I am all alone in an abandoned building

1

I looked at her. She was looking out of the window, eyeing the sea. Her slim fingers almost invisible by the many rings she wore in many colors. The wine colored mass outside was restless again, showing white tops under a dark sky. The pebble peach dark with salty water from the crashing waves.The foam had scattered up the rocks and flew around like fireflies. It left behind bright stains on dark rocks that were close to the shore.




I took a sip of my drink, scowled and rubbed my temples with slow, deliberate fingers. The headache slowly left the place it had made behind my left eye. My eyes also ached from staring so long. I turned my head for a moment to loosen my neck but quickly turned back to her. I noticed the wind again, which was whistling an eerie tune outside. It was distracting me from my work. The way the wind was threading its way through the cracks was a puzzle for me.

I exhaled slowly and placed the drink on the small table before me. That damn drink. The dark liquid inside sloshed gently and slowly. The consistency was thicker than strong coffee and smelled way worse. I liked to play with it if I did not have to drink it. The way it moved by my hand was different from normal water.




The whistling wind suddenly turned into a howl in my ears and I jumped up. Instinctively I turned around, looking at the dark stone walls. The howling stopped just abruptly and the room was silent again. The room was nothing more than a stone wall, firm and blackened. It did not even have a window, which made the howling wind more puzzling. The strong stone stood as indifferent between me and the outside world as always.




“It was nothing,” I thought and I turned back to the painting. I really hoped it was nothing, because those stone walls could creep me out sometimes. The painting I was meant to observe and study was still there. The waves were as silent and frozen as always. She, however, was gone again.The woman with the long green dress and the many rings on her fingers. A being that shimmered faintly in the painted light of the piece. The painter had painted her eyes an almost unnaturally bright green. But now there was not a trace of her. The painting looked empty with just the bare walls, dark wood floors and the window that framed that churning sea. I sighed and wrote it down on the light blue paper I had in stacks on the table. I had only a pencil, but even after writing what felt like a full book worth of notes the point was very sharp.




My handwriting was not very elegant though. I did not know how I managed it, but my f’s are different in every word and my l’s are sometimes loopy and sometimes no more than long sticks. It easily became a clutter of lines, hard pressed and very uneven without any guidelines on the paper to keep me straight. It was nothing like the delicate and sloping script I received on the letters that were brought to me. The same script and letters that had brought me here in the first place. I always felt the letters were written with a lot of care, as though the person who wrote them had all the time in the world and practiced every day. I had not written like that in years.




As a matter of fact I have vague memories of my past. Where I used my fingers on blocks and words rolled out of a machine. Was there any paper involved even? How did those words get there? And why was there glass? I did not remember any more and it nagged me a bit.




With the woman in green gone I stood up slowly. My joints were stiff from the long sit. I had to place both hands on the table, the rough wooden surface was splintered in some places but mostly smooth. The table and the chair were the only pieces of furniture in this dim room. On the floor was a thick rust colored carpet that had not been cleaned in years. The candle on the table was my only light source and I picked it up, ready to leave and stroll through the hallway.

“Let’s hope she gets back soon. It is quite lonely here.”




That candle that had been burning next to me when I sat and looked at the painting had been burning for twelve days, at least. Because there was no window in that one room I was not sure, but the light in the painting had changed at least twelve times. It was a strange thing. I never saw it happen. It only changed when I blinked or when I turned away for a second. So by the count of the painting twelve days and nights had come and gone. And all that time the only company I had was the candle, and the woman in the painting itself. She was untouchable. The candle was at least a physical object.




It had not burned down in the way a normal candle would. It was wax and it dripped if I turned the candle over. But after all that time the wax looked almost untouched. I thought for a while that it was some kind of battery powered imitation candle. Do they even have batteries here? But in my mind it made sense in a place like this. Where a lot of wood and flammable things were gathering dust, you would not want a hot flame nearby. But although the flame was not hot, it was real. The flame was unwavering, only moving slowly with the rhythm of my breathing. Even when the wind was thundering through the building, and I even felt it lift my hair, the flame did not go out. Even if I tried to blow it out, it did not waver. The flame grew a bit bigger.

I tried to pinch it out once. Something I remember my grandmother would do. But still the candle would not go out. But I did not want to play too much with the candle. It was my only source of light in that dark building. Thankfully I did not need the candle for warmth. The flame was cold enough that I could place my hand directly into it for a long time. I had no idea how that was possible and I never found out what the secret was. I remembered that the fire was hot and dangerous. This was like magic. I did not want to play too much with the flame though.

Dark as the building was, the thick stone walls that surrounded me were cool to the touch but kept the warmth inside. The stones were smooth in places where time had worn them down, an opposite feeling of the rough carpet.




I lost my shoes a long time ago. I did not remember where I lost them or how. The carpet’s rough bristles kept my feet warm but sometimes stung my toes. In the light of the candle I saw patterns that once were colorful. Now it was faded and under a lot of dust. Every now and then I saw a glimmer of gold. Leftover gold thread that showed abstract suns in the carpet. With every step I took my feet raised a faint puff of dust. I counted twenty steps until I reached the doorway to the other room.




It was one of the few rooms that was not locked. It had a window with heavily frosted glass. I could not see anything through the window. Only shapes and light. The room, which I called the resting room, was a bit more homely. There was a couch, made from dark leather and worn down in the middle. In the corner a wooden bed stood unslept. I tried to sleep on it once, but it was so hard I could not get comfy. There was also a wooden table and another chair. In another corner a small closet led to the only toilet I had found in this entire building. It stank like hell so I used it as little as possible. On the opposite site another table was bending under the weight of all the food and drinks stacked upon it.




I stepped into the resting room. A blue letter was awaiting me. I had not received many letters lately. Not everything I write will bring me a response. This one was a bit different. Unlike the many letters before, which had long sentences about how they prayed for me and how important my job really was, this one was short and clear.



Dear Maria,

To make things more clear I will repeat the rule for when the character has disappeared:

Every hour from the moment you have noticed the disappearance, the painting needs to be checked. Be sure the character is absolutely gone. Until the character is back you are free to explore and rest. When they are back, you can follow the previous rules. Write down every action and noticeable difference.

By the Yellow Sun, we pray for your success.




I put the letter away. I had a neat little stack of received letters, blue and pink colored paper the only not brown color in the room. Dust drifted lazily in the candlelight. The only visible motion I could discover. I now had an hour to do whatever I wanted.

What shall I do now? I pondered. There were two choices: to stay in the resting room and sit, or get the candle and walk around.




At first I found it fascinating to wander through the building. The long corridors seemed exciting. I had discovered staircases that led to sealed doors. A lot of sealed doors. Some passageways seemed to curl into dead ends. I mostly found dark stone and dusty cobwebs. One of the most exciting things I had found was a broken window in a room at the end of a long hall. It looked like a stone had been thrown, conquering the glass. The wind was chilling the air and the wooden frame creaked a lot. Without the glass the outside looked a bit dull. Dark trees as far as the eyes could see. The wind made them sweep from left to right and a swarm of flies tried to hold on to the branches for dear life. The flies were massive, mean looking insects and I did not like the thought of them flying in.




I managed to fix the window. I had found some bits of wood and some cloth and tried to patch the hole with it. I tried to use melted wax from the candle to fix it a bit better. The air became visibly warmer. But it did not stop the whistling.




But this new kind of routine had become normal to me, or at least tolerable. Every hour I started in the room with the painting and studied every inch. Did I see her again, or was a shade actually her hand or something? So far she had not come back. When I was absolutely sure she had not come back I walked around the halls to explore more of this building. I would shine the candle in every nook, tried every door handle and tried to look out of every window I could find. Not much could be discovered in the one hour window though. Most doors are locked or will not open. And the ones that do open tend to reveal the same scenes: dusty worn furniture, old carpet and shadows. I found a pair of clogs once. Very small wooden shoes with intricate details. They were too small for me and even if I wanted to wear them, the insides were a bunch of splinters. A blanket, moldy and ripped, laid in another room. And then I had to get back to the room with the painting.

I really have to check every hour. I would not make that mistake again.




2

I saw it immediately. She was reading a book by the window. There was no chair in the painting, so she leaned against the wall. She had tied her auburn hair back into a tight knot. Her hair was put together tightly, not a single strand was out of place. She wore a different green dress. The bodice was decorated with silver thread and made her look brighter somehow.

Her fingers, this time decorated with pure silver rings, caressed the brittle pages with care. Her eyes looked downwards, the bright color not seen. The book itself was worn, the spine was frayed and what I could see from the cover, it was a muddy uneven brown. I did not know what held her attention this much. What words would entrance her like this? She did not pay any mind to the sea, which stretched calmly and gray. There were no waves this time and the horizon was painted faintly, the lines between sky and water blurred to nothing.




As always, the moment I spotted her I had to take action. I had ten minutes to grab what I needed for the next long sit. I rushed to the resting room and looked at the food table. It was always stocked with bread, cheese, pieces of smoked meat and fish. It also had sealed bottles with the thick dark blue liquid. I picked up as much supplies as I could carry. Pieces of bread, a large wedge of cheese and two bottles. I never knew how much I needed but to be fair, it was not like I really needed it. The only thing I really wanted to take with me was the bottles. I had no clue what was in there. The liquid was unrecognizable to me. But it kept me awake and dulled the headaches I tended to have after a while of observing. I had called it Blue Bull. For a short moment I wondered who kept the food and drinks filled, but I realized I did not care that much. I had to do my job.




A movement caught my eyes. The window that occasionally lit up the resting room was open.

“I did not know it could open like that.”

It was night, the little lights that I had seen as blurs for so many nights moved about. They seemed to be closer somehow. I had some moments left. I crept closer to the window, too interested in what would be outside. On the edge of a creek, where the grass was divided by a footpath, the lights played and danced around. I did not know whether it was the light or that the earth itself was a bright orange. Maybe these were fireflies. I somewhat remember there were no fireflies where I lived. I had found it unfair when I was little.




Suddenly one of the lights shone a lot brighter than the others. Was this normal? If it was not fireflies, it could be fire from people maybe. The brighter flame shone brightly, like a fire that was fed something flammable. The tall blue grass shook. Something was moving through the tall grass. A man was running, pushing the long stalks away as fast as he could. The lights followed him. Was he running away? The man reached the footpath and turned sharply. The lights were still following him, but there were no hands that held them. They must be fireflies. The voice of the man sounded sharply through the stillness.

“Barlemanje! Barlemanje!” He threw something on the ground, a piece of fabric, and ran away again. The lights came near but stopped where the cloth was thrown away. They looked like floating flames, in different shades of yellow, orange and red. I had no time, but the flame things seemed fascinated by the fabric. I closed the window, just to be sure those flames would not go inside.




With my arms full of stuff I quickly stepped down the hall and into the room with the painting. I put the food on the table and sat down in the chair, which groaned loudly. Maybe it knew it would be a long sit. I was stuck in that chair until the woman with the green dress had vanished again. I put the candle near the fresh stack of paper that was already waiting for me. I closed my eyes for a moment. Luckily there were no consequences for blinking or looking away quickly. But leaving my post was no option.




