Бесплатный фрагмент - Keepers of the Flat Earth

Everybody loves somebody

Sometime…

Part I — Timothy Ruvido

Our island of Frisland is small, yet not so small that it can’t be found on an ordinary map — if one knows where to look and has a bit of patience. Once upon a time, it was placed to the southeast of Iceland, closer to Norway, which ruled over us in those days, and not far from Scotland, whose merchant ships were the most frequent visitors to our shores. At other times, it drifted west of Iceland, still below it in latitude, but now a convenient stepping stone between Europe and the New World.

Legend has it that our island served as the final refuge of the Pilgrim Fathers before their desperate voyage in 1620 aboard the Mayflower, sailing from Plymouth, England, to the rocky shores of Cape Cod, present-day Massachusetts. Family lore even claims we forged a fleeting bond with none other than William Bradford himself during their brief stopover. I won’t swear to the truth of that — after all, the Mayflower carried Puritans, not especially known for their indulgence in earthly pleasures. And yet, in an old chest that once gathered dust in the attic of our former home — and now rests in the cellar of the newer one my father built during a quarrel with my grandfather — lies a worn scrap of parchment bearing a barely legible signature: “W. Brad —”. Time has devoured the rest of the name, but I’m inclined to side with my ancestors: it could very well be Bradford’s hand. Who knows?

For years now, I’ve meant to preserve that letter from further decay. So far, all I’ve managed is to scan it and squint at the surviving words on a computer screen. I’ve read there’s an expensive method of sealing such documents in glass and removing the air entirely, but then none of my descendants would ever be able to touch it. And it’s the touch of history, after all, that makes it come alive. So, I hesitate.

For a long time, Frisland vanished altogether from maps. Why, I can’t say, though I’m sure there are reasons. I’ve read claims that it’s a myth, the fantasy of hapless adventurers. Others argue it’s not an island at all but a rich fishing region along Iceland’s southern coast, dubbed Fishland by seafarers and trawlers. Some Spanish map from 1480 even labels Iceland as Fisklandia. Scholars, as always, are sure of themselves.

Through the ages, we’ve been called many things. Some thought our climate too bitter, our winters too cruel, and so labeled us Friesland, the Land of Frost. I can assure you, those chroniclers must have visited in late autumn — an unfortunate season. The rest of the year is perfectly bearable, and in winter the snow is clean and generous. Personally, I never minded the cold.

But I don’t share any of this in hopes of attracting more tourists from nearby islands or the continent. Not that it would hurt — I’m no fisherman or hunter. Or rather, I am both, only my game and catch are the occasional tourists we receive. Our tourism is respectable; there’s plenty to see. And I’ve been so starved for company since childhood that I seized my first chance to become a guide. Had I not done so — had I not been hired by old man Crowley, who then owned the island’s only tourist agency — perhaps this entire unfortunate story would never have happened. So you see, I can’t tell one part without the other.

Crowley, unsurprisingly, was an Irishman who’d settled here in his youth — long before my time. By the time I knew him, he was a good forty-something years older than me, and so he was always, simply, “the old man.”

“Why the hell did you steal my rod, kid?” were the first words he ever said to me.

Considering I was about three at the time, some of those words seem a bit excessive in hindsight. I didn’t understand them then, though I remembered them well.

He was wrong about the rod, of course. I hadn’t stolen it — I’d borrowed it to play with. It wasn’t just any rod, either. It was a spinning rod, beautiful, with a silver reel and a line so fine it seemed spun from spider silk. I already knew the word: fishing line. And the line didn’t just wind on, it wound off — which was even more fun.

Crowley had so many rods in his collection that, honestly, it never occurred to me he’d miss the one I took. I stayed right there in the middle of his big yard, playing in plain sight. He only noticed me once I’d managed to entangle myself completely and started wailing in frustration.

Later, Crowley confessed he liked me instantly. Perhaps he expected that a screamer like me would burst into tears and flee at the sight of him. But I stood my ground, holding the rod, still turning the reel mechanically, staring up at the bearded giant who crouched beside me. I would have run, truth be told — if my legs hadn’t been tangled in the line. Seeing this, the man pulled out a folding knife. Still, I wasn’t afraid. My parents had never let me watch any films, and in my little brain, knives like that were associated with cleaning fish — something delicious, not dangerous.

He cut the line, and I was free. But I still didn’t run. By then, I’d taken a liking to Crowley. Or rather, to his smell. My father always smelled of fish and livestock, my mother of livestock and food. Crowley smelled like nothing — at least, nothing I recognized. Later, I would learn it was the scent of pipe tobacco, whiskey, and old books.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asked, reclaiming the rod and eyeing me with mock suspicion.

“Leslie,” I said — the first name that popped into my head.

In truth, Leslie was the name of a pig I’d recently come to loathe. We’d been eating him that week. I’d once played with him, back when he was a small, nearly tame piglet. But fed on our scraps, he grew big — too big — and arrogant. He stopped recognizing me, stopped grunting in greeting, and worst of all, he outgrew me. I never forgave him for that.

“Listen, Leslie,” said old Crowley as he straightened to his full height, “why don’t you do something useful, go home, and tell your mother… Actually, you know what — come with me instead.”

He took me by the hand, and I trotted obediently along behind him.

Those of you who’ve visited Frisland already know well: we don’t believe in gates, fences, or any kind of enclosures. We are people, not livestock, and see no need to keep ourselves penned in. So it was entirely Crowley’s own fault for leaving his splendid fishing rods out in the sun right at his doorstep, where any child wandering freely — as I was — might stumble across them and take interest. In our parts, a “yard” is simply the patch of ground between a house’s porch and the main road. Behind the houses, of course, are the “backs” — used for practical purposes. That’s where we keep our vegetable plots, livestock, sheds, and all that. I would never have dared venture there, not even as a child, because I learned the difference between a yard and a back lot before I even learned to speak. Entering someone’s back was only acceptable if the owners were present. Entering someone’s home? Only if you were invited. We’re very strict about that — though it saves a fortune on locks and fancy latches.

So you can imagine my shock when Crowley led me straight across his porch and into his house. From that moment on, I loved him as a kind of elder friend — and that feeling stayed with me for the rest of his life.

“Wait here, Leslie,” he said as we passed the wide veranda with its rocking chair draped in a thick knitted throw and stepped into the front hall.

Until that day, I hadn’t known a front hall could be cozy. At our house, it was just a muddy entryway cluttered with my father’s boots, buckets, shovels, and whatever else hadn’t yet made it to the sheds. Crowley’s entryway, on the other hand, greeted me with bookshelves, piles of worn magazines on the floor, a tall wooden side table with slender legs, and a massive leather ball — soft yet springy to the touch. It was that ball, stitched from mismatched scraps of leather, that completely captured my attention. Though Crowley had told me to “wait here, Leslie,” the moment he vanished into the house, I clambered onto the ball, which welcomed me with plush, bouncy embrace. I must’ve looked utterly ridiculous — arms and legs sprawled, a blissful smile on my face — because when Crowley returned, he burst out laughing.

His laugh was loud, open, and warm, and ever since then, I’ve believed that all bearded men ought to laugh just like that.

“Give this note to your mother,” Crowley said, helping me slide off the ball. He handed me a small slip of paper, which I immediately clenched in my fist, sensing its importance. “Can you get home on your own, or do you need an escort?” he added once we were back outside.

“I’ll go alone,” I muttered — just as both of us spotted my mother walking toward us, already out searching for her youngest son — me.

“Timósha!” she was calling, glancing around as she came down the road, hoping I wasn’t playing one of my favorite games: hide-and-seek at the most inappropriate of times.

When she spotted us, she threw up her hands in relief and hurried over. To my own surprise, I didn’t pull away from Crowley’s large hand. I stood still, waiting calmly for her to reach us and say hello.

“You’ve got a clever little son,” he said, nudging me gently toward her. Even when I was older and he was ancient, Crowley still called me that — son. “I was just sending him to you with a note,” he added, eyeing me thoughtfully. “So you’re Timothy, then?”

“Tim,” I corrected.

Only my mother called me Timósha. Even my father seemed slightly embarrassed by that soft Russian endearment that had entered our house along with my maternal grandmother, who had come from faraway Russia. She was the only one in the family who spoke the language, and it was she who’d been there when I was born. My mother had picked up the nickname from her — Timósha — a way of saying, I know you’ve been up to mischief, but I’m not going to punish you for it.

What followed was a conversation, the details of which I don’t recall, as I was too busy trying to make out the letters on the slip of paper in my hand. But I understood enough to realize that it no longer mattered — since my mother and the bearded old man had already spoken. That evening, I silently tossed the note into the fireplace.

The meaning of that meeting became clear at dinner, when my mother announced to my father that Dylan Crowley — our neighbor — was opening a tourist agency on the island and had invited her to work as the cook at a nearly finished tavern.

“Head cook,” she added.

“The only cook,” my father smirked, squinting as he said it.

My parents never quarreled. I can’t recall ever hearing a harsh word from him in her presence. Later, when he started taking me out fishing, oh, then I heard things I still haven’t managed to forget. But even then, his words weren’t aimed at me or his occasional companions — they were meant for the ocean, the fish, and the nets.

He didn’t believe in fishing rods. Thought they were toys. A waste of time. The catch was for market and for the winter larder — so there had to be a lot. A ridiculous amount. Most of it was made up of a splendid fish we called autumnka — known to outsiders as Arctic cisco or omul, but we, more scholarly in our Latin, called it by the second word of its name: Coregonus autumnalis.

We also prepared Atlantic cod, dried capelin (or myvva, as we sometimes called it), and froze radiant haddock, which sold well in nearby Okibar, the main city of the south. When I was old enough, we sometimes went out together — not to fish, but to hunt. No nets. Medium-sized harpoons mounted along both sides of the barque. We were after the blue wolffish — dangerous prey, but I loved it not just for its taste, but because to me, at that age, it might as well have been a shark.

As you likely know, its name comes from its fearsome teeth: rows upon rows of them — on the jaws, the palate, even the vomer bone. Nets were useless against them unless made of steel wire. Some of the ones we caught were nearly as tall as I was, and easily weighed three stone. A couple of those, and it was time to head home. Usually, though, we’d return after two nights on the water with five or six of them — earning ourselves good-natured scoldings from my mother, who had to deal with the hulking carcasses.

By the time I’d mastered the harpoon, my sister Tandri was already fourteen and helped not only around the house but also in Crowley’s growing enterprise, which — year by year — bore its humble fruit. None of our catch, big or small, ever went to waste. My mother’s complaints were more those of a wife than a housekeeper. Letting us go out alone, she knew I had to learn the ways of men, but deep down, she feared something might happen.

If anything happens to you, she would say every time I left, your father won’t survive it.

I knew I had an older brother once. I even knew his name: Galin. He died tragically. My father never forgave himself. The details remain a mystery to me to this day.

My father came to our parts from the north — from the great city of Kampa, famed for its towering ramparts, which, since time immemorial, had shielded it from sea raiders, floods, and even the rampaging forest bears that once bred in such numbers they outstripped the land’s bounty and began attacking humans out of sheer desperation. Nothing of the sort happens anymore, of course. The northerners now protect their bears, and that’s one reason they’re not exactly thrilled by our firm’s generous offers to help develop game preserves for sport hunting. I don’t blame them — but even on our little island, times are changing. Sooner or later, I expect one of their elders will bow his grey head, give a resigned wave, and we’ll open the first commercial bear reserve in all of Frisland. Everything in its own time — so long as you don’t rush it.

Now, it was a bear — yes, a bear — that unwittingly became the reason for my existence, for my sister’s, for Galin’s, and, if you trace it further, for this whole story. That very bear attacked my grandfather — my mother’s father — on a day when he, known to all as Lame Bor, set out on a lone expedition across the island. Grandfather was searching for gold. He had always been, they say, a little odd, and this time someone had whispered to him that a trading ship — either Norwegian or Canadian — had wrecked in the spring near the west coast, close to North Bay. (Why a bay on the west coast is called North Bay I’ll never understand.)

