent matters at hand than fighting you, and was hoping that you’d be sensible enough not to throw your life away for a cause that is already lost.”

“Yeah, right, like you’d not kill me or try to imprison me anyway.”

Sender laughed. “You truly are a brat, Andrei Winters. Despite the fact that you have cost me all I had, you are not important enough for me to hold such grudges against you. In the game I’m currently playing, you are no more than a speck in the eye. I will not waste more time on you than I have to. I can assure you, though, that I will kill you if you stand in my way. I have way too much to lose by not getting these people what they want for me to be graciously merciful tonight. So will you tell me where he is or not?”

“Over my dead body”, Andrei growled.

“So be it”, said Ashton Sender. He raised his hands in an intricate gesture, and the ground beneath Andrei’s feet disappeared. He fell to his knees, one leg caught all the way up to the hip in the bottomless hole that had just appeared where he had been standing. He could feel a throbbing pain spreading through his leg, but had no time to pull it up before he saw Sender slowly and confidently walking towards him with a scornful smile on his face.

Sender raised his hands again, doubtlessly closing in for the kill. Inside his head the sly voice spoke up again. ‘Letssss me fixssss him…. He dessssservess it.’ But Andrei still wasn’t prepared to let the creature take over. He had to do something, though, and fast. The man was getting closer. Instinctively Andrei began to summon the shadows, raising his hands and drawing flaming darkness into his open palms. In an instant blue and black flames were dancing in his hands, illuminating his face and warming but not burning his skin.

Ashton Sender stopped dead in his tracks at this, suddenly cautious. Andrei took advantage of this moment of hesitation, and hurled the fire towards his opponent with full strength. Sender flinched and tried to get out of the way, but only managed to protectively raise his hands in front of his face before the comet like projectiles, melding in mid air creating a larger ball of black flame, struck him right in the chest and forced him backwards.

Still on his knees, trying his best to get his leg out of the hole in the ground, Andrei was not surprised to see the other man still standing. He had not expected this to be an easy showdown – hell, he still wasn’t sure he would make it out alive – and was beginning to doubt that his own relatively newly required abilities alone would be enough to get him through this.

Sender had slumped forwards, steadying himself with his hands on his knees even as the last flames burned out on his chest. He looked up, and Andrei was struck by the cold stare that met his. This was hatred, true hatred. Then he heard the other man murmuring something in a language he half recognised but in words he didn’t understand. A spell. He didn’t know what his adversary was up to, but he was sure it would be hurtful. ‘Ussssssse me… Without me your are chancccccelessss.’ The creature inside of him was getting increasingly insistent, and against his better judgement Andrei realised that the voice was right. He would not last long if he didn’t draw from the shadow that shared his body.

Ashton Sender was moving his hands to complete the spell, but Andrei was quicker. In an instant he had raised his own hands, and felt hatred that was and was not his own surging through his entire form as a power long embanked overflowed and infused his entire body. He could see Sender’s eyes widening as Andrei hurled pure destructive energy towards him, hitting him square in the torso.

Nothing happened for several heartbeats. Panting from the strain this outburst had placed on his body, Andrei stared at Sender who was in turn staring back at him in confusion, seemingly unhurt by the attack. Then he coughed. Black bile stained the white snow, and his shoulders sagged remarkably.

“You…”, Sender growled, and Andrei thought he could see a gleam of fever in the man’s eyes. Then he raised his right hand, pointing at Andrei, who could suddenly feel something being drawn out of his body. And before he could do anything, this something trickled up his throat and out of his open mouth. A blueish smoke could be seen floating through the air from his mouth into Sender’s eyes. The man laughed feverishly. With a sudden pang Andrei realised that something had been taken from him. He could not define exactly what it was, but he suddenly felt that some of his future, or the potential of a future, had been stolen. Was it a part of his soul? Was it some of his time? He did not know. And he did not have time to consider this, either, he realised.

Sender was still laughing quietly, the look of one sure of a victory within grasp spreading across his disease ridden face. “Yes, you can feel it, right? Loss of time is a strange sensation, isn’t it?”

“Go to hell”, Andrei breathed, and let the strange will of the plague demon engulf him once more. ‘Yessss, thisss will cccccertainly ssssshow him!’, he could hear it musing as he hurled yet another blast of decay towards this man who had caused him so much pain and suffering.

Sender had no time to back away from the force that struck him and entered his body. He was not cast back, not wounded or otherwise hurt – at first glance. But Andrei knew that the sickness that had already infected the man’s body was now spreading at a precipitated pace, devouring both vigour and flesh in a matter of seconds.

The man himself didn’t seem at first to realise what was happening to him. He just stood, swaying, for a couple of seconds, obviously struggling to keep his balance. Then the coughing commenced. Sender put his hand to his mouth and bent over, fighting without success to catch his breath between the outbursts. He fell to his knees, still coughing black liquid, panic rising in his bloodshot eyes.

Suddenly his true age seemed to have caught up to him, Andrei thought. Before him in the snow was not a powerful, evil man, but an old, sick man with not much time left. He almost felt pity for him – but then he remembered all the evil that Sender had done, and changed his mind. And barely had he thought this, before his foe looked up. Blackness trickled down his chin and hatred burned in his eyes as he pointed at Andrei and screamed an arcane phrase in a hoarse voice. Andrei felt himself being struck in the chest by an unseen force and was thrown backwards. The icy ground struck him full force as he fell, and he momentarily lost his breath.

And as he lay there, staring up at the stormy sky, he could feel something spreading across his chest. Looking down he saw that his jacket had been torn where the blast had struck him, which didn’t surprise him following such a powerful blow. But then he saw how his own skin was beginning to darken, the stain increasing as the curse slowly crept across his chest. Rotting…

He didn’t have much left to give, he felt. He hurt all over and it seemed very tempting just to stay down, savouring the cold snow against his face and the numbing wind that was slowly putting his body to oblivious sleep. But he struggled into a sitting position nevertheless, banning the worry about the decay spreading through him to the back of his head. He would have to deal with that later.

Sender was still on his knees, but was struggling to get up. Andrei knew he had only moments to act before his opponent would be upon him again, striking the finishing blow. Desperately he began drawing shadows again, forcing them into forming once more the illogical flames of which he was master. Ashton Sender seemed to realise what was happening. Still struggling to draw breath he closed his eyes, concentrating, and suddenly Andrei felt the fire in his hands dying out, faltering as if under great pressure and leaving him empty handed.

Then Sender put up his left hand – the one he was not steadying himself with – and spread his fingers in Andrei’s direction. Then he clenched his fist, and Andrei thought he could see light getting crushed between the man’s fingers – at the same time as he felt some of his own energy going out of him.

But just as Andrei felt his own power faltering, Sender was visibly on the decline himself. This was the endgame, and it was drawing to a close. Sender put down both his hands in an attempt to steady himself. The sickness was culminating, but would it be enough to kill him? Andrei could feel his own affliction getting worse, and his right leg hurt like hell. This would be his final summoning, he could feel it. There was not much left to draw from. ‘Letsss me finissssh him, letsss me forthhhh…’

But he would not let himself be taken over. This was his fight, and he would see it through himself, without giving up his body to this vengeful creature. He closed his eyes just as Sender slumped to the ground. He sensed rather than saw the darkness congregating around him, felt it crawl up his legs and gather in his open palms. The night was still around him, the storm had quieted. It was almost as if he could hear the stars twinkling high above. He was one with the darkness, and the master of it.

He opened his eyes, and could feel dark fire burning there as well as in his hands. Sender saw the fires as well and tried desperately to crawl away, but Andrei would not let him escape this time. Perhaps he was under the influence of the plague shadow, he didn’t care. For now, this hatred was his own and he was going to vent it, once and for all. A strange kind of calm stole over him as he took a deep breath and hurled the black fire towards his enemy, engulfing his frail form in a blazing inferno of burning darkness.

He watched the fire burning out, going from a raging blaze to a pile of glowing embers, only here and there disturbed by dying, flickering flames. The snow had melted in a wide circle around the spot where the last of Ashton Sender lay very, very still. Nothing moved in the night, nothing breathed or stirred. Andrei moved closer, cautiously. The man must be dead, noone could survive something like that – still he didn’t want to take any risks.

As he drew closer he got a more detailed view of the damage done. The man’s entire body was burnt black. The skin had turned to crust, and in several places it had cracked, revealing the boiling, bubbling liquids underneath. The clothes were almost all gone as far as Andrei could determine, but then it was difficult to make out where the fabric of the burnt suit ended and the naked skin began. Only half the face was visible as the other side was turned towards the ground, but the part of it that Andrei could see was scorched beyond recognition. Apart from the burns he could also make out traces of a rash having spread along the man’s hairline – probably as a result of Andrei’s own spell.

He still didn’t dare relax. He half expected Mr. Sender to get up at any moment, throwing his burnt form at him and smothering him with his bare, crusty hands. And just as he pictured this nightmare scenario, the dead man turned his face towards him, not completely dead after all.

The part of the face that had been facing the ground was not burnt at all, just very pale and heavily scarred where it had scraped against the asphalt in the fall. Blood trickled from ugly scars, and the one remaining eye was bloodshot from strain and disease. Still the man smiled tiredly at him, causing the burnt part of the face to crack and break in several places. A weak laughter escaped the tortured lips, turning in mid-breath into faint and powerless cough attack.

“I guess you turned out to be a worthy opponent after all, boy”, Ashton Sender whispered in a raspy, barely audible voice. “You and I would have been able to accomplish great things together.”

Andrei just looked down at him for a moment. He wasn’t sure whether to feel sorry for the dying man before him, or to let him know finally all the wrongs he had done, all the suffering he had caused Andrei himself and others. Surely this man, who had never thought twice about how many lives were laid in ruin by the furthering of his ambitions, didn’t deserve pity even in a moment such as this. “I’m not like you”, he said. “And I’d have never become like you, either. And either way”, he eyed Sender’s ravaged frame, “You’re obviously done for.”

Sender smiled. “Yes, so it would seem. But please don’t worry about me. Your friend’s mother is not the only one who has ever offered up her soul for me, if I’m allowed to speak so bluntly. But I think it will be a while before we meet again, Andrei Winters. Even soul-jars have their limitations, as you will learn for yourself someday.” He paused, blinked and coughed weakly. “And now, I’d recommend you hurry if you want to save your friend.”

And with that Ashton Sender closed his one remaining eye and turned his face away from him, sucking one last, deep breath into his collapsed lungs. When he finally released it, he didn’t draw another one. Everything became quiet once more, as in front of Andrei’s disbelieving eyes the body of Ashton Sender began so crumble and fall apart. Chunks of flesh fell away, revealing insides that poured away like sand. Finally nothing but dust remained, and the soft wind that still grazed the cold winter night began carrying it away until the man called Ashton Sender was no more.

***

It was impossible to tell how much time had passed since he had left Anzhela in the warehouse, and Andrei worried that the other man that had been sent out – whatever his name had been – had already entered the area. He hurried back towards the warehouse where she lay hidden, hoping that nothing had happened while he had been occupied.

And as he ran there, beneath the full moon and the stars that were beginning to shine through the clouds, he suddenly realised that today was his eighteenth birthday. In this night of chaos and confusion he had come of age, and he could not help but reflexively thinking that the past battle had been his rite of passage. He was a man now, responsible for himself and for his own actions. And while struggling through the deep snow between the warehouses he made himself a promise: he would live up to that responsibility, and he would make everything right, not letting down any of those who trusted and depended on him.

***

The abandoned warehouse loomed before him. The moon was still out, but in between the buildings its light did not reach and he stood in pitch darkness. He grabbed the door handle and pressed it down, cautiously. He prayed that nothing had happened while he was away, but he could feel anxiety growing inside of him, out-voicing for a moment all the hurt and pain that was also tearing at his body and daring him to take another step.

The door swung open on its rusty hinges, creaking forebodingly. Just as he was about to step into the darkness beyond it, something flew at him from the shadows inside. He had time to see the gleam of metal in the faint light of the moon before the figure was upon him, stabbing the knife towards his face. At the last moment he managed to get a grip on the hand holding the blade, and squeezed tightly. The figure drew a shocked breath and froze. It was Anzhela.

“I… I’m sorry!”, she said, almost desperately. “I didn’t know t’was you! I thought… I thought it was that man that had come back!”

Andrei let go of her wrist, feeling his pulse slowly going back to normal. “What man?”, he said, but dreaded the answer.

“The blonde man… In the black coat. He was sneaking around here when you were gone. I thought he was going to notice me, but he didn’t. And well, if he had, he would have gotten a taste of this for sure!” She waved with the knife before putting it away.

Andrei wasn’t so sure about that. The description fitted exactly the man that had been sent out right after Sender, to find Rodja if the other man failed. And to find Andrei himself as well, if possible. And from what he had seen – and sensed – of the man, a simple knife wouldn’t do much good. “Where did he go?”, he said absent-mindedly, dreading the answer. He suspected he already knew.

“I don’t know”, Anzhela said. “He left through this door, but I didn’t follow.”

Andrei looked back, out of the door. And in the light cast by the moon upon the white snow he could actually detect faint footprints leading off into the darkness – further into the area.

“Come”, he said quietly. “We must see where he’s gone.”

And with that they set of, stealthily struggling through the snow, following the footprints. In some places they were hard to detect, in others almost impossible to see at all. Many times they had to stop and look around to pick up the trace, especially in the places where the storm had removed almost all the snow from the ground. But all the while Andrei could feel the sense of foreboding growing inside of him. They were unmistakeably heading towards the farthest parts of the area – towards the warehouse where he had hidden Rodja and his mother.

They reached the warehouse finally. The tracks had taken many detours and wrong turns, and the man they were following didn’t seem to have known exactly where he had been going. But in the end Andrei’s fears were brutally confirmed. The footprints led up to the gates of the warehouse – a very generic building, not distinct at all from any of the rest – and ended. One of the double doors stood slightly ajar, and light from within fell upon the snow outside at a strange angle.

He paused for a moment. What awaited him inside? What had the man done to Rodja? He really didn’t want to know – not after hearing from Terriam and Malcolm what these people were capable of – but in his heart of hearts he knew that he would never be able to live with himself if he backed away now. Rodja needed him. No matter what everyone said about his friend, what powers he supposedly possessed, Andrei knew that he himself was the one who had gotten Rodja involved in all this. He had been the one who had stubbornly wanted to visit the old hospital building again and again; he had been the one to attract the eyes of the monster who had called himself Ashton Sender. And now, finally, he was the one who had made his father worry to the degree that he had contacted Sender’s enemies, forcing the man to take measures and strike a bargain with men even more terrible than himself, offering up Rodja as bounty. He could not back away now, would not.

“Wait here”, he told Anzhela and started moving towards the warehouse.

“What are you going to do? What’s inside that building?” She started to follow him.

He turned around and looked sternly at her. “Rodja is inside, and those people want to take him away. I must go alone, I don’t want to put you in danger.”

So determined was his look that she backed off, crouching down in the shadow of the nearest warehouse. “Okay. But don’t do anything stupid!”

Without answering he turned away and resumed his way towards the half open door. He was beginning to tire of people telling him that – as if he was a stupid kid unaware of the danger that lurked all around him. Why couldn’t people see that all he did he did because he was forced to do it? Apart from the episodes where he had gotten into trouble because of a painting or another that he had made in a stupid place, he had never done anything to consciously place himself or others in harm’s way. This was definitely no exception. He wanted so desperately for people to recognise that all he did, all he risked, was to keep others – and himself of course – safe. Right now, though, he was not sure whether he would succeed.

He reached the large double doors of the magazine, one of which stood slightly ajar. He carefully looked inside, and managed to get a view of the floor lamp that had fallen over inside. There seemed to be several other items lying around as well, as if a fight had occurred inside the building. He had just begun to wonder about this, when he heard the sound of an all too familiar engine starting. His dad’s car…

He threw the door wide open, drawing his strange gun – the formable Daikwato weapon that Sender had so inconsiderately given him – and aimed it at random into the warehouse. The first thing he saw was his father’s Hummer H2, still standing in the middle of the room just as he had left it, but now belching out smoke from its tailpipe. The surrounding disorder confirmed Andrei’s previous suspicion that a fight had taken place; clothes and items were everywhere, the lamp had fallen over and chairs had been thrown about the room. Rodja could not be seen anywhere, but what did catch Andrei’s attention was the face that could be seen staring at him through the left side mirror of the large, black car.

The blonde man that had been sent out by Obeah to find Rodja gave him a split-second, surprised look and then hit the pedal. The car let hear a deafening roar and sped backwards, straight at the place where Andrei was standing in the doorway. Panic struck him for a second, but he managed to throw himself out of the way, if just barely. The large vehicle crashed through the one of the two double doors that remained closed, sending splinters flying in every direction. Andrei was back on his feet before he had time to think, but the car was already outside the warehouse.

He ran to the door just in time to see the driver turning the wheel in an attempt to turn the car around as quickly as possible; the space in between the warehouses was not wide enough for the large car just to spin around. Andrei realised he had just a moment to act before the kidnapper would escape – probably with Rodja stashed in the back seat – and acted instinctively. He raised his gun once again and aimed for one of the wheels. The shot found its mark and hit one of the car’s back wheels as it reared around. A terrible explosion sounded as the tire burst – almost louder than the shot itself.

The driver looked up at him in mid-turn, startling him with the hate in his eyes. Andrei would never afterwards be able to tell whether it had all been an illusion caused by the stressful situation, or if he indeed had seen what he then thought he saw. But for a split second the skin of the kidnapper’s face seemed to crack like a porcelain mask, revealing the burning chasm that lay beyond. Andrei froze with the realisation that something not of this world was staring back at him from behind that mask, and that it was only inches away from being let loose completely.

Without thinking he fired another shot, this time aiming for the hellspawn that was apparently driving the car with his friend in it. Everything became clear as crystal for a heartbeat, as the bullet left the muzzle and broke through the air like a projectile through water. The crack of the gun seemed to come an instant later, when the bullet crashed through the car’s side window and struck the driver right in the side of his neck.

The man’s head tilted to one side as blood started pumping from the brutal wound in his throat, and the bullet went straight through him and broke the window on the driver’s side as well. The world went silent for an instant. Andrei had time to release the air he had been holding, causing a compact, white cloud to materialise in the air before his face. Then the man straightened up, raising his head with a snapping sound.

He turned and looked straight at Andrei. The cracks in the mask were gone, but now that he had seen what hid behind that pale face, Andrei could see through the charade all too clearly. This was not a man. Not anymore. Andrei started running towards the car, suddenly realising that his gun would do no good here. But the driver just nodded viscously in his direction, as if in confirmation of retribution yet to come, and sped the vehicle into motion. When Andrei got out of the door, the large, black car was already disappearing from view amidst the warehouses. All that could be heard was the sound of the powerful engine, struggling to make up for the broken tire, fading away in the distance.

This could not be happening. This was not happening. Rodja, his best friend in all the world, taken right before his eyes and without him being able to do anything to prevent it. Steam billowed from his mouth as he fell to his knees, screaming all his frustration and anguish into the cold winter night. He could feel tears stinging beneath his eyelids, threatening to break forth any moment. Everything was lost. He had failed, utterly and completely. Failed Rodja, failed his family, failed everybody. But most of all he had failed himself.

Ashamed of the vain and useless oath he had sworn only minutes before, to protect everybody and to prove himself, he leaned forward and put his hands to the frozen ground. And for the first time that night, and for many nights past, he let all the pain in his body and mind envelop him completely. Useless. Totally useless.

Everything happening in flashes. Running steps approaching. Somebody screaming his name from a great distance. A hand on his shoulder. Anzhela’s voice. What had happened? How was he? Where was Rodja? A thought. You know nothing about me. Nothing. Stop pitying me. I have myself to blame. Don’t touch me. Stop it.

Throwing Anzhela’s worried touch and words aside he sprang to his feet and ran out into the night. Wind rushed by his face, chilling the tears that had maybe fallen from his eyes. One last chance, he thought. One last chance to put everything right again. Anzhela had already been left far behind when he came to his senses. And by then he was already standing in front of the warehouse where Malcolm kept his yellow car. And where William Stalker awaited him.

His cellphone rang. “Andrei, where are you?” He could hear that she was running – both from her heavy breathing and from the sound her shoes made when they rhythmically struck the ground.

“I’m outside Malcolm’s warehouse. I’ll get the car. Where are you?”

A moment before she replied, obviously out of breath. “I’m following the tyre tracks! Pick me up at the gates, I’m closer to there than to where you are now!”

“Okay”, he just said and hung up. Walking towards the warehouse, he really hoped that William Stalker would not still be inside. But he was.

The man was standing in just about the same spot as he had stood when Andrei left him, still smiling his smooth smile as if Andrei had actually been gone for no more than a short phone call’s time. One of the guards was still present, keeping his position at Stalker’s side.

“Andrei!” Stalker’s smile expanded until his face was nothing but a big grin. “Did you make your phone call? Have you made up your mind?”

Without a word, Andrei marched to the yellow car and threw the door open. The driver’s seat was so high up that he was forced to heave himself up, and so he did.

Stalker walked up to the car just as Andrei was beginning to ponder how to get it started without the car keys. He put one hand on the roof of the car and eyed Andrei in a relaxed, belittling manner. “And where do you think you are going?”, he said, his voice rife with viscously venomous amusement.

Andrei banged his fist against the dashboard. “Please start, please start…”, he whispered through clenched teeth, knowing full well that the only reason William Stalker was acting so calmly was because he knew that Andrei wasn’t going anywhere.

Suddenly the dashboard’s display lit up, glowing faintly yellow. The high pitched, computerised voice took him by utter surprise. “Would-you-like-a-su-gar-lump?”

He looked up, and saw how several brightly coloured lights were flashing alternately across the panel. The next thing he knew the glove compartment opened up, and a small crane emerged, delicately holding a white lump of sugar in its aluminum grabber. “Here. Take.”

Andrei accepted the lump. “Thanks. But could you please start?” He could sense Stalker watching him curiously.

“Yes-And-rei. But-first-ridd-le-me-this. What-is-it-that-is-yel-low-and-bent-and-has-a-blue-pro-pell-er?”

He was dumbstruck. This was definitely not the ultimate time for riddles, and especially not silly ones. “I dunno”, he said exasperatedly. “A banana with a blue propeller?”

To his great surprise this was followed instantly by a high strung motor sound, almost like a giant cat purring ecstatically, as the big car’s engine suddenly burst into action. “Yes-An-drei”, the yellow car replied. “That-is-the-corr-ect-an-swer.”

Smiling victoriously, Andrei turned to Stalker and reached for the door handle. Stalker kept his hand on the roof of the car and tried to get in the way of Andrei closing the door.

“Listen here”, he said, trying to establish eye contact. “I can help you out a great deal. Remember that I’m the only useful ally you have in this situation. And in any case nobody ever walks out on me.”

Hearing the poisonous note that had crept into the man’s voice, Andrei just reached out and slammed the door closed before he could lean any closer. He had just enough time to notice the shocked expression on Stalker’s face, before he put the gear in full reverse and floored the pedal. This is not a man who is used to being disobeyed, he realised. Somewhere deep inside of him a shadowy creature was furiously fighting to break forth, but his desperate worry for Rodja’s life helped keeping it in check.

He looked up from the wheel, having turned the car around so as to be able to escape the warehouse completely in his next move. Through the newly replaced wind-shield he could see Stalker folding his arms across his chest and eyeing him sternly, his gaze suddenly devoid of all its former obsequiousness.

“Kill him”, William Stalker said in a flat voice without looking at his armed minion.

The latter instantly reached behind his back and drew a large, black gun that made Andrei think of American action movies. He flinched as he suddenly realised the man was going to shoot him, and instinctively gunned the engine.

The double doors of the warehouse were only partly open, and he saw at once that his angle was too small if he wished to get out in one dash. But then he hadn’t expected assistance from the yellow car itself – or herself, as Malcolm would have said. The pedal disappeared beneath his foot of its own accord, and the wheel turned itself several degrees more to the left than what Andrei himself felt comfortable with. But the car seemed to know what it was doing, and together they managed to make such a drastic turn that they hit the doorway straight on, crashing through the wooden doors and sending splinters flying all around.

Instantly Andrei could hear two distinctly different sounds. The first sound was caused by the side view mirror striking the door frame full force and falling off with a metallic crash as they passed through. The other sound was far more menacing, and Andrei had only a split second to consider its source before several bullets from the automatic carbine sprayed through the rear window, breaking it into thousands of glittering shards that snowed onto the back seats.

By some incredible streak of luck none of the bullets seemed to have hit Andrei himself, but he was still glad that the yellow car did most of the driving as they sped away from the warehouse, cold wind bursting in through the broken window. He didn’t know if any of the men were trying to follow him, but he dared take no chances to find out.

By the gates of the industrial area he stopped to pick up Anzhela, who arrived there at a running pace at just about the same time as Andrei did. He quickly filled her in on what had happened, and as they drove out through the now-open gates she repeatedly cast nervous glances backwards as if expecting to be fired at from behind any moment.

Out on the road, turning right. The fires were still burning around the factory, and the high roof of the main building could be seen above the treetops as they drew closer. Andrei reacted at once to the fact that the highest window was dark; the room from which Sender had been watching over the town like a hawk preparing to strike had been abandoned, for good or bad. The occasional explosion could still be heard every now and then as they approached the gates, but buildings and warehouses blocking the view prevented them from seeing what was going on inside the area.

They reached the fence, but saw at once that the cars that had been placed in front of the gates to block the way were still in place. A dozen vehicles with their engines off blocked the road in both directions, and Andrei instantly recognised his father’s car that stood abandoned with open doors at the rear of the line. He pulled up behind it even as the yellow car shut down its engine, apparently aware that their trip was at an end, and jumped out – already running towards the Hummer when his feet struck the icy ground. He still harboured a tiny spark of hope that Rodja would be lying in the back seat when he reached the black car. Maybe the kidnapper had been mortally wounded by his shot after all, and had been unable to carry out his assignment. Or maybe Rodja had managed to overpower him at the last moment. But when he reached the car and looked in through the open door, all such hope died instantly.

The back seats were still flattened to make the trunk space larger, and looking in he saw a head of thin, worn hair sticking out of the blankets that lay there. Rodja’s mother had been left behind, her thin frame barely visible beneath the covers. The cold air had invaded the car since it had been abandoned, the open doors letting in both snow and cold, turning her every breath into steam. He could see the woman’s chest rising and falling in irregular, shallow breaths, and realised that although she was still alive, she wouldn’t be for much longer in this freezing temperature. And there was nothing he could do about it save close the doors and hope that he would be able to come back later to move her somewhere warmer.

Anzhela caught up with him as he took up his cellphone and dialled Malcolm’s number. If the man was still inside the factory building, perhaps he could tell Andrei something about where Rodja had been taken. Several signals sounded before anything happened. Then a click.

“Malcolm? Are you there?”, Andrei exclaimed when the line remained silent.

His blood froze when another voice than the one he had been expecting replied – and he recognised the voice from his vision. Obeah. “I am afraid Mr. Hanotrivic cannot be reached at the moment. Is this perchance Andrei Winters I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“What have you done to him?” Andrei felt his knuckles go white as he clutched the phone hard in his fist.

The man’s voice remained calm and pleasant, devoid of all the mockery and threat Andrei had grown accustomed to from dealing with Ashton Sender and William Stalker. “I can assure you that your friend Malcolm has not been hurt in any way. He has merely been subdued lest he interfere with our cause. He will not have taken any harm when he wakes up. We find it… wasteful to throw away the noble blood of the Awakened without explicit need.”

“And Rodja? He’s not one of us, what have you done with him?” He was looking to the roof of the tall building as he spoke, and could see the full moon slowly aligning itself with the spire.

“The Celestial will be put to a glorious cause, endowed an honour few granted. I would advice you not to try interfering with this. As I said, we would resent being forced to spill such pure blood as yours.”

Andrei was growing desperate. “Let him go, or I will interfere! I killed Sender, so don’t underestimate me!”

“Ah, you did, did you not? Well, I guess you have done me a service, then, saving me the trouble of keeping to my end of our agreement. This Ashton Sender was a weakling, obviously, who fell into his own trap. I will not underestimate you, Andrei Winters. I will only congratulate you on your victory and establish that once again has the rule of the fittest’s survival proven itself. Will you not come with us? It would be an honour.”

Andrei wasn’t completely sure to whom this honour would apply. “No, I won’t. I will fight you if I have to. Let Rodja go!”

Obeah laughed pleasantly. “Yes, certainly. We will let him go after his part has been played out. If everything goes according to plan, you can come and reclaim him in Trier by Christmas. Hopefully he will not be harmed at all, and he will be free to go – with the privilege of having been a part of this great event – wherever he wants. And a little trip to Europe hasn’t hurt anyone now, has it?”

“If you hurt him in any way, I’ll…” He clenched his teeth in powerless frustration. He didn’t know what he would do.

“There, now. I promise you that you will get your friend back in due time. And I’m looking forward to having a longer talk with you when opportunity presents itself. I would advice you, however, to be wary of my companion Erich Von Bremmer. Sadly enough he fails to realise that the two of you have more than a little in common, being vassals of our Master as you both are, and seems to be harbouring some kind of vendetta towards you.”

“Yeah, you tell that freak that when I see him next time he’ll be dead.”, Andrei snapped back angrily.

“I will make sure to forward your proposal. But now, regrettably, I am forced to end this intriguing conversation as we are just about to take off. It has been a pleasure talking to you, Andrei Winters. Until next time…” The line went dead.

Only an instant later Andrei could see, as silhouettes against the now completely aligned full moon, five shapes filing out of the hatch in the roof of the tall building. One of the shapes walked hurriedly up to the helicopter and opened the rear compartment in order to let two of the others in. Another climbed into the pilot’s seat, and soon Andrei could see the rotor blades spinning into motion. One of those shapes was Rodja, Andrei was sure of it. And he had only moments at best to prevent these people from taking off with him.

He could hear Anzhela gasping behind him as his body started to change. His legs grew shorter, his spine warped and morphed and his head shrank. The peculiar feeling as his arms were forced back and his face was elongated into a sharp beak almost made him scream out, but he was getting used to this transformation. And as the magic worked its influence on his body, so did his mind change as well. It was no longer important what Anzhela felt, or what happened to Rodja’s mother. All that mattered was his prey, and his prey was on the roof. He spread his wings, and with a forceful flap he was airborne, speeding like a dart towards his mark.

As he flew upwards through the freezing night air he could not help noticing that everything was silent and still around the factory building. Where recently there had been lethal fighting there was now only darkness. He didn’t have much time to reflect upon this before he neared the summit of the tower, but one thought crossed his mind: had the defenders given up when they realised that Sender was dead? In any case, the area was now covered in darkness, broken only by the occasional fire that was still burning here and there.

The pinnacle spread out before him suddenly as he passed the edge of the tall building at high speed. A thin sheet of ice covered the rooftop, making it shimmer in the moonlight as he dashed for the rear section of the helicopter. He paid no heed to whether or not there were other people on the roof – right now all he could think of was getting to Rodja as quickly as possible, irrespective of any danger he might be putting himself in.

The black Daikwato gun was in his hand the instant his body changed back to human in mid-air and his feet touched the ground. The man he recognised as Obeah eyed him calmly though the back window as Andrei raised the weapon and pointed it at him point blank through the security glass. He had time to think that maybe the man had already known that he was going to show up, before he pulled the trigger. With a crash that echoed out over the silent town the bullet broke through the glass, sending spindly cracks in every direction of the hole. Andrei saw Obeah flinching in sudden pain, and then he could hear gunfire from inside the vehicle even as the helicopter started to lift from the ground.

But before he had time to think or do anything, a sharp blow to the back of his head sent an explosion of white pain burning through his skull. Stars danced before his eyes as he staggered with the impact. Turning around groggily he discovered Lev standing behind him, a lead pipe in his hand and a stern look on his face.

“Lev, what the fuck are you doing?”, Andrei exclaimed, putting a hand to where the blow had struck and grimacing in pain. He backed away a few steps from his former friend. On his left he could hear the helicopter gaining even more height.

The boy with the blonde hair just stared at him, a hind of victory in his eyes. “You were always the better one, weren’t you? In school, with the chicks… And now with the Master. Just when I thought I had found something that was mine, where I could shine, you had to show up and out-shine me.” He smiled spitefully. “Well, I’m through with you now. Let’s finish this once and for all!”

Andrei shook his head in disbelief. “What’s the mater with you? Can’t you see that Sender’s only been using you? That’s Rodja they have in that helicopter for fuck’s sake!” He pointed desperately towards the helicopter that was now several yards off the ground, its downwind so strong as to nearly throwing them both off their feet.

“Yeah, I know. I figured you’d come here to try to save him, that’s why I came. To find you. I want to finish this now, like we agreed to do, remember? You and me, Andrei. Let’s settle once and for all who is the stronger, the smarter, the better. Your rich dad won’t help you here, ya’know.”

“What’s your fucking problem, man?” Andrei was growing desperate. His injuries suddenly made themselves felt, reminding him of the inevitable: he was in no shape to fight, and if he tried he would in all likelihood get himself killed. “You never had a hard time! You’re popular with the girls, you grew up with both of your parents in a normal home. And you never had to be Sender’s prisoner, either. So what are you whining about, you damn moron?”

Lev’s scornful smile widened, and Andrei suddenly noticed the feverish glow in his eyes. With a pang he realised there was nothing of his old friend in there. Some kind of madness had gnawed away at him until only jealousy and vengeful insanity remained, leaving only hate where once there was life and reason. And Andrei also knew that Sender was the one responsible for this perversion, just as he had ruined everything else Andrei had ever held dear.