I tried it once. Back when I started the job and I had only received the first letter. I thought I had to get sleep and I wanted to walk to the resting room, but 5 steps further and I was flat on the floor. My head spun, my legs did not want to carry my weight and I had the feeling I could not breathe. Panicked, I crawled back to the chair. With every inch I got closer to the painting, I noticed my breathing was easier, my head became clearer. A blue letter was waiting for me.




Dear Maria,

We noticed that you left your post without notifying us that the character had disappeared. We are praying for you that the high Beast is fortunate for us and brings you back to your job. As the priestess of the high clouds once said: the footsteps seen lead us to the right path. May He lead you to the right path as well. Walking the royal road will make us true.

Please stay where you should be and notify us of anything the character does.




I could not stand for long. I could not step away. I could only watch the painting. I sighed and looked at her.

“How long do I have to sit here this time? Hours? Days? Weeks?”

Both the woman and the sea gave no answer.




I played with the piece of bread I had brought with me. It was one of the few things I could do in those four days I was stuck again. Bread would not go stale, no matter how long it sat on my table. Nothing really rotted that I took from the resting room. This small loaf I had broken in two a couple of days ago was several weeks old already. How old the things actually were was hard to tell. And most interesting of all, everything still looked fresh. It sometimes seemed that time only ticked forward for me and everything else remained in some preserved state. My hands found the cheese. That wedge did not get moldy or dusty. They still tasted the same, no matter what I did to it. The taste was also the reason I had no idea whether something would go off anyway.




If you had not taken notice, the food is dreadful here. Even though everything is restocked on a regular basis, the amount of salt in the food was way too much. Even the drinks were salty.

Those blue liquids seemed to be some kind of fruit juice, but they put salt in it. It tasted syrupy and metallic beneath a hint of sweetness. I did not think I would ever find out why this was the only kind of food and drink they gave me.

I had complained about the food several times.




The first time I bit into the cheese I thought it was a very old ripe piece and it was normal. But then I took a bite of the bread and it was even worse. Using my precious moments of looking away from the painting, I wrote a complaint.



Hi everyone,

I think something is wrong with the food. It tastes wrong.




I had to look back to the painting and the letter had disappeared. The response was shorter than my unfinished letter.



Dear Maria,

We will look into it. By the Green Grass we hope you will see the path soon.




I thought they would give me something else. Something new. Nothing changed. I had seen new food the time I could enter the resting room again. But it had the same salty taste. I wrote several letters about the food after that, but I got no responses.




One time, while waiting for the woman to return I was completely fed up.

“Why would I eat this trash? It is probably unhealthy, maybe even toxic.”

I could not bear it any longer to look at it. I took everything to the room with a window I knew would open. It took me three runs to get everything off that table. I opened up the window and threw everything out into the open. I watched it fall, the bottles breaking open and spilling the contents into the earth. The bread tumbled down and scattered over the ground, disappearing into the blue grass. The cheese and meat reached the ground almost unharmed. It laid on the grass like stones. I hiss came from the treeline. A white snake appeared and moved slowly towards the discarded food. I had no idea how big the snake was, but it could coil itself around the cheese several times. On its head was a little gold crown. It sat on its head like it was glued on there. The snake seemed to taste the meat with its thin tongue. Was the meat warm enough for the snake to be interesting? Before I could ponder more, the snake had opened its maw completely and started to ingest the piece of meat whole. The cheese was next. I had thrown half a wheel of cheese away and it ate everything. After the food was gone, the snake slithered away again. Back to where it came from.




It felt like eating salt blocks. Did you ever accidentally put the top of the salt shaker and dump all your salt into the soup? And then you tried to eat it? That is what it tasted like. Like the food they were feeding me was made out of pure salt, but just colored differently. And yet I could vaguely distinguish other flavors mixed in. They were like flickers at the edges of my tongue, faint and quickly dying away. Nothing I ate would take away the taste of bitter salt, burning my tongue raw. I quickly stopped eating entirely. My throat was burning every time I swallowed. Eating had become a punishment and the longer I did not eat, the more it seemed I did not have to eat at all. It would take multiple days to feel slightly hungry and the only reason I would eat would be to take away the tiredness.




In my busted up memories there was a spark that told me that food had to taste good. Different from the salt I had been given. The idea of warm sweet bread, ripe fruit and juicy meats filled my head. The idea of it all filled me with joy, a little spark in this dark building. For a moment I had a rush of taste in my mouth. I swallowed and the taste faded away. Every now and then I felt that same rush, the same feeling I had something in my mouth. But when I swallowed the feeling went away.




When the woman in the green dress was in the painting, I never needed sleep either. I did get tired, which I could chase away with the food. And a headache could start up every now and then. A vein in my head would beat uncomfortably. That was something the blue bull could take care of.




The cheese had rolled away from me. It was somewhere on the ground and I did not bother looking for it. While looking at how she was reading that same book for ages, I grabbed the candle and softly squeezed into it while contemplating the painting. It was not a large painting. Roughly the size of my own head, or maybe a little bit bigger. The frame that surrounded the painting hung low, at my eye height, and was thick and carved from dark wood that looked heavy. It had to be expensive long ago too. The state it was in now though, showed many years of neglect. Most of the gold leaf had chipped away in the past. Only a few places were left where the gold clung stubbornly to the termite eaten wood. And yet, it had a strange attractiveness. The painting, with the sea in the background, always looked cool to me. The woman was painted in cool tones as well. But the frame itself looked warm. Like it was creating warmth itself. I reached out without thinking, running my fingers over the spot where most of the gold had vanished. The wood there was soft, fragile. More dust than solid matter. It crumbled beneath my touch, staining my fingertips with a mix of brown and gold.




I felt a finger going past my cheek. And then I noticed the letter. It had three words written on it:

Do not touch.


3

I yawned, not because I was tired. Focusing on a painting will get boring after a while, even though they move around every now and then.

I felt myself reminisce about everything. I did not remember my home anymore. I did not know what it looked like or where it was. I was unsure whether it was my own home, whether I shared it with other people or any of that. I had to have parents, grandparents. I had no idea if they missed me or not.

I only remembered I was glad to get this job. Maybe I was even too eager to say yes to it. Maybe I was desperate. But I only remembered vague bubbles of what once were clear memories. It all felt hazy. I did not even remember how I got the clothes that I was wearing. Did I choose those bright yellows? And the heavy golden shackles around my neck. I tried to take them off, but somehow they appeared back to their original place.




My thoughts were disturbed by a feeling. It happened quietly, as most things do here. Something pricked my ears. The faint sound of footsteps in the corridors. Not one, but several feet moved through the building, just beyond the door. I hesitated. The feeling of loneliness that had haunted me for so long was gone. But did I like this new feeling? Strange people roaming around, avoiding me.




Underneath the door a light shone. I used my short moment of looking away to watch the light being replaced by red cloth. Someone wearing red was walking around. Maybe they were the ones who would restock the food and drinks. But maybe they did other things too. Anything but cleaning, because the dust stayed put. They light moved on, but the sound of feet kept coming and going. I was certain someone was talking. Muffled voices of two or three maybe, speaking to each other just out of reach. The wind started howling and the voices stopped completely. And shortly after that the footsteps faded away too.




No one talked to me. There was no interaction.

“Why are they avoiding me?” I thought, “Is it because of the rules?”

It made me feel more lonely. It was the silence that made it worse. The quiet footsteps and the wind were the only things I sometimes could hear. The mystery visitors avoiding me turned my solitude into something heavy. I felt almost ashamed. Maybe I was the intruder of this place. But I shook the thoughts away. I could not lose this job. I needed to be here. After all, I did not remember my home anymore.




I noticed the light dimming. A look at the candle shook me. The candle had burnt down to a useless puddle and the light was going out.

“When did that happen? How can a candle that burnt for weeks suddenly become a puddle?”

I looked around me. Someone had left me a new candle next to the old one. But how? I did not leave my post. I could not. How did that new candle get there without me noticing it? With the last bits of light I took the new candle and looked around for anything to light it. There were no matches to be seen. I tried in vain to use the old flame to light the new candle but the last light sputtered out and I was in complete darkness. I tried to feel around in the dark. With one hand around the candle, I used the other to investigate the table. My fingers felt the wood, the splinters and the soft paper. Nothing else.

“What do I do now?” I thought. Was I allowed to walk away? Could I walk away? I had no idea whether the woman in the painting was still there. I could not see anything.

Carefully I stood up and pushed the chair away from me. I took a deep breath. I was able to breathe still. Tentatively I took a step in the direction of what I thought the door was. With every step I waited.

“Would the head spinning come in now? Can I still breathe?” I kept checking with every step, ready to move back in case the consequences would attack me. I tried to put one hand against the wall. If I could find a window, I could at least see again. Or maybe in this case one of those red robed people would find me stumbling in the dark and help me for sure. This was a situation where they could help me, right? After a long time, longer than I wanted, I saw a change in the light. I moved closer and saw the square of the window. I was so happy I sped up. I wanted to get to the light as fast as I could. My bare feet stomping on the carpet, making the dust fly as high as my nose.

Just as I reached the room, I felt my foot miss the floor. Not exactly missing the floor, but it did not make contact. Which in turn made me fall over. I planted my face into the floor with a loud crack.




I did not move for a while. That crack was a dangerous sound, like something was broken. I waited for the pain, slowly breathing in the dust. The pain could start any moment. That crack had to be the sound of pain. But the pain did not come. Carefully I lifted my head, expecting a sudden jolt of fire going through my brain.

I broke my arm once. I was vaguely familiar with how much it could hurt. But there was nothing. The dust in my nose made me sneeze, hurting my throat in the process. My lips felt dry and I tried to lick away the dust. I tasted something metallic.

I sat up. Something near my knee was poking me. I trailed my fingers down, feeling my right knee. I felt the yellow fabric, the surface of my leg. The bone did not feel broken and my knee, although it hurt a bit, did not sting from my touch. Something else was there. I felt something smooth and curved, the size of a finger bone, under my knee on the ground.

“I have not seen any bones here before”, I thought. I grabbed the object and stood up. I was still weary of any injuries. My knee did not hurt that much, not more than a bruise. Slightly limping and cursing my own clumsiness I walked to the window. The carpet was dirtier than I expected and my yellow pants were downright filthy. But there were no tears and I did not see any blood. My arms too were looking alright. I sighed.




“Better ask for an emergency kit to be in the resting room,” I told myself. I said it out loud, but my voice sounded raspy and low.

My hand moved by itself to the light of the window and I saw what it had picked up. A clay pipe. A very tiny smoking pipe, with only the mouth piece broken off. It wasn’t just small. It was perfect — polished clay, thumb-sized carvings of tiny mushrooms circling the bowl. Whoever made it had fingers no bigger than matchsticks.

“Well look at that.” I looked around. I had found myself in the resting room.

Where would this come from? I had never seen it before. And it was way too small for me or any human. I noticed the candle that I had dropped during my fall. The white wax was chipped, but most of the candle was intact. Next to the candle, underneath the table, I saw the lighter. A very old fashioned one, with a small flint stone. I might have seen it somewhere like a museum. The system was the same as those throwaways though.

“Ah nice. Just what I need.”

I picked it up and tried the lighter and a bright yellow flame appeared. Hopefully this magical candle would be lighted by this. I grasped at the candle, my focus on the fire. This fire was warm, it was almost burning my hand. My hand grabbed air and my focused shifted. The candle was gone.