The crew, so the tale goes, survived and stayed on the island for over a week. When the steamer from the mainland finally arrived to take them back, they discovered that the man who had chartered the ship — an agent transporting some valuable cargo known only to himself and the captain — was missing. So was the cargo: a heavy chest lashed with floats on all four sides, designed not to sink in case of disaster. Needless to say, both man and chest vanished together. The fellow who told Grandfather this story was convinced that someone from the crew had done the poor man in and buried the treasure. Why there had to be treasure in the chest, no one could explain — but from that day forward, Grandfather was obsessed. He lost sleep, lost sense, and set off for the northwest coast, where the shipwrecked crew had camped.

At the time, my mother was still a young girl. She and her mother agreed to let Grandfather go only after he’d painted them vivid pictures of the jewels he would bring back if he struck gold. He never found the chest, but he did run into a bear, fresh out of hibernation and hungry for blood. And in a strange twist of fate, he came home not with treasure, but with my future father.

Or rather, my father brought him back — bloodied and half-dead. Father was en route to Okibar with a wagonload of furs, saw Grandfather near the roadside, badly mauled, and decided to make a detour. Then he saw my mother — and realized he’d arrived.

The wagon of furs turned out to be a decent dowry. Grandfather made a token fuss, as was expected of him, but couldn’t resist the tide. From the time I can remember, he always limped on his left leg. And in old age, his right eyelid drooped so low he spent his final years peering at the world through a single eye. Hence, in addition to Lame Bor, friends called him either Hephaestus — or Odin.

Odin’s wife, as everyone knows, was named Frigg — or Freya, the goddess for whom Friday is named. My grandmother’s name, however, was the old Russian Ladomila, and according to my mother, she would always insist it not be confused with the far more common Lyudmila. As I’ve said, I barely knew her. What remains in my memory is a handful of images — her carrying me along the shore, calling me Timósha, pointing far out to sea. She smiled, and I would grow sad and start to cry. Looking back now, I think she was trying to show me her distant homeland.

People end up in Frisland from all sorts of places — though not all of them stay. Our climate, while not nearly as harsh as you might imagine from a glance at the map (comparing us with northern Scotland, the Shetlands, Faroes, or even Iceland), still takes getting used to. In summer, when the air warms to twenty degrees Celsius, we southerners often swim. The water feels warmer than the air — perhaps thanks to Atlantic currents. In the north, where the currents don’t reach, the water’s invigorating at best, and northerners from Kampa often come to bask in the sun here — particularly in Okibar, or in the larger village (or perhaps small town) of Sorand just to the east.

When Crowley opened his business and built a small ferry station, he began taking folks across the narrow Anephes Strait to a nearby uninhabited island with the resounding name of Monaco. Of course, where the French put the stress on the final “o,” we prefer to punch it on the first. Monaco boasts two geysers, and you can vacation there nearly year-round.

Thanks to its geography, Frisland escaped the fate of those northern lands. We didn’t become bleak, wind-lashed slabs of rock fit only for moss and juniper. The island’s central region is blanketed with true, dense forests — no worse than those in Canada, Sweden, or the Siberian taiga. And where else would we hunt? Thanks to the trees, our soils aren’t as hopeless as they might’ve been, either. You can live here. Live well, even. But not everyone sees the beauty of our wild little corner.

The winds have blown all kinds of souls our way. I’m not even counting those who only made temporary stops. In my own lifetime, we’ve seen: a large family of Old Believers from Belarus; three wild brothers from either Libya or Lebanon; a lone Norwegian woman; an eccentric old English lord obsessed with fishing; a pair of famous German actors; and a polite rabbi from New York.

As of today, only the Norwegian woman — who found a husband — and one of the German actresses — who lost hers — have stayed. The Old Believers, misunderstood and offered no support as “conscience refugees” (a phrase they somehow believed carried legal weight), sailed farther west. The Libyan brothers, perhaps thinking they could intimidate everyone as they did in Europe and start something like a mafia, were promptly chopped up by our good-natured island men and fed to the wolffish. The only one they managed to scare was the English lord, who panicked, abandoned his expensive rods, and fled home in disgrace.

It’s really sad and touching what happened with the rabbi. Uri Shmukler — that’s how he introduced himself when striking up conversations right in the middle of the road — had nothing remarkable about him except for a nose that could rival our garden hoe in size. He came to the island to convert us to his faith. Since he spoke in a soothing tone, smiled more and more, and didn’t bother anyone, the people found no reason to chase him off and simply tolerated his eloquent admonitions with understanding looks and indifferent nods. Uri understood all this in his own way and kept his courage. He somehow assumed he was very much needed here, strutted around proudly carrying a worn leather briefcase under his arm, and made it clear by his very presence that he adored our island. Maybe, at first, that was true.

He settled not just anywhere but in our old house, which my father had restored after my grandfather’s passing, and my mother, following Crowley’s advice, turned into a guesthouse. I was still too young to live without my parents then, and Tandri had married Gordian, a programmer from Okibar, and moved in with him. Uri was clearly well-off, as he paid us six months’ rent in advance, expecting to fulfill his mission within that time and convert at least our village if not the whole of Frisland.

At first, he tried traveling around the south, reaching Sorand, but apparently got beaten up there. At least, he came back quickly and stayed indoors for two days nursing his bruises. The failure didn’t break him, and he went to Okibar to plead with our elders. We chuckled among ourselves, knowing what awaited him there, and were surprised when he didn’t return the next day, or after two days, or even by the end of the week.

I imagine what you’re thinking: the poor guy either drowned his sorrows in drink or was busy courting some local beauty. Let me surprise you — Uri Shmukler couldn’t have done either, no matter how much he wanted to. Simply because our island isn’t boring enough to open bars, much less let women disgrace their good names. Thanks to our collective love for solitude and peace — so much so that serious academic books sometimes compare us to medieval Japanese — we have never known such destructive things as religion, public debauchery, and democracy. We follow the commandments of our ancestors and common sense.

Our system is called by the ancient term “folkerrul”: six heads of families choose a seventh, the elder, who takes the title “septus.” Those familiar with Latin will catch “seven” and “enclosure” in that word. Six septuses select their elder, the “fortus,” a word that carries both Latin meaning of strength and the Germanic word for fourteen. Then twelve fortuses choose a “paternus,” and finally, the council of paternuses appoints elders in the island’s four largest towns: Okibar in the south, Kampa in the north, Doffais in the east, and Sanestol in the west.

Folkerrul saves us from costly expenses like courts, prisons, and police. Courts convene in family clan meetings led by the septuses, where decisions are unanimous and executed immediately, no delays or appeals. Guilty are punished, the innocent freed; nobody tries to reform or guard anyone.

As for general order in towns and villages, well, as the saying goes, “Why hire sweepers when everyone is responsible for their own trash?” From childhood, we’re taught one simple moral: don’t wish on your neighbor what you wouldn’t wish on yourself. Alongside folkerrul, this is enough for us to grow up understanding clearly what’s acceptable and what’s not.

Need I add that with such an arrangement, no religion, nurtured on human vices, takes root no matter how much you try to impose it? My grandfather told me that in ancient times, ships arrived at our island with unwelcome guests who, like Uri, wanted to offer their vision of righteous life — with shining crosses, fragrant censers, mournful chants, and calls to meekly submit to unknown gods. But unlike Uri, they came not lightly, but with a small, well-trained army whose task was to persuade our ancestors to obey the voice of their god, build chapels, cross themselves, and thereby save themselves from doom.

Our ancestors didn’t like this, but out of curiosity let the visiting priests hold a demonstration service. When those, after enough singing and tiring of speeches, offered everyone to eat a piece of their god’s flesh and wash it down with his blood, the mothers took their children away, and the fathers, armed with whatever they had, gave the guests a splendid farewell. The ships, deemed no longer necessary, were decided to be burned so they wouldn’t remind anyone of that black day, though, my grandfather said, some of our craftsmen later lamented the loss because the rigging was so good and the sails so sturdy.

As clueless kids, we used to run to the place at the edge of the field where an old mound stood, sunken with time, trying to dig up something interesting. Once I brought home a beautiful iron cross with colorful stones and immediately boasted to my father — only to be promptly smacked and forever separated from the find.

“Who are your gods?” he asked, looking down at my dirty cheeks, pleased not to see tears.

“You and mom,” I answered, as taught, sniffling.

“And who else do you need?”

“No one…”

“Well, then go do your chores. And if I find you near the mounds again, I’ll spare your palm no mercy.”

I understood my father instantly, from half a word. “I’ll spare your palm” meant that for the next misstep, I’d likely get it the grown-up way — with a belt. I got lucky back then. My best buddy Lew’s dad whipped him so hard for his cleverness that he’d grimace every time he sat down for a long time afterward.

Uri Shmukler came back after nine days — very thoughtful, a bit sad, and without his briefcase. He spent whole days sitting in front of the house or by the shore, staring at the waves, sunrises, and sunsets, talking to himself and making it clear he was ready to drown or hang himself any minute now. Since no one cared about him except maybe my mother, he didn’t actually try to end it, just vented, blew his nose properly, and cheered up. Once I caught him chatting neighborly with Crowley. They both settled on barrels decorating the dock in front of our office, and Crowley treated the rabbi to a pipe with Cuban tobacco. The weather was windless, and the dock was thick with cigar smoke.

That’s because Crowley had the habit of smoking only the tobacco he’d pick out from Cuban cigars. He wouldn’t accept any other kind. Uri coughed, smiled, but wasn’t ready to give up. They sat like that for a while, talking about nothing, until the New York rabbi got curious to hear Crowley’s opinion on his religion.

“I don’t understand,” he said, covering his nose with a scarf, “why, if we all came from Adam, are you so persistent about being different from the rest?”

“Who came from Adam?” Crowley didn’t hear well.

“Aren’t you aware?” Uri perked up. “People came from Adam. Not from monkeys.”

Crowley blew out a stream of smoke from under his mustache, glanced at his interlocutor, and clarified:

“Who created Adam?”

“Jehovah, bedavai!”

“Alright, and before Jehovah?”

“In what sense?”

“In the literal sense.” Crowley looked at me, pretending to clean the handrail of the ferry, tired of waiting for passengers. “Have you read the Torah?”

“Have I read the Torah?! Mr. Crowley, I’ve read it so much that I feel like I wrote it myself.”

“Well then, Rabbi Uri, remind me who created Adam in the first chapter of Bereshit? Adam, of course, with a lowercase ‘a,’ not the one in the second chapter.”

Uri’s nose lit up, his nostrils flared, inhaled the sea air, and quivered. It became clear that Crowley was no simpleton on the barrel he had taken him for. I stopped rubbing the handrail and recalled all those cabinets and shelves in my old friend’s house, full of books he not only collected but actually read. A storm was brewing.

“Elohim,” said Uri, waiting for the response.

“Just Elohim?”

“Just Elohim.”

“Who are they?”

“God.”

“Or gods in the plural?”

“Well, yes, gods, but the verb…”

“So, in the first chapter, gods create Adam in their image and likeness — both male and female at once. And in the second chapter, Elohim Jehovah — as you’ve been calling him since, whom Christians translate as ‘Lord God’ — creates Adam alone, from clay, and then makes Eve from that Adam. So maybe, if you think about it, in the first chapter the gods didn’t create a single human, but humanity right away, men and women, and then one of the gods — the most agile and active — when the gods Elohim on the seventh day, seeing their work was good, went to rest, made two dolls to play with, to scare, and threaten through the whole book? Ever thought about that?”

The rabbi was about to take offense but instead puffed on his pipe and, for the first time, didn’t cough. Meanwhile, Crowley continued:

“I’m a simple man, and I take what’s written literally. I haven’t read your Talmud, which picks apart the Torah, and I’m not planning to anytime soon — besides, you can’t even find all the volumes unless you help me. I stick to what’s there. And what’s there clearly says different gods created us and you. So why should we bow to your god when ours are quite enough? Especially since ours don’t need fear or prayer. They know themselves who, what, and when to help. They’re our creators, our ancestors.”

