Ilure smelled as good as it looked, and that was a tall bar to clear for a city so gorgeous and populated. Ancient magic ran under the streets. Some called it a miracle, some called it foul witchery, and others, among whom you may count your humble narrator, use words of old to describe it. Words teeming with mystique. We call it… a fucking functional sewage system.
The numerous jacarandas that purpled up the sidewalks twice a year swayed softly with the wind and gifted the wafts of air their fragrance. Children played on the well paved streets, the few cars having respectful drivers that would never drink before using their vehicles. Incessant was the joy of mothers and fathers watching over their little blessings, and over their Chihuahuas and poodles and Labradors and retrievers and every other cute dog breed you may imagine. Not pugs. Ilure was too idyllic to foster pug owners. Like, imagine Le Guin’s Omelas. Omelas has a tortured child, as a sort of magical source of prosperity, and it is pretty well stablished how essential it is in the short story. Yes, Omelas has a single tortured child: If it existed, it would be the fairer of all societies ever. But I bet it would have no pugs. I wouldn’t be so nearly-perfect otherwise.
Where was I? Ah, yes, Ilure, where the gutters weren’t rusty and the rooves had tiles the color of your mother’s lipstick. Unless you are the son of a goth, because black tiles are not idyllic at all. And, in case you are, is she single? Is she into narrators? Just curious, no underlying intentions, obviously.
Kalon and Samari kicked the streets, with the boy marveling at the tidiness of the place, at the paved streets and straight lampposts and gay lampposts, too. They lost themselves in the outdoor market, that bustled with activity as goods ranging from fruit and fish to toys and tomes. Meanwhile, Brunhilda omnipresencied around happily.
Samari knew the way to the archives, as by Aunara’s hand she had walked these streets years ago. Relying in the sense of orientation of a six years-old, however, defined a foolish endeavor, and so this Samari with 150% of that age —so much older, so much wiser— had gotten a map at the city gates. So far, though, they hadn’t need it for anything besides pointing random locals to places they should have known, but didn’t, for there’s no better way to make a man grow uninvolved with the minutiae of a city than giving him a home there: Sure, there used to be a hardware store over there, but you haven’t needed to go that way —A full seven blocks away from your house and out of the way to work, which means its existence for you is as dubitable as that of unicorns— in the last two years, and now it could very well be a funeral house.
The aroma of the brews of a nearby café reached Samari’s sensitive nose, and her pupils constricted. Her skin began to ache and her mouth to water. No, she was stronger than this. She was stronger than her caffeinated demons. Maybe. Maybe she was weaker, and just a taste, a little taste… she was running low on her coffee reserves and needed to replenish them anyway.
No, she had a mission, she had come to this city for her mother’s secrets, and would not let the sweet and seductive scent of coffee… the gorgeous body of that dark and bitter drink… the warm sensation caressing the inside of your throat as a blanket of liquid velvet… interfere.
Maybe she needed to admit that, like great figures of history had been sluts for punishment, sluts for power, or sluts for sluts, she was a slut for coffee. Mother would be proud… in some bizarre parallel universe, but proud.
At she wasn’t coffee for a slut, whatever that could mean. Did prostitutes drink coffee? She assumed they did, to be up all night.
Jumping to Kalon’s head, because Samari’s thought process was going into uncharted terrain, we could hear the wind blow, and the Avatar singing a sad song. A dead coyote among dunes of stupid ideas necromanced himself back to life, howled, and desnecromanced himself back to death. Now and again Jagger’s consciousness checked in moved a desert rose or two to satisfy his need for slight redecoration, slurred, enjoyed the echoes calling him horrible things back, and checked out.
Jumping to the mind of a random merchant that had not long ago lost his previous job after the mysterious disappearance of his employer, we could hear the following: Genocide, dubadubadu, war crimes, dubadubadu, phosphorous so white, oh genocide, dubadubadu.
What can I say? At least he was gradually widening his vocabulary.
The group exited the Market after crossing through a park of lush green and marble white. Jagger tried to not look at the Retrievers and Collies and Shibas in the eyes, lest they realized he was a dog and tried to play with him. Brunhilda insisted on defying existence and winning.