I looked everywhere. That candle could not be far. I just had it in my hand. I saw it when I grabbed the lighter. I felt my breathing become heavier. My lungs began to sting in a familiar way.

Carefully I put the miniature clay pipe on the table. I grabbed a bottle and strengthening my grip on the lighter I walked into the pitch black of the hallway. Now I had a light, even though this light did not reach far, the walk to the room with the painting should be easier. The closer I got to the painting, the better I could breathe again. Every step was deliberate, my dirty feet feeling every movement. My knee would have some new colors soon. I only had to turn the corner to get back to the room with the painting. The door was open.




I saw a shimmer. I put my head into the door opening, looking around. The new candle lit up the room with its odd cold glow.

“How did that get here? And how did it get lighted?”

I took my finger off the button and the light of the lighter disappeared. The thing felt a bit useless now, but the idea of the candle going out again made me want to keep it close. I was relieved to see the candle lit again. I put the lighter next to it and looked a bit better at the painting.




A quick look at the painting showed an almost empty canvas. Only a single windowsil without a view. The woman had gone somewhere else again. I sighed and felt my shoulders drop down, releasing the tension.

“Did she just leave? Or was she already gone while it was dark? I need to write it down.”

I grabbed a piece of blue paper and sat down. On the table a little light purple piece of paper was waiting for me. The scrap was almost as big as the palm of my hand. In almost impossibly small handwriting I could read:




We the Aardmannen are grateful for your gift. We consider it a fair deal. Our work deserves the right payment. And we will get what we are due.

Please, do not do it again.




I frowned.

“Please do not do it again? What again?”

A vein in my head started to beat uncomfortably. My memories seemed to be turned on for this. A voice in my head told me I knew the name Aardmannen. They were little men who lived in holes in the ground or in empty crawlspaces. They would wear green clothes and liked to help fix what was broken. Stories of farmers having groups of Aarmannetjes who would mend shoes, sharpen knives and would help around the house were dying out, but were written down and passed down by families. An important element was the payment in all those stories. If you would not pay the Aarmannen they would turn on you. If you would take their help for granted, the house would be cursed and they would break everything. How long ago were these creatures paid? It had been a long time ago, since the state of the building was appalling.

I read the tiny letter again.

“Grateful?” I whispered, “For what? What did they take?”




I never saw the lighter again




4

Because the woman had left again, to places nobody knew, I grabbed the new candle and got out of the chair. Maybe I should try to get some sleep again. It did not do much, but maybe the headache would go away without drinking the awful blue liquid.




Because my memories were fired up suddenly, I wondered if I could remember more. There was not much that I can remember before I got this job. And to be frank, I expected to care more about this or be more curious. With how much I did not know anymore I thought I would be the kind of person who would try to reconstruct every lost detail. I should be picking apart every bit that I had. I did in the past, but I was living in this building for so long that it did not bother me as much. Thinking too much and trying to remember by force gave me huge dizzy spells too. Like the blank spaces in my mind were a safety net from something I should not know. And the building was giving me shelter, food and drink (even though I hated it) and I had a job that meant something. I just did not know what it meant.




The only thing I really did not understand and did not like, was the lack of interaction. Now I knew someone was living in the same building as me. I had heard the footsteps. I had seen red robes. And I got a letter from the creatures who called themselves Aardmannen. But besides the one paper I had no idea where they were, if I imagined it or why noone was talking to me. This job was a very lonely one and loneliness will turn the edges of your memories in strange ways. I kept the purple letter in a pocket in my pants, just to be sure I would not lose it.

Were some of the few memories I can find in my brain real? Or did I just make them up?




Up until the time I am writing this I do not know what year it is. I do not know what the world I am in is called and how I got here. What I do know is this:

I was born in the late twentieth century. I saw the roads get busier with cars, have people talk into mobile phones and we had computers. I finally remember computers. They had green grass as the background of those screens. Where I lived there was green grass everywhere. Flat as a pancake was the ground.

All those things were not here. I had not seen one car, only people walking and they were too far away to talk to. This building did not even have electricity. Never had, because there were only candles. But even the grass was not green. When I looked through the window, or at least the parts I could see through because the frosted glass warped a lot, all the grass was blue. And very bright blue, not the greyish blue you could find at places on Earth. The few trees I could see were a lot redder than on Earth, and the needles were bright pink or purple. The creatures I could see glimpses of moving around in the tall grass, I did not recognize. I loved animals. I tried to learn everything about them. But these creatures looked weird. And the sky. The sky itself had a very green hue. It was a bit sickening every time I looked at the cloudless green up there, so I did not look at it that much.




At night the environment looked more recognizable, much kinder. When it got dark out, the outside was lit up with those little flames I noticed earlier. Whether they were fireflies or not they did not come too near the building I was in.

Another thing that was vividly in my mind were clouds and mist. I remembered so many days the ground was covered in fog. The fog would be so thick, you could barely see your own hands. Those thick sheets of white and grey that had gotten many people lost within seconds. You could see them drift across fields and water from your home. Or maybe the fog had gotten a lot more there? A vague memory was yelling at me, but it sounded too far away. I was not sure. What I was absolutely sure about, was the fact that clouds did not exist here. I had not seen the faintest hint of a cloud in that weird green sky.




My brain hurted. It was not much, but it was all I remembered from my past. The only things I could summon when I thought very hard, were some vague shapes. Blurry and fragile but full of meaning. I wanted to reach out to them, could almost feel it. But they were too far away and I could not grasp it. Sometimes the shapes were combined with feelings or scents and noises. The only thing I could get were shards of memories.




A week before there was a giant beetle that I could see roaming through the grass. It was so big it looked like the size of a horse. Its shell was almost the blue color of the grass, some parts shining like polished stone and other parts were covered in a white sand like substance. Suddenly, as I watched it push through the blades, there was a feeling of nostalgia and I remembered someone asking me:

“Why do you love beetles so much?” I did not know who asked me this, but it gave me such a nice warm feeling. The voice was soft, amused and valuable to me. I am certain I miss her.





5

I almost saw them again. Not the woman in the painting or the green clothed Aarmannen. The woman had not turned up for fourteen days. A bit longer than normal but I was not anxious. Time seemed to fold oddly here and it would be even weirder for a painted person. And I had no clue about the Aardmannen.

Because there was nothing to do I was wandering the halls again. I planned on looking for those little men in the little time I had. Maybe they could help me clean up the place if I knew what they wanted as pay.




The wind was howling extra fiercely that day. It almost sounded like a woman was talking into the wind. The sound that came through the howling was mournful. Long vowels that almost formed words if I listened for too long. I was looking where the wind came from. I figured another window had broken again. Another thing I wanted those Aarmannen to fix. This whole building was showing cracks and holes. It was like they magically appeared if I did not look.

I should not complain too much though. Those little things gave me something new to discover and something to do in the times I was not watching the painting. Just as often I would find materials to repair it and I learned a lot making these little reparations. It was fun.

The few windows I came across were often broken in one way or another. No matter how often I repaired them, the glass would be broken, or the wooden frame was cracked. And the next time I would see the window, it was whole again, like nothing was wrong with them in the first place. Would that be the work of those Aarmannen? But the most important thing about the broken windows that I looked forward to was the opportunity to watch outside. Instead of trying to guess what was on the other side of the frosted glass, I could see what was really there.




I once saw something red in between the blue grass. It was so exciting. My heart leapt. I thought I might see the face of the person who was restocking that awful food. Walking home from the building.

However, when they came into full view, it was nothing more than a white and red bird, yelling their ass off to reach a possible mate. Its voice was sharp and lonely.I watched it for a long time, until it vanished beyond the hill, and the silence closed in again.




This time I could not find a broken window during my rounds. In the small amount of time I had to walk around the only window I found was fine. I turned around to get back to the room with the painting when I saw it. A glimpse of a red robe. The hem disappeared around the dark corner of the far hall. My heart ached. I got a lump in my throat and swallowed hard. Before I could catch myself I called out to them. A raspy low sound came out of my mouth. My voice was gone. I tried to clear my throat, which hurt with every sound I tried to make. I tried to call out again but it felt like the words were stuck. Frozen in my throat in the salt crystals. My throat burned and I had to cough. The red robed figure was long gone. No sound came from my lips and breathing was difficult. I had not heard my own voice for a long time.

“I need to start talking to myself.”

I decided a million things I would say during the walk back.





She still had not returned and I was getting more restless. I had started to count the seconds out loud to get my voice started up again and keep it from dying entirely. It hurt to speak; the salt never let the pain heal. My tongue felt raw, and my lips cracked with every word. At first I tried to keep up a steady pace. Pay attention to how fast I would count. Without a clock I had no idea whether or not I was counting fast enough or too fast.

How was time measured here? Was time running normally? I was not wearing a watch. Did I ever wear a watch? The thought unsettled me, so I made a rule: I decided to count to three thousand. When I reached it or lost count I would go back to the room, check if she was back and start over with counting.




After a while I got quite good at keeping count. At first the use of my voice was hard and my coughing kept messing up my count. But my voice grew steadier, though still hoarse and the act of counting filled the halls and my head. Walking around I would count to three thousand and when I reached it I would take the shortest route back to check the painting. It had been a long time since I saw a glimpse of her. One time I thought I saw a shadow. A new shadow that could have been an arm. But the dark shape moved away as soon as I blinked and she had not returned yet.




Since the counting gave me a frame on how long I actually had left, the rest of the building unfolded like a maze of soot and sighs. Still there was not much to see. I had now found a total of four windows. The only bright spots within the darkness. The last window I found was broken again. I looked around to see if I could repair it, but no luck with any spare cloth or pieces of wood. The room itself was unusually clean.




When I got back and checked the painting I went to the resting room to get some food. I felt more tired after all the walking. A letter had appeared on the table near the window.

Dear Maria,

As we are praying for your success, we noticed you have not notified us about your findings for over a day. Is there anything we can give you to help you in your struggle?




A day? She had been gone for weeks. I shook my head and grabbed a new piece of paper.




I wrote:

Hello, can I have some stuff to repair the window? The wind is howling too loud and it gives me something to do.

And can you give me something without salt? Fresh water or unaltered juice would be an improvement, thank you.

I put a last flourish on my chicken scratching and as I finished the letter, my hand touched something. I looked up




A small black doll sat on the table. It had beady black eyes, the biggest red lipped mouth the maker could put on it and a hemp body that barely could carry the head.

I picked it up. I was almost cute, I thought. The lips were soft, almost warm to the touch and when I pressed them lightly, they seemed to move. I played with it for a moment, but suddenly felt a sharp pain in my finger. I pulled my hand back. I took a better look and a drop of blood was hanging from the tip of my finger. Only for a moment, because when I blinked, the drop was gone. Just a faint warmth where the doll had touched me. Maybe the fabric of the head caught it. I turned it over, searching for a pin or splinter, but found nothing. I put the doll away and forgot about it for a couple of days. Only when I went back to the resting room to get some of the awful food, I remembered. The letter was still there, but the doll was not. I had not found it again.




I got back to the room with the painting and I glanced at the painting. I really hoped she would return soon.
6

I found a silver coin near one of the windows. It was half buried under a veil of dust and glimmered faintly in the soft light from outside. The window itself had cracks, which were thin but deep. Like veins in old leaves. The coin looked like it came from ages long ago. It was the first thing not damaged by time and it lay there quietly like a forgotten relic near the windowsil.