The interlocutors fell silent, and I returned to work. I knew rabbis by reputation and imagined them as crafty guys who can explain anything in a way that suits them. Why Uri Shmukler didn’t dive into a theological argument then, I have no idea. Crowley later told me no spiritual argument could happen because orthodox Adamites have no spirit. They have a soul, but no spirit.

Another time it was the opposite: Rabbi Uri started talking with me. I was on duty at the office while Crowley stepped out for a bite. When he returned, I was nearly convinced that conversion, giur, isn’t that scary a ritual and that every respectable man should go through it. As I later understood, Uri skillfully avoided the trickiest points of giur in our conversation, not mentioning the main ones. Crowley’s arrival made him tone it down, but it was clear he was on a sacred mission, as I was the first listener who didn’t immediately send him packing. Crowley shook his shaggy head.

“‘To Israel, proselytes are as grievous as a scab.’ Where’s that from, rabbi?”

“Yevamot, verse forty-seven.”

“So, you’ve taken on a cause displeasing to your god, rabbi.”

“Not at all, Mr. Crowley. The Midrash says the opposite: a true proselyte is dearer in Jehovah’s eyes than a person born a Jew.”

“You’d make a good lawyer, rabbi. Ever tried?”

“I am a lawyer,” Uri Shmukler answered without a smile.

Crowley came back, I could have gone about my business but stayed to listen to where their learned talk would lead. They started talking about proselytes in general. Is it good? Who and when should change faith? What can push a person to that? Unlike me, the rabbi was genuinely surprised by the old man’s knowledge of the history and geography of lands he never visited.

From proselytes, they moved to purity of blood in general and Semitic blood in particular. Crowley asked what kind of Semites our guest was. He said his grandparents came to the New World via Germany from Poland. Crowley sighed and asked Uri’s attitude toward Arabs. Uri shrugged.

From all this, Crowley concluded — and said aloud — that Uri was Ashkenazi and an anti-Semite. Which caused an explosion of outrage, he listened to everything that followed, and when Uri calmed down, asked:

“Do you mean Arabs aren’t Semites, rabbi?”

“They are.”

“Then what do you call those who oppress them? Not only call but constantly fight them?”

“Jews.”

“But you’re not a Jew, rabbi.”

“Oh, Mr. Crowley, why do you say that? How am I not a Jew?”

“You are a Jew, but not a Hebrew. Your ancestors, being Ashkenazi, adopted Judaism just like the Bedouins, Persians, Ethiopians, Tatars, Caucasians, and many others did in their time — those who never left their native lands before, never were expelled, and never ended up captive in any Babylon or Egypt. Tim, pass me that book over there on the second shelf from the left. No, lower, the one with the blue spine. Yes, that’s it. Here, Rabbi, read it if you want — it’s by your own historian Shlomo Sand, who clearly explains when, where, and how many people converted to Judaism without being Jewish by blood. If he’s telling the truth, it means that Palestinian Arabs are the original inhabitants of Israel. Like the ‘African Americans,’ a name made up just to hide the truth: they’re not black but the same Native Americans, original inhabitants of America and not descendants of African slaves.”

I really liked that trait of old Crowley. He never argued with anyone and almost never went into lengthy explanations of his views. If he didn’t know something, he’d just keep quiet, but if he did know, he spoke bluntly and never cared about the reaction or counterarguments of his interlocutor. They simply didn’t interest him.

After that memorable conversation, something happened in poor Uri Shmukler’s head that made him leave our island on the very first ship leaving. He was in such a hurry that he completely forgot to return Crowley’s borrowed book with the blue spine. And he didn’t head home westward but rather southeast, to Europe. People in the know said that from Europe he sped straight to Israel and almost immediately joined the ranks of fighters for Palestinian rights. Someone even claimed to have seen him on TV — tanned, refreshed, and just as long-nosed — shouting into the microphone of an Arab news channel journalist in English, urging his fellow tribesmen to listen less to rabbis and remember God more often. I don’t know what became of him in the end, whether he’s alive or not, but since then no priest nor lawyer has shown up in our parts.

This telling story, if you haven’t forgotten, distracted me from telling you about Ladomila, my Russian grandmother and my mother’s mother. She met the lame Bora not just anywhere, but in Berlin, in the final days of the war. He wasn’t lame then, of course, was upright and made an indelible impression on the young translator. By the way, unlike her — the first graduate of the Moscow Military Institute of Foreign Languages — my grandfather ended up at the front quite by accident. You could say it was a misunderstanding. One of the US cruisers escorting the Atlantic lend-lease convoy entered the Anephes Strait and anchored there for three whole days while the crew repaired a partially fallen-off cheek keel. The part was obviously not critical for the ship, but since it hadn’t completely fallen off, the remaining piece seriously hindered maneuvering. Grandpa was always curious and in his youth quite reckless. So, without telling his parents, he, along with some new sailor friends who told him lots about ocean sailing, got into a boat and went aboard the cruiser, fully confident that after spending a few hours and seeing such an interesting vessel, he would safely return to shore. What he saw on the cruiser — especially the crew’s hospitality and the unusual alcoholic drinks offered to the brave guest — got grandpa so drunk that he fell asleep right in the steering compartment, and when he woke up on the hard iron floor from the shaking, noise, and rocking, he found that his beloved Frisland was already far astern.

The convoy’s destination, to which grandpa’s cruiser was assigned, was Murmansk, but as often happens when something goes wrong, nothing good can be expected. Pushing their ship, the Americans overestimated its capabilities and overheated the engines. While they were crawling along the German-occupied Norwegian coast, they were spotted and attacked from the air. Here grandpa liked to tell how he personally shot down a diving Junkers-87 bomber with a semi-automatic Garand rifle, although I suspect that’s unlikely and his shot just coincided with a lucky hit from a deck gun. Anyway, the attack was successfully repelled, and grandpa’s new friends considered him a real hero and welcomed him into their American brotherhood. Meanwhile, the cruiser’s command received a radiogram that the main convoy had completed its mission and was departing Murmansk in the opposite direction. Continuing the journey made no sense, so the cruiser anchored in neutral waters to wait several days for the others.

During that time, Grandpa became deeply absorbed by the idea of a world war and decided to participate in it at all costs. Probably his desire was so strong that, when the cruiser was already moving in the convoy’s fairway, the radio operators received orders from the high command to change course and head toward the shores of Great Britain, where at that time an Allied squadron was being formed. To top off the troubles, an unprecedented storm even for those northern seas arose in the North Sea, and as a result, the ship was pushed westward into Danish waters. Denmark, having lost two soldiers trying to resist occupation, hastily surrendered to Germany, and by the time of Grandpa’s story, six Wehrmacht divisions were already quartered there.

Although Frisland always maintained strict neutrality everywhere, neither interfering in others’ affairs nor allowing anyone to interfere in its own, Grandpa could not count on being escorted out with fanfare from the country when captured by the Germans along with the American military. So when their cruiser engaged in an uneven fight with coastal batteries of the diminished descendants of once freedom-loving Vikings, he armed himself once again with his trusty rifle and stood shoulder to shoulder with his new brothers in arms.

The cruiser was hit, began taking on water rapidly, and started sinking. The surviving brave men jumped into lifeboats and headed for shore. What followed was something like a miniature version of the famous Normandy landing on D-Day. Under a hail of machine-gun fire, they barely managed to reach the gentle shore, where they could only hide behind sand dunes. Only then did the bold realize that fate had brought them into the enemy’s clutches. Having lost half their team killed and unable to help the wounded, they decided to surrender. Or rather, while they were deciding, trying to outshout each other and the buzzing bullets, the ship’s cook tore off his white coat, tied it to the rifle barrel, and stood upright, waving it around. The riled-up Danes managed to shoot at him a couple of times but only wounded him in the leg. In the end, just over two hundred of the five hundred crew members surrendered.

They were placed in two large barns and guarded around the clock, awaiting further orders. And since the war was already nearing its inevitable end, no definite instructions came from headquarters. The Americans themselves divided into those urging others to wait and believe that they were valuable prisoners and would definitely be exchanged, and those who were sure they’d eventually be disposed of. Grandpa belonged to the latter. He wasn’t known for much patience, if you haven’t guessed.

On the third or fourth night, they got rid of their ropes, found a hatch in the floor, and began escaping one by one. No one wanted to stay anymore, so the escape stretched out, many got out, they were noticed, firing started again, and from then on everyone was on their own. By that time, Grandpa had disarmed one of the guards and was able to return fire. For some reason, the Danes were afraid to pursue him. Together with a friend, he jumped onto a motorcycle with a sidecar and took off wherever their eyes led them.

The fuel lasted just long enough to reach the nearest town called Tønder. Since the motorcycle was military, the German garrison initially took them for their own, that is, Danes. Of course, the deception was quickly discovered. They had to raise their hands again and surrender to the mercy of the machine gunners. The Germans behaved more peacefully this time. However, they executed Grandpa’s friend — apparently because he was caught in American military uniform and tried to play the hero, as if saying, “Don’t touch me, or Uncle Sam will show you hell.” Grandpa was tall by nature, and there was no uniform for him on the cruiser, so he always remained in the clothes he had fled home in.

The Germans never figured out who he was but understood he was neither Russian nor American. They took pity on the young and green recruit. Moreover, when they killed his friend, Grandpa certainly didn’t sit idly by and tried to stop the execution, for which he got shot in the side. The wound was through-and-through, and he lost a lot of blood, but there was a hospital nearby, and Grandpa was sent there.

The hospital was located near the local airfield and served evacuated SS officers from the front. Grandpa spent several quiet days there, pondering what to do next. At the same time, he got acquainted with his bed neighbor, who spoke English fairly well. From their conversation, he understood that he was taken for either a Swede or a Dutchman — in short, almost one of their own.

One of the last days in the hospital Grandpa remembered very well. It was April 29, 1945. In the morning, he saw from the window how a just-landed Junkers with a black-and-white cross on the fuselage was turning on the runway. The entire local general staff immediately surrounded the plane, standing at attention. It was clear that someone important had arrived. Three men, three women, and a German Shepherd got off the plane, and the gathered crowd saluted and shouted something in unison. The newcomers were led away somewhere, but after a while, one of them — charming, with a beautiful voice and unhurried manners, accompanied by a whole retinue — entered the hospital.

Those who could jumped up, raising their hands in greeting, but the guest made a sign to calm down and then spoke passionately for about fifteen minutes. The neighbor later explained to Grandpa that this was Admiral Karl Dönitz, Supreme Commander of the German Armed Forces, authorized to negotiate with the Western Allies until the unconditional surrender pact was signed. After finishing his speech, the speaker moved among the beds, shaking hands with the wounded. He shook Grandpa’s hand too. What Grandpa remembered was the sad eyes, thin mustache, and large palm.

Immediately after that, all the arrivals got back on the plane and flew west. Thus, my grandfather, without knowing or intending it, personally met Adolf Hitler. Whom, as everyone knows, was found the next day, April 30, dead by suicide in the bunker. However, shortly afterward, his burned corpse was found with his wife in a trench in the park by the Chancellery. The Soviets took the suicide corpse to Moscow for examination, where it later disappeared. The burned body was examined by the Allies, although there was nothing to examine besides teeth, and all archival data on this subject were destroyed by Hitler’s personal physician on April 20, right after Hitler’s birthday.

The same man who shook Grandpa’s hand the day before clearly did not look like someone who would shoot himself in the forehead or bite down on a cyanide capsule the next day. Besides, the course of his Junkers was clearly not back south but rather toward Spain. These doubts are what Grandpa shared with my grandmother when he met her a month later in Berlin, while she naively, like everyone else, rejoiced that the war was over and the main enemy had been defeated. She only believed him when in mid-July at the Potsdam conference her then-idol named Stalin insisted that Hitler had escaped. He said exactly: “perhaps to Spain or Argentina.” But that, of course, is a whole other story. At that Danish hospital, Grandpa was only thinking about how to escape once again.

