I don't like to think about the war. Those who went through the war don't want to think about it. Maybe sometimes it's only when you're alone that you remember the reasons. You touch yourself, repeating: "After all, there were many "buts "!". In fact, there were no "Buts". As there were no hidden meanings and reasons. The goal of the invader is to kill for the sake of new power, and the goal of defenders is to kill in order to preserve this power. Nobody has a choice anymore. Here you are enjoying fishing, and in the next moment you are already thirsting for the blood of your enemies. And everyone unwittingly turns into animals, and the battlefield into a slaughterhouse. Without hope, without the right to a peaceful life. Although our consciousness likes to complicate things, but at the end, everything is quite simple.
Yes, and after all this, you will not become more talkative, because you know the value of every word. Except that in my thoughts everything is different. When a person asks for an explanation or advice, you open your mouth and only a few words come out. And the interlocutor doesn’t know how to react, apparently not used to hearing this. In the society there is an unwritten rule, if you say just a few words means you’re not interested, offended; a lot - interested, although you simply pour water from one glass into another. With age, you understand the price of an advice, that’s why you speak without any "buts" and leave the person alone with their thoughts. That's right. You think more, you grow up faster.
My grandfather, for example, knew exactly what he wanted when he was twenty. He read a lot, listened to his grandfather, who was quick to pick up knowledge, and didn’t like to repeat anything twice. At forty, he succeeded his father at the post of one hundred and four. At that time, it still seemed as if he took the office a bit late. He worked day and night, then confessed to me that he didn't even see how time flew. He just did what he liked. When he met people, he could read everything in their expressions. There was no point in even talking. This stimulated us to move on, to look for new ideas and solutions.
When my generation of the Council decided to make the spheres a military weapon, he was terribly upset, but said nothing, everything was written on his face. Maybe the truth for me was in his silence. But seeing and understanding are two different things. It is very difficult to admit that I made a mistake; only the strong can do this. I wasn't one to regret. I kept thinking about what people would say if I took it back. Later I found out that no one would have judged me, on the contrary, they would have respected me more. There are few leaders who admit their mistakes, if there are any. My grandfather understood that weapons make us weaker, not more powerful, and it's a shame that I grew up too slowly. A year later, my grandfather died in his sleep.
Malum thought he heard a low, commanding voice from somewhere in the sky, but he couldn't make out what it was saying. The occupants – shabby, smelly, and ragged - robed, three children and a woman-fell on their faces and froze. The walls of the house were made of rotten wood, the dishes were all covered with soot. There was a strange sound coming from the street, and Malum tried to describe it in his head: it’s like metal blades spinning rapidly, with a noise that merged into a high-frequency scream of horror and the rattle of a Geiger counter.
Then came the neighing of a horse, the clatter of hooves. Outside the window, thick darkness covered the city so that you couldn't see the opposite house, and only strange rays of blue light flashed with the sounds. Malum stood in the house, his eyes fixed on the wooden door, which rattled with some unknown force. Then the voice came closer, getting louder and louder. It was Ismila’s reply. Malum held out his hand to the sphere, and then made out the following phrases:
"Three o'clock this morning, do you understand? Here's the list."
Household items placed on the windowsill trembled as if they were trying to fall down with small steps. A table vibrated nearby. The woman crawled up to Malum, clung to His trousers, and mumbled something in a prayer pose. However, he didn't even try to make out what she was trying to say.
"Yes, Lord Perun" over the noise, said Ismila.
Perun was about to leave when a frantic woman ran out of the house at him. She fell to the ground, burying her face in the hot sand, and began to speak very quickly. Ismila stared at her with frightened eyes, then with difficulty turned her head back and looked at Perun.
"My Lord..." Ismila began, but she was immediately interrupted by a heart-rending and sobbing cry from a woman who raised her head slightly and pointed her finger at the house. Perun did not react to this in any way. Then she looked at Ismila and saw the anger in her eyes and the way she was waving her hand down to her leg, telling her to go back inside. However, the woman did not stop and continued to shout and point at the place where Malum was hiding.
"I'll take a look." Perun said coldly. And in the impenetrable darkness, the three-meter torso of the warlord, as it seemed to the woman, shrank to the size of the front door. Ismila walked up to the front door and opened it. He went inside. There was an oppressive silence in the room, the blackness covering the frail outlines of the little bodies with its veil. Next to the window, where the oil lamp was burning down, there was an image of a man, behind which, just above the level of the head, was something circling.
"It can't be," Perun said softly.
