The door to Agassia


1 Prologue: Another dimension

You're walking down the street, well, let's say an avenue. You walk upon many people, all of them different, but everyone is the same inside, or at least you imagine that. Not everyone's blood has to be red, or is it so? Can you tell, can you know that all those faces are human? No, for actually we don't know if there is someone else between us, some being with human appearance but with unusual ways, that you may consider atrocious, that comes from somewhere apart, or maybe from the deep of the earth. Can you remember when you came out from your mother's womb? Who says but you're really an alien, or an insider, a strange between us? It could be also possible that all of us are strangers here. Think about it. Then you will be able to believe this story.

Another dimension. Here the sky is also blue. This is a beautiful planet: a wide patch of earth surrounded by deep, blue, and green oceans. The water is translucent and the sky, limpid. There is vegetal and animal life, also intelligent beings with an almost human appearance. It seems another Earth, except for an essential difference: anywhere you look to, you won't see a polluted river by industrial wastage, or a devastate forest, a web of telephone wires neither, or a plane crossing the wide sky, nothing of the kind.
It's in an isolated country, covered by steep mountain ranges brusquely trimmed by the wind and the rains, at whose feet a light green colored prairie spreads, contrasting with the brown heights, where there is a strange stone construction built where it dominates a wide zone. Located on a high tableland, in the verge of the precipice, built with huge blocks of rock, it is already covered by foliage and oxides, and it possesses a solemn, lordly aspect of absolute silence.
An orange sun threw its burning rays on the path that led through the mountain to the door. Alone, some person all covered by a dark tunic and hood, came up the way with tired steps, like someone who has walked many kilometers upwards. Across the complete wide scenery, there was not a tree to be seen, nothing where to take protection form the burning sun. When the hooded stranger reached the door, he knocked thrice with all the strength that was left in him. After a few seconds, the door creaked and moved on its hinges.
As soon as the massive metal structure began to open, this being went inside with the slow walking of someone gaining entrance in paradise. He contemplated it, and at first sight it was really the Eden. The cool reigning in the inside came from several fountains, where the water flooded in plenty, and then it ran along channels excavated in the tiled floor. Steps echoed across that big patio dressed in glazed tiles, and they resounded until being lost in the empty space above. The high walls of the building stopped the sun. In the midst of that peaceful shade, there were only two or three more figures in sight. Two of them were sitting in a big metal bench, near a murmuring spring.
The hooded figure went to them, uncovering as he advanced. The others lifted the sight at the same time and smile as they saw him. The three had the appearance of venerable elders, as if they had passed life meditating in a bibliotheca: small black eyes with eternal peace gaze, no hair, they were slim and rather short. The sit two wore white tunics and rush weaved clogs.
"Good nouvelles, bruder d'alma" the newcomer said.
The others answered in the same mixture of Earth languages, mostly Romanic languages and English, with Japanese and Arabian words, and grammatical mistakes that made it sound like Latin.
"What do the valley people say?" readily asked the one sitting to the left.
"They say the harvest will be good and their animals fertile, and they will be able to exchange the surplus. In turn they want out knowledge."
"Then, there will be no famine this year."
"If their harvest is good... they'll be happy and they won't ask anything too much..."
"However," the third talked, "they can not know if time will be propitious, or the great tyrant will come and defeat them."
"The monster of war is far away," the first replied. "Great Gribash is busy with his most terrible enemy."
"The King of the Sardos!" the second exclaimed, raising a hand to his breast.
"But, Sacary" the one in the right said to the one with dark dress, "fast enough the Great Gribash can arrive; his armies are numerous and they can go forward at the same time they fight."
"Let's hope future will shine on us," the other two prayed.
Inside the exterior wall there elevated other buildings, dwellings, and shops. That enclosure was a temple, and its inhabitants, the Tukés, had lived there hundreds of years. All seemed impregnated by the peace and quiet. If you raised you eyes you could see the blue sky, and it also seemed calm and eternal.

Many kilometers further this land of peace, all the way through the meadows, and farther on, along a dry flatland, there is another scene.
There is no silence; the deafening noise fills the air, as images wildly dance along with thousands of bodies as they fight one another. The weapons, all kind of knives, swords, squared and round maces, metal lances and cutting sticks, clashing to an uproar. The battle is desperate. They fight with shouts, stones, punches and spits. Thousands of beings almost naked, with armors and rest of them, throwing onto others with insane frenzy, biting and scratching, screaming as they attach as well as when they're injured, all under the hand of two titans.
One of them is the Great Gribash.
He was indeed a tall warrior, nearly two meters high and well built, with slit eyes of an intense green color and burning gaze. One look of him could tell more than thousand words; if he looked someone with rage, this one could well consider as dead. Nobody knew his age but he always seemed to have the same vigor and force. He always wore the same in the fight: a golden-red metallic cuirass that left his torso and arms naked, wide pantaloons and leather boots covered in metal. His long raven hair fell partly on his brow, and on his shoulders. And of course, a long curved sword decorated with arabesques and winding forms, besides a sharp, deadly lance.
He rode a kind of equine. This was a solid animal with hairy, stout legs, whose muscles tensed and showed even under the brown fur.
At the scream of "Gribash, the one!" his warriors rushed against the opportune adversary. For their emperor, they would give their lives, and for his grace, also.
The other one, the king of Sardos, was also a great warrior and strategy, and a powerful chief: his troops were efficient, with more weapons and more discipline. His bearing was magnificent, as e shouted orders while remained erect on his battle chariot and waved his sword, but he lack the charisma of Gribash. Though both of them were cruel, there was a charm in the latter that made his atrociousness became admirable. It was personality.
Gribash's empire was formed by different nations, most of them conquered by strength, and he came razing with everything and everyone, dominating and subduing everyone in a campaign as successful as bloody. All lands were devastated by his advance. Where there was cultivated land, they destroyed it or smashed it; cities were burnt down, the spirit pauperized and the courage corrupted. His empire extended along a wide stride of land of varied setting and climates, and if there wasn't the sea on one side and the Sardo kingdom on the other, he would have already all the continent in his power.
A trail of blood branded by fire was the trace of every confrontation between these powerful empires. It was days since the two were fighting and future was uncertain. Gribash had decided to send a portion of his army to the meadows spreading in direction to the mountains, to prevent the Sardos surrounded them and to supply with food.


2 A voyage

The Earth. Yes, right here. This blue planet.
In a capital city in the south of the American continent. Come in, into its arteries, the smoky streets that scour its dismembered body. In a bus from any of the lines that get to the old city, the last remnant of the original town. It's early in the morning.
An elegant Anglo-Saxon gentleman sits in the first row. He wears a grey suit, formal and boring, perfectly polish loafers, and socks with squares, brown to match the shoes. Every few minutes he eyes the watch and his look fixed once again on the plastic wall a few centimeters from him. His distant face seems to have frozen in an obliging, courteous grimace, but at the same time of annoyance and bad humor. His eyes, of a grey steel color, while his thin lips are holding a slight cigarette, which he hasn't lighted yet. By his side lies a wallet.
There are besides other four people. One of them is a stout man dressed in a wrinkled suit, which seems to fit him tightly. His face, framed by the short, untidy chestnut hair, still carries the traces of sleep and bad mood is growing on his face. He crosses the left leg on his right, making his hunched trouser discover some black socks, that doesn't match his moccasins. He's hugging a beige leather folder, from which some papers stick out.
In the same row, on the other side of the corridor, there is a young man. He's wearing big rounded glasses that, next to the disarranged hair falling on his brow, make his features unrecognizable. He lounges in his sit, holding his knees against the front sit back. His height can be noticed, but the loose sport trousers, shirt and blazer don't let discern his physique. Then, he looks behind and sees the other two passengers; two women sit one in front of the other, against the windows. Rapidly, he turns his eyes off them and concentrates in the drawing folder next to him.
At the bottom, the women are sitting confronting, but they don't look one another. No passenger seems to speak the same language.
The youngest woman wears a simple country-style dress, in a flowered-pattern material, and she carries a bag on her lap. One hand rests on the bag, and the other, uneasy, goes once and again from her light brown hair to the next sit, to the handrail and finds no place. The woman has beautiful hair, long, soft, shining, wavy, falling in gracious locks down her back.
A black fake-leather skirt and a blouse with deep décolleté and flounces in the arms, are the clothes of the other woman. She seems to be thirty. Her body is well conserved, but her face presents some wrinkles from worry and experience, under the tired eyes and the painted red mouth. An oxygenated blonde, she smells of cheap perfume and sweat, of cigarette and mint, from the night, a pub, the tiring and drowsiness.
Time vanished from the vehicle. It travels at all speed through the empty, still darkened streets; light appears in the crosses where the sun is appearing. Then it blinds the unaccustomed eyes. The passengers are impatient, at least the majority. The blonde-haired woman seems to be slumbering; the young man seems to enjoy the ride. Murmurs, buffs, the engine rattle, the gearshifts. The gust of air as it collides with the machinery and leaks by its windows. It's strange, the passengers don’t change, and nobody stops it, though it seems to have passed hours. Actually, only fifteen minutes.
It lasts little for the stop where the young man will descend. You can tell because he straightens up and notices where he is.
Suddenly some kind of turbulence shakes the bus. Impossible, how strange, everybody thinks. It was possible something in the street or a breakdown in the vehicle.
The young man stands up and goes to the door. The driver barely watches him by the corner of his eye, and gets ready to slow down at the next stop. The vehicle arrives, it comes closer to the sidewalk and the door opens. Then, a blinding light...
Something incredible has happened. A glimmer, something wrapping them, like fire that doesn't burn. A bomb or an explosion, or maybe the effect of a sonic wave, makes them wholly stunned for an instant. The five people suddenly react, as if they had come back to life after skipping a second. Pulled from their routine by a flash of light and thrown in a cold, hard floor.
The first to get up, shaking his head and half closing his eyes, was the executive. Swearing, insulting the rest of the world, he looked around, astonished. He sees the old stonewalls and the lustrous light-blue floor, the soft pristine light, and he cannot figure it out, and stays amazed.
The others were trying to steady themselves.
"Where are we?" the blonde yells.
The stout man is trembling from head to feet.
"Holy God! What was that?" the younger ones exclaim at the unison. They looked each other, amused, and in other time and place they would have smiled.
"It's obvious we are not in the bus anymore," the executive said then.
"We're in heaven!" the fatter man exclaims, falling on his knees, with fear and some relief.
"If this is heaven I wouldn't be here" the bleached woman accounted for, with a bit of irony; "it's hell."
"We are alive!" the young woman exclaims, trying to subdue her. "But, where?"
"Either we have been hit by an explosion and then carried to somewhere else..." the executive wondered.
"... or we were transported by that light," the young man finished.
"Impossible!" the other one replied with energy, "An abduction? How do you explain it, sir?"
"I don't know, but..."
"What about that?" the young woman interrupts, indicating something in front of them.
Everyone looks where she's signaling.
It was the only object in the room: an arc made of transparent stone and metal, above which there pointed out a shaped gem of thousand faces supported by delicate filigrees.
Questions rushed in their minds.
They formed a circle. They looked at each other. Someone dared to utter words, that tremulous came out and were lost without weight on them, or they moved the head from side to side, dismayed. Then they heard a stifled murmur coming from the walls, like stone sliding over stone. It was that: in a place where the stone seemed to be solid, appears an opening, a door. Someone put in its white hand, fortunately with five fingers, to finish moving the door.
Before everybody’s amazement an old man entered, followed by other two individuals. And to their surprise, these three strangers made them an exaggerated bow, one that even the king of France could have enjoyed himself.
Disconcerted and intrigued, they just get to stay frozen in their place, open their mouths –and if they would’ve had two mouths, they could’ve opened both.
Only after a long while, the executive, a very rational man, found his voice to say:
“We greet you, gentlemen, and we’d like to know how we came here,” his tone was hard.
The eldest smiled and, with a gentle gesture, urged them to follow. At first they hesitated, then accepting what would come, they went out of the door after the tree men with tunic.
On the other side of the door there was an incredibly pretty hall, simple but beautiful. Everyone contemplated, with surprise, the high walls decorated with light-blue, pale green and beige painting, shining like enamel. It formed rhombus, squares and triangles, that covered in wide bands all the walls. The ceiling, what a wonder! It was colorless like crystal, and let see the unclouded, blue sky.
The only furniture was a long table in the center of the room and in the farthest wall, a cupboard, which also matched the painting.
The eldest man, arranging his white clothes, spoke then for the first time:
“Welcome, you are received with great affection by our people and all countries in this world.”
Stuttering, the young man asked, after waiting a few seconds for the sequel:
“Welcome… where?”
“To our humble dimension.”
“Where? What?” the executive almost screamed.
“He’s insane,” the other male passenger said.
“No, my lords. You, lords of mine, are not longer in your dimension.”
“Then…” the young woman asked, with distrust, “How can you be talking our language?”
“I speak yours and other human languages.”
“Are you going to hurt us?” the blonde woman asked with tremulous voice. “What are you going to do to us?”
“Exactly, what are your intentions?” the executive exclaimed. “To bring us… here? Know I’m a very important person in the economy of the country, of the continent, and well known, and this abduction, for that’s what it is certainly… it won’t remain unpunished!”
The old man denied with his head slowly.
“It is not a capture, that’s not our intention. We do not bear malice.”
“Aren’t you going to ask for anything?” the other man inquired.
“Only your help, milord.”
“Ha! For what?”
The younger woman, walking around, thoughtful, then asked: “Who are you?”
“In our world,” the old man answered, looking with approval, “we are called monks. Here we are the Tukés, and we are just a poor community without any power.”
“It doesn’t seem so.”
“…we want to ask your help and guide. You are the only ones who can help this world. We ask you in the name of the poor population that lives here. We have no progress or civilization.”
“Why are we here? Why us?” the stout man asked.
“We did not choose, it was Fortune. Tukés keep the secret of the Agassia, the door to another dimension. We studied humankind, during centuries, for generations and generations, and we know all the values of your civilization, your machinery, your wonders. Here we lack that, and if you do not teach us, we’ll end ourselves in the middle of war and famine. Out there, there are lots of people of good will in dire need of your help.”
“It’s evident you’re wise,” the younger man said, gently, “but I’m not the person you are looking for.” “I am not prepared to contact other civilizations, and still less extraterrestrial life. I’m neither a genius nor a wise man to help you to build machines, I don’t know a thing of technology.”
“We neither!” the rest began to exclaim.
“I have my own family that I can’t leave” the fatter man explained. “My daughter is just as little as…”
“And I have business.”
“Yes, that.”
“But,” the old man smiled with sympathy, and then continued slowly to tell, “we only ask a little of your time.” “Then you may go, we ourselves will open the door for you.”
“But…” Everyone had good reasons but could not say any.
“I understand you’re tired and harassed by the journey. My brothers,” the monk indicated the two immobile figures standing at their back, “they will show you the rooms where you will be well treated.”
Resigned, very scared, they followed the men. When the young woman, the last to go out, passed by the elder monk, she asked:
“How can we help you? It’s impossible… I’d like to help, but…”
“Lady, here everyone will adore you, you will be Great Teachers.”
“But we’re not, we can’t teach you.”
“You will be as gods to them.”
“And the lesser we’re gods.”
“You will be. I see you’re pretty brave and sensible.”
“I don’t know if it’s worth something…”

