7
K drifts into sleep for just an instant before his eyes snap open again. He had forgotten to shut the blinds before going to bed, and his face is immersed in the light of the morning sun as it rises. He gets up. He checks on Abir but finds his bed empty. Thinking that he was on his routine morning stroll, K decides to go search for him. There’s something about the relationship between the Planet Bosch and Darko Dachilko that troubles him. Maybe Abir knows the answer to his dilemma.
K knows where to find him. Every morning, Abir strolls over to the northern end of the rocky crag. That’s where K goes, making his way around the chapel, then cutting across the rubble-strewn courtyard behind it. This is the highest point of the rocky crag. Standing right at the edge of the cliffside gives one a view of the entire desert wasteland beyond. The sun has just about fully risen over the horizon, looming large as its white-hot glow gradually warms up what was once cooler night air.
K stands atop the bare exposed rock, searching his surroundings for Abir. But the man is nowhere to be found. Somewhat discouraged, he gives up his search, retracing his steps back to the dormitory.
So what does K wish to speak with Abir about? It concerns the question of why Darko Dachilko’s ghost needed to steal the painting The Garden of Earthly Delights in the first place. While he doesn’t really expect Abir to give him a straight answer, it’s worth asking anyway if he’s to get to the bottom of all this.
He has to know something. So why is he keeping it to himself? What is so important that it all has to be kept secret? I need to find out what’s going on.
When it is almost time for the routine morning prayers, K heads over to the chapel. Oddly, Abir is nowhere to be seen there either. Nor does he show his face at breakfast. Something isn’t right here.
Where in God’s name could he be?
Other students soon note his absence as well.
“Hey, K, isn’t Abir your roommate? Do you know where he’s gone?”
“I’ve been looking for him all morning myself.”
“Was he in your room last night?”
“He was. But he was gone by the time I woke up. He usually goes out for a morning stroll. But when I went over to the northern ridge, he wasn’t there either. This is really strange.”
A commotion erupts outside as they are all conversing. All at once, the students stand up when they hear the mad screeching of a younger cleric from the courtyard.
“Let’s go!”
Hoffman leads the way as all the others follow behind him.
That is how they find out that Abir stumbled over the cliff side and fell to his death. It appears that a guard at the base of the cliff found the scene and sent word up to the top.
A witness to the events identifies himself to those who gather at the crag upon hearing the news.
“At the break of dawn this morning, I saw someone running around in circles while screaming with all his breath.”
“Now that I think of it, it looked like there was something chasing after him.”
He is not the only witness. One by one, others come forward. All of them attest to seeing the same thing.
Once the clerics haul Abir’s body up to the top of the crag, Mullin steps forward before anyone else can do so, as if to act as the representative of the students. He leads the prayer. Everyone else joins in, even as K remains standing at the back of the crowd, unable to hold back his tears.
Abir’s body appears to have fallen straight to the bottom of the cliff. Because he landed on sandy ground, it does not show much in the way of scars or bruises. They lay down his body in the inner courtyard. Something curious strikes Mullin. He takes his time to study the body, before finally turning back toward the crowd as he points a finger at Abir’s neck.
“Everyone, take a look at this.”
Painted in dark coagulated blood on Abir’s neck are the distinct marks of bruising, of someone’s fingers pressing on his skin.
“Someone murdered Abir. Someone strangled him by the neck. Someone with a six-fingered hand.”
Mullin’s voice trembles ever so slightly.
Not a single one of the students—no, not a single one of all the people in the monastery—possesses such a hand with six fingers. It does not take even a split second for everyone to lose all doubt about the identity of the perpetrator.
No mere mortal could have done this. The sentry at the base of the cliff confirms that no one boarded the lift last night. The cage remains undisturbed, right where it should be. That means the murderer cannot be someone sneaking in from the outside. Besides, it is impossible to make it to the top on your own. Of course, this does not rule out a coconspirator on the inside secretly hoisting the killer up to the top of the crag. But hauling up the lift requires the strength of at least four people. Unless there’s a massive conspiracy within the ranks, in the end the most fantastic answer may be the most reasonable.
Only the ghost of Darko Dachilko could have done this. It does not matter that the official report to the Papal Court will indicate that Abir’s fall was an accident due to his own negligence. No one present has any doubt that it was the ghost who murdered Abir.
No more sightings of the ghost are reported after this incident. Once again, life for the trainees at the Holy Igitur Monastery returns to its old tranquility. But things are not so simple for K. This means so much more, providing real evidence of a close link between Abir’s presence and the appearances of Darko Dachilko’s ghost. Make no mistake, the old professor was killed because he knew the secret of Planet Bosch, thwarting K’s own desire to unravel the mystery of the planet.
It is Hoffman who provides K a detailed explanation of the six fingers on the ghost’s hand. He tells him that records clearly document that Darko Dachilko’s hands had six fingers on them. He’s even seen a mold of his hands several times during the secret gatherings of the Flower of Life. As one might surmise from the marks left on Abir’s neck, his hands were fairly sizable, with the thumb and little finger in their normal position, even as the index, middle, and ring fingers all skewed toward the little finger; the so-called sixth finger was slotted in between the thumb and other fingers.
