The Empty Mirror
Chapter 17: Bullfighting Ceremony
I had no choice but to pursue her, contemplating her slender silhouette where her back and waist unfolded with graceful delicacy. Uncertainty led me to ponder what might be revealed by placing even the slightest trust in that lady. Escaping into the depths of the forest seemed like a futile and vain alternative in my situation. Furthermore, a genuine fascination with the history of the castle and its mysteries urged me to continue, though determining if something was hidden in the fortress seemed to be mere speculation lacking foundations.
Uuuuhh raaawr
The term "primitive" penetrated my thoughts, chilling my blood and causing my skin to bristle as if it were a taboo notion that should be eradicated from the human sphere. Expressions imbued with impurity and tinged with grotesqueness echoed as a repulsive refrain. However, this reaction seemed excessive; although "primitive" is not an essential word in everyday discourse, it is not inconvenient to mention it in a conventional conversation, regardless of the setting or the individuals being addressed. Using "primitive" as an adjective to describe someone would be disrespectful and would reflect poorly on the speaker's education. It is subtly offensive, comparable to calling someone stupid or inept, albeit less directly but with the same intent.
Or maybe I am misinterpreting the true substance of "primitive," as it refers to the first in its lineage, not deriving its origin from another entity. From this perspective, it resonates as a compliment, something unique, not constrained by ideological interferences or amalgams of other individuals. However, my mind collapsed upon itself, as if those thoughts were devouring my brain and identity. I couldn't continue pondering the topic, something I had relegated for my own prosperity, a veil that rescued me from my own annihilation, from my own calamity...
Slish-slosh
We walked through the extensive and wide corridors of the castle, dazzling and seemingly captivating with its presence and history—a sight I never expected to witness. The quest for a castle itself is complicated, with no trace of the whereabouts of these monuments. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack, even more challenging, as you don't even know if the castle truly exists in the place you're exploring. I felt fortunate to stumble upon a castle by mere chance and even more so to have the authority to traverse its intricate passages. I never imagined discovering such a splendid castle, seemingly lifted from a fantasy, as I didn't even expect to come close to one. Though it may sound novelistic to claim that I hadn't even imagined it in its best state, I truly didn't dare to. I was content with experiencing overwhelming curiosity.
Upon careful consideration, it almost seemed impossible not to conceive of the castle at its zenith. Fortunately and, to a large extent, unfortunately, we don't possess the complete and definitive ability to control what we conceive voluntarily or involuntarily. Unintentionally, like an ineffable caress, I had envisioned that monument in its prime, although it was suppressed by my own will. This dream, or rather nightmare, seemed to be a residue of that conception. Although I displayed apparent mastery in this peculiar nightmare, I couldn't ignore the discomfort and hindered movement sensation typical of night terror.
We walked just a few minutes, which surprised me given the peculiar and noticeable length of my monologue. We stopped in the heart of the castle, the banquet hall. The woman advanced with deliberation and slowness, like a priestess in perpetual distress. While I tried to keep up, my legs trembled slightly, whether from apprehension or inquisitive curiosity. I didn't immediately realize that leading a guest, or attempted visitor, directly to the feast hall was inappropriate and out of place. It would be more coherent to receive a guest in a less prominent setting for the lineage, more suitable for the situation.
While she asserted with certainty that she would guide me through the castle's inner workings, it wouldn't be strange for us to first delve into its heart to impress and kindle expectations, akin to those who flaunt luxuries and pleasures, as that woman seemed to do at first glance. However, upon closer inspection, I shouldn't judge her so hastily. She took me back to the beginning of this nightmare, assuming that this place follows the inherent laws of the universe. It would be illogical for the castle owner to abruptly open the door to an outsider, even contradictory. Perhaps the amorphous mass orchestrating the plot has become disoriented, unless I am that aberrant flesh directing it. A film director? Wouldn't it be more appropriate to speak of a theater director? Master of opera sounds more fitting, though it still maintains a certain degree of vagueness and misinterpretation.
Maybe everything has been orchestrated so that someone of significance responds to my involuntary call with extreme urgency. In the real world and at the right time, I would have been received by castle guards or, in the best case, awaited under the watchful eye of the progeny, with attendants and troops ensuring the security of the venue. That would be proper, but the notion of being riddled by warlords seems to dissipate from my judgment because, from that woman's perspective, I am her guest; she even claimed to have been waiting for me. But why would she really be waiting for me? Did I have the honor of meeting her previously, or how is it possible for me to conceive her appearance and personality in such detail? At least for me, such a level of detail seems to elude the understanding of a mere dream.
This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.
Something that caught my attention in the banquet hall, apart from the nuanced tapestries and ornaments, was the absence of the strange and hermetic mirror that left me petrified in my steps. In the real world, that mirror was covered by a thick layer of dust and dirt. I imagined I would find that mirror in its place, like a zenith alongside the castle, but it had simply vanished from its previous position, not because it changed places but because it was nowhere to be found. I examined my surroundings carefully, but there was no trace or vestige of the mirror. Perhaps, just perhaps, in the temporality of the nightmare, that mirror had not yet manifested, not yet assumed the relevance that my eyeballs could glimpse. Although the entrance to the banquet hall was characterized by that silver and gold mirror, in this case, despite its absence, something else captured the attention of the threshold.