“You don’t know anything about me, Andrei. And don’t try to patronise me, I know what you’re made of, you smug bastard. Always thinking you are better than everyone else. But this is the end of that, you know. Now it’s me or you.” A knife gleamed in his hand.

Without warning Lev threw himself at Andrei, who could do nothing but to back away in surprise. Overhead the deafening din from the helicopter decreased in intensity as the vehicle gained even more altitude. Mentally going through his options as he fell back, Andrei realised that his only chance of survival was flight. Lev was obviously far beyond redemption, and would probably stop at nothing to be rid of the object of his odium. Drawing a deep breath and hoping for the best, he once again forced his body into raven form, throwing himself towards the edge of the roof. But just as he felt his wings beating through the cold air, catching the upwinds from below, he also felt a searing pain flashing through his whole body. With a triumphant cry Lev pulled back the knife and laughed. And this laughter, coupled with the final audible noises from the helicopter that could be viewed only as a tiny silhouette against the full moon, was the last thing Andrei heard as he fell towards the ground far below, dying, dying, dead.

***

A sound, like a drop of water breaking the surface of a still, untouched lake. The sound reverberating through an endless space, reaching his ears in an instant reminder of living senses. Or was the lake inside his own mind? Opening his eyes, if they had not been open all along, he could see the rings spreading across the black water, slowly like ripples on eternity. How long had they been working their way from the source of the disturbance? Was it a second ago that he had heard the sound that again made him aware of his surroundings, or a decade? Only the growing rings, golden and blue, made it at all possible to discern what was water and what was nocturnal air. They disappeared out into the inky distance, their faint glow fading gradually until they could not be seen anymore.

But the last one of the rings remained, not growing like the others but rising out of the water, its golden surface gleaming from a sourceless illumination. It was right in front of him, but he never saw it approaching. On its inside was an inscription, and he suddenly realised he had seen it somewhere before – in another life, maybe. “For my beloved Efim”, it said.

A pale hand reached out of the darkness, its fingers extended towards him. Slender fingers with beautiful nails, one of them passing through the the golden ring as an arm clad in white followed fromout the gloom. He was not afraid, he had felt this presence before. The woman stood before him finally, her features like carved marble, her eyes full of sadness. Clad in the same uniform she had worn in the vision where he had first seen her, she soared above the water’s surface in mid-darkness. He thought that she was beautiful even now that he knew she was dead.

“Have you come to join me at last, my dear Efim?” He could hear a faint hint of joy and anticipation in her voice, but clouded as if she dared not let herself hope.

He shook his head, if he had one, suddenly confused and afraid. Join her where? Wasn’t he supposed to be doing something? Every thought echoed through this endless space like the wind between dreams.

She eyed him in silence for an eternity. Then she nodded solemnly, her eyes suddenly clear with heavy insight. “You are not Efim after all, are you?” She clasped her hands over her chest in a defeated gesture.

He shook his head again, slowly. “No, I’m not… I’m sorry.”

She sighed. “I should have seen it, but I didn’t want to realise it. When you came to the hospital I… I wanted you so much to be him. I wanted you to join me at last. Or rather, I wanted him to join me. My Efim…” She paused, but he didn’t know what to say to her. I all seemed too sad.

“You don’t have to say anything, Andrei Miljovic Winters. That is your name, is it not? Do you remember? All I wish of you is that you not forget me, and that you speak of me once in a while.”

Something stirred at the back of his mind. A memory, awakened from a long slumber by the mention of his name. For it was his name, he knew that now. He was Andrei, and he was dead.

“I’d love to speak of you, I really would. But I’m afraid it’s too late for that now… It’s too late for everything.” He was supposed to have saved a friend, but he had failed. He should have tried harder, not been so weak. But these thoughts were as distant for him now as voices from across a vast sea.

She fixed his gaze. Her blue eyes were beautiful. “But it is never too late, Andrei. Not for you, at least. Let me atone for the suffering and confusion I in my deluded state may have caused you by performing the task I was assigned in life one last time. Will you let me send you back?”

“Send me back? Can you really do that? But… what about you?”

He noticed the hint of a smile on her face. “My time has come. In fact, my time came a very long time ago. I just didn’t realise it at the time. I thought that I had to wait for someone dear to me, one whose life ended the same night as mine did. But he never came. And I see now, finally, that he will never join me. That I will have to leave this world by myself.” She saw his expression and raised a hand in a calming gesture. “But it is alright. I don’t know where his soul has gone. Maybe I will find him again someday. But even if I don’t, my time here is at an end. I will leave this place behind. But your time, Andrei, is not over yet. I believe that you have things yet to accomplish.”

Her name came to him suddenly. “Gabrielle! Gabrielle Hesker… I won’t forget you. I will tell your story…”

She smiled, gently caressing his cheek with the back of her pale hand. He could feel the cold metal of the golden ring against his skin, and remembered suddenly that he had skin. He closed his eyes, already feeling the cold spreading through his body as if he lay in cold water. Or in snow…

***

He drew a desperate breath, feeling his heart beating forcefully in his chest to pump life into his cold body. He lay on the ground, a thin layer of snow already covering his chest and face. Opening his eyes for what seemed like the first time in aeons, he could feel melting snowflakes being pushed upwards by his eyelashes and piling on his brows.

He coughed, his lungs not used to breathing the cold air – or maybe not used to breathing air at all – and struggled into a sitting position. Then he suddenly remembered what had happened to him, recalled Lev’s frantic smile as he had jumped at him with a knife in his hand. A sudden flash of remembered pain went through his right side where the knife had dug in, and he hastily put his hands to the wound. He was shocked, however, to discover that there was no scar. And as he inspected his whole body in disbelief, the shock was prolonged by the discovery that all his injuries were gone. Even the darkened blotch where Sender’s magic had hit him was nowhere to be seen. He still had holes in his jacket where he had been hit by the assassins’ bullets, but his skin was intact. Only a crumbling layer of dried blood let on that he had ever been wounded at all.

He started to remove the improvised bandages, all the while marvelling at the absence of damage, but froze when he heard someone approaching from behind at a running pace. Panicking, he started to turn, but was hindered when the unknown person wrapped its arms tightly around him from behind. It was not until he heard the quiet sobbing that he realised it was Anzhela.

“Andrei… Oh my god, I thought you were dead! I saw you fall… I…” She buried her face in his hair.

He was still confused himself about what had happened. He seemed to recall a very dark place, but he hadn’t been alone… The memories of the experience, what had happened between falling and waking up in the snow, were fading rapidly like remnants of a dream. But he could still see her face in front of him when he closed his eyes. Gabrielle… I will tell your story.

“I through so too… Or, maybe I was…”

He sat motionless, still absent-mindedly pondering his situation, even as Anzhela started examining him for injuries. “Where does it hurt?”, she said, frantically feeling his arms and running her hand through his hair. “Anything broken? Do you feel dizzy?”

Andrei just shook his head, slowly. “No… I don’t think I’m hurt at all. She helped me. Gabrielle Hesker. She helped me.”

Anzhela continued searching him, pulling up his sleeves to examine his arms. Finding only coagulated blood, she looked at him in confusion. “But I saw you fall from the roof! It’s like… forty yards at least! How can you not be hurt?” He could see her struggling to hold back tears. “I thought you had died!”

He stroked her back as she threw her arms around him once again, clearly even more shocked than he was himself. “I’m okay. It’s okay. It was Lev, that bastard. He stabbed me.”

She tensed and stopped sobbing. “Lev? But isn’t he your friend?”

Still stroking her back, he looked off into the darkness, in his mind again and again reliving the scene on the roof where he had stared into a madman’s eyes and realised that he had lost his friend forever. “Yeah, I thought so.” His own voice sounded so distant. “But Sender… He drove him to it. And he let himself be driven. Maybe he always hated me, after all. Maybe it was always just a matter of time…”

“But isn’t this lovely, two little chicks nestling in the snow?” He had made no sound approaching, but looking up over Anzhela’s shoulder Andrei was shocked to see William Stalker standing by the gates in the fence, calmly staring at them with his hands in his coat pockets.

Andrei warily rose to his feet, never taking his eyes off Stalker. Inside his head a voice, newly awakened it seemed, echoed in a poisonous hiss. ‘Death… Death and desssstruction… One down, four to go.’ He closed his eyes and with a heavy effort managed to push the now-not-so-alien will back. Anzhela turned her head as he stood up, hastily rising as well when she saw who it was. Andrei moved his hand towards his gun, but she instantly positioned herself in front of him, drawing her knife and pointing it at Stalker.

“I swear to God, you touch him and I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you creep!”

But William Stalker just raised a hand in a calming gesture. “There, now. No need to get upset. Your chevalier here has a void creature inside of him – one that it was I who released, originally – and I’m doing both him and the world a service by sending them both back into the abyss where they belong.”

“Not if I gank you first, motherfucker! Don’t act so high and mighty when I’m the one with the knife here!” Andrei could hear her voice trembling, but still admired her courage going up against a man so implicitly powerful when she must know she would stand no chance against him.

“Ah, you’ve found yourself a little Sleepwalker, Andrei Winters? How delightsome isn’t that? Or, at least, it would have been if you had had more time to enjoy her. As it is now, I’m cleaning up my track by banishing you and your plague spirit to oblivion. And don’t even think of resisting me now. Not only could I easily handle the two of you by myself – I am also not alone.” He made an all-encompassing gesture towards the darkness behind them.

Anzhela turned her head nervously from side to side, and Andrei himself suddenly felt as if he was being watched. From the darkness on either side of them, between warehouses and factory buildings, he imagined he saw shapes standing on guard, menacingly eyeing them. A shiver ran down his spine when he realised they must be the invaders Stalker had hired to drive Sender out of his lair, and that if they were only half as many as they had been when Andrei had seen them earlier, it was still bad. He could hear something growling next to him, and looking down he saw Nikko standing there, ears back and staring at Stalker.

“And no”, Stalker added in a by-the-way fashion, “Your borrowed familiar will not help you here. Not all of my men can use magic, but the odds are still against you since you are only one beginner magician, one girl with a knife and a demon dog. If you come peacefully, Andrei, I will refrain from harming your little friends.” He took a step towards them, one hand outstretched in a hortatory gesture.

Andrei contemplated their chances, and was just coming to the frightening conclusion that the only way to guarantee that Anzhela and Nikko got out if this alive was to sacrifice himself, when a voice rose out of the darkness on his far right.

“Enough of this!” Terriam’s voice was stern and commanding in a way Andrei had never heard it, as he stepped out of the shadows between two buildings. Beside him walked a tall figure completely dressed in white, and behind the two of them loomed three dark shapes that never came into the light. One of them towered above the others in a way that made Andrei wonder if it was human at all, and another walked with such an arrogant stride as to seem intentionally provocative. The thing inside Andrei’s mind stirred more violently now, but again he managed to keep it back.

William Stalker turned his head in the direction of the voice, and Andrei could see some of the confidence going out of his stance when he discovered the newcomers. “Winter. I was just wondering when I’d run into you… And Rester, I see you have crawled out of your lair finally. What owes me the honour?” But Andrei could tell from Stalker’s face that he didn’t feel honoured at all.

“You’re messing with my grandson, that’s what.” The group had stopped, and they all now stood staring at each other. “So get your scrawny ass out of here before I kick it.”

Stalker eyed Terriam irritably. “Not even you can possibly be so stupid as to not see the importance in disposing of this plague shadow that we have unleashed. Your grandson is a danger both to himself and to all those around him. It would be irresponsible to let him roam free.”

“Since when do you care about responsibility, Stalker?” Terriam’s gaze was intense, and Andrei got the feeling this was a confrontation that had been pending for a long time.

Anzhela had never met Terriam before, and seemed unsure whether this was a new enemy or not. Andrei put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and then spoke up. “Don’t you speak about responsibility, any of you!”, he called. The other men turned and looked at him, obviously surprised by his outburst. The man called Rester, however, just lowered his gaze as if in shame.

Andrei threw them all an furious look. “I know what you have done, you and your group. I’ve seen it. Do you know how many people you have hurt, killed? I, for one, never asked for any of this, but I was thrown from the roof of this building, not five minutes ago. I would be dead now if it wasn’t for a woman named Gabrielle, who saved me.”

Terriam looked at Anzhela. “This girl?”

She just stared back at him, and Andrei shook his head. “No, this is Anzhela. Gabrielle is dead. She died in the old hospital. Shot when she tried to escape the building. Ringing any bells?”

Now it was Terriam’s turn to look to the ground.

“I hope you all realise one day exactly what you have done, and that it will haunt you for the rest of your lives. How many cities, towns, villages have you destroyed in the name of power? I’ve heard that Sender was such a bad person, but none of you are any better. Don’t you care about anything except yourselves?”

Stalker was the first of the men to find himself. “You are just naïve, boy. Just you wait until you have lived for as long as I have, and then tell me you wouldn’t do exactly the same things.”

Andrei stared at him hatefully. “I will never be like you. Mark my words. Never.”

The man stared back, and his mouth twisted into a sly smile. “Ah, but you are right. You won’t become like me, because you will not live long enough even to try.”

Now the man in white – Rester, Stalker had called him – spoke up for the first time. “That is quite enough, my friend”, he said in a melodic voice that reminded Andrei of Gothic poetry. “You will not harm this young man in any way. He is right, you know. We have done our share of unjust killing.”

“Well, you’re no saint either, Liam. We all did what we did to further our separate ambitions… “ Stalker cast the other man a spiteful look. “And I see that I’m not the only one who managed to realise mine.”

Liam Rester spread his hands and nodded solemnly. “I don’t deny my part in it, far from. And yes, I finally found what I was looking for. But only then did I realise at how great a cost. My eyes were opened up in more than one way, one could say. And now”, he turned to Andrei, “I wake every night with the sole purpose of atoning for my sins. I believe that you have lost one dear to you tonight?”

Andrei at first could not decide whether the man was referring to Rodja or Lev – or maybe both – but finally he nodded quietly. “Yeah, they took him. This man, this Obeah, told me I would get him back unharmed, but still… I couldn’t do anything… I failed.”

Tears were burning in his eyes now, but the other man just nodded as if confirming what he already knew. “I see. Yes, these people – Eyes of Night, as they call themselves – have destroyed many lives. I have personally made it my quest to track them across the world, and everywhere they go chaos and destruction follow in their wake.”

“Tracking them?” A small spark of hope was lit deep inside of him. “So you know… where they are?”

Rester nodded. “Yes, I know where they keep their base, and I suspect that is where they have taken your friend. A town in Germany have been completely cut off from the rest of the country, on the surface upholding a façade of normalcy but at a closer inspection showing all the signs I have learned to associate with this cult and their doings.”

Andrei was getting impatient. “So tell me! Where have they taken him?”

“I cannot tell you this yet. It would be far to dangerous for you to go revenging there on your own. But…” Seeing Andrei’s upcoming protest, he raised his hand. “But I know of some people who bear a similar grudge as yours. And I believe they would be happy to let you in on their crusade.” He eyed Andrei closely, and for a split second he got the feeling that he was being scrutinised by a drilled predator. However, the feeling faded as the other man spoke again. “If you so wish, and I will not force you into anything, I will contact these people for you, and then let you know where they can be found.”

Before Andrei could reply, William Stalker spoke up. “Or, I could help you find your friend. Why waste your time using this old fossil as a middleman? We could leave for Germany right away, Andrei.”

Andrei gave him a sceptic look. “Why would you help me? You just told me you were gonna kill me!”

Stalker responded to this by shaking his head in, Andrei presumed faked, resignation. “Yes, and I’m sorry. I didn’t see the width of this problem, but when you reminded me of that horrible incident at the old hospital I realised my error. I hope you will give me a chance to redeem myself by helping you against those fanatics.”

Terriam threw Stalker a sideways glance, and then looked at Andrei with worry in his eyes. “Andrei, son, I’m not gonna force you into any decision… I want you to know that. But I’d advice you not to listen to anything this man has to say. Of the five of us, he was always the driving force. And I’ve never seen him show the least bit of remorse before now.”

“How dare you…”, snarled Stalker. “Every man has the right to repent, hasn’t he?” He turned to Andrei again. “Andrei, if you come with me I will teach you things beyond your wildest imagination. Alone you’d be no match for those cultists, but together we would stand a better chance. And we could accomplish other great things, as well…”

Liam Rester put up a hand, silencing him. “So, Andrei Winters. You see you have been made contrasting offers. Either you take up on my suggestion and wait for me to gather information and get back to you. Or you go with William Stalker right away and trust him to help you in this – without my many years’ experience with the cult, and risking his likely betrayal.”

Terriam nodded. “Yeah, boy, how’s it going to be? We can’t choose for you.”

In the darkness around them shapes were still stirring, obviously too wary of the magicians to attack but still loyal enough to Stalker not to run away. Andrei wondered if his choice would cause them to go against their fear. All eyes were on him as he stood in silence, contemplating his situation. He didn’t know this man, this Liam Rester, but since he had come together with Terriam perhaps he was trustworthy. In any case he had been part in interrupting Stalker’s intentions of killing him and Anzhela only minutes before. Stalker himself, on the other hand, had proven on several occasions that he was out for Andrei’s life. Be that he had offered to help Andrei recover Rodja right away – and Andrei’s impatient worry for his friend was definitely enticed by this – but there was no guarantee that he would not fulfil his earlier threat as soon as Terriam and this Rester was out of sight, remorseful for his former sins or not.

He eyed them all in turn, calmly making up his mind. Finally his eyes settled on the man in white. “I will do as you said. Please help me find Rodja.” He could see Terriam letting out a breath of relief. Rester nodded silently, his face and stance showing no emotion.

“You damn brat!” Stalker’s mask of pleasant calm cracked and fell in an instant. He remained in the same spot, but stared at Andrei with undisguised fury and disgust in his eyes. “Be it that your grandfather and his tame nightwalker have your back right now, but you will bleed, I promise you. Don’t think you can hide from me, boy. No, no. I will find you, mark my words. And when I do, you and your pet demon are going back to the Abyss. You live on borrowed time, Andrei Winters. Use it well.”

Terriam just stared at him, daring him to make a move, even as Anzhela was obviously fighting with herself not to jump at Stalker’s throat. Andrei raised an eyebrow in theatrical amusement. “Yeah, so that’s your true face finally? I was just wondering when it would show.”

Stalker eyed them all for a moment, clearly estimating his chances. Then he turned on the spot and started walking away, out through the gates. Without turning he waved a hand over his shoulder. “As I said, use your time well, boy. Cause next time I see you, your time is up.” And with that he was gone, disappeared into the shadows as if he had never been there at all. And all around them in the darkness they could hear figures moving away, withdrawing into the darkness as if at a silent command, until all was quiet once more.

Andrei turned to the other two with a sudden fierceness in his eyes. “But don’t think I will ever forgive you for doing what you did to all those people. You are behind one of the biggest catastrophes this part of the world has ever known, and that is only one of the terrible things you’ve done. Gabrielle who saved me, she was a nurse at the hospital in town. Her fiancé was brought there because of the illness you spread, and died right in front of her. And she got the virus, too, but that wasn’t what killed her. No, she was shot to death by your men when she tried to escape. I hope it was well worth it, because none of those people are ever coming back. Innocent people, dead because of you.”

Anzhela turned to look at him, obviously taken aback by the anger in his voice. He put a hand on her shoulder, reassuringly, without taking his eyes off Rester and his grandfather.

Liam Rester closed his eyes as if in pain, seemingly taking Andrei’s outburst as well earned lashes from a whip. Terriam sighed heavily and lowered his gaze, suddenly unwilling to look Andrei in the eye. Yet it was he who first replied. “I have tried all these years not to think about the consequences. Everything I’ve ever done, I did for the sake of knowledge. But since I met you… You’ve opened up my eyes.” Was that tears in his eyes? “I’m not gonna say I’m sorry, ’cause that wouldn’t be enough. But I can tell you that I… I am beginning to understand now.” He clenched his fists and fell silent, obviously fighting something inside of him.

Rester opened his eyes and looked at Andrei. “I know that you are right, Andrei Winters. I spent all of my wretched life looking for a way to elongate it. Death frightened me, and I wished to escape it. And in my ridiculous folly I committed heinous deeds, indefensible acts, to achieve this goal. It was not until I reached the fruit of my ambition that I stopped to look back, and realised what I had actually done. I could have killed myself then, I nearly did. But in the end the road of penance conquered such thinking, and I made a vow ever to strike down upon those who dared commit such atrocities as those we have made ourselves responsible for.”

When Andrei said nothing, he continued: “And these people who call themselves Eyes of Night, I know that they have done terrible things. They are worshippers of the Devil, and all over the world they go searching for ways to prepare their dark master entrance to this world. I myself believe that they are misguided, but that does not make their rampagings any less sinister. Something is guiding them, and even if that something is not what they believe, it can never be anything good. So whatever ritual they are intending to use your friend for, the result must be powerful since one of the most influential leaders came here personally to retrieve him. And a ritual of that calibre cannot be allowed to take place. I will not force you to take part in my struggle. And I will not lie to you; if they told you that your friend will be returned to you unhurt, chances are that you need not worry. But if you, apart from rescuing your friend, wish to contribute in securing the future of this world, I bid you welcome to join our cause. Even misguided people can cause tremendous harm, as I am sure you have already seen.”

“I have.” Andrei threw a glance to the roof of the building – but Lev was nowhere to be seen. “So what do you want me to do?” Weariness was beginning to creep up on him, and what he wanted most right now was to get away from here, lie down and never wake up again.

“Right now, if you have chosen to accept, I just want for you to go as far from here as possible and stay in hiding until I contact you again. And this I will do as soon as I have been in contact with my allies, and also gathered some more intelligence on the organisation we are going up against.”

“Yeah”, agreed Terriam, his old grumpiness suddenly back in his voice. “Find a large city where you can blend in, and wait for us to get back to you. Stalker may have left you alone for now, but he ain’t one to give up easily. And apart from him I’m guessing you’ve made yourself some new enemies, as well. So try not to do anything stupid that will attract attention, okay?”

“Yes”, Rester said, nodding slowly. “Keep a low profile. And do not tell anyone where you are going. If you have a cellphone, throw it away and get a new one. Do not contact anyone, not even your family.”

“And I hope I don’t have to tell you not to use your real name, boy. Knowing a person’s name gives you power over him, and you don’t want anyone to hold that power over you, do you?” Terriam gave him a sceptic look, all resignation and shame gone from his stance in an instant.

Andrei shrugged irritably. He was growing exceedingly tired of people talking down to him. “I’m not stupid, okay? I will stay hidden and I seldom do stupid things if I’m not forced to. And nobody ever told me anything about names!”

Terriam seemed to be ready with a comeback to this, but Rester silenced him. “I think you will do well, Andrei Winters. Just remember what I have told you, and wait for me to get in touch with you again.” He started to turn away.

“But wait! How will you contact me if you don’t know where I am?” Andre took a step towards the white clad man.

“Do not worry. I have my ways of finding what I seek.” And with that he turned and walked away into the darkness between two buildings – the same way he had come. The three figures behind him followed, and soon the darkness had devoured them. The last one to be engulfed in shadows was the character with the stride Andrei had noticed when they first arrived. This figure paused for a second before stepping into the darkness, turning towards him. Still shrouded in shadow it was impossible to make out anything of the figure, but when he smiled broadly before turning to join his companions Andrei could see a sharp, snow white tooth gleaming for an instant in the light cast by the setting moon. Then they were gone completely as if they had never existed, and Andrei was left alone with Anzhela and the man he had learned only recently was his grandfather. Nikko was gone.

Terriam Winter (Andrei wondered whether this was his family’s original surname, or if it was Terriam who had removed the ending ‘s’ to better match the names of his colleagues), eyed him sternly. Andrei could tell that he wasn’t completely comfortable with the silence. “So… I guess this is goodbye for now, boy”, he said. “I don’t wanna know where you’re going, so don’t tell me. Well, I want you to know that you’ve done good. So… Anyway…” He nodded awkwardly and started to turn away. Then he apparently came to think of something, and turned to Andrei once more. “Oh, I almost forgot! You should have this.” He produced a rolled up paper from an inner pocket, and walked up to him, handing it over.

Andrei accepted the scroll, recognising the paper as the same type as that he had been given before – the instructions on how to use his Daikwato weapon. “Thanks”, he said, and unrolled it partly to see more of the unskilled drawings on how to hold the weapon, and what words to say.

“Yeah, I figured you’d find use for it… So if you read this and become a little better at stuff, maybe you’ll be able to master that weapon of yours some day.” Terriam’s uncomfortable look gave way for his patronising attitude once more.

Andrei just sighed without looking up from the scroll, not in the mood for these recurring argumentations over his skill level. “Uh-huh, I suck and I’ll work hard to get better. Right, I get it.”

Terriam was silent for a moment, and then surprised Andrei by putting his big hand on his shoulder. “You know, son, I’ve been a bit hard on you. It’s for your best, of course, but I want you to know, as I said, that you’re doing good. And I also want to tell you that I’m indescribably happy I finally got a boy like you. I’m sure you know I’ve had certain… disappointments….”

Before Terriam could continue, he was interrupted by a voice from behind. “Right, and I suppose that would be me?”

Andrei looked up in surprise to see his father standing by the gates, beneath one of the still functional street lamps. James smiled as Andrei left Terriam standing by himself and ran to throw himself into his fathers arms. His face had a weary look, and his clothes were cold. Andrei didn’t know where he had been, but obviously he had been out in the cold for a long time.

“Where have you been?”, asked his father before Andrei could do the same. “I’ve been so worried! And your mother has been worried sick, too! I have been looking all over for you…. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you everything, there are many things I have kept secret from you. But no more. I will tell you everything… Nothing of this would have happened if I had talked to you about certain things and kept you safer from certain people.” James stopped rambling and looked up over Andrei’s shoulder at Terriam, who still stood silent in the shadows.

Sensing the tense atmosphere, Andrei hurried to intervene. “Where is Anya? Sender said he had taken her someplace, and a strange man answered her phone when I tried to call her!”

Returning his gaze to his son, James Winters gave him a reassuring smile. “Your sister is safe, too. She was returned to your mum completely unharmed by some unknown people a couple of hours ago. I don’t know who sent them to get her, or if they were Sender’s men, but she is okay. There is nothing to worry about. And both she and mum will be so happy and relieved to see you! Let’s go home, Andrei, and I will tell you everything I should have told you several years ago… About why we have been moving so much, about our family… And about what one of your relatives and his companions have done.” Once again he threw Terriam a cold gaze, and put one arm across his son’s shoulders to lead him away.

Terriam eyed him just as coldly, and in a booming voice he said: “I don’t thing you understand, James. Andrei can’t go back. He can never go back.”

James turned back to him angrily. “Pardon? And why is that?” But Andrei could still detect a small note of fearful foreboding in his father’s voice, as if deep down he already knew.

“Because your son has awakened to certain abilities that have attracted attention from the wrong people, that’s why. He can’t go home, and neither can you. These people will want to use you to get to him.”

James went silent and just stared at his father. Then something inside of him seemed to break, as if a castle made of air slowly crumbled to dust behind his eyes. But behind the shock there was also a feeling of resignation, as if something feared and anticipated had finally caught up to him and come to pass. “I see…”, he said at last, his voice much lower than it had been before. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before turning to Andrei once more.

Feeling like a traitor, as if he had caused his father worlds of suffering, Andrei could do nothing but to throw his arms around his father and feel the tears finally spilling over. In his heart of hearts he had known he could never go back to how things had been before, but a part of him had still wanted to pretend, to keep harbouring that small piece of illusionary hope that he would be able to come with his father and just go home. But Terriam was right, off course. Things would never be the same again, and if he went home he would be a danger to everybody. Even if he hadn’t had a murderous demon inside of him, there would still be people looking for him who would stop at nothing to hurt him or kill him. He could never go home…

“I’m sorry…”, he whispered sobbingly into his father’s jacket. “I’m so sorry…”

James slowly stroked him across his back, thoughtfully, but there was a sad smile in his voice when he said: “It’s okay, son. It’s okay. Now I understand how ignorant I have been, how much it is that I didn’t know. But that isn’t your fault, Andrei. I tried to keep you from many things, but you have to know that you’ll always be my son. Always. And I love you, no matter what. And… And I guess it’s a good thing that you turned out to be special. So, I’m happy for your sake. ‘Cause I myself certainly never was.”

Andrei hugged him more tightly, desperate not to make his father sad. “Yes you are!”, he called, his voice louder than he had intended. He had a hard time controlling his feelings, and deep in his mind the pain of his grief was coupled with the hissings of a creature that had other intentions.

But James just laughed bitterly. “No I’m not. I never had that thing. But I hope that I have other qualities, and have accomplished other things, that will be worth something one day.”

Andrei just nodded against his father’s chest, not knowing what to say. Was this the end of everything? Tears were flooding down his face, never letting up. He wanted never to let go. But when he noticed that everything had been very silent for a while, he dried his eyes and looked up.

Terriam and James – father and son – stood staring at one another. James was still holding his arms around Andrei, but not as tightly as before. There was something decisive in their eyes, and Andrei could sense years of enmity and alienation passing between them – but also something else.

Terriam sighed, and some of the harshness left his eyes. “It seems there are things in the world that are more important than what I’ve been valuing all my life”, he said thoughtfully, watching James holding his son in his arms. And in that instant, Andrei thought he could see some kind of consent passing between the two men – some kind of understanding that it had taken all these years and all this loss to reach.

“We must leave now, James”, Terriam said at last. “We mustn’t know where he goes and we can’t stay here. People will come soon to cover things up around here, and we don’t wanna be here then.”

James nodded reluctantly. “I guess…” He turned to Andrei, his eyes full of indecision and worry. “Will you be alright?” He looked into Andrei’s eyes, and seemed to find something there that answered his question because he didn’t wait for his son to answer. Instead, he took something from his coat pocket and pressed it tightly into Andrei’s right hand. The cold metal burned against his palm. “It was meant as a birthday present. I hope you will find some use for it…”

They stood like that for a couple of moments, staring at each other. Andrei didn’t know what to say, and finally it was his father who took the step. “Go now, before people come looking. I’ll see you when all this has blown over.”

“Yeah, you’ve got lots of dangerous people looking for you now. Stalker, for one. And I happened to hear you made yourself an enemy amongst the Night-eyes as well. And then of course Ashton Sender, if he’s still alive. I’ll take care of your dad, don’t worry. Go now.”

Andrei eyed them both for a moment, no more tears to cry but still full of sorrow at having to leave these two behind, to whom he in accordance with all rationality should be turning for protection. Then he drew a deep breath, turned his back on them and started walking away. When he turned around one last time some steps later, both of the men were gone – as if swallowed by the earth.

Snow started to fall again as Anzhela came running after him, grabbing his arm. “Can I come?”, she said, catching her breath after the sprint.

“But you don’t know where I’m going”, he said. The truth was, he didn’t know himself.

“No, but I’ve got nothing left here anyway… And you don’t wanna run away alone, do you?”

She smiled at him as if this was all a great adventure and there was no worries in the world. And he had to confess to himself that he really, really wanted her to come with him. “Yeah, okay. Why not?”, he said, and continued walking through the snow, leaving the factory and all its brooding secrets behind. Still holding his arm as if afraid he’d run away any moment, Anzhela Gise walked beside him. He was not alone.

***

People didn’t come right away to smooth things over at the factory and around the industrial area, which gave them some time to make preparations. Anzhela returned home one last time to gather up some things, and Andrei did the same.

But before he did anything else, he made sure that Rodja’s mother was picked up by an ambulance and taken to the nearest hospital (which was not in Arkadak, but in Andrei’s own hometown). He was told she would recover from the cold, but he didn’t tell them anything about her other symptoms. He could just hope that they would giver her the treatment she needed, since he could not stay to look out for her himself.

In the basement of the factory main building he found Malcolm lying on the very same bed where Andrei himself had brooded himself to sleep so many nights when he had been Sender’s prisoner. He had clearly been sedated, but seemed otherwise not to have taken any harm. Obeah had been true on this point, at least. Andrei could just hope that all the other things the man had told him had been true, as well.

Malcolm didn’t stay long after waking up, but thanked Andrei for everything and told him that he had some matters back home “in the States” to see to. Andrei got the feeling he was talking about something he had been postponing for a long time. Something emotional. Soon both the man in the purple, furry coat and his yellow car was gone without a trace – but Andrei suspected it was not the last thing he would see of Malcolm Hanotrivic. Far from it.

He went home finally. Or rather, he went back to the house he had until most recently regarded as ‘home’. He used his father’s car to driver there, and the blown up tire turned the trip into a long and slow affair. The fact that it was Andrei himself who had punctured it with a well aimed shot didn’t make things any better. But well at home the gate-man helped him replace the tire, and he climbed the few steps to the front door of his house.

Inside every room was empty. All that remained in the way of furnishing was his dad’s favourite armchair – a piece of furniture that Andrei’s mother had been trying for years to get thrown out of the house. Now, apparently, it had been left behind when everything else had been removed from the house – as by an act of magic.

The cellar, however, was as he had left it. All his things remained, and he hurriedly gathered up his most important belongings. It was with a pang of regret that he turned to look at the room one last time before running up the stairs and leaving it forever – but he knew that it must be done.

He still had some time to kill before he was supposed to pick Anzhela up by the station, so at returning to Arkadak for what could well have been the last time in his life, he set to work leaving his mark there. Returning to the old factory building, where Sender had kept his base, he unpacked his faithful spray cans and commenced doing what Andrei Winters did best: painting.