“‘The Finger of Life,’ we called it,” Hoffman says. “Sometimes though, it’s also known as ‘the Shining Finger.’ You can probably guess why from its name. It’s said that Darko Dachilko sometimes radiates light from this fingertip.”
Whispered stories of Darko Dachilko’s strange glowing finger have spread all across the Holy Empire. Some stories say he can cure fatal illnesses, sometimes even bring the dead back to life, with a single touch of his finger. Other stories tell of times when he holds aloft his finger pointing to the sky to call forth rain or thunder. Even more stories talk about his power to turn lead into gold.
“It’s this finger that lets him perform all his miracles. Now, this is my own take on it, but I believe that Darko Dachilko has the power to harness all the energy of the universe into his own body, using his finger as a conduit.”
“Do you think that Darko Dachilko is some kind of god?” K asks.
“Well, yes, I suppose you could say that. Or at the very least, he’s some kind of divine incarnation. But that guard . . . no, it couldn’t be. That’s impossible!”
Hoffman’s face turns sullen.
I’m sure of it. There’s something else Hoffman isn’t telling me, a secret he’s keeping to himself.
The once sunny and bright Hoffman has disappeared since the night of the incident, replaced by a man with clouds always hanging over him.
No matter how much K needles Hoffman to tell him more, all he offers are vague remarks. It’s not that he’s being tight lipped for no good reason. No, it’s because of his concern for K.
“For your own sake, K, don’t get yourself entangled in these mysteries. It will be better for your health.”
8
Before long comes a little bit of rain, watering the parched land of the Holy Empire of Igitur, if only for a brief momen
t. The desert surrounding the crag sees an overnight transformation as sprouts of grass peek out from the dried-out cracks. But everyone knows that this gentle green grass is but a fleeting mirage. Soon, the searing heat will sweep through every inch of the Holy Empire once more. The long, endless summer begins anew.
Now another sweltering day is here, as sweltering as the day they first arrived at the monastery. But today is no ordinary day. Today, K and all other students complete their clerical training. They hold a ceremony, with the rarely seen rector of the monastery offering words of congratulations as he hands a certificate to each student. It is their last day all together. Soon, everyone will scatter all over the lands of the Holy Empire to take up their respective assignments.
His next destination already confirmed, Hoffman bids K his farewells as he packs his belongings in his room.
“I’m heading off. It was great to spend the six months here with you. Next time we meet, it will be another round of Stellar Chess.”
“Yes, it was great to have you here. Take care of yourself, Hoffman.”
K assists Hoffman in hauling his luggage to the lift.
From the edge of the cliff, they watch as all the others who have just departed cut across the desert below. Just as the day they arrived six months ago, once again they travel on horseback, returning to the capital.
“See you around, K!”
Finally, it’s Hoffman’s turn at the lift. Hoffman shakes K’s hand. Once he steps on, the lift descends. Just like that, he is gone.
Now, only a few students still remain at the monastery. It does not take much longer for the last students to also descend the lift, until only K remains still standing atop the crag, now all alone. Only K’s assignment is still yet to be confirmed.
He asks the cleric in charge about it. But he only shakes his head. No one seems to have any explanation for this turn of events. Every passing hour deepens K’s nagging unease.
“Just what is going on here?”
Soon, the sun begins its plunge to the west, until the night fully blankets everything in darkness. The dormitory has long been shuttered. That afternoon, junior clerics went into the rooms to put away all the beds and fixtures.
“Just what is going on here?” Again and again, K repeats these same words. He fixes his eyes on the gray cloister while leaning back against a wall in the arcade. All he can do now is wait for someone to come get him.
The darkened arcades envelop three sides of the cloistered courtyard in silence. The open side leads to the base of the cliff, with the lift’s winch apparatus installed on one corner of the cut-stone courtyard. Beyond the eaves of the rows of arches, all he can see is the bell tower. Beyond it is nothing but the deep darkness where stars twinkle. The whole edifice looks fossilized under the cover of this darkness.
Pangs of hunger hit K.
What is happening?
Tired of simply waiting, K decides to wander about the complex. He checks the cafeteria that abuts against the arcades. Inside all is silent as a grave, white cloth covering every table and chair. Things are no different in the kitchen. Not a single soul in sight anywhere.
Where did everyone vanish off to?
Has K been abandoned here? Nothing but silence and darkness surrounding him now. He returns to the arcade, finding the same spot he sat at before still undisturbed. Looking up, his gaze is met by a night sky strewn with stars. Some distance away, the Large Magellanic Cloud watches over him while the great arms of the Milky Way slice across the small square patch of the sky visible from under the cloister. K finds the light of the stars oddly enthralling. Whether it’s because of the stars’ enchantments or simply his hunger, he slowly starts feeling faint, almost as if he were intoxicated.
How much time passes before he comes to his senses? The sound of approaching footsteps walking along the arcade must have brought him back. A figure emerges into the dim light of the stars from the utter darkness of one corner of the cloister. He makes a round of the arcades, before making his way in K’s direction.