A severed bull's head rested on the threshold of the banquet hall, meticulously sectioned, with fur as deep black as ebony. Its eyes shared the same jet-black hue, and its mouth, barely visible at first scrutiny, was distinguished by a crimson tint, akin to having imbibed a glass of red wine, a bloody cup. The bull was one of those beasts taxidermied and displayed as trophies. The head lay on a frame of deep brown wood, seemingly attended to with a subtle gloss of varnish, as if it had been polished and revered over generations linked to the castle. While some powerful individuals taxidermy exotic animals to showcase on their properties, such as bears or deer, it's not as common to find a bull's head at the threshold of a banquet hall. I'm not saying it's unusual or overly eccentric, considering that preserving parts of taxidermied animals is eccentric in itself, but I mean that the display of the bull's head suggests something beyond the obvious, like geographical symbolism or something of the sort. It's just a conjecture, but there's no doubt it's something I had never witnessed. The beast, perhaps hunted, as it's common to display hunting trophies.
That bovine head proudly displayed massive horns with a milky, creamy white hue, emphasizing its eminence, presented not as a trophy but as a standard of the castle. This hinted at a unique connection between the fortress and bullfighting. However, after my contemplations, I heard the woman's voice again. "The dismembered head of the bull, an object of my spouse's devotion, constitutes the supreme expression of his pride. Do you find pleasure in such a distinguished emblem?" she said, turning slightly toward me, as if she had perceived my interest in that caprine appendage, even if my attention was focused on it for only a few moments.
"Yes… a magnificent sculpture encapsulating the imposing elegance of the bovine anatomy," I replied swiftly and unsure of how to engage with the woman. It seemed she didn't expect a witty response and wasn't disappointed. After my reply, she looked at me with a subtle smile and continued toward the main center of the banquet hall. Spontaneously, I followed. We reached a colossal dining room, where she urged me to take a seat. She occupied the main seat, with the casual attitude of one unaffected by any concern. I, on the other hand, chose a nearby seat, maintaining a distance of a few empty seats between us, cautious of any eventualities.
"Allow me to express unease at the possibility that your appetite may be in a state of noticeable neglect. Would it please you to satisfy such a need with some gourmet delicacies before I have the honor of presenting you with the imposing walls of the castle?" - she said with a haughty expression and a slight hint of concern, not beyond what one would expect from someone who cares about guests. Though somewhat bewildered, I couldn't outright refuse or agree. My response was nil, as after saying this, the woman gestured with her hands, snapping her fingers to summon the servants.
Swiftly, the lackeys seemed to emerge from the entrance of the room. However, I couldn't help but swallow hard and contain a grimace of horror, as these servants were nothing more than opaque shadows, figures without defined form. I could only vaguely discern their genders through their blurred physical outlines, while their faces were veiled by fabrics of impenetrable black. They were abstract and disturbing shadows to anyone faced with such a grotesque and unconventional sight. Apparently, there were five or six in total, carrying large metal trays in their hands. They bowed, placed the metal trays on the wooden surface, and uncovered them, revealing not a variety of delicacies but a colorful selection of sweets. There were donuts, cookies, popcorn, candies, and pretzels, among others, all these tempting treats infused with an aroma of chocolate and caramel, along with other sweet flavors. The servants withdrew from the feasting hall without uttering a word, only with a bow, but with a barely perceptible, heart-wrenching sob or lament. It gave the impression that they were crying throughout eternity.
It would be judicious to consider that by referring to 'gourmet delicacies,' we mean a banquet befitting a castle or a simple tasting; however, in this juncture, preconceived logic proved pernicious and even calamitous. This was not an ordinary nightmare, but rather a sweetened nightmare, where sugary delights infiltrate your palate until they evoke a sweet death. Now, the previous chapter title makes sense to readers; treats, preserves, sugar.
That lady executed a gesture with her hands and invited me to a peculiar and aberrant feast, yet it was part of the sugary nightmare. The woman seemed entirely hollow, corrupted, and devoid of real identity, like a rusted puppet with joints that creaked like the metal of bygone centuries. It wasn't genuinely her; she was being manipulated, transformed into a toy representation. However, she didn't yield without resistance; she seemed to shudder and contort on her nauseating bed, as if resisting something hidden from that deliberate scrutiny. It wasn't the entity turned into a toy that constrained her, but something she couldn't relegate to oblivion: a cruelty and misfortune, a sin committed by herself.
Hastily, I reached for the rusted metal trays, where donuts, pastries, candies, and popcorn lay. I seized them and, unabashedly and with delight, began to adorn them with chocolate sauce, sugars, and caramel apples. Not because I succumbed to that deformed flesh; nightmares gain strength when we consume sweet treats before sleeping, but now I needed to wake up. As I devoured, nightmares faded from the epicenter, where toys and plushies crumbled into sugar. My nose started bleeding impressively, bleeding noses; now epistaxes had meaning.
Like a primordial divinity forging art, I starred in a show in the bullfighting arena, amidst untamed baboons yearning for their torero's death. That silhouette flaunted a ruddy cape of red wine, and the muleta, though attractive to bulls, wasn't so because they are entirely blind to red. Color-blind, they snort, cosmic roars, with tales that pierce the skin, the repugnant dermis of the matador. I am not that bullfighter in a suit of lights; I am that brave bull, dream slayer, skillful in prowess, traversing the arena with grace and firmness. The bull defies, noble and brave, waving cape, the matador unfolds his art. Roars resonate in the amphitheater, where bullfighting is an opera.