The first week of May witnessed great changes in continental Europe. The Danish and Norwegian regiments, thrown to defend Berlin, were brutally defeated, and on May 2 their bloodied remnants surrendered. Former German allies, having avoided death in that capacity five years earlier, now hurried to pretend that all this time local resistance had clenched its fighting fist in their countries. If at the end of 1944, they say, Denmark had about 25,000 underground fighters and partisans, by May that number had doubled. And if the first figure is hard to believe, the second Grandpa felt personally when one dawn in Tønder he woke to the crack of gunfire and militant shouts: the Danes — very likely the same ones who had fired at their cruiser from the shore — now turned on the former German comrades-in-arms and began destroying them house by house, squad by squad.

The Dane turned out to be Grandpa’s neighbor in the hospital bed. Just the day before, he had been cheerfully shouting in German and pretending to be one of them in the hospital, but now, seeing how things were turning out, he got hold of a weapon somewhere and didn’t even spare the orderlies tending them — except, of course, the locals. Grandpa didn’t like any of this, but the choice was between life and death, so he was forced to join the Danish “brave ones.”

By evening that same day, the airfield was captured, and by morning the first American plane landed on it. Gradually, more and more forces gathered here, ready to move into Germany under the stars and stripes. Grandpa joyfully recognized some — miraculously surviving sailors from his cruiser, freed from captivity and sure that he had also had a rough time. He modestly kept silent about the handshake with the Führer.

It ended with all of them being assigned to the 94th Motorized Rifle Regiment and sent first to Lübeck and then to Hamburg. Both cities left an indelible impression on Grandpa because of the scale of destruction. Especially Hamburg. Especially in the Eilbek park area, which was completely untouched, even though just a stone’s throw away the stones of multi-story buildings were melting from the heat. How that was possible, and what was actually dropped on the city, Grandpa never managed to find out.

In Hamburg, he was planning to board an American ship and leave this European idiocy for home, but then another wartime oddity happened — Grandpa was awarded and given a rank. The award was American, called the “Medal of Honor,” and was an inverted devil’s star, on which the goddess Minerva was driving away a man with snakes with her shield, while in her other hand she held a bundle with an axe in the middle — the Roman fasces, from which Italian fascism came. To top it off, the medal was attached to a light blue ribbon with thirteen white stars embroidered in the center.

Grandpa wanted to refuse such a gift, but he was explained that it was one of their highest awards for courage and heroism “above and beyond the call of duty.” Grandpa felt no duty, but in his youth, he was proud that serious generals had recognized him as one of their own. There was, in fact, only one general. Moreover, he was either the father-in-law or brother-in-law of one of the sailors Grandpa saved when they stormed the coastal dunes after the failed landing under Danish fire. Grandpa himself did not remember that episode, but Patrick Duffy, as the guy was called, swore he owed his life to Grandpa. They were about the same age and had become friends on the way to Murmansk, so Grandpa raised no objections.

Perhaps even more than the award, what impressed him was the rank — captain. Patrick also got it, but he had been a junior lieutenant on the cruiser, so his promotion to naval lieutenant, equivalent to an army captain, seemed natural, whereas Grandpa, in essence, wasn’t even a private. Not to mention that he wasn’t even American.

When Grandpa told this story, he first frowned, then smiled slyly, and finally declared that war was primarily chaos. Be that as it may, the award, rank, and new uniform did their job, and the young native of distant Frisland set off with the regiment further into German soil, toward his unknown fate — who appeared to him in the form of a beautiful blonde and very serious girl with the sweet name Ladomila.

He didn’t fall in love at first sight but at second. The first glance wasn’t great because, having reached the defeated capital on the very day of the surrender signing, the Americans, overjoyed that no one would be shooting at them anymore, celebrated all night, got excessively relaxed, caused a riot, chased their offenders, and ended up in the Soviet occupation zone. Neither side had a numerical advantage, but Grandpa later gave credit to Russian fists and always cited his grandmother’s kin when talking about “real men.”

Bruised but satisfied, the Americans were hauled to one of the Soviet commandants’ offices, where the next morning a displeased commander in a suspiciously clean gymnastyorka showed up to investigate. A translator came with him. Grandpa wanted nothing more than to sleep and drink, so his first impression of the girl was something murky and untimely. But she had a pleasant voice, and he obediently answered all questions until he realized he was in serious trouble — the commander suspected the Americans of deliberate provocation. Moreover, several of his subordinates received serious injuries in a fight, and all signs pointed to Grandpa as the culprit.

Grandma remembered this interrogation very well. She also remembered her first impression of this “simpleton,” as she put it, who had no idea what was going on, didn’t smile like the other Americans, and just muttered something sullenly. He didn’t try to excuse or justify himself but told everything as he remembered it. In the eyes of her commander, he buried himself headlong. A foreigner, certainly one of the allies, but the commander was politically savvy and understood that today’s allies would tomorrow become ideological enemies. For him, besides the color of his own life, no gray existed.

After the interrogation, she was present at his report to higher-ups and was seriously frightened by what she heard. Of course, Grandma was young, hadn’t been through the whole war, barely smelled gunpowder, this was her first assignment after graduating from the institute, and she naively believed that a good person should act guided not by ideology but by justice. You don’t choose your bosses, but no one forbids you to have your own opinion about them and act accordingly.

I don’t know the details, but that same evening the Russian translator boldly returned to the now sober prisoners and, in the presence of guards who didn’t know any foreign languages, announced that things were bad and that they could easily be sent to Moscow to build Gorky Street. Maybe she exaggerated, but on the other hand, she was very displeased when during a conversation on the switchboard the commander twice repeated that the Americans were in his unit’s location illegally and that no official requests had yet come from the American side. The signing of the surrender did not at all mean the end of hostilities. People disappeared and would continue to disappear without a trace. Who had proof that these Arkharyovtsy were not German collaborators and didn’t try to deal with the members of his strictly politically supervised unit? No one. So they had to be taken into custody and sent off to make an example.

Deeply shaken, the Americans understood this and asked if really no one from their command had realized anything yet. Grandma didn’t know, but she hadn’t been involved in any phone calls or other negotiations in English. Besides English, of course, Grandma spoke German well. One of the prisoners remembered the phone number of their unit’s headquarters. Grandma wrote it down just in case, knowing she was unlikely to be able to use it.

The next day, her boss was summoned to a meeting in Lichtenberg by Colonel-General Berzarin, acting as the first commandant of Berlin until his soon after ridiculous death in a motorcycle accident. The translator wasn’t needed, and Grandma, taking a risk and using her official status, entered the office and made the call. In this recklessness, she resembled Grandpa.

By calling the Americans, she effectively signed her own sentence. Later Grandma said that, driven by righteous impulse, she sincerely did not realize the full gravity of her misstep.

The meeting with Berzarin was still ongoing when American leadership suddenly stormed the commandant’s office, with jeeps and full parade gear, to rescue their comrades. While Grandma was translating the tense negotiations, it became obvious to her how dangerous the situation was becoming. The arrivals said they had received a call, and she translated that “information had come in.” The officer in charge was no fool; he gave Grandma a suspicious look, and she realized that things could easily end in a tribunal.

Grandpa was present during all this but understood little and saw nothing, already unable to tear his fascinated gaze away from Grandma.

In the end, they were freed, put in jeeps, and taken back to their unit, but Grandpa felt something — some call either from outside or from deep inside his restless chest — jumped off the vehicle and ran back. He didn’t think of rescuing anyone, just wanted to see once again that amazing, as it seemed to him, creature.

By that time Grandma’s boss had already returned from the meeting, feeling conflicted. It turned out Berzarin had also received a call. The American command had raised a fuss about the self-will of the Soviet “comrades,” and Grandma’s boss became the scapegoat for what Berzarin angrily called “self-will.” Then came a second call, this time from the American headquarters, with thanks for promptness and understanding of the situation.

Berzarin relaxed, took back his harsh words, and praised the vigilant employee. In the end, it turned out Grandma simultaneously let her boss down but did the right thing.

While he locked himself in the office to think over what to do, Grandma, full of guesses and fearing the worst, saw Grandpa through the window. Something stirred in her chest; she ran to meet him, and since then, they never parted.

It must be said that by then Grandma’s connection to her homeland was little more than a civic duty, since among relatives she only had a disliked elder brother left there, who early in the war, as a qualified engineer, got a “reservation” and relocated with the factory somewhere beyond the Urals, deep in the rear. Their father was a career military man who died in the Finnish campaign near Lake Tolvajärvi. Grandma never knew her mother, raised instead by her grandmother.

It’s quite possible her affinity for Grandpa came from sensing in him a kind but firm masculine core, and he occupied in her mind simultaneously the roles of father and brother.

They walked from the Soviet commandant’s office to the American occupation sector in the southern part of the city on foot. No need to hide: both had all documents in order, and in the chaos of those days, patrols paid more attention to uniforms and smiling faces than to worn papers.

Still, after arriving at the unit and collecting their pay from the previous day, Grandpa first took his new acquaintance to a ready-to-wear shop, and Grandma changed into civilian clothes for the first time in a long while, looking even better. Now she could easily pass for a German if needed.

Staying in Berlin was pointless: they had probably already been noticed, and if not found in the eastern sector, it would be guessed that she was hiding with the Americans.

Grandpa told his superiors he was going to marry, got a leave pass, and took Grandma westward, toward Hanover. He didn’t just take any car, but a popular convertible “Adler Triumph” from the last production year, ’39, which, by his own admission, he borrowed from the staff garage. I don’t think he just borrowed it, since he never really intended to return from leave.

Twenty-five horsepower carried them swiftly down the deserted roads of the ravaged country. Sometimes Grandpa pushed it to eighty-five kilometers per hour, making Grandma widen her eyes and laugh happily.

Having put a safe distance between them and Berlin, they suddenly realized they didn’t know why exactly they were heading to Hanover. Since the city was taken by the Americans, Grandpa knew the situation there was no better than in Hamburg: the center was bombed out, no place to live, and no hospitality to expect from locals.

They decided to reach the first large settlement, assess the situation, rest if possible, and then turn north.

Soon they met a river that turned out to be the Elbe, and on its far bank stretched the vast field of lonely stone ruins — Magdeburg. Confused, they drove a bit further and were stopped by a patrol. Three soldiers in Soviet uniforms blocked the way.

After establishing that an American officer was traveling in the German car with a silent lady, they only checked Grandpa’s documents, nodded knowingly, and let them through without fuss.

From the conversation of the locals, Grandma gathered that the entire eastern (nearest) part of the city was occupied by the Russians, the western by the Americans, but both were waiting for the British to take control of these lands.

Staying in the Soviet zone was, to put it mildly, unsafe: although the command had tightened punishments for unruly behavior, Grandma often heard how war-heated and enemy-hating soldiers quietly dealt with anyone who seemed suspicious — especially German women.

They had to either go further to the Americans or turn onto rural roads northward. A decisive factor in their choice was one important circumstance: the Adler Triumph drank ten liters of gasoline every hundred kilometers, so fuel was relentlessly running out.

In the American zone, Grandpa was welcomed warmly, taken for one of their own as usual. Just in case, he showed the leave pass to the commander of one of the units and asked where to refuel and spend the night.

Grandma continued to play the part of a well-speaking German woman, rightly thinking that if you cover your tracks, do it thoroughly.

They filled a full tank and gave them two jerry cans; they didn’t charge Grandpa a cent, saying “use the trophy fuel, brother, while it lasts.”

They were offered a “royal” night in a separate room on the second floor of a half-ruined club. The evening was spent in the company of officers, though somewhat apart.

