The steward comes in, bringing K the drink he requested earlier.
“Ah, the famous ‘Cinema of Loulan.’ Enjoying the sights?”
It is certainly unusual for the always-quiet steward to speak to him like this.
“Yeah,” K says, taking the glass from the steward.
“Cinema”—well that’s quite clever.
“Do you know that the aurora sometimes projects the reflection of a completely different city onto the sky, a city unfamiliar to anyone from Loulan?”
“Really now? How? How would such a phenomenon even occur?”
“I do not know,” the servant says, shaking his head. “But look, sir! Don’t you think that today’s aurora is somewhat different from the usual?”
Only now, when the steward points it out to him, does K notice. It is, in fact, different from the usual mirage he sees.
“Is this not a city that might be lodged in your memory? Over there, look, there’s an exquisite garden!”
The steward speaks to him in an oddly roundabout way.
“Yes, you’re right! I do recognize that garden!”
K’s admission seems to please the steward.
“Just as I thought. So what is the name of this city? Would you be so kind as to tell me?”
“Sure. That is the capital of Earth, the Holy City of Igitur. Wait, no, something’s not right.”
“Not right? Not right how?”
“Those towers over there—those don’t exist in the Igitur I know. Neither does that garden.”
“Is that so? Perhaps it is an Igitur from a time that has long since passed.”
An odd feeling washes over K.
“I don’t understand. Why would the city from the past be reflected here now?”
The servant pours more of the black drink into K’s now empty glass.
“Oh? If you want to know the reason for this, there is just one man in Loulan who has been studying this mysterious phenomenon.”
“Someone here has been investigating this?”
“Yes. There’s a hermit. Do you see the clock tower over there? That is where he lives.”
The servant points toward a part of Loulan where a stone tower conspicuously reaches high into the air.
“That one over there?”
“Yes, that tower. The people in town call it the Space Clock. It’s a rather strange sort of clock tower.”
“Yes, I know,” K says.
“Oh, so you’ve heard of it?”
“Yes. I’ve been to the base of the tower a few times before.”
“Then, sir, you must have seen the clock, right?”
“Yeah, I did. It’s an absurdly large clock, or so I thought.”
Despite the fact that every piece of the strange clock has been carved out of stone, its face nevertheless has a diameter that’s at least twice K’s height. More than its size though, its oddity comes from its clock face, which is markedly different from any normal clock K has seen before.
“Do you know what exactly that clock is being used for?” K asks the steward.
“No, I cannot say that I know. I do know what the Lord told me once, which is that each tick of the shorter hand is supposed to correspond to a hundred million years.”
If so, this means that the stone clock was created to mark off six billion years in one revolution.
K returns his gaze toward the top of the tower as the aurora’s glow lights it up in a green haze.
“Sir, perhaps you should go see the hermit just this once?”
“You may be right.”
The steward’s suggestion only echoes what K is already thinking.
“You say he’s a hermit though. Wouldn’t he refuse to see some random stranger?”
“Oh no, not at all. That might be true with others, but he will undoubtedly agree to see you.”
There is a curious confidence in the steward’s voice.
“And why would that be?” K asks with some skepticism.
“But of course! You are an honored guest of the Lord, so the hermit will most certainly welcome your visit.”
A strange smile forms on the steward’s face as he offers a courteous bow before going on his way.
2
The almost imperceptible warmth of the slowly ascending black sun awakens K the next day. After washing his face with the basin of water brought in by the mechanical doll Amalia, he immediately sets forth, not even touching his breakfast. For once, K knows exactly where he is going. He is off to see the hermit in the clock tower.
The tower stands in one of the oldest neighborhoods of Loulan, in a part of the city that has nearly emptied out. Cracks have opened up in the outer walls of many of the houses here, leaving fallen pieces of peeled stucco scattered over a wide area of the ground. K follows the road through uneven terrain.
Finally, the road widens into an isolated and deserted open plaza. Abandoned structures on the verge of falling down surround the area, without a single soul to be seen anywhere. At the center stands the clock tower, itself appearing close to collapse, with large pieces of lumber attached with wire clamps supporting what remains of its structure.
K takes his time, standing atop the pentagon-shaped pedestal, looking upwards at the jet-black silhouette of the huge tower rising above him. Only a few stars twinkle dimly against the backdrop of the clear black sky, their constellations hidden by an even darker black gash, by the now familiar black rift cutting across the sky behind the face of the clock tower. Premonitions of ill tidings give K the shivers.
It is no longer the time for any second thoughts. K makes his move, attempting to open the rusty door of the tower. It takes some effort, but eventually K manages to push it open. Stairs descend into a gaping dark passage, waiting for him.
K steps into the darkness. He must have taken a hundred steps, with just his hand on the railing guiding him down. As always, descending leads him up the tower, until he reaches a landing halfway to the top. The arched passage opens into a wide platform with a view of the wondrous interior of the tower. K casts his eyes on it, letting out a gasp.
“Wow . . .”