Samari guided them to the park’s north end, and afterwards to take the diagonal street that led to the zoo. The archives had been built in front of the Zoo because some Arcagnostics, the worse of the bunch, had struck a bond with beastly companions that weren’t allowed into the sophisticated lairs of educated men. For example, Samari had Kalon. That said, and despite the inclinations of the founders, who were cat people, dogs were allowed, by virtue of belonging to Carnivora and a previous ordinance that allowed —nay, encouraged— the use of ferrets as a renewable alternative to plastic ropes.
The Archives, with their spires and towers and clocks and all things inefficient in the use of space, contrast with the disorganized nature of the zoo crossing the street. When the winds blew from the zoo, the odor of wet beasts and manure filled the air; when they blow from the archives instead, they smell to haughtiness, incense, and stale magic. Mostly incense.
When they reached the doors for the Archives, Samari gave Kalon a couple coins and pointed him to the Zoo.
“Go learn something about animals while we are here. You deserve it.” She almost shoves the money I his face and tried to push him towards the street, but, at least for Samari, moving Kalon was like trying to move the entirety of the roman colosseum while being nothing but a mouse.
Kalon interpreted Samari’s intention to the best of his capacity and picked her up like a bag of potatoes., slinging her over his shoulder. To this, Samari’s palm found her face. “No, we are splitting, you go to the zoo because it’s not good etiquette to bring a cultivator into the Arcagnostic archives. I will take Jagger with me for protection if it worries you.”
Kalon put her down and nodded. “Fine, Sam. But cannot I wait out here?”
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Samari regarded him quite perplexed. “Yes… but I assumed you would have some fun in the zoo. The animals are cute, they have an apiary full of birds, an aquarium teeming with colorful fishes and crabs, a farm section with cows and goats and pigs…” She listed with her fingers.
“Do you consider me an animal?” Kalon looked at her with big, begging eyes. He expected a no. Samari knew he hoped for a no. But she was Samari.
“We are both animals. We are heterotroph, multicellular beings with homeotic genes and diploid cells.”
Kalon scratched his temple with a single finger, understanding to be found nowhere near his face.
“All humans come from animals similar to monkeys, Kalon, slightly less human with each generation you go back. They can explain you about biological evolution in depth at the zoo, I am sure.”
“But… animals don’t talk,” Kalon argued, still prey of an amusing confusion.
Jagger took exception to this and farted loudly. He thought about mauling his owner, just a bit. He let the thought go and instead grabbed Samari’s belt. “Let’s go, we need to make you stronger.”
“Jagger’s right, your mother’s knowledge will serve you well, Sam.” Kalon smiled and palmed the girl’s back encouragingly. “And, um, I’ll be in the Zoo if you need me. If there’s any danger. Jagger can call through our connection. I’ll rush to your aid, friends.”
“The Arcagnostic Archives are very secure, and cultivators have no use for them. They just dislike your kind because we think of you as inferior. No offense meant.”
“None taken yet. Let me process what you said.” Kalon put on a pensive stare, and after a few moments, scowled. “Hey!”
But it was too late, for Jagger and Samari were already crossing the tall, dark gates of the archives, leaving him to dumb for himself.
The Archives have more wings than a KFC, and they are eternal. This quality endows them with the privilege to be always addressed in present tense by any Respectful Being.
Unfortunately, I am not counted among them, and so I will commit heresy right now, right here: The Archives were. Ghosts embroidered in gold populated the walls, silhouttes of great men and women forever enshrined on the flat surface. Marble statues tall and refined went and came in their dresses and suits of stone, that accompanied the movements of the statue’s body organically, as if the very rock had been blessed with the essence of cloth. One of them turned and with dead eyes stared at the girl and dog that stood in the vestibule, waiting patiently.
“State your business in The Archives, and your name, Arcagnostic,” The statue, a bald woman with a long dress and scar on her left cheek (face) demanded. Her gaze was wide enough to regard both girl and dog.
“I want to access my vault. My name is Aunara Stradeajo.”
Jagger remained silent. This girl’s lies were going to bite her in the ass very soon.
The statue raised a thick eyebrow. “You are smaller than last time, Aunara.”
“Experiment gone awry, I was able to stop the rejuvenation before it turned me into a goddamned fetus. It even reordered my DNA, scrambled it up and got the genes all around. Same ones, just disordered. My chromosomes got put through a spiritual blender, like during meiosis, see.”
“You were also far less chatty.”
Samari pointed at her head. “Child brain causes some childish behaviors.”