I wanted to pick it up, but before my fingers could close around the silver, a wind swept up. However, it did not whistle or blow in from the opening. This time the wind went outside and it sucked the coin through the little hole in the glass. Like it was hungry for the silver. The silver fell down, into the blue long stalks that covered the ground. It was swallowed up by the world outside. I sighed with a bit of melancholy in my chest. It would have been something new. I was so curious about what kind of coin it was. I had not seen any coins in this building before. And I did not even know where I was exactly. That coin could have told me more about this part of the world that seemed forgotten by the outside. An outside I never seemed to find. Had the coin come from a king’s pocket or from the farthest corners of forgotten seas? Under the dust its shape was so worn by time that I could barely make out its edges. I had lost count and I had to get back to the room with the painting.




I turned around, prepared to start from zero again. I stepped on something and I heard a crack. It was a sharp and brittle sound in the quiet of the room. I closed my eyes. That was the fourth clay pipe I had broken under my foot.

“Those Aardmannen need to keep their stuff from the floor.” I swore quietly under my breath.

I went first to the resting room and grabbed some cheese that looked like it sat untouched for ages even when it was refreshed a couple days ago. I brought it to the place I had stepped on the tiny pipe. The cheese, rough and crumbly, tasting of salt and decay, was the only offering I had for them. The Aardmannen seemed to take a strange liking to it.




I had learned by some trial and error that they would leave me alone if I gave them that awful food. Otherwise they would make a hell of a noise. The sound of shrill ringing bells and unseen hands throwing things on the ground. After the noise there was always the unsettling sound of tiny feet scurrying along the floor. I never saw them doing it, they walked in the dark and considering their small pipes they must be very small too. They left me little scraps of paper with writing so small and scraggly I had to decipher the letters. Only to find out they wrote rude messages and cursed me. Demanding I had to pay or they ‘would curdle my milk overnight’ or ‘your steps will be led astray by unseen hands’.




The last one actually happened to me. I thought it was not possible to get lost in the halls that I walked through so many times. But after I broke my second pipe and did not give them anything, I found myself in unfamiliar territory. With a new window, the glass non-existent. Outside the blue grass was taken away and I could see a stream softly flowing to a place I did not know. The water reached the outer stones of the building. I could see fish swimming in the clear, orange tinted stream. I heard giggling behind me and a door slamming shut. They left me in that room for a full week. All the while making noises and shouting with their shrill voices. When I finally managed to open the door, the halls looked unfamiliar and I had to take almost a full day with a low burning candle to get back to the resting room. The room was a mess. The bottles of juice were broken. The bread was crumbled over the floor and the cheese looked like it had been devoured by dozens of rats. Zwaantje advised me to be more careful next time.




The only thing I had was the food and drink so I gave it to them when I broke the next clay pipe. Only one scrap piece of paper was left by the table. ‘Next time we need more,’ it said. A piece of the cheese they like the most. There is no appetite for the juice, so now I give them food any time they leave those stupid pipes on the ground and I happen to break them by accident.

After leaving the cheese on the floor I went back to work. I went back to the windowless room where the painting would be waiting for me. And I hoped the woman was back.

Something had changed. There was another woman in the painting. The woman in the green dress was nowhere to be found. I never found her again.

Instead the window showed a dark sea, withdrawn to its lowest tide. A green dress, torn and soaked by the salty waters, clung to a light colored rock that stuck out of the waters.

Instead of the familiar face, there now was another. She had blue hair and her skin was pale as the moon, so white it seemed to glow against the starkness of the ocean behind her. Her eyes were wide, unblinking, as though she could see straight through me, could reach into the depths of my soul, pulling at it with invisible threads. Her lips were parted, as if she wanted to talk to me.




All of a sudden, a song started to play. It was far away, like it came from the other side of the building. I could hear trumpets, drums, flutes. It was a cheery tune. Ironically cheery for the predicament I was in. I watched the lady while a voice began to sing:




Underneath the green sky, in the grass of blue

I followed my destiny, right back here to you

And where the path may take us

Nobody has a clue

But I am here to sing, sing happily to you




the light that shines brightly, over the mountains cold.

Whispers very softly Of all the stories that are told.

Where others here have gone before

From young to very old.

they have gone their way and I too have be this bold.




Underneath the green sky in the grass of blue.

I followed my destiny Right back here to you.

and where the path may take us

nobody has a clue.

But I am here to sing. Sing happily to you.




As long as you're with me We are on our merry way.

I truly hope that you Are with me here to stay.

And when you need to go

Please don't go too far astray,

I will be here waiting, until the very day.




That underneath the green sky In the grass of blue.

you come right back to me Or I will find you.

and what the future brings us

Nobody has a clue.

But I am here to sing Sing happily to you

yes I am here to sing, Sing happily to you!





She looked down on me, trying to reach my soul through my eyes.


7

I really did not like that blue lady. The way she was painted was different from the rest of the painting and the way she just stood there, looking at me. It gave me chills. Had she been waiting for me? I watched her for three weeks straight. The candle next to me sputtered and I took a glance towards the table. The candle was not changing and the flame calmed down quickly.

My gaze was forced back to the painting and I could look at every detail that I could see.

Her dress was more modern looking than any painted figure I had to look at. Off white with an overlay of black with ruffles at the edges. Her hair was blue as the sky of a child’s painting, with some more green strands mixed in. The wicked smile on her face was as white as mist. The way she looked almost see through, like mist caught in a shaft of dawn light.




The painting itself had changed a lot too. Where once was the sea, the window did not show any wave, too dark to show anything. Two distant lights burned in the blackness. They could be lanterns on the other shore. The blue lady held a thin candle in her hand, but no light reached her eyes. Behind me the sound of dripping water reached my ears. A quick turnaround did not reveal what it was, but something wet was falling onto bare stone. It felt like the sea was falling from her world into mine. I would tell myself it was only the pipes or the Aardmannen at their tricks. Did I give them too little cheese after all?




I had no idea what to do. I tried to do my work, to follow the rules. When there was a character in the painting it was my job to look at the character and write down what they do. That was what I was told. But the urge to look away deepened every hour. Looking at the woman in the green dress felt like I could look at it freely. This woman demanded my gaze, making me feel more tired than ever.

Another reason to have my eyes fixed on the painting was the rustling sound behind my back. First I thought it was the Aardmannen. But then I remembered the mess and I realized the red robed people were here. They had entered the room while I was in there. It made me nervous. I tried to talk to them, my voice faring a bit better since I had practiced.

“Hi, are you here to get me more food?” No reaction. Only the faint scuttle of movement behind me. The sound of dripping water became slightly louder.

“Is it normal that there is someone else in the painting?” More rustling but no answer.

Eventually they left again and I was stuck with her. The candle’s flame flickered violently in the stillness. There was no wind. That smile turned more cruel by the minute.




She finally left and I was shaking in the dark. The woman with the blue hair and the blue eyes had finally left the painting. For a while I had avoided looking at that canvas again. I did not trust it any more. The darkness slowly consumed the painted room she had abandoned. The two lights had vanished too. A pressure was put off my chest and I loosened up. The faint slight pinch I had felt in my arms was gone.




I went to the resting room. Outside the sky had turned dark. The ever dancing lights appeared from under the trees, weaving themselves among the leaves that were red and pink. The soft lights, which were sometimes few and sometimes in large groups, always managed to cheer me up. Someday, if I could find the door to the outside, I would walk to the clearing. I wanted to dance among them. We do not have fireflies where I come from. Another random memory that filled my head.

Without a subject to observe I needed to wait. Either until the woman returned, or until someone decided I had done my time here and let me out.




That was when I heard it.

A faint distant, tink.

The dripping sound had stopped long ago. At first I thought the building was settling again, its old bones shifting. But it never sounded like this. This was the sound of a bell.

Just once at first, so soft it might’ve been in my mind. Then again, closer.

Tink… tink… Slow and patient, as if the sound itself were moving with the movement of an animal.

More bell sounds. Tink..tink…tink..




I felt a knot in my stomach. The hairs on my arms raised. With dread in my heart I went back to the room with the painting. I stayed in the hallway, leaning just far enough to look at the empty canvas. Was it coming from there? No. The sound was farther away. Muffled by the halls with thick carpets.

“What do I do?” I thought.

The room with the painting was not a place I wanted to be anymore. It felt like a threat now. The idea of seeing that blue haired woman again filled me with dread. But the sound of the bell filled me with worry of another kind. Something new was not something positive in my mind. I almost wanted to go back to the slow and boring days that I just sat in the room and watched the painting.

But at that moment the only thing I knew was that I did not want to be in that room. I quickly walked away again. The bell sounded louder in the hallway, I followed it for a while.

Tink, a little sharper. It sounded like it came from outside.

Every few minutes I heard the bell chime again. It was guiding me through the hall. To one of the newer rooms I recently discovered. It had a window which was recently repaired. Because of the frosted glass it was difficult to see anything more. I only saw shifting silhouettes outside.




Then, the wind decided to show its strength suddenly and without warning I felt a push. I took a step back, almost losing my balance and dropping the candle. The window opened with a loud crack. The hinges barely keeping a hold on the frames. Cold air pushed in. I could see clearly what was going on outside and there were even some lights flickering.




Instead of the trees or the tall grass I had seen in other windows, this view showed a large open field. Rows of unknown crops grew undisturbed. Dark bulbous growths in the dark night.

Tink

Another ringing of the bell. It came from outside, from among the crops. A rustling appeared from my right. I quickly turned to the sound to see what it could be. Was it nothing more than a cat? A dog? I stood there, with the candle in my hand but holding it so low the light would not give me away. Seconds were crawling by without nothing. It took many silent seconds to finally reveal something. The rustling grew louder but more deliberate. The lights had gathered around a particularly big crop, but the crop seemed to move.




It crawled closer to the window, with more lights surrounding it. I saw purple fur, long ears and some kind of wild mane that resembled cabbage leaves that curled around its neck. When the sky above the creature was filled with the lights, I saw the head of a rabbit. It was a rabbit. A bit weird in color and the manes threw me off, but it was a rabbit. Probably trying to eat the cabbage looking crops that were growing here.

Tink

The sound of the bell again. The rabbit looked up, his ears shooting into the air like antennae.

Tink, the sound came closer now. Much closer. The bell sounded bright and sharp in the still night. The purple rabbit bolted as fast as it could, taking some small glowing creatures with it as if startled too.




I never saw the creature with the bell. It kept ringing that tiny bell until dawn. Slow and steady and every time from a different place. Only then it stopped. I took a sigh of relief. I did not know why exactly, but the feeling of dread finally went away. I probably had to write some things down. And get back to that cursed painting.





8

The painting was replaced a few days later. Or what felt like a few days. I was not there when the replacement happened. Just one moment the empty dark painting hung there like a dead eye, and the next, a new canvas had taken its place. It was a bigger framed painting. The thin silver of the frame glowed coldly around the painted canvas.




The painting itself showed a grassy landscape, rendered with thick layers of acrylic paint. Two tall trees stood on the left and a wooden house was visible on the right. The walls slanted slightly inward. I could see the vague outlines of a barn in the far background, half-swallowed by brushstrokes. The artist put a lot of details in the piece, while using thick globs of paint to create more texture. This particular painting also had a title, neatly engraved into the silver frame.