3 The Tuké monastery

The five were acquiescent, every one at their ways. The haughty attitude in the executive, his gaze full of conceit and secret pride for being a chosen being for such purposes, contrasted with the fearful look like a lost animal that could be seen in the blonde woman. She walked tremblingly, like a pauper in a palace.
The short fat man did no more than mutter why they didn’t let them alone, and why he had to be in such situation, and what had he done… The young man was crestfallen, and walked like thinking about a difficult problem. His soft citizen skin was very pallid. Behind him, the girl thought, but loosing no detail of the corridor they walked through.
They were taken along a luminous corridor until they came to a gallery with many windows and many pots, where there were a dozen doors.
“Every door leads to a bedroom,” one said as if reading their thoughts, “It’s like yours, signores.”
And directly, he indicated the blonde woman to follow and led her to the first door.
“Come in, miss, antre.”
White, she did as was bid.
“If you need something, use the iron caller on your right hand,” he showed it. “In the room there is anything you may need.”
“A phone?” she stammered, trying to smile.
The other one looked troubled. Then he left the door letting her in, and went to accommodate the others.
The last one was the young man. This asked to him, as they entered.
“I’ve noticed there are three colors in this place. Do you know why? Besides, there’re a lot of windows.”
“I don’t know, signiore. It was always the same,” he answered with certain clumsiness. “Maybe the climate, but I don’t know well, signiore.”
“The climate?”
“Yes, we are in the midst of mountains, in the desert.”
Then he left, excusing himself. The young man went inside and closed the door.

Let’s enter the younger man’s room.
Look, trying to imagine what he’s thinking as he goes into a strange room in an unknown place as he wonders he’s in another world.
“Another planet!” he reflects with wonder, “this is a dream or a nightmare; I can’t believe it!” However, there he is. He goes to the bed and touches it; the mattress seems to be made of wool, the blankets are soft as silk and yielding as fleece; he feels then the heat coming through the window, which doesn’t open, it’s fixed… and lastly, he looks out.
He sees a patio all in marble, blue bricks and gray glazed tiles. There are several fountains with geometrical embossed designs, surrounded by big pots with huge green and red plants.
Around the patio there are other constructions, and amongst them, corridors that may lead to other corridors with fountains, plants and shade.
“They have achieved an oasis feeling here,” the young man mutters, nodding to his own words. “It’s like nothing I know of the Earth.”
Then he turns around and walks a few steps. Then he roams the room again, the walls specially. They’re solid: he goes to the next and leans his hands with firmness, but they don’t move, don’t shake, there are no hidden doors. There are no more openings than the window, fixed to the wall, and the door, and the knob, which is connected to a wire that runs through the wall somewhere else.
Besides the bed, there is a cupboard, empty and the table. It overflows space, he thinks, this is dreary.
“When they said all we may need, what they were thinking?”
He gets off his glasses and leaves them on the table, then he sits on the bed and, shaking a lock off his brow, he wonders what are the others doing right now, and what would happen in the Earth… What would say his schoolmates when he didn’t get to Connie’s? They were preparing a very important work for the college, but now, what does it matter? It’s overmastering the fear of the unknown, the danger and this insane trouble he's got into: how is he going to be a guide to the people when he can’t even guide a car out of the garage without smashing the rear mirror against the walls?
Suddenly, he realizes he is thirsty. And maybe hungry, and what matters most, curious. And he wants to see his partners in misfortune.
He pulls the knob and in a minute an individual in green appears –he’s wearing a long tunic with another hood- and obligingly smiling.
“Have you any water?”
“Water? Yes, yes, of course, segnore” this guy asserts.
“Segnore? Señor, you mean…”
“Oh, yes, yes, sure! I am sorry, always confusing Latin languages.”
“Can you bring me water?”
“Sure, in a… second.”
“All of you speak many languages?”
The man in green smiles, showing something of pride.”
“No, only a few of us.”
“Why, what for?”
“To serve as interpreter between the human Teachers and the people… Ah! I almost forget! You ought to go to the big room.”
“Well, take me there immediately,” the young man suggested, picking up his glasses.

They are already in the first hall, under the transparent roof. The five forced adventurers, discoverers and Earth representatives; and on the other side the man in white is launching into explaining details about the history and other smallness. There is also the man in green and two more that seem to be an escort.
“The Tukés,” the venerable old man starts, “have existed for centuries.” “We are few and we only talk to the out world two or tree times a year, that is why our secret is well guarded. The existence of Agassia is our secret. For centuries, we have been waiting for the moment to make some guests from Earth come here. Every year we send two Tukés for eleven days to learn from you. We learn idioms and usages, but above all, we wonder at your civilization.”
“But,” the young woman interposes, “we’ve been barbaric and ignorant too.”
“And you got over it. We just want to be taught to do it.”
Seeing the human unsure, the man in green intrudes with big gestures and speaks moving is arms, excited.
“Per favore, señores! This is all very… very…” he didn’t find the word, “strange, painful, to us, but certainly for you too.” “I was the one to bring you here… the rest couldn’t decide.” As he says this, he’s looking at the others Tukés. “They were unsure about being the moment to make fulfill the prophecy.”
“Then we are here for rush,” the executive exclaims, angry.
“What Sacary means is it was Fate, but in the end, he was right to decide to do what others would not have done, and though he disobeyed, he made some goodness. Now you have only to help us.”
“There’s an invasion there, out of the walls,” the innocent Sacary adds.
“What!” the fat man shouts. “I’ll get out of here.”
Everybody watches him, and ashamed, blushing, he stands back a few paces.
“There’s no place to go,” the executive replies.
“Yes, home!” the blond woman exclaims, convinced.
“They won’t let us go until we do something, they’re no fools.”
“That is true,” the old man affirms with a keen bright in his eyes, adding, “now I leave you alone to decide.”
Already alone, they look each other uncertain and anxiously.
“I feel Columbus,” the girl says.
“While we don’t end like Magallanes,” the executive replies.
A sudden silence falls on them. They secretly watch one another. The empty room produces a feeling of isolation, helplessness.
“Let’s introduce” the woman suggests.
Everybody assents but no one begins, until the executive starts by saying:
“Well, I am Carlos Robinson, I’m forty-five, I was born in… well, you understand, I come from an English family. I am a lawyer and work for an important firm in the market. I’m single. Well, your turn.” He concludes, turning to the blonde.
“I… eh, my name’s Sheila, and won’t tell my age. I work the night in a pub… I live with a girl friend in a department we rent a month ago…” her eyes fill with tears. “I never had money enough, I didn’t finish high school. You may see, I don’t have anything for this people” The other man is looking her legs with significant gesture that she doesn’t seem to notice. “That’s all.”
“Now you, miss;” Carlos says.
“Well,” the other woman begins, rubbing her hands, “my name is Fabiana Peralta and am twenty-tree. I come from the country, but it’s years since I’m studying music and working at the capital.” “I just know of art, not science and communication. I was going from the pension where I live to job, when this happened.”
She’s finished. All appears simple in those minutes.
“I am Guzman Gianetti,” the young in glasses speaks. “I’m finishing my career of architect. I’m twenty-seven and I’m single. I was going to end a group work when this began.”
Everybody paid attention to his succinct explanation, as captivated by his sweet, hollow, voice, like the sound of a clarinet, coming from that still childish face half hidden by his hair and glasses.
“And me,” the stout man exclaims with enthusiasm. “I am Enrique Blanco and work in a government office. I really never knew what I was doing there, damned bureaucracy. I have wife, Marianela, and two kids, a boy of sixteen called Martin and a little one of tree, Erika. I have to support my home…”
In that moment the old man in white enters again and everybody turn their eyes to him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tomorrow early you’ll know our world. But now I will enjoy dinner in company of such venerable men, if you allow me. By the way, my name is Starinshe.”

4 Close encounter

The sun burns in the sky; it is an orange disk surrounded by fire that blasts the earth, the wind, the vegetation, and the men. These go in a long column, in a pilgrimage down the mountain to the extended prairies. There are no clouds in the sky and the deep blue is also on fire. They are wearing long tunics, black and brown the majority, some in green or blue and a few in white.
In the centre, shining under the sun like mirrors, there go six in white. Besides their color, there are five detached by their height, like adults in a sea of children.
Sheila watches Fabiana, who’s walking by her side, and their juvenile faces smile as if suddenly realizing the ridicule they make at a close hand.
“Where are we going?” someone in the rear asks.
The old man, who travels in front, leaning on his wooden staff, answers:
“You will see as we arrive. You will like the valley.”
They keep on. One of the escorts in front of them staggers and falls, but everyone continue walking. Fabiana and Guzman, as they get to him, help him to stand up.
“What fellowship!” the woman exclaims, emphasizing every syllabi.
Sheila and Guzman smile inside their hoods. Who have stumbled, a slim, timid young man, watches them with admiration and respect.
After marching for kilometers and after many questions like where we are going, they get to a warmer meadow, without the rigor of heat. The men in front lower their hoods, and the five human imitate them. Now they step on strange field, it isn’t anymore the eternal red and sticky dust of the mountain, but a thicker soil, a mustard or sepia color, wetter and heavier, that let grow the green grass.
They go across that flat land extending from west to east and east to west, beyond the horizon. In certain point:
“What do you call this?” Carlos Robinson asks.
The old man doesn’t understand the question.
“Yes, what do you call your world?”
Sacary, who is now by them, answers: “Duma, which means the universe.”
The columns come to a halt when they are by ten meters near a group of trees.
“What happens?”
The old man makes a sign with his hand, calm, wait. But they are uneasy.
From the start of the column comes another old man that speaks with Starinshe in his language. A shadow crosses the wide brow of Robinson.
“Now you will meet the chief of this tribe,” Starinshe announces indicating beyond their retinue. “They are farmers.”
They look in that direction.
A close group of something near a hundred and fifty men and women, covered in rags, untidy, dirty, watch them fierily. At their head, the chief, has no better aspect. This group exhales a pestilent fragrance, an acid, rot, musty odor, contrasting with the sweet herbal fragrance coming from the Tukés tunics. The faces, blacken or covered by dust, burnt and dried by the sun, possess two brilliant spots, small and dark, that are supposed to be their eyes, but they’re sunken under entangled eyebrows, and only their penetrating fire is seen.
The women are distinguished for having less brow and wear, hanging from their legs or shoulders, tightening to their necks, an amount of offspring.
The chief comes forward making sound a wooden cylinder three times, and gesticulating domineeringly. With a rough dignity, he shouts to the old Starinshe. Then the latter answers. They continue in it for a long while. The tribe people get sentences from their chief, to what they answer with laughter and screams.
“But, what happens?” Carlos gets uneasy, leaving his dignified bearing.
Sacary tells to him to be calm, please, that in a moment they’ll know. Finally Starinshe turns to them and, with a compliant face, says:
“They do not believe us; they are too materialistic to believe in an ancient legend coming into reality. They only worship the rain and the sun that make grow their crops, please, forgive them.”
The silence is over the five humans.
“They have the right not to believe in legends when they have more urgent worries;” Enrique suggests.
“Like having a bath,” Sheila indicates.
Guzman and Fabiana laugh, nervous. Enrique looks at Starinshe, who remains serious, just like Carlos, and he smiles.
“Sirs,” Starinshe says with a sigh, “I think you should show them the truth, and they will believe in you. Only that way you’ll gain respect and attention.”
“How?” Enrique exclaims.
“Do you want us to talk to them?” Fabiana sighs.
“Good idea,” Sacary approves.
Therefore, the five walk proceeded by Starinshe, to the stinking group, with their nerves strained. The left retinue stays some meters behind, which seem kilometers for their safety.
When they’re in front of the leader, who is surrounded by the highest and largest men of the tribe, they watch each other, astonished – or rather afraid. As they see the frown in the face of Carlos and the fat features of Enrique, all those barbarians remain astounded, taking their hands to the mouth and letting out prolonged “ohs”; but their surprise comes near to the unimaginable in front of Sheila and Fabiana’s pallor, their loose, bright hair, and the youthful Guzman.
Some of them have gone backwards, scared, and they’d have run away, but for the others that catch them here. Even the chief debased himself to drop the mask of self-control and let escape sentences of praise.
“Imagine if I sing,” Enrique whispers.
“Can’t you shut up?” the angry Sheila complains. “Don’t you see they admire me?”
“Ha, ha.”
At a sign from their leader, hundreds of hands rush on them, paralyzing them with horror at being attacked so suddenly. They lift and take them, between shouts and cheers. The Tukés try to follow, running like ants after their anthill has been kicked; but everything happens so fast, and the tribe takes its objects of admiration, their rescue boards, away. And farther back, the Tukés come running like madmen with their short legs, flapping their long tunics.