Behind him, Ismila sank to her knees, as if hope, along with her life, had fallen like a landslide into the very depths of hell. The sphere, which had been flying outside until this moment, flew inside the house, illuminating the space with its rays. Perun considered the man standing opposite of him. It was the woman's son, frozen in fright, about nineteen years old, and behind him, on the window, hung a plate of iron sheet for baking bread. Ismila quietly rose from her knees. Perun looked at the two boys and a very young half-naked girl in torn clothes. He came out of the house and saw the woman still shouting at him, waving her head from left to right and pointing at the house, lying face down in the middle of the street with her hands clasped in prayer. There was the sound of table objects falling in the far room.
"Is there someone else there?" Perun asked Ismila.
"No, My Lord."
He came back. He stepped over the girl and opened the door to the back room. There was a draught from an open, creaking window.
"Draught," said Ismila, standing behind him.
"What is this woman trying to tell me so forcefully?"
"She wants you to take her son to Irin-Ajo."
Perun spat on the floor and asked:
"So why didn't you tell me right away? I'm just wasting my time. The woman should be executed for impertinence; the children should be kept alive."
A minute later, the rumble disappeared, the darkness receded, and the rays of the sun again ran through the window. Malum opened the lid of the empty chest from the inside and climbed back into the room. He stood in fear and admiration, a new life rushed into his body, a second wind, a desire to return to Earth in the chambers of some tyrant and talk to him without fear of consequences. Incredible! He thought. Ismila's heart-rending scream came from the street. Malum went outside and made out her last words:
"Throw her in a dungeon for a week and let her think about her behavior."
The chieftain turned to him and asked if he could hide the sphere so that others wouldn't see it. Malum did it. The sphere shrank to the size of a Ping-Pong ball and flew into the outer pocket of his bloodstained shirt. However, the hum didn't get any quieter. He wondered how much it can be increased in size, and so Malum made a mental note to make sure to try it in his free time from prying eyes.
"This woman tried to turn me in?"
"She wanted the master to take her child. She probably came up to you first when she saw the sphere, but you probably didn't pay any attention to her, so she decided to run outside."
"Inaction is also an action, right?"
"Yes."
"What is your Lord's name?"
"What?" her voice trembled slightly.
"Per…"
At the same moment, Ismila slapped him across the mouth with her hand, and in the primal fear in her eyes, said:
"Never say THEIR names if you don't want to die. They can hear it. They don't need to know about you."
Malum looked slightly taken aback. Collecting his thoughts, he asked:
"Why would they kill me?"
"Because the legends say that the last war is coming, and the clouds are already gathering. They won't survive this war. And the harbinger will be you - a man of the past, a man from their time."
Malum paused, and decided that the people here were too superstitious. He decided to change the subject:
"Who is Motso?"
"Before the Panic war, which lasted for three hundred years, this planet was ruled by two families. Rod's family and the Mokosh family…
"So, you can say their names?" Malum asked.
"Yes, for I am of the Royal family."
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
"You don't look like a Queen."
Ismila stopped and looked straight into his eye:
"I don't like being interrupted. You asked a question, so follow me and listen."
"Well." Malum said, looking away.
"Rod's family were warriors and took care of the safety of our small planet. The Mokosh family took care of the rest. It is not known when exactly, but Rod's family planned a coup. They often gathered in secret and made plans. One of these negotiations, by chance, was overheard by Mokosh's son, and he reported everything to the planet's suzerain.
"Who is the suzerain of the planet?"
“People from the first world, geniuses who once lived on Alaval. They created a Council that included one hundred and four people and each one of the members were obliged to guard one of the planets with a sentient life form, including our own - Rety. The sphere you have now is their brainchild.”
Malum, at that moment, was amazed at the scale of their power, but he decided not to interrupt Ismila. And she continued:
“You should have seen the landscapes on their planet ... They are so varied that seeing this miracle for the first time, will make you doubt your eyes! Not like this desert, where you can burn alive during the day and turn into an ice statue at night.”
Passing the dried baobab, Ismila continued to dream:
“How I would wish to live there ... Just imagine, huge and majestic mountains that can shelter any wanderer from the wind and rain, and after sunset you can always find a refuge in their caves, where you can sleep without a worry. The green plains are lined with blue lakes and long rivers stretching over the horizon. Bright green oaks, pines and firs grow everywhere you look, and little squirrels run along their branches and collect cones.” During the story, Ismila smiled and constantly gesticulated with her hands, as if she had already seen all this. “The climate on that planet is very mild: cool summers, and warm winters. Always comfortable and pleasant. They say that there you can freely leave the city, climb the highest mountain and see the whole vastness of the world in clear weather! People and animals on Alaval lived in idylls, no one killed anyone and no one hunted anyone. And this is only a small part! Can you imagine it?”