Hoor, Alvina huilt.

It meant: Hear, Alvina cries.

Almost in response to this the wind picked up again. The howling floated through the halls. A chill ran up my spine. I tried to tell myself it was only wind, but it didn’t sound like wind. I could not get used to that sound. It sounded so human.




When I found out the painting was replaced I also found a new letter, this time on the normal bluish paper with the dark brown ink they usually use. I set the candle down on its usual place on the table and picked up the letter. I read it a couple of times, confusion growing with every repeat.

I have transcribed it here:




“Dear Maria,

Thank you for all your work so far for the cause. We know you are just as eager as us to finish the long search. We gave you a new mission, because the old one was corrupted. Our apologies for not handling it sooner, but the footprints were found and followed before they could fade. With this letter we want to present you with the next task. We took extra care to protect the subject and therefore we ask you to not break any more rules. As the Yellow Sun wants it, we want to reiterate the rules regarding your work. This to ensure your own safety.

When the subject is visible in the frame (usually the human) even when partially, you are to observe the subject for as long as they are in the frame.


The first ten minutes of appearance to you, you are able to leave the room and gather all necessities.


While you are observing, you have to be aware of every action the subject is making. When you notice a new action or movement, declare this action in detail out loud. To be clear: Every new motion is important


Speak only when you are declaring a new action.


Speak at low volume


When the subject is not seen, declare this as well. From this moment you are free to leave the room during the time of no presence.


You need to check in with the subject's frame every hour.


Declare when the subject has re-emerged and any changes that have occurred to the subject.


Do not touch the subject or the frame under any circumstances


Keep the candle near you at all times


Do not respond to other voices of any kind.


Do not interact with any other subjects.

By the blue sky, we hope you can continue the good work. Your help is invaluable to the long search. Together we will find the Path.

With high regards,

The Dreamers.”




I held the letter in my hand. I was still so confused. The rules in the letter sat heavy in my mind. The emphasis on subjects, plural. The reminder to keep the candle close.

These were not the rules before.

And why do I need to whisper?


9

Alvina turned out to be a happy looking young girl. She wore some folklore looking clothes, the kind I vaguely remembered from children’s books or museum displays, and wooden shoes. She was playing among the two trees, which dwarfed her already small form. Next to her stood a creature.

At first I thought it was a goat, but it had a human face and dog ears. Both were smiling widely while the wind made the branches stretch all the way to the right. Alvina was chasing the little leaves that were twirling in the wind. The painting was so lifelike. It did not move when I looked at it, but it almost felt like it. A pause in the middle of something else.

All in all it was a very nice scene. I never found out what the goat thing really was, but the girl treated it like her pet. The way she leaned toward it, the way its body leaned back toward her, reminded me faintly of a dog from my past. Such a small shard of a memory. A happy dog. His name started with a T, I think.




The girl and the goat thing had not moved since they had appeared. They remained exactly as they were. However, the environment had slightly changed every time I looked away to write or grab something. It was clearly the wind that was the main part in this. The trees bent this way or that. It was almost as windy in the painting as it was here in the building.




Every now and then the wind outside howled so loudly it appeared to talk to me. The longer I was in the building, the more I thought the wind was screaming words to me. Sometimes it sounded more like sobbing. But whatever the wind wanted to say, I could not understand it and the shrieking still startled me.

The wind was shrieking more and more often. I wondered whether the windows were broken again or that an animal had broken into the building. It made me nervous. I kept whipping my head around to look, even though I knew I shouldn’t look away from the painting so often. Yet the sound was so close. And it sounded so familiar. Like a voice from the past. One of the reasons the shrieking wind always startled me, was because I never felt the wind.




Several days later I apparently had created another war with the Aardmannen again. I did not know what I had done, but they were pissed off. This was not surprising. They were always pissed off at something. Usually me. However, I could not bring food to them. I needed to monitor the painting. I could not leave my post. I did not expect them to attack me in this room though.




All of a sudden I was blinded by a waterfall of pages. Pink colored paper that looked ripped from a book, fell from somewhere above. Hundreds of pages fell on my head. It kept raining, smacking my head and scraping my shoulders. I swatted at them uselessly. When the attack finally subsided, the girl had vanished from the painting.

“Okay okay,” I shouted, breaking the rules without even thinking about them, “I will give you some cheese.” I slapped my hand in front of my mouth, expecting the consequences of my actions. But none came. I blinked a few times, waiting a bit longer. But still no punishment for talking out loud. I wondered if that rule was a real rule. While I put that experience into my half empty drawer I called memory, I stood up and did what I promised.




To be in the clear, I put bits of cheese and bread in every room and hallway I remembered. I was not taking any chances with those little pests. After counting to three thousand in my head I had to check the painting and when I came into the room, I saw the chaos left on the floor. Papers still littered the floor like confetti after a parade. It made me angry. More than I wanted to admit.

“What the hell is this?”

I decided to clean it up myself. I knelt down and began picking up the pages. The pages had beautiful handwriting. Careful loops and deliberate strokes that emphasized the care taken into writing it all. Some papers had illustrations, some small and some covering the entire page. One page in particular caught my eye. The illustration showed a black creature, half dog, half shadow. It was standing on its hind legs, the dark green bat wings spread out. Around its ankle it wore heavy chains, dragging behind him like an iron tail. On the other side it read:




He's a Child Terror and pulls children into the misty water. The Kludde can move at immeasurable speeds and is said to spawn from the cremated bodies of witches and wizards. The monster can sometimes be found in the reeds, under bridges and inside of hollow trees. Kludde has the ability to change into a wide assortment of animals, such as ravens, snakes, cats, frogs, bats and even trees that grow high above the clouds. He is bathed in shadow and dark as one. The only way you can be sure it is him, is the heavy chain he has to wear around his ankle. When walking around you can hear the chain move over the ground.




I reread the description twice. Then again. I’d heard fragments of these stories before, maybe long ago, maybe in childhood. I remembered horns.

It was certainly a terrifying beast.

There was a sound of a bell ringing through the night.

Tink

The sound froze me. It seeped through the walls, through the floor, through the marrow of me.

I did not go to the window. The sound filled me with dread.


10

After thinking about it for a while I had this strange feeling of confusion. Watching a painting that could move. As a job. I knew how weird it sounds when I say it out loud. From all that I could remember I was led to a tent where three women were asking me questions. Not just any tent. A huge one, with wheels. All the tents which surrounded this yellow one looked worn out. The ropes creaked as if they were adjusting to the weight of the tent itself. Inside the tent the fabric ceiling was a bright blue. The tent smelled strange, now that I think about it. Not bad, just... layered. Old incense clinging to the canvas, the sweetness of something herbal, and beneath it all the faint metallic scent of wet stone.

Three women sat opposite me. I felt quite confused at the time, but the questions were very specific. The other two women didn’t speak at first. They sat perfectly still, hands folded on their laps, blue veils hiding everything except the occasional movement of their shoulders when they breathed.

But after the initial “What color is the sky?” question, they started to ask me in rapid succession. Each time I answered they made tiny humming sounds.

They asked me dozens, maybe hundreds of questions. Questions about strange moments in my life, odd dreams, things I’d seen in the corners of my vision and tried to ignore.

The one I was corresponding with later on through those letters was called Zwaantje, which means little swan in Dutch. I had not heard that name in a long time. Maybe someone’s grandmother still had that name but it was not a common one. It felt almost ceremonial.




Zwaantje had always been on the forefront from what I could remember. She smiled with her mouth closed, like the held secrets behind those teeth. I had never seen her eyes, because those women were all veiled with thick blue fabric that covered half of their face. They wore necklaces from big golden square shackles. The metal had dents and scratches, like it had lived several lives before this one.

“I think you are the one we are looking for,” Zwaanteje had told me. Something about their posture made me feel like I had just passed a test I never asked to take. The gold shackles around her neck clinked together when she moved. She leaned forward slightly, veil shifting, and for a moment I imagined I could see the faint outlines of her eyes behind the fabric. The tent grew quieter after she spoke. Even the strange drifting air settled. The two silent women bowed their heads, just enough to acknowledge something I wasn’t privy to.




The next thing I remembered was that I was here, in the dark walls of this building. No slow transition, no memory of walking inside. I woke up on the floor of a narrow hallway with a candle beside me, already lit, as if someone had prepared the scene for me.

To be fair, the first days here were still foggy in my head. I just knew that the building was strange to me. I did not know the purpose of the rooms. I wandered with the candle held against my chest, moving from room to room, expecting at any second to bump into someone who’d explain why I was here or what I was supposed to do. The carpets muffled my steps so completely that even my own movement felt unreal.

I first found the resting room, with its awful food and drinks. And then I found the room with the first painting. Some of my memories flooded in, but I still did not know what to do. I tried to find the outside in the meantime. I had no idea what the outside actually looked like.




I did not get a letter for a while. On what I think was the fourth day, I found the first letter. It lay on the table in front of the painting. The crisp and clean blue paper was almost glowing in the candlelight. I didn’t remember hearing footsteps. I didn’t remember anyone sliding it under a door. It was simply there.




Dear Maria, it read,

We have not heard from you for a while and it might be because you had to acclimate to the new situation. We implore you to start your new tasks as soon as possible. The main task we ask of you is to monitor the painting and tell us when the character is moving. By the Yellow Sun we believe in you.




And after that, whenever I did something they thought was wrong, I got one of those blue paper letters. Zwaantje was the only one who wrote to me. The way of writing looked like it was her style anyway.

I started writing letters back. Questions, pleas for clarification, anything to understand how I ended up here. At first I tucked them under doors or left them on tables. Nothing happened. Then one day, without thinking, I looked away from a letter I had just written, and when I glanced back, it was gone. I was expecting a response soon. I had written down some questions on a piece of paper while I was waiting for Alvina to return. I took another look at the painting. Leo, the goat thing, was sitting in front of the house. He had his back turned to me. The wind in the painting was blowing with such frenzy that the trees were bent low. Leo’s hair was swooping around his head. Everything inside it felt turbulent, as if the whole scene were bracing for something.

One of the questions I had asked in the letter was:

“I can see a shadow inside the house near the window. Do I need to watch that too?”

That shadow was not human.




11

I blinked the heaviness from my eyes. I had been taken outside. Before I knew it, the dark walls had disappeared and I was looked over by the three veiled women. My eyes had to adjust to the bright light and very blue ceiling. The brightness slammed into me and I was frozen in place. It almost felt like I was waking up by how much my head spun. Voices swarmed around me. Soft ones. Whispering. But not words I could catch.




I was propped up on a sofa with many cushions. It was so comfortable it was impossible to get up. When my eyes focused again I saw the three women, all wearing their blue veils. They sat around me and could not stop touching me, which was a weird feeling after being alone for such a long time. My memory from one second to the next felt slippery, unreliable.

One of them rubbed my arms, another my legs and the one I knew as Zwaantje kept touching my face. After days without so much as a brush of fabric against my skin, the sensation hit like static. I tried to turn my head from Zwaantje’s hands, but she followed the movement, her fingers pressing into my cheeks, shaping my face as if trying to match it to a remembered image.

All three were firing questions at me.

“Where was the shadow?” one of them asked. Her sharp tone startled me.

“In the house,” I murmured, my face being squashed between two hands. The slim fingers felt like sanding paper, rough and scratchy.