Both wanted privacy, but human closeness gave confidence. It felt especially valuable after someone shared a story that, according to locals, a gang of marauding Germans had appeared in the area, who took everything not nailed down and weren’t above robbing their own.

Although Grandpa, telling all these adventures, was sitting alive and well before me, I remember how in childhood I was terribly worried when I listened to how he and Grandma eventually decided to take a risk and at dawn the next day headed further, up the map, toward Denmark — and how halfway to Hamburg, after spending a night at a farmstead, they came face to face, maybe with those same marauders, maybe others.

Together with the elderly homeowner, Grandpa began shooting back; they were surrounded and were about to be wiped out, but at the noise of gunfire, the English arrived from a neighboring town and captured the marauders.

Among them, the homeowner recognized his own son with horror, who, shortly before, had received his own death notice. The young man was clearly not himself, but the old man begged the English — through Grandma — to spare him and release him to his loving family.

How this drama ended, Grandpa never found out.

He gifted the Adler Triumph to the commander of the corps that saved them, who in turn provided the young couple with papers of trust and train tickets to Calais, which had recently become French again.

The journey by train through half of Germany and Belgium was not very pleasant but was faster and safer than by car. The steam engine smoked constantly, iron carriages rattled, it was hard to sleep or even talk properly; all that was left was to look out the window and dream of returning home soon.

Their fellow travelers were mainly wounded English soldiers and several Frenchmen who had been prisoners of war in Germany.

Grandma remembered that despite all hardships, everyone was upbeat, joking, and laughing.

As I later learned, she herself was not in the mood for merriment, since out of nowhere a terrible toxicosis began, which she tried hard to hide, and when it was impossible, she blamed it on ordinary motion sickness and fatigue.

In Calais, Grandpa got tickets for the ferry to Dover, and they left the Continent never to return.

England greeted the fugitives with sun and the spirit of beer that lingered along the entire coast. New fellow travelers invited them along to London, but Grandpa rightly decided that they would inevitably get stuck there for a long time, and suggested to Grandma to hold up for a few days in Dover to figure out which way to sail to Frisland. They visited two or three pubs in the port, chatted with a motley crew of sailors, and quite quickly found out that there were two mutually exclusive ways to get where they needed: either return to the Continent, ask to board an American ship and hope it wouldn’t head straight across the Atlantic; or take a passing steamer up to Edinburgh, and from there, say, rent a boat to Lerwick — the administrative center and largest of the smallest settlements in the Shetland Islands. And there, perhaps, some Norwegian, Swedish, or Danish fishing vessel would drop anchor on the way to Greenland or Iceland.

Grandma’s toxicosis passed as abruptly as it had started, and now she was ready for anything, as long as it got her far away — from everything. When I asked her outright if she wanted to return home, she looked at me and asked back: “Why?” I never really knew the answer, and only asked because I was tired of walking with her along our beach; after such a question, she usually grew sad and hurried home.

Upon reaching Edinburgh, they stayed longer than planned. The culprit was the weather, which in those latitudes is always, alas, predictably bad. For over a week, not a single ship left the port, and crews of those arriving rushed first thing to church to give thanks for their survival. Grandpa’s money ran out. So when the storms finally eased, it was still out of the question to hire any kind of boat, as they had planned.

Grandma went to work washing dishes, and Grandpa met the crew at the port every morning, taking any day labor he could find. Hauling sacks of barley, he cheered himself and his mates by humming and whistling songs everyone on our island knows from the youngest to the oldest. They sounded like pirate shanties, but if you listened closely, they had more zest and melody. Grandpa’s voice was strong, so he sang for his own pleasure and nobody shushed him. Once, one of the managers even noticed him, called him over, and asked what strange language that was.

Our language, it must be said, really is strange, especially to English ears. For example, a simple phrase like “I have a house,” which in English is, as everyone knows, I have a house, in our tongue would be Ih hab husus. But if an Englishman doesn’t have a house, he says I don’t have a house, while we say Ih non hab husum. On the one hand, there are no articles, but on the other, it comes at the cost of mandatory case endings: to have a house — husus, to have no house — husum. They say this is because in ancient times our Frisland was settled by descendants of both Germans and Latins. So nowadays, Italians find our language familiar but too rough, while Germans and English find it quite pleasant and melodic due to the abundance of vowel sounds.

After hearing Grandpa’s explanation, the manager became even more interested. He spoke with someone, and the next day Grandpa, instead of hauling sacks, was picked up straight from work by a specially sent car, taken to a mansion luxurious by local modest standards, and introduced to a certain Kenneth Sanderson, who since 1941 had served as general director of the “Sanderson House” — a company owning a fairly large distillery.

Actually, the distillery produced whisky, which explained the barley sacks, but since the start of the war, business had gone terribly wrong, and besides, the British government demanded all liquor factories either shut down or switch to military production — meaning launching all sorts of chemical lines. Moreover, excise taxes on alcohol had been raised. As a result, Mr. Sanderson was now searching around the clock for a way to return to pre-war whisky supplies on domestic and world markets.

He openly shared all this with Grandpa and began asking about Frisland, admitting he’d always thought it was part of either Germany or the Netherlands, but not a separate kingdom-state. Grandpa realized his luck was turning and that he had to strike while the iron was hot. He described to the businessman all the charms of their island, honestly indicated its approximate population, agreed about the harsh climate, and accepted the assumption of a predominance of rugged men descended from both Vikings and Romans. He only left out one minor fact: their “rugged men” are indifferent to alcohol, preferring to get drunk on life itself. But Mr. Sanderson, clearly used to drawing conclusions and making decisions on his own, didn’t ask…

In the end, Grandpa was removed from loading work for the entire following month and brought so close to the company’s management that he underwent full instruction not only in the technology of producing authentic Scotch whisky but also in its commercial side — marketing, sales, reporting. He didn’t object for obvious reasons: the end goal was a voyage straight from the port of Leith to the shores of Frisland on a cargo ship loaded with crates of the famous Old World VAT69 brand, blended, as he now knew for sure, from nearly forty different malt and grain whiskies.

If the new product happened to please his fellow countrymen, well, he would become the first and main seller of this fiery drink; if not — no matter, at least he’d soon be home.

Mr. Sanderson turned out to be truly enterprising, and soon a fairly capacious general-purpose cargo ship entered the docks for loading. It was time for Grandpa to get nervous. He realized that if such a vessel dropped anchor in their port, and even if they managed to unload it, it was unclear where to store so many crates. Of course, whisky doesn’t spoil and doesn’t even age in glass bottles, but who would drink it there? It didn’t take a genius to guess that instead of joy at returning home, there would be a huge international scandal.

Grandpa worried so much that he shared his doubts with Grandma, who finally brightened up after so many hardships. She advised him not to delay until the last moment but to be honest with Mr. Sanderson.

The Scotsman listened carefully but just laughed:

“Do you really think I didn’t foresee all this, brother?” he said. “We chartered our vessel all the way to Halifax, Nova Scotia. The captain has ten days to decide how much to unload on your island. After that, he must move on. Don’t worry, old Bor! Now I see I wasn’t wrong about you. By the way, I looked into your homeland and know how to solve another small problem.”

“What problem?” Grandpa asked warily.

“Payment for the whisky, of course. You don’t have pounds, dollars, or crowns there, right? You basically don’t have proper money, do you? I understand you still prefer barter — goods for goods.”

“Well, not necessarily…”

“I know, I know! That’s what I’m talking about. So I’d rather agree upfront that I won’t measure my whisky in herring or even skins. I want to make it clear from the start that I’m interested only in gold.”

And indeed, on our island instead of, or rather, as money, gold bars of various sizes are used. There’s one gold mine on the east coast, managed by the elders of Doffais, who oversee extraction and introduction of new “drops,” as we call them, into circulation. All bars are stamped with their original weight and circulate at nominal value. They used to be weighed every time, but gold, as you know, is a soft metal and wears down fairly quickly, so the weight doesn’t always match the stamp.

We’re used to treating the bars carefully, rarely taking them out of safes, and everyone usually has something that might be needed by neighbors. So we trade fish for honey, knives for dresses, skins for fish. Sounds primitive, I know, but when you don’t aim to be “the richest,” money is a measure of value, not a means of making a fortune.

The wealthy among us are those families who live in good houses for several generations at once. Any lonely bachelor, no matter how much they have, will always feel incomplete and strive primarily to be useful so people don’t look askance at them.

If an outsider is hired for work here, they’re usually offered several payment options. Many agree to work for a share of the harvest, catch, or the like. Some are glad to be allowed to eat with the others and have a roof over their heads. If you’re a master of your craft and the best there is, then your hands quite literally may be worth their weight in gold.

Grandfather figured there would be problems with the goods from the Scots, but he kept quiet about it. His main goal was to get home, and after that — whatever happens, happens. The important thing was that he wasn’t deceiving anyone; Mr. Sanderson was aware of the possible risks and consciously took them, relying on the quality of his whiskey, and he, Bor, would of course help him as much as he could, with strength and guts. He even remembered that he knew someone from Doffaise who could provide him protection with the local gold owners.

Finally, the long-awaited day came when the ship, its hold pleasantly smelling of wooden crates, left the peeling dock and set course from Firth of Forth straight north, towards Aberdeen. The voyage along the shores of Albion went surprisingly smoothly and successfully; the North Sea and the Arctic Ocean seemed to take a break. Grandfather only remembered one thing from it: grandmother’s confession that she was pregnant.

The news quickly spread throughout the crew. By that time, grandfather was again considered a crew member, just like on the cruiser, as if the land ordeal had never happened. The captain decided to mark such an important event in any man’s life in a friendly way and generously opened two crates of precious cargo himself, spending the entire evening behind an improvised bar in the galley, treating all the sympathizers. Unlike his Scottish sailors, he was from Liverpool and probably felt like an outcast himself, which is why he sympathized with grandfather, who, in his opinion, could easily have stayed in beautiful England but didn’t, choosing to return home at all costs. The captain’s name was Griffin Cook. He was a true English gentleman, smoked a crooked pipe, swore exclusively in literary language, knew his business perfectly, and drank only on occasion. These occasions, however, the voyage provided in abundance, so grandfather never saw him sober. The captain was one of those men whose age is hidden behind a beard, gray hair, and weathered dark skin. On deck, he acted like a forty-year-old, but in the wardroom he spoke with such knowledge of life and dignity that he seemed seventy. With grandmother, the only lady on board, he was notably gallant, while he often patted grandfather on the back, calling him nothing but “sonny.” The captain had children somewhere, and a wife too, but he loved sailing so much and was so used to carrying out Mr. Sanderson’s orders that, despite some detachment and cultural loneliness, he couldn’t imagine himself dropping anchor for good.

“Do you know, Bor, what I want most in the world?” he asked, hugging grandfather’s shoulders while they stood by the railing, gazing at the passing shore. “To go out on the porch of my shack overlooking the Mersey, be silent, and watch the barges loading at Albert Dock. Have you ever been to Liverpool, sonny?”

Every time, grandfather admitted he hadn’t, and every time Captain Cook pretended to have forgotten and later asked again. At the celebration of my grandmother’s pregnancy, he allowed himself to drink a little too much and got so emotional that he spent the evening telling grandfather the story of his turbulent life, only briefly checking the route since they had already entered the Pentland Firth and were rounding the northern tip of Scotland before starting the home stretch past Sula Sgeir. According to the captain, he had dreamed of the sea since he was a young lad, and as soon as the chance came, he followed his elder brother to the academy, where Liverpool boys were made into military officers. Their father, a professor of physiology at the local university and the embodiment of its motto, was upset, but the older brother chose to become a ship’s doctor, softening the blow somewhat. As for young Griffin, in his youth he didn’t understand why one should serve in an army where one had to heal, not kill, people, and he went wild. That’s how he ended up on ships rescuing English troops from the angry Boers in the Cape Colony at the very south of Africa. A year later, he was among the brave souls who, under Admiral Seymour’s command, landed at the roadstead near Tianjin and marched on Beijing to ensure the safety of Europeans in the Chinese capital. After spending several more years sailing between China and Japan, Captain Cook, then a senior midshipman, was transferred to the other side of the world and seriously considered tying the knot with some beautiful Argentine woman. Not quite. Who could have guessed that World War I would catch him even here, far from the warring Europe, near the Falkland Islands? It turned out the German command decided to take the initiative and cut off British Pacific and Atlantic communications. Vice-Admiral von Schlee’s cruiser squadron on November 1, 1914, sank an equal enemy squadron off Chile’s Cape Coronel, thus accomplishing the task of gathering British forces in this region, distracting them from the European theater. Von Schlee himself was ordered to break back to Germany. Luck disoriented the admiral so much that on the way he tried to attack the British base Port Stanley in the Falklands.