Uncountable hands carried them, like over sea waves; coming forward until they got into a group of trees –or what seemed to be- and then they were put down on the floor to be regaled.
First, the chief and some men sat in front of them and tried to speak, with infinite respect, while others brought mud pots with water, flowers and vegetables and food. Some of them, even dared to touch Fabiana’s hair, with their fingertips, Carlos suit’s fabric, any part of those gods.
Seeing their trials to communicate a total failure, the chief suddenly stopped. The silence got disturbing. The humans didn’t know if they should answer, move, eat or drink, how to behave in that strange tribe.
Then some children came to break the silence, agitating the arms and signaling to the entrance of the copse. The face of the leader contracted, like worried, then it seemed to brighten and finally was happy. He gave some orders and unfolded a smile of triumph in his huge lips.
Minutes later, an escort of men and children armed with sticks and lances brought two smaller beings, dressed in tunic, almost dragging them.
Fabiana’s face shone as she exclaimed:
“Sacary! Thanks God…” she had recognized him immediately.
The others turned their eyes to the two Tukés and breathed, with relief.
“Don’t go that way again,” Sacary said as he was tossed at their feet together with his fellow, who almost fell on him.
After having sat with the chief, his escort, and the five humans, the first asked him to act as interpreter. Sacary translated to the humans his wish.
“Ask him what they want,” Carlos said.
Sacary received like answer: “Listening to you.”
The humans looked at each other, uncertain what to do.
“A-about what?” Guzman stuttered.
“Well, I guess about everything.”
“Everything?”
“All your cleverness?” Sacary answered, as if saying the most natural thing in the world. Then he added in a lower tone, as if the others understood: “They want you to help them with your knowledge, your science, in the troubles they have. First, they are under the power of Gribash, who imposes rules and robs them their crops and animals, killing and stealing. For this cause, they have to hide all the time, or run off, and this forbids them to sow again. They’ll die of hunger because of Gribash or their own fear, or they’ll die in the fight.”
“Why do not they accept this… Gribo… Gra…?”
“Gribash.”
“That, why don’t they accept him and stop running away?” Carlos inquired.
“Because, milord, here is not like your worlds, where everything is so perfect that chiefs govern with truth and benevolence and… well, what I mean is that if they accept to live under his yoke, Gribash will enslave them, use them as army or kill them, according to his mood.”
“We can’t” Fabiana interposed, “we can’t give counsel about this situation.”
“It’s fine with me,” Sacary said, “But now you must say something…”
Once they agreed on something –although a lie it sounded fine- they asked Sacary to translate.
“We come from another world, a free, advanced world, to help you to begin a way to the future. We are not gods, but we can teach you new things you have never imagined.”
The men absorbed every word. The chief seemed acquiescent, but asked:
“What power do you have? What is the wonder you know and will teach us?”
They look at each other, waiting for someone to have a brilliant idea. Suddenly, Carlos abandoned his frown and, searching into his clothes, exclaimed:
“I have something you never saw!”
He got out of his pocket a metal object that glistened under the light coming through the branches, and standing and stretching his arm, he made pause. He showed his lawyer best smile and said, “Watch!”
Sacary was translating and agitating his arms to attract their attention.
Carlos moved his thumb and a thin longish little flame surged from the lighter. The tribe, even the chief, startled.
“Oh!” they exclaimed, retreating before the unexpected power of that man.
Suddenly the king gave off a cry and the rest of them inclined, hitting their hands against their thighs.
The other four humans rose, astonished. The flame faded away but the charm remained. Five people silent, a hundred and fifty rhythmically clapping in the fuzzy rays of light under the vegetal dome.

5 Turbulent waters

The splendorous blue sky up and around, towards where the sight diffuses, green meadows spotted with darker tones and small pillars of whitish stones, small piles on the vast lawn. The Tuké caravan marches winding like ants in the immense loneliness of the plain. They are baking under the sun, that burning, orange ring of fire, admired and unknown star of the black space.
In Duma, the inhabitants are still primitive and don’t have knowledge of astronomy, and astrology doesn’t matters, for they are too practical and material, calculating people. In spite of that, everyone that meet the five human, the Great Teachers, begin to think in stuff like the universe and the stars, the soul and the life after death, and what is there apart from us. In front of their vague personalities, everybody got a little mystic.
The prairies become eternal, the eyes distinguishes not one country from another, and only their expert Bayos guides –a fierce tribe that breeds cows in times of peace- they can know where they are. But suddenly, the caravan people realize they have not been circling around and they have come to somewhere, indeed.
The landscape changes slightly. Now, golden under the rays of the declining sun, the banks of a big river can be seen. The waters are stirred by a strong current that produces whirls.
Almost running, they come to the river.
“Can we drink?” Fabiana asks.
Starinshe asks to the Bayo guide and the latter assents, that the water is very good.
“It’s as good as in the Earth,” the great Tuké answers.
“Then I wouldn’t drink it;” Enrique jokes, thinking of the brooks in his country.
Sheila comes carefully to the shore; first, she looks the agitation in the water, then she bends forward and fills her hands with clear and pure water, and drinks it.
“It’s delicious!” she exclaims, standing over the rest, who have rushed to the river.
“How can we cross it?” Carlos asks, after drinking and arranging his hair with the liquid.
The guide had been talking to Starinshe, and now this one answers: “The people that live on the other side use a raft system, sir. If we wait a moment, there will come one.”
And then, they see coming down stream a primitive, coarse raft, solid in appearance, rectangular, that’s impulsed to the shore by a strong oarsman. With a staff flatten in the point, he rowed.
With the murmuring water passing under the wood and the sweet dabble of the oar, the strange ship anchored near the group. Not getting down, the oarsman speaks with the Bayo guide in a guttural tongue, different to what they have heard.
“There is no inconvenient;” the Great Tuké announces after a long conference.
“Why so much conversation?” Carlos asks, distrusting.
“For nothing, milord, there’s no trouble.”
Still, Mr. Robinson’s face is frowning. His distrust increases each day in company of the optimist Tukés, who make everything seem so clear and normal. His spirit doesn’t believe in transparency; business tricks, they call it.
They are getting into the raft by groups. The last to go are the five humans and Sacary. Despite the columns has been reducing since they left the mountain palace, it is late when all arrive to the other side.
Together with the boatman, who joins them after putting the raft out of the water, in dry land, they keep on their journey, with their backs to the sun through a pebbly region cleaved by a few wide, violent rivers. Suddenly Starinshe comes closer to the humans, who walk always together, and says:
“Soon, I have to come back home, to fulfill my duties.”
“And what with us?” Sheila asks, pallid.
“You will continue the journey. From now on, you will find less primitive people, but more dangerous.”
“How so, Starinshe?” Carlos replies.
“Well… they are more advanced but rather warlike. Since long ago we’ve entered into the lands of Gribash the Awful, the Great. Here everyone obey with fear, and if you are considered revolutionary elements, you will be eliminated by him. You must be careful, sir. I’ll give you some advice, humbly; first, to go near him as friends and respecting their uses; second, to tell stories of your world, it is the more adequate way to teach… Also, you never get apart or travel alone, without guides.”
“But, why must we go on?” Enrique objects to it.
The others nod too.
“Because…” the Great Tuké hesitates, “it is your destiny.”
“Well, well;” Fabiana mutters.
“And how are we to know when we can return?” Carlos inquires.
“That only Fate knows; when it has been decided, you will know. You will have a signal, I guess.”
“Ah! I should talk to that Fate,” Guzman mutters.
Finally, they arrive to the skirts of a settlement. This is formed by low huts with roofs of leaves, some larger cabins and a small amount of lights.
“Fine, fine!” Sheila exclaims, excited. “Civilization. Who are these?”
“Mngaris.”
“Ah!”
They wait at the entrance of the hamlet for the oarsman and guide to come back.
“You will go alone with Sacary,” Starinshe says. “We can’t enter to the hamlet of them, only the herald… It is an old law. Ah, you may be shocked by some usages!”
Slowly, carefully looking both sides, they are led by the oarsman.
As they see other Mngaris, they can breathe freely. They were tall people, well built, clean and tidy in appearance, dressed in live colors and adorned with silver bands. One that seemed to be the chief, a bald, solemn, much adorned man, came over to them; he watched them with a frown and after stopping in Sheila and Fabiana, a smile curved his features.
They were invited to dinner.

“What treat?” Sheila exclaims, offended, in answer to Enrique. “Those men are lecherous, that’s what they are… Do you think I can’t figure it out? I work in the night, remember?”
“Don’t speak of the Earth, please…”
“Do you miss it?”
“Don’t you? I never thought of leaving it.”
“At least, here I’m treated as a god…”
In the other extreme, Guzman receives from the hands of a beauty of slit eyes and half-shaved head, a saucer filled with liquid. He tastes it, makes a horrible grin and spits.
“What’s the matter?” Fabiana exclaims.
“This is ho-horrible,” the young man babbles, “it’s sticky and thick and tastes like…”
The girl takes the dish between her hands, smells it, and dips a finger in it.
“… like blood;” she finish the sentence, watching her forefinger, dyed in red.
Guzman looks at her, surprised, and curses.
“Sacary, ask what is this?” Fabiana asks.
“It’s blood” he replies.
“Of what?” she gets white.
“Don’t be scared; it’s animal.”
“Why are they giving us that?”
“They always drink it with their food and use it to make the harvest better. They worship it.”
“Pugh! How disgusting!”
After a while, they have to talk widely with the chief, who tells them how the life in the hamlet is. They are farmers: they sow mnu-nu, product they consume or trade for others. Part of it goes to the imperial arcs of Gribash. They have a watcher from the Emperor, and in their turn, a representant in the empire capital.
Their life is very peaceful when there’s no war, but when there is, everybody joins and they leave their lands. The men possess several women and some of them, the strongest or most favored by the emperor –warriors, courtesans, dancers- may also have many men.
After telling everything about them and listening to some stories about the humans and their planet, mostly fabricated by Sacary, they were invited to sleep, giving them two houses with mattress, pillows, clothes and all they should enjoy.