“And the dog?” the statue asked, suspicious.
Jagger sat his heavy butt onto the flower-patterned tiles of the vestibule, “I can talk and bite undesirables. Aunara considers doing both simultaneously bad manners, though.”
“As you can see, I am in a vulnerable state until this body decides to grow up again.”
A statue dressed in a black suit, like that of a waiter, approached with a steady saunter. Samari’s mind was occupied with just an endless succession of two words: “Fuck fuck fuck fuck no fuck fuck,” but she tried her best to remain calm.
“Samari, dear, how much you have grown!” he extended hands like crab pincers.
“Touch me, Geraldian, and I will divide your core into so many pieces and scatter them so far apart you will spend the remainder of Cabaret’s lifespan picking them up,” Samari threatened, her eyes turned to a thin line like Aunara’s used to. Inside, she was a scared little girl, but she had to act like her mother if she wanted to access her vault.
“She’s Aunara, or so she claims. During her study of the arcane she messed up and found herself regressed to a child. It has happened before,” informed the bald statue.
“I am quite certain the lassie is Aunara’s daughter.”
Jagger snarled. Lassie had been used as a slur against him one too many times. It didn’t offend him, but, hey, a reason to appear like a ferocious Rottweiler instead of the lovely puppy he was couldn’t be anything but welcome.
“If she is, she cannot access the archives anyway. Lies will get her nowhere. A daughter and a mother are different enough to keep a vault shut.”
“The vault just tests for a DNA and spiritual match, and analyzes the DNA on a gene by gene basis such that even varied enough sample sof gametes could be used to identify an individual.” Samari explained to the statues, but it was just a show for Jagger to hear. She wanted to make sure his friend was aware of what was happening.
“Correct, Samari. There’s no way you are Aunara. She would be insulting us from head to shoes. There are no toes under these , you know? The shoe is carved into me.” The long-maned statue of a man in a suit laughed raucously, its internal echoes were amplified by the high ceiling of the massive vestibule. It did sound like a joy as old as the marble its laugher was made from.
“Why don’t you ask your mom to open her vault, if you are her brat?” The bald statue blinked audibly, but the sound of grinding stone was barely a drop compared to the ocean of laughter from her peer. “Sure that will be less painful than being reduced and brought out when you fail and try to force the security measures.”
A sour smile creeped into Samari’s face. “I am built different. And it is a literal statement. Take me to my dead mother’s vault.”
“Little Sam, I am sorry for your loss and recognize the validity of your actions. I feel no true empathy, as an animated statue, but I can reason why you’d like to access the knowledge left behind by your mother. But it is impossible. The Archives demand absolute matches.” The man of the suit put a heavy hand on Samari’s small shoulder, and she swiped it away with an annoyed gesture.
“I will try, and I don’t succeed, then I won’t return until I wish to open my own vault. No need to escort me out, no need to forbid me from trying. I won’t try to game the system.”
“Well, considering the contributions your mother did to the organization…”The statue of the suit turned towards the bald woman. “It does no harm to let the child try. The masters won’t mind. They were human once: they know loss, they know grief.”
“But… the protocol.” the statue with the scar protested.
“Denying the child a closure on her mother’s death would anger the masters more than any minor violation. We were granted minds to discern when the protocol is a necessity, and when it is a hindrance. I shall take full responsibility if they call on us for this.” The statue stood to a side and pointed towards a door on the north side of the building. “Over there is the waiting room. Pick a number, sit on one of the unceremoniously modern plastic chairs, and feel free to read something from the bookshelf while you wait.”
“Thanks, Geraldian.” Samari hugged the statue's legs before signaling Jagger to go into the waiting room, that was as mundane as its chairs: with opaque brown tiles; a modern, pitch black loudspeaker mounted on a wall; one of those red number dispensers we all hate half as much as golden cats; and a bookshelf with many titles and almost nothing worth a read.
Samari sat next to the bookshelf and picked up a tome at random. She read the cover, that depicted several clocks shaped into the figure of a titanic horse with three windows, a door and a chimney. She liked horses. The title was the following “Peer a Nessie: a guide to spot legendary animals.” And on the lower part of the cover there was a photo of a man with a white beard, a supposed expert on the field, and a quote from him, “The beauty of the hourse is commensurable, its neighness infinite.”
Samari groaned and returned the book to its spot. It was going to be a very, very boring wait.