The Empty Mirror
Chapter 37: Bronze tears
To erect my rudimentary fish-targeting contraption, I first sought out a peaceful spot along the nearby stream. I gathered thin, flexible branches found on the edge of the forest. These branches are the scaffolding for my scheme, so I carefully selected them, making sure they were long and flexible enough to shape the structure.
I then began to form a ring out of the branches, leaving an opening at one end to allow access for the fish. I intertwined the branches and secured them with knots to ensure the strength of the ruse. Around it, I arranged stones and rocks to fix it in place and prevent it from being washed away by the current. Once the basic framework was complete, I collected large, tough leaves from the forest floor to cover the top of the trap, leaving the opening free for the fish to enter.
With the bait in hand, consisting of some worms found under a nearby stone, I carefully arranged the baits inside the trap. I sprinkled some bait in the surrounding water to attract the fish.
Finally, I plunged the trap into the water, making sure it was completely submerged and oriented in harmony with the current. Now, I just waited. I sat nearby, watching with infinite patience as the fish were seduced by the bait and made their way towards the trap.
A salmon had fallen prey to the ruse. Its body exhibited jagged, discoloured scales of pale pink, some of them dangling precariously, exposing the livid, decaying flesh beneath. The salmon's skin was viscous and ulcerated, with gangrenous, oozing areas that gave off a putrid stench capable of penetrating to the innermost being.
The gills, usually slender and silvery, were deformed and torn, dripping with a viscous, pestilential substance that would inspire revulsion in any onlooker. Their eyes, once lively and bright, now looked dull and veiled, surrounded by shadowy circles that gave them an empty, lifeless appearance.
The salmon's jaws were disfigured and twisted, showing broken teeth and decayed gums projecting at odd angles. Its mouth remained scoured, exhibiting a swollen, ulcerated tongue that seemed to wither from the depths.
As it moved, the salmon uttered guttural groans, as if in perpetual agony. Its skin was infested with repulsive parasites that writhed and contorted, adding to its grotesque appearance. Although... maybe it was just a distorted perception, a delirium...
With the splendour of the multiplication of loaves and fishes, where a sorceress satisfies the hunger of the throng with meagre fare, in a grotesque Lenten season, thus arrived the salmon to Dougal and he conveyed it to the table. Even in its final gasps, the salmon was sacrificed and adorned by Esme and Hilda, like the mummified remnants of the relentless fate of the Ace of Wands, observing how it laboriously shed its scales with a crude stone.
They gathered some juniper branches and fragrant herbs such as thyme and rosemary to season the salmon, obtained from the suitcase, scents that lay forgotten. They lit a modest fire with delicate, supple branches from the trees, placing bay leaves at its base to add extra aroma. They placed the salmon fillet on the bay leaves and seasoned it with sea salt and a dash of black pepper. They then arranged the juniper sprigs and herbs on top of the fish.
Patiently, they cooked the salmon over the fire, turning it carefully to ensure even cooking. In the meantime, he delighted in the aromas of the forest and the comforting crackling of the fire. Once the salmon was done, they removed it from the fire and let it rest for a few moments before tasting. Hilda mentioned that this was a special moment, and in the midst of her reverie, she pulled out a bottle of liquor.
The bottle had a thick, heavy, dark amber glass that evoked long years of repose. Its design, simple and functional, had straight lines that hinted at robustness. The surface of the container exhibited imperfections and tiny bubbles trapped in the glass, indicative of a digestive process. If it still remained, the label showed clear signs of wear and discolouration, with blurred and weathered lettering, barely legible and revealing only fragments of information about the liquor inside.
The stopper, of rudimentary manufacture, either cork or wood, is probably sealed with melted wax to safeguard its contents. When uncorked, the perfume of the aged liquor overflowed, filling the atmosphere with its hints of oak, spices and a subtle hint of ripe fruit.
The salmon was divided equally and we sat down at the table. It was then that Esma, as we were about to savour, asked me: "Have you ever tasted liquor before? You're still a child," to which I replied, "No, I never have. Then she handed me the bottle of liquor so that I would be the first to drink, saying, "Then today you will, we will all drink from the same bottle, joining our lips in a pact of confidence.
So, I took the bottle and raised it to my lips. At first, there was a slight tingling on my tongue, followed by a warm, comforting taste of toasted caramel and vanilla. These sweet notes were intertwined with hints of oak and spices, such as cinnamon and cloves, which lent an intriguing depth to the brew. With each sip, I unravelled additional layers of flavour: perhaps a hint of ripe fruit, such as prunes or apricots, melding with subtle hints of toasted nuts and old leather. The liqueur had a silky smooth body that flowed down my throat, leaving behind a warm, comforting sensation.
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As the elixir settled on the palate, one was enveloped by its opulence and complexity, leaving a lasting impression that encouraged further exploration of its unique nuances and flavours, this aged drink offered an incomparable sensory experience that left an everlasting impression.
With flushed cheeks, Dougal, Esme and Hilda began to laugh, and I, infected, smiled as we ate and drank until the bottle was almost half empty. Then the sense of camaraderie and well-being was palpable, as if the god of pests was upon his devotees, after a drunken colloquy and a farewell between Hilda and Dougal, who retired to rest.