Malum smiled a little, but it was an unkind smile. Ismila didn’t notice it, for she couldn’t take her eyes off the blue sky as she spoke. Warm memories flashed through Malum's mind as he touched the sphere for the first time. Then he also thought that it would be great to live in the place described by Ismila, or at least to see it. And in the end, instead of Eden, he met a red giant, an old man, who tried to kill him, a pile of corpses, antennas, stairs, acid rain, and uninhabited houses made of pipes that connect together in the amphitheater of death, located somewhere in the hidden bowels of the planet.
“The overlords lived in this world together with their own people. And when they were informed about the impending conspiracy, the family of Rod was immediately deprived of all the privileges, and the power was completely passed to the Mokosh family. The conspirators ended up behind bars.”
While Ismila was talking, they came to a small monument that depicted an old man. His half-bent right hand reached out, blessing all the people in front of him. The left hand held a staff, on top of which was the sun in the form of a human face, and in its rays hung precious earrings. The old man is dressed in a long cloak, with a sign on his chest: a red circle from which six not very straight lines come out. A long beard covered his mouth and chin, and he wore a crown on his head. Ismila was silent for a moment, and then said:
"Previously, this place was a statue of Mokosh. Then it was changed. They were explaining that my ancestor is a symbol of the totalitarian past. Another lie. It was not so, Makosh never wanted such power and never deprived her citizens of their freedom, and even more so did not terrorize anyone, so everyone loved her very much. Now only I and also a few people from the current leadership of the planet know the truth. They live in the capital and rarely leave it." Ismila stopped. "What am I talking about? Talking away… Immediately after the transfer of power, the head of the hundred and four took custody of her son, as a token of gratitude. So the son's name was Motso."
"And that man? Who took custody? “
"I don't remember, to be honest. He hardly appeared on this planet, only a few times when he brought messages. It was said that he drank only from his own clay cup, and Motso told in his letters how the latter had taught him how to fight and fish. I didn't have time to read everything, so I could have told you more. After the war he kind of sacrificed himself for the sake of his own planet."
"I thought such archived notes were being destroyed."
"Rod would have destroyed it if he'd known. Twenty years later, the Council of one hundred and four decided that Rod's family had reformed and they could be released. And a year later, this bastard and his family surreptitiously killed the overlord, taking his sphere for themselves. Then, with its power, he seized control over this planet. The fact that evil remains unchanged was understood by everyone except the Council of the "hundred and four", what were they thinking about, is unknown to this day. Rod hated Mokosh with all his heart and said that from now on, her family would live near the bottom. He raped her, and when she became pregnant, threw her in prison to serve her sentence for Motso’s betrayal, even though Motso did not betray anyone. It is always easier for the government to hide behind obvious lies. They will understand that this is all a lie; the population will understand that this is all a lie, but no one will do anything. In the face of power, a person will turn a blind eye to anything. And Motso was just doing his duty. He loved his country with all his heart and dreamed of utopia. In the dungeon, Mokosh began writing historical notes in the hope that after her death, someone would find it, report to the Council of one hundred and four, and they would save the future generations, not her. When the child was born, Mokosh named him Avoneru, and he was sent here to Tuhinmua, and did not even know that he was a Royal. I'm the twelfth of the line."
"You said it was five thousand one hundred and twenty. How can there be so few generations in such a long time?"
"Members of the Royal family live longer than the local population, about four hundred and sixty years." She paused for three seconds, and then added, " the locals have been granted about fifty years, at best."
"Then why doesn't your government change? Since people with Royal blood live for about four hundred and sixty years?"
"I don't know. Perhaps the answer lies in the forces of the spheres. Maybe they give you eternal life…"
Malum doubted her assumption, cleared his throat, and asked her to continue.
"Avoneru liked to sometimes go beyond the limits of this city, but it was banned when Atraps, after six generations, planned a rebellion."
They turned again at the intersection. Malum noticed that nothing changed along the way: neither the people's clothes, nor their homes. The children ran up to Ismila and she patted them on the head. Then they pointed a finger at Malum and asked him why were his clothes so strange.
"This man is from a distant trading city. There are many people there that have such clothes," said Ismila.
The children shouted in delight and asked Malum for a gift. After a moment's thought, he handed them his new lighter. He told them to take care of it and use it wisely. The children accepted the gift, but did not understand what kind of miracle it was. Malum showed them how it worked: he took a notebook out of his pocket, tore a paper off, held up the lighter, and lit it up.