“Which direction is He now?” another one asked sharply. I did not understand the question. I blinked at her.

“Direction?” I echoed. They did not like that answer. I could tell from the way their hands paused. I waved my hand weakly, it felt weird.

“Which direction should we look for Him?” Her voice sounded impatient. Unlike the other two, the questioner had stopped rubbing my legs.

“He is in the house. The direction of the house?” My voice sounded weird, a bit slurred. But I was too occupied with trying to get the rest of them to stop touching me. I tried to swat their hands away, which did nothing. They only grabbed my arm tighter.

“Stop touching me please,” I pleaded. I felt really tired all of a sudden. My words felt wrong. As if I were hearing myself from another room entirely.

“Give her some stew,” one of them said, “We need to consider several options.” The shortest of the three, who had been rubbing my arms, jumped up and went outside. She came back within seconds.




After what seemed a few moments another figure came into the room, moving with a quiet, deliberate grace. She was wearing green robes while her blue hair was twisted into horn-like spirals. She carried a tray with plates and small glass cups. She looked very familiar, but before I could zoom in on her she was dismissed with a single flick of Zwaantje’s finger.

Zwaantje took a piece of bread from the tray and pressed it against my lips.

“By the power of Kludde, this bread will heal you.” She was feeding me bread and meat and forced salty fruit juice down my throat, while the others hovered close and kept asking questions.Their hands kept working over my arms and shoulders, rubbing in steady circular patterns, as if performing some blessing or coaxing truth out of my skin.

“But which direction do we need to travel to?” The tallest one asked. Her voice sounded further away than she looked. I tried to think clearly.

“They think I know things,” I thought, “Why would I know the answer to such a vague question?”

I shook my head. The movement felt slow, thick and syrupy. My eyes were heavy.

“Why am I so tired?”

The women were talking through each other and the rubbing was annoying me. They kept glancing upward toward the bright-blue ceiling, murmuring tiny prayers under their breath.

“Go north,” I said, feeling exhausted. My voice cracked on the last word, thickened by exhaustion.

“By the Yellow Sun, North it is,” the tallest of the three said. Her hand flew to the golden shackles around her throat. The others mirrored her, touching their necklaces with reverence.

I closed my eyes. The light was slowly fading as my mind drifted away.




When I opened my eyes again, I was lying on the floor of the resting room. The dark stone, the thick walls were all back. The fatigue was gone as it had never existed.

I stood up. The candle was waiting for me on the table and I took it to the room with the painting.

I saw that Alvina was back. She was petting Leo on the head. Both were standing by the little wooden house. She looked out, not meeting my gaze no matter how I tried.

“Glad to have you back,” I said.

The wind picked up and a voice, not louder than a whisper came through:

“The girl’s name is not Alvina.” I looked around me, but there was no one. The room was empty and the shrieking of the wind took over all sound.
12

The wind was shrieking so loudly I feared I was going deaf. The wind was blowing around me, like the storm had moved inside. It created chaos in the room, but I kept my eyes on the painting. The hairs on my arms stood right up as a familiar scent filled my nostrils. It lit up some hidden memories. I sniffed a bit further. The wind had brought in the smell of dead grass, dust and seawater. The smell filled the room like smoke. It made me gag, but I could not move. Part of the girl was still in the painting and what it was that kept me glued there, was not letting me go. The painted blue grass was darkly discolored in some places. The house looked more slanted. The dark windows were broken. Leo the goat thing was nowhere to be found. And the trees stood still. No wind moved them. They stood there like nothing had happened and nothing would happen in that place of the woods.

My eyes were still stuck to the painting but I noticed something different. A piece of soft pink paper with dark beautiful handwriting. It looked like a scrap of a page that the Aardmannen had thrown to my head before. But now it was painted, stuck behind a pole. It was too small to read what was written, but I could see an illustration at the bottom. I moved in closer, trying to see if I could distinguish the figure, but dust flew into my eye and I had to look away. I quickly cleared my eyes, but the page was gone. Vanished from the painting.




Something pink laid on the table before me. One of the same papers of the book the Aardmannen had destroyed I guessed. I took quick glances at what was written. Looking back and forth to the painting I managed to read what was written.




Schuimerts are found in rural areas. These demons are thought to represent rabies and usually manifest to people who are infected with the disease as canine or bear-like creatures with foam around their mouths. To non-infected people these creatures are mostly invisible. They leave footprints in the mud. They move around in vicious packs, and are often confused for hellhounds chasing down the souls of the damned when they are pursuing rabies victims. Very little else is known about them. They often follow the Belleman, who is invisible itself.




The Belleman again. I could not stand that little bell.

The storm subsided slowly and when I turned my head for a moment, the room looked like nothing had happened. Only a few papers were strewn around the room. I noticed the candle was slinking fast. Maybe I could move away when the room was dark again. The flame sputtered and died. I was blind but relieved I did not have to see that any more. I stepped away from the painting, carefully monitoring my breath. Every step I could take, I would feel my own body. I was twenty steps out of the door and slowly made my way to the resting room.

Tink

The sound did not come from outside.

Tink

I moved a bit faster. The carpeted floor muffled my steps.

A low growl came from behind an unseen corner. I began to run. My one hand on the stones to have a semblance of direction. I needed to pass one hallway crossing and the resting room would be on my left side.

Tink

I found the wooden door and tried to open it. My hands fumbling to get to the handle. The growl grew louder. The sound of metal came closer.

I found the door handle, pulled hard and moved through the new opening. When I pushed my body through the hole, I pushed the door close again. I saw two glimmering eyes looking at me from the dark. After a few moments the sound of the metal chain moving over the floor was too far away to hear anymore.

“That horned beast was not the Belleman.”




Two candles ago I noticed something. Whenever I saw the shadow appear, I would feel a heavy dread. The feeling snuck up to me, crawled all over my skin until it was the only thing I could clearly feel. But more importantly if I would say anything about the shadow, they would rush me out of the building. The women would be praying over me until I gave them an answer. Even a slight hint would make them freak out and I was led away, whether the person was still in the painting or not.

Those three veiled women were ever present when I was out of the building. Sometimes I saw other people, but they were whispering and avoided eye contact. The woman with the blue hair, who looked so very familiar and always smiled at me, would bring the food. She was the one who brought the food. It was strange because she was quite clumsy. Often she would stumble and all the food would fall on the floor and the bottles would break before they reached the tent. She lingered around every now and then. It looked like she wanted to tell me something. But the three veiled women never left my side. Constantly prodding me with fingers and questions. There were times I woke up suddenly, with Zwaantje next to me. Her thin lips forming a disapproving line. And when they noticed I was awake, the questions started again.

“Where was he?”

“Where did he go?”

“By the Blue Sky, how close are we to the end?” Only when they were satisfied I was brought back to the building. I would be put in front of the painting.




This painting I was looking at was quite big and different from the other ones. Where previous paintings were largely a background where a figure could appear in, this was a portrait of an important looking man. Only a red curtain behind him formed the background. No windows, no landscape to be seen.

The man looked stern, his mustache prominent but not as impressive as his belly. His shirt was adorned with silver and pearls. He wore a dark grey coat and on his head he wore a dark green cap. He had not moved yet. The candle shone on the detailed hands. He held part of the curtain in his left hand, while the right hand was resting on his hip. A thin knife was hanging from his belt. Whoever painted this was really into details. I sighed.

“Well pleased to meet you sir,” I said softly. I did not agree with the rules they had put on me. Nothing ever happened when I talked.

I continued: “Just tell me when you are bored, there is not much to do in there. I might find something interesting to keep you busy.” I chuckled, then frowned when I realised what I said.

His expression did not change. Why would it? It was just a painting.

I should not get attached to any of them.


13

I got another letter. The handwriting was different than normal. These letters were curly, closely put together. A scent emanated from the ink. When I put the paper to my nose, a fresh grassy perfume made my head swirl. It made me feel like I was grasping for a memory. It smelled like walking into mist on a warm morning. When my head stopped turning I opened my eyes and after a quick glance at the painting I focused on the letter.




Land of sea,

Flat and deep

Made by them who suffered water’s love

Wear proudly your sails

While you live on trees

Salt the wavy grass

While you guard your keep

Hold your freedom as the clouds up above

Let the woman wail.




What does that mean, I thought. Those words did not mean anything to me, yet they gave me a feeling of nostalgia. I suddenly remembered a part of my past. A map, which in my mind looked weird. A long coastline on the West, many rivers cutting through the land. And a voice that was mine: “Can you believe we just made an entire province out of nothing?” My head spun again and I buried my face in my hands. The letter flew out of my grasp, taken by the sudden wind. The picture of the map was still buried into my mind. It was so familiar. It was my country. I want to go home.




The rich man in the painting had carried a neutral expression for a long time, but had recently shifted to a more uncomfortable expression. His hand was slowly reaching for his knife. I had declared the latest action, waiting for something to happen. Something was approaching the edge of the painting. I could feel it. A door slammed. The loud sound startled me. I looked around, but the candle did not show any movement or new shadows. The doorway behind me was clear.

“Must be the red robed people, or those Aardmannen,” I thought. I quickly looked back at the painting. He held out his knife, clearly scared now. The white of his eyes shone brightly as a focuspoint. He had taken a step back, letting the red curtain fall down. Nothing but a bare wall was behind him. The silver knife in his hand gleamed like a mirror. And in the reflection I could see a face. The blue lady was back.




The blood on the knife was the brightest red I had ever seen. Her blue dress looked more stark next to it, except where the fabric was stained. Her blue hair was still untouched. Some of the locks curled around her head like sheep horns. Her dark blue eyes looked at me and locked me in my place. Even her skin had a hint of blue. She smiled at me. The knife in her hand was turning black. The scene was terrifying, but she looked so familiar. When I opened my eyes Zwaantje was looking over at me.

“He who is clearing the path, will watch over all.” I heard whispering. Everywhere I looked I saw blue. The golden shackles clanged together when Zwaantje bowed over me.

I felt really weak. Like all energy had left me. I was being prodded again and the constant touching of those women were getting on my nerves.

“By the Blue Sky, we are close, I feel it,” another one said.

I had not processed what had happened and I was touched like a piece of meat. My head hurt. The shortest of the three was rubbing my calves. The pins and needles this created took over all my other senses.

I wanted to slap them. I tried to lift my hand but it was too much and my arm fell back into the soft cushions with a heavy plop.

“We need to prepare for the following,” Zwaantje told the others, “His steps are close and I dreamt of Him.”

“You always dream of Him,” the other snibbed, “You are not as blessed as you think.”

“I am not as blessed as others,” Zwaantje answered, “But I do dream of Him and He is visiting me in my dreams. He just… doesn’t want to guide me to Him.”

“My head hurts,” I interrupted. Three pairs of hands stopped for a moment.

“When did she wake?” the one at the end of the bed whispered.




“Which way do we need to travel?”Zwaantje asked me. I looked at her, suddenly having a clear head.

“Get off of me!” I yelled. A shock went through the women. They stopped touching me. Zwaantje got closer to me.

“By the Yellow Sun, my priestess, are you okay?”

“I will if you let me be for a moment.” The other two looked at each other. Zwaantje tried to smile.

“We need to do the check ups first. Your task is difficult enough as it is.”

“And that is exactly why I need a moment.”