6 Separation

“Ah… did you have a nice rest?” Enrique asks after yawning and stretching himself with leisure.
“Haven’t you heard the screams of a woman?” Sheila smirks.
“I thought…”
“Don’t you know what happened?” Fabiana exclaims. “Well I’ll tell you.”
“Let’s see…”
“You will hear, rather.”
“If we can see, better;” he replies, teasingly.
“Hmm, I won’t answer to that.” Fabiana smiles and continues. “It was pretty late, and I was already half asleep. Sheila snorted and…”
“What!” the alluded one cries. “I don’t snort.”
“Well… as I was saying, Sacary slept outside the room, in the sitting room. Then, I feel something strange, like a tickling. That startled me, and I was full awake, but I kept on feeling something that touched me, I looked and I had above me, one of those guys… giving me a kiss in cheek.”
“It wasn’t so disturbing, then;” Guzman comments.
“No? That says you! I started to scream like… I don’t know. Sacary came and the guy, that at last was more scared than me, explained.”
“I couldn’t hold my laugh, after the fear was over;” Sheila affirms.
“Yes; it turned out that they find natural to have any woman any time they want, without complaint.”
“Too loose,” Carlos says.
“But in some ways, humans are too. Everyone have different men or women in their lives,” Fabiana replies; “husbands cheat, there is bigamy, there’re prostitutes.”
“That is no excuse;” Enrique intercedes. “I’ve wife, and family, and I think that’s the right thing. A mate must be faithful.”
“Do you really think so?” Sheila replies.
“Wait, this argument leads nowhere,” Guzman observes.
“If we’re going to teach something to these being, I think it must be to be faithful, at least, and less… cheerful in their ways;” Carlos states this.
As the rest lowered they eyes and didn’t answer, he took it as a yes.

After breakfast –meat and vegetables, like every meal of them- that everybody liked; and after Carlos could have the pleasure, helped by Sacary, of speaking on Christian morality–“he’s taking really seriously his roles”, Fabiana commented-, they are ready to continue the journey.
Some women with high hair-dresses bring them gifts in name of the Mngaris: new clothes –is this a hint about our aspect! Sheila exclaims- besides pitchers with oils, blood, raw vegetables and meat, grease for lights. As they check the gifts, Enrique exclaims:
“I have already a collection of these mugs!”
“Moreover, they didn’t understand the barbaric of this blood fetish,” Carlos adds, his nose puckering as he puts it into a pitcher. “They’re a nasty, done for savages!”
“Come on, my lords;” Sacary interrupts. “They are waiting for us out the village.”
So they went out of the place, followed by the satisfied looks of the smiling and admiring Mngaris. Outside, near a brook, the Tukés are waiting. As they see the humans, a white dress gets up from the rock where he was sitting and comes near to meet them. Starinshe, bright as a pear under the sun, greets them and says: “I’ve reached the end of my voyage.”
The other five are still, pallid. Fabiana and Sheila’s eyes form a mute question as they fix on the Great Tuké.
“It’s so, ladies and sirs… I must come back to the mountains, like the rest of us. Now begins your real journey: it will become more dangerous and difficult, for you’ll meet closed, incredulous people, hard and insensitive. You must separate and follow your pilgrimage in two groups, as the legend says.”
“What legend?” Guzman asks, throwing the hair out of his eyes.
“It names the Agassia and you, the ones that will come in a moment of big stress, to save us and will return to their worlds, being loved and worshipped for the eternity.”
“My God!”
After that, the Tukés start to go one by one, until only Starinshe, Sacary and another are left with the astonished travelers.
“Mrs. Fabiana Peralta, Mister Robinson, you will be one group, that will travel together with Sacary to the Empire of Gribash, to the capital city. In fact, we’re already in his empire. You, Sheila Iturria, Mister Blanco and Guzman Gianetti, will travel with Marius to the Sardonic Empire… following the rivers in direction to the capital city. As I don’t want to influence you and I trust your human wisdom, I just say farewell.”
Without more, the solemn old man turns around and goes away with the others, to cross the river. The five travelers watch him go, then look at each other doubtfully, without knowing what to say. What’s the right thing, when you don’t know what will come, if you will meet again, if they’ll survive in this strange land, when the mission will end? They just embrace, one by one, take the clothes and necessary food, and leaving the rest, go apart.
Suddenly, Fabiana stops: why are they going to follow the orders of the old Starinshe and not going as they like?
She comes back to see the others going away, ready to step on the raft and look for the unknown, but only Guzman turns his head an instant. Then she hurries and reaches Carlos and Sacary, who set off into the eternal plain of pebbles and stones in gray, lilac, greenish, black colors, like in a jagged movie. However, up in the sky, the splendorous sun of Duma is shining, but it seems not to be brightening the grey morning or the uncertain future.

After going by the river called Siszur, after a long way, looking for a transport, Sheila, Enrique and Guzman find a little harbor. In a place where the turbulent waters of the Siszur take a break, there is a little covet and in it, anchored, three wooden rafts. Sitting on one of them, a thin, tall individual of tanned skin, with a ponytail of very scant dark hair, dressed in yellow and with his long, skinny legs, uncovered, this guy is eating something greasy and unappetizing. When he sees the strange group led by a monk, he stands up and watching them cautiously but with a curious, greedy bright in his pupils, he greets with an exaggerated genuflection. Marius talks with him, apparently trying to negotiate the prize of the voyage, for he explains after it:
“He’s taking us to where the king Sardo, for some of these clothes and of knowing who are you.”
“All right, tell him;” the three agree.
The brown man smiles, helps them to come up and takes a long oar. With a pull, they left the shore, the man unties the rope that ties them to a stake, and the journey starts. The three humans accommodate in the small raft: Sheila is wetting her fingers in the clear waters, smiling, she looks forward and sees what’s coming; Guzman and Enrique, in the contrary, sitting one in front of the other look serious, sometimes speaking. Enrique always speaks of his wife and children, nostalgic, the other one is quieter, never says what he’s thinking.
“Tipi, the boat man,” Marius says, “announces the travel will be long, many days.”

7 A refined cruelty.

The plain landscape goes changing.
After walking two hours they pass an abandoned settlement, similar to the Mngaris’ but completely destroyed. The houses, are burnt or smashed; the bodies half covered with leather and fabrics, heat and rot in the streets, and some animals like sheep for their wool, but wit horns in the head, are moaning near the bodies, feed on them, injured, bleeding, the skin torn. A while after that they see an abandoned encampment, in a state similar to the hamlet, with fires still burning on.
“Gribash soldiers,” is the only that Sacary says going on.
After an enforced march, stopping only three times to take some rest, by night they find refuge under some rocks. Sacary turns on a fire, Fabiana brings water from some nearby puddle, Carlos rests his executive body against the stone. They eat, revive the fire and go to sleep. Barely leaning their heads, their eyes close.
In the black sky some stars appear, then a big moon, white and round and, near this one another satellite, a smaller, blue moon. The air begins to heat and it’s not as cold as when the night falls.
First, there is a murmur, some hushed, far away sound, but is coming closer. It seems a gallop, but the sleepers don’t hear it. The sound increases until it’s close by them.
A group of six or seven horsemen, possibly alerted by the smoke of their fire, stops near the three travelers. They’re warriors: muscular, armed with lances, wearing shoulder and chest plates, a skin over their backs and broad, short pantaloons, and they ride a kind of solid horse with longish hair. They alight, speaking between them in low voice. At last, the stronger and shorter gets near the sleepers.
Carlos, he sees with disdain, but Sacary with amazement, and makes a sign to the others. The eyes of this man widen as he sees the woman. His partners come near dragging their lances, emitting a soft rush, and they lean forward, above the humans and the Tuké, watching them. Having made an agreement, two of them grab the men and the short one holds Fabiana by her shoulders.
The scream she gave out as she found herself lifted by a stranger, is indescribable. His yell and screams for help, her frenzy moves tossing in his arms, surprise so much the man that he lets her go as if she burn.
The other two, disconcerted for the sudden awaken, the cries and finding themselves caught by strong individuals, watch with round eyes and rather white. Fabiana stops crying and, taking a stone big enough, threatens the huge guy while she shouts to him:
“Back, son of bitch! I’m going to crush you head!”
Stunned, the warriors don’t understand anything. Under the moonlight, the woman glimmers and between them they question who she can be, they’ve never seen such a white skin. Besides, she wears plenty of long hair, while their women’s is scarce and always black.
“Who are you?” Sacary asks clumsily, in the first language that comes to his mind.
One answers and makes a question at his turn. Confused, Sacary hesitates, but finally tells them.
The ire appears in the face of the shortest guy, who mutters some words and shouts some orders, incensed. A pair of men catches Fabiana who is resisting, and others grab Sacary and get them onto the animals. They ride off at an order from their chief, leaving Carlos behind, frozen in terror. Fabiana twists and tries to throw herself off the horse, yells, and scratches the one who’s taking her away.
Even so checked, they run on, kicking dust, to the horizon.
“Help!” the woman keeps screaming. “Why me…”

Next day, in a lost town of the plain. The houses are crushed and only a few are usable. Women and men, half dressed with armors, are scattered by the town, some sit around plates of food, blackened and sticky, others wandering around.
The group of horsemen enters noisily breaking the peace. Between everyone’s boisterous, a stronger voice of bass raises up, opening a path to the horsemen, asking something. Humble, his head down, the chief of the group answers to the imposing character. Then, the latter comes near the captives and fixes his eyes, admiringly and surprised, on the young woman. With his right hand, he brushes her chin, she turns her head with contempt. He smiles satisfied.
Once the crowd was dispersed, the two male prisoners are conducted to an empty house and thrown inside.
They remain there, in the dark, without having taken water or food since more than twelve hours ago.
“What’s going to happen?” the girl whispers.
“I don’t know, miss. We are not going to get out of this with the lighter trick,” Sacary answers.
Fabiana looks at him. The Tuké is using a tone of voice rare in him. And maybe he’s not the fool he seems to be.
“They’re Sardos.”
“I thought we’re going to the other side.”
“And we were. This is only a camp. It certainly was a Gribash town. I don’t know what they’ll do to us, but they’re going to their land. If they’ve not reached before, of course.”
Resigned, Fabiana sits, leaning her head against what used to be a bed or some other furniture.
“Something, we must do. We must go,” she says, “or we’ll see ourselves in the middle of a war.”

Later, there’s no sound coming from outside.
Fabiana, as if just waking up, opens her eyes wide and with all her senses alert, she crawls to the door. We’re lucky not to be tied, she thinks. There are many gaps on the wall and door.
“What are you doing?” Sacary whispers.
“I’m trying to see if someone is watching us.”
She looks through a hole: no one to the right of the door. Now she looks the left side, nobody. She makes a sign to the Tuké for him to get near and another sign not to make noise.
With a soft creak, the door opens. “They can’t be so foolish,” both of them think. Even though, they carry on. They’re not going to stay for this.
They go out and close the door again, carefully. The way is empty, the sun burns up there. Fabiana walks to her right without knowing where she’s going. Something touches her shoulder.
“We can’t leave without water,” Sacary whispers in a hurry.
She assents and goes to a place where she believed to see a well before. In fact there is in the entrance to the hamlet, a well of warm dark water, but at least it’s water.
Nearby, there are some hollow horns to carry the water. They go to take one, accordingly.
The girl is filling hers when she feels again a touch in her shoulder:
“What do you want, Sacary?”
A strong hand seizes her shoulder and she turns around, amazed. She’s confronting a big muscular man that surpasses her by twenty centimeters. She shouts and throws the horn contents at him. As a reflex, the warrior draws back, and she starts to run. In her blind race something interposes and holds her.
She screams and tosses as she recognizes the chief of last night horsemen. But this man doesn’t release her. Another come with a rope and ties her hands behind. When a very robust one takes her by the body, almost dragging her, she keeps on kicking.
Lastly, she’s thrown again in the dark hut that serves as jail. She looks around and asks:
“Sacary?” she founds no more answer than her echo.
Relieved, she thinks, “he made it, he could escape! He did it, that damned man learnt!”
She hears steps outside, the door opens and –oh, alas!-. Sacary, tied up too, is tossed by her side, among the laughs of the warriors.
Fabiana swears with the worst words she can remember of her mother tongue. Her profanities stop the men and their laugh. For her tone of voice need no translation. They look each other, and all agree, they come closer and one of them holds her while another, with a piece of leather, muzzle her.
They go at last.
The woman babbles something, stretching her head. The Tuké looks at her, without comprehending. Upset for his calmness, she drags herself to his hands.
After some minutes, he can untie the gag.
“How can you be so tranquil?” she asks, while resting in the floor, taking care not to raise her voice.
“I’m a priest,” he answers naturally.
“But, can you untie me?” she replies with irony, though smiling.
“Uh! Nothing easier.”
Once set free, the girl unfastens the Tuké.
“It’s a pity they catch us,” Fabiana says. “What I can’t understand is why they didn’t put guards, or fasten us before, nor closed the door.”
“I think is part of their refined cruelty. Many times I’ve heard they do like this, like waiting for the last minute when you think you’re free, and then recapture the victim. Or they torture the captives and at last, when they can’t take more pain, they let them live instead of killing them… to suffer longer. Sometimes their punishments are burning your eyes or cut a part of the body, instead of an execution.”
There’s a long silence, while she seems to take in what she’s hearing. Then, Fabiana says:
“We’ll try again by night. And changing of conversation, you’d better explain me what’s going on in this planet.”