“Picked the wrong target,” said Captain Cook, puffing on his pipe and rubbing the tobacco down with his thumb, laughing. “We had two light, two battleship, and three armored cruisers, plus another battleship. And that was against their two battleships, three light cruisers, two transports, and one hospital ship. Von Schlee just didn’t expect that, and we gave him hell. When we blasted them with all guns, the Germans soiled their pants and tried to run. We chased after them. They scattered. We split up too but didn’t lose them. I was on a battleship, so we got one of their armored cruisers. Took care of it easy. Our guys also damaged another. In short, we sank everyone except the Dresden and the hospital ship. We could have convinced them too, but let them go so there’d be someone to tell our story.”

“And von Schlee?” asked grandfather.

“He perished on his flagship, the Scharnhorst.”

Griffin Cook served several more years in the Falklands. There he met his fate, which was not a fiery Argentine woman but a modest English girl, sister of his friend, who had come to visit her brother after their parents died and stayed to work in the medical unit. He was transferred back to England as a lieutenant commander. Years of nearly peaceful family life followed, spent on setting up a home, raising his wife and children, writing articles for the Liverpool Daily Post about war and sea — in short, he might have been written off for retirement if not for a trip to Northern Scotland, to the InverGordon base, coinciding with the military minister’s order dated September 12, 1931, cutting salaries across the board. Understandable — the Great Depression, Labour government, the deceitful slogan “equality of sacrifice,” and all that. But in the end, senior officers lost 3.7% of pay, juniors 7.7%, and sailors a full 25%. They couldn’t stand such “equality” and three days later mutinied at the base. It was a real mutiny. The first to refuse to go to sea were sailors from the battleship Rodney. In protest, they arrested their own officers. Captain Cook was next in line on the cruiser Norfolk. But he said he posed his jailers an uncomfortable question: what now? They didn’t know, so he suggested writing a proper manifesto, which he took on with enthusiasm once the ropes were removed. The manifesto turned out worthy and was approved by all rebels. The main idea was a call for the government to reconsider the pay cuts. The government responded with demagogic pleas that led nowhere. Tensions grew. Rumors said other naval bases might soon join InverGordon’s mutiny. Eventually, two days later, demands were reviewed and accepted. No blood was spilled, sailors were satisfied, but Captain Cook was reported to higher authorities, summoned to the ministry, and left a pensioner, albeit a deserved one, without losing his ranks. Civilian life proved stingy, and the once-fighting captain began seeking new ways to use his knowledge. Then World War II started. Captain Cook spent much of it in Liverpool docks, training youth. In 1943, fate brought him together with the same manager as grandfather’s. That manager had just arrived in Liverpool looking for a captain and crew for a new merchant ship of the Sanderson House. He hadn’t quite assembled a crew, but the captain fit the bill. This was already his second voyage to America.

When they entered open waters, the weather deteriorated sharply, and for about two days grandfather couldn’t talk to the captain, whose voice now came from all directions — shouting, calling, cursing, encouraging, and laughing. It was as if the heavens had opened above the ship, and a saving angel fluttered above the deck drowned in foamy breakers like an unrelenting demon. Grandmother felt sick, and grandfather didn’t leave her side, except to get provisions from the galley, though, by his own admission, he didn’t want to eat or live at such times. Still, everything passes. The storm passed. The demon folded its wings, packed its pipe with fresh dry tobacco, and visited his only passengers. He asked what kind of firstborn grandmother wanted, and when she said a girl, he said:

“So, it will be a girl.”

Then he invited both to his captain’s cabin, where the entrance was still forbidden to everyone without exception, from the tousled young sailor with a perpetually black eye to the boisterous navigator, and treated them to strong English tea with a pleasant bitterness. They talked about Russia, gold, life in one’s own home, and the different perceptions of the world typical of different ages. Grandmother was the first to notice the yellowed newspaper clipping on the wall above the bunk. The clipping was not only framed but also under glass. Almost half of it was taken up by a brownish-white photo of a middle-aged man with a wary face — the kind people have when they’re not sure if they should smile at the photographer and whether the smile will suit them. Nothing remarkable — just a man, if not for the rather strange and not very masculine clothes, a jacket and trousers quilted in small diamonds so that they looked puffed from the inside. To top it off, the jacket’s buttons were missing. Judging by the photo, it was taken on the ship’s deck. The man held onto a rope with one hand and rested his foot on a small crate. Upon closer examination, the article was in Spanish, with the headline “El hombre del otro lado.” Curious about who this was, grandfather expected the captain to say it was his son or some famous distant relative. Captain Cook just shrugged.

“It came my way back when I was stationed in the Falklands.”

“Do you speak Spanish?” grandmother asked.

“God forbid! English is trouble enough for me, my dear. Too much knowledge breeds sorrow, as they say. But I do remember what it said there. Our watchman was Spanish, and he liked to sneak a look at that little paper. What was it called…? No, can’t recall. Never mind — that’s not the point. Maybe it’s all a load of Argentinian nonsense, but I desperately wanted that man’s story to be true. Sounds like — El hombre del otro lado! The Man from the Other Side! Fantastic, isn’t it? Robinson Crusoe and Richard Byrd rolled into one glass. More tea?”

“Thank you, I won’t say no,” grandfather perked up. “So what’s the story?”

“You ever hear about Antarctica? The great icy wall at the southern edge. Smart folk say the ice there is over a mile high. Impenetrable. Some tried, though. Not long before the First World War, around 1910 or so, our Robert Scott from Davenport led an expedition there — and failed miserably. A Norwegian beat him to it — Amundsen. It was the stupidest gamble. Scott and his mates all died on the way back to their ship. Weather forecast went terribly wrong. They froze to death. Well, the Chileans and Argentinians decided to explore that land too, probably thinking there’s gold or something more valuable if Europeans sail all that way. If you’ve seen the maps, you know Antarctica juts out towards South America like an outstretched hand. We call that long peninsula Graham Land, the Yanks say Palmer Peninsula, and the Chileans — O’Higgins Land. A national hero, a revolutionary at that.”

“Also Scottish?” grandfather asked.

“Not at all! Bernardo Riquelme was his real name, though I hear there was Irish blood in his father’s veins. But it’s not about him, really, it’s about the peninsula itself. The article says that in late 1916, smack in the middle of their summer, a group of sailors aboard the Chilean schooner Esperanza picked up this so-called ‘Man from the Other Side.’ They rowed ashore in small boats to the part of the peninsula washed by currents, almost free of the usual impenetrable ice, assuming the coast was uninhabited. Then, out of nowhere, this wild, bearded stranger came running at them, shouting and waving his arms. They described his speech as strange but intelligible; he tried to explain something and kept pounding his chest, calling himself ‘Tommy T.’ You see, the journalist who wrote the article even titled it with the English word for tea — ‘Tea’ — from the eyewitness accounts. Now, I don’t know who these Chileans were or what tree they fell from, but later, when they all got back on the ship, it turned out the guy spoke a strange, yet understandable dialect of German. First thing Tommy begged for was a haircut and a shave. The photo was taken after he visited the ship’s barber. He told his rescuers he had been crossing Antarctica with several companions, who died one by one, and that he barely survived when his Geländefahrzeug — what we now call an all-terrain vehicle — fell into a deep crevasse.”

“But I thought the first all-terrain vehicle was invented by some Frenchman around 1916,” grandfather said, surprised, never one to complain about his memory.

“Exactly, exactly… What we call ATVs appeared just before the war. Your Russian inventors had a hand in it too, if I’m not mistaken. Strange, isn’t it? Anyway, the journalist goes on to describe how they, along with Tommy, returned to the coast, where he, rested and fed, led them along his tracks to show how he had lived all that time. They found a tent and several boxes of provisions. The tent was made from an unusual, very thin yet incredibly strong material, similar to his clothes. The boxes weren’t wood or metal but some kind of plastic, the sort we don’t make here because it’s too expensive. He carried no weapons. The supplies were running low; empty cans and boxes, also plastic and nearly transparent, littered the ground. What struck me most in the article was the description of plates — solar panels, apparently — that, according to Tommy, absorbed sunlight and converted it into electricity.”

“Is that even possible?” grandmother asked.

“No idea, but the journalist wrote that his informants saw those ‘batteries’ powering a flashlight and even a cooking plate. I could use one of those at home!”

“And how did it all end?”

“Well, as usual, they grilled the lad about gold and everything else he saw. Turns out he’d been crossing the icy mountains with his expedition for nearly a year. Months without sun, so even the “batteries’ didn’t help much. He was sure he lost his way because the compass behaved erratically, and he relied on the stars and terrain for navigation. At one point, he said, “even the stars changed.” The Chileans were amazed, but the story seemed mad to them. They decided to carry on with their own research, which was why they’d come in the first place, leaving Tommy T to stay on the ship with the crew while they went ashore, planning to return together to Puerto Navarino. All told, the Chileans spent nearly two weeks in Antarctica, and they concluded that previous European visitors were probably just as crazy as Tommy, because they found nothing like gold — nothing at all except ice and endless snow deserts.

That would have been the end, were it not for two last details mentioned in the article. First, the Chileans had scouts who left the main camp and went ahead to signal if it was safe for others to follow. On their final outing before returning, the scouts reportedly reached a massive crevasse in the ice, impossible to cross. Imagine their shock when, peering into the abyss, they saw a dark rectangular object trapped far below, wedged between sheer ice walls. Through binoculars, they made out the body of a gigantic automobile stuck upside down, its wheels studded with spikes. Second, when the crew, disappointed, returned aboard the Esperanza, they received news that Tommy T had vanished — vanished as if he’d never existed. He had taken one of the small boats with him. This happened after someone told him the year was 1917. From that moment, the poor fellow went completely mad, pacing the ship muttering “This can’t be…” and then disappeared. Now, look closely at the photo again. Better yet, look at the crate on which he placed his boot. I’m certain it’s one of his. It took me ages to figure out what unsettled me about the photo, then I realized — it’s the numbers.

“The ones on the crate?” grandfather squinted. “2020? So what?”

I’d bet my pipe those aren’t just numbers, but the year. The year Tommy T set off on his Antarctic expedition. The journalist missed it, but I know what shook the man when he was told he’d landed in 1916. He came to us from the future.

Now, as you can tell, grandfather remembered every tiny detail of that conversation in the captain’s cabin, but after that, he didn’t exactly avoid Captain Cook — he just had less and less to do with him, business or otherwise. Grandfather was a practical man, no time for fantasies, and when I grew up reading sci-fi books, he didn’t share my enthusiasm, advising my mother to raise a “lunatic.” But he took comfort in knowing I was reading not only Jules Verne, Conan Doyle, and H.G. Wells, but also Main Reed, Hemingway, Mark Twain, and especially our own compatriot — Ragnar Gisli Einarsson, the only one to join the narrow ranks of world literary classics. Not so much for his famous novel Stranger in Africa, but for his collection Tropic of the Equator. If you’ve read them, you’ll agree that his short stories, inspired by personal impressions, came easier to him than heavy novels about fictional lives.