The sight of the mechanism of the Space Clock leaves K speechless.
Crammed within the interior of the tower is a machine that can record the passage of millions upon millions of years! Just how many components were there in all? Stone gears exceeding the thousands form a complex assemblage. They are as still as the remains of ancient ruins. Around the gears are massive pendulums, hanging massive rocks that swing at such slow speeds that K finds it difficult to ascertain whether they are moving at all.
K locates the hermit squeezed into a tiny room near the top of the tower. Or to be more precise, the hermit is jammed within a crawl space with only a narrow opening and an arched ceiling. Curiously located at the very far end of the chamber, the crawl space lies close to where the teeth of a pair of stone gears—one larger and one smaller—meet one another to form something akin to a staircase. Yet there is a sizable gap between the gears and the narrow balcony extending out from the space, a gap far wider than what K can leap across. Is the hermit being confined here against his will? How long has he been trapped there?
Careful not to slip off the gears, K leans his body forward as far as possible, trying to catch a glimpse of the man within the crawl space. The tiny room has only enough space for one person to lie down within it. Windows have been cut out of three of the inner stone walls, suggesting that the room partly juts out of the tower.
“Hello!” K calls out.
The hermit must have been fast asleep. He stirs in surprise, lifting his head at the sound of K’s voice.
“What is it? Are you here to bother me again?”
What is he muttering about?
As far as K can tell, this very old man must be at least several hundred years of age. His face has long since lost any definition, buried as it is in his countless wrinkles. Folded over his body are his arms, decrepit like the branches of an aged tree. The lowe
r half of his body is out of K’s sight.
The hermit studies K’s face, eyes glazing over.
“Oh, pardon me,” he says, his voice weak, little more than the buzz of a mosquito. “I didn’t recognize you.”
“My name is K. I’ve come here at the suggestion of the steward at Castle Loulan. I wish to ask you some questions about the aurora.”
The hermit coughs as he straightens himself up from his fetal posture. He plants both his hands on the floor, extending his neck to give K’s face a thorough examination.
“Well, you’re much younger than I expected.”
Has he been expecting K’s arrival?
“Mr. Hermit, how did you know I was coming?”
The hermit points at the horned owl in the cage next to him. K has seen this bird before. It’s the same bird kept by the Lord of Castle Loulan. And also at Clara Hall. Just what is going on here?
“Is that bird . . .”
“Yes, that’s right.”
On cue, the owl starts yapping.
“I told him! I told him!”
“So, let me get this right—this bird came along to deliver a message from the steward to you?”
Things finally begin to make sense.
The owl’s chatter continues as it jumps up and down, wings flapping.
“So you finally got it? Such an idiot! Idiot! Idiot!”
Such an ill-behaved bird! There’s no need for insults.
“So, you’ve met my foul-mouthed friend, I see. It’s been flying in from the castle every day to heap abuse on me.”
The owl then shrieks like a bird possessed of the mind of a man.
“What was that? What was that?”
“This one here is a spy, you see.”
“A spy! You’re only alive thanks to the food and water I bring you!”
“Well, that much is true, I guess.”
The hermit must already be used to the owl’s abuse, as he shows no sign that he pays it any mind. Like a dog coming out of its den, he crawls out of his hole onto the hanging balcony.
“Can you give this old man a closer look at your face? It’s been a hundred years since I’ve had a chance to see another human face. With my failing memory, it’s hard to even remember what people look like.”
Somewhat stunned though he is, K nonetheless does as the hermit asks, stretching his body forward.
There is a strange story behind the hermit’s imprisonment at the top of the clock tower. From what K can gather, it was the enigmatic Lord of Castle Loulan himself who put him here, subjecting him to these harsh circumstances. Uncertain of what to make of the knowledge that the old man has not stepped foot outside the tower for over three hundred years, all K can do is respond with some sympathy.
“Let me get you out of here,” K tells the hermit. “I can go find some rope and a ladder from somewhere. Can you still walk? If not, I can carry you out of here on my back.”
But the old man refuses K’s most generous offer.
“No, that’s really not possible. The Lord himself cut off my legs long ago. But, you know, as long as I stay up here, it’s not at all a problem to have no legs.”
Hearing this twisted logic only deepens K’s suspicions and frustrations.
“But didn’t the Lord cut off your legs precisely to imprison you in here forever?”
“That’s right,” says the hermit, oddly tranquil about the whole situation.
“Which is why I’m saying I can carry you out of this place.”
But the hermit shakes his head.
“I do appreciate your kindness, but it’s really more trouble than it’s worth. I mean, what do you think will become of me when I’m out of here with no legs? This place suits me perfectly now.”
“If you say so.”
K finally gives up. Not surprisingly, though, his frustration does not easily go away. As if reading his mind, the hermit addresses his doubts.
“I told you, even if I leave here with you, what do you think will happen to me? Do you plan to carry me around for the rest of your life?”
“Well, no, that would be a bit . . . well . . .”
K is at a loss for words.