***

There was not much left of the night; dawn was approaching. When they stepped out of the Hummer they could smell snow in the air and hear the first drowsy morning birds beginning to awaken in their treetop nests. Before them was the gate of a huge garage – one of many in a row – and in his hand Andrei held a set of keys bearing a tag carrying its address.

Anzhela closed up beside him as he turned the key in the lock, and together they watched with suspense as the gate started to slide open, completely soundlessly. Little by little the thing inside was revealed, until it stood completely exposed to their unbelieving eyes and they both gasped for air. Before them, inside the huge garage and bearing the same symbol as one of the keys he held in his hand, was the most amazing car Andrei had ever seen.

Before the sun had risen completely above the horizon that morning, Andrei and Anzhela had left the city and its memories far behind. And as the road stretched endlessly before him and more and more miles separated him from the people who wished him harm, Andrei thought back on the promise he had made. He would run now, yes, but only to strike even harder another day. If this was what freedom really tasted like, he would do everything in his power to give Rodja the chance to taste it, too.

He would not fail again.

***

They managed to remove every trace of what had happened in Arkadak. No bodies, no fires, no evidence that a small scale war had ever taken place in the small, nondescript town.

But one thing they couldn’t remove, one thing that no amount of chemicals or force ever managed to erase, was the skillfully executed painting etched into the facade of the factory main building:

‘Here one fell victim

to one of his best friends’ knife.

Slipped into darkness,

then revived

by Gabrielle Hesker

remember her

- remember the victims -

leito, NTZ’

TO BE CONTINUED…

(Christina Smedbakken, 2011)

En spökhistoria jag skrev som material för ett temaarbete i engelska jag genomförde med en gymnasieklass. Temat var ‘Halloween’, och efter att ha läst denna berättelse fick eleverna skriva sina egna spökhistorier med hjälp av en ordlista med ‘spökliga’ ord jag bakat in i novellen nedan.

It was a dark and stormy night. A man was walking slowly through his just as dark house, admiring through the gloom his collection of old and fantastical things. He was old himself, and had been interested in antiquities his whole life – and because of this his collection had grown large.

An old grandfather clock struck midnight. He had acquired it from decedent estate sale ten years ago. From the same place came the crystal chandelier in the ceiling and the oaken chair in the corner. He stopped in front of his newest acquisition, a large panting depicting a house by the sea. It had been auctioned out for almost no money at all at a local sale that very same day, and he had bought it without hesitation. Now that he stood regarding it more closely, though, he could not help feeling icy shivers running down his spine.

He had bought it because the house in the painting looked a lot like his own house, down to the old willow tree that grew outside his bedroom window. The sea in the panting, of course, did not match reality. There actually was a lake some distance from his house, but no sea. He had thought the similarities to be amusing when he had first seen the painting in broad daylight. However, now that he stood looking at it in the middle of the night in the light of the full moon, he did not feel amused at all.

The similarities to his own house now made him feel uneasy, and he wondered suddenly if there really had been a candle burning in the painted window earlier that day. A sudden pang of superstitious horror struck him, and he hurriedly took the painting off the wall hid it deep in a closet. He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like the way the branches of the painted tree reached for the little house by the sea.

Several weeks passed, and he forgot about the painting. He added even more artefacts to his collection and grew even older. It was not until autumn had closed around his house and robbed the willow outside his window of all its leaves, that he even thought about the painting again.

It happened late one night, when he was just about to go to sleep. The roof of his house was creaking in the wind and the tree branches were scratching against his window. A sudden noise caught his attention, and he realized that the photograph on the wall opposite from his bed had fallen to the floor, seemingly without explanation. As he inspected the damage done, he concluded that the frame was totally broken. He would not be able to put the photography back up without first replacing the broken frame.

Sighing, he picked up the glass and splinters and carried them into the next room to throw them away. It was when he passed the closet that he suddenly came to think of the painting he had hidden there. Much time had passed, and he had totally forgotten what had gotten him so worked up, giving him such goose bumps. So he took the painting out of the closet and looked at it again.

Nothing had changed in the panting, of course. He had probably misremembered when he thought that the tree in the picture had had leaves when he last looked at it, and the sea had probably always been full of billowing waves. Looking at it now he felt silly for ever having hidden it away in the first place. And he certainly needed to replace the broken photograph with something.

Pleased to have accomplished something at this late hour, he lay down in his antique bed and looked at the painting now hanging on the wall across the room from him. It certainly was a work of skill, with its masterfully executed details. It was almost as if he could see the flame in the portrait house’s window flickering. His imagination of course. And soon he drifted away into the land of sleep.

It must have been the roaring of the waves that awakened him. It was still pitch black outside. He lay still in the darkness for a while without opening his eyes, trying to go back to sleep – but sleep wouldn’t come. If the sea could just go quiet… Then he opened his eyes in horrible realization. Dread started to creep over him as he came to his senses and suddenly remembered that there was no sea – apart from in the panting.

Now wide awake, he stared at the portrait on the opposite wall and gasped. The candle in the painted window was now clearly flickering in the wind that was obviously tearing at the spiny branches of the oil-colour willow tree. And the sound that had woken him up really did come from the painted waves throwing themselves against the rocks by the beach.

But none of these things was what made his breath catch in his throat, or his limbs go numb. No, what made his blood freeze in his veins and his hair stand on end, was the sickening sight of the corpse-like creature that came crawling out of the sea, dripping of sea weed and death even as he watched helplessly. He tried to scream, but like in a nightmare where you can do nothing but watch, not a single sound escaped his parted lips. A smell like that of putrid flesh spread in his room as the hellish wraith drew closer to the frame of the painting, and when it was almost past the tree a black liquid, like rotten tar, began oozing out of the picture, down the wall and towards his bed.

The last thing he saw was the demon’s eyes, staring ravenously at him as it closed in and pressed its decomposing face to the inside of the portrait and began tearing away at it with talons dripping with something red…

They found him the next day, hanging from the old willow tree outside his bedroom window. Rumour had it that he had finally gone mad from living all by himself in that old cottage, his only company thousands and thousands of dollar’s worth of remnants from other people’s lives. Some of his collection was claimed by distant relatives, but some of his belongings were too grisly even for his greedy kin.

For example they found an old painting hanging on his bedroom wall, opposite from his bed. In an eerie way it seemed to depict the late old man’s house, willow tree and all. But this was not what made the relatives instantly send it away to be sold cheaply at an auction. No, what made them turn away in disgust and try their best to forget it was another distasteful similarity. Because from one of the branches of the painted willow tree, a body was hanging. So masterfully painted was it that the startled relatives later could have sworn that they had seen it swinging back and forth in the autumn wind…

(Christina Smedbakken, 2011)

En av de stämningstexter jag skrivit till en lång rollspelskrönika jag spelleder inom systemet WoD: Mage – The Awakening. Sammanhanget kanske inte är så begripligt för den oinvigde, men så kan det gå.

The knife was said to be sprung from the core of existence itself, accidentally dropped from the hand of God just as He dealt the final stroke of the brush to Creation. Some said that it dated back even longer than that, to a shadowy Dream Time before time was an issue, before there was a significant difference between Man and Beast, and even before light and darkness had been separated by vain Order. Legends had it that the metal of the blade had been dug out of the Earth’s core millennia ago and then forged into a tool of initiation. It really didn’t make a difference.

Regardless of it’s origin, the knife was now in his possession, finally. Its handle gleamed in the moonlight as he held it up before his face. Gold in intricate patterns, undoubtedly forged into shape generations ago by a spirit plagued by a large spot of aesthetic vanity. This blade didn’t need a magnificent frame to fulfil its purpose, it just needed blood. However, he could understand the calling that had driven a man, hundreds of years ago, to adorn the weapon with such finery. He felt the pull himself – the urge to fall to his knees in front of it in unreserved submission. But he had been prepared for this display of power, and he served only one master.

He was grateful that one of the hardest parts of the plan had already been executed long ago by men with resources he didn’t possess. True, the knife had been known to perform miracles without the need for sacrifice, but that which he intended was too far removed from mundane ritual for that kind of magic to be sufficient. The red metal of the edge absorbed all light directed at it, both from the soon-to-be full moon outside the window and from the sparse illumination cast by the lamp in his study. He had seen photographs of it from before the great Oblation seventy years ago, and knew that it used to be not red but silver, reflecting light instead of reflecting darkness. This was not the first time it had been offered the blood of thousands in sacrificial rite – however, this was the first time within the boundaries of this era that the immolation had succeeded.

The blade was not titled the Knife of Beginnings for naught. Some claimed it had been present for all important acts of genesis since the beginning of Be. It served neither good nor evil, only cause and effect. The one making and directing the Sacrifice decided which power it would serve next. It was rumoured that Herod the Great had held it when he ordered the slaughter of thousands of young, in the face of the imminent birth of the son of God. These same rumours claimed that the great king had been hoping to find the mother of this child before the delivery, and use the knife’s powers to turn the Lamb into Wolf. But the knife was stolen from him, and brought to Bethlehem by three noble princes who wished it instead to be put to use in the name of the Creator. Other myths placed it in the hands of the god Gautr as he from the trunks of ash and elm carved the very first man and woman, Askr and Embla. In every legend of creation since time immemorial the Knife of Beginnings had a place, be it obscure and only spoken of by devout fanatics, but a place it had. And now, two millennia since it was last put to use, seven decades since the last tremendous sacrificial rite and the untimely disappearance of the Knife, Eafrim Oberch – or Obeah as his congregation knew him – finally held it reclaimed and was going to wield it again.

Filled to the rim with sacrificial blood it threw off no reflection, but the potent magic residing inside it seemed to pulse in his hands. This Midsummer ritual would be the rite to end all rites, the conjuring to end all resistance. To think that something with this magnitude would take place in his lifetime, prolonged though it might be! At first he had not known what use they would have for the living lamb of last year’s failed sacrifice, but the voices had begun to make sense lately. Now he was glad he had apprehended her, even though it had cost him his Sword. For in the murmur of voices he had finally glimpsed the true design, and she was an essential part of it.

Like a Byzantine tapestry it had enfolded before his inner eyes. The Grand Scheme, the plan that would allow them finally to exceed their enemies and achieve their eternal goal. And for it they needed mainly three things. The Lamb, pure, innocent and young, must have been freely taken into the arms of night. His other half had seen to this, before revealing his treacherous ways and disappearing. The Knife, endowed with the blood of a people faithful, must be used to conduct the cadence. And finally the essence of an Angel, a celestial spirit of the Lord. With these three things they would be empowered to twist the divine act of life’s creation into something ungodly, and at long last resume where the loss of the knife had forced them to leave off seventy years ago – and hopefully succeed where Herod had supposedly failed two thousand years in the past.

The third and final component had eluded him until just recently, posing an almost insurmountable obstacle to all his endeavours. The difficulty to secure a specimen from the Heavenly court no doubt was the reason this ritual had not been conducted long before – that, and the required blood sacrifice. He had thought himself vain even to hope on someday laying his hands on one. And even so, he had persevered.

Then had come an unexpected request from a renegade magician residing in Russia. The idiot American had managed to paint himself into a corner, hunted as he was by his former cabal and having set up a last stand in a small town with no useful resources or allies. At first he had been strongly inclined simply to dismiss the man – ‘Sender’, he called himself, but was hopefully not quite so foolish or arrogant as to forbear the use of a Shadow name. But then he had come up with an offer too good to be true – an offer that had doubtlessly been dismissed as trickery had it not been for Eafrim Oberch’s own inclination to detect fraud.

The man had claimed to have somehow found what the order was so desperately looking for, and he was willing to give it up in exchange for their assistance in warding off his enemies. Had Eafrim not heard of the man before, he would have doubted his words even though he could see no lies in the stranger’s eyes – but he had. This was one of the men behind some of the greatest catastrophes in the East during the twentieth century. Word had it that his cabal had done it for power, as an experiment to create powerful loci or vibrant hallows. He had not known the cabal had broken up, but apparently too much power could turn even the closets allies into murderous foes. Eafrim didn’t inquire, but made sure the other magician could not deceive him. They both agreed to certain terms, and it was decided that Obeah himself would come to collect the prize the same night.

And now he sat in his study, a throbbing excitement in his soul he had not felt for decades. Yes, he would fulfil his part of the covenant and grant this Ashton Sender his protection. He might even be so generous as to dispose of the threatening cabal’s leader for him. They may well be formidable magicians, but he himself had exceeded that scale long ago. Such petty affairs as theirs seemed but puny to him now. Yes, he would do that. But then he would reap the fruit of his hard and ceaseless work, finally within his grasp.

The knife’s handle still gleamed with the light of the almost-full-moon as he made the necessary arrangements. He would have been able to handle this by himself, of course. But the recent loss of his Sword made things more complicated, and he absolutely didn’t want to risk anything to chance. The acquisition of this creature was far to vital for that. No, he would bring with him one of suitable capacity and renown. The Last Battalion would be thrilled to be dug out of their keep once more; and what companion more fitting than the one who had already proven himself thousandfold by securing the Knife of Beginnings for the order twice? And a Sword for this man, of course. No Spell without a Sword…

Escaping once again from his destructively reoccurring ruminations he rose from his chair. They would travel in the old fashioned way, trusting nothing to chance and chaos. Either way, he would not want any adversarial magician to be able to follow his tracks back here, to this ancient stronghold. The helicopter could already be heard starting on the roof.

He locked the knife inside his desk – no need to risk losing it again, this close to the goal – and left the room, carrying a large, leather bound tome under his right arm. Straightening his collar he smiled. The hour was finally drawing near; the time of reckoning was nigh, where the strong and faithful would be separated from the weak and worthless. By the womb of an innocent willingly initiated; from the seed of a true celestial spirit; with the cut of the Knife of Beginnings, bathed in the blood of a people faithful – would his Master finally be granted passage into this world.

He laughed quietly as he climbed the stairs. The Wolf would at last be born.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2011)

Det var en mörk och stormig natt. Gatlyktorna längs den dunkla skogsvägen kastade ett spöklikt, gulaktigt ljus över den regnvåta asfalten, och den fuktiga luften fick ljudet från Saabens rusande däck att låta påtagligt och ekande. Skogen tryckte på var sida om bilen; det var nästan som att mörkret mellan träden sträckte sig ut för att omfamna honom där han kämpade mot tröttheten som anfallit honom flera timmar tidigare. Det var mer är fyrtio minuter sedan han mött ett annat fordon på landsvägen – nu var det bara de enstaka ögonpar som då och då glimmade till i natten som gjorde honom sällskap.

Han hade egentligen aldrig gillat de här körningarna, mellan ett isolerat samhälle och ett annat. Så länge han befann sig inne i städerna var han kung på vägen – han hittade så gott som överallt. Inget kluster av enkelriktade gator eller vägarbetsavspärrningar kunde stoppa honom; han visste vägar runt allt. Men ute i vildmarken, på alla de skogsvägar som sträckte sig genom landet likt ett jättelikt övergivet spindelnät, till synes helt avskurna från all civilisation, kände han verkligen hur liten han var i världen. Som en fluga i rymden. I skogen kan ingen höra dig skrika.

En blick bakåt bekräftade att paketet fortfarande låg på sin plats i baksätet. Varför kunde folk inte skicka sina leveranser med posten istället för att ge honom huvudvärk? Han körde inte taxi för att åka runt hela nätterna i skogen med pappkartonger. GPS:en visade två mil kvar, sedan var det bara att vända. Natten var långt ifrån slut.

Ett par strålkastare i backspegeln fångade genast hans uppmärksamhet. Han var visst inte ensam på vägen längre, och föraren bakom honom måste köra ganska fort för att ha lyckats hinna ikapp honom i den väl tilltagna hastighet han själv höll. Men det som var mest irriterande var att tönten vägrade blända av till halvljus, trots att han nu bara låg några meter bakom. Tresekundersregeln my ass, tänkte han, och gasade på lite extra för att komma en bit bort från de bländande lyktorna. Föraren bakom ökade dock också hastigheten, och fortsatte att ligga och slicka honom i ändan som en annan idiot. Okej, tänkte han, kör om då, din blådåre, och bromsade in efter en tydlig markering på pedalen för att bilen bakom skulle förstå. Det gjorde den visst inte, utan saktade ned till samma hastighet – utan att blända av.

Han öka farten igen – lite mer den här gången – och precis som förut gasade föraren bakom upp för att hålla jämn takt. Helljusen skar som knivar i ögonvrån, och det var svårt att koncentrera sig på vägen. Dessutom började irritationen byggas upp. Han blinkade in till sidan och bromsade ned till femtio. Det borde göra susen. Men bilen bakom lade sig i samma takt och fortsatte att lysa honom i ögonen. Slutligen såg han en ensam busshållplats en bit fram, och gjorde en hastig sväng in på den. Den andra bilen passerade, gasade upp och försvann bortom ett krön. Det var mörkt i skogen igen. Äntligen.

Taxin rullade ut från hållplatsen, och färden fortgick utan vidare incidenter. Paketet lämnades av i nästa stad, och efter att ha köpt sig en hamburgare på drive in och vänt i en rondell, påbörjade han den långa färden hemåt igen. Han höll utkik efter den andra bilen när han körde genom samhället, men såg den inte. Han gissade att det måste ha varit en Volvo, baserat på lyktornas form och placering, men det var bara han själv som var ute och körde denna sena timme.

Två timmar och ytterligare några små samhällen senare fann han sig på väg genom ett ganska platt landskap med många åkrar och bondgårdar. Han hade passerat på samma sträcka på väg åt andra hållet, men allt såg alltid annorlunda ut på natten. Det lyste i något enstaka fönster i gårdarna han körde förbi, och han undrade vad de hade för sig där inne, i skydd från regnet som fortfarande föll. Så inne var han i sina spekulationer att han knappt märkte när en Volvo svängde ut från en av sidovägarna och slöt upp bakom honom. Först tänkte han inte på det, men sedan slog den andra föraren på helljuset.

Nu började det bli obehagligt. Vem var personen i den andra bilen, och var det så att denne medvetet följde efter honom? Plötsligt blev han lite rädd. Han tänkte på alla de vandringssägner han hört om ensamma bilförare som försvunnit i skogen, och förbannade sin otur att han begett sig ut just när den här potentielle galningen var ute och åkte. Hur kunde personen i den andra bilen veta att han skulle åka tillbaka samma väg inatt? Och för den delen, hur kunde han veta exakt vilken väg han skulle ta? Han hade passerat ett flertal samhällen både på väg mot sin destination och tillbaka, och såvida inte den andre föraren visste vem han var eller hade följt efter honom längre än vad han gjort sken av, borde det vara omöjligt för honom att veta vilken väg taxin skulle ta tillbaka.

Han tryckte ned knappen för centrallåset, och försökte att inte tänka på alla de skräckscenarion som dök upp i hans huvud. Fortfarande åtta mil kvar. En avtagsväg! Han gjorde en tvär sväng och girade in på infarten till den lilla skogsvägen, och bromsade. Tricket funderade även denna gång, och Volvon körde förbi utan att sakta in.

Något lättad vände han tillbaka bilen upp på vägen, och fortsatte köra efter att ha gett den andra bilen ett gott försprång. Vägen var åter mörk, även om himlen hade börjat anta en något mer mörkblå ton som ett tecken på att natten snart var till ända. På radion spelades åttiotalsklassiker, och folk uppmuntrades att ringa in och berätta om sina mest spöklika upplevelser. Han övervägde att slå dem en signal, men lät bli.

Färden fortgick utan incidenter, ända tills han var bara någon mil hemifrån. Volvon syntes inte i mörkret, men när han passerade rastplatsen där den stod parkerad slog den på sina helljus och svängde upp på vägen efter honom. Nu var det ingen tvekan om saken – den andra bilen förföljde honom och hade väntat in honom. Skräckslagen gasade han upp taxin till en hastighet långt, långt över det tillåtna, och bad till högre makter att han skulle hinna fram till staden innan bilen bakom hann ikapp. Han tappade den ibland ur sikte när han rundade en kurva i skogen, men den kom alltid tillbaka. Slutligen såg han skylten som annonserade infarten till staden, och drog en lättnadens suck. Gatorna började lysas upp av tätare gatlyktor, och han kunde se flera fordon som var på väg fram och tillbaka på en korsande gata lite längre fram. När han kastade en blick i backspegeln var den andra bilen försvunnen.

Torsdag. En sketen dag att jobba i den här staden – alldeles för många fulla ungdomar på krogen för hans smak, och det värsta var att han var tvungen att skjutsa dem dit. Det var under en av dessa körningar som Volvon dök upp igen. I det skarpa ljuset från gatlyktorna såg han att den var blå, av modell gammal. Den svängde ut från en sidogata när han passerade förbi, och låg sedan och tryckte med helljuset på, utan att vika av när taxin svängde av ens på de mest ogängliga småvägar. Nu befann han sig i alla fall inne i staden, och var inte lika rädd som han varit när han några dagar tidigare såg den andra bilen för första gången. Nu kände han sig mest irriterad.

När han passerade en av sina kollegor vid stationen passade han på att anropa.

”3:an, kan du ta regnummer på den där tönten som stalkar mig?”

Efter en kort tystnad: ”Vilken då?”

Han blev aningen irriterad över att kollegan inte ens kunde se efter – det var ju uppenbart vilken bil det var som låg och nosade honom i avgasröret. ”Den blå Volvon, såklart! Vilket nummer är det?”

Kollegan skrattade till. ”Men lägg ned nu och sluta skrämmas… Det ser väl jag till och med att du är ensam på gatan!”

Han stängde av radion utan att svara. Vadå ensam på gatan? Volvon var ju precis bakom honom. Eller? Lyktorna på bilen var då i vart fall högst verkliga, och bländade honom konstant under så gott som hela nattens körning. Han frågade en gång till för säkerhets skull – en annan kollega denna gång. Men inte heller hon påstod sig kunna se den andra bilen.

Efter passet begav han sig mot garaget för att lämna av taxin. Fortfarande var Volvon honom hack i häl, ända in på parkeringen. Men när han väl parkerat och tagit mod till sig för att stiga ur bilen, var den andra bilen försvunnen. Han stod länge bredvid taxin och såg sig om efter den, men den var som uppslukad av jorden. Han tog bussen hem istället för att promenera.

Efter den natten dröjde det inte länge innan han såg den blå Volvon igen. Redan under nästa arbetspass var den efter honom igen, och han blev tvungen att ljuga sig undan en långkörning för att slippa hamna ensam på en skogsväg med den okände föraren igen. Situationen började gå honom på nerverna. Det gick till och med så långt att han larmade efter hjälp vid ett tillfälle, men när de andra bilarna dök upp och han pekade ut Volvon, som stod och tryckte på en uppfart, tittade de bara konstigt på honom och han kände sig tvungen att förklara bort det hela som ett dåligt skämt. Det var bara han som såg den andra bilen, och han pendlade mellan en rädsla för att han inbillade sig alltihopa, eller värre – att han inte gjorde det.

Den blå Volvon tycktes alltid försvinna så fort han klev ur sin egen bil, vilket gjorde att han aldrig lyckades få någon glimt av hur föraren såg ut. Han drömde mardrömmar om nätterna om vad för obehaglig syn som dolde sig bakom den blanka vindrutan. En dreglande vandöd psykopat? En osalig, död kollega? I en av drömmarna lyckades han byta fil och bromsa in precis tillräckligt fort för att den andra bilen inte skulle hinna med, och passerade förbi. I förarsätet till den blå Volvon, när den som i ultrarapid rullade förbi hans sidoruta, såg han till sin skräck det värsta förruttnade vidunder han någonsin kunnat föreställa sig. Svartbränd, stelnad hud gapade på flera ställen öppen och blottlade rinnande, rykande kött. Käken hängde lealös och ett svart gap accentuerat av en uppsvälld tunga hälsade honom med en fruktansvärd stank. Ögonhålorna stirrade tomma framför sig medan det vedervärdiga liket krönte förarplatsen på den spöklika bilen som passerade förbi utan att navigeras; där armarna på kadavret borde ha suttit fanns nu bara rinnande, köttiga gropar. Bakrutorna på bilen var mörktonade, men han tyckte sig kunna se små händer som trycktes mot glaset från insidan, som av gastlika barn som hölls fångna där inne, för evigt åkandes i den spöklika bilen från stad till stad. Strax efter att Volvon passerat och rundat ett gathörn, såg han åter de bländande ljusen i backspegeln. Bilen hade hittat honom igen.

Han vaknade med ett ryck, kallsvettig och alldeles torr i halsen. Det hade bara varit en dröm, men känslan den ingivit dröjde sig kvar likt en igel som envist fortsätter att suga länge efter det att dess kropp ryckts lös från huvudet. Med möda tog han sig upp ur sängen, med känslan av att han inte fått någon som helst vila av sin sömn.

Det värsta med jobbet var att han tvingades vända på dygnen. När alla andra sysslade med sina dagliga bestyr låg han och sov. När resten av folket gjorde detsamma, var det dags för honom att ge sig ut på arbete. Det var i alla fall vad han ansett vara det värsta, tills han började förföljas av en för andra till synes osynlig stalker – som för allt han visste mycket möjligt skulle kunna se ut precis som monstrumet i hans mardröm. Tanken gjorde honom illamående.

Åter i bilen, på väg mot nattens första upphämtning. Hela vägen till adressen grubblade han över den blå Volvon, som turligt nog ännu inte dykt upp bakom honom. Den skulle dyka upp, utan tvekan, men än hade de skärande helljusen inte uppenbarat sig i hans backspegel. Ju mer han funderade över saken, desto säkrare blev han på att bilen inte var av denna världen. Han visste inte vad han begått för synd för att ådra sig vreden hos en vålnad, men hur det än låg till måste han ha gjort det. Dessutom blev han allt säkrare på att drömmen han haft kanske var ett varsel snarare än en sinnesillusion. Kalla kårar gick längs hans ryggrad, och samtidigt en sorts desperat frustration. Det här måste få ett slut, tänkte han. Spöke eller ej, det här kunde inte få fortsätta. När beslutsamheten väl rotat sig i hans tankar var det som att en känsla av vrede ersatte lite av den hjälplösa rädslan han tidigare känt.

Snart skulle han vara framme vid adressen han var på väg till, och det var då han såg den. Den blå Volvon, på väg ut från en sidogata en bit framför honom. De tonade rutorna stirrade på honom som ett hån att han varken kunde eller vågade göra något åt saken, att bilen snart skulle sluta upp bakom honom igen. Bilen svängde ut. Han såg rött, och trampade gasen i botten.

Smällen var öronbedövande och glas och metall tycktes fylla nattluften för ett stelnat ögonblick. Förardörren på den blå bilen trycktes in, och han kände trycket när säkerhetsbältet drogs åt kring honom och krockkudden vecklades ut rakt i hans ansikte. Taxins motorhuv trycktes ihop med ett ljud som av en överdimensionerad pantburk som knycklades ihop, och vindrutan sprack i en kaskad av gnistrande glas. Sedan blev allt svart.

Han slog sakta upp ögonen precis i tid för att se ansiktena på männen som lyfte upp honom på båren. De bar bekymrade miner, och talade hastigt med varandra men allt ljud tycktes väldigt avlägset. Han vred på huvudet medan de rullade bort honom mot den väntande ambulansen, och kände sitt blod frysa till is då hans blick föll på sjukvårdarna som metodiskt lyfte ut kropparna av den livlösa barnfamiljen från vraket av den blå Volvon. Ingen av dem lades på någon bår.

Dörrarna till ambulansen stängdes, och sjukvårdarna som lyft in honom skred genast till verket med att kolla hans värden och lägga om hans sår. Och när motorn startade och ambulansen började rulla, såg han genom bakdörrarnas rutor genast hur två starka helljus tändes och följde efter.

Och det var först då han med fasa insåg att han aldrig skulle komma undan, och även varför det var så; vålnader är inte bundna av tid, och kan hemsöka och straffa en person även för något han ännu inte gjort. I ambulansens brummande dunkel kände han uppgivenheten lägga sig som ett dödligt täcke över honom, och han grät för sig själv medan ett ihåligt skratt, som av en mullrande motor, ekade i hans huvud. Aldrig mer skulle han sätta sig i en bil. Aldrig.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2011)

Richard Gimmons had always been deeply fascinated by the dangerous but, as he imagined it, oh so glamorous underbelly of society that hid in plain sight.

He knew perfectly well that reality was not like in the movies, where handsome men in expensive hats drove around in shiny cars and extracted swift but furious vengeance upon their unjust gangster foes in merciless drive bys – and always managed to talk their way out of it afterwards; the police knew that these mobsters were fighting the right fight. But he imagined that the fiction could not have deviated too far from reality.

Rich Gimmons’ own reality, however, deviated a great deal from the fiction. Indeed, the life he led was such that anyone would consider it boring, and your old, half deaf female neighbour would describe it as dull. He went to work every day at eight am dressed in his best grey suit (or one of them, at least, since he owned many), did his job as best as he could, selling ecological soap to unwilling house mothers, and then went home at five pm sharp. Well at home he changed into something more comfortable – usually a turquoise robe and a pair of furry slippers – and got down to business watching somewhat exciting TV thrillers from the safe confines of his old, favourite sofa. At weekends he sometimes visited his mother at the home, always bringing her a bouquet of pink roses, watching talk shows together with her until it was time for him to return home. On some, extremely rare, occasions he allowed himself to be talked into joining his colleagues for one glass after work, but lately he had begun to suspect they only asked him to be nice.

This stagnated habit of his, paired with his just as stagnated personality and lack of both courage and imagination, resulted in two immediate reactions when he one sunny Saturday morning opened up his daily newspaper to find this strange add on the middle page:

“Is your life boring? Do you sometimes watch the news wishing that was you getting fussed over as a victim or a hero on TV? Let us spice your workday up for you! You only need to grab your phone and dial 555-3369BUYACRIME. And you know what? The first one is on the house! Don’t hesitate, we want to her from you today!”

The first of his two reactions was excitement – this add could have been written for him personally. The other reaction was fear. Spicing up his workday? Buy a crime? No way he would have anything to do with such obviously dangerous and… strange affairs. An hour later he dialed the number anyway, his hands shaking slightly as he used them both to hold the phone steady against his ear.

After a couple of signals a pleasant, computerised female voice told him please to wait in line, after which he was entertained with a somewhat catchy tune for a couple of minutes. Just as his fear of the unsafe was beginning to get the upper hand of his patience and curiosity, the music ended abruptly and he heard the sound of a receiver getting picked up.

“Welcome to Life Spice Enterprise! How can we assist you?”

The voice on the other end was charming but, thought Rich, held the timbre of a voice capable of selling the apples back to the tree as well as scaring it into retracting them. He hesitated.

“Hi…”, he said, after a moment slightly too long had passed. “My name is Richard Gimmons, and I would like to… er… I’d like to buy a crime, please”, he blurted out, before he had a chance to change his mind.

The man at the other end let out a polite laugh. “Certainly, sir. What kind of crime would you like to order? We have a respectable selection of both services and entrepreneurs.”

Now Rich’s lack of imagination took its toll, and he started to sweat. How stupid he was! Of course he should have thought about what exactly he wanted to order before he made the call! “I… I don’t know really… Do you have anything to recommend?”

“Well”, said the salesman, and Rich faintly heard him tapping the keys of a keyboard. In the background could be heard the sounds of other conversations, and Rich was reminded of the soundscape at his own office. “In fact I have. We are actually running a special campaign, today-only. You can get a Mugging and Severe Beating for the price of a Simple Pickpocket, if you sign up today. Or is this your first time here?”

Rich nodded and then realised that the salesman couldn’t see him, so he hurried to answer “Yes”.

“Then I have to apologise, sir! Your first order is always for free with us! But I can give you a hint”, he said conspiratorially. “You can choose another kind of crime as your free try, and then also buy the Mugging and Severe Beating for today’s beneficial, heavily reduced price. That way, you can both have the cookie and eat it, so to speak. What do you say?”

Rich knew from his own experience with the salesman-job that he was being talked into something, and that the man at the other end probably got a percentage of every crime he sold. But at the same time he felt that he had taken such a big step even calling this number in the first place, and suspected that he would never be able to work up the courage to do it again did he not strike the deal right away. And he had to admit: it sure sounded like a smart and advantageous deal.

“Sure, I’ll take it”, he said in a voice that sounded ten times more sure of itself than he felt. “I’ll take that Mugging-thing, and…” He searched his brain for ideas for a crime, mentally went through movies he had seen and books he had read. Finally, he came up with the perfect idea. “And also please add a crime where I am dramatically forced off the road when I’m driving in my car”.

“Excellent!” The salesman sounded genuinely rejoiced. “This is a very good choice, especially as it is your free crime; incidents involving vehicles are usually the most expensive ones. Then I’ll just need your name, address and Social Security Number.” Rich gave it to him. “And… Ah, I forgot to ask. Do you intend to benefit from the crimes yourself, or should I write them as a gift certificate for someone you know?”

“No, I would like the crimes for myself, please”, Rich hurried to ensure him. “Both of them.”

“Excellent, excellent.” The frenetic tapping of keys could once again be heard. “And now remains only the tailoring of your order. Do you have any specific wishes concerning time, place, perpetrator or any other circumstances for us to take into account, Mr. Gimmons?”

“No”, Rich answered calmly, his fear of the unsafe momentarily suspended. “Surprise me.”

It was two days later that Rich was jumped on his way home from work. He had just gotten out of the subway station (he sometimes refrained from driving if the weather was rough) when someone knocked him down from behind, snatched his briefcase and started beating him senseless even as his accomplice violently went through Rich’s pockets and removed his wallet and cellphone.