8 The new technology

The Siszur keeps its course rapidly, pulling the five travelers along the way. The blue band, wide and shining, runs across a landscape of wild beauty. In the background, the distant peaks kiss the sky, gray or bluish and unending. Both banks are covered with green and far away there are some little copses of majestic tall trees that from their treetops seem to look down on them with conceit.
Tipi, who drives the raft, rows impassibly, without saying a word. He seems to be not interested or worried for his strange passengers. He looks fixedly ahead, paying attention to the river and steering with zeal.
The three humans keep a light chat.
After three hours of voyage, the river seems to stop; but no, it doesn’t stop but it suffers a sudden decrease in speed. Its waves are gone; they are like navigating on jelly.
Sheila touches the water with her fingers; it seems thicker, like slime. She takes back her hand with a scream.
Her companions look startled. The oarsman doesn’t move. Marius questions him and receives as answer:
“Sorsogón ni.”
“What? What does it mean?” Guzman gets impatient.
“It’s a phenomenon of some rivers,” Marius explains; “when it receives some tributaries or when it splits into a few arms the water gets thicker and it’s difficult to advance. We’ll take some hours in passing this sorsogón.”
“Why is there a… sorsogón here?” Guzman asks, while he brushes away the hair that the breeze blows on his face.
“Because the river Siszur opens here into many branches, like a tree, until the lake of the Sardos,” Marius answers convincingly. Though he has never traveled there, in fact, he has never got out of the monastery; he knows much of Duma, being that his job.

There has not elapsed even fifteen minutes, but it seems an eternity. Everybody toss impatient, looking one side and the other, changing places. Everyone except Tipi, who is still calm, laconic if you choose. The terrible effort to row can be noticed in his muscles, tensed to the extreme.
As Marius told them, Tipi is a deportee from the Sardo kingdom. They are too rigid and severe: they are divided in little groups, leadered by a chief selected by the king, and these chiefs are really respectful and loyal to the king. In their society only the best are accepted; the weakest, those who are too short or too old, or sick, are executed. Religions are forbidden, as the associations, the art and the science, for they think all that is useless. The conquered nations are cleansed of all that and they get rid of technologies, beliefs and ideas that go against their purity ideals and worship of the kingdom. Gribash Empire thinks the same, but it’s not as organized as the Sardos’. Therefore, Tipi was expatriated for being a kind of shaman of his tribe, little beneficial for the kingdom.
Turning to the raft, thirty minutes passed and the ambient is impatient. It seems that more than the march, the sorsogón affects the mood.
Suddenly Guzman stands up and taking a hand to his glasses, exclaims:
“Of course! How can I have not realized that?”
Astonished, Sheila and Enrique watch him get mad. She asks: “Realize what? What’s the matter?”
“Is there not something bothering you?” it’s his answer.
Sheila hesitates: “No… no.”
“Your hair?”
“My… hair…” she repeats, knowing less than before what he means.
Then her face brightens.
“Oh, of course! The wind!” she exclaims, almost jumping.
“What are you talking about?” wondering, Enrique interposes.
“Look, feel, the wind;” the young man says. “It’s a long while this breeze is bothering me and I hadn’t realized. Suddenly, I had an idea. The wind… we can do a sail.”
“To get sooner to an unknown and dangerous place?” the other one replies with a bad face.
“Don’t be negative,” Sheila protests.
After taking notice of the project, Marius communicates it to Tipi. The latter seems like not fully understanding, or rather, like someone who is not sure of what they are saying. At the end he accepts, and turns the raft to the shore.
“First, we have to see is how the mast will be set,” Guzman says, jumping to earth.
They gaze around. There’s a fallen tree close by. Enrique and Marius go to study it to obtain some straight branch, while Sheila looks through the equipage for a thin blue blanket that will be the sail. Guzman looks and watches the raft, calculating.
While they work, Tipi looks at the river, sitting on a rock and just gazing at the strangers a moment, with alert eyes, when they put the mast straight and tie it to the edges of the embarkation with rope. Finally, seeing the work done, he comes closer and while putting it back into the river, he draws smile in his face.
And it works perfectly. Yes, guided by the expert hand of Tipi and pushed by the wind, they go ahead as if there was no sorsogón. And it goes on, proud in full said, a rough embarkation with a droll mast.


9 Another attempt of escape

And it gets darker. Slowly, the sky goes changing color: the gleaming blue turns off, to gray, and the deepness of that color ebbs to the mauve-violet tone that precedes darkness. Finally the stars come out and the two moons.
Fabiana is long ago sitting with her legs crossed and her head between the hands, thoughtful. Suddenly, she whispers to Sacary, who’s slumbering from a while ago, with his head fallen on his chest.
“Hey, Sacary… wake up.” She tries not to raise her voice.
The Tuké moves a bit and continues dreaming. She shakes him firmly from an arm. Startled, he lifts his head quick and exclaims:
“What? Are they coming?”
Fabiana makes a sign for silence, touching her lips with a finger. He seems to understand and smiles.
“I have a doubt,” she says. ”You tell me that the Sardos, they are sexist, like we’d say in the Earth.” He nods. “Then, why did I see women in the camp, warriors?”
“They say… woman, good to cook, to do simple jobs, to attend the man, but bad to think. That’s why they use them almost like slaves, for every dirty and heavy job, to carry weights, to clean bowels and blood from the armors, to take care of them in every sense. Do you understand? But there’re no chief women, in the government, they have no right or…”
“Yes, yes, I got it;” Fabiana interrupts, and a playful smile appears in her lips. “Come,” she adds, getting up.
The woman shakes off the dust and walks to the rear wall. She pokes among the remains that cover the wall until she finds something useful. In a place the mud seems to be thinner and, scratching a little with a jagged rock, there’s a gush of fresh air. She continues working, making the hole bigger for them to pass.
First, Sacary goes out helped by her, and then Fabiana. There is no one to be seen. Some roaring noises can be heard: the warriors are dinning. There’s no light but the moonlight is bright enough.
With care, sweating and bathed in earth, the fugitives go, interning in the shadows. In the outskirts of the hamlet there is the water and animals, so they must go that way; but there’s a problem, there is one guard and before him, a tent from where some light is coming out.
Silent, they draw near the guard by ten pace, and duck next to some ruins. The guardian is tired, leaning against his lance, and closes his eyes as if taking a nap. Fabiana looks around and finds a log, a meter long and three centimeters thick.
She takes the wood block between her hands and gets closer to the guard, who is turned back. He doesn’t seem to hear anything. The woman thinks about hitting his nape hard, to make him fall unconscious. She lifts the log above her head and when she’s going to strike down, the man turns around. Sacary takes a hand to his mouth to repress a scream. Fabiana does emit a short cry, while the warrior is still raising his head, she unloads all the weight of the block on his face. It hit full in his brow. Knocked out, his eyes white, he falls back with a hard noise, just like the sound of a rotten fruit falling from the tree. Fabiana looks at the wood block, amazed, and there’s a red spot. Then she whispers to Sacary, who is by her side:
“Wow, I’d never done it… it’s fun,” and she smiles, while throwing the log away, on the fallen man.
Grabbing the lance, they go to pick up the water pottery; that way they’ll have weapons, water, and transport. Indispensable. Ready and self-confident, they are going for the equines.
They pass an illuminated tent. Fabiana stops and holds Sacary.
“Don’t you feel watched?”
“Maybe it’s because of…” he answers, trembling, “of that.”
Fabiana looks where he has fixed his eyes and gets white.
“Oh! No! Not again!” she complains.
Quietly standing, there are five women. They’re dirty and disheveled, dressed in rags, but they’re holding very cutting lances. They surround and push them to the tent.
Without leaving the staring, they talk between them, like arguing.
“What do they say?” the human girl asks.
“They’re discussing what to do with us.”
“And what do they decide?”
“They’re going to call the men, they’re to decide.”
One of the women makes a move to go out, but a cry from Fabiana stops her.
“No! Don’t call them!”
The women look each other, intrigued by her strange accent.
“Tell them they must listen to me, please.”
Sacary translates this and get as answer:
“They ask why they should.”
Doubtful, Fabiana thinks and at last, she says:
“We are friends, we come to help the kingdom of the Sardos.”
They seem convinced, for no one goes out of there. They are looking, surly and distrusting. The woman from Earth frankly smiles.

10 Womanly sisterhood.

“Well, they ask how is that about being friends,” Sacary translates.
“Explain to them where I come from and what I am doing.”
Sacary seems to be surprised but without replying, goes on translating.
The faces of these women go through many emotions: mistrust, surprise, incredulity, amazement. Finally, everyone turn their face to Fabiana, full of expectation. The latter gathers all her strength to start her argument.
“I am like you, a woman like you. In my world, there are also men and women, we’re the same in that. However… I’ve noticed some incorrect facts, which are mistaken and make me afraid of the future of this world. For example, I’m told that here women can’t decide anything and men do it all for us. In my worlds that’s not so, there, men and women are partners, do you follow?”
Total negative.
“Explain better,” the Tuké advices.
“Well, I’ll try…” she assents and tries to show a confident smile. “As I was saying, besides being partners, in the Earth, we are all equals. I mean, though there are men and women, and some are wiser or sillier, we all have the same rights.”
“They don’t know what rights are. What do I say?” Sacary mutters.
“A right is what allows you to do something or not do it, to own a thing and dispose with it when you want, and also… that others can’t tell you to do what you don’t like… well, it’s difficult to make up this!”
“They’re getting something, though I don’t know what you are intending…” Sacary cheers her. “See those smiles.”
“Ah, I know! Here for example, men can order women to do what they want, and make them do all that’s vile and baser, that they wouldn’t do, as if you were idiots. But in my planet we are stronger, more powerful, happier, for we all have freedom and the same rights.”
The women listen absorbed, though uncertain.
“The most important is freedom, above everything, the freedom to think, to act, to speak for oneself. Everyone can think for oneself… then, why can only the men decide what to do? Is it that you can’t or don’t think?”
They all protest.
“Ah, of course you’re intelligent; as much as them. You can be better than men; that’s why they don’t accept you. But if you fight, as we did in Earth, with time they will give you the place you deserve. If you believe in me, who am come from another place, then you must trust that I will help.”
Silence. The faces question each other. One of them speaks.
“We have already thought that, though we never said it and we won’t. They rule, they are chief and we’re soldiers. If my husband knows of this, he can repel me and give me over to the chief. I would go to the dungeon, and if I am lucky, I’d be executed, and that will happen to you. Sardos are that way, and they won’t change. Those who hold these ideas are erased, for going against our system and our lives. And you must shut up and take care.”
“I believed you would understand and help me,” Fabiana says, sadly, drawing near to them. “I can’t imagine you’re happy in submission, so I guess you’re fearful and without proud, or worst, you like to be mistreated and, don’t have brains! If you can live a better life and don’t fight for that, what are you fighting for? Losing your life in this war? But no, you’re really strong, you do everything! By God, you’re powerful. And now you are like little creatures.”
There are noises, a commotion outside. Voice of command and hurry steps. Fabiana and Sacary go to each other, pallid.
“Oh… Not… again!” the girl moans.
One of the women gets out of the tent. The rest remain deadpan, their faces let guess but anything. Fabiana mutters: “Let’s show no fear.”
And she stands proudly, well standing on her feet, her arms crossed and his chin up. Sacary stays behind her, his hands together, trembling.
Outside, the woman talks to the chief. His high shape can be distinguished through the fabric, thanks to the light he’s carrying. He threatens with his fist, while the woman listens with patience to let him end talking and shouting to the wind. A tranquil sentence from her and he becomes calmed. When she is going to enter, he stops her and says a few more words. She denies and exclaims something.
The cloth that serves as door opens a little, a centimeter, two, three, five, ten… A hand throws it aside with decision. The light, the arm and the hairy head get into the opening.
“Ah…!” the man grunts.
He sees two women holding a jug, another half naked, another lying on some stuff. He says something like a joke, smiles fierily and goes out.
The woman outside waits for him to go away, enters and closes the cloth door, all that’s possible.
The reclining woman gets up and uncovers Fabiana and Sacary.
“How can you be so heavy?” the girl exclaims.
“I… that was the mattress?”
They arrange their clothes, full of dust, and Fabiana sakes her long hair.
“Thanks them, Sacary. They’ve hopes.”
They smile, pleased. One of them grips her fist hard and lifts her arm. There are always fights.
With the help of these women, they get a transport and supplies. Two horses are waiting outside, ready for them to flee.
Hindered by the shadows of night, helped by fortune, they can make at last a successful escape.