K fixes his eyes upon the approaching figure. He does not wear the usual robes of the clerics of the monastery. The man stops right in front of K.
With a deep, husky voice, he addresses K.
“The director wishes to speak with you,” he says.
The overlapping shadows of the arcade’s pillars conceal the identity of the man. Only when he gives a slight bow and steps off to the side where the stars offer just enough illumination does he reveal who he is. K is taken aback.
It’s the sentry stationed at the base of the crag.
What’s he doing up here?
Feelings of suspicion—then fear—well up inside K.
“This way, sir.”
Isn’t he supposed to be mute? How is he able to speak now?
K lets him lead the way to a narrow passage whose existence no one seems to have noticed until now. Somehow, it has been kept secret, hidden within the thick stone walls of the monastery.
The man leads K into a candlelit room whose every inch is shrouded in black. Walls, ceiling, and floor. The table in the center of the room and tablecloth atop it. Even the dishes and utensils arranged on the table. All of them have the same black sheen.
The sentry calmly takes the head seat of the table even as K keeps his watchful eyes on him.
“Shall we begin?”
To K’s astonishment, the man’s face transforms right before his eyes. The dim candlelight makes it difficult to get a clear view of his face. His master, Hypocras? The rector of the Holy Igitur Monastery? In that instant, they may as well have been one and the same in K’s eyes.
Another guest joins them, a woman, who is of course also dressed from head to toe in solid black. But her face! Her face too looks familiar! When the woman gives K a gentle look, he loses all doubt. She has the face of the beggar woman, Eva.
“Let me introduce you,” the man says. “She is a dear old friend of mine.”
“Yes, we’ve known each other for a long, long time,” the woman says as she flashes K a tender smile. “My name is Piponoclara.”
Her voice tinkles like chimes in the wind.
Time passes as a darkened dream, as K slips into a rift between dimensions. Does time even still mean anything here? Where is here?
K’s strange evening continues with a banquet beyond description. His hosts insist that he partake of the black wine served in a black glittering glass. But enchantments infuse the wine’s inebriating effects, lulling K into a deep, pitch-black intoxication. Before his very eyes, all the foods atop the table turn black: bowls of black grapes, black berries, black figs.
None other than Darko Dachilko himself. Doubtless, this is the man at the head of the table before K. Now, for the first time, he can finally fathom the sheer terror of this man that Hoffman expressed.
Has all this been a mere dream? Does the Holy Igitur Monastery actually exist in the middle of this desert wasteland? Or is its existence nothing more than a mere illusion, nothing more than a mirage that has warped the flow of time to traverse here from seven hundred years ago, from another dimension altogether? Nothing makes sense to K. All he can do is continue drinking the black wine this six-fingered man keeps pouring for him. At the very least, maybe it will dull these unfathomable feelings of fear.
The woman in black stands, circles around the table, and approaches K’s side. She takes his hand in hers while holding aloft a black candle in her other hand.
“Follow me,” she urges.
K stutters.
“Where are you taking me?”
“This world is an illusion. Shall we go see an even greater illusion?”
Her answer is cryptic. But K no longer has any power to resist her charms. Still dreaming, he follows the footsteps of the woman, who leads him through the black walls, which turn out to be layers upon layers of darkness. The black flame of the black candle casts a dark glow on the darkness. Finally, at the end of this labyrinth with more darkness beyond the darkn
ess, more time beyond the time, the woman stops in her tracks. Bright white light gleams in this room. A black bed awaits them.
Time swirls into a vortex at once instant and eternal. K drowns in this dark ocean of sheer sensual pleasure.
“Where will I go?” K asks.
“To a place far, far away.” She pants as K suckles the milk from her breasts. “Oh my sweet child, you will travel to a place far beyond all space and time.”
The Southern Scriptures
1
This can’t be right. As soon as K’s rickshaw turns at a corner off the main boulevard, instead of the bustling city streets that should have been there, he finds himself in the midst of a run-down slum. The walls of the buildings increasingly encroach into the narrow side street here, all jammed together to form a cramped labyrinth of brick and stone. Every one of the slum dwellers here gives K pained looks of hunger and exhaustion as they watch him ride atop the rickshaw.
Before long, even the most persistent of the children pursuing K disappear from his sight when his rickshaw dives into a tunnel dug through the side of some building. Emerging on the other side of the tunnel, he arrives at a paved plaza with an odd sculpture in its center. The rickshaw runner stops in his tracks.
“It’s over there, sir,” the old rickshaw runner screeches.
As he snatches a tattered rag hanging from his belt to wipe the sweat off his brow, he points a finger of his large hand toward a winding staircase across the plaza. Looks like this is the end of the road.
K steps from the rickshaw. After tossing some change to the runner, he pauses to take in his surroundings. Bathed in the bright glow of the afternoon sun, the stone-paved plaza looks hot enough to make one think twice about stepping out from under the cover of the dark shadows. No wind blows. Just dry parched air around the plaza.
“Have a good day, sir,” says the old rickshaw man, flashing K a broad, beaming smile.
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