Rich screamed his lungs out, but it was dark and no one was nearby. The robbers left him bleeding on the pavement and took off with his belongings. He must have passed out, because when he came to several people were standing over him, looking concerned, even as a couple of medics were forcing their way through the crowd, yelling for the bystanders to leave room.

He was lifted onto a stretcher and placed in the back of an ambulance. He thought to himself as he saw the last strip of dawn light disappearing between the closing doors that this was probably the first time in his life he was inside an ambulance. This thought felt strangely soothing to him; things were changing.

Two ribs had been broken. And his nose. And three fingers on his left hand. He had suffered a heavy concussion, and a sharp, black field around his right eye made it impossible for him to conceal his sorry state. Apart from all this, he ached all over and had suffered several, less serious injuries that the doctors had said would heal without their intervention. Even so, he had been in hospital for a week and had had to call in sick from work for several days even after he had gotten home. His colleagues sent him flowers, and his insurance company was forced to cough up a respectable sum for his injuries and inconvenience. The TV news even made a small coverage about his ill luck, and the newspapers warned people about walking around alone at night around the area where he had been attacked.

Rich Gimmons began to feel that this being-a-victim business wasn’t so bad after all. His injuries healed pretty quickly, and he could return to work to bask in his new glory. People he had never spoken to before stopped him in the corridor to ask him how he was, and his boss went easier on him than usual – even offered him the first weekend off to rest.

He got in his car after the first work day, smiling as he saw his black eye in the rear view mirror. Maybe life wasn’t so dull and boring after all? He took the highway for a bit, before turning onto one of the smaller mainlines leading to his suburb. The sun was setting and some children were out biking. With helmets, he saw to his satisfaction. He passed them, and steered to the side to let by a pickup truck that was coming up fast from behind. Only it didn’t pass. He only had a moment to get a quick glance of the other driver’s cold stare before he realised what it was all about. He waved and shouted to the other driver to stop, please not now, that he had changed his mind. The driver just shook his head and gave Rich a businesslike smile.

Richard Gimmons’ Sedan was forced sideways off the road, through the crash barrier and down a steep slope. Rich screamed all the way down. He didn’t see the pickup drive away. Neither did he notice when the police and ambulance arrived. Everything went dark when he hit his head on the wheel as his expensive, ultra safe car collided with a beech and turned into a burning wreck.

“Do you have any enemies, Mr. Gimmons?” The policeman wore a stern face and tapped his notepad with his ballpoint pen for every syllable he spoke. “Anyone who would wish to harm you?”

Rich shook his head with effort; the supportive collar they forced him to wear, together with the pain in his neck, made it hard for him to move his head at all. “No, officer, not that I know of”.

Of course he could not tell them about his doings with Life Spice Enterprise, that would only be stupid. He wasn’t even completely sure that ordering crimes to be committed against oneself was fully legal in his state. He continued struggling to spoon yoghurt from the bowl on his lap into his mouth – a real feat when half your face is covered in bandages.

“Are you completely sure?”, the policeman insisted, still tapping his notepad. “Because we can’t help but to find it kind of strange that the same man should be attacked and abused two times in one month, and that these incidents should be completely unrelated.” He gave Rich a concerned but stern look.

“I’m completely sure, officer”, Rich said between mouthfuls. “I’m a completely ordinary guy. I sell soap, watch TV and visit my mother. I don’t even have many friends – how can I have enemies?” The yoghurt tasted of raspberries.

The policeman seemed to agree; Richard Gimmons didn’t seem like the kind of person who would make enemies, or anything else either, for that matter. He thanked Rich for his time, and left the hospital room.

Rich got home from the hospital two weeks later, to find a whole bunch of flowers and presents waiting for him in his apartment. His kindly landlady had obviously been sweet enough to let the deliverymen in with their gods, and he knocked on her door and thanked her for that. Then he spent the whole evening eating chocolate and watching The Godfather I on DVD.

When he got back to work some days later he was greeted with even more attention than the last time, and he felt that he really liked how things had turned out. A reporter from one of the major news channels visited him at work and asked him questions, and later that night he was delighted to see his own face on TV.

Life went on, and for a while his fame held. But as the days turned into weeks, and weeks to months, he noticed that people didn’t acknowledge him as much as they had done in the beginning. He was fear struck when he realised that he was slipping back into his old, boring lifestyle. The first thing he did when he got home from work that night was to call the number from the add that he had saved.

The police was beginning to despair. Richard Gimmons had no enemies, was not involved in any shady activities, had no criminal friends. And still he was repeatedly attacked at seemingly random intervals and under unrelated circumstances. He was on TV several times, and became something of a local hero – even though he had done nothing to deserve it except getting mugged, beaten, robbed, abused and almost murdered more times than a normal person had time to read about in a week. And the police had no means whatsoever to solve the case. In the end they just leaned back and enjoyed the show, hoping that A: it would end eventually, B: the case would solve itself, or C: Richard Gimmons would finally succumb to all the violence directed at him and fall down dead, one less hopeless endeavour to waste resources on. None of this happened.

Rich Gimmons himself was living what he considered the high life, getting recognised in the streets and even receiving mail from a handful of (probably crazed, but what the heck) admirers. People at work had long since begun to regard him as something of a wild card, not knowing if he really was involved in anything or not. Best to be on the safe side, they decided, and Rich found himself nervously shunned by some and treated with almost mob like respect by others. All to his liking.

Therefore he was desperate when he realised one day that his meager pay check, heavily reduced by all his recent sign offs and hospital bills, did not nearly cover his crime expenses. He had been borrowing from his savings account for weeks, and it was beginning to dwindle. And still he needed more crime.

He had thought of the perfect one last night, one where he was threatened by mysterious phone calls for days and then, the evening after receiving a rabbits head in a box at his office (for all his colleagues to witness, of course), forcibly tattooed on the back of his neck and thrown off a bridge with a Bible stapled to one of his legs. This would certainly rouse media’s interest and spice up his life just that extra little bit. But he had gotten a rather great overview of the company’s tariff over the weeks, and knew that this kind of crime would cost a small fortune. Maybe if he wasn’t in hospital so much, and missed out so many days at work, he would be able to afford it. But as it was now, he wasn’t. He hadn’t even been able to pay up for the last installment, and was beginning to worry what would happen if he didn’t pay it soon. He wasn’t afraid they would send thugs to beat him up – that would be getting one for free – but he feared that he would be black-listed as a customer and prevented from placing any new orders in the future. So he called them.

He had learned through experience that there were four regulars working the phones at Life Spice Enterprise, and this time he got number three: a man with a fat voice who couldn’t be anything but corpulent (and probably extremely dangerous, regardless of the pleasant note in his voice as he took the call).

“Welcome to Life Spice Enterprise! How can we help you, sir?”

“Hello, my name is Rich Gimmons.” He had gotten quite sure of himself over the weeks in regular contact with the company. “I have thought of the perfect crime for me.”

The salesman was quiet for a moment, and then replied: “Ah, Mr. Gimmons! I see here that you haven’t carried out the payment for your last purchase yet. I’m sorry to say, but you cannot place a new order until the previous one has been payed for.” He tapped some keys. “Have you lost your invoice? Shall I send you a new one?”

Rich felt despair bubbling inside of him, threatening to take over; he needed this crime! He held it back with some effort. “No, I haven’t lost it. I just… Could I not please get a discount? I am a returning customer, after all…”

“We don’t give discounts on that kind of basis, Mr. Gimmons. We do however have some special offers. Would you like to hear them? You will still need to pay for the previous order, though, of course. Let’s see here…” Rich could hear the salesman going into vendor mode.

“And what if I can’t?”, Rich interrupted. “What if I can’t pay?”

The salesman stopped writing on his computer and was quiet for slightly too long. “Well”, he let ring a short, rhetoric laugh, “We couldn’t very well contact the public debt collection, could we. No, we would simply have to kill you.” He resumed tapping his keyboard. “Now, would you like to hear about our special offers?”

Rich grew all cold inside. Kill him? That was definitely more than he had bargained for. With stiff hands he hung on to the phone like his life depended on it, but couldn’t think of a word to say. He began to shake all over.

“Mr. Gimmons?” The voice at the other end sounded distant and polite. “Mr. Gimmons, are you still there?”

Rich took a deep breath. “Yeah, I’m here”, he said. “Listen. Is there… is there really no way I could get a discount? Or maybe be allowed a part payment?”

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Gimmons”, the salesman replied. “But is there really no way you can pay up?”

Rich didn’t know what to answer. Would they kill him right away if he said no? He cast nervous glances towards the door to his apartment. But still, he actually couldn’t pay…

“No”, he replied after almost half a minute of agonising indecision. “No, I really can’t pay. I have no money left”. He waited in horror for the verdict.

“Hmm… I see”, said the man at the other end of the line, suddenly taking on a completely new kind of businesslike tone of voice. “If you are completely sure…” He tapped his keyboard with a new kind of zeal.

Rich waited and waited, growing more anxious by the minute. “What?!”, he burst out suddenly, too nervous to keep his mouth shut any longer. “What do you mean?”

“Ah, here it is”, the salesman suddenly said, triumphantly. “I have a solution for you. Would you like to hear it?”

“Yes! Yes, of course!”

“Very well, then. I can sign you up for a possibility to work off your debt to our company, and at the same time open up an account where you can save the credits you earn, for later use on our services. How does that sound?”

Rich didn’t believe he had heard the man right – this was too good to be true. “Yeah, that sounds really great! Sign me up!” Then he came to think of something. “How exactly do you mean, work it off?”

The other man adopted his happy-salesman-voice again. “Well, it’s quite simple, really. You know the services that we provide? They are carried out by independent entrepreneurs hired by us. You could be one yourself, and accept contracts from us. The more advanced the contract, the more credits are deposited into your account.”

“So you mean… I can earn money this way?”

The salesman laughed. “No, we do not deal in currency. We deal in services. Don’t you know that it’s a crime to pay prowlers and criminals to commit infringements? It’s called criminal instigation. Instead, all our entrepreneurs have the possibility to cash out their earnings in free services. These services can be enjoyed by themselves or, more commonly, by other individuals decided by the entrepreneur doing the withdrawal. Most of our employees carry out other business alongside the engagements provided by us, in order to earn their living. Their dealings with us are strictly for the sake of being able to extract services and return favours.”

“I see. Well, it sure sounds great. But I’m a bit unsure as to what kind of services I would be able to provide? I have never done anything like this in my entire life.”

“I see here that you have purchased no less than thirty seven crimes during the past two months. Is there nothing from those experiences that you can draw inspiration from? What do you want to specialise in? Hit-and-runs? Poisoned beverages? Sharp shooting? Armed robbery?”

Rich thought for a moment. “Hmm… Maybe hit-and-runs? That doesn’t seem all to complicated to start with.”

“Excellent, Mr. Gimmons! Shall I sign you up as a private contractor, then? You will have to start at the bottom of our list, working your way up doing more and more complicated assignments – and at the same rate you will of course be rewarded with larger and larger salaries.”

“Yes, please”, said Richard Gimmons with a grin. “Will I have to use my own car?”

“No, of course not. We will provide you with vehicles suitable for each particular contract you are assigned to. We will contact you on this number as soon as someone places an applicable order.”

“Okay, that sound great. Sign me up.”

“Splendid! Now you are registered on our list of private entrepreneurs! Your first assignment will of course be a no-payment one, since you still have your unpaid debt to us. But after that, the credits will start rolling in! Isn’t that great? Any more questions?”

“No, all is crystal clear.”

“Great! Then I want to wish you good luck, and am looking forward to hearing about your progress in our company, Mr. Gimmons! Have a good day!”

“Thanks”, Rich said and put down the receiver.

Over the next six months Richard Gimmons made himself busy executing his assignments as best as he could, picking up cars, stalking his taskmasters, analysing their habits and everyday patterns, striking when they expected it the least and making sure not to kill anyone. He was close once, but luckily it ended well. He only got half his salary for that one, though. In time he perfected his methods and rose in reputation within the company.

He found it hard, though, to keep up with his regular job. He managed, but he suspected that the major reason his boss didn’t let him go after repeatedly coming in late (or not at all, when his moonlight assignments got in the way) and doing a generally crappy job at the sales department, was the fact that he was afraid of Rich. It was obvious that he had shady business going, even though nobody could prove it.

He had to move to a smaller apartment, though, to be able to afford the rent with his reduced income. And he didn’t have as much spare time as before to enjoy his saved credits in his company account, and the free crimes they could afford. But he found that he liked his additional job, and was beginning to wonder if this wasn’t something he could do full-time – weren’t it for the fact that his current employers refused to pay him in cash instead of in credits. He was just beginning to consider starting up his own contractor side-business, when the police came to his office one afternoon and arrested him, to his colleagues’ wide eyed excitement.

They asked him in endless interrogations who he worked for, and if he had anything to say about the accusations against him that he was a hired killer for a major crime syndicate.

“No, you’ve got it all wrong”, he assured them calmly. “I’m only a private contractor under a commercial business corporation that trade in commissioned crimes”.

For some reason they mistook this for a confession, and rewarded him with a five years sentence.

During his time inside the bars of the well renowned state prison, Rich Gimmons made many friends. Dangerous friends and powerful friends. These friends would rather suffer torture in Hell than let Rich be thrown out on the street when he had served his time, and to his delight they gave him all the contacts and resources he needed to start up his own business when he got out. The only thing he would have to do in return was to provide free services to their allies every now and then. Great!

So Rich didn’t even bother trying to get his old job back, and he didn’t go back to Life Spice Enterprise, either. He didn’t need to buy crime anymore; he was crime. And he was surprised to notice that he made ten times the money in this new line of work than he had ever done at the office – and the dramatic incidents that he had previously been forced to pay expensive fees to be able to enjoy now came for free as part of his average workday.

Sure, his old pals from prison contacted him every now and then, wanting him to sell stuff for them or to beat someone up. So high was he in demand by them and his regular customers, that he eventually had to hire extra hands to help him keep up. Soon he was in charge of his own little syndicate, and he felt very proud of himself.

Then came the day when he was required to kill a person for the first time. It was an old player who didn’t have the good grace to pay up for his debts to one of Rich’s new friends. Rich, on the other hand, had the good grace to know when to repay past kindness.

He stalked his prey for a couple of days, until he felt sure about his habits and doings. Then he struck, quickly and mercilessly. He felt as if all the past years since he first saw that strange add in the paper had prepared him, groomed him for this very moment. He felt no remorse, only a sense of being born for this. For days afterwards he followed the police investigation through the news, and was satisfied and more than a little bit proud to conclude that they were getting nowhere. Richard Gimmons truly had perfected crime, perfected murder, perfected himself. And his life was very much spicy, nowadays.

Soon he had made a name for himself amongst the lowermost layers of society. If you’re looking for one of the big ones, Richard Gimmons is your man. Yesterday he even dared discovery just for the hell of it, posting a not-so-discrete add in one of the major papers:

“Is your husband boring? Do you ever watch TV wishing that was your troublesome neighbour getting pushed down a roof in that movie? Let us spice your boss’ coffee up for him! You just have to grab your phone and dial 666-137KILLYOURDARLINGS. And you know what? The first one is on the house! Don’t hesitate, we want to hear from you today!”

Did anybody call? Well, that’s another story for another time. The point it that Richard Gimmons had managed to perfect crime. And is there a market for it? Yes, indeed, there is, I can assure you. There is.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2011)

Driving through the desert, Liam wondered – not for the first time – what could have driven his old friend to leave everything and just disappear. His had been a great employment at a fancy magazine, and from what he himself had gathered in the way of clues and information, there had been no shortage of beautiful company to kill the time in between assignments with. But Patrick was gone, there was no question about that. The fact that his disappearance had left a job open for Liam as a photographer at the before mentioned magazine did not help keeping his thoughts off the matter.

The police hadn’t found anything that would indicate a crime, and had dismissed the whole matter as just another case of young men running away. Liam hadn’t been as sure about that diagnosis when he had returned home after several years abroad just to find his childhood pal missing, and in any case he would want to find Patrick and try to help him out of whatever shit he had gotten himself into during his absence. So here he was, driving alone through the autumn twilight along the desert highway where Patrick was last spotted, wondering.

He had not planned on stopping for the night until he reached the next city, but suddenly he felt his eyelids getting heavier and his thoughts going all dreamy and disconnected. Before he had any time to wonder about this sudden sleepiness, he saw the light in the distance. Faintly shimmering, the warm glow woke him up a little – just enough to close the distance between himself and its source. When he got closer he saw that the building had three floors and was surrounded by several smaller sheds, garages and quite a large, well kept lawn decorated with some apple trees and surrounded by a small fence.

The light did not come from any of the windows, which were all dark, but from a small candle flame in the hand of a woman standing in the doorway. She was the first detail Liam noticed – not until he was right in front of the opening in the fence did he notice the sign that announced the building as being a hotel. Dazed, he drove up and parked his car in front of the house and got out. The woman had an eerie beauty about her that was kind of unsettling, but he pushed those thoughts away as he approached her on slow moving legs.

“My name is June”, she said. He thought that she was smiling, but he wasn’t sure. “Welcome to the hotel, we have plenty of room!” And before he had a chance to answer, she turned around and disappeared into the darkness. He had no choice but to follow her inside. Somewhere along the way they passed a reception desk, and he was made to sign his name in a tome like ledger.

She showed him the way up some stairs and into a long corridor, and he thought he heard the voices of the other guests somewhere further on. They stopped in front of a door, and she unlocked it and handed him the key. “Your room”, she said.

“Thank you”, he replied and looked inside. The room was large and contained a spacious bed, a bathroom and a table with an old telephone on top and some chairs. No television set. “Have you by any chance had a guest recently who went by the name of Patrick Day?”, he asked absentmindedly. But when he turned his head towards her again, she was gone.

He made himself at home as best as he could in his room, and noticed several things. The first was that the room had a balcony, overlooking a small courtyard at the back of the main building. The second thing was that the room really had a television, but a small one in black and white hidden away in a closet. The third thing he discovered was the thing that disturbed him the most (not that the balcony was in the least disturbing, but the bad quality TV certainly was): taped to the underside of the tabletop was an envelope that seemed quite modern. Written on it was only this: “Patrick Day, 21/6”. Liam froze when he read this – the date indicated that Patrick had been here not two months ago, just around the time of his disappearance.

Uneasily he brought the envelope with him out on the balcony and sat down in the wicker chair that stood there. With not so steady hands he started opening it, when he began hearing faint music from below. He cast a glance down, and saw to his surprise that there was light streaming from all the windows now, onto the courtyard. Even in the windows of the smaller buildings there was light. The yard was really quite beautiful now that he could really see it, with roses growing on espaliers along the brick walls and garlands of ivy spanning the air above the courtyard. The music sounded live, but he could not detect it’s source. What he could see, though, was that the other guests of the hotel had come out to dance to it in the last twilight rays of the sleepy sun.

They were all young, as far as he could see, and all male. Maybe some kind of bachelor party out here in the middle of nowhere? He opened the envelope at last, and read the letter inside. It was not written for him, but that wasn’t surprising. But it didn’t seem to be written for anyone else in particular, either. “To whoever reads this”, it was addressed. Liam’s eyes widened more and more the further he read, and when he was finished he just sat there, staring at the piece of paper in his hands. Patrick had come here at will, investigating for his magazine a spree of disappearances of young men on this particular stretch of highway; this hotel had caught his attention when he passed it. The letter told Liam that the hotel was not in any tourist guide, but that it had been – several decades ago. He now suspected that someone was using it as a blind for some other kind of activity – possibly of the more sinister and illegal kind. Perhaps the disappearances had to do with people passing through by chance, and happening upon something they weren’t meant to see?

In any case Patrick had felt uneasy about staying at the hotel, and had suspected that someone was on to his investigation. He had caught the other guests (and the sparse staff, even) casting him strange and ominous glances. Were they all in on it? Patrick urged whoever read his letter to tread with the outermost care, since he would have removed the hidden envelope himself if he had ever left the hotel.

Liam put the letter inside the envelope again, and turned it over thoughtfully. And there, written in the same handwriting but much more hastily, was this: “The portrait in the lobby.” Quickly he stood up, overturning the chair in the process. Tucking the letter inside his pocket, he grabbed his camera bag and hurried to the door. There was a story here, and if he could not find his friend he would at least uncover the circumstances behind his disappearance. Just as he got to the door, though, there was a knock on it. Without really thinking about it, Liam opened it. Outside stood an old man, dressed all butler style and holding a handkerchief and a fancy looking notepad.

“Can I get you something to drink, sir?”, he asked monotonously in a voice that made a little chill crawl down Liam’s spine.

“Uh… Sure”, he answered, anxious to be rid of the man. “A glass of wine or whatever would be nice”. He started to push past the old man, when he suddenly saw the tired smile on his face.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we haven’t been serving that kind of spirit here since the master passed away several decades ago. I would recommend our fine champagne, though, if I may, sir.”

Liam paused for a moment, overcome by this sudden strangeness, but got himself together finally and answered quickly “Yeah, champagne will be fine, yeah. Excuse me, I’ll just…”, and the man moved aside for him to let him leave the room.

After several episodes of trial and error, he found himself back in the hotel’s lobby, staring at a huge painting of what could not be anything else than this very building; the sign even read Hotel in spindly, brush stroke letters. In front of it were painted two people, a man and a woman. No, not a woman. The woman. She who had let him in earlier. They looked happy at first glance – this was obviously a wedding portrait – but at closer inspection he could see that the woman wasn’t really smiling but just pretending to smile. It was something in her eyes… Then he noticed the date in the lower right corner, where the artist’s unreadable signature could also be found. June, 1969. Then how come the woman looked exactly the same still? And was the man the diseased master the porter had been talking about?

He turned around at a sudden noise behind him, and started in fright as he found himself face to face with the mysterious mistress of the house. Even now, in the light of this strangeness, he found her eerily attractive – and there was no doubting that this was really the same woman as in the painting, not a day older.

“I can explain”, she stated in a soft voice that made him believe her – that made him want to believe her. The music was still flowing in from outside, but Liam didn’t really care about anything else but her deep blue eyes.

She brought him back to her chamber, where the porter was just finishing setting a table for the two of them, with high glasses of pink, sparkling liquid. They sat down, and the porter left them. This was a much larger room than his, with beautiful (and probably expensive) furniture and, as he noticed, a ceiling completely covered in mirrors that cast the light from the chandelier all over the place.

“Drink”, she said, and he did. He kept throwing longing glances in the direction of the large bed, secretly hoping they would end up there, but in the end he was all but lost in her eyes as she seductively compelled him to tell her all about himself. He didn’t know how much he had told her, when she finally began to speak again in that calm, flowing voice he could not help but fall in love with.

She told him about her husband, the owner and master of the hotel. She told him about the wedding, about the summer they had spent together running the place and about all the ways in which he had failed to please her. Then she told him about her others – her secret lovers, all young and beautiful. She was so unhappy, couldn’t he see? It was no wonder that in the end it had gotten out and her husband had been furious. She told Liam about the fight that had started autumn and ended everything. About how her lovers had gone in between to protect her from his wrath at discovering the secret, and about how in the heat of the battle someone had drawn the first knife. A candelabra had turned over. The fire had broken out.

“The fire?”, he said. For some reason he felt quite groggy now. What was he drinking? “But nothing seems to have gotten burned…”

Then he happened to looked out one of the huge windows and saw, down on the ground and hidden behind one of the smaller buildings on the premises, a fiery red Mercedes Benz. Patrick’s car.

“We’re all prisoners here”, she said dreamingly. “Prisoners of our own device.”

The room started to spin around him, and Liam felt himself falling from his chair. Not champagne…

He awoke to the sound of screaming. There was something in his hand, and he didn’t feel all too well. He turned his head, and had to steel himself for what he saw. A man was lying on the huge bed, surrounded by half a dozen robed figures and screaming as they plunged their gleaming daggers into him, again and again and again. As one of them raised it’s bloody hand for yet another blow, the hood slid back just a little and Liam let out a scream in alarm. Patrick turned his head and looked at him, a zealous smile on his otherwise alarmingly expressionless face. Then he turned again his attention to the grizzly work at hand.

Liam scrambled to his feat and lunged for the door in a fear frenzy. In the action he struck a tall candle holder by mistake and felt the intense heat as the flames instantly caught a velvet drapery and started to consume it. The fire was roaring deafeningly by the time he reached the door, just as if it had only been waiting for the chance to break out. The last thing he laid eyes upon before he threw himself out of the room was a feline figure standing in a corner, spectating it all with a cruel and satisfied smile on her beautiful face.

He had to find the way out, but he hadn’t been paying attention when the woman led him here. After an eternity of wrong turns he finally found himself back in the corridor where his own room was. He considered making a dash for his luggage, but by now the whole floor was filled with smoke and he knew that where there was smoke, fire would be soon to follow.

Down the stairs he ran and was soon back in the lobby. The large painting had already caught fire and in it the red brick building was going up in flames. How come he hadn’t noticed all the scars on the groom’s face the last time he looked at it? Desperately he stared at the painting, and first now he remembered he was holding something. It wasn’t his camera – it lay on the floor before him. A voice behind him brought him back to reality.

“Please relax, sir”, the butler like porter said. “Anything I can do for you?”

Liam turned to stare at him. How could the man act so calmly? “I’m getting the fuck out of here!”, he exclaimed, but was still quite unable to move. Why in hell was he holding a knife…?

“Certainly, sir”, the porter answered, moving to go get the heavy ledger. “You can check out any time you’d like, but I’m afraid you can never leave.”

He was wearing those same fucking robes…! The heat and smoke was starting to get to him.

He awoke to the sound of live music from the courtyard. He sure felt like dancing.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2011)

”En nyckel är ett verktyg för att öppna dörrar. Men det finns många olika sorters dörrar”, hörde hon plötsligt från skuggorna bakom disken. När hon vände sig såg hon den gamle mannen betrakta henne intensivt över den långa träpipa han just tänt.

Hon kastade en blick på burken hon höll i händerna och ställde genast ned den. Otaliga små nycklar av alla slag rasslade till när den slog i bordet med en större smäll än hon avsett.

”Ja…”, svarade hon osäkert, och skrattade sedan nervöst till. ”Med vad har man för nytta av en burk full med nycklar om man inte har låsen de går till?”

Mannen blossade på pipan och betraktade henne med en betänksam och svårtydbar min. ”Vissa lås känner man igen först när man ser dem”, sade han svävande. ”Jag tror nog att du skulle ha mer nytta av den där burken än du tror”.

Han vinkade åt henne att ta med burken fram till honom, vilket hon också gjorde med en förbryllad rynka mellan ögonbrynen. Mannen plockade upp en nyckel och ögnade den genom sina glasögon, varefter han räckte över den till henne. ”Ta burken, du. Du får den. Och om du har någon nytta av den, kom gärna tillbaka och berätta.” Därefter vände han sig resolut tillbaka till det korsord han suttit med när hon kom in, och lämnade henne stående med en immig syltburk framför sig och en rostig nyckel i handen. Samtalet var avslutat.

Förvirrad lade hon nyckeln i fickan, lyfte upp burken och kände dess något flottiga yta mellan händerna. Ringen på vänster hand klickade mot glaset när hon tog upp den, och funderade över vad i hela fridens namn hon skulle med alla nycklarna till. Kanske att jag kan bygga smycken av dem, tänkte hon när hon med tankspridda steg klev ut genom dörren och lämnade antikboden för solskenet utanför.

Saker och ting hade inte varit lätt den här hösten – inte efter att huset brann i slutet av augusti. Det hade inte gått att fastställa brandorsaken, men själv misstänkte hon att boven var en platta som hon själv glömt på när hon och Anders åkt för att handla. Självklart hade hon inte sagt något om detta till försäkringsbolaget, och en respektabel summa hade gått att inkassera som kompensation. Frågan var nu bara om pengarna någonsin skulle komma att användas till restaurering.

Hon låste upp dörren till lägenheten och ställde ifrån sig glasburken på telefonbordet i hallen. Medan hon packade ur matkassarna hon inhandlat på vägen hem, tänkte hon på Anders. Han var den som velat driva på återbyggnationen. Kanske temporärt flytta in i en tvåa i närheten av gamla huset, ta ledigt från jobbet och satsa allt på att återställa så mycket som möjligt innan vintern gjorde bygget svårt. Hon själv var långt ifrån säker på vad hon ville.

Lägenheten kändes tom. Hon var inte van vid att bo ensam efter tjugo år som sambo, men hon hade i alla fall valt själv. Förevändningen var jobbet – att det var mycket lättare för henne att ta sig till sjukhuset under jour om hon bodde inne i stan än om de skaffade en gemensam lägenhet i byn. Det var omöjligt för henne att ta så pass mycket ledigt som bygget skulle kräva. Det var vad hon hade hävdat i de påföljande grälen efter branden. Varför ville han så gärna lägga arbete på huset?

När hon satte sig i soffan med en kopp irish coffee mellan händerna tänkte hon på sin mamma. Det var mammas hus hon hade bränt ned – huset som mamma vuxit upp i – och hon undrade vad hon skulle säga om hon visste. Huset hade varit ett sista minne, och hon hade ibland kunnat föreställa sig att mamma fanns där någonstans och vakade över familjen. Att bygga upp på nytt kändes nästan som ett hån mot minnet; det skulle inte vara samma sak, och att låtsas något annat vore att ljuga för sig själv.

Koppen var bara halvtom när hon bestämde sig för att det var dags för sängen. När hon gick förbi telefonbordet övervägde hon för ett ögonblick att ringa Anders, men tröttheten och minnet av deras senaste, högljudda gräl för nio dagar sedan fick henne att låta bli. Och att ringa Lisa var det inte frågan om; dottern hade flyttat hemifrån ett år tidigare, och hade sedan dess hört av sig enbart en handfull gånger. Hon hade absolut ingen vilja att vara den jobbiga mamman som tyngde sin dotter med problem. Som av ett infall tog hon dock med sig glasburken med nycklarna när hon släpade sig iväg mot sovrummet. Den skulle nog blänka fint i ljuset från förbipasserande nattchaufförer på fönsterbrädet ovanför sängen, och om inte annat ge henne något att titta på under de rastlösa timmarna före gryningen som obönhörligen lämnade henne sömnlös.

Klick, som av en nyckel som vrids om i sitt lås.

”Mamma? Vart ska jag lägga ditt armband som jag lånade?” Spring i benen och solsken genom nyputsade fönster. Lisa har på sig sin nya, blommiga klänning och är glatt nyhemkommen från skolavslutningen i kyrkan. Hon kan riktigt höra leendet i ögonen hos sin dotter från där hon själv står hukad framför ugnen där mat för den sommarlovsfirande familjen gör sig klar för bordsvernissage.

”Lägg det på byrån, gumman! Och tvätta händerna sedan för snar är det mat!” Lasagne – Lisas favoritmat.

”I byrån?” Ljudet av en låda som mödosamt dras ut.

Ja, vad spelar det för roll? ”Ja, det blir bra det, gumman! Glöm inte smutsen under naglarna!”

Klirr, som av en tunn metallkedja som trillar ned mellan träskivor medan ivriga steg avlägsnar sig mot badrummet.

Hon vaknade sakta som från en lång sömn, och upptäckte förvånat att det redan var morgon. För en gångs skull hade hon lyckats sova natten igenom. Hon kastade en blick på bruken på fönsterbrädet, och mindes plötsligt en dröm hon haft. En dröm om guldarmbandet hon tappat för så många år sedan – som hon också hade fått efter sin mamma. Nu när hon tänkte på det, visst hade Lisa lånat armbandet till sin skolavslutning i fyran? Hade hon plötsligt kommit ihåg var det hamnade efteråt – i den gamla byrån? Snabbt reste hon sig och skyndade ut till telefonen i hallen.

Några nervösa signaler. ”Ja hallå, det är Lisa?”

En sekunds tvekande tystnad. ”Ja hej, gumman! Det är mamma!”

Ännu en sekund. ”Nej men hej mamma! Hur är det med dig? Jag hörde om huset…”

Isen var bruten. ”Ja, nej det är ingen fara, gumman, det ordnar sig… Men jag tänkte fråga om du har kvar den gamla byrån du fick när du flyttade? Du vet, den i trä?” Tänk om hon inte hade den?

”Ja, det har jag. Ingen risk att jag skulle göra mig av med den. Vadå då?”

Osäker. Var det här fånigt långsökt? ”Jo, jag tänkte höra om du kunde vara snäll och kika i bottnen på den. Under lådorna alltså. Jag tror att mitt armband kan ha trillat ned där.”

”Ja då, vänta…” En stunds tystnad, bruten då och då av skrammel. ”Ja, nu är jag tillbaka! Det låg faktiskt där under! Vad är oddsen för det?” Glädje i rösten, mammas flicka inte alls sådär spänd och avståndstagande längre.

”Nej, vad är oddsen?” Hon sneglade in mot nyckelburken i sovrummet.

Dagen hade varit hård. Akutfallen hade haglat in, och hon slängde sig på soffan så fort hon kom innanför dörren. På Tv visades Dr. Phill – ett utmärkt sömnpiller. Bara vila ögonen lite innan middagen.

Klick…

Dörren öppnas med ett svagt, hemtrevligt knarrande. Ingen olja i världen kunde få ordning på de här gamla gångjärnen. Inne i rummet råder ett mysigt dunkel, och sprakandet från den öppna spisen är det enda som bryter tystnaden. Det, och knirpandet från mammas gamla gungstol. När hon ser sig omkring lägger hon först märke till att det är de gamla tapeterna och gardinerna igen – de som satt uppe innan hon och Anders flyttade in. Sedan märker hon att det sitter någon i gungstolen.