11 A wonderful night

More and more interned in Gribash territory, in some unknown land full of strangers, in a planet that is not hers. That thinks Fabiana as she rides in one of those creatures similar to horses that she doesn’t know how to call, for she can’t pronounce its name. She guesses her fellows think the same, even Carlos, wherever he is.
The austere plain is changing. Now there are rises of singular beauty, really green woods, pristine brooks, and all you can add to a happy and shining land of the Earth –if there are some here and not only in fairy tales-, except that, in Duma, there are no birds, nothing flies.
“Hmm... so beautiful,” the girl exclaims suddenly. “How can you want to change this?”
“They don’t want to,” Sacary warns. “They are closed and rusty, they don’t know nothing different and don’t want to know it.”
“But… if they come to be like the humans, this won’t be pretty any longer. There will be trash, smoke…”
“If humans speak of living naturally, without leaving technology aside;” he protests.
“What we preach is not reality. Do you know the saying, do what I say but not what I do? Well, that’s the truth: we speak, speak, everything sounds fine but…”
“Then, how is it that the Earth is such a nice place to live?”
“It’s like any other, I guess. There are some things good and others bad. But tell me, have you never been to the Earth before?”
“No, not me. We who are in charge of being guides and translators take to that, learning geography and languages. There are others who travel and then come to teach the rest of us. That’s the way the Tukés have studied your ways and language, to be prepared.”
“Then your emissaries only tell the good.”
“Maybe we don’t care about the bad…”
“But, even as accident, we five could teach some harm to the people.”
“I trust… you at least.”
She smiles to the little man –in stature, not in age- with sweetness and grateful.
“Thanks, is nice to hear that. I trust you too, and the others. I think that for once the destiny didn’t make a mistake.”
Then, as a cold shower upon them, she sees it. In the middle of the serene, pleasant landscape, a column of black thick smoke, sours the sweetness of the second. And she hears too: a gush of wind brings a distant roar, like a sudden stampede. Just as if she began to hear now, she has the dreamy feeling, of being in the midst of battle, but in a preterit time, distant and forgotten, between knights and savages.
“Yes, yes…” Sacary brings her back to reality. “It’s a battle.”
Something ancient, kept in Fabiana’s most hidden cells, something primitive but refined, takes all fear and reason away, and she says:
“Come on, I wan to see closer,” she says this without agitation, serene and sure.
The Tuké watches her with worried eyes, but still goes after her.
They trot to a high mound to have a panoramic view of the fight. Sardos and Imperials, men against men like beasts. A luxurious Baroque fresco with movement.
“An opera would suit well this scene,” Fabiana comments, without sarcasm. “Maybe the Carmina Burama overture.”

The battle has not last more than half an hour.
It has only been the gratuitous crash of two forces. Without a winner, with equal lost of lives in both bands and many debts and vengeances to be repaid mutually, they go apart.
One little portion of the force, some warriors on horses –or whatever those animals are called- goes directly to where Sacary and Fabiana are. They hide, leaning next to their mounts, in a depression formed between the side of the hill and some rocks.
Coming at a gallop, some animals can be heard so clearly, that seem about to jump above them. They crouch more and more, all that’s possible, holding their breath.
In a rather disbanded group the warriors pass over them. It seems they’re safe: the group has passed by their side without seeing them. There are still some left. A fat man goes by trotting, leaning as little as if he had a pain in the side. Two more delayed horsemen try to catch the main group. Every time that one of them pass without noticing them, Fabiana breathes freer and Sacary sighs, stopping a second his perspiration. Then another one comes at a gallop. The two hidden horses are also very nervous and look with their anxious little round eyes, wet for the emotion.
Every pace of the coming horse resounds in their ears, every one stronger. Now the floor reverberates. He has gone up the hill and seems about to jump over their heads…
When the animal and its rider pass over them, one of the beasts can hold no longer. It goes running after the others with a thrilling shriek. Fabiana’s first impulse is to hold its reins, but it is too late, she can’t grab even some hair. While she is trying to calm the other animal, she realizes something: there is silence, there are no more screams and races.
Slowly, she heels around. Most of the group has gone away. A dozen or less horsemen are there, frozen in front of them. “Not again…” the young woman thinks. The warriors are as amazed as they’re scared. One man has really violent intentions revealed in his face.
The man retaining the escaped animal calms it down with some caresses and comes closer with it. He is a handsome man, very tanned, with black moustache and his temples are bald. He greets amiably and controlled.
“Tell him we are travelers,” Fabiana whispers to Sacary, “that we have nothing to do with their fight.”
The man listens to him, seeming to understand, and invites them to continue with them their way.
“Eh…! Who are they?”
“From Rilay, in the Empire of Gribash. Peaceful people.”
“I can tell!”

“In times of peace Rilay must be a beautiful place to live. They are all very amiable. It’s true that they’re peaceful. It seems a sea side resort that I know.”
“Certainly. They’re peaceful and similar to you. They work the earth, they have stable families…”
The two travelers rest in a stone cottage in Rilay, a pretty house with a heart, furniture and much light stealing through the windows.
“Now I am here, tranquil, I miss the Earth. For this looks like it.” Fabiana comments, “I think about my family, my partners, my professor… what they would say of my disappearance. They must be worried… Moreover, I miss a nice cool, glass of coke with ice, and to be able to open the refrigerator and get it out. And a shower, indoors, not to bath in the river. But more than all the luxuries, than my people, the music. What kind of world is this without art, without music? They can’t know what relief to the soul is.”
“Here you can teach all that. Then you’ll have your music and everything you need.”
“Ah… you don’t get it,” she sighs.
Now they’re dressed in typical clothes of the region: a long skirt or weaved trousers of various colors, the most artistic the Empire tolerates, black coats and white blouses. Well arranged, clean and combed, they seem other people. The long red tinged chestnut hair of Fabiana was a mess after many days in the dusty land, but a washing became it very well.
“Besides it isn’t so easy,” Fabiana goes on. “Those women said, new ideas would be eliminated.”
“If they find the guilty. But if there was a rumor, something vague, that everybody repeated without knowing where it comes from…”
“Sacary,” she replies serious, “you’re too human.”
At dinnertime, a boy comes to take them to the reunion in the town place. In the center of the place there is an empty space with a circle of stones in it. Something seems to be missing.
People looks better arranged than when they come. They’re talking in very animated groups, laughing. Fabiana and Sacary walk around, together for caution and for she doesn’t understand anything. Now and then, someone comes to talk to them out of curiosity, for having some words of the young woman.
As the shadows of the night start to fall on them, the chief of the town –the same that spoke to them first-, turns on a fire in the midst of the stone circle and some others turn on colored candles around. Then everybody sits down round the fire and keeps on chatting. The travelers are invited to sit next to the chief. Later he asks:
“Where is the lady come from?”
Fabiana and Sacary look each other. She nods and he explains to the chief the truth. The latter, after listening seriously, smiles and asks to the woman:
“Are you really from another world?”
“Well… yes, I am;” she admits, smiling.
“Then, let’s talk about what you are doing here, how you come here, and above all, what is your world like and…”
When she is about to begin to say something, some women, seemingly cookers, come to call the chief away. Sacary elbows Fabiana and points to a big, rough fellow, and says:
“That is the watcher from Gribash. He keeps his control so.”
“Ah… eyes and ears everywhere.” Fabiana watches him attentively and then asks:
“Why is he frowning so?”
“Ah, that!” the Tuké chuckles. “You haven’t noticed… This party isn’t actually to celebrate yesterday’s battle, they say so to cover the fact they’re celebrating the most important day of cult.”
“And, why do they celebrate it if they’re being watched?”
“It’s very important for them. It’s a pity they can’t go on with their custom, or you would have seen something really beautiful. They adorn the whole town with festoon, garlands, and animal figures, natural flowers and they spread out perfume in the air… Anyway, they take care of everything. They eat and drink and then the best comes.”
“That is…”
“You’ll see.”
In that moment a woman passes offering a plate with some typical dish, sweet and crusty.
In the following hours, Fabiana converse much with the chief about the Earth, above all politics, being he who asks the most. The watcher, on the other side, stares at them all the time. In his vivacious and penetrating black eyes there’s a lot of intrigue, as he tries to find out who is the strangers and what are they talking so much.
When certain hour has come, advanced the night, when the chat was slower and the groups had dissolved giving place to a litany of creaking fire and nocturne calm, the chief gets up and says:
“Get ready to see something.”
Then, he sees Gribash’s watcher with suspicion and returns to his place. Serious, like all the night, the watcher sits with his arms crossed, waiting. Suddenly, something happens to surprise the foreigners, making them marvel.
In the night sky, speckled with stars and brightened by a full moon and another waning, there appears an orange-color bowed flame. It is undulated, shining and silky, and stands there like a flag a-fluttered by a soft breeze. Later, another one appears, this time it’s light blue and bigger. Next to the stars and moons, they seem like precious stones on a background of the most perfect velvet ever seen by human eye.
Fabian watches, one and the other, trying to gather all the sky. Open mouthed, frozen, she knows not what to think. She has never seen something like that. The northern lights must look like that, though certainly not so beautiful, so delicate and so dramatic. Standing there, they’re not even quiet and seem to be alive: shining and gleaming with every beat of its glacial heart while every breath feed them. She doesn’t know what are they, heavenly butterflies or living jewels, or silk clouds. And there are more: one satin white with pink glaze, another long, slim and green, another blue-violet.
After a while, the charm begins to fade. The colors vanish until blending with the milky glow of the stars, and beneath, the bodies return to their movement. Fabiana recovers her air, for she feels to have stopped breathing a long time.
“What was that?” she exhales, holding her chest.
“It’s called… eslava. The night of the eslava.”
“Bu-but, what are those things?”
“I don’t know, nobody knows. But they say to read the future in them.”
Almost everyone had gone silently. What was in the tables was gone too.
“Well, people;” the chief of Rilay whispers. “I hope you rest well and that you have enjoyed our… celebration of the victory.” He smiles and goes away to the place where the watcher is standing, alone and expressionless, and speaks to him: “Why do you have that face? Don’t you like the performance?”
Fabiana and Sacary go without waiting for the end of that conversation. The man, for sure, has not liked to be considered a fool, but he’s powerless because he can’t prohibit to see and to think. The law he must follow only says that religious or artistic manifestations are not allowed, as well as the diffusion of ideas contraries to the estate, but as for the ethereal manifestations and the imagination…

12 With a family

The strange embarkation, now a sail ship, driven by Tipi, comes at last to a Sardo hamlet, after successfully going over the sorsogón in a record time. The hamlet, settled between two channels of the Siszur, is the most civilized one they have seen in days. In the wharf, where there are several boats and crafts of considerable size, there is a crowd watching the arrival of the sail raft.
The three humans are over excited. The boatman remains impassive.
Just as they touch the dockside, an amount of humble looking men runs to help them to go up, and they offer their service. Marius gets rid of them gently and explains to Guzman, who has asked who they were, that they’re like Tipi, expulsed form their countries and looking for someone to hire them in the wharfs, like slaves, for if they don’t work the King patrols eliminate them.
Sheila watches them with pity. Since a little girl, she was poor and rejected, and never ever before, she had felt so good, so respected as in Duma.
“We have to find some shelter for tonight,” Marius advices. “Maybe in a refuge for voyagers, Ensido.”
“And what’s that?” she asks.
“A house where the guards and king functionaries stay.”
“And will they let us remain?”
“I don’t know for certain, but I guess so.”
They prepare to wander around the town looking for such a refuge.
“Is Tipi going to stay here?” Enrique inquires.
“Yes, they sleep in the boats.”
They walk through the town. Everybody looks at them surprised, or as if they had the plague. There are murmurs as they pass and people stay watching them. A little shy, the closed group goes to some big shed that looks a bit inhospitable, while they’re guided by the confident Tuké.
With tact, Marius explains to the keeper that they’re travelers from some remote land, they don’t know anybody and don’t have shelter for the night. After listening serious and attentively, the old keeper returns within the house to ask the men that reside there. Through the opened door, they can see some of them: they are dressed alike, with a red coat and black pantaloons, besides carrying an emblem in the back. Moreover, they are the best-dressed people in the hamlet, and maybe of the entire kingdom. And night is near.
Their negative is absolute, they don’t accept foreigners.
So they keep on looking everywhere, asking in the bigger houses. They go to the chief of town place, in charge of the people, but nothing comes out. Neither at the fishermen shed nor the army house strangers are accepted, even when they are almost empty.
Finally, they walk by the dark streets of the town, resigned to sleep outside. The hunger is starting to attack them and from the river comes a wet, cold mist that poisons the air. Darkness is almost complete, no candle or oil lamp lightens the roads. They are unhopeful, going down a winding path when they hear something that alerts them. Someone or something has made a noise behind the group.
“Was it an animal?” Enrique babbles, not being brave enough.
“Are there wild animals? I haven’t seen any,” Sheila adds, trembling.
“No, no, calm,” Marius answers. “There aren’t beasts in town.”
“Then, what was it?”
They draw closer, watching around. Guzman says:
“Alert. Listen!”
Silence, barely corrupted by the whispering wind.
Suddenly it can be heard again… like a voice.
It comes from a house with the door half opened. A man is calling them softly.
Marius gets near to talk to him in low voice. Then he comes to the others with a smile.
“Good news. These people invite us to pass the night in their house. Come on, don’t stay there.”
“But, it might be a trap?” Guzman suggests making a gesture to stop the rest.
“Come on boy. Don’t be paranoid.” Enrique says slapping his shoulder. “At least it’s a roof…”
The young man nods.
The inside of the house is completely different to the night outside. There’s a fire lighted in the heart, lamps brightening everything, making the place cozy, warm. There’s an irresistible smell.
As their faces can be seen, the owner smiles and invites them to dinner. With him live his wife, a little working woman –you can tell by the muscles in her hands and shoulders- and their children: a grown boy, a girl and a little man. The woman is preparing dinner, after that she makes four beds for them while they chat with her husband. This is a cheerful, serene and curious man. He shots questions to his guests, who are a bit difficult to answer while Marius is translating, for the owner is already making more questions. They tell him where they come from, but not how they traveled from there, and this intrigues the man and makes him uneasy. But then, details about the Earth convince him.
Between him and his elder son there’s a wide difference. The latter is anxious, extremely suspecting and his big pride makes him surly. During the conversation, Guzman gets angry for his sour commentaries, but he contains the anger behind his glasses. At last the father brings this to an end, after receiving some intolerable menaces from his son.
“Don’t worry, he’s a fervent young man but inoffensive,” Dolfo, the owner, apologizes. “Hey, the food’s ready!”

