demanding and inexorable, embedded in the very depths of the subconscious. To go back…
He thought they would go home together. Together from this seemingly benevolent place to which they were strangers.
Aliens. Incomers.
Scarlet faces, scarlet feet, white covers.
They are different.
No, they haven’t been harassed here for a long time. They’re even protected. People take care of them, you could say. But people care more about themselves and their well-being.
What about them? They’re not from around here. Valuable, but different.
They will never understand each other. And people are stronger. Stronger, more insolent, more demanding.
And they take the water. They limit themselves, but still inexorably take away space for life. Not here, but there, just to the north – here he came by chance, circling and circling, and here – but the city will soon approach there as well. It would come and take new lives, as it had taken his beloved. Would kill others as it had killed her.
No, no one hunts them on purpose: the local governments have long forbidden such things. But man stains everything around him with his presence: everything he has created can bring death. Many things are not her weapons at all, but almost every grain can suddenly summon this cold, empty-eyed lady.
Simple fuel for people’s boats is poison for the likes of him.
Dirty death. Accidental death.
They were found too late.
He called out to people, calling desperately, trying to lead them to her, dying in that muddy puddle, but people didn’t understand. They shouted in admiration, pointed their fingers at him, smiled, wished each other happiness. As if he had come to them to show off. As if they couldn’t hear the hopelessness and grief in his cry.
People sat in their cells scattered over the ground, stacked one on another, formed the tall ant towers like the ones across the river. People sat there thinking only of themselves.
Sometimes they remembered creatures like him, too.
Not everyone: only the most understanding or those who could benefit most from it.
Then they decided to surround the strangers with care.
For now, all care is the bracelet draped around his leg. Yes, they had put a tag on him – trying not to hurt him, but still against his will – a tag that could be used to track his life.
But what does it matter to him?
His sweetheart also had a tag, a shiny little thing wrapped around her shin.
Did it help when the wearer was convulsing? That’s right.
They also gave him a name. A strange name, similar to their own.
Heng Chun. The Permanent Spring. The Eternal Spring.
Hah!
There is nothing eternal in this world, only the stars that light up in the blackness of the nights.
But they are there, far away, leading with their radiance to home – that’s all.
And there is no spring in his soul.
Her breath is all around… everywhere… everywhere…
Everything is blooming, everything is alive… Only it is as if he died inside on that shore, where she let out her last breath.
One step, one more step, and then crash down.
No, that’s something only they, the humans, can do. And they are horrified by it. And they marvel at it!
See, and now they’re looking up at him with all their eyes.
They’re watching, discussing something, gesticulating wildly. Waiting.
Yeah, it’s like they’re waiting for something…
The wind brings unlocal music. That is, their music, human music, just not typical of this place: jagged, rough, sharp-cutting with the edges of the words.
He doesn’t understand the meaning, but the rhythm is hammered into every bone in him.
…Und der Mob fängt an zu toben
Sie wollen seine Innereien
Und schreien
Spring*
A piercing cold and scalding heat. The blood roars. Painful and… cleansing. As if spring had washed over him with rain.
He shifts from foot to foot, swaying, then freezes again on the ridge of green-painted wood. The bow-curved corner of the roof is designed to prevent demons from sneaking into the house, to make them roll down this arc like a springboard and fly off into the sky, falling apart. Now the words roll down the curve.
Jetzt fängt der Mann zu weinen an
Fragt sich was hab ich getan
Ich wollte nur zur Aussicht gehen
Und in den Abendhimmel sehen
Und sie schreien
Spring**
Down below, people are waving and shouting something. Hundreds of sparks are flashed by the cameras: they are trying to capture him. Why? Or maybe it’s not about him? Maybe it’s the building, burrowed into the ground like a giant tree, that catches their attention. Maybe no one notices him at all.
He looks around, looking at the rugged silhouette of the city, illuminated by the setting sun. It looks like the forest he encountered on his way back home. It is distantly similar, because the forest is much larger, more majestic, because the forest spreads so wide that at times it seems insurmountable.
And now he doesn’t even want to overcome it.
Although… it’s all his own. Maybe he could find solace there.
Many people there almost worship them like gods. They call them sacred. They celebrate approaching happiness if they see them.
There are no cities there that look like a bunch of needles poking into the sky. Everything and everyone are closer to nature there, at least if you get to the right place.
So why did they come here? What called them to this distant land?
They came for warmth and sustenance. They came because they are used to coming. Because they didn’t know how to change, didn’t know how to seize new territory like humans. They came to the only place they knew.
On the shore of a beautiful lake they found their shelter, as they had always found it. The place was still there. Worse was the food.
That’s why the two