”Mamma?” Hon går framåt och tror inte sina ögon när hennes gamla mamma vänder sig mot henne. Ljuset från elden blänker i glasögonen, och hon har den gröna filten över knäna. Precis som hon minns det.

”Ja men lilla hjärtat, hur är det fatt?” Mamma sträcker sig fram och tar tag i hennes hand.

”Mamma, jag brände ned huset. Allt är förstört…” Tårarna kommer när som helst.

”Men kära du, allting är väl inte förstört?” Det där leendet hon aldrig glömmer.

”Jo… Jag förstörde ditt hus, mamma. Och nu har jag förstört allt med Anders också.”

Mamma skakar på huvudet och tittar in i brasan. ”Det här huset var min dröm, när jag levde. Jag är otroligt glad att du ville ta hand om huset när jag försvann, men jag har ingen glädje av det längre. Och jag vill inte behöva se min dotter sörja ihjäl sig över lite bränt trä. Jag hade huset hela mitt liv, och är lycklig att jag fick sluta mina dagar där. Men dina dagar är inte slut, hjärtat. Långt ifrån. Det går alltid att bygga nytt. Bygg din egen dröm, jag kommer alltid att vakta över dig och Lisa, vart ni än bor.”

Tårarna rinner, ostoppbara. ”Men Anders… Jag tror att det är förstört mellan oss.”

Mamma möter hennes blick igen. ”Jag har sett er tillsammans, och jag vet att det inte är förstört. Ring honom, om det är det du vill. Allting kommer att ordna sig.”

”Så… du är inte arg?”

”Lilla älskling, hur skulle jag kunna vara arg på dig? Seså, vakna nu. Du har mycket att göra.”

Hon vaknade, rödgråten men med ett ovanligt lugn över sig. Kanske, ändå…

Tomten såg ut som hon mindes den. Svartbränd husgrund, med tunt gröngräs som letat sig upp här och var. När hon trampade runt bland bråten kom hon åt något med foten. När hon plockade upp det märkte hon att det var ett lås – den gamla sorten, sådana som suttit på dörrarna här innan hon och Anders bytt ut dem. Hur kunde det finnas kvar? Som av ett infall stoppade hon handen i fickan, och tog upp nyckeln hon fått häromdagen. Hon förde in den i låset, och häpnade när den passade perfekt. Hon vred om, och hörde ett skrapande klickljud.

”Nämen, är du här?” Hon vände sig hastigt om för att se Anders komma gående mot henne genom bråten. ”Jag tänkte komma hit och mäta lite, men jag visste inte att du skulle hit!”

Hon såg det osäkra leendet på hans ansikte. Han hade velat kämpa för hennes skull, insåg hon nu. Och hon hade blivit arg och lämnat honom i ovisshet. Hon gick emot honom, sprang sista biten och kastade armarna runt honom. ”Nu bygger vi”, sade hon leende när hon kände att han omfamnade henne tillbaka.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2011)

After quite a miserable life Mr. Collins was sent to Hell to atone for his sins. It so happens that no matter how long is the period of time you actually spend in that steaming place, it is perceived by all on the inside as at least thirty years. Don’t ask me why. I don’t know why.

Anyways, it so turned out that for him, the Purgatory was really not that bad. Not worse than the stinking life he’d led on the surface, at least. So while the torture and burning and lashing and flaying wore on, Mr. Collins used the massive amount of relatively passive time to think. And after years of thinking he got the idea for a book. A book so innovative and fresh thinking that it would without question be the best book in the world – if it was ever written, that is.

Decades after his arrival in Hell, a plump man in a gray suit approached him on the rack. He wore an apologetic look and insisted on shaking hands, even though Mr. Collins’ hands were rather… sticky. He explained that regretfully, there had been a minor misunderstanding concerning Mr. Collin’s lodging, and that of course they would see to it that he was properly compensated for his unnecessary suffering. Obviously this situation was very embarrassing for the family company, and they would appreciate it if he didn’t speak of the incident to his friends.

It was arranged so that he was sent back to earth with a full refunding and a promise of a long and pleasant Second Life as a small but oh, so well meaning apology for the conceivable complications caused by this error on the company’s behalf.

Mr. Collins shrugged and went home, only to discover that his house had been sold in an executive auction during his absence. So he checked into a hotel and started writing his book by hand on copier paper. Three weeks later he finished and could conclude that it really did turn out the best book in the world. The hotel porter, after a quick review, could confirm that this was unquestionably the case.

The manuscript was sent to several major publishing houses, all of which returned within short, completely afire with enthusiasm for what they labeled “the potential bestseller of the century”. All made Mr. Collins juicy offers, but he settled with the one that, among other things, offered him a lifetime subscription of the New York Times and a well bred puppy of his own choice. He didn’t have very high demands on his Second Life.

He moved into a nice villa overlooking Toluca Lake and lived very happily there for the rest of his life. He attracted many fans who had read the Book, and met more women in one year than he had talked to during the whole of his First Life, but he only married one of them. He never wrote another book, and he didn’t go back to Hell.

***

Ms. Morris found a copy of the best book in the world lying on top of her kitchen table one day. She read it in lack of better occupation, and then read it again. And again. She felt that it really fulfilled its promise about strengthening the reader in taking hold of her own life and granting her the tools to follow her own dreams. That’s why she sneaked out of the house the next day and headed for the city.

She had a clear picture in mind of just what parts of herself she wanted to change and how, and it didn’t take her long to find the people who could help her with that. The kindly doctor at the plastic surgery clinic was careful to let her understand that they usually did not do cats, but that for such a charming lady as herself they would be sure to make an exception.

A few hours later she walked out of the clinic, happily testing out her new very own dashing woman’s legs. Dressed in some borrowed clothes she set out to explore the city from a somewhat higher point of view than usual. She attracted many impressed looks and would soon find that her new life was to be a pleasant one. The only thing she would have to work a little with was her skittish and feline nature, that seemed not always to fit in with the way that humans expected a young woman to behave. Except for that, she was very happy with her decision to change. And all thanks to the best book in the world

***

Chris Larkman was a sorry figure until he passed by the bookstore one rainy day by chance, and happened to pick up a copy of the best book in the world. He was a slow reader, but a week later he quit his job as a public toilet cleaner and started working on his very own solo album as a singer-songwriter. It just so happened that the owner of one of the major record companies had finished reading the very same book only the night before Chris’ ill recorded demo was sent to him. The book had touched him in a weak spot, and had made him decide to start taking more risks with new talents, instead of just betting on the safe old horses. As it turned out, this was a very profitable bet. You have probably heard of Chris – under another name, of course – since he is now one of the leading pop musicians of our time. To think that we would have missed out on him if it weren’t for the best book in the world!

***

Mrs. Louis drove her car to work every day. Until the day she read the best book in the world, that is. After that, she sold her Ford and instead bought herself a nice, blue bike. Now she go by bicycle to work everyday, and is starting to consider participating in her area’s big bicycle race next summer. She don’t even know she was running a high risk for diabetes before she started exercising, and now she will never have to find that out, either. Thanks to the book.

***

Ted was being bullied at school by a boy a year older than him. As a last resort to cheer him up, his mother borrowed him a copy of the best book in the world from the local library. He was a lonely kid, so he finished it in one day. The next day he went to school hell-bent on striking back. Funny thing is, though, that the bully – Jim, he was called – had been reading the book too. He answered Ted’s wallop with not another blow, but with an apology. Today they are best friends. What a great book, huh?

***

Ms. Jamieson finally got herself an apartment of her own. Jack Finnings broke up with his abusive wife and started dating a top model. Simon Curtis chose the police academy instead of the safer but more boring economy program that his parents recommended. Lisa Watson started her own fight club, went to jail for it and met the love of her life behind the bars. Jill practiced for weeks and at last managed to beat the district record in Counter Strike. Mrs. Henrikson finally finished the oil painting she began when she was in junior high, forty years earlier. The book changed the lives of all who read it, and always to the better in some strange way. It made everyone happy that it came in contact with.

***

Except, of course, for God. God started worrying when his angels began complaining about job scarcity, and when even the easy-going Raphael mentioned that he’d been suffering from boredom lately, God decided to look into the affair. It turned out that the phrase “God helps those who help themselves” doesn’t really work out in practice. Well, it certainly makes Heaven’s work a whole lot easier if some people just stop complaining and do something about their problems themselves, but it is another thing completely if all people suddenly decide to help themselves. That makes God feel obsolete and supernumerary. And that isn’t a good thing. Unfortunately, that is just what the best book in the world managed to accomplish.

That’s why God banished the book from Earth and let his vengeful angels throw it into Hell, lest they go on strike and force the Lord to go into the troublesome business of sorting out a celestial rising.

The best book in the world was returned to where it’s idea was first conceived, ’cause even though it’s contents was very much in line with the supernal, it was also doing its work. Nobody ever read the book again, except for the sorry souls in Hades, of course. And I’m sure they found it very useful. But the lives that had already been changed by it remained so, and the Nether Family Company greatly enjoyed this little haphazard consequence of their precedent malpractice – that was by the way completely forgotten thanks to this chain of events. So advantageous was the minor chaos caused by the book, in fact, that they did not back away from the possibility of some day staging another, similar, practical joke on Heaven.

Who knows where next year’s top ranking novel will have been written?

(Christina Smedbakken, 2010)

Golden walls in this palace, perpetual twilight atmosphere. Countless hexagonial windows overlooking the grand hall, overlooking the Queen’s court. Patrolling this place are the young maidens, armed with black swords, dressed to kill in the name of their mistress. They have yet to see the introduction of the male knights, but rumours abound.

In the great throne room sits the Queen Mother, goddess and matron of all. She knows them all by name, because they share one and are one. She expects them to serve, just as they expect her to ensure their survival. It is not protection they need; in the way of the sword they all by far exceed her. But she carries a divine endowment that none of them share. The spell of life’s creation.

Audience in the throne hall. The walls shiny with hard earned glory, the throne a monument to all the courtiers have ever known and worshiped. Mistress of all, queen and mother. The goddess speaks to them, beckons them closer. Black swords sheeted, heads bowed in silent reverence.

They all see the signs, and know a brooding yet inexplicable sensation of impending doom. The voice in their heads. The goddess is expecting, what joy. But there is forboding in her ageless eyes, she knows the truth as well.

Sun in their faces as they move out, wind under their crystaline wings. Is the air colder now? Death and violence to all they encounter. Where they just recently dug for gold in the name of their Queen, they are now murdering and abducting in the name of her coming children. Word spreads like wildfire. Their prey, the commoners, try to hide, try to run. But they are the royal guard, the shieldmaidens of the Golden Palace. Nobody escapes their fury. And in their wrath, somewhere deep inside, they harbour a vain hope that somehow these horrible deeds will keep their mistress from dying.

Returning to the Palace, this castle they helped build themselves in their youth, the army carries with it not gold but living and breathing game. Merciless slaughter next, pouring blood in the sacred halls. No remorse in their hearts, only the Queen’s voice in their minds singing the song of righteous deeds. This will surely save her.

The screams have long since died out, no echoes between the mute castle walls. Only the Queen herself voicíng her woe as she walks from room to room, preparing and reviewing each and every recess before the birth of her children. Her guards waiting silently, anxiously, for the point of no return. They cannot know what it means; they have never been through this part of the cycle. But they can feel it in their hearts, the truth of generations come before, the truth of the beginning of the end.

Queen, goddess, mistress, mother. Their sacred divinity is dying. Attending her night and day the honour guard stand helpless before the cold reality. Come autumn, the subject of their devotion will be no more.

Hate in their hearts for the new brood, princes and princesses young enought to be eligible of no odium. Nevertheless sorrow did not enter the palace until in company with them. Feasting day and night upon the carcasses brought fromout this secluded haven they grow stronger and stronger. And the thing most vexing to the knightesses, apart from the explict order not to harm the young ones, is the unignorable fact of the heirs’ beauty. Never, apart from in the presence of their matron, have they seen creatures so fair as these. Their golden hair lush with life, their dark eyes filled with death.

Time and summer passes. One little princess, randomly chosen from the lot, wanders alone in her mother’s castle. Guards everywhere, jealous, spiteful glances in the eyes of many. But the princess has grown. She is not a child anymore. She knows her mother will not outlive the sun, but who will take her place?

On the balcony, feeling the wind in her golden hair, almost blowing her away. Soldiers here, too, but no men. Why is that? Only her brothers, but they are acting strangely. Always striving to leave the palace. Not old enough yet, though. Her sisters just like her, longing for safety. But are they not safe in the palace? Something telling her it is not so. A read leaf blowing past…

Another sunrise, another dawn closer to the fall. One little prince has taken off. Just as well, says the Captain. Only misfortune in their wake. More will go soon. The little princess stands on the balcony, watching him leave. Maybe he will find what he is looking for. Will she?

Colder days, longer nights. The Queen has not much time left, they all know it. The Captain chases the remaining princes away. Some of the young princesses leave, too. One little princess goes to see her mother, but is not let in. Filth, she is, death for the Mother. The little princess runs away, crying.

Out of the palace, over the fields. The Captain said she would be killed did she remain. No wish to die, has she. Safety gone, no home and no Mother. Only the black sword that is her inheritance. An old tree gives her shelter for the rain and the darkness. Wild animals in the night, and angry spirits who wish her harm for what has been done in her mother’s name. The little princess does not remember eating all that flesh.

Dawn upon the dew coated world. Or is it maybe melted frost? A voice on the wind, singing her name. Does she really have a name? Now she does. A young man, not much older than her, climbing onto her branch. Beautiful eyes, fair hair. She sings, too. Gives him a name. A prince from a faraway land he is, and in accordance with all princes’ vows of love he bears no sword on his golden armour. Still he knows her pain. The song goes on and on; the day and summer ends.

All the way back, hastily. Time passes in a rush in the eye of bliss, almost no leaves remaining. Joy and excitement, Mother will surely want to know. The prince, the prince, has gone away. The little princess wonders where. But somehow it does not matter. In some way she feels complete now. A destiny fulfilled.

The Golden Palace ahead, but a darkness brooding. Was it this way when she left? Dark windows, dark clouds. No guards at the gate. Anxiety rising inside her.

She enters. The gold is gone, the first thing she notices. The second, the guards not on their posts. Noises. Screaming. Crying. Further inside, fear getting a grip. Now she sees it. Madness, madness. The guards have gone mad. Crying, screaming, tearing down the walls. Hatred as they look at her, hatred that she is the one responsible.

Confusion, fear. She reaches the throne room. Mother? But woe, Mother does not answer. Lying on her throne, in the golden room. Countless windows overlooking. The little princes approaches her Queen, goddess, mistress, mother. Time stops. The Queen’s eyes are empty, her body devoid of all divine spark. Tears for the princess, the mother is dead.

The guards reach the throne room, start tearing down the walls. Gold falling everywhere. They reach the throne, tearing it down as well. Princess crying, screaming, pulling, fighting. No avail. They refuse to see her, hear her. The roof is coming down. Flight.

Hearing the mad screams of the guards dying in the Palace, a little princess flies across the fields. Sun is setting on this first day of fall. Where to hide? Where to break? The sound of crumbling gold far behind her. The prince, where is he? Calling, singing, searching.

She finds him on the ground, under the tree where they first sang. Cold, dead, already partly eaten by smaller creatures. Shock, tears. The breaking has begun. Did he lie here all the time, fallen from the branch as she slept? Dead all the time after their coming together in the canopy? Could she have saved him? Selfish, selfish princess. No mother, no lover. Only one princess with a terrible, joyful secret. Nightfall.

A tree becomes her shelter as the first heavy flakes of white start to fall from the heavens. Winter, the season of death and hiding for creatures like her. Tired she is, tired of it all. Once loved, once hated. Now, noone remains to grant her those feelings. Death all around. Only sleep remains.

One little princess, randomly choosen from a brood of many, sleeps silently inside a hollow tree as the world turns white and quiet. She is not found by hostile beasts, but her dreams are troubled. In time, though, they give way for other dreams as the smaller lives inside her grow and take hold. The new dreams are of spring, of awakening to a world newly born. Of rippling creeks and sprouting seeds, of a sun returning at last to it’s rightful realm.

And on that first day of spring awakening, she dreams, a little wasp princess, hair golden and eyes black, will crawl out of her tree. She will fly high in the warming sunshine, heavy with the seeds of new beginnings past given her by a dead prince, looking for a place suitable for the building of her own Golden Hive Palace.

And there, finally, she will find peace and safety – Queen, goddess, mistress, mother.

(Christina Smedbakken 2011)

There are and always will be soul collectors in this world.

A long time ago, in the years when your great grandmother was young, there lived in a small village near to the great forest a young man with his mind full of dreams. In the year of this story’s place taking, the summer was as warm, green and beautiful as a summer can ever be dreamt to be, and the village enjoyed itself accordingly. Festivities were being held almost once a week at the dancing place in the middle of the forest, where the swirling river met the lake, and the joyful mood inspired this specific young man – a violin player – to propose to the object of his lifelong affection. The girl accepted gladly, and for many weeks they met and danced together at the gatherings in the forest.

Tradition had it that a couple may not undertake the wandering to these gatherings together until they were wed, and thus this young man walked alone or together with his friends to the festivities each week, to meet up with his future bride at the scene of the dancing. The young two were very happy and everyone looked forward to the forthcoming wedding.

But fate wanted it otherwise. One evening, when the air was even more pleasantly warm than usual, and the birds sang clearer than ever in the trees, the young man happened to walk on his own to the gathering, since he was late and all his friends had gone before him. When he got to the part of the road where the forest trail crossed a whirling stream by means of a wooden bridge, he suddenly though he heard singing from the water. Confused, he leaned against the rail to gaze down into the foamy depths, and was amazed to find the most beautiful creature he ever saw gazing back at him. Large black eyes framed by ever long hair the colour of water, the body shaped like the most fragile water lily, but with a radiating inner strength that seemed to contain the ferocity of the ocean itself. The river ghost rose from her flowing containment and placed herself upon a rock in the stream, wherefrom she sang to him.

His friends came back to look for him when dark crept up from the hills and the shadows cast by the trees began to fade into the surrounding gloom. Lanterns were carried along the path, and they were greatly relieved to find him uninjured on the wooden bridge crossing the stream. He hastily lowered his violin, strings still reverberating from previously played notes, from his shoulder and looked at them, then down at the ground, a strange sort of shame suddenly making him want to flee.

They did not notice this, however, and laughingly scorned him for his lazy nature and heartily prodded him along with them back to the dancing. He followed without resistance or word, and when he cast on last, longing glimpse over his shoulder upon stepping off the wooden bridge, the gentle river ghost of a woman was gone.

He left his heart in the stream that night, though.

His friends noticed, yes they did, that something was amiss with their companion – or maybe “amiss” is not the right word for it; he seemed suddenly more colourful, more joyful and more keen to practice his music whenever there was time for it. And none of these changes would have been interpreted as negative, had they been described to an outsider. But his closest ones wondered. He had never been one to show his emotions very openly, and even the promise of a coming wedding between himself and the girl he had coveted for as long as he could remember had not set him flying high like this. They settled, though, for the conclusion that this sudden joyfulness was due to a delayed insight about what was to come – for lack of a better explanation and not wanting to bug him about it any further. The young man himself did not tell anyone about his nightly encounter – or encounters maybe is a better word, since this was not the last time he met with the watery phantom by the river stream. In fact, he tended to walk alone to the dancing quite frequently after that first evening, and it was not rare for him to be absent from these gatherings altogether thenceforth. His bride-to-be was a little worried at this, but his friends calmed her by saying that he had much to think about and tend to before the wedding, and although they themselves did not fully believe this explanation, she left it at that and continued with her own eager preparations as tradition saw suitable and without further inquiry.

And so the nights, weeks, months went by quietly in the little village, and when the people heard soft notes of violin coming from the forest, they simply took it as the highly fitting and not at all unusual wanderings and contemplations of a young man soon to give up his naïve life in boyish freedom for something new and much bigger. In reality, he was not playing for himself at all.

The river ghost was faithful to him and waited for him in silence on the rock in the water whenever he chose to show up – but always in moonlight. It was as if her voice would not carry in the cruel heat of the daylight sun, and since she appeared to be half siren, half serenade, she could not take form where her singing would not be heard. Every time he came, he played his violin and she sang with it.

No thought of his did go to the poor girl who awaited their forthcoming wedding with anticipation, as all his mind was on the music he and the water made together. The others stopped expecting him at the dances after a while, but this did not bother him at all. He came up with new tunes – they heard it – and he slept with a new kind of peace at night, but always after returning from the forest stream.

One thing troubled his mind, though, and that was the nature of the watery romance. Their music was beautiful, but he realised pretty soon that she could not leave the water and come to him. He tried once, twice, even thrice to wade out into the river to her – but as soon as the ripples from his movements reached the hem of her whirling silver gown, she would fade from his grasping fingers as soon as a bubble bursts on a foamy surface. This was his only sorrow during this brief time of otherwise unbroken ignorant bliss.

The wedding was nigh. On the evening of fate he wore the attire of ceremony his father had worn before him, but walking towards the ground of feast – the same as where the dances had been held all summer – he discovered the rings had been forgotten and was forced to turn back. The congregation moved along as he ran as fast as he could back to the village. Seeing his bride dressed up in her ceremonial dress had caused him to wake from his delusions of a watery romance, and knowing that the life he would have with this girl would be possible in all the ways his brief river crush had not been, he had decided to go forth with the proceedings. This insight had reached him only the night before.

The rings in hand he did not know why he also brought his violin on a whim, but legend has it that evil fate was in the air that evening, intervening. Or maybe it was the work of forces beyond understanding.

In any case the village was understandably empty and quiet when he ran back towards the forest trail, noises being heard only from far away in the woods where the preparations were hurriedly being finished. He reached the trail and had to slow down a bit, lest he trip on any of the roots and twigs scattered everywhere on the path and get dirt all over his fine clothes. Had he kept on running, he might have missed and passed by the little man sitting on a stub right before the bend in the road that would take him to the bridge over the stream, but he did not. And as he did not miss him, and as he, in spite of everything else, was a polite and mannerly young man, he stopped, surprised, and asked the man if he needed any help.

The young man might have still made it to the ceremony, hade he been of the more suspicious nature – but he was not. And thus he did not up and run when he got an evil grin for an answer, or even when the man made his offer. He said he knew about the affection the young man held for the siren of the woods, and about the dilemma they suffered. He had the solution. He had the spell.

Should the boy accept he would, at a small cost, be able to be together with his singing shade for all time, hearing her sing and play to her every night henceforth. Time would never separate them and neither would daylight, since he would be given the ears to hear her and the eyes to see her even when day was upon the world like a ravenous fever.

Should he reject, he would be free to continue on his way and proceed with the imminent ceremony, never laying his mind upon the matter again. But he had to remember this was a one time offer. It would never be made again.

For all he knew a full year passed between them as he stood there, unable to think coherently. Then he reached forth his hand and offered it to the stranger, who smilingly accepted it in not quite a shake but a firm, long hold. Music started somewhere further down the path – the dancing had begun. But if he, somewhere in his distraught mind, still cared about that, or about the young woman who laughingly spun around in her last dance of freedom in the glade beyond the stream right then, he did not know it himself. For at that moment, all his thoughts were fixed on the river ghost that he had all but forgotten about only minutes before. And the world spun deliriously around him as he apprehended the wonder of the situation. He would have her, he would be with her, he would play for her and hear her sing. He would never have to forget about her again. Ever.

The stranger was gone. Had he even been there? Who had? Why was he standing in the middle of the road with his violin and bow uncased?

There was music down the path, somewhere in the deep forest. Why? But it was merry, and seemed to accompany in major the beautiful minor key melody that flowed towards him from the stream further on. It was a woman’s singing. Or the ghost of a woman.

He walked down the path like a man in a dream, and did not notice he had brought the violin to his shoulder until the smooth surface of the ebony chin rest touched his skin. And he didn’t know there was such music in his mind until his fingers picked it out in harmony with the heavenly song in his ears. And then he reached the stream.

She was all the wonder he knew she would be, and somehow he could see that more clearly tonight. She was more than a spectre now, more substantial. Where the moonlight touched her it did not shine through, but rather illuminated her. He slowed down in his pace and approached her slowly. And this is where all the love stories would have you listen to endless descriptions of the light in their eyes, the smell of the air, the sound of the night around them.

I will not.

She beckoned him forward and he started to descend the slope down to the whirling water – all the while playing his salute to her in fast, almost madly swirling notes. He reached the span of the small bridge and got ready to enter the cold water. But one more step, and he began to feel a resistance. Moving got ever harder with each inch he closed in on her, and he ended up sinking down on an old stump standing beside him, since walking had gotten too hard.

He felt dizzy and blamed it on the heat of the past day, but he never ceased playing. And she kept singing, even though her voice had taken on a worried shade.

Then his arms began to feel heavy. He let them drop, and the music stopped. He let the violin rest on his knee, and thought he needed to sleep for a minute or two. Just for a short while. But then he saw the expression in her face, a look of pure terror he had not thought a phantom could express. She reached out for him with an all to solid hand, and when he held out his own hand he gasped with surprise and horror, for now he understood why he could see her. He also understood why he could not move anymore, and what the strange man – he remembered him now – had meant with ‘a small price’.

His hand and arm was draped in vines and so, he saw when he with difficulty turned his head, was the rest of him. Of his legs there was nothing left but a strangely sculpted extension of the stump he was sitting on, and he could feel the cold creeping up his torso where this woody infection was spreading. He tried to scream; out came an inarticulate grunt. He wanted to thrash and turn, but his whole body was turning into wood.

He turned his gaze back to her, and saw that she had settled her face into an expression of solemn sorrow. He saw now that she could not leave the rock in the stream any more than he could move from the wooden stub. They were both spectres now. And she started singing again – a sad, dark song of drowning slowly.

She reached for him, and he reached for her. But they both knew that they would never touch, never reach quite far enough. He stopped to breathe, there was no need anymore.

His arm stiffened that way, and he never moved again. But then he lifted his violin to his shoulder and played for her again, and she sang. And they have ever since.

What happened to the wedding party is not for this story to tell – maybe it’s tale was never told – but when the guests and villagers came walking back the path hours later, the crying not-bride supported by her loyal friends, they never found him. They didn’t even notice the wooden statue until days later, and no one associated it with the lost boy. Except maybe his now lonely bride-to-be, who was found on several occasions afterwards sitting by the stream, leaned towards that strange statue, seemingly listening to some unhearable music. But she could never explain it, and as the years passed she forgot and moved on.

But if you happen to pass by that stream near the village in the forest – it may well have turned into a full scale city by now, for all I know – pause for a moment and listen. It might be that you hear faint tunes from the whirling water, and you’ll know that it is their song. He will never lift his violin from his knee again in human sight, but he will forever play for her all the same. And she will sing to him, invisible in daylight, from her rock in the middle of the stream.

Lost boy and River Ghost, together and still not, forever.

And the strange man added one more to his collection.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2009)

Stories are told on cold nights when the moon is high in the sky and nightmares and the fantastic unknown stalk close by the windows of human dwellings, careful not to step into the light cast by fires and candles. Stories grant peace and occupation to frightened minds and give everyone something to think about apart from the fear of shadows and glaring, haunting eyes in the sunforsaken hours between twilight and chilly dawn.

This particular tale is a very old one – so old that in our day I would be surprised if anyone human could remember it enough to retell it fully. In fact I am very much strengthened in this assumption by the fact that I, in my striving to put this story to paper truthfully, had to consult someone very dear to me but who could in no reasonable way be called even something close to “human”. With his help this writing down of the story that could maybe be considered the most beautiful of them all was at last possible, and I want to thank him deeply for all the help and time he offered me in this. You will notice that this tale carries some differences in relation to some of the others in this collection. The reason, I guess, is that it has been told and retold so many times that it has acquired the character of a fairy tale, whence the others are merely documentations of more or less fantastic events.

In the time and era of this tale, as you are about to see, the borders between realities were not yet firmly secured and no one really doubted the fact that humans were not alone in dreaming and thinking and shaping the world. By this I do not mean that anyone was not surprised when this long suspected fact was sometimes direly proven before their very eyes – they were, I can knowingly assure you – but they accepted it as part of their view of life and seldom tried to deny it. That is why something like this cannot happen anymore; people are too afraid to open their eyes in front of the unknown to be able to see what really lies beyond the edge of their knowledge. Everything has a fixed explanation nowadays, and questing for answers with danger of losing everything is no longer in question. But the destination of this particular journey is in fact very real.

I will not tell you where to find it, lest I accomplish no more than adding to the already swelling pile of “common knowledge” that is so effectively dulling the curiosity of human dreamers worldwide even as I scratch pen against paper, writing this for you to read. No, I will not. But I will go as far as telling you that where I am sitting right now, candle burning in a room otherwise wrapped in winter darkness, is a place very, very close to the sacred spot where the subject of this story finally finds his answers. This I tell you only to convince you further not to doubt my word when I sacrifice my time to open your eyes to some of the mysteries of your world – and I hope sincerely that my efforts will not have been in vain. Now to my story.

The summer was long advanced in this particular village by the start of the chain of events that would at length mark the beginning of an adventure. A young couple was about to get married and everyone was eagerly preparing for the festivities – and not least for the ceremony itself.

A tradition was upheld in this village, that the shift of seasons at the end of summer and winter was always marked by the uniting of a man and a woman in loving marriage; this symbolizing the coming together of Queen Summer and King Winter twice a year when time was right for the one to pass the sceptre of season domination to the other. When the first leaf of autumn fell to the ground, and not until then, was the ceremony to start and the bridegroom to step up to the Autumn Bride by the forest altar to be with her united for the rest of their remaining lives. This both for their shared happiness and for the luck and well being of the village, which relied on the ceremony to grant them the favours of the Greater Unknown in securing their harvest and protecting their families.

It was not common for couples to be married at any other time of the year in this village, since no one wanted to miss the honour and blessing of being Autumn wed or Spring wed, and thus it was a great privilege for a couple to be at last admitted to the altar, perhaps after several years of waiting. This young pair had been chosen to be Autumn wed this year not only because of their obvious and limitless love for each other, but also because of their curious resemblance to the Queen and King of the Seasons themselves; the young bride-to-be wore her sunny, blossomy red hair long and often entwined with colourful flowers and she was never far from heartily laughter that reminded the villagers of a dancing brook in high summer’s swirl, while her future husband had hair like silvery ice on the mountain peaks, reflecting the sun’s light like half frozen crystal water in a wintry lake. His eyes were like the cold blue sky on a frosty day and though he was often quiet and thoughtful, there was a passion and a strength burning in those eyes that sometimes broke through his silent surface and swept him up like a winter storm – and those moments had grew even more common since he met her. They were meant for each other, no one doubted that.

The preparations for the ceremony were in high progress and the whole village was doing their best to make this year’s festivities something really special – like they did every year, but always, in some way, seemed capable of succeeding with in the end. The bride had been working for days on her wedding dress, in which time she had seen no one except her closest family. The bridegroom had been finished with his own ceremonial garments for some time, as tradition prescribed, and was now taking long walks through the wilds every day, searching for the perfect wedding gift to give to his bride in the name of the sacred bond they were about to tie.

In the likeness of the Winter King’s courting of the Summer Queen when they come together at the close of each year, at which occasion he brings her wonderful gifts in the form of turning the leaves golden for her and summoning glistering ice rain down over the two of them and the rest of the world, the Autumn bridegroom must bring the bride a gift of autumn – something worthy that must represent the love he felt for her. This he could do first when the turning of seasons had just begun, since no autumn gifts could reasonably be found before that time. And when he had found his sign of autumn and love, the ceremony would take place the very following day – like the gifts of the Winter King, the returning of the bridegroom with the ceremonial gift marked the beginning of the period between Summer’s End and Wintercome.

I suspect that my source for this story knew the name of this young man – yes, I think he remembered it very well indeed – but for reasons I can only guess he refused to tell it to me and that I will respect and thereby leave it at that.

Anyway, the young man wandered for days and days around the borders of the village, searching for the first sign of autumn, but without luck. His future bride was soon to be finished with her preparations, and the festivities had all but begun. Autumn had been late in coming before and at first no one worried about it too much, but when the weeks went by and the weather showed no signs of changing from the sunny state of high summer and not even the early mornings saw the smallest suggestion of ice on the surface of the villagers’ water buckets, people begun to get anxious. Why did not Summer’s End begin? What caused this strange delay in the turning of seasons?

The future bridegroom became more and more certain that something was not in order, and begun to fear that the marriage would never come to pass. What if the first leaf never fell? He would never have his beloved bride if he could not find a proper autumn gift to seal their bond; anything less than such a gift would be unworthy and would certainly bring dishonour to her name. Her family would never ever permit her to step up to the altar as anything less than a proper Autumn bride, and in case he could not find his ceremonial gift they would consider it a sign from the higher forces that he did not have their blessing in becoming part of the Autumn couple.

One night, draped in desperation, he went to consult the village elder. He was told that nothing in the likeness of this had happened since the beginning of known time, and that the elder suspected that something was terribly amiss with the greater scheme of things.

“If you want your bride”, the old man said, “seek then the place where Summer and Winter meet – the sacred spot where spring and autumn begin.” He looked him deep in the eye and then handed him his beautifully carved walking stick. “Take this and everyone will know that you have my blessing.”

The young man met his future bride at sunfall by the large oaken tree in the hilltop clearing on which the forest altar stood. She was wearing the wonderful dress in which she hoped to one day stand bride, and her hair danced freely in the warm, late summer breeze. He told her of the journey he must make and held her tight when she cried wide eyed at this terrible revelation. He told her never to fear for him and not to be sad, and under no circumstances doubt his promise that he would soon return to her.