Though it is not a five star hotel room, at least they have some blankets and mattress for each one near the heart. After the lamps have turned out, the room remains illuminated only by the fire. The hazed, hesitating light, gives a gloomy aspect to the walls.
Everyone while in bed muses until getting by and by asleep. Their opinions about the troubles of the travel and the previous dinner, vary according to their personality. Sheila thinks how can they treat the women in such a way, and wonders if in her country is the same. Guzman is worried about the menacing looks that Dolfo’s son threw at them before leaving. Enrique is surprised for the idea of return is not drumming his head all the time anymore. He even gets excited at the notion of discovering a new world. He smiles at the naiveté of the monks, thinking the Earth is a perfect world to live in, without knowing or realizing the fight a man must hold to get a good salary every month. And the fight to sustain a family, to give a good education to the children and getting a pleasant old age; they ignore the problems of delinquency, drugs and alcohol, and other many pests that never disappear.
Tired because of the anxiety and fear, their thoughts last little. Sheltered in a soft and warm bed, they sink in the realm of sleep.

Next morning –very early- an unexpected circumstance gets them out of their comfortable situation.
They are awakened abruptly by strong shakes. Sleepy but scared, Enrique exclaims: “What’s happening? What’s the matter?”
He can’t understand Dolfo’s confused words, but it’s obvious that some danger is stalking them. Dolfo runs to Marius in a desperate trial to be understood. Meanwhile, his wife hurries them to get up. As they were half dressed, they are up in a minute.
“Let’s go behind!” Marius cries going to a back room. “A patrol is coming here!”
White, confused and half asleep, they run to a little room where they find the little kids.
A great tumult is heard in the big room and a second later the noise of the weak door that opens with a creak and the steps from a numerous group coming in.
Dolfo is subjected to some kind of examination. Hard, implacable, cold, the group accuses the man repeatedly, but he denies all. After a while, the guards begin to doubt, but still continue accusing. The offended voice and the humble attitude of Dolfo seem to calm them down. Then a known voice speaks.
The three humans look one another, rigid, there’s no need to talk. If law is hard against those who talk against the king, what will happen to them who tell that in another world you can say anything, where the people chooses the king and nobody can dispose of another’s life, not even of a woman. Why didn’t they shut up?
Startled –with horror- they see the door opening.
With relief, they can see it’s the wife. She brings some clothes like blankets and, with wide signs she delivers one to each of them, indicating to put them on. Surprised, they realize it is a bunch of cloaks with hoods.
When they are ready, Dolfo enters.
“Sorry for my son’s attitude. He is convinced of what the king guards are saying, I believe he’s afraid, but he’s not bad. He is confused, that’s all.” What they suspected was true. “He called the patrol and told them about what you told last night. But don’t worry, I convinced them that you were not worth the while, that you’re insane. They weren’t too convinced and wanted to see you… then I said you were gone.” He smiles with satisfaction at the trick he played on the guards. “The best for you to do, I think, is to go fast from here, and now on, you’ll be careful.”
After that he showed them the traditional salute of his town to the guests: a hug.

13 Sheila’s time


Well wrapped in their cloaks and hiding along the half desert streets, they walk by the sandy roads, full of holes and a bitter stench coming from the river. The morning nauseous mist is worst than by nightfall. As it lifts little by little, moreover, it leaves place to a wet, suffocating heat.
Before going to the wharf they decide to search for food. They agree that Marius, the only that can speak the language, gets into some shed to exchange some valued object for supplies.
They look around, what do they have? Guzman’s watch would attract attention and betray them, given that wristwatches haven’t been invented yet. They turn off their pockets. Most things can’t be shown.
“What about Enrique’s ring?” Sheila suggests.
“What…! My wedding ring?” he exclaims. “No, I can’t; my wife would kill me. She doesn’t even let me get it out in the shower… no.”
“All right,” the young man calms him. “We won’t touch it… now. But maybe…”
“No, no! At least I will save this!”
His anger, his red face and agitation makes the others merry.
“Let’s see what we’ll use…”
The list is rather curious: from Sheila, a lipstick, twenty bucks, a hair band, a pair of plastic earrings, an unpaid receipt and the mini skirt she’s wearing under the clothe and cloak. From Enrique, his driving license, a box of matches, half football ticket, a condom and the tie. From Guzman, a black pen, used papers, his watch, coins and a hundred bucks, besides his clothes.
“The tie and the earrings,” Guzman proposes.
“The earrings are plastic,” Sheila objects. “Better the coins. I guess they know metal…”
“OK.”
Marius goes in, and after transacting with the storeowner, who refuse to attend foreigners, he gets some pieces of meat and bread. The bread is hard and dark, the meat is all bone. But it is better than anything.
They arrive to the harbor. It seems nobody looks for them.
Screams from a nearby street. A patrol comes running. They run. Their clothes fly around. It will be difficult to escape this time.
Guzman, the first, turns to some street suddenly and the others imitate him. They get into the first house they see. Fortunately, the door is open. As the guards pass by, they come back following the previous way to the wharf. A simple trick.
They’re walking along the dock, when Sheila emits a stifled cry.
“Ah!” she stops, taking a hand to her mouth, surprised. “Look that!”
Following her gaze, they get astonished. But it is a nice surprise.
There are five bigger rafts, besides the funny one they used before; well, they were already there but… now each one has a sail. Yes, two white sails, another yellow, a green and another blue like Tipi’s. They were rough but... how nice to realize they made something fine! Others took they idea, they were interested and used it.
While greeting Tipi and getting on the raft, they continue watching it as a mother contemplates her son. The calm Tipi draws the boat away from the dock, with his pole. Then he sits astern, using the oar as a rudder to guide the embarkation to the middle of the river.
As they go by, the owner of the other sails shout, cheer and salute them.

The march keeps on tranquil. Hour go by slowly, very boring. The sounds from shore barely get to them, only the lapping of the water against the raft. However, the silence is worst than some noise. It seems that life, if there’s any, is crouching, watching, not including them in it, but letting them go, indifferent.
Sometimes a shout or yell let’s them know there is life, they’re being watched from far, but it is still a sound without face or body.
The Siszur has branched copiously. Sometimes they see another channel on the other side of the lands and all the time they come to intersections that Tipi knows perfectly. He never hesitates. They pass a few settlements like the town where they slept. The people look curious and anxious as they see the sail, they signal and talk between them. Long time they remain watching until there’s nothing on their visual horizon.
As the afternoon is going out, the sun declining, they get into some thinner arms where the borders are full of trees. Some islets are so dense that they can touch the leaves just by stretching an arm, and if they shake some branch, the whole wood quivers.
The silence is almost deadly.
“I feel like…” Sheila says all of a sudden, shivering, “like being watched.”
The other can’t help feel a shiver down their spines as she says this. But they try to cheer her up:
“Come on, it’s your imagination!” Enrique laughs. “That feeling is produced for the ambient. The branches and all… it is ghastly.”
But they can’t help looking one side and the other now and then.
“A branch moved!” Sheila screams, startling to her feet.
“Be quiet,” Marius calms her, slapping her shoulder and speaking with serenity.
“No, it’s not my imagination! There it moved another…!” she cries again.
“Sit down and stop it,” Enrique interposes, serious. “You’re scaring me.”
Guzman watches right and left: he doesn’t see any movement, he can’t hear any noise.
Then, in the middle of the branches, he believes to see a brown face. Or was it his imagination…
Questioned, Tipi says:
“They are like me. Some poor devil without earth. Inoffensive.”
As Tipi would give them no notice, they calm down. Sheila sits again. Then, they hear terrible screams, chilling yells, together with a dozen men almost naked, starved –all skin and bone- and desperate, that plunge like apes into the water and surround them.
In a closed group in the midst of the boat, the travelers embrace together, while the savages besiege them to stop the raft. Then they drag it to the shore between yells of jubilee. When their boat is blocked on the bank, they stop howling and one guy comes to the front, handling a long stick with some ribbons. He moves the stick to the sides and then shakes it around the humans.
“What-what happens?” Sheila whispers.
“He calls the spirits,” Marius explains. ”He thinks we are Sardos and that the spirits must tell what to do with us.”
“But… tell them who we are.”
The savage, meanwhile, is turning around them agitating the stick and invoking like a madman. His eyes roll. Suddenly he stops, frozen. His partners wait in eager silence.
Finally, he gives out an order. His intentions are clear.
“No!” Enrique cries. “Please explain, idiot monk!”
Marius acts then. He stands in front of the others, avoiding the charge against them. He tries to make himself understood shouting. But it’s confuse and silly for the deportee people. The shaman, who seems to be the chief, stops to think.
“Speak,” he says at last, asking silence with his stick to the rest.
“These three are humans, not Sardos. They come from a far, far away place. From another world.”
“Ah… they’re gods?” the chief exclaims, astounded.
“Not so much. They…”
“Spirits?”
“No, but…”
“Then, they aren’t worth anything. And I think you lie…”
“No, and they can prove it,” Marius affirms turning to them; “he wants a proof.”
Bewildered, they stared at him. What to do? Carlos had deceived them with a lighter, but…
In a bad mood, Enrique says to Marius: “What do you want us to do, a pirouette?”
An expatriated rushes on them with his lance, direct to Sheila. But he can’t get to hurt her. The woman stands aside in a jump and grabs the lance with both hands. The attacker falls from a kick in the groin.
With a horrifying scream, Sheila lifts the lance over her head and begins to emit incoherent cries. Even her partners open the way before her, scared.
“Ah, me, I’m a spirit! Tremble, worms, because I will crush you in my hand!” Moving around, with gestures and making her voice go up and down, yelling and lisping, she continues: “I, Sheila the terrible, the horror of the Earth, the hell of poor mortals. No, don’t run, you can’t escape… Ha, ha, ha!” A ghoulish laugh, between contortions. “He, he, he! Now we see, eh…! Idiots, you don’t get a word, eh? Well, suffer, cowards. I don’t know what I am saying, but neither do you. How I make fun of you, believing mortals…” she adds with menacing tone, agitating arms and lance, as if putting a charm on them, “now see…”
She is interrupted as she sees the flames glaring in front of her. Surprised, she stays paralyzed before the fire until her fellows snatch her out of there and get her on the raft.
Rapidly, they get out of there. Behind, are left the screams of the horrified deportees.
“How did you make it?” Guzman exclaims.
“What did I make? I didn’t…” she replies, stunned. “I don’t know what…”
“You had a little help,” Enrique interrupts, showing them a box of matches. “While they were looking at her, I threw some on the grass, as there were dry leaves…”
“Magnificent!”
“Excellent!” Sheila rejoices. “Good team!”
Then they look behind and see Tipi, shouting and agitating his arms.
“What happens to him?”
“He’ll think we stole the raft.”
“Maybe…” Guzman assents.
They keep on going down stream.
Some time later, they hear a murmur of fast running water.
“I think we’re going out of these canals.”
“Yes, it must be the outlet to the lake, isn’t it, Marius?”
“Well… I guess. I’ve never been here.”
Then, as the channel bends, they realize it wasn’t exactly that, but worst. Not that it’s not a way out, but the difficult lays that some steps in the river interpose between them and the outlet to the lake.
“Now I see what Tipi meant,” Sheila says.
The channel they are navigating has some rapids and is specked with narrow rocks with cutting edges, above which they are about to be tossed by the stream in just a few seconds…