Interestingly, after that forced “stowaway’ journey to Europe and back, grandfather never left our Frisland again. Though he was always drawn to distant lands, he was never interested in time travel. He believed he understood official science well enough to have his own opinions. “Imagine,” he told me, “where a time machine would end up if the Earth spins at a thousand miles per hour on its axis, hurtles around the Sun at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour, and together with the Solar System races through the galaxy at four hundred ninety thousand miles per hour? The poor time traveler would end up far, far from the spot he wanted to reach, even if he tried to go back just a minute.” I argued and debated but admitted that calculations of such temporal shifts would have to include velocity, not just time.

Sadly, I only heard this story about Captain Cook and the newspaper clipping years after grandmother passed. I wonder how she would have told it. Alas, I never got to know her thoughts, partly my fault. But I won’t jump ahead…

The ship with the prodigal son approached the dock at Okibara just as cold northern winds began to blow. Frisland was preparing for winter, which both Captain Cook and my experienced grandfather took as a good omen. People in Europe drink much more in winter — drinks called “hot’ for a reason.

I should add that on the way home, grandmother and I spent hours discussing how to best present the exotic gifts to the elders — without offending anyone, without the Scots being humiliated, and so we might ultimately expect some profit. Grandmother was surprised anyone needed coaxing to drink alcohol since it was commonplace back home, nearly a national tradition, especially during holidays and feasts. But since such customs were lacking here, she reasoned that since it was often cold, why not explain to the elders that Scottish whisky was a perfect warming remedy, a natural medicine. You could drink it or rub it on yourself, and it improved the mood besides. Also, it was excellent for clearing the stomach in case of poisoning.

For added weight, grandfather donned his American military uniform, pinned on a medal, stepped onto the deck, and prepared for a warm welcome. The crowd at the pier was small; no music played, no flags fluttered. As I mentioned, foreign ships in our waters were rare and the locals had always regarded them warily, never quite sure whether to expect joy or trouble. Usually, formally dressed townsfolk greeted newcomers, while guards armed with rifles and cannons hid behind the fortress battlements, just in case. Some still preferred bows and crossbows.

The ship docked, Captain Cook delivered a rehearsed greeting over the megaphone, and at the end introduced the live and unharmed “Bor of the Ruvido clan,” who had returned whole from the Great War. The tribe didn’t recognize grandfather at first, but once they did, relief spread. The entire crew was invited into the town. A carriage with horses was assigned to grandfather; he placed grandmother inside, and they hurried straight to the village to visit his family. Staying in Okibara would have been seen as disrespectful — first one visits home, then roams as one pleases. Captain Cook was prepared for this and played along. More than that, he heeded grandfather’s advice not to announce right away that he’d brought a whole shipload of goods for sale. Instead, he said he was heading on to America, and had just happened to bring a new local hero along for company. This gave grandfather the chance to talk to the elders about whisky at the perfect moment, casually, so no one would suspect a trick or send them packing too soon.”

His father — my great-grandfather — was a hereditary fisherman, a man everyone on the island simply called “Avus” (Latin for “grandfather”). Until recently, I didn’t even know his real name. He was a man of many talents who lived a long, useful life. Some thought him blunt and stoic, never one to show emotions in public and always weighing his words carefully. Yet on the day my grandfather — Avus’s spry, well-built son — climbed onto that rattling cart and stood tall before him, Avus wept like a child out of pure joy. He was too overwhelmed even to punish him for disappearing without notice — as he’d once solemnly vowed to the gods he would if ever his search went unanswered.

From the moment Avus recognized my grandmother, he greeted her as “his daughter” and welcomed her warmly. And when his own daughter — my grandfather’s elder sister — learned of her true identity, Avus embraced her too, treating her as his own blood.

Seeing all bridges rebuilt and relationships mended, my grandfather prepared to return to town. He hesitated to tell Avus about his plan to trade spirits, but my grandmother insisted he be honest, and so he did. That evening, Avus listened attentively to tales of his son’s travels and battles, ending with a single question:

“How much do you think they’ll pay for a half-pint of whisky?”

My grandmother had foreseen even this; she’d brought one bottle from the ship “for a taste.” Avus sniffed it, took a sip, spat it out — and declared, “This swill could burn all flavour from a proper meal!” My grandmother gently corrected him: “Whisky isn’t an appetizer — it aids digestion and warms the soul. But you mustn’t just sniff it; take hearty gulps!”

Avus did just that. He coughed, punched his chest — then, much to everyone’s astonishment, nodded in approval. He didn’t drink again; he poured the rest out the window — but he stated firmly: “It’s no gold, but you could swap a bottle for a bucket of birch sap.”

My grandfather chuckled. If the village elders felt the same, Captain Cook would sail away empty-handed.

They spent the night, and in the morning — leaving my grandmother with the relatives — my grandfather returned to Okībar to test his luck. He shared Avus’s frank opinion with the sailors. The ship’s chief mate advised the whisky be served either before or after a meal — not mid-course — and paired with Dutch tobacco in a heather pipe, for proper atmosphere. The British crew decided to stage their tasting exactly so.

My grandfather arranged it with a local tavern. In his plan, Captain Cook and the crew would treat the town elders to a drink in honour of new friendship. A clever move. The four elders — respectable and hearty eaters, though of advanced years — came to lunch with pomp, accompanied by the town’s paternoster and several fortuses. Toasts were made, Cook smoked his pipe to create a cosy ambience, the sailors loudly praised my grandfather’s wartime heroism as if they’d witnessed it themselves, and he blushed modestly, confident he wouldn’t lose face. Dishes disappeared quickly — and then someone proposed introducing “the venerable sages to an ancient British tradition.”

First, the mate handed around brandy tumblers imported from Edinburgh — VAT 69 etched on the thick bottoms. Captain Cook explained the ritual: warm the whisky in your hand, sniff it gently, sip and savour before swallowing. They followed suit, laughed at each other, and all enjoyed it as Avus had the night before. They repeated two rounds. One fortus admitted, “My stomach pain’s vanished — since this morning I couldn’t enjoy the feast before.” In fact, he was related to the tavern owner, who’d primed him to praise the whisky. But no one suspected this then — they were all charmed by the “British tradition.”

At that, Captain Cook — backed by Mr. Sanderson — softly suggested they purchase ten, or better yet twenty casks for the town’s needs (though three dozen would have been more profitable). He offered the glasses as gifts and included a few extra bottles. When an elder asked why buy whisky at all, much less pay for it, Cook calmly said, “I’ve not offered this in the north or west of the island. If Okībar approves, you’ll be the only folks in Frisia with real Scottish whisky fit for European royalty.” At that, my grandfather feared the naive captain would be tossed into the harbor. But Cook — a seasoned seafarer and clever fox — won over the elders. They unanimously agreed to test forty-five casks, paid with gold from the town treasury, each side pleased with the outcome. My grandfather needn’t say another word. Later, when Okībar faced trouble from some townsmen taking “British traditions” too seriously, his name was spared — he remained either the eccentric runaway or a hero of a war few understood.

Eight months after my grandparents met, my mother was born — almost exactly eight months later. A healthy, surprising child who puzzled the midwives. She was named Erlina, after one of my great-grandmothers, a woman famed on our island for being elected an elder — a rare honor for a woman. Some say it was for her retained beauty into old age, others for her strength, and yet others for her intellect and wisdom. I like to believe they were all right.

Besides my mother, Grandfather had no more children — and he adored her without measure. At first, he followed in his father Avus’s footsteps, spending all his free time fishing, leaving behind memories of his Scottish companions with their crates and bottles. When they departed port, Captain Cook fairly settled accounts, handing my grandfather his rightful share of gold. I don’t know if he initially refused — it’s said he accepted only out of love for his growing family — but he eventually pocketed the purse. A couple of years later, he put those coins to excellent use: he built a sturdy log cabin deep in the forest, away from the ancestral homes, and turned it into a thriving hunting lodge, trading his father’s fishing nets for his own rifle and crossbow.

Though other relatives frowned upon this change, Avus said nothing. He understood that after the war, his son’s hands yearned not for cold fish but for warm, bleeding game. Our region is more known for fishing in the north, but my grandfather had a natural knack for hunting grouse and coastal geese. In winter he set traps for arctic foxes; in summer, he hunted wolverine and wolves. My grandmother helped in every way — she even learned how to domesticate black grouse, something no one on the island had attempted before. She hatched them herself, built pens, fed them — and soon ran the only grouse farm in the region. Buyers from Okībar came regularly for eggs and birds. Over time, my mother joined in.

She always spoke of those days with great affection. The family home, with its adjoining farm and the forest beginning right at its doorstep, felt like a fairy tale. She used to dream of fairies and kindly wizards — two of whom she met daily in the large living room, where her father, unless off hunting, sat for hours carving wood or reading thrilling books aloud. Her mother wasn’t magical in the folk sense, but she could conjure a feast out of thin air — delicious and cheerful. She knew many Russian songs — so melodious that my mother never forgot them. She sang them to me, although when I asked what they meant, she either dodged or improvised meanings that matched her mood. I regret never learning Russian; aside from my grandmother, none of us knew the language, and she passed away when I was only three or four.

Honestly, I don’t know whether my grandmother truly died, nor whether everything happened as my grandfather recounted after that tragic hunt. Only as an adult did I recall something no one else could remember except me. I never asked my grandfather — perhaps afraid to hear the truth. Even now, I feel ashamed to touch the subject. I hope I was wrong, that no one’s guilt, especially mine, lies there. But here, in brief, are the fragments I pieced together — observing a neighbor’s child darting between father and mother as I once did.

I don’t remember exactly which day it was — winter, I think, because I fell asleep by the stove and awoke to the quiet tones of my mother and grandmother talking. I feigned sleep, listening to stray words that sounded secretive. I was taught that families should have no secrets, so that night I asked my grandfather, “Is it true that Mom isn’t your daughter?”

He looked at me strangely, shook me gently, searched my eyes, and asked where I’d heard it. I answered honestly — it seemed Mom was Grandma’s daughter but not Grandpa’s, but of some “Russian commander” from her time as a translator. He patted my hair, told me I was misunderstanding — but that I was smart, and that tomorrow we’d go sledding. That was enough — I forgot the rest.

At first, nothing seemed wrong. Then Grandpa and Grandma went into the woods to check traps — a trip that typically took a couple of days. This time, he was gone longer. My mother stayed with me, and my father went searching with the others. When they returned, Grandma wasn’t with them. My father said a pack of wolves attacked, and Grandma was unfortunate. I believed she would return for years — I couldn’t imagine my brave grandfather failing to save her. Eventually, memories faded and I stopped waiting. What remained was sadness and pity — for both mother and grandfather. Decades later, watching a child play near his parents, those old fragments resurfaced.

I could never believe my grandfather wished her dead. Love and envy don’t operate that way. It must have been coincidence, fate, misfortune — not malice. Especially since his affection never changed; losing her weighed on him every hour. He loved me just as before. His voice was steady when he told me of his European war adventures — but only recently did I realize: my grandmother didn’t die in childbirth, nor at Grandpa’s hands. She’d given birth on time — but to someone else’s child. A month earlier than my grandfather. So what? If it is true, it made me no less his grandson. Blood meant little compared to closeness, care, and love. I never asked my mother a word — afraid I might fragment our family.

When Grandpa passed, there was nothing to ask — and I was too ashamed to question him then. I was unwilling to be accountable for childish curiosity, for naïve sins. But now that I share my joys and sorrows to the cold glow of the screen, no one can be hurt — and I speak with clarity and almost without shame. I lost loved ones, I lost my Frisian island, but I gained freedom and a hunger for truth — no matter how fantastic, how horrifying it may seem. And so I return to my tale.

As you may have deduced from the ill-fated preacher Uri Schmukler’s unhappy missionary career, whisky never took hold here. When Captain Cook and his crew returned from Halifax and anchored again within a rowboat’s reach of Okībar, they were welcomed politely — but firmly told they could stay only long enough to resupply on food and water. The captain hoped to meet with the elders, only to find they’d been replaced — expelled for yielding to foreign spirits. During his Canada voyage, Okībar had seen drunkenness and scandal; two locals were even expelled, and the tavern nearly burned down. So the paternosters decreed: no more foreign poisons. Captain Cook did speak with my grandfather, who explained the village’s decision. He bought a few elegant arctic fox pelts for his own money, then sailed away — and we never saw him again.