Even with tears in her eyes she was more beautiful to him than anything else he had ever laid eyes upon, and he swore to himself that for her he would do anything. He told her that, and he told her that he loved her. And with those words, and after holding her close one last time, he started to untangle himself from her embrace to begin his journey. Before he managed to force himself to say goodbye, though, she took hold of his shoulders and looked deep into his eyes in a way that only she in the whole world could do. She smiled sadly and forced back the tears momentarily.

“Remember this”, she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, “I love you and will not have anyone other than you. You are my reason to keep on breathing.” She stroked the side of his face with a tear wet hand, lovingly. She seemed to summon her last vestige of willpower and continued: “I do not care whether you find the most fantastic autumn gift in the world, or if you come back with only a moth eaten leaf or even empty handed. Just to see you back alive will make me the happiest person in the world, and whatever gift you bring back with you will be worth more to me than the sun in the sky or all the diamonds on the surface of the sea at night. This because I love you. Nothing matters apart from that. Nothing. Because love makes all other things seem small and simple. Remember that, and return to me safely and soon. I will wait for you. I will wait for you here, right on this hilltop.”

She kissed him passionately and let him go. He looked at her and felt how tears started to fill his own eyes. But before she could see this, he turned and started down the hill, back turned to the village that was his home.

The Autumn bride watched him leave, tears finally running down her face and falling to the ever green grass at her feet. She stood there still when the sun disappeared behind the larger hills at the horizon, and when the full moon rose it was to see her sitting by the large oak tree, gazing in the direction in which he had disappeared. The leaves of the oak were deep green like the soft grass beneath her, and the air was warm. No sign of Summer’s End she could see, and no sign of her beloved. She promised quietly to wait for him there, beneath the rustling branches of the oak on the hill. She promised to rise first when it was to step up to the altar in front of her and be united with her love at his return. When the first leaf fell from the tree by which she was sitting, she would know that he had found what he was seeking and was on his way back to her.

Nowhere he came did he see the slightest sign of autumn, even though he wandered for days. Dressed for rough weather and prepared for almost anything, he visited village after village asking for the way to the place where autumn begins. He was treated with respect due to his being sent by the elder of his own village, but nobody seemed to know anything about how to find the place he was looking for. Everyone he met, though, was also worried by the fact that no winter seemed to be approaching this year.

This way he wandered aimlessly for many days and nights, sometimes finding shelter under a roof by evening and sometimes not. He kept always the picture in his mind of his beloved one standing on the hilltop, gazing longingly after him. He wanted so much to return to her but knew that if he could find no sign of autumn to present to her and the villagers for the ceremony, he would never be allowed to be with her. If the higher forces had judged him unworthy of this honour, he would have to find out why and if there was something he could do to change their minds.

He met with many different people during his journey, all very helpful but none who could tell him anything truly useful. He had begun to mistrust when finally he came to a place where a tall forest loomed over a small collection of houses. He was exhausted from his wanderings and was just about to ask for a place to rest when an old, bearded man stepped up to him and told him he recognized the staff he was carrying. The young man told him that he had been given the staff by his village elder and also revealed his mission.

The old man eyed him for a long moment, much like the village elder had done, and said finally that he knew the place that he was searching for. He told him that the way there was long and a bit dangerous, but that the place was real and fully possible to reach if one dared to seek it out. He pointed in the direction of the high mountain peaks beyond the forest.

“I have not seen the place with my own eyes, but I believe the old stories about it being hidden among those cliffs, because every spring and fall I see the proof of it clearly.” He gave the young man a serious look. “It is down those slopes over there that the changes come charging before they are visible anywhere else. It is from up there that the season of Summer’s End should have poured down upon us a long time ago now.”

So without staying in the little village to rest even for the night, the young man bid the older one farewell and entered the dark forest, walking steadily towards the mountains far, far away. He had a new hope in his heart now that he knew where he was going, and worried little about how he was going to climb those slopes once he got there. Again he recalled the face of his bride-to-be, and smiled happily when he thought about how he soon again would hold her in his arms.

Back in the village, the one he was longing for was sitting still under that oak, refusing to talk to anyone and always searching the distant forest edge for any sign of him coming back up the slope towards her. Sometimes her gaze strayed upwards to the branches that sang and danced between her and the summer skies, but no red leaf could be seen and no chilly wind ever played in the greenery around her. Her heart sank but stayed always true to the promise she had made, though every day that went by saw her face even more hardened, as though the frost that refused to present itself to the grass and the water had anyway reached out and honoured at least the silent Autumn bride with its icy touch.

It took him several days of hard travelling to reach the slopes of the mountains. He paused here for a day to rest and to contemplate where to go from here. How was he going to find out which mountain trail to follow to reach the point among the cliffs that some called “the place where spring and autumn begin”? He thought about it for many hours, and decided at last that if he wanted to find the source of autumn and spring, he should look out for spots where the flowers and weeds grew the thickest; in the places that spring reached first the vegetation should have had the longest time to grow and spread, whence in all other places it should be more, but maybe not obviously, sparse.

He started up the trail and searched eagerly for any sign of change in the undergrowth. He thought after a while that he had found what he was searching for, as some patches of green were stained with colour due to collections of small, blue flowers, and followed heartily every sign that he found. These signs led him higher and higher up among the rocky slopes and heights, and when he at length turned and looked back, he could see the whole world stretch itself out far, far below him. All was green as far as he could see. He imagined for a second that he could see the hilltop outside his own village home, and thought that he could see the shape of his beloved standing there, looking at him from afar. Of course this was just a dream, but when he again turned to his task of climbing this the highest of mountains the thought crossed his mind for the first time that the peaks might kill him – that there was a risk that he would not return alive to see her smile again or to feel her loving embrace. The thought chilled him terribly, but when he again looked down at the blue flowers that guided his path he pushed it aside with force. Of course he would return safely. Of course he would.

There was a strange sensation in the air that grew the higher he climbed. Some kind of tension that he did not like, but which was not really frightening either. He continued his climb, which was getting harder for every step he took due to the sparse foothold and the thorny vegetation that sometimes blocked his path. The blue flowers grew thicker here, and he knew he was getting very close to his goal. The peaks above him no longer seemed as distant as before, at the same time as the landscape below him had grown frighteningly small and far away. A fall from this point would certainly prove fatal, and he tightened his grip on the branches of the small trees that grew on the steep trail.

At last he reached the top of a rocky cliff and drew in a breath of relief. He had been fighting the heights for several days with little or no rest in the intervals between climbing, and was tired in both body and soul from the struggle. One day a careful but intense rain had fallen, soaking the steep mountainside and turning the trail to slippery mud. He had been forced to seek shelter within a shallow cave between some gray rocks to avoid the risk of falling all the way down to earth, and every hour that went by with the rain showing no sign of ceasing, his mood and mind darkened at the thought of how much time he was losing. At length the downpour stopped, but still he had to wait in that cave until the next morning when the trail was once again solid and safe. Another day, or another night to be more precise, he had stood in hiding against a wall of stone to avoid the attention of a stalking something that he could hear faintly in his closeness, but which he could see nothing of except for its cunning, yellow eyes. The beast – or beasts, he could not be certain of the number – either missed him or decided against attacking for some other, unknowable reason, and although he got no sleep that night at least the morrow found him alive and unharmed, and he could continue his climbing wandering, stumbling like a sleep walker. When now he dragged himself up onto the high plateau that had been his unreachable goal ever since he left solid ground, he was half delirious and half afraid of what might face him on the other side.

He lay still on the flat surface for a long time, breathing heavily and quickly until his heart slowed down and he felt more like himself again. Then he rose to a sitting position, took a deep breath and crawled to the far edge to see what lay beyond the plateau on the other side. The sight that met him caused him to let out a sigh of relief – then his repressed exhaustion got the better of him and he collapsed on the stone surface, unconscious before his head hit the ground.

What he had seen stretching before him was not more cliffs only, but a panorama of bright colours and mist clad peaks. He had reached the top of the mountain that was said to hold the meeting place of seasons, and only a small drop separated his vantage point from endless voids of long forgotten wilds. A stream sang quietly close by, just below the cliff on which he lay, and the ground below was covered in bluish moss and rough, short grass that seemed to have gotten its colour from moonlight. Much of the landscape consisted of rock undressed in either of these, and the trees that grew sparsely but none the less existed here and there in this place were small and strangely shaped, as though their struggle to survive this far above the world had forced them to twist painfully around themselves to find shelter from the fierce winds that haunted this borderland between earth and sky, and played the eerily mist draped peaks of nearby looming mountains like unworldly phantom flutes. This was a place of forgotten magic, but its cold and otherworldly spirit made it also a place of nightmare, and it was in such haunted dreams the young man twisted for long hours before he was awakened at dawn by the unmistakable howling of a wolf somewhere in the distance.

After lying still a while after waking, listening terror struck for signs of beastly pursuit, he rose on shaky legs to once again take in the beauty and endlessness of this place towards which he had been striving for so many days. The brook sang still beneath him, and in the distance the wind had begun its ghostly playing of mountain flutes, as if to greet him welcome to this the end of sane, merciful reality.

A terrible thirst came over him, and suddenly the sound of dancing water seemed almost irresistible to his tired ears – and so he begun to climb down from the high place on which he stood, taking care not to fall even though the distance was no more than a couple of meters, letting himself drop the last few inches down to solid ground. The moss was crisp under his feet and the prints he left, making his way over the frozen plain, remained there for many years, even after he had forgotten the music of the place; this place above world never forget anything or any man’s visit.

The wind was strong here, in the shelter of no tree or cliff, but he was well dressed and did not suffer much from the cold – at first. It was day when he first trod this strange land, even though the sun did little to warm or comfort these high places. Its light played beautifully in the dance of the lively brook, but the water’s swirl made it impossible for his reflection to fasten itself on the silvery surface. This, though, did not hinder him from quenching his thirst with handfuls from this burningly freezing source, and soon he felt refreshed and suddenly more as one with his surroundings.

With new opened eyes he started his wandering anew, not knowing for what he was looking but hoping that when it presented itself to him he would be aware of its importance to his purpose. The ground sloped slightly upwards, and soon the music of the brook was left far behind and below. Even the plateau on which he had rested was soon below him, and even though the air grew colder still with every step, he saw no sigh of snow as far as his gaze could reach. The little blue flowers grew everywhere here, no thicker or sparser in any one place which caused him to think that as least he had found the right place. But what was he supposed to learn here?

Soon the cold began to get the better of his thick winter garb, and he felt chill creep into his bones. He struggled on, more and more depending on his staff to keep him standing upright. His gaze fixed upon one of the high peaks that lined the open space that he was fighting, and it was towards this peak that he unconsciously set his path when it was all he could do to remain putting on foot in front of the other.

He did not realize it at first, but the reason the peak had first caught his attention was that it stood out against everything else because of its colour; whilst all else was shrouded in pale green and blue, the top of this particular height was shiningly white. It was covered in snow. The insight took the breath out of him, and for a while he stopped and just stood there, looking up at the whiteness with a thousand thoughts running through his head. Why was the snow resting silently on that one peak, when it was nowhere else to be found in the whole world?

Despite his numb limbs and confused thoughts, he fought on against the dark cloudiness that now had begun to line his vision. The dizziness increased until all he saw was the top of that peak, tightly surrounded by a dark tunnel of black clouds that expanded all the time. At last the cold got him, and his benumbed legs would not support him anymore. He fell to his knees, eyes still on the distant snow, consciousness fast slipping away.

But right before he lost connection to reality, when his vision was mostly covered with a veil of blackness and the wind that shouted all around was outvoiced by the ringing in his own head, he thought for an instant that he saw a shape standing on that faraway peak, rising out of the snow as if one with it. And though the distance was great and he was inches from fainting, he knew by the aura of majesty and omniscience shrouding this appearance that he was in the presence of King Winter himself.

Awestruck and half doubting his own senses, he bowed in front of the royal incarnation of the winter he had sought for so long. Time seemed to have stopped; he knew he was still going to faint – a dangerous thing in these cold lands – but he got the feeling that he was given time to ask the one question which had driven him this far from home and safety.

“Why have you not come?”, he whispered, the words barely escaping his frozen lips as he again looked up at the cold majesty standing on the peak, gazing down at him. “Why have you not come?”

The king of Winter let time pass, let his eyes take in this boy dying in the cold, before answering. Then the young man heard the wind’s roaring take the shape of words, resounding painfully in his head. Still the shape on the peak did not move, but there was no question of who was speaking.

“You could not possibly understand, but since you have made this long journey not made by many in this time, I will tell you. There is one in this world, only one, whom I love. She is beautiful and breathes life itself, and everywhere she goes she makes wonderful things grow. I have always thought that I was a worthy groom to her, that when we met at fall after being separated for one whole season, I was able to present her with gifts suitable for Her divine presence. But I was wrong. What is golden leaves to one who can create flowers from dead soil? What worth is there in an intricate flake of crystal snow to one who makes the air smell of sun on the ocean, to one who invokes joy of life in every soul? To her, the music of the northern wind in a storm must seem like nothing, she who conjures the song of birds and the laughter of playing children. Thus I have settled not to disturb her life-full reign with my bothersome and contemptible attempts at declaring my love to her another time. Thus I have settled for quiet longing and grieving, for I will never be her equal and thus will never be more than a loathsome bother to her.”

The young man blinked and looked up at the King in silent and sudden surprise. He wondered for the split of a second whether the world had gone totally mad.

“But”, he said, and remembered the tender words of his own beloved at his departure, “do you not know that she loves you? Just to see you back will fill her with joy, and whatever gift you bring her will be worth more to her than the sun in the sky and all the diamonds on the surface of the sea at night. Do you not know that love makes all other things seem small and simple, and that if given with love the smallest snowflake can be worth more than all the riches in the world?”

At this, the fierce northern wind became quiet, and for the split of a second the young man could see the eyes in the face of the faraway majesty widen in sudden realization. The boy’s eyes widened too, but in surprise and frightening insight.

“You did not know this, did you?”

Then everything started to spin as the time and the world suddenly started again. The young man cast one last gaze up the peak, but there was nothing there – only the quiet, eternal snow resting there, sleeping, sleeping. Darkness dragged him down into silence, but he did not feel anything. All of his body was already numb from the cold, and even his mind was so clouded that he did not even reflect upon what fainting in this biting wind would mean. Then he did not think about anything at all.

They came together in the middle of the open, under the clear sky. The sun, at the sight of the two of them together, let go its focus of the world in relaxation, knowing that its full attention was needed no more for this season. At once the light that radiated from it grew slightly fainter and took on a more chilly quality, making the ground and vegetation seem even more pale and frozen.

This cold light shone down upon the barren landscape where seasons were said to start, and made ice crystals gleam like diamonds upon the trail of snow and frost that followed in the wake of the king of Winter, where he made his way down from his wintry peak. Flowers withered and died where he went by, crust-like spider webs of ice spread in his tracks every time he set down his foot.

She, the goal of his journey down from the far mountaintop, stood patiently waiting for him in the middle of this barren landscape, a silent smile on her lips. The road she had walked was marked by a trail of small, pale-blue flowers that spread out like the hem of a wide dress around her where she now stood. Red never still hair flowed down her shoulders, crowned with a wreath of eternally fresh summer flowers in warm colours and white. Her light dress billowed around her in the cold wind that he brought with him, and in her right hand she held a plain wooden staff overgrown with green ivy and decorated with flowers and feathers at the top.

He walked up to her, silvery hair flowing behind him as he went, robes the colour of winter night draping his majestic form and his head crowned with a circlet of frost covered ice. He stopped one step away from her, and there they stood, looking each other in the eye. He did not beam as she did, but a lively spark in his eyes made his otherwise stern expression melt a little, and if one looked very close, his face could be seen to soften by a faint but fond smile.

So there the seasons met – Winter standing in snow and frost a pace away from Summer who resided among a million of blue flowers. The king opened his outstretched hand, slowly, and revealed a single maple leaf, golden and gleaming in the fading sunlight. The queen looked at it for a long time and then, while lifting her gaze and looking deep into his eyes, accepted the gift with a delighted smile illuminating her whole face.

Now also the king let his face mirror his inner joy at seeing her again at last, after all this time. She took the golden leaf and held it up for the wind to catch it, still smiling. Then she reached out for him, and together they walked off from this barren plain, down the mountain and out into the world. With his right hand on her shoulder, protectively, lovingly, he led her through the world, showing her how his essence turned trees ablaze and puddles into mirrors; forests became dreamlike and silent, and everything gained a dull shell of ice inlaid with tiny, shining gems.

They would have the whole period between Summers End and Wintercome to explore and laugh together before they would have to part for another season, and they intended to make it worth the while. They took turns holding the wooden staff, sometimes holding it together, and so the weather shifted – so the seasons changed.

When he woke there was snow everywhere, but by some unknowable design the place where he lay was not shrouded in snow, but in warm little blue flowers. He struggled to his feet, regaining his grip on the staff he had dropped to the ground when he fell. Confused and dizzy he looked around. No sign of life could be seen anywhere, and the world was covered in white, ice-cold snow as if winter had come to this place while he was unconscious. Then, right before he started walking, he looked down on the blue flowers and saw something. A golden maple leaf, stuck in the vegetation and waving frantically in the wind, lay among the flowers as if waiting for him. He picked it up and looked at it for a long time. It reminded him of something, vaguely. Something that he had seen in a dream. But he could not recall what the dream had been about, and so he put the leaf safely against his chest under his warm clothes, and got going.

Staggering he made his way back the same way that he had come – the going was harder now with all the ice and snow on the ground, and the air was unquestionably colder than before. When he had reached the plateau from where he had first gazed down on this strange world, just before he started to descend the mountainside, he cast one final gaze over his shoulder, on the distant peak where he thought himself to have seen snow when it was to be seen nowhere else. Now, though, he was not really sure which one of all the peaks that was the one he had noticed; now all the peaks were dressed in white, none distinguishable from the other. With a sigh he started down the steep path, wonderingly shaking his head.

Everywhere he came the world had changed. The mountain trail was covered in snow and wintry already, but the farther he got from the mountain the less wintry the weather got. However, there was no doubt that Winter would catch up, for even though the season itself had not reached far from the mountain yet, it was evident that Summer was over for this year. Fall had come to the world at last, with Winter in its wake. It would not be long before the season of Wintercome started, and the leaves were already turning golden and crimson – but none of them as golden as the one he kept with him.

He passed all the villages again on his way back, and all the people he met looked a bit strangely at him when he returned, but he did not understand why since he did not think about how much he looked like Winter himself, coming down from the legendary mountain with Fall in his wake. And so he did not linger anywhere too long to spend thoughts on such matters, and the journey back was swifter than it had been when he first travelled the road, in the other direction.

She had been sitting by the tree for so long that she had lost count of the days. The sun had been her only companion by day, and the moon had been the only one to watch over her at night. She never lost hope, but her spirit became heavy and she almost felt as if she was on with the tree. Then, finally one evening, so soundlessly and suddenly that she nearly did not notice, it happened. She looked up towards the green branches, and all of a sudden one of the leaves broke loose from the others and glided down to land on her knee. It was first then that she noticed that its colour was not green, but fiery yellow. She picked it up and turned it between her fingers, at first not really realizing what this meant.

Then the insight dawned on her and slowly, slowly, not really daring to in fear that she would be wrong, she looked up. At first she did not see anything, and her heart sank. But then a shape could be seen moving up the forest hill. He looked worn and tired, and his silvery hair was tangled and strewn with leaves and dirt, but when he laid eyes upon her, sitting there by the tree like the embodiment of Summer in front of him, he smiled.

When he reached inside his coat and withdrew the golden leaf, unharmed by the rough journey and still shining as brightly as before, she rose from beneath the tree and ran towards him, laughing with tears streaming from her eyes. They embraced, and then he stroked her face with his left hand, while he used the right to put the golden leaf, his gift of Autumn, in her hair.

The ceremony begun before long and did prove to outshine all previous weddings held in this particular village. The bridal couple was more beautiful and more representative to the change of seasons than any couple before them, and no couple had ever been as happy or loved each other as much as these two did. The golden leaf gleamed beautifully in her hair as they said their vows, and all thought that it was the most wonderful autumn gift ever – but she herself did not think about it much, since all her attention was on him, her beloved one who had returned to her from afar. For love makes things like golden leaves seem small and simple.

And Summers End passed over into Wintercome, with snow, cold nights and short days. Winter reigned fair as he always did, guarding the world well until his beloved Summer was once again ready to take up the sceptre, or the wooden staff which is what it really is. She watched him from afar, from a spot hidden in the mountains where blue flowers grow forever, and longed for the short time in Spring when the two of them would again be together, when she would be the one to give him gifts and show him wonderful things all over the world.

Everything was as it should be. The years went by, new generations grew up and new beliefs spread over the world, obscuring or replacing the old ways as it has always been. And never ever again did one of the seasons delay because it doubted its importance to the other.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2008)

Happiness, laughter, naive delusions that life lasts forever. In young years everything can have such a wonderful aura of invincibility, and in the eyes of the new born explorer anything is possible. But this kind of imaginary reality is so frail, so easily shattered, that what seems in one moment to be the start of something, can suddenly turn out to be the end of everything.

The snow was falling intensely outside the windows, striking against the front of the small car like stars around a fast flying space ship in one of those movies. There were just the three of them, on their way to her family cottage some distance outside of town. They had been driving for about an hour, and were more than halfway there. As usual they were all joking and laughing, she in the back seat and her two friends in front. The sky was inky black and no star was visible in this long winter night – only the full moon helped light the shadows of the road where the car’s headlights were too caked with snow to do it.

Later she would remember these details as clearly as if she were still there in that car, in those last moments of the world. She would breathe these remembered moments as if were they oxygen and she drowning, alone and desperate in a dark sea. She saw them smiling back at her through the rear view mirror and then they all burst out laughing at what had just been said. They had known each others for years and knew that they would still be friends when they were all old and gray, sitting at some home and whining about the ways of new generations. This though, as it would turn out, was never going to happen.

She saw the one of her friends driving turn around towards her to say something. She heard her other friend scream suddenly, and saw the driver hastily turn his attention back to the road. He also screamed, and turned the wheel frantically in one direction. The car jumped and spun on the icy road. She screamed. They all screamed. She never even saw what had caused the commotion, and then everything turned black.

In confused and despairing lonely hours to come, despite the blurriness that had consumed every other memory of that fateful awakening back to light and reality, she would always be able to recall cold snow against her bruised back, someone screaming about a survivor and a blanket being wrapped around her shoulders by supporting hands – a blanket that was most probably warm but which she could not at that moment feel at all. Her senses registered no sound after that whatsoever, even though she was well aware that there should be sirens screaming since she could see them flashing, and a fire roaring since she could see the reflection of its flames against the glittering white winter snow. The flames themselves, though, she was not allowed to see. She was promptly turned away from them, even as several uniform clad men and women rushed past her to reach the source of their raging dance. She was all alone, even with all the people surrounding her and supporting her. She could not hear their worried voices, she could not see their concerned faces for all the tears in her own eyes. She knew nothing but that she was alone. The two stars that had once lit her darkness would never shine again, and her own fire was waning. But still no pain. Only tears and silence.

Just before they gently pushed her inside one of the waiting emergency vehicles, she managed one last glance back at the burning wreck that had once been her friend’s red car. The flames stood in screaming contrast to the dark forest and the black winter sky, and in a way it was all very beautiful in a terrible, terrible way. But what caught her attention most was not the fire, not the mashed metal of the carriage body or the limp arm of the person that was now being carefully lifted out of the car by two fire fighters clad in bright colours. No, it was neither of those things. Rather, it was something far more insignificant. Beside the burning car, in the snow that was melting by the fire even as she watched, were a collection of tracks made by small, small paws, trailing away from the scene of the tragedy and into the nightly forest beyond. And she would remember afterwards how she stood there, looking at those tracks, holding the hems of the blanket close together, and finally totally comprehending the full horror of the situation. And then came the pain. Then came all the terrible, searing sounds of the world. Then came the cold, the desperation. And she would remember nothing more.

She spent a long time in a hospital where everything was white, and everyone was smiling at her, talking to her in low tones as if the sound of human voices would damage her ears. She saw pity in their eyes and felt that she could not get away soon enough. But there was much inside her that was broken, not counting her heart, and her stay in that place would not be a short one.

Nights were her worst time, since it was then that everything around her went silent and she had time to think, to ponder and to grieve. Dreams were never easy on her and the memories she had of the accident she was forced to relive every time she closed her eyes. She grew to hate the white walls and the smiling people with the soft voices and the pitying eyes. She grew silent and withdrawn, and when at length she was allowed to leave the confinement of the white, accursed walls she had already sunk below the surface of herself. And slowly drowning, invisibly, unnoticed and seemingly irrevocably, she entered the world anew – but nothing was longer what it had been, and she least of all.

Spring came and with it memories. Memories of a time that had been happy and innocent, before the world ended and shades emerged to put up a pretense of blissful normality. She never returned to everyday life, to the things she had liked to do in the time Before. She only wandered and remembered, tortured herself with What Ifs and Whys. Her wanderings took her to places they had been together; an old playground, a steep hill destined to be covered in green grass when the weather got warmer, the roof of an old house where no one dared to live anymore in fear of wandering legends. In all these places she saw ghosts of her Happy Life, shadows of her lost friends laughing and singing.

Summer came and the steep hill gained its soft draping of flowing emerald. She lay there for hours gazing up at the sailing clouds above. Then she went down to the lake where they had used to swim on sunny afternoons. She sat down in the life-saving boat they had used to borrow-without-asking on several occasions, and gazed out at the dark waters. Nothing was as it should. Not anymore. She felt that she should have died in that car, too, which would have saved her from this agonizing existence. No shape of cloud and no song of water could ease her inner pain, and no bright summer sun would be ever able to light her darkness.

Autumn and falling leaves. Rain and thunder, wind and the crow of dark birds on otherwise empty branches. The season did nothing to help her, but she felt at home in it since it mirrored her inner feelings. The sorrow did not go away, as the others had said that it would. She hated the word “Eventually”, since the vocabularies of all the people surrounding her seemed to have suddenly lost all other words while they were in her presence. During stormy evenings she crept up into the window of her room and looked gloomily out at the darkening streets where falling water and wet red leaves seemed to compete furiously for the wind’s attention. Let me be a leaf, she thought. Let the wind take me and carry me away.

But she was no leaf, and when the air got cold and the wind grew biting rather than wet, she sat there still by her window, looking down at those streets. Soon the ground became white with frost and later covered by an even whiter blanket of snow. This was when she went out into the world again, to fully feel the pain of knowing that a year had passed her by and nothing inside her had changed even the slightest bit. She wandered the known streets. She left them for unknown ones, and ended up outside the areas of the most crowded habitation. Trees grew here, and the road was small and would not allow the width of two cars beside each other.

This road she walked, never looking back or up at what was in front of her, but always looking down at the ground, thinking and grieving. This is probably why she did not at first notice that someone was walking ahead of her. She saw the tracks before she saw the people; in fact, it was when she saw the tracks that she looked up from the ground at her feat, and noticed them. Shocked, she stopped on the road and only stared. For the two people that were walking some distance ahead of her could not be any other than the two persons that she missed most in the world, and also the two persons she had expected the least ever to see again. Two pairs of tracks trailed after them in the snow on the ground, and they seemed to be dancing where they went; dancing in the beautifully falling snow, just like they had used do in the past. She called their names, but they did not seem to hear her. Laughing happily, they continued down the forest road, away from her. She called again and started to run after them, joy rising in her heart for the first time in a long, long time. Could this possibly be true? What had really happened on that night, since they were both here, now, alive? But she did not give these thoughts much time, since she had to run her fastest not to lost sight of them. Because however fast she ran, she never seemed to get any closer to them; they were always a long distance ahead of her. They rounded a turn in the road and were for a moment hidden from her sight by the close growing trees of the forest. She hurried to catch up, but when she too had rounded the turn they could no longer be seen. Confused and disappointed she stopped. In front of her was a small bridge spanning a frozen river, but the tracks her two friends had left did not go any further than the beginning of that bridge. Then they were gone, without any sign of where they could have disappeared.

She gazed out over the river, and saw how the ice crystals on the snowy surface mirrored the twinkling stars in the dark heavens above. The forest was silent but for a murmuring wind that danced in the treetops. No laughter, no dance. Not even a nightly bird broke the tranquility. And nowhere anyone at all. Again she was alone. The bridge stretched empty in front of her, and on either side the world seemed to hold its breath and wait for her to think through the strangely wonderful thing that had just befallen her. But yet she did not understand. Then she turned around to return the same way that she had come, and suddenly she remembered the tracks. There should be more tracks than her own in the snow behind her, if she had not imagined it all and was finally going mad. But the tracks of two pairs of shoes that she had been following were not there anymore. Only the depressions in the snow where she had put her own feet remained, and even they were being filled with falling snow as she watched.

With a heavy heart she was just about to take the first dreary steps on her journey back home, when she noticed them. Small, small tracks made by paws trailed along her own. Tracks made by two cats, seemingly playful, dancing, where the tracks of her friends’ shoes had been a moment ago. And suddenly she remembered. The very same kind of tracks on the snowy ground next to a burning car on a winter night like this, a whole year ago. Two pairs of tracks leading away from two persons killed in a tragic car crash on a dark road in the middle of nowhere. Two. And now the very same kind of tracks on a snowy night road where she had only moments before spotted her lost friends, very much alive and even dancing happily.

All came back to her then. Every memory, happy and sad, good and bad. The laughter, the screaming, the pain and the cold. She relived the end of the world, but not in the same way as she had done every night for the last year. Stronger, more painful. But then there were the tracks in the snow. It all ended and started with those tracks. Cat tracks. Two cats dancing in the snow.

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she followed the tracks all the way back to where the houses begun. The silence was still unbroken, but inside of her a bright red flower had sprung up from soil that she had though of as dead and dry.

There are those who claim that the souls of two loving ones, if brutally and suddenly ripped from the world and from each other, can sometimes escape in the form of nightly creatures. Cats? Perhaps. I am not sure what to believe about that, but what I do know is that where a heart was earlier slowing, stopping, it is now starting to beat with more strength than it has ever done before. Someone who thought that all was lost suddenly discovered that nothing is ever, ever lost as long as there is a will to survive, to carry on. And as seasons change and the sun and moon continue to circulate the sky, so does hope return to a world that has ended many times but resurrected almost as often. For hope is our strongest force; a force that will outlive time itself.

 (Christina Smedbakken, 2008)

It gave her no consolation whatsoever to think of her life’s adventure as just a dream; nor did it soothe her when all those around her stubbornly continued to tell her to do so. Reason battled emotion inside of her head when she thought about it – and believe me: this she did almost all the time.

Some nights had passed since her recovery to reality, as all the others saw it. Some nights of unendurable, bodyless pain that no one could see in her face and which she refused always to admit even to herself. Always, but for the lonely hours just before dawn, that is. For in those small hours of twilight illumination, as all infused with the smallest inkling of craving for dream adventure would know, all your hidden thoughts are brought up before the merciless court that is your own half sleeping consciousness for hard interrogation. No shady corner of your mind is left unsearched when the restless soul seeks to ponder every fault ever done to or by you, in an attempt to please the unseen and half imagined watchers in the dark – those everyone tries to convince of their indisputable innocence when in reality all they want is to convince themselves.

And she, she was no exception. The only thing that separated her from all the others over the world, lying in the same way, praying to the rising sun to grant them a few merciful hours of sleep again before the beginning of the new day, was that she had a choice and did not know it. She could at any given time rise from her bed and leave the gloomy room behind; yes, literally fly out the window to reunite with the subjects of her endless pondering. This, though, she did not know in the same way that she could not truly accept that all she had witnessed and experienced in the past nights was as truthful a reality as the bed in which she lay at night, or the ceiling at which she had now been gazing unceasingly for how long she could not tell. And this ignorance, involuntary though it may have been, was close to costing her her life.

She was ill and she knew it. Nothing done by the others to keep from her the truth could prevent her from sensing it in her whole being. The fever that ate her constantly, tearing away her sanity at the same pace as it consumed her physical being, burned her from within like the fire of a raging star. And that star was visible every morning at her waking, to all those who loved her and cared for her, in her newly opened eyes before the agony of the newborn day burst forth to drag her away from her peaceful dreams once more.
This way her life had become not a year ago, but signs of this condition had been creeping up on her all of her life. In her early childhood she had often been forced to stay home from school due to her ever coming and going fever which always left her frail and weakened, knowing the span of several weeks was to expect before she would be fully recovered. Or almost fully. Each time the fever got a little more of her, and in the last few years she had been forced into a kind of exile from reality, mostly staying indoors, locked up in her own room with the computer as the only window to the outside world.

But even then her condition had been endurable. She had never given much for society anyway, thinking its every day intrigues all too prosaic and meaningless. Not that she did not see the wonders in the world of men and women; to the contrary she saw it very well, eyes wide open. Her problem was that she did not feel part of it and in that lay her great salvation since she was robbed cruelly from it at an relatively early age.
Her loved ones had all through her wasting away provided her with books plentifully, knowing her to be helplessly in love with the outside world though neither capable nor willing to be part of it. She read all kinds of literature, both fact and fiction, devouring the written word as though were it nourishment for her dying form, and she also wrote her own. At the computer or using the more old fashioned means of pen and paper she tended to lose herself for hours writing fantastic tales of creatures of the sky or of the forest, pressing her imagination to the extent and with the conviction that all but her loving family would have questioned the degree of her sanity. This, though, they never did.