“Besides, you know, my life will never end. It will continue on forever.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“I mean that I won’t die.”
“Are you saying that you’re immortal?”
“That’s right. One way or another, there’s no way out of my prison, my curse of immortality.”
“How is that a prison? That makes no sense to me.”
For K, the hermit’s words go against all logic.
“I mean, if you ask me,” K continues, “the fact that everyone is destined to die someday is what leads to suffering. The knowledge that life is limited—that is the prison, the prison of life. So to attain immortality is to find freedom from this terrifying imprisonment. That’s what I believe.”
The hermit laughs out loud.
“Ha! I used to think just like you when I was your age.”
After all that though, his demeanor becomes more solemn as he continues to tell K his story.
3
According to the crippled hermit, he has lived for over 990 years now, having been witness to almost the entire history, the entire Millennium of Prosperity, of the Holy Empire of Igitur. He possesses an amazing memory of all he has seen through the centuries, telling K about the inside stories behind the seemingly never-ending North-South War of Two Centuries, the ratification of the Treaty of Two Worlds in the year 182 of the Igituran Era, not to mention the establishment of the Law of Five Galaxies and Sacred Knowledge in the year 223.
“Yes, that’s when it was. It was around the time of the First Papal Conference. The fourth century, I think. That’s when I first met the Lord of Castle Loulan. Oh, we were all still so young then. Let me tell you something, young man, I was the one who first mastered the Secret of Osiris. The Lord merely stole the secret from me.”
“I see.”
So that’s how the Lord of Castle Loulan has managed to live for several hundred years. Things start to finally make sense to K. Or, at least, it is starting to dawn on him just how much he doesn’t understand as he continues to listen to the hermit’s story. He speaks at length in a rapid clip without a single pause to catch his breath, at times making it somewhat difficult for K to follow his words.
But there is no mistaking K’s shock upon hearing one detail in the hermit’s account. He tells K that seven hundred years in the past, a wealthy and influential adherent of Darko Dachilko once owned a magnificent garden known as “The Orchard.” This adherent, named Ilya, pumped a seemingly endless amount of investment into the building of this garden over a span of thirty years, which was supposedly modeled on Hieronymus Bosch’s painting The Garden of Earthly Delights.
“It was quite simply the most marvelous garden in the land! I received many invitations to visit it back in the day!”
“By any chance, did this disciple have a daughter?”
K speaks in hushed tones.
“You know the story well. Yes, he had a beautiful daughter named Barbara.”
“And the daughter had a young lover named Gilgeas?”
“She did indeed. The young man was one of Darko Dachilko’s disciples. But alas, Darko Dachilko stole his woman from him.”
“So what happened to the young man after that?”
“I wonder. I heard he cursed his father, disappearing to who knows where.”
“What? Did you just say that he cursed his father? What do you mean by that?”
The hermit finds K’s flustered reaction rather odd.
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Why?”
“Are you saying that Gilgeas was Darko Dachilko’s son?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“That’s the first I’m hearing of it. There’s no mention of it at all by Bervera in the book of his that I read.”
“I would imagine not. Only a few people
knew the truth about their relationship.”
“Why is that? Why would Darko Dachilko hide the fact that Gilgeas was his own son?”
“Well, who’s to say? I don’t know the circumstances between them. My guess would be that it’s considered inappropriate to disclose the matrimonial life of a holy man.”
Even as the hermit offers only an indifferent response, K cannot be so nonchalant himself. His disturbing dreams suggesting that he is none other than Gilgeas himself now begin to make sense to him. So lucid are these dreams, filling in details of the story of Gilgeas and Barbara not touched on by Bervera’s The Enigmatic Heretics—could they be more than mere idle fantasies? Could K himself be linked to the heretic Darko Dachilko in some form or another?
Could they be the long-forgotten memories that haunt me every night?
But what does any of it mean?
Do I already know much more than I’d thought? Do I already know the truth?
The young K is unable to hide his trembling.
Afterward, K finally learns the secrets of the auroras from the hermit. He explains that they are not just natural phenomena, not just the refraction of light and color. No, the little-known truth is that they are visions, projections of the grief of some woman from a time long ago. That is why they are known as the Auroras of Mourning.
K recalls seeing the vision of old Igitur in the aurora.
“Who is it? This woman? Did she once reside in the capital of the Holy Empire?”
“That’s right,” the hermit says. “But now she lives right here, at the top of this clock tower.”
“I would really like to see her, if that’s possible.”
The vague hint of a secret smile flashes in the hermit’s eyes, as if stars twinkled deep within them.
“Ah, yes, that’s an excellent idea. There’s a favor I wish to ask of you. Is that all right?”
“Of course,” K says. “If it’s within my powers, then please let me know.”
“It most certainly is.”
“What would you like me to do?”
“That thing that’s hanging from your neck . . .”
“Hanging from my neck? Do you mean this Sacred Service officer medallion?”
The Sacred Era: A Novel (Parallel Futures) Page 20