“Do you need food, my priestess?” The tallest one asked. I never liked her. In the short moments that I saw them she was rubbing the most and being heard the most. Her chin was pointy, her skin milk white. Her blue veil was torn at some point. When she spoke her questions sounded more like demands. This time as well, because I had not answered the question, but food was brought in immediately. Zwaantje began to rub my hands, but I waved her away. The yellow garb I was wearing shone like gold in the fleeting light, when a flap of the tent was opened.




There she was. The blue lady. Only she was wearing green. Her hair and her eyes were the same I saw in the paintings. And her skin was a bluish white, even in the warm light.

“What did the shadow look like?” the tallest woman asked suddenly. I had to tear away my gaze to focus on what was said.

“The shadow?”

“You told us the shadow was there.”

“Did I?”

I felt like I was losing any grasp on the situation. The blue lady was standing there, like nothing happened, holding a tray of food in her hands. I kept looking at her. Was she really the same person? But before I could address her, Zwaantje had taken the tray and waved her off. The tray was put next to me while the questioning continued.

“Which way is he sending us?”

“What form do we need to look for?”

“I dreamt He was leaving His footsteps on the muddy banks of a river. Does that mean we need to go East?”




My head was spinning from the barrage of questions alone. I lifted my arm. I had not looked into a mirror in ages, but my arm looked a lot bigger than I remembered. But that could not be. My arm was not this flabby when I was in the building moments ago. I looked a bit better at my legs, which were covered with gold colored cloth. I could not call it a pair of pants or even a skirt. Just a flabby piece of cloth that was covering my legs. I tried to grab the light fabric with my way too fat fingers. There was something in the way. A warm flabby piece that laid on my stomach.

Zwaantje tried to get my attention back to the questions.

“My priestess,” she said while lifting up my chin, or double chin. Her finger delved deep into my flesh and it felt awful. “We understand you woke up suddenly, but we need answers while the memories are fresh.” She held my face on her.

I looked at her. The veil made it unable to see her eyes and I could not gauge her emotion.

“East, go to the bridge,” I lied, “We need to haste, so go.” I felt my face fall when her hand did not support my chin. Zwaantje clapped once.

“So it will be.”

“So it is,” I said weakly.




With a squeal the one with the thick lips and wide hips ran out of the tent. Her blue linen dress hindered her and her golden shackles rang like little bells. Zwaantje followed her with a bit more grace. The tall one took a few steps, turned to me with her thin lips in a bitter expression and huffed.

“I dreamt we had to go North. Aagje was never right before.”

“I saw we had to go East, not Aagje,” I snarked back, “Now hurry,” I waved her away, “And let me be.” I tried to remain calm, but I was almost certain she could hear my heart beating in my chest. I was sweating like an ox, feeling more and more dizzy. My fingers felt wrong, my legs felt wrong. My whole body felt like it was stuck to the bed I was lying in. Once the flap of the tent was back to its original position I turned around and threw the tray on the floor. The metal sounded dull when it landed on the wooden floor.

The food and glass was strewn around. My eyelids were so heavy, but I did not want to sleep. Before the darkness took me I heard a hiss.




I had not eaten for days. I also had not drank a lot. The longer I stayed lucid, the better my brain started to work. But it was a struggle to keep those three away from me. The longer I was awake, the more my authority seemed to wane for them. It took a lot of strength to keep them from pushing food into my mouth or tipping the rest of the juice down my throat. Every time they left the food and drinks at my side, I would throw it on the ground and the white snake would come and eat it, glass and all.



14

My memories came back slowly. I still had a lot of gaps but more and more became clear to me. I at least remember how I got into this situation in the first place.




I was trapped. I had fallen into a pit while I was travelling to a village. My ankle hurt from the fall and I had screamed my throat raw. I had suffered hunger before I fell and I was too weak to climb out. It took until the next day for anyone to show up. They pulled me out of the pit and brought me to a camp, feeding me with salty bread and water.

The tents were brightly colored, most of them were green and red, but some were white and the tent in the middle was bright blue.

I noticed that the bigger tents had wheels. As if this camp was ready to pack up and leave the moment needed for it.




There is a big gap in my memory here, but I knew that a man in white clothes and a silver headband took one look at me and smiled.

“Do we have a new follower here?” he asked, not taking his eyes off me.

“She was stuck in a hole,” one of my rescuers answered. She was playing with her 4 rope necklaces that looked rough and uncomfortable on her green shirt.

“Maybe we let her tell her tale herself,” the man hissed at the woman. The others took a step back. He sighed and straightened himself.

“We can only help the ones who are willing to follow the way. Do you know the way?”

“I was traveling,” I answered, more like a joke than being serious. However the man nodded like it was the right answer.

“Good to hear. Have you followed the footprints?” I was confused. I had seen some big prints in the mud. If it was Earth people would think of Bigfoot.

“I saw a print in the mud. It was to the East.” The man raised an eyebrow. He looked at the people who had taken me out of the pit.

“Is this true?”

“Err, we stopped looking when we found her.”

The group was given an earful and sent back. I was brought to a big red tent with small rickety beds. The treatment of the swollen ankle was no better than what I would think medieval medicine would be.




Another person in white came into the tent. This man, adjusting his silver headband with a big eye symbol in the middle, rushed to me, pushing other people away.

“How did you find the footstep?” he demanded.

“ I found it along the way.”

“Yes but how?”

“What do you mean how? I found it.”

“No one just finds a footstep. You must have the gift.”




My next memory began with a loud noise that rang through the camp and the face of my interrogator dropped. He turned and ran out of the tent.




The priestess had died. I did not know anything at that point but I saw the enlarged body, shown around to ensure she had left the world. Three women in blue were standing around the recently deceased.

The tallest of the veiled three opened her mouth.

“Dear followers of the path, we regret to announce the priestess is elevated to Paradise. Kludde had found her before we could find Him and took her with him. We will now decide who will become the next priestess.” All three women clapped three times and the crowd dispersed.

The body of the priestess was carried away by ten people in red robes. The women in blue trailing behind.




Normally, as I was told repeatedly during the ‘lessons’ the next priestess would be chosen out of the three blue veiled women. Those three were chosen from the many followers because they had prophetic dreams and the most knowledge about paradise. However, they had heard my stories. I had told the others where I came from, the sky is blue and the sun is yellow. They also noticed how much I hated the salty food and I could eat the fruit without alterations. The three women had called upon me and I had walked into the blue tent. They started to ask me questions.

“What is the color of the sky?” they asked.

“Blue.”

“What color is the grass?”

“Green.”

The tall one, called Hendrika, had pursed her lips.

“Can they fly?” she asked. The other two turned their veiled faces to her, but Hendrika smiled.

“They have flying machines,” I answered, “Unless you mean, like, birds.”

A gasp went through the tent. My memory faded from that moment, but I knew that was the reason I was chosen as the new priestess.




And the mist. I got here through the mist. But there are no clouds here.

In the land of green sky and blue grass. Where the earth is made of salt and the water is saltier than the Red Sea. Yet the people thrive here. I still do not know exactly where I am from,

but I know I am not from this world.


15

I was back into the building. The candle was burning as always, painting the dark stones into a soft yellow light. Grabbing the candle, I made my way to the room with the painting. Strange memories were fighting for dominance and it made me nauseous. I focused on one thing: get back to the painting. I opened the door to the room and looked around. Blue paper was strewn around on the floor. Previous letters I had received from Zwaantje. They were not important anymore.




I sat in the chair and looked up. There she was. The blue lady smiled her warm smile and I recognized her now. She was the same woman as the woman who wore green and brought the food. She was the only object in the painting. There was no other detail in the frame. Just a dark brown background. The silver frame almost seemed to glow. The painting of the blue lady was so detailed, I could count her eyelashes. She did not move.




The wind started up.

“I wonder if you can hear me now,” I heard. The painting was not speaking, it was the wind.

“Or maybe it is too late again.” The wind howled around me. Not a strand of my hair was lifted, but the wind yelled in my ears.

“I can hear you,” I whispered, “But maybe they can too.”

“You are the priestess and only you are fed the juice,” the wind said, “Only you can enter here. But they can hear you since they are always listening.” the wind lay down as if it was thinking.

“You have rotted away to no fault of your own. You are bloated with lies. A stranger of this world you have survived very long. But you need to go back. You need to return to the unsalted earth.”




A song started playing. It was slow and mournful. I felt a yearning for my home.

A voice sang:



In mountains high

We watch the sky

And the cold envelops me

But deep inside

The fire’s bright

I feel here I’m meant to be




The path is long, but we stay strong

And this night, when I’m with you




In the light of the stars, your face is lit up

It’s beyond compare, as time seems to stop

When you look at me, with stars in your eyes

You’re blinding me… you’re blinding me.




We’re on our way

And now the day

Is wearing us down

When we stop

Here near the top

The stars will be your crown




The path goes on, and we stay strong

In this night, when I’m with you.




In the light of the stars, your face is lit up

It’s beyond compare, as time seems to stop

When you look at me, with stars in your eyes

You’re blinding me… you’re blinding me.




If on the bend

Our path will end

I’ll cry the river deep

But thill that time

The hours climb

As the wind sings you to sleep.




The path is long, and we stay strong

In this night, when I’m with you.




In the light of the stars, your face is lit up

It’s beyond compare, as time seems to stop

When you look at me, with stars in your eyes

You’re blinding me… you’re blinding me.

The song stopped suddenly.

“For now, I want you to listen,” the wind said.




I wished I could walk through the painting to the other side, but the brown painting was so small. I lost count how many candles I used up only listening. Do those candles even tell the real time? The last candle was already halfway used up when I got a letter. I ignored it. I felt another letter bounce against my leg. I saw a flash of big letters. Ink splats on the edge. I ignored it again. I was sick of being used. I had stopped eating and drinking. The juice was not only in the drink, but in everything. Every now and then I felt a pressure against my lips. A faint feeling and a small hint that this room was not made by hands, but by mist and cobwebs in my mind. But not entirely. It was still confusing to me. I tried to keep my lips together when I felt that touch. Maybe the drugs would wear off this way. Another letter flashed by. How did they get those in my mind anyway? The words flew by and I could almost hear them.

“Get away from the painting!”

I already had the frame in my hands. The painting felt heavy and the silver shone coldly in the light of the candle. I caressed the canvas with one finger. Only the edge. Putting my finger on her face would be weird. The blue lady smiled her welcoming smile. I knew those eyes. I could not hear her, but I knew she wanted me to follow her. The brown background became lighter. Mist filled the bottom of the painting. It almost flowed out.

“Just touch it,” Alvina whispered in my ear. A small breeze rustled my hair. Her breath tickled my neck.

“Touch the mist and return.”




I hesitated for a moment.

“Can it be that easy?” I wondered. My fingers were so close to the first cloudy fingers of the mist. But I felt my legs collapsing under me and the room went dark.
16

The blue fabric stung my eyes.

The three veiled women had pulled me out. I was wet, shaking and cold. Zwaantje was shaking almost as much as me, hovering over me with pale lips. It was quiet. There were no questions this time. Only a heavy silence. Hendrika stepped forward. Her hand was trembling.

“Why did you go against our orders?”

“Your orders?” I tried to get up but my arms would not carry my weight. How long did they keep me sleeping?