And now, sadly, the moment they had all been dreading but oh, so fearfully waited for, had at last come. The girl with the silver hair and the star-filled eyes, she that would have been just about to enter the complex but wonderful world of early womanhood had she been allowed to live, was dying before their eyes. Long had it been since she last had had the strength to lift her delicate fingers to the keys to write her fantastic stories of other worlds. Long since she last had the voice to reassure them that she was just fine and would be totally alright after a quick rest. Long since she communicated at all, except through unconscious ravings in her twisting sleep or through low, repressed moans of obvious pain in her few waking hours.

All they knew now was that she was in pain, that she had been unreachable for several days and had awakened only a couple of nights ago, laying staring quietly at the ceiling ever since. At one point after her waking up she had related in a fast flow of words the substance of her long night’s dream, still not taking her eyes of the wooden boundary above. It had been the most fantastic imagination of all the stars being individuals gazing down upon the world, of the forest being full of strange beings with their own tales, of seeming human beings passing us by every day but really, perhaps without knowing it themselves, being the stuff of legend down to the core. She told them in swift words that she had been floating with the stars – her sisters and brothers – singing to the moon and the sun that are forever the mother and the father of them all. She told them that she had seen the world from above, in obscured vision due to her still earthbound form; that she had seen a wolf in agony because of his love for a mortal woman, and a man brought into the human world after a full life among the very small people of the woods. I am sure she would have told them many more things about all the faithfully kept secrets unknown to mankind had it not been for their interrupting her, their attempts to assure her that it had all been naught but fever stained nightmares not to bother thinking about ever again. At those words she grew quiet. At those words her spirit sank and the pain filled once again the gap that had for some merciful moments been occupied by dreams and wonders that she had almost believed in. At those words she was once and for all totally convinced that death was standing beside her bed, distancing and alienating her from the loved ones that surely meant nothing but to comfort her but who only succeeded in doing the very opposite.

For one day and a night, finally, she had neither eaten nor slept – only stared out in the space above her, waiting for the ender of all life finally to make his claim on her. She dared not look out her window, that was always open to the night sky due to her eager wish, lest she be reminded of her impossible dream of stars and skies and succumb to crying or to fear of death. She could afford no such thing.
She wanted so badly to be able either to fully believe in her fevery dream or totally to dismiss it as imagination; in the first of these cases she would not have to be afraid of anything, and in the latter she could muster her last strength in life to write the dream down for those she left behind to wonder about it when she was finally and irrevocably gone. She could, as it now was, do neither of these things and this was her great sorrow.
And as she lay there, listening to the others roaming about the house, occupied by their every day tasks thinking her asleep, she fell to pondering what death would be like. Would there be anything left of her spirit after it had fled her body? Would she feel the pain of drawing the last, totally useless breaths right after her heart had failed and would aid her lifespan no more? Or would her soul by then be already halfway on the “other side”, and by that preventing her from knowing fully the horrors of final, hopeless mortality? She tried not to be afraid. She tried not to feel the pull of deadly, primal fear that always precede the utter unknown. She had promised herself that she would be strong, that she would not upset her family more by showing her pain and anxiety in front of her approaching end.

Night fell slowly outside. She heard the others talking quietly in the kitchen about whether or not it would be wise to disturb her in her sleep to check how she was. She knew that in the end they would settle for glimpsing in at her through the half open door to see that she was still breathing, and then let her be. She did not mind. She never did any more.
The gentle creak of the door followed by soft footfalls withdrawing confirmed her thoughts, and soon she knew that she was alone awake in the house.

She was not to look at the stars, she knew it. She was not to think of the dream or to feel false hope building inside of her. Hope was for all but her now. All was for all but her. But still something drew her gaze to the sky outside. A faint noise – a voice? It could not be. But there it was again; soft, safe, reassuring. She knew that voice. She had known it all her life, but had only heard it once before in a distant past. Maybe in another world. Breeze in the light white curtains, filling the room with a flowing light that came from nowhere and everywhere still. Was this death? Surely not. And still she was sure that she was not dreaming, that this was really happening and that she was to understand it in some way. And it made sense, this ghostly light and this loving voice from the starry sky. Deep inside of her it did.

She could hardly believe it when she felt her own feet upon the cold tiles of the floor and the soft swirl of her nightgown around her ankles as she moved towards the window. Her fever burnt skin was soothed somewhat by the soft night breeze from outside and she felt weak but alive in those last moments. With hands upon the window frame and silver hair glittering in the light of the full moon, which she had not beheld for months, she lifted her head and gazed up at the forbidden stars. They sang to her now, in her head and in her ears. It was a song she knew all too well but had never sung. It was the song of her fever dream.

She knew that she must be hallucinating, that what she saw and heard must be her dying mind’s final salute to the world, but she stubbornly refused to be robbed of this her last moment in life – be it real or not. I guess that is why she wasn’t scared when the light of the sky – the moon herself – spoke to her in a melodic singing voice, calling her from afar. And in the moment she looked up onto the utter brightness of the otherworldly source of evening light she thought for a split second she saw the face of a goddess smiling down at her from between scattered stars.

Had it been not for her dreamy amazement and sense of eerie victory, she would in this moment have felt the horror of death she had so dreaded in her last few nights. Her heart was beating its last struggling beats now, and the breaths of night air that passed her lips now in waves that were uneven but refreshing did little good for her any more, as her body was at last too weak to bring them to proper use for her survival. This, though, she would not acknowledge anymore than she could bring herself to think of her family that would surely despair in the morning at finding her lifeless at the floor by the open window, and without doubt blame themselves for their recklessness in leaving it open for the cold wind to hurt her.

In those last seconds of her life she could not, and would not, tear her eyes from the faces of the sky that so fondly gazed down at her and beckoned for her to join them. Wind in her face, wind in her billowing linen gown, and she climbed the windowsill smiling.
Standing there at the edge of the known universe, at the end of her world, she was not afraid of death or falling. She had been falling and dying for as long as she could remember, and this would be the last time. This would be her flight for freedom and adventure. And then she took the step, and all the stars drew in their precious breaths but never quit their singing, and the moon that was the mother of them all reached forth down to earth to break the fall.

Have you ever experienced, on a particularly starry night, perhaps in the middle of biting winter when the northern lights are dancing across the sky whispering secrets to all those with sense to listen, a moment in reality when the space and the world grow so quiet you could hear a snowflake hit the roof of a car? Often following those rare and precious moments you can see a star shooting across the night towards some fantastic destination far away. But sometimes that quiet is followed by the birth of a new star into the sky, so bright and clear that all take for granted that is has been there always, since nothing so self evident could ever have not existed. Well, if you have, and if that happened recently, maybe not more than a few years ago, it might well have been the very same occasion that is related in this story. Because when she took the fatal jump from safety and knowledge, and the stars were stunned and the moon calmly reached for her, she did not fall. The night took her in and she flew, ever ascending, never looking back, towards the stars that twinkled welcomingly and the moon that ever smiled towards her homecoming daughter.

Happily she understood that her dreams had been not fantasy but wonderful reality, and in her flight to her carefully guarded place on the nightly velvet curtain she was told everything by her brothers and sisters – everything about the world and everything about their own omniscient ever presence. And in the millennia to come she guarded safely always from her haven in the sky, ever able to look down upon the world she so loved from, a vantage point where she could see and know all without having to participate in commonplace human life. Not until now could she truly comprehend the beauty of life or the wonderful mystery of the world. Not until now did she understand that reality is so much more than what the human people want to think in their ignorance. And not until now could she possibly grasp the true meaning of the word happiness. This and much more came to her as she took her place close to her mother, who lovingly embraced her and said that she was so, so very much awaited and longed for. She was home at last.

Grief struck her mortal beloved ones in the morning at her absence. Her bed was empty, the window wide open and not a trace was to be found of their beloved girl who had been dying for so long they could not accept the thought that she was gone but not dead. The police was called in, the neighbours searched everywhere, but nowhere was the girl with the silver hair and the starry eyes. Nowhere could word of her be heard and nowhere was consolation for those who loved her. Weeks passed and the sorrow was so great that not even when the night called them with soothing song of tidings and consolation did they take their time to look out at the sky of stars.

Thus it was not until a long time afterwards that they found their answers, even though not all of them were willing to believe in such tales that others took for facts in their desperation after an end to this agonizing not knowing. The answer was in the girls computer, that had stood vacant since her disappearance and was at the time of their discovery covered with a fine layer of dust. What they found was one of her stories of old, this one being one of the last ever written by her before her illness took hold of her for good.
It told a rich tale of the love affair between the sun and the moon, who could meet once a month only when their paths crossed and who at all other times missed and searched for each other unceasingly. Their meetings sometimes resulted in the birth of a new star, and sometimes, even more rarely, the star child was placed into the world as an earthbound being to learn and wonder before ascending to her predestined place in the sky. These children could not live as mortal creatures for very long, since the star fire inside of them always burned at their earthly form and eventually caused it to die painfully. But before this happened the child was given the choice to join her kind on the utmost border of the world to see all and know all forever, and most often the child choose to do so. That resulted in the child’s disappearance from the mortal world without a trace, but her reuniting with her true family above.

This sole evidence would have convinced alone the most desperate of truth seekers since it was in the eyes of the human world a child’s tale and nothing more. Things were settled only some days later, when a knock on the door announced a stranger on the doorstep. He was finely dressed in clothes not very appropriate for this time and era, but which would surely have been very suitable some hundred years ago. He kept looking down at a beautiful watch he kept in his inner pocket, as if he was in a hurry to get somewhere else, and, after introducing himself as one Mister Wolf, quickly presented to the family of the disappeared girl a letter written in an all to familiar hand on a beautifully textured piece of paper.
Then he excused himself and withdrew as suddenly as he had come, down the narrow trail of concrete tiles that lined the sidewalk. Many attempts by the police to find the mysterious stranger were later made, but with no success. During a short period his description was posted every day in the local paper, in the hope that he could lead the authorities on the right track in finding the missing girl, but with no result whatsoever. It was as if he had never existed.

The family of the girl, though, was not any longer as eager to look for their missing love. The letter they never showed to the police, since they knew they would not believe a word of it. But they themselves did. Its contents shall not be related here since it was neither addressed to us nor relevant for the ending of this story, but I will stretch as far as to confirm what you should have already guessed. It was written by the star child, as a last consolation and explanation to those she still loved but would never talk to again. It was written in loving words and in a style which brutally ended all doubts as to its genuineness.

It calmed the distressed family and made them feel at ease at last, after all this time.
They collected all the stories ever written by her of her beloved and amazing fantasies into a book that could and would be read by many mystery thirsting souls, and they knew that she was at peace wherever she was. And every winter night when the moon was full and the northern lights danced across the starry sky, they always stopped by the window, taking their time to gaze up at the shining stars, knowing that somewhere up there, south east of Orion, she was lovingly gazing back at them.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2007)

He could not tell from where the light really came; was it from the starry sky, barely visible through the semi transparent veil of clouds? Was it from the wet rocks, ever glittering by the force of the recently fallen rain? Or was it, by some ancient magic, the silvery autumn branches high above, with their last stubbornly clinging silver leafs, that cast off the fairy illumination? He could not tell, and he guessed that it was just as good he didn’t, as the question, unimportant as it might be, helped him greatly by keeping his thoughts off more important and frightening matters.

He struggled to stay in line; it was hard as the others, his captors, were so much smaller than he ever was, and saw a grave trespassing in every small inch he happened to move outside the given route. The dark forest was full of eyes watching, but it was the wrong kind of eyes; nowhere did he ever glimpse the lilac radiant glimmer in the night that he so wished to see, and thus he understood that he should harbour no hopes of rescue from these fierce monsters that kept him stumbling down the narrow trail in the middle of this godforsaken night.

He understood, as he had done from the beginning, that the puny magic of his people, wonderful though it was, could put up no threat to these villains. He had beheld his family getting brought down on the cold forest floor with blows of ugly dark weapons and spells of a kind he never saw before, when they refused to give him up without a fight. He had no idea of their fate now – if they were still alive and if the village had survived the fire that he had seen licking at it when he was carried away, half conscious, into the unknown darkness.

He had been very much beautiful to them, his people, in the same way that they were beautiful to him. He could vaguely remember a time in his life, distant from now in the past, when he had not been so much bigger than them as he was now. His memory did not, however, cover any time at all when he had been just as small as them. But he was well aware that memory could be a tricky thing (he even had, laughably enough, some silly imaginary memories from long ago when the world around him had not been only trees and trees), so he understood clearly that he must have forgotten about the time when he, also, had been small and feline. Just like he had forgotten totally about the incident which his people had been so reluctant to tell him about until this very night; the incident (or accident, for that matter) that had in some magical way caused him to start growing in size to such a degree that he was now some kind of giant of the woods. He wondered now whether he would grow even more, maybe to the tallness of the trees, so that he in time would be able to look down from the drifting clouds and see all the forest of the wide world. He hoped not, because then he might accidentally happen to step on some animal or friend of his, and that wouldn’t be very nice, would it now? Anyway, he thought, his people had accepted, loved and adored him (even though they had had to fly up to the first branches of the leaf carrying trees to look him in the eye) and they had thought him beautiful.

These misshaped creatures, on the other hand, did not love him and to them he was most certainly not beautiful. This they let him know through kicks and blows whenever they got the chance, and through yelling at him in a language that was not of the forest and which he did not understand. Every now and then, though, they assured him of their standpoint towards him by throwing into their hysterical shouting some occasional word in his own language, the language of his people, with the general meaning of “ugly” or “giant”. So if he in the past had been a creature of wonder and beauty, that was no longer the case. In this twilight world which he had now been robbed into, he was no more than a freak show, and to his captors he was no more than an ugly giant.

They kept their pace for all of the night, never stopping to let him catch his breath or offering him to drink from their bottles. When they stopped to rest every morning, just before the hour when the horizon would turn red had they been able to see it through the trees, he was tied to the ground by the use of some evil magic, and forced into an uneasy sleep by some strong liquid they made him drink against his will. He never woke before the twilight hour, and thus his world became one of night. He did not see the sun for many days.

In his restless sleep, forced upon him by the witchcraft of these fiends, he again and again
relived the night when he had been snatched from his peaceful life among his people. The
colours of the dream were always distorted, as is the case when you sleep with a heavy fever upon you, and the voices of everyone, friend and monster, were warped and twisted and he was always afraid during those dreams. He again and again experienced the hour just before twilight, the night of the autumn feast in the village. He again and again looked out through the little window in the small cottage they had built for him (which was just big enough for him but already starting to feel a bit narrow as he continued to grow with the changing of each season), to see his pretty little family and his friends hurrying this way and that, trying to get the banquet ready before sundown when the festivity would begin. They called to him and smiled, and asked him to put the decorations on the taller branches which they themselves could not reach easily. He smiled back at them and climbed out of his little house, ready to assist. His little sister was on his shoulder now, and whispering told him a secret he had now forgotten; something about the way the birds fly when the winter is nearing, and why they do that. He walked up to one of the trees surrounding their glade village, about to braid into its lowest branches a garland of tiny, glittering sparks made by his cousin.

Now time slowed down and the fever dream made him relive these last moments of sense in some kind of slow moving pace, at the same time as reality shifted colours and every sound was stretched, as if to mimic some infernal singing of the fish in the brook.
From every direction now, surrounding the glade, crawled dark shapes out of the descending twilight. The creatures had teeth just like the predatory, four legged animals of the woods that his people so shunned and feared, and dark red, cunning eyes.
They carried iron rods, sharpened and darkened by night, and chanted in low voices an evil
rhyme the words of which he had never heard before. His people started in horror at this
sudden attack, and gathered around him in the middle of the glade, fearfully gazing in each
direction and singing protective spell songs to ward off the approaching demons (if this was to protect him or seek shelter in his presence, he could not know).

But the fiends had stronger magic, even though they were no larger in size than the forest people, and continued to approach until they had closed in and surrounded the circle.
One of them started to speak to the forest people in his strange language, and the chanting
grew louder. This part was always cloudy in the dream, and he had a hard time remembering what happened afterwards. Through a dreamy haze he could see his people trying to fight back the intruders, using sticks and magic. He felt himself starting to fall, as if some evil spell of sleep had been cast upon him, and as he lay there on the ground he could do nothing but hope that he had not fallen on some of his friends. He could not move anymore, and his vision grew blurrier every split second.
The last thing he saw though the descending fog was fire; fire everywhere. And his brothers and sisters, all his people, fighting the demons and failing. He could not help them, he could not protect them. And so utter darkness engulfed him, and he knew nothing.

He could not remember awaking from that darkness. The only thing he could recall was that suddenly he was striding along this row of foes, the dark forest the only thing around and no familiar stone or landmark anywhere. Thus he had no idea how long had passed since this terrible incident that was maybe the end of his village, and fierce beating was the only answer he got, did he dare to ask his captors.
Every night when he awoke from his spellbound sleep he cried bitterly. At first he had
refused to stand up and obey when they beckoned him to rise each night. This had resulted in a lot of pain, both from their weapons and from their spells. They had shouted at him and beat him until he was covered in blood and he could take it no more. Then he must struggle on through the night with aching limbs and bleeding scars all over, until next morning when he was finally allowed to lie down again. When again he woke, some magic had always caused his wounds to heal – uselessly, since his refusal to cooperate at once made them bear down on him again as soon as he started to strain.

After a while, though, he grew numb.He no longer fought them and no longer cared. His soul he hid deep within his weary body, and he no longer thought of anything but where he put his feet. They still beat him all the time (even more and even harder when they, to their frustration, noticed his lack of concern), but he didn’t notice it much. He felt the pain in his body, but his soul was out of reach.

Many, many nights after this they wandered. The landscape grew sparse of vegetation and
finally no moss or twigs longer covered the ground. They passed over a fence made out of
silver thread, and after walking some distance everything was changed. The rocks that he
knew to always be round and uneven now spread out before him in a strange flat kind of way; the ground was covered with them, and they were no longer round or raw but square and very much flat under his sore feet. Wherever he looked were strange, heaven high buildings with sharp corners made out of both wood and stone, and they had glittering squares of light fastened to their every side.
He was totally unprepared of this powerful vision of strange wonders, and his wall of protection crumbled to nothing; he let out a gasp of awe, and stood as bewitched gazing up towards the towers of light that stretched endlessly before him.

The demons that held him captive glared at him and dragged him down on the ground so
that he was at their level. Evil eyes were fixed at him from all directions, and then they spoke.
He was amazed beyond words as they did so, for suddenly and without any further
explanation, he understood them!
“Don’t try to find your way back over the silvery fence”, they growled hatefully. “You will
never find it again from this side of the world. And even if you did you would not be able to
find the trail we walked. You are changed now. Changed back, from what you should never
have been in the first place.”

And with those last words they turned their backs on him and started back the way that they had come. He rose to his feet to hurry after them before his road was closed forever, but lots of new noises surrounded him and he was no longer sure of what it was that he had to return to so much. He stood a second in confusion, and when he again came to his senses, they were gone without a trace. It was as if they were never there in the first place, and surely they did not fit into this gleaming world of fast passing, bright coloured vehicles and burning sunset towers of the whitest marble. After a while he was not even sure that they had really been there.

Then he saw the creatures of this magical city of light, and he almost fainted from the
realisation; they were like him! He was not taller than most of them, and they were of all
kinds. Some where smooth and vigorous, while others had skin like crumbled fruit in the
autumn and walked leaning on sticks or other strange apparatuses. No one looked twice upon him.

He was totally at loss with this situation. His memory of where he had come from was
slipping from his grasp even now, and he was surprised that he understood everything these creatures, so alike him it was almost frightening, said to each other. He looked around for somewhere to go, somewhere to hide – and his gaze fell upon a lightning square, a window, where he suddenly laid eyes upon the most wondrous and beautiful sight he had ever beheld in his whole life. More beautiful was it than the golden leafs of autumn, or the gentle crystals in the air at winter. More wonderful a sight than the wild and musical swirling of the brook at spring, or the flight of the most daring of blue birds in the time of summer was it. Much more than all of that.

It was a girl. She was slowly and carefully combing out her golden hair, sitting at the
window but not looking out. Her curls gleamed beautifully in the last light of the dying sun,
and she was dressed for the night in the whitest silk, decorated only at the edges with purple lace ribbons. Her skin was white and smooth, and he in some strange way knew that she was very much like him. Her window was far above him, and even then he could behold all this.

After that he knew nothing before he stood in front of her door, in an echoing stairwell,
reading the small letters printed at a pretty, decorated sign in the level of his eyes (and yes, he really could read them). She had such a wonderful name!
He carefully pushed the white little button next to the door, and a melodious ringing sprang
forth inside the closed door. Footsteps fell on some soft surface inside, and soon she stood
there, right in front of him, and looked into his eyes. She truly was beautiful, more beautiful
than he had thought when he stood in the darkening street gazing up at her.
He thought for a second of how her eyes had something slightly familiar about them;
something in their colour reminded him of birds and magic. They twinkled like radiantly lilac little stars, and for a moment he was utterly confused and taken aback.

She smiled in a way that somehow indicated recognition, and then a name came to him. His name. And it was not a fairy name or a giant name, but a human name. The name of one of these creatures that were his size. His kind. He spoke his newfound and newly re-remembered name out loud, and she smiled again and thought that it was the most wonderful name.

He still stands in front of that door now and then, but now he has the key and does not have to press the doorbell, and the decorative sight in level with his eyes contains now not only her beautiful name, but his as well.
He is happy together with the girl with the radiant eyes, who knows not more than him about the forest and small villages with tiny people, or dark demons from the night.

But sometimes, at the end of summer when twilight comes earlier with each
passing day and the shadows grow longer, he finds himself waking screaming and crying
from a restless, sweat drenched dream where small, pretty figures stand around him in a
darkening glade, speaking words of strangeness to menacing creatures with dark red eyes,
who answer them in a language that he can now understand clearly.

He always stays in the dream just long enough to hear one of the demons speak to the pretty people: “We are here on behalf of the Agency of Switch-cases. Hand us the changeling! He is not of yours; he is to be taken back to where he came from! Give in freely or we shall take him by force, with no concern of the consequences!”
And as the devilish voice of the imp-creature dies away, leaving not complete silence but the din of battle and death in its wake, the dream vision fades away and he feels himself falling down, down into a deep foggy darkness.

It is after suchautumn dreams of another world that he wakes crying and twisting in his bed, without knowing where he is or why, half expecting the agony of sharpened iron rods brought down on him any second. But then her hand is on him, reassuring him and loving him, and he is again who he is; a human creature just like her, completely safe in her embrace from all the horrors of the dark.

They are very happy together, and soon she is to tell him that they are expecting a little one of their own into the world, and he will be so filled with joy. And as time goes by, as it
inevitable does, memory of past lives grow bleacher and bleacher, until nothing remains but now and then a dream about a clear autumn evening ending in tragedy. Just a dream.

But once a year, on the day that he eventually guessed to be the day of his birth or the day of some other important event in his life, he finds on the hallway carpet, infallibly, a card
decorated with golden leafs and strangely twinkling sparks, covered with words written in a language he can no longer understand.
But he nevertheless keeps them close at heart and stores them carefully in a beautifully decorated wooden box that he has made himself, and takes them out every now and then to look at them and try to remember.
And even though he forever fails to do that, he is very, very happy.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2007)

Det började en helt vanlig, mörk natt på en gata jag inte tänker nämna namnet på. En gubbe, troligen i övre medelåldern, med långt, hängande vitt skägg, stod vid ett gathörn klädd i en illasittande, blå klänning. Han såg sig om åt alla håll, som för att försäkra sig om att han var ensam.
Sedan sprang han så fort han kunde mot närmaste lyktstolpe. Han skakade den (en sällan beprövad metod, som för den sakens skull inte fungerar sämre), sparkade på den och svor åt den, tills den snarare av öronvärk än skräck slocknade. Proceduren upprepades ett antal gånger tills gatan vilade i mörker.

Då tog han upp ett föremål ur fickan som liknade en gammal tändare, och skakade lite på den också. Han vände sig om igen för att se att han inte var iakttagen. Det var han. På gatan bredvid honom satt en rödbrun, rund ko och glodde på honom med arga ögon. Gubben skruvade lite besvärat på sig. Kon skakade menande på huvudet. Rörelsen fick dess glasögon att hoppa lätt på mulen

”Vad håller du på med, Dummledum?”, sade den helt oväntat. Oväntat eftersom kor vanligtvis inte pratar med gubbar i blå klänningar.
Gubben såg en aning generad ut. ”Eh… Släcker gatlyktor…” Han tystnade förläget och såg ned i marken.
”Varför då om jag får fråga?”, fortsatte kon anklagande och höjde menande på ett av sina icke-existerande ögonbryn.
”Hagdjur kommer ju snart”, svarade gubben som hette Dummledum. Han skrattade en aning elakt och såg upp mot den mörka himlen. ”Han kanske krockar med något om han inte ser.”
”Du är hopplös.” Kon suckade uppgivet. ”Titta där!”, utropade den plötsligt.

Dummledum vände sig om för endast ett ögonblick. Ingenting där. Han kliade sig förbryllat på hakan. När han åter vände blicken mot kon var den borta. På marken vid hans fötter stod istället en grön, halvgrekisk kaffepanna de-luxe och stirrar på honom.
”Shit…” Rösten lät ihålig, som en Halv groda. ”Titta där!”, ropade den igen.

Dummledum vände sig hastigt om. En släng av paranoia? Ingenting den här gången heller. Nu blev han nästan arg på sig själv. Hur många gånger hade han gått på det där nu? Han vände sig åter mot kaffepannan, som nu också den var försvunnen.
Kon var tillbaka…eller nej, kanske inte. Där de små hornen förut funnits fanns nu ingenting annat än grått hår. I övrigt liknade varelsen en ko till den grad att han först nästan inte såg att det var hans gamla kollega han hade framför sig.

”McGullegull! Jag såg inte att det var du.”
Den koliknande varelsen svängde på huvudet så att det grå, fettiga håret fladdrade i den icke-existerande vinden. ”Nej, men nu ser du väl det, raring?”
Dummledum visste inte vad han skulle svara, så han förblev tyst. Om hon bara inte liknade en ko så mycket…

Plötsligt avbröts han i sina funderingar av ett brak. Han såg hastigt upp. En jättelik motorcykel satt numera hårt fastkilad mellan en sopcontainer och en lyktstolpe. Svärande ljud kom från vem det nu var som suttit på den, men som nu kastats in i en rosenbuske. Dummledum skyndade ditåt, tätt åtföljd av Mcgullegull som nu återtagit sin ko-form för att lättare kunna ta sig fram. När Dummledum nått fram till rosenbusken hade offret redan rest sig upp. Dummledum sände en tyst förbannelse till Sauron för att busken inte varit en betongvägg. Sedan räckte han fram handen och hjälper den ytterst korte Hagdjur upp på fötter.

”Hur gick det, käre vän?” Han motstod behovet av att spy på sig själv för att han sade så. Varelsen kunde ju vara farlig…
Hagdjur ruskar på huvudet. ”Det gick så bra så… Men vad har hänt med landningsljusen?” Dummledum viftade bort frågan genom att byta samtalsämne. ”Lyckades du få tag på ungen?”
Hagdjur nickar stolt. ”Jag blev tvungen att göra mig av med hans för…” Han avbröt sig hastigt. ”Eh… Gömma mig för han-du-vet-den-där, för att få tag på sno…hehe ungen. Men så kan det vara när man är i min bransch.” Han rotade lite i motorcykelvraket och hittade slutligen en illa tilltygad korg, eller resterna av en. Han räckte fram den mot Dummledum, som tog emot den med skakade händer.
”Är det…”
”Ja”, svarade den korte mannen som var klädd i en alldeles för lång skinnjacka, och talade med en röst som lät ganska lik Kalle Anka. Men bara nästan. ”Jag råkade sitta på honom under resan, men han repar sig nog.”
När Dummledum fick höra detta kastade han med en äcklad min ungen till Mcgullegull, som hade problem att fånga den med sina klövar.
”Det blir nog bra med det där ska du se…”, svarade han frånvarande den lille mannen. Mcgullegull synade ungen i korgen. Han kunde komma att få allvarliga problem i framtiden, det insåg hon. En så ful unge kunde väl ingen vilja ha? Han var ju så gott som mosad. Hon klampade iväg mot närmaste hus för att leverera barnet så fort hon kunde.
”Vad gör du?!”, utropade Dummledum. ”Det där är fel hus!”
”Jasså…” Kon återvände till de andra två. ”Jag trodde inte att det spelade någon roll.
”Jo det gör det. Jag anser att det är bättre att barnet växer upp hos någon som hatar honom.” Han skrattade sadistisk. Ett ljud som de båda andra lärt sig att frukta under de långa år de känt honom.

Gubben gick iväg med korgen mot ett annat hus, med en Merchedes på uppfarten. Den här familjen verkar vara snorkig, tänkte han och lade barnet på trappan. Till saken hör att detta var en kall vinternatt, och han var ganska säker på att ungen skulle få bestående men av kylan. ”Sådär ja nu var det avklarat.” sade han och vände sig mot de andra.
”Nu behöver vi bara vänta i elva år, och sedan börja trakassera den här familjen.

Publiken jublade och det gjorde kon också. Den lille mannen jublade inte, för han hade nu fått en posttraumatisk upplevelse och segnat ned på marken med allvarliga hjärnskador. Han ryckete lite spasmiskt, men det var inget de andra brydde sig om.

”Kom nu. Vi måste tillbaka innan den-där-du-vet-vem-jag-menar får för sig att bomba oss med rosa ulltussar.”
Kon nickade och tänkte med bävan på de rosa ulltussarna. De försvann nedför gatan under tystnad. Kon rullande, gubben gående i ett försök att se värdig ut trots de fåniga kläderna som han inte förstod varför han hade på sig.
(Den lille mannen låg kvar på gatan där de lämnat honom. Ingen kommer att minnas honom i den senare historien, och hans roll kommer att ersättas av en mycket längre, fetare version av trädgårdsmästare [en som är mer inne på den tiden historien utspelar sig]. Hans roll är utspelad, och hans motorcykel förstörd. Må han vila i frid.)

När gatan åter var tom och tyst hoppade två rosa flamingosar fram ur ett buskage. Det var de fruktade Krüger och Mumin, fjanten-som-inte-har-något-häftigt-öknan-ännu’s värsta hantlangare (som inte är speciellt ökända ännu, men kommer bli. Sanna mina ord, det kommer de.)
De såg menande på varandra och lyfte sedan från marken och flög iväg mot öster, där regnmolnen tonar upp sig som svarta…moln. De hade faktiskt själva ingen aning om vad det var de hade bevittnat, men det såg i alla fall coolt ut.
En av dem tänkte för ett kort ögonblick på en grön kaffepanna, men snart var också de borta.

Gryningen närmade sig, och några gatuarbetare skulle snart komma att mäka att de hade mer arbete att utföra än de trott.
En snorkig familj med merchedes skulle också snart komma att upptäcka att något som var skrämmande likt vad som hänt en annan familj i en känd barnbok också hänt dem. En liten unge skulle komma att få lida på grund av en liten man som låg död ute på gatan, och ett par flamingosar skulle komma att få sin livs chock när de insåg att deras härskare var slagen. Elva år senare fortsätter historien…. (Inte än alltså.)

(Christina Smedbakken, 2002)

Det var en gång en ung forskare med en dröm. En dröm om att rädda mänskligheten från
diverse sjukdomar och åkommor som gjorde livet svårare att leva.
För att förverkliga denna dröm utarbetade forskaren en metod som ingen annan riktigt
lyckats med förut; sedan kunde han lugnt luta sig tillbaka och beundra sin skapelse i
praktiken, lyckligt förvissad om att han nu räddat världen.
Men forskaren dog och drömmen glömdes bort. Så gjorde ock syftet, och till slut fanns
endast Metoden kvar. Metoden som räddade världen.

2000-talets roll i historien är en dyster berättelse om mänsklighetens utveckling och fall.
Det hela tog sin början någon gång runt 2050, då gentekniken på allvar började få sitt inträde i den allmänna vardagen. Det som till en början endast hade testats på djur utan något riktigt syfte, började redan då introduceras till privatpersoner, som ett sätt att få ett barn utan fysiska avvikelser eller defekter.
Det gick så långt att fler och fler blivande föräldrar valde att sätta sin tilltro till
genfysikernas kunskaper, och godvilligt lät dessa forma deras kärleksbarn efter de önskemål som de själva gav. Följden blev att flera generationer barn som föddes under denna tidsperiod blev utmärkande exemplariska och begåvade inom allt de tog sig för.
Världen blomstrade under några korta årtionden, och Metoden helgades. Sedan började
Förändringen.

Allt fler kvinnor började nu inse att de nu faktiskt kunde skaffa barn på egen hand, vilket
de också gjorde. Till en början var detta endast en välsignelse till alla de manslösa kvinnorna i världen, men det var innan den nya lagen kom.
På grund av den allt mer radikala överbefolkningen på jorden, bestämdes det i en ny,
obestridlig och världsomspännande lag, att var och en endast hade rätt till ett barn och inte
mer. Det var nu problemen började.
Då den nya gentekniken alltså nu gjorde det möjligt för kvinnor att ensamma, med hjälp av
konstgjorda medel, så gott som tillverka och fostra ett barn, uppkom frågan om detta nu inte var bättre än att på den naturliga vägen skaffa ett. Tvärt emot denna var Metoden var helt riskfri, och det barn man fick hade under inga som helst omständigheter några åkommor eller sjukdomar. Det ledde till att allt färre kvinnor alls brydde sig om att slå sig ihop med en man. Till slut var summan av dem som faktiskt hade en närapå obefintlig. Privatlivet, känslor och drömmar försummades; allt fler satsade mer av sin tid på yrkeslivet och kvinnorna kom upp sig på karriärstegen. De flesta hade efter endast ett tiotal år höga uppsättningar och kontorsjobb i toppen av samhället.