It was just Esme and I to pack up and go to sleep too. At that moment, as she held the bottle out to me, she took a last sip. Her countenance slightly coloured after a discreet burp, she set the bottle aside and approached me. With a slight twitch of her nose, but with a charming elegance that added grace to her countenance, her fine eyebrows arched subtly as her lips curved into a mischievous smile.
A slight twitch of the nose expressed an amalgam of astonishment and playfulness, as if he were reveling in an amusing secret or finding something charmingly singular. This gesture added an irresistible charm to his countenance, lighting up his eyes with a mischievous sparkle that invited one to join in his mirth. It was a subtle but expressive gesture that captured the essence of her natural grace and playful spirit.
Then, with her hands resting on my shoulders, our disparity of stature was made manifest, she being taller by a head. Nevertheless, in an instant, she approached and brushed my breasts with her hands, but soon realised her fairy and drunkenness, feigning ignorance. After that awkward episode, we retired to rest, maintaining the façade that nothing had happened, Dougal and Hilda having no knowledge of such a blunder. For Esme, it was simply a slip of the tongue under the influence of alcohol, while for me, it held no meaning in my heart.
My spirit was already given to a man. Between wet dreams, I raved about the image of his face and the warmth of his body on my belly, while my thoughts were immersed in unattainable fantasies. In that castle, I felt like a clown in a cynical plagiarism.
As I awoke at dawn of the coming day, my eyelids rose parsimoniously, embraced by the ethyl fog that transformed my perception into a universe of distortion. Every movement was a piercing reminder of the past night, with my head as the epicentre of anarchy, overwhelmed with fervour from its core to the confines of my skull. Each beat of my heart resounded like an inclement hammer, as a rhythmic throbbing in my temples seemed to synchronise with the ticking of a dismal clock.
The act of opening my eyelids became a titanic task, with daylight penetrating like a fiery spear directly into my sensitive retinas. The sounds of the outside world were razor sharp, piercing my mind; every voice, every footstep, every rustle, amplified to the extreme of the bearable.
My belly writhed in a show of discontent, recalling every excess of the preceding evening with an ominous nausea. My mouth, as dry as the driest of deserts, craved the tiniest drop of water, as the bittersweet taste of compunction infiltrated my every thought. My muscles, tense and aching, protested at every attempt at movement, as if encased in an invisible layer of lead that hindered even the slightest movement. Every joint felt rusty, every movement a struggle against inertia, an inebriated vulnerability.
Dougal and Hilda stood with the serenity that characterises those barely touched by the libation, no more than a sip shared between us all. Given the vast experience and years of my companions in the art of drinking, this small pleasure was hardly a slight detour, though for me it represented unabashed excess.
In contrast, Esme, in stark contrast to her beloved Dougal and her mother Hilda, as well as myself, was barely suffering from the effects of the hangover, hardly noticeable in comparison to my initial encounter with drunkenness. Fortunately, the rest of the day passed in harmony, almost in a routine rhythm, although the equating of this place with the usual was strange to me.
As for the misunderstanding with Esme, at first she showed absent-mindedness, but as the days went on her behaviour took on a more marked reserve and guilt, which made the rest of us uneasy. However, it was simply attributed to a hangover and the regrets associated with a night of excess.
In my subsequent state of putrefaction, I acquired the authority to reflect on matters concerning the essence of humanity. It was an exhausting reminder that the salmon, swimming in the oasis of wisdom, absorbs all the knowledge of the world. Therefore, catching and consuming the salmon is considered an act of acquiring this divine knowledge and gaining clairvoyance.
During my woodworm state, I also meditated on the ultimate fate of the excrement being moulded and then sculpted by the earth. I recalled my days moulding the clay, among the shit and sludge through which man defines himself. I contemplated how humanity vanished, dissolved in gastric juices, whose only proper destiny was to become the very faecal matter it generated.
I, raised in the bed of the toilet, as a lubricious being beyond any moral consideration, but neither can I be called monstrous: I neither enjoy nor suffer my acts, I simply perform them out of sheer convenience.
This brought to mind the image of that knight locked in his castle, whose word becomes commandments, devoid of meaning, a total submission to his own desires, beyond any ethical or moral consideration, and the subjugation of a multitude willing to follow him blindly, regardless of the nature of his actions. There is not a hint of criticism, not even a hint of reflection on his purposes, even though everything he propagates entails a blind pursuit of the suffering of others or mutual mutilation.
In a world where human beings emerge from the womb, thrown from the ether into the abysses of the unknown, the one who has known only misfortune can stand as a beacon of comfort. After all, it is easy to be seduced by the one who promises to fill the inner emptiness by denying the existence of others.
I do not love him out of reciprocity or because we have shared chapters of romance together, but rather as one loves a fantasy character, a mythical being who is unreal, but who remains eternally present to you, soothing your deepest loneliness, as when one immerses oneself in the reading of a book, in a novel where one falls in love with both the hero and the villain.
Thus, as a devoted reader captive to her own pages and letters, immersed in a painful fantasy where she understands that union is illusory, that the only possible bond is the renunciation of the tangible world and the immersion in the pages to find solace in fantasy.
The only refuge I can escape to is a vampire tome; perhaps it is intertwined with all the events surrounding Ace of Wands, even all the misfortunes, being the lord of vice who rules not only our world, but also the cosmos. So he revealed it to me, his voice whispering in my ears as his hands intertwined between my panties, sharing fragments of his story.