"The flame is small, but it is useful in the daily life. Just watch out, don't use all the gas at once."
The children nodded and ran back with their new gift. And Ismila continued her story:
"The capital where Mokosh ruled was destroyed as soon as the sphere fell into their hands, leaving only ruins and mountains of corpses, even the name has not survived to this day. Avoneru was drawn to those ruins, walked through them, carefully studied their history, and somewhere in the rubble of the dungeon found several handwritten books and notes. Since then, the story has been passed down from generation to generation, and all the papers he found are stored in the basement of my house. Each of my ancestors kept their own diary so that their future generation would know about the past and learn from our mistakes."
"You trust too much of your secrets to someone you've known for less than an hour.”
"Mokosh hoped that one day her son would return with great power and strength and change everything. We live with her hopes every day, because that's all we have left. Look around you, even if you came to kill us, look in what conditions we live in. Perhaps a quick death is the best outcome for many."
Malum saw a tear trickle down the lady's young face, which she quickly wiped away. Then he tore his gaze away from the chief and looked around. Someone behind them was relieving themselves next to their own house, someone a little further away was lying on the hot ground and moaning. But most of the population seemed perfectly normal to Malum.
"And then what happened?"
They turned right, onto a large, deserted highway, where all the people passing by bowed to the chief. The lady always smiled and bowed in response. Without saying anything.
"Rod wanted more; one sphere wasn't enough for them. They attacked Alaval trying to kill every one of the Council of the hundred and four, and three hundred years later they succeeded. But we believed that Motso had escaped, and now you are here with me."
"Like I said, I'm not him. My name is Malum. Do you know what Motso looked like? Maybe I've met him before."
"What once fell into the Sands of time does not return, only flies away in the wind and disappears forever. All I know was from Mokosh's notes. She did not describe her son's appearance, but only told one story where young Motso was walking around the city and saw that someone tried to steal a basket of fruit from one girl. He chased the robber in an attempt to stop him; the robber pulled out a knife and wounded Motso in the shoulder. Then he dropped the basket and ran away. Fortunately, that time was enough for the guards to eventually catch the thief. The wound healed, and Motso had a Raven tattooed around it to remind Him that everyone has a black side."
Malum was silent for a moment.
"No, I've never met a man with a tattoo like that."
The girl drooped; her head lowered. Then she said softly:
"This is my home, please be my guest. I need to help the locals prepare for the holiday. We'll meet tomorrow morning; I have a lot of things to do now."
When malum started to enter the door of a small house that didn't stand out from the others on the way here, the headman held him back a little, grabbing his shoulder and adding:
"Some prophesies won’t come true, and some prophesies won’t come true the way we expect them to. Whatever it is, your appearance is a sign from above. A ray of hope and perhaps tomorrow we will be able to talk in more details.”
"Answer me one more question. Do "They" all have black spheres?"
"No, only the head of the family has a black one. The others have spheres, white, yellow, and so on. Why do you ask?"
"Nothing. I’m just curious. Do you have men's clothing that I could borrow?"
Ismila nodded. Then she took her leave and left. Malum went inside the house and sat down at a small wooden table on which an Ornithogalum arabicum was growing in a pot. There was high humidity, coolness. He thought for a moment and remembered the day when he and a group of archaeologists went down to an underground city in Northern Russia and found a tomb with an embalmed old man. In his right hand was a black sphere, and in his left hand was a tablet with an inscription in an unknown language. Malum hid the artifacts in his large backpack, and at home, a few weeks later, thanks to his linguistic knowledge, deciphered the inscription. Then he said it out loud: "What controls the fate of humanity in this world? He himself? Or is it already a foregone conclusion? " The sphere immediately activated and began to fly around him. When Malum first touched it, he was exposed to the owner's past life. He couldn't make out the whole story, but the story Ismila told was very different from the reality.
Motso met with his friend, Janas, and they came up with a plan. Motso hid on a street corner, and Janas ran up to a frail young girl of about eighteen and snatched the fruit basket from her hands, then ran towards his friend as planned. But at one point, everything got out of control. Mokosh's son, according to the plan, had to knock the knife out of his friend's hand, then take the basket, grab it and go to the guard post in front of everyone. It was only when Motso tried to knock the knife out that he stumbled and fell with his shoulder on the blade, losing consciousness from the pain. The friend, not knowing what to do, dropped the basket and ran away, leaving the king's son bleeding on the road. The guards, who were on the observation tower in the center of the capital, saw everything and a couple of minutes later, a well-aimed shot from a crossbow hit Janas exactly in the head and he fell dead.