Männen, däremot, blev nu tvungna att visa sitt värde genom att slita allt hårdare inom
industrin och diverse mindre betydande ämbeten. Endast de som kunde bevisa sina goda
gener hade chansen att bli valda till giftermål eller partnerskap, då de egentligen var
överflödiga i systemet. Och då hade det ändå ännu inte börjat gå nedför för mänskligheten.
I skolorna fick flickorna sina intressen allt mer övervakade och tillgodosedda, och de gavs
allt bättre utbildning eftersom det var de som i framtiden skulle styra världen – det var
egentligen bara de som behövdes för att säkra den mänskliga rasens fortlevnad.
Pojkarna, å andra sidan, försummades, och sattes så gott som endast i lära i de grövre
hantverk de var förutbestämda att slita med i sitt framtida vuxenliv.

Många av dem hoppade av skolan i tidig ålder, för att driva runt på gatorna. Allt oftare uppkom bråk mellan olika grupper; bråk som ofta slutade i blodsfejd och död. Gator och gränder började stegvis förvandlas till osäkra platser, och det var få som vågade sig ut efter mörkrets inbrott.
Staten tyckte sig kunna råda bot på detta problem, genom att sålla ut dessa barn
med ”genetiska anlag för våld” redan vid födseln. Idén vidareutvecklades så småningom till en utsållning av alla spädbarn med defekter av alla de slag, bland dem som faktiskt hade två fäder. De barn som var kreationer skapade genom forskarnas Metod hade självklart sällan eller nästan aldrig några defekter, men det hände. Och då var kontrollanterna snabba att genast se till att dessa oskadliggjordes och ersattes av nya, mer passande versioner.
Det gick så långt, att det till slut var ganska vanligt att personer även i vuxen ålder spårades upp och ”ersattes”. Men detta var självklart ingenting den vanliga medborgaren hade någon aning om. Nej, detta var strikt statliga angelägenheter som endast den lilla noggrant utvalda skara som jobbade inom Styrelsen hade kännedom om. Nämnas bör kanske att denna heliga och okända församling uteslutande bestod av kvinnor.

DNA från alla foster som någonsin framställts, och alla barn som någonsin fötts, sparades i
en bank avsedd för ändamålet. Det gjorde det möjligt att spåra brottslingar, men också att vid behov återskapa en individ; då självklart utan uppenbara felaktigheter som kanske visat sig under personens levnadstid.
En speciell metod gjorde det till och med möjligt att avläsa och lagra en persons samlade
minnen i en viss typ av mikrodator, genom att koppla sändare med elektroniska impulser till individens hjärna då denne var i sovande tillstånd.

Tekniken hade nu nästan nått sin yttersta spets, och de flesta människorna på jorden var
närapå idealiska, ofelbara. Och när något undantag upptäcktes, åtgärdades självklart detta
smidigt och snabbt, utan att omvärlden behövde få veta något.
Men situationen skulle snart visa sig vara ohållbar. Blivande mödrar som kanske ångrat sig
i sitt val av partner då de endast hade rätt till ett barn, eller helt enkelt inte kände sig redo att lägga ned tid på fostrandet av ett, valde att föda barnet i hemlighet för att sedan lämna det åt sitt öde på någon mörk bakgata eller liknande plats. Dessa barn dog ofta – mycket på grund av de råttor som översvämmade världens botten, men vissa togs om hand.

Det hade nämligen börjat bildas ännu ett samhälle; ett samhälle som få eller inga av de laglydiga och styrda medborgarna kände till. Detta underjordiska samhälle på världens botten bestod av de Utstötta. De som lyckats undkomma den grymma utsållningen av ”felaktiga” gener som hela tiden ägde rum i världen. Det kunde röra sig om bagatellartade saker så som allergier, sjukdomar, men också andra saker som rörelsesvårigheter och så vidare. Också somliga av dem som hade förbrukat sin ”medborgarrätt” sökte sig till denna skara; hade man förbrukat sin ”medborgarrätt”, som bestod av tre markeringar på en ID-bricka man själv inte visste något om, betydde det att man antingen under mystiska omständigheter förolyckades, eller att man – om man hade en viktig funktion i systemet eller hyste någon individuell och användbar egenskap – ”ersattes” med en bättre version av sig själv. Båda dessa alternativ innebar givetvis döden. Men det fanns de som hade lyckats sätta sig i säkerhet i tid, och på så sätt överlevt för att på håll kunna bevittna hur en person med identiskt utseende och beteende övertog deras plats, liv och roll i världen.

Det var av dessa människor som de bortlämnade barnen uppfostrades, och därför växte den underjordiska skaran i skuggan av världen, utan att någon visste något om det.
Allt umgänge med dessa, eller ens tal eller vetskap om det, innebar döden och ersättning.
Lyckligt nog för resten av samhället var det så gott som ingen alls som gjorde sig skyldig till
något av detta.

Liam Rodders, eller #22767 som han kallades i mer arbetsmässiga sammanhang, var allt
annat än exemplarisk. Han var poet, filosof och generellt missnöjd med sitt liv i allmänhet.
Han hade många gånger funderat på att ta sitt liv, men var rädd att Lagväktarna skulle hitta honom i tid och hinna återuppliva honom. Det var nämligen förbjudet att döda någon, sig själv inräknat. Och mord bestraffades med långt värre saker än döden.

Liam hade ingen fru, inget barn, och skulle för övrigt med all säkerhet aldrig få det heller.
Det fick han kunnat konstatera efter varje fysikundersökning han blev tvingad till. Hans bostad bestod i ett litet kyffe på bottenvåningen av ett mycket högt hus, precis bredvid verkstaden där han arbetade med att tillverka stolsben i metall. I alla de närliggande lägenheterna bodde också ensamma män som slet varje dag på samma sätt som han.
Han var en av de få som faktiskt hade både en mor och en far, men dessa var döda sedan
länge. Ingen kunde leva särskilt länge under omständigheterna som rådde, och medelåldern för dödsögonblicket hade sjunkit till runt femtio år. Han själv var runt tjugo, men han hade slutat räkna för länge sedan. Han var på botten av samhället, det visste han. Men det var inte det som plågade honom. Det var ensamheten.

Något han också visste var att han var en hopplös suput. Alkohol var nämligen det enda
som tillhandahölls männen i Systemet i rikliga mängder. Kanske för att de inte skulle tänka
för mycket. Det var i alla fall vad Liam själv trodde.
Men om detta var syftet, hade Styrelsen misslyckats. Det var nämligen under sina få lediga
timmar, då han kunde sätta sig vid sitt köksfönster som vette ut mot en skabbig gata, och
supa sig redlös, som tankarna verkligen satte igång. Han tänkte väldigt mycket, och hans
vänner brukade kalla honom Filosofen. Men han skrev ned sina tankar på papper, och därför var han också poet.
En gång, då han satt just i detta fönster och såg ut mot den hopplösa världen, hade han sett
en kvinna komma gående längs gatan. Hon hade med lätta steg tagit sig fram genom en miljö där hon inte hörda hemma, till synes helt orädd och självsäker. Han hade sett länge efter henne, men då hon försvann bakom ett hörn hade han dragit ned persiennen och sagt åt sig själv att sluta drömma. Sedan hade han tömt flaskan och mindes inte händelsen dagen efter.
#22767 var generellt missnöjd med sitt liv i allmänhet.

#22767 Liam Rodders var, förutom filosof och poet, undre arbetslagsansvarig för sin
avdelning på industrin där han slavade bort sina dagar. Han hade ansvar för att se till att hans kollegor alla kom till arbetet varje dag, och bokföra över vad de producerade i månaden för att sedan lämna listan vidare till en Lagväktare som kom på inspektion två gånger om året.
Han kunde känna sig väldigt viktig till och från, men mest var uppgiften betungande, och
hade kommit honom att flera gånger hamna i allvarliga bråk med sina arbetskollegor. Bråk
som slutat i slagsmål. Två gånger hade hans motståndare blivit tvungen att föras till
vårdavdelningen för knäckta näsben eller utslagna tänder.

Det var efter dessa två incidenter Liam börjat märka av en förändring i sitt liv. Inget han
riktigt kunde sätta fingret på, men något som var annorlunda. Han kände sig alltid betraktad, och kom ofta på sig själv med att se sig om över axeln då han var ute.
En gång hade han till och med, då han kastat en blick ut genom ett fönster plötsligt fått syn
på en svartklädd gestalt i långkappa och långt neddragen hatt, som stog och stirrade in på honom. Denna händelse satte skräck i honom, och han började på allvar överväga om han verkligen var övervakad av någon på en högre nivå.
Han gick allt mer sällan ut, och hade aldrig persiennerna öppna längre. Då han var tvungen
att ta sig ut ur lägenheten för att gå till sitt arbete, gick han långa omvägar för att förvirra
eventuella förföljare, och såg sig ständigt om åt alla håll. Hans arbetskamrater började se
konstigt på honom, och han blev lätt irriterad över minsta lilla sak. Han såg inte den
svartklädda gestalten någon mer gång, men på något sätt visste han att den fanns där, lurande i mörkret som alltid rådde mellan de höga husen, dit solen aldrig nådde.

Så plötsligt en dag fann Liam en liten lapp instucken under dörren till sin lägenhet.
Meddelandet var skrivet med slarvig handstil och innehöll många stavfel, men det var ändå förståeligt; detta tack vare att Liam var en av dem som faktiskt gått klart den korta skoltid han som man hade rätt till.
”Du er övervakadd. Möt mej bakom den gammla kyrrkan inat.”
Inget namn eller avsändare. Liam tvekade länge, och funderade över meddelandet hela
dagen då han tvingade sig själv att jobba så hårt han kunde. Men till slut tog nyfikenheten
överhanden, och han begav sig ut i mörkret efter avslutad arbetsdag.

Den gamla kyrkan var halvt inrasad, och ingen hade varit där inne på åratal. Gränden
bakom var full av tegelspån och gammalt avfall. Marken skymdes av ett tunt lager dimma,
och han kände sig noga för innan han satte ned foten för att inte falla över något.
Han såg inte till någon, så han ställde sig tvekande och väntade i grändens mynning.
Luften var full av avgaser i den här delen av staden, som låg precis bredvid den nya
bränslefabriken, och han hade svårt att andas.

Helt utan förvarning slängdes en dörr bredvid honom upp, och innan han visste ordet av
drogs han in i mörkret där innanför. En skräck värre än något han tidigare känt kom över
honom. Han ville skrika och slå vilt omkring sig, men hindrades då han blev upptryckt mot
en vägg med en sträv hand för munnen.
Han hörde ljudet av rörelser på båda sidorna om sig och framifrån, och en ljuslåga slog upp
mitt i tomma luften framför hans ansikte.
Då hans ögon vant sig vid ljuset insåg han att ljuskällan var en gammal sliten
cigarettändare, och att tre andra personer delade mörkret som omgav honom.
Männen som höll fast honom mot väggen stod tysta, medan mannen som höll i tändaren –
en man med helt intetsägande drag förutom att både hans hår, hy och ögonbryn var kritvita – spände ögonen i honom och tog till orda.
”Vi har haft ögonen på dig ett tag. De är efter dig, som du kanske har märkt vid det här
laget.”
Liam kände sig förvirrad och förstod ingenting, men så mindes han gestalten i fönstret, och
undrade panikslaget om dessa män hade något med denne att göra.
Den andre mannen måste ha sett rädslan i hans ögon. ”Vi ska inte skada dig. Vi vill hjälpa
dig. De är efter oss också, förstår du.” Han suckade tyst. ”Även om de kanske gett upp
sökandet nu…”, tillade han.
”Du har redan två markeringar på ditt ID, och i och med det här samtalet är det kört för din del. Men det hade ändå inte spelat någon roll om vi struntat i att söka upp dig. De hade säkert hittat någon annan anledning att ersätta dig ändå. Det är därför du måste lyssna noga. Vi vet att du har en relativt hög ställning på ditt arbete. Därför kommer de inte bara att döda dig. Du kommer att ersättas, och ingen kommer någonsin märka någon skillnad. De vet allt om dig. De har till och med dina minnen lagrade i en dator, redo att pumpas in i en specialframställd klon av dig. Vad tror du egentligen att de gör på de där fysikundersökningarna du går på hela tiden?”
Han kastade en snabb blick på sina två medhjälpare.
”Det kanske är läge att jag presenterar mig. Jag är Firenze, ledare för de Utstötta i den
norra delen av staden. Den enda anledningen till att jag lever idag, är att Ledningen inte blev varse om min existens förrän det var dags för mig att börja skolan. Det var då jag flydde. Jag har mitt liv att tacka min mor för, eftersom hon valde att hålla min födsel hemlig. Det här”, han strök med handen över sitt bleka hår, ”är anledningen till att jag inte får leva. Sådana här gener får under inga omständigheter komma ut i Systemet. Men jag flydde och hamnade i det underjordiska samhälle som finns överallt men ingen känner till. Vi är alla oaccepterade på något sätt, eller har förbrukat vår medborgarrätt. Som du, numera.”
Liam blev alldeles skräckslagen. Skulle han… ersättas? Han skakade sig fri från handen
som hindrade honom från att tala. ”Men… Vad ska jag göra?” Han var alldeles för förvirrad för att ställa någon av de andra frågor som svävade runt i hans huvud. Han var visserligen
van vid att tänka, men hela hans värld hade nu kastats omkull på några få minuter.

”Du måste följa med oss. Nu, innan det är försent. Du får lämna allt bakom dig, och vara
beredd på att se ditt liv övertas av någon annan med ditt utseende. Vi kommer att…” Här
avbröt hans sig, vid det plötsliga ljudet av hastigt annalkande steg från rummet bredvid.
”De har upptäckt oss!”, utropade han. ”De vet! Spring för livet!” Och genast satte de tre av
som blixten ut genom dörren, och Liam var inte sen att följa efter. Dock var de alla borta då han kom ut, och han var ensam i gränden. Han sprang.

Gatan låg öde och mörk. Dimman var tät upp till knähöjd och varje steg ekade mot
cementen. Han slog mot något med foten då han sprang så fort han kunde. En metallburk
skramlade iväg längs gatan. Skräckslagen över det plötsliga ljudet stannade han upp för att se sig omkring. Tre mörka skepnader kom sakta gående mot honom bakifrån. Hastigt vände han för att fortsätta springa. Han visste att hans liv hängde på en skör tråd. Men då han vände sig om och precis tagit två snavande steg bort från förföljarna som inte gjorde sig någon vidare brådska, sprang han rakt in i ännu en svartklädd gestalt.

Denne var, liksom de andra två, klädd i svart långrock, hatt och ett par ogenomskinliga
becksvarta glasögon. Liam hajade till och blev stående liksom förstenad framför sin fiende.
Det var något vagt bekant över mannen, hann Liam tänka. Något bekant…
Så tog mannen av sig glasögonen med en handskbeklädd hand. Hela Liams medvetande
gick i back och hans hjärna låste sig i någon sorts halvläge. Det var som att se in i en spegel.
Mannen framför honom var en exakt kopia av Liam själv. Liam svalde sakta och stirrade
skräckslaget.

Mannen förde en miniradio till munnen och talade in ett meddelande till en osedd och
okänd mottagare.
”#22767 redo att likvideras. Den uppgraderade versionen #227672 tas i bruk omgående.
Klart slut.”
Det sista Liam Rodders kände var en namnlös skräck; sedan ett hårt slag i bakhuvudet som krossade hans skallben.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2005)

Den stora skärmen som upptog större delen av väggen på hans kontor flimrade till i
några ögonblick innan bilden framträdde. Med en trött suck påminde han sig själv om att
skaffa en ny för att ersätta denna som varit i bruk i mer än två år nu. Den började redan
visa tecken på sin ålder. Liksom han själv. Han sköt snabbt undan tanken. Han hade
viktigare saker att tänka på.

Den förinställda kanalen visade ett nyhetsprogram. Innan han slog sig ned i den
specialtillverkade kontorsstolen och riktade hela sin uppmärksamhet mot det som visades,
gick han snabbt fram till rummets bortre vägg som helt bestod av fönsterglas och vred för
persiennen. Smattret som uppkom av regnet utanför mot glaset hördes fortfarande, men
nu slapp han i alla fall se den vedervärdiga stadsvyn som bredde ut sig utanför. Från
fjortonde våningen i byggnaden där han nu befann sig hade han utsikt över i stort sett
hela staden, trots dess storlek. Det var ingen vacker syn. Han hade aldrig gillat städer;
världen var redan döende som det var. Om det fortsatte i samma takt skulle han
omöjligen kunna tillbringa sina sista dagar på en stilla plats vid havet som han planerat.
Kontoret var stort och rikt möblerat med moderiktiga möbler och andra detaljer som
alla matchade varandra i färg, men som också matchade hans egen personlighet allt för
väl.

Hans steg hördes knappt när han stegade tillbaka över den blågrå, handvävda mattan
från Japan och satte sig till rätta i sin stol. Ryggstödet hade han låtit justera veckan innan
med lyckat resultat. Tanken på att göra sig av med denna trogna och bekväma möbel som
tjänat honom väl under så gott som hela hans karriär bjöd honom emot, men självklart
insåg han att den var långt mer än föråldrad. Men detta var också en tanke han skulle ta
itu med senare. Han undslapp en utmattad suck.

Med vänstra handen greppade han tag om kaffekoppen som hans sekreterare kommit in
med några minuter tidigare. Den var brännhet. Med en tyst svordom som knappt hördes –
han var van vid att behärska sig vid det här laget – drog han tillbaka handen.
Obetänksamt. Han skakade irriterat på huvudet. Obetänksamhet var en av de saker som
utan tvivel skulle kunna kosta honom hans position. Han måste alltid vara på sin vakt.
Han bestämde sig för att låta kaffet kallna, och vände blicken mot skärmen än en gång.
Ljudet var av, och han sträckte sig fram och vred på den volymknapp som var inbyggd i
det grå, kantiga skrivbordet framför honom.

Den första massa av skoningslösa ljudvågor som nådde hans trötta öron bestod av ett skrik, sedan ljudet av gevärseld. Ett ljud han kände allt för väl, men inte orkade tänka på.
Ett barn klätt i smutsiga trasor sprang över bildskärmen. I bakgrunden kunde han se en
brinnande by, och fler flyende människor.
Skriken och skotten som alltjämt hördes förvandlades snabbt till en signaturmelodi i
hans öron. Obetydliga detaljer. Krigskorrespondenten trädde fram i bild för att informera
honom och resten av världen om den fasa som för tillfället utspelade sig i något
obetydligt land i söder. Mannen talade snabbt och ryckigt, och avbröt sig mitt i en
mening för att snabbt kasta sig till marken när ett flygplan i hög fart passerade på låg höjd.
Mannen bakom det grå skrivbordet såg likgiltigt på.
När den yngre mannen på skärmen åter reste sig, var det på skakiga ben. Men han
samlade sig snabbt. Han hade varit med om värre, det syntes på hans blick. Han
återupptog sitt improviserade meddelande till omvärlden med beundransvärt lugn, genom att meddela hur många kända bombningar som skett under det senaste dygnet, och det
förmodade antalet skadade i den närmaste byn.

Åskan mullrade utanför fönstret bakom den gamle mannens rygg.
En smal textremsa rullade förbi i skärmens nederkant. Texten kungjorde att ett nytt
beslut tagits, om att anfallen mot det lilla landet som just visades på skärmen inte skulle
avslutas inom två dygn som det förut planerats.
Korrespondenten som befann sig mitt i det hela fortsatte tala som om han inte nåtts av
nyheten. Kanske hade han det inte heller. Människorna som i en jämn ström och under
skrämda utrop fortfarande flydde från byn i bakgrunden visste utan tvivel ingenting.
Ännu ett flygplan passerade, på högre höjd denna gång, över en himmel så mörk att det
var svårt att avgöra om det var dag eller natt.
Ett lätt duggregn inleddes. Säkerligen skulle vädret bli värre så småningom, precis som
i staden där mannen befann sig.

Var det verkligen rätt att göra så mot människor? Att förstöra deras hem, krossa deras
liv? Egentligen var det inte de som var det slutgiltiga målet – de var bara oskyldiga offer.
En moder med ett barn på ryggen och ännu ett hängandes över ena armen föll nästan
omkull i leran då hon under stor möda försökte leda en smutsgrå get uppför ett backkrön.
Han ville gärna tro på vad rösten i hans eget huvud försökte övertyga honom om, dag
som natt. Ändamålet helgar medlen. Det han gjorde var rätt. Bäst för alla. Rätt.
Men någonstans inom honom fanns det fortfarande något som fick honom att tvivla.
Kaffet kallnade.

Han torkade sig i pannan med baksidan av handen, trots att det inte var varmt alls i det
väl luftkonditionerade rummet. Han vände uppmärksamheten mot den stora högen av
papper som bildats på skrivbordet. Mycket att göra. Alldeles för mycket. Ibland saknade
han tiden då han kunnat ta ledigt någon dag då och då. Då allt inte var så allvarligt, då allt
inte vilade på hans axlar. Nu gjorde det det, och det fanns inget att göra åt det.
Han mindes vad någon – han kunde inte längre minnas vem – hade sagt honom för
länge sedan: ’Försök alltid att göra det bästa av situationen.’ Det var just vad han gjorde. Eller i alla fall vad han försökte göra. Han visste att han
hade många emot sig, men han visste också att stora dåd krävde stora uppoffringar. Det
var i alla fall vad rösten i hans huvud försökte intala honom. Han avskydde den rösten.
Med en lätt handrörelse över kontrollen på skrivbordet bytte han kanal. Aktiebörsen.
Alltid något. Men han hade folk som skötte allt sådant åt honom, och han ägnade inte
längre skärmen någon större uppmärksamhet.

Han kände försiktigt på kaffekoppen igen. Den var sval nu. Han hade helt glömt bort
sitt kaffe; han kunde förlora sig själv i sina egna tankar då och då. Med en hand som
skakade mer än han själv egentligen kunde godta, förde han koppen till munnen och
smuttade en aning på den svarta drycken som var dess innehåll. Redan innan han svalt
insåg han att kaffet var för kallt för att han skulle kunna tvinga i sig det utan en mycket
stor viljeuppoffring. Med en äcklad grimas ställde han tillbaka koppen på skrivbordet

Ett ögonblick övervägde han att strunta i det helt, men bestämde sig sedan för att han
verkligen behövde kaffe just nu. Han stängde av bildskärmen och tryckte sedan på en
grön knapp som hörde till kommunikationsanordningen i byggnaden. Ett sprakande ljud
hördes, och strax också hans sekreterares röst. Han upplyste henne om att kaffet var kallt
– på något sätt lyckades han få det att låta som att det var hennes fel – och att han ville ha
en ny kopp genast . Sedan bröt han kommunikationen och satte sig åter till rätta i sin stol.

Den skulle nog få bli kvar ett tag till, avgjorde han. Han avfärdade det väntande
pappersarbetet med en snabb blick. Likaså tanken på alla dem han orsakat lidande genom
sitt handlande mot landet han nyss sett på tv. Det fick vänta. Allt fick vänta. Han slängde
nonchalant upp fötterna på den fotpall som stod placerad under skrivbordet.
Han var gammal och trött – men han var också en av världens mäktigaste stormakters
president, och nu skulle han dricka sitt kaffe.

(Christina Smedbakken, 2003)

Det var en sorglig syn. De församlade var alla klädda i svart, likt ett begravningsfölje. De grät också, även om de gjorde sitt bästa för att dölja detta faktum. Men detta var ingen begravning. Inte heller utspelade sig dramat i en kyrka med ljus och vackra fönster. Nej, sjukhusrummet var vitt och kalt, bortsett från en bukett röda blommor som stod placerad bredvid den välordnade sjuksängen. Skepnaden som låg på den hade inte rört sig på länge. För länge. Mannen var försjunken i en djup sömn som doktorerna kallade koma, och kanske hade de rätt. Det hade sagts till de anhöriga att mannen var bortom all räddning. De visste att det var sant. De hade sörjt färdigt, de flesta av dem. Det ledsna hade kommit för flera år sedan, men den gamle var nu redan död i deras ögon.

Det viskades om arvet, om pengarna som skulle hamna hos den vars namn var nedtecknat på det pappersark som låg i mannens låsta bankfack. Låst, på grund av att han ännu andades. Det tänkte de anhöriga nu ändra på. Bakom mörka sorgeslöjor smiddes ränker, bortom falska tårar gladdes giriga sinnen. Mannen låg stilla, lyckligt ovetandes om vad som planerades för hans del. Ovetandes om att han snart skulle dö.

Men var han verkligen levande? Drömde han för evigt bortom sin stela kropp? Han såg en blomsteräng, och där sprang en hjort. Guldet i dess päls skimrade, och han stod kvar. I livet hade han aldrig kunnat följa hjorten, men nu sprang han. Sprang som vinden. Hjorten vid hans sida flög fram, och så gjorde ock han själv. Var det rätt av honom att leva en dröm? Världen sörjde i tysthet, men han var den evige Drömmaren på jakt efter en verklighet som ej existerade. Så byttes vyn, och han befann sig i en stad. Endast lyckliga människor mötte hans leende. Blott varma vindar smekte hans kind där han vandrade gatan fram. Inga fordon mötte honom, inga signalhorn som tvingade honom att gå ur vägen. En hund slöt upp vid hans sida. Den dansade, och han dansade med den. Det var ett barns dröm. En dröm som ingen vuxen människa skulle fantisera om. En dömd vision som redan från första andetaget var förutbestämd att krossas mot den obevekliga verklighetens obarmhärtiga cementvägg. Ty verkligheten är utan empati för dem som flyr den. Verkligheten har inget till övers för en gammal mans drömmar. Men mannen var inte vuxen. Mannen hade behållig något av det han lärt sig som pojke. Det var till sin dröm han hade flytt då han inte längre kunde leva i världen. Han hade stannat. Var det ett brott av honom att handla som så?

Kvinnan som stod närmast sjuksängen kastade en hastig blick mot de apparater som med hjälp av sladdar och slangar var anslutna till mannens veka kropp. Hon hade kanske stått honom närmast? Det är möjligt att hon inte önskade honom döden, och att inte heller alla de andra ville släcka hans ynkliga liv. Men oavsett om hennes tårar kom av sorg eller medlidande, eller om de rent av var illusioner, fanns det något av sorg kvar bak den kalla masken hon bar. Alla var de bleka vålnader av smärta. Ack, om de blott visste att en del av honom fortfarande fanns bland dem.

Han gick genom en korridor med vita väggar. Han hade varit där förr. Han kallade den Sanningens väg, och dörrarna som kantade hans väg dolde alla tillbakahållna hemligheter. Drömmaren fortsatte sin vandring. Ljuset i slutet tonade fram någonstans långt där borta. Han hade aldrig kommit så långt. Han hade valt en dröm. Varför kunde inte drömmen om en bättre värld få vara hans verklighet? Sanningen drog närmare. Kände han kanske på sig?

Kvinnan vid sängen strök honom över pannan. I sin dröm ryckte han till. Han kände kylan av hennes fingrar, men inget mer. Ändock visste han vem hon var. Ändock mindes han. Plötsligt var drömmen endast en skugga. Den kändes tom. Den hade varit delad av två, men nu insåg han att han var ensam. Varför?

De församlade i rummet hade kommit till ett beslut. Nu var det slut. De ville inte sörja mer. De ville bli av med mörkret som han innebar. De ansåg att det var det rätta.

Rättigheter för dem. Jaja.

Mannens dröm sviktade en aning. Genom beröringen förstod han kanske. Fåglarna sjöng lite tystare än förut. Varifrån kom fåglarna? Han gick genom trädgården. Det hade blivit höst i hans dröm. Löven föll – först sakta och graciöst, sedan allt snabbare. Det blåste upp till storm, och de vita väggarna var med ens försvunna. Ovan det nu icke existerade taket hopades grå och svarta stormmoln bak vilka blixtarna ljungade. En korp lyfte från ett silverne träd.

En läkare stod nu i dörröppningen och betraktade de anhöriga, som en efter en gick fram till den livlösa kroppen och tog ett sista farväl. Den tysta kvinnan stod kvar. Om det varit en film hade en svag bris från det gläntande fönstret fått hennes grånande hår att dansa över de spetsklädda axlarna. Fått hennes tårar att flöda över kinderna. Men vinden som nu blåste i mannens trädgård nådde inte henne.

Ett fönster krossades. Splitter som inte nådde marken regnade ned likt kristaller av ljus. Mannen försökte fånga dem i sin utsträckta hand, men misslyckades. Varför rasade drömmen? Anade han, eller visste han?

Kvinnan fällde en ensam tår som landade på mannens panna.

Det började regna. Ett regn som piskade oupphörligt. Mannen såg sig vilt omkring i ett försök att utröna vad som hände. Kanske visste han, men ville inte inse. Löven på marken började falla samman. Snart fanns endast de sköra, grå skeletten kvar. Mannen sprang genom sin trädgård. De nu frusna lövresterna krossades under hans fötter, men snart flög han över marken. Han flydde. Men nu var det verkligheten som jagade honom. Verkligheten som han förvisat. Fåglarna blev till glas och föll döda ned inför hans blick, ned mot marken där de krossades. Sakta sakta.

Kvinnans hjärta slog allt fortare då läkaren i den allt för vita rocken trädde in i rummet för att avsluta vad de påbörjat. Hon fällde inga fler tårar. Hon såg inget av det som skedde. Med slutna ögon försökte hon minnas, och mindes allt som skett. Hon mindes drömmen. Kvinnan hade ett dåligt hjärta. Hon tänkte kanske, varför han, varför inte jag. Kanske. De andra i rummet stirrade stelt framför sig. Några grät, andra visade inte med en min vad de kände. Kvinnan var ett blekt monument av sorg och smärta. Varför, tänkte hon. Drömmen och drömmaren delade hennes undran.

Han flög, och snart var skyn ett hav. Han stod vid relingen till det stora skeppet som stävade mot okänd hamn. Men himlen var svart, det var inte natt. Regnet föll och vågorna slog. Seglen fick masterna att knaka. Mannen mindes plötsligt att detta inte var den verklighet han hade rätt att kalla verklig. Han mindes plötsligt att han länge flytt. Han mindes sin bitterhet över att drömmen inte var sann. Över världen som var ond. Över stormen. Stormen slet i hans kläder och inget ljud förutom vågorna nådde hans öron.

Kvinnan öppnade ögonen då läkaren nådde den livsuppehållande maskinen. Hon ville inte glömma, inte låtsas något annat. Om drömmen nu skulle dö, ville hon känna smärtan. Någonstans kanske hon visste.

Läkaren frågade henne något. Hon nickade utan att veta vad det var hon svarade på. De andra i rummet stod tysta fortfarande. Ville inte ta del i detta. Detta av dem själva rättfärdigade brott.

Skeppet krängde och allt var vitt. Långt där uppe såg han stjärnhimlen, men molnen dolde allt kastat ljus. Endast Sanningen långt där borta lyste hans väg, men ljuset var dimmigt och matt. Spegeln. Framför honom var dess ram mörk som natten. Ingen återspegling i dess glas. Drömmaren hade flytt detta för länge sedan. Plötsligt, ett ljus. Han ville plötsligt se en sista gång. Ville veta om verkligheten var så grym som han trott. Han var nu omgiven av speglar, men denna ensamma var den som fångade hans blick.

Mörker. Han ville fortfarande se.

Läkaren såg länge på kvinnan. Kanske tyckte han att hon var stark. Kanske sörjde han i tysthet för henne. Kanske. Kvinnan klädd i svart spets bleknade då hon såg ned på mannen som snart skulle dö. Minnen plågade hennes själ. Han må ha åldrats, må ha bleknat bort. Men ändock…

Drömmaren kastade av sig sin mörka mantel. Spegeln betraktade honom i tysthet. Endast svärta. Det väntade. Han sträckte sig mot spegeln.

Läkaren tvekade. Han var ung och obeslutsam. Ändå tryckte han sedan på knappen. I en hundradels ögonblick var tystnaden och stillheten. Ögonblick.

Mannen slog upp ögonen sekunden innan döden sänkte sig över honom. Han såg inte verkligheten som han föraktat, utan däremot sin dröm. I en evighet som inte varade mer än ett andetag möttes deras blickar. Kvinnan såg på honom och Drömmaren såg tillbaka. Speglarna krossades utan ett ljud. Sakta sakta spreds det silverne glaset över evigheten. Gränserna bleknade till nattens mörker. Kvinnans hjärta stannade i detta ögonblick. Stannade. Tystnad. En klocka slog någonstans i det overkliga.

Hon föll över honom, föll över den vitklädde drömmaren. Men han kände inget. Kände inget mer i verkligheten han föraktade. Ett ögonblick. Allt var ett ögonblick. Glasfåglarna flydde för vinden. Regnet drogs upp i skyn. En tår på hennes kalla kind. En tår. En skog. Minnen växte där, minnen av ingenting. Kanske såg hon drömmen? Kanske hjälpte han henne upp. Drömmen omslöt dem och skeppet nådde sin hamn. De mindes båda drömmen som trotsade verkligheten, och nu tilläts de slutligen att fly. Tystnad.

Fåglarna kastade sig mot skyn och de flög.

(Christina Smedbakken, 1 mars 2004)