“Your orders?” I repeated when I got no answer, “You dare to give me orders?” I felt fear creep up on me. If I failed to convince them this time, I would lose it all. Nonetheless I tried to keep my composure. They looked at each other through their veils. No answer again.




I tried to hoist myself up again. The fatty bulk made it a lot more difficult.

“Help me get up,” I snapped my fingers. In their confusion they started to obey. Two of them hoisted me up by my arms. I was sweating already.

“My priestess,” Hendrika began.

“By the Yellow Sun, you do as I say. Or He will make you pay.” My cheeks hung so low. With every word I felt them wobble. My teeth felt loose and greasy. As I was trying to keep my superiority I began to sweat even more. When I was sitting up right the women let me loose.

“Now go and fetch me the woman with the blue hair,” I demanded. Any smile they had faded away.

“My priestess, if you are hungry,” Zwaantje began but I cut her off.

“As the sky turns blue, you will do as I say.” Visibly furious, they stood there for a moment. My head was so heavy, my fingers felt numb. I could not see their eyes and their mouths were nothing more than thin strips in their hidden faces. Then they all bowed and left.




For years my mind was clouded, but now the drugs had worn off Alvina’s words became clear. She whispered the all forgotten memories which slowly formed back into shape. Not all memories came back, my mind was already too decayed to get them back. But I found important memories from before I was caught in my own body. So much came back to me and I could barely handle the situation as it was. The gaps in my memories needed to be filled in. But I could never get it all back. I closed my eyes and screamed.




I was shouting through the dark night. I was following my dog Tijger who had run away. The little dog was one of my best friends and I was afraid he would fall into one of the ditches my village was surrounded with. And there was a thick mist that made it difficult to see. I could hear his soft bark through the white air.

“Tijger!” more soft barking from further up ahead. I followed the sound and suddenly felt tired. But I could not give up. My dog was close, yapping away at something I could not see. I tripped and fell, but not into a ditch. I fell and landed on the salty soil of this world. I met a woman with blue hair. She tried to help me and get back to my world. She gave me fruit, which other people considered poisonous but I could eat. And she supported me until I fell into the trap.




I was caught by the Yellow Sun Sisterhood. There they realized I had seen Earth, their Paradise, but they confused it with the ‘sight’ and they thought I was an easy puppet to put on the golden throne. When they found out I did not like to be ordered around, they started to drug me. And how Zwaantje lied to me, feeding me the juice and lies and dreams.




My body felt like it was rotting away. I was in no state to defend myself. I kept losing control of the situation. They kept drugging me, putting me back into the dark building without clear memories, waking me back up and kept asking question after question. I could only sit, bark commands when I was clear minded and go into hunger strike. I tried to pretend I did not know what was going on. I tried to pretend I was still on their side. Trying to be confused one moment and giving vague answers the next. If I was too clear, back into the drug castle they forced me. And there I listened to Alvina and looked at the blue lady in the paintings.




The blue lady found more and faster ways to get back into the paintings. Alvina called the building the holding of dreams. It was not a dream per sé, nor another realm next to the salty world. It was a way to travel to a place that had more connections to the other beings. This salty world, at least for as much as I have knowledge about it, sounded a lot like a world with a lot of mythical creatures I heard stories of as a child.

The giant beetles that seemed to gather on the walls made noises. The giant snake, white as snow and with a golden crown on its head, came back out of the grass and slithered around the building. And of course the blue lady was there. How I longed to talk to her, in this dreamy building or outside of it.




But Zwaantje and Hendrika kept me away from any other followers, unless I directly gave an order they could not bend. And still then they were nearby. Too many excuses for them to use and too little energy in that bloated blob of a body of mine. I had seen about a handful of people that were involved in the cult and I could see how they revered me and the three women. Especially the white clothed people who called themselves Myst chasers wanted to talk to me the moment they realized I was awake.

“We have seen possible clouds forming in the East,” one of the men in the group of myst chasers informed me, “It is a rare event, but even more rare in that region. We think the dreams might hint at going there to find our Lord Kludde.”

“You are absolutely right,” I said, “Make it be. We need to travel East.” The group smiled from ear to ear. Hendrika, who stood next to me, was clenching her hands. Not long after that the people who wore green came into the tent to pack in all essentials. The part of the tent where I lay itself had wheels and only needed to be pulled along. But many things that were loose needed to be tied up.




We traveled for many days. I realized the camp had travelled many miles since I was put in gold cloth and made priestess. These people would stay at one place for a few days, get ‘new followers’ and move on. Food would be brought in by manual labor and money from the faithful followers. The mist chasers would come in regularly and ask me or Hendrika which path to take. It became quickly apparent that Hendrika loved to take the lead and even though someone would address me, she would say:

“The priestess is unwell. She had told us her prophecy. You need to take the path with the pine needles.”

Always the pine needles. I felt we were climbing higher and higher. Up a mountain I did not know.




“I need to see my people,”I said, “Bring me to them. He has given me an important message.”

I was pulled out moments ago, the sweat on my brow heavy enough to close one eye. I hoped that as long as I could stay vague they would not question me for a while. What I would do if I was out of the tent was still in the dark. They bowed and two of them hurried out of the tent. Zwaantje stayed with me, visibly uncomfortable.

“Are you sure you are fit enough priestess?” she asked, “You could let me relay the message to them.”

I ignored her question.

“How long am I wearing these clothes?”

She hesitated.

“Too long,” I answered for her, “I need fresh clothes now!” I did not know how frightful I looked, but she almost ran. I was now certain the foul stench was emanating from me. I sighed. My eyes stung and would blur over. I blinked a few times to see more clearly. A beam of light shone on her blue hair.

“You look terrible,” the blue lady said.

“Argonauti.” I smiled for the first time.




We talked and she told me the plan. The three veiled women would find us. We knew they would. My head felt more clearly, although it still hurt. She held out her hand.

“If you can stand up and go with me.” she began, “I can get you home.” I wanted nothing more than that. I had hope. My hand, covered in red spots and looking like a giant against hers, grabbed her hand. If only I had more time.




Moving the mass that used to be my body was utterly horrifying. Every movement created a ripple of fat moving back and forth. My feet were not to be found in the golden cloth. They felt far away and I had trouble controlling them. Could I even stand up? The pins and needles came back and distracted me from my goal. I had put my other hand on the edge of the bed I was put on so long ago. I tried to push myself to my side. The few muscles I had left strained as much as they could. Not much happened. The soft cushions kept me in my place. A prison of soft feathers and silks.

I tried to push again and after a long moment I got one leg over the edge of the bed.

“That is right,” the blue lady pulled on my hand, “We need to push a little further”. She appeared to be so light. Her hand weighed nothing in mine. She could not do much to help me.

I had to try again, no matter how hard I was panting and how much my head was hurting. I needed to get out of here. My heart was beating against my chest. My leg that hung over the edge hooked around the edge and I had more grip to move the body. I felt the weight shifting towards the side. My other leg was able to find the edge and I hooked that one as well.




Everything was slow. I had to stop and get my breath back after every move. But I had finally put my two feet on the ground. And then the tent flap opened.




17




Hendrika bared her teeth.

“Stop right there,” she yelled. All three women rushed to me, grabbing the gold fabric that seemed to hold me together.

I almost lost my balance, but I kept my feet on the ground. I only had to get out of the tent to escape this nightmare. Argonauti had a metal rod in her hand and swung wildly. Hendrika, Zwaantje and Aagje started screaming and four men in red got into the tent. They carried knives, heavy and rusted.

I took a step forward. Argonauti fought with the men, swinging the metal rod while singing a mysterious song.

The song filled me with hope and I felt lighter. I took another step. And another.

The blue veiled ladies screamed at me. Zwaantje pleaded to get back to bed. Aagje ran outside to get more backup. Hendrika though, was enraged. She ripped off her veil, revealing her angry dark eyes. She reached into one of her pockets while she ran up to me. I could see the glimmer of a golden knife before it was shoved into my body. A loud roar shook the earth. Hendrika did not stop, taking the knife and plunging it into the folds of my body. It hurt. I swung my arm in her direction. I could take another step. The utter betrayal of their priestess made Zwaantje wake up from her trance. She jumped Hendrika and wrestled to the ground. I took another step. I was almost outside. Another roar sounded through the camp and the sky turned dark.

A giant monster, half wolf, half bull, with shackles around his ankles. He took a step, leaving massive footprints behind. All followers dropped to the ground, holding their heads. The bull head turned, one eye focused on me and I felt myself fall.




Argonauti looked so sad. She sat in the lap of the beast of shadow. The same shadow I had seen multiple times. This was the god the cult was following. I had no emotion seeing this beast. I never believed in the same things that the cult that jailed me believed in. But He was so big. I felt my body shut down more and more.

This has been going on for days. I could not walk, I could not get out of the ditch they put me into. Small creatures had tried to help me, babbling about getting more cheese if they finished this last task for me. One of the little ones gave me their clay pipe. Aardmannen they were. I finally saw what they looked like.




Argonauti had given me the paper and pens, together with the promise to take them to my family. My own world. I looked back at Kludde. He was so big. Tears were dripping from her chin while she sat next to me. We all knew I did not have long. My bloated body filled the big indent in the landscape. No number of days without eating could give me my movement back. Blood red trees with bright pink needles obscured all else. No one else would come here for weeks. Maybe this place would not be seen for months.




Little lights floated around us, moving on their own or dancing in the wind. If I would look closer, I could see a human figure in the flame. But they did not bother with me, because they could not lure me with them. They would feast on my flesh soon.




Argonauti stood up and walked towards me. She looked me in the eyes.

“Oh abandoned one,” she said. Her voice was softer than a whisper in the wind. She looked pale, almost like she was made of mist. She was one of the Witte Wieven, the wise woman who travelled with the mist to my world. The maids of Kludde, they would call themselves in this world. Her eyes were enchanting me still. I tried to move one more time, but I was too broken.

“They would not hear your plea. Your words they wanted to hear so badly were suddenly like venom to them. And while they are looking for Him, you are here in His presence.”

I have little time left. She cannot help me and He cannot touch me. Not when I am alive.

She touches my hand.

“He will bring you home,” she says, “Even when everyone else failed you.”




I know I will not see my home again. But there is some hope still. It shines brighter than the brightest star. I keep the memories I still have of where I came from. Flat land, little houses. Faces of people who meant so much to me before. I open my mouth and try to lift my head. She is barely visible to me now, but I can still see she is shaking.

“Can you promise me I will get home?” It takes a while before she answers.

“You will be home.”

She started to sing:




There where the pink pines grow among the stones

They whisper their tales to me and show me all they hold

And when the mist will take me

To show what you called home

I’ll be there to sing, until we both are gone




Underneath the pink leaves that cover all the soil

There are creatures living there making your bones their hole

That’s why the bark is deep red

But I stay by your side

And I am here to sing, until the mist claims mine




There where the pink pines carry your lovely head

I will kiss the pain away far from your comfy bed

And when the mist comes hither

Surrounded by giant flies

I’ll be here to sing, until my tears run dry




Here underneath the pink pines my tears have all run dry

And how much I longed and sang the pines have claimed what’s mine

And where the mist will take me

I keep you by my side

Cause I am here to sing, forever your goodbye.




Yes I have truly sung, forever my goodbye.





I am sitting here and I smile. At least for these last moments I am not lonely anymore.