14 Jumping

“Get down, hurry!” Guzman cries, as he takes the oar, and says to himself “now or never”.
With the long pole clutched in his hands he prepares to get the raft apart from a rock, his knees a little bent, and eager expression. With a violent shock, they left the rock behind to their right.
But they are deviated too much to the left, and stumbling, they go another still bigger rock. The strong flow drags them inevitably to the rock, between whirls and undercurrents. The water covers them a moment and in the roaring river, Guzman can be heard saying:
“To the right! All the weight to the right!”
AS if it was a sleigh going down a hill, everybody turns to the right side, changing slightly the course.
Brave, the young man tries to touch the rock with the oar.
“No!” Sheila desperately shouts him.
He doesn’t mind her. The moment of collision has arrived. He gets to make contact with the pole and pushes back with all his might, practically throwing on it. The hit makes the boat turn around and the young man falls back. Fortunately, he falls on the boat and not overboard. The raft revolves and goes to a whirl: they can’t stop the circling movement that makes them dizzy, while swallowing liters and liters of water.
Almost lying prone, grabbed to any notch of the wood, they hold as they best can. The oar is useless. They pass over some submerged rocks, what makes them jump, falling some meters down stream to pass between two rocks that wrap tem in a cold shower. The water leaps and falls on them once more. However, despite they’re now navigating or better, drifting slower, the danger is not yet over. There is still a higher rapid, and this is only the calm before the storm.
“Ah!” they scream together as they suddenly fall.
The raft is now just a destroyed wood plank, a feeble lifesaver they grip with desperation. They can’t see for the water hitting them. Completely stunned, soaked and blind, they have the funniest thoughts. They fall and tilt again; they go balancing over a load of water, above a lot of little rocks. I don’t want to die! Sheila thinks. It can’t be possible I should die in this way! She says while the domineering liquid gets into her mouth and eyes and a lot of childhood images, when she was happy… with a simple life near her family. And while they jump madly, the bodies smashing against the board and pain in the back, Enrique sees the faces of his wife and children pass before his eyes, and then he pities himself, and then he curses what brought him here. But his thoughts don’t stop the situation.
They hit against a rock, going back with violence. The water throws them against it again, and this time with such a force that Marius is about to fly ahead. Sheila and Guzman grab him on time, when he’s about to fall off the boat.
Guzman doesn’t think of his past life. The image of a woman appears to him and he doesn’t know why. He knows her little and however, he can’t forget the last time he saw her. And now, as he tries to survive the power of the river, he just realized that. In front of them, he suddenly sees a huge rock that seems about to swallow them.
“Pay attention! To the left!”
But the raft is not what it was. Without thinking, just acting, everyone go to the left, crawling. The boat inclines, with the crowded bodies in a confusion of legs, arms and heads. With difficult, they grab from the center of the raft not to be expelled. They can’t hinder the embarkation from touching the rock; they are thrown to the left margin with force, crash against a cutting rock and shaking, they end turning around in a whirl.
Stumbling, they left the most dangerous rapid, with an amazing fall. It’s incredible the raft didn’t turn over.
“Wow… it’s over” Sheila whispers.
“Is-is-it over?” Enrique stammers.
“No!” Marius shouts, his eyes fixed forward.
A rapid flow traps them and takes the boat fast to the center of the last jump. Fortunately there aren’t any rocks. Barely knowing it, they reach the end of the channel and then, the abyss. The way finishes and they fall with all theirs weight down. As they sunk, there’s a big water spray and then, it returns to the calm, the beauty of the water falling on a lake.

Hours later, half swimming and half taken by the stream, they reach land. Everyone's alive. They’re still disturbed for the travel and the long hours soaked, but without serious injuries. Their skin is soft and wrinkled. While they were in this luxurious cruise, the night arrived and they are now in the dark, in some unknown beach and without hopes.
Dragging himself, Guzman gets out of the lake. Leaning on his elbows and crawling on the sand, he reaches the earth to lie down with dismay. Sheila, her eyes wide, turned to the sky, doesn’t see it. She is just trying to rest, franticly breathing.
For the tire they feel is so much they can’t sleep. The muscles relax slowly, leaving a pain sensation and weariness. Lifting a little her head, she watches the lake to see only an everlasting darkness, unfathomable, inscrutable: it seems the end of the world. A moon mirrors on the waves near the shore, giving them a metallic shine.
Enrique moans as a baby, his mind tired.
The morning finds them there, profoundly asleep. Guzman has his head sunken on the sand. During the night he turned around and his face, glasses and mouth are full of sand. Besides him, Enrique sleeps face upward disorderly, snoring with his mouth opened, from where a streak of spittle leaked out.
Guzman and Marius, awaken with the first rays of the sun, look at him and laugh.
“It seems the travel will be too much for him,” Marius sighs.
“For everyone,” the young man corrects him, while cleaning the glasses on his clothe.
“You pretend to be weal, but in the end you are the stronger of all, who never stands back, Guzman Gianetti.”
“Don’t say so much,” he replies, blushing.
The other two, after getting up, come near them to wash their face in the lake. Refreshed, Sheila admires the landscape and comments:
“Wow, it’s nice this place!”
“Yes, nice graveyard,” Enrique interposes, looking around.
They are in a lonely place, in sight of any kind of civilization and moreover, the hunger is beginning to attack. They lost everything. At least the clothes have dried.
“Ay, my head aches!” Sheila complains.
“You look pallid, with rings under the eyes,” Enrique tells her; “don’t you feel dizzy?”
“Yes, a little.”
“She’s weak,” Marius says worried. “She needs food. I think we all need it…”
“Isn’t there anything in those woods?” Guzman asks, signaling farther of the beach.
“Yes, some fruit.”
“Well, let’ go!”
When they have already stood up and are going to the trees, a cry from Sheila stops them:
“Look there! It’s a ship… people…”
Frozen, everybody gaze to the lake. Yes, a ship. A long and narrow galley ship. A file of rowers in each side impulse with their muscles the weighty embarkation that is loaded to the top.
“And if they reject us like in town?” Sheila asks, fearful, while they are making signs.
“I’ll tell them,” Marius says, after thinking, “that you are travelers, ambassadors from a remote land, who want to talk to the king in the name of your people.”
“And if they really take us to the king?”
“Ah… it will take much time before that.”
Agitating arms and screaming, they see how the ship changes its course a bit.

“How do you say you get here?”
“A savage who steered the raft, cheated on us, took our things and abandoned us in the rapids. With luck, we came to this beach after swimming all night. These sirs are big personages in the country and are traveling from long time ago.”
The man, a short but well built individual, dark and a bit bald, seems to hesitate. He rubs his chin as he watches them with eyes burning like coals. Finally, he says:
“All right. You come on board my ship.”

15 The twins and the King’s wife.

Iena, capital of the Kingdom Sardo.
At last they get to their destination, after many troubles. They’re in peace. Their travel will end when they get to Iena.
The most precise words to describe it are austerity, magnificence and severity. From far away it can be seen as a mole of rectangular stones heaped up as if by chance, forming a pronounced contrast with the pure nature surrounding the city, but as you go closer you realize that every stone is located in a strict order and all together they form a great structure. Gray, white, marble, greenish… all together they are set apart from the most pure blue sky and the infinite green coastline.
Closer there are more details: windows, doors, people, animals… small as little statuettes.
The ship finally enters the harbor of Iena, which is full. The humans, expectant, watch every particular.
“It’s so… impacting!” Sheila exclaims, amazed. “The streets are so narrow and straight. And these buildings… huge. It’s nothing like the cities I know. What do you think, Guzman, that’s your field?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s absorbed in the contemplation. His eyes fill with shapes, colors, that his brain process like some conditioned reflex, almost not being aware, he classifies, calculates. Later, when Sheila is looking the other side and has forgotten her question, he determinates:
“It’s unique… For its dimension, the buildings are made to show strength, greatness. And its strictly squared shapes… there are no arcs nor pyramids, everything so planned… and the surfaces are clear and smooth. Everything here express severity…”
“No, you are mistaken,” Enrique interrupts him. “Here everything is protection to me, away from the beasts of the country, the primitive people, the cold and hunger, and sleeping outside without blankets, and away from waterfalls, above all.”
Guzman remains thoughtful, and nods.
“Yes, it also expresses protection.”
But not in the way you think, Enrique.
Now they not only can see, but hear and listen. The ship moors as soft as a dove on a branch, between other embarkations, in a dock of planks leaning on big piles, wet and blackened. Around them there is great agitation and lots of working. There are shouts of command, voices that question and answer, noise of crashing wood boxes and the eternal moan of the lake that creeps under their feet.
It smells bad too, now that the sea breeze doesn’t bring the fresh vegetal fragrance of floating flowers that lull with the flows. From the vessels and docks come a sour stench like humidity, piss –just like human-, rotten dead meat, and some unidentified odors.
After more or less an hour, the captain, to call him something, invites them to descend and be conducted to a provisional refuge while waiting the interview with the King. From hands of the robust and dark captain, are left in the care of the harbor Manager, a conceited man with airs of dignity that leads them across some narrow streets to their next dwelling.
Then, while they walk by the streets of Iena, they realize that the imposing city is not what it seem from the outside. The stone pathways, just like the buildings, are narrow and would be fatal for a claustrophobic; to one side or the other, the eyes only meet tall, unending walls that seem to close above the heads, and turning your gaze down, it seems that the walls are closer than before and about to crash on you. An increasing dampness fills the constricted streets, condensing the nastiest smells. A yellow, stinking moss grows in the base of the constructions, and in the soil cracks, dark water run, when it’s not settled against the walls.
The doors are so high that it seems impossible to be able to enter some building, and anyway, they look like solid metal, impossible to open. As for the windows, they are almost out of sight.
Finally, their guide the Manager leaves them in front of a tall, slim building with a twofold door. They hit with a metal stick that hangs to the right, the door opens a little and a hollow voice asks:
“Se nese va?” or translated, “Who is it?”
The stately Manager answers and some time later, the two folds of the door open wide and a well-built, firm stair, descends slowly with a creak of hinge and wood. He makes a sign for them to enter and say farewell:
“Sua navá, sene sortex fa’toru!”
Marius goes up the first, then Sheila, Guzman and Enrique. The room they enter is completely dark and silent. The door closes at their back with an agonizing screech that makes them shiver, and a sound, a whisper, comes together with the lighting of some quivering lamps.
There, out of the blue, they are in front of two individuals still more hideous than the empty room, cold and little lighted. Both are dressed in the same way: wide long, red wine colored robes, that half-opened let see the short black trousers and the dark high boots, and yellow shirts profusely adorned with red lace and trimmings. Also their faces have the same identical features, their eyes the same acute and dangerous look, and their skin is like dried parchment, as if they hadn’t go out in long time.
After some minutes of silent contemplation, during which the hearts thundered in the ears of the humans and Marius too, the two guys seemed to enjoy the confusion of the strangers. Then one of them comes forward to speak:
“Sene nava sua embex, sené?” A phlegmatic, empty voice.
Marius answers giving to his voice more importance and visibly enhancing his companions.
After a fast exchange of sentences, the twins left them with a bow to go into the building.
“They believed everything,” Marius exclaims, happy, smiling. “Tomorrow or the day after many in the city will know of you.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?” Sheila interrupts. “If everybody knows, the king will know too and… he may send to cut our heads.”
“No, knowing you come from a distant rich land,” the Tuké replies with a smile in his lips. “We’ll appeal to his ambition. The King is a man well known for his thirst of power and greatness, and for that he needs riches… Though, he’s also known for his cruelty.”
“Great!” Enrique exclaims, sarcastic. “This will end bad…”
“I think too that being famous will be good,” the younger, who was standing behind the group, agrees with Marius. “They’ll listen to us, not like in the hamlets where they closed the door in our nose.”
“But… do you still think of going around preaching like an idiot?” Enrique complains. “Don’t you see that’s the easiest way to die? If we shut up, we’ll stay alive.”
“But, are we not here for that?” Guzman replies, confronting him. “Or else… what for? Taking an excursion?” he cries.
“No, no! We’re here because of these idiots that brought us by force without asking or warning! This is pretty much kidnapping!”
Marius tries to calm them, but he only gets to be pushed apart.
“So what? If we’re here, we’d better do what we come to do.”
“I didn’t come here willing, don’t believe in fate and that crap. I won’t do anything. I’ll only sit