I write “Grandpa” and “Grandma” without hesitation, for that’s always how I experienced them. Only recently did I calculate her age at the time she departed my life — barely touching it — and was stunned to find she was just 52. She was younger than I am now! By my current standards, she was almost a girl. But when you’re four years old, and your mother is thirty-one — she who bears authority by birth, blood, and experience — anyone born before her seems ancient.

I remember limping Bor much more vividly. He passed away the year I began working at Crowley’s office and led my first group of genuine mainland tourists to the fortress of the Doffs. Grandpa had never fallen ill, not even after that encounter with the famished bear. Yet when we embraced at my departure, he said “Farewell” instead of his customary “Bye” or “Cheerio.” He patted me on the shoulder, turned his back — and I felt the drop in his voice and the tear in his eye. Perhaps he sensed something in that moment. I, ashamed to admit, paid little heed — I was eager to be off, and thus he remained in my memory as the figure on the lawn, waving a weathered hand as our carriage rolled away.

A week later, when our return was safe and sure, I was met by my thoughtful father. He took my arm — an action I’d never known him to take — and led me to the ancient family plots. There, a fresh mound appeared, and in the air still lingered the smell of embers. We stood in silence, and then I went to the inn where our tourists lodged and dined — and where my mother, despite everything, still ministered to them. In seeing her there — bustling, chatting, buoyant — I realized that my grandfather’s passing — her father’s death — had not broken her spirit. She moved with purpose, even joy. I suspect that her early encounter with my grandmother’s untimely death, for which she may have subconsciously blamed my grandfather, helped steel her heart. Had she been drowning in grief, I might have leaned in to share my suspicions — so they might ease her pain. After all, she never knew that he was aware of the secret of her birth — thanks to me. Nor that our grandmother’s death might not have been accidental… but that’s a path I cannot dwell upon.

In our tradition, we cremate our dead — “genusbring,” or “returning to the kin” — sometimes simply “croding.” We inherited the belief that our physical form is but a vessel for the soul — or rather, the eternal spark — that cannot exist here on its own. It must inhabit a body, just as a player uses an avatar in a game. Though our ancestors had no concept of virtual worlds, they grasped this intuitive truth. I learned it young — long before I ever saw a computer. Devoid of its spark, the body is merely meat and bone. But with soul within, it becomes both instrument and companion in life’s journey. Most people never suspect, for they mistake the carriage for the driver. Yet we honor our existence and those particles — atoms (from Greek “atomos,” indivisible) — which might more aptly be called “atman,” or eternal essence. Listening once to Crowley speak with Uri Schmukler, I theorized that even the biblical “Adam” — “humankind” and “earth” — may derive from that root.

For those particles to ascend, they must rejoin the subtle realms swiftly — which is what burning achieves. In earth-bound decay, the body and soul may be torn apart. For some notorious sinner, whose return to the kin was undesired, the body would be mummified and left in view but removed from daily life. I was astonished to learn that on the Continent, they do exactly the opposite — treating the bodies of the supposedly “saintly” with such lingering display. Crowley heard my fumbling objections, sighed into his pipe’s ashes, and murmured, “Tell me — did the god who taught them that and whom they worship is truly kind? Could a good god demand worshippers call themselves ‘slaves’ — and bear the cross as their burden?” I said nothing. I understood little then, and still less now. But the question remains with me.

An hour after genusbring, only ash and bone fragments remain. We scatter the ashes into the ocean; the remaining bones we place in boxes and inter in family vaults — so that memory, fed by thought, may continue to sustain the spirit. For the love we give to the departed helps their atman evolve — until, in time, it transcends rebirth and journeys between dimensions. Only then does true death arrive — a change in measure.

Now you know that I am Frisian only in part — my father’s side. For my true grandfather — the man who fathered my mother — was the Russian commandant in Berlin. No, I misspoke. My real grandfather was, of course, limping Bor. The commandant was my blood, but Grandpa was my soul. I have yet to decide which matters more — blood or closeness. At times, I feel that none in my life has been closer than Hephaestus — perhaps even closer than my own parents. He was succeeded only by Crowley — but that is a story for another time.

I have always loved my mother. As the youngest child, I received the very best. My father never disciplined me — save once, when I brought him an iron cross dug from a burial mound. Perhaps that’s why I took both my parents for granted — their love like an open gate in a fence: always there, but surrounded by walls. Grandpa and Crowley — whether by age or empathy — were closer. Maybe because I sensed their attention was not required of them, so I felt honored by their presence. Or maybe because when, in my foolishness, I revealed Grandma’s secret to him, I distanced my mother from me — I feared her wrath and curse, something I knew she could wield. I heard enough stories to fear that. So I let it lie. Grandpa may have forgotten, but for years each sharp word from my mother made me cringe, expecting exposure.

As I grew, my father became my friend. My mother — never a buddy, but her maternal love kept me from young temptations. I was always curious about girls, from as far back as I can remember. Innocent, but powerful. Why could I not treat them like the boys I knew? My sister and her friends, older and sharper, patronized me. I could not comprehend them. Yet with younger girls, I spoke familiarly, forgetting boundaries — and always paid for it. Hurt, sorrow — even suffering. And when I met someone new, I would start again, make a mistake again, learn no lesson.

Those chance encounters usually happened during my wanderings with my father across the island. I was fourteen then, having already absorbed the essential truths of school education, and he had begun to take me along more and more often. I’ve already mentioned this in passing when I spoke of the fish that dwell in our coastal waters. We’d test the harpoons, stow nets at the bottom of the skiff — though we rarely meant to use them — pack our sleeping bags, warm and waterproof, and set off, leaving the homestead for two or sometimes even three nights.

If you imagine we spent all that time just spearing bluefish, you’d be gravely mistaken. As I came to understand later, the whole business of fishing served my father as an excellent excuse to escape the domestic grind and plunge headlong into a world that ever called to him with its uncertainty and wildness. Sometimes, yes, we truly did just sail and hunt for catch. But more often — especially as winter crept near and the fish would keep longer on ice — we’d gather enough for our needs on the first day, moor along some deserted shore or, conversely, near a small coastal town, and either pass the hours by the fire in quiet talk or conceal our haul securely and head out among the locals.

In either case, it was best the household not know too much about the particulars of our voyages. I suspect my mother, though she never let on, had her suspicions — especially the couple of times we came back with no fish at all, having sold the entire lot at a neighboring market. But we returned with coin in our pockets, which helped temper any domestic inquiries. As for Tandri, my elder sister, she never vied for our father’s attention and never once asked to join our journeys. At first, the housework was more than enough for her, and later — well, later there were the suitors from Okibar, where she often went on weekends and where, eventually, she found her happiness with a man named Gordian, a clever fellow, or so everyone said, and a gifted programmer to boot.

Father was never what you’d call melancholic even at home, but during our trips he seemed to transform. He laughed more, told outlandish tales, befriended strangers with ease, flirted shamelessly with pretty women, and in general became, if not someone entirely new, then certainly someone more alive. Whether that was a worthy example to follow or not — I left that for myself to decide. I saw nothing shameful in it; my only regret was that I couldn’t pull off that same effortless charm.

Over the course of several such excursions, we gradually circumnavigated the entire island. Though I’d been to the north — my father’s native land, the fortress town of Kampa — even earlier, when one summer we made a proper family trip there, with my mother, Tandri, and even my grandfather in tow.

Now, if you’ve come to believe that island life, especially compared to the mainland, is all gentle breezes and smooth sailing, then I’ve clearly failed as a chronicler. Or perhaps I’m simply getting ahead of myself, painting too broadly without delving into the grit of our history. For that illusion of calm, our ancestors paid dearly — fighting bloody skirmishes to secure what we now call liberty and independence.

I mention this now because, at the time of our visit to Kampa, no family awaited us. My father’s parents had perished in what was known as the “War of the Two Knuts,” and he had been raised by strangers who took him in after the tragedy. By the time we arrived, only a few remained: two stepbrothers and a half-sister, all of them busy with their own farms and families, and hardly brimming with curiosity about long-lost kin. Still, courtesy demanded they share a meal with us. And so, one evening, Father gathered what old friends and distant cousins he could, threw a proper feast in his boyhood home, and filled the place with songs, dancing, and the smoky laughter of half-remembered camaraderie.

It was there that I first met a girl who, for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, instantly caught my eye. Yet in all the years that followed, whenever I tried to recall her, there seemed nothing so extraordinary about the auburn fringe or the clever green eyes. When we crossed paths again in Kampa, years later, I pretended not to recognize her. Had Father not called her by name from across the marketplace, I would have walked right by. She was the daughter of one of his drinking companions, and we chatted a bit, idle and polite. Truth be told, I got the feeling she was more intrigued by my father than by me. That night of the party, she’d found several excuses to sneak a kiss or two, but her name — I can’t for the life of me remember it, which is unlike me.

Oh — and I realize I’ve yet to name my father. His name was Hamish. A derivative, I later learned, of the vocative form of the Gaelic Séamus, the Irish and Scottish version of James. Father said his father was named Hamish too, and his grandfather before him. I never quite understood such lack of imagination. Northerners, you know. Bound by custom. Once, it might have been a sacred tradition to pass names from father to son in this fashion, but nowadays, when I see two generations sharing the same name, I see not legacy, but affectation — men eager to drape themselves in old-world fabric and parade it for all to admire.

I’ve no quarrel with tradition, but I take issue with excess. Take, for instance, that so-called “War of the Two Knuts.”

Of course, it wasn’t truly a war — but a feud, bitter and bloody, between two Knuts: father and son. Both hailed from Kampa, and the elder was a man of considerable standing, elected more than once as sepsus — a kind of civic elder whose word carried weight. The son, however, claimed his father oppressed him, stifled him, kept him small. So he gathered a band of companions and plotted to settle the score.

Whether by loose tongue or deliberate betrayal, the plot was discovered. Vengeance never came to pass, but in its place grew something far worse — a drawn-out civil strife that tore Kampa apart. I’ve never quite pinned down the details. Each telling offers a different legend, passed down like an old coin, worn at the edges. But the outcome is indisputable: the city became a furnace, a crucible of rage and suspicion where passions flared like in some medieval vision of Hell, and more and more innocent lives were consumed by the fire.

Soon it came to blades and blood. Knut the Younger was forced to flee. He found refuge, curiously close by, on the Faroe Islands. And from there — one year, maybe two later — he returned, not alone, but at the head of a ragtag company of local daredevils to whom he had promised plunder and land in exchange for their steel.

My father remembered that night with unflinching clarity. The city, wrenched from sleep by the tongues of flame and the crackle of burning timbers. Streets full of smoke and screams, and dark shapes roaming with long-handled axes, cutting down anyone in their path. He and his mother hid in the cellar; his father went out to fight.

He never came back.

After what felt like an eternity, his mother left to find him — and she too vanished. The trapdoor remained closed until late the next day, when neighbours, worried by the silence, came to check. They dragged my father out, stiff and half-starved, warmed him up, fed him. And in the morning, as he stirred in a stranger’s bed, a boy from next door clambered under the covers and chirped that both his parents had been found — chopped to pieces.

My father didn’t say a word. He punched the boy square in the nose and ran.

Not back home — what home was left? — but wherever his legs would carry him, as far from the smoking ruin of Kampa as he could manage. It wasn’t that far, in the end. His flight ended at a small farmstead within sight of the city’s once-proud walls, which had failed to shield those who believed in them. There he stayed for the next few years, working for board and bread, helping his hosts tend bees and trap fur-bearing animals.

The War of the Two Knuts passed into history.

For everyone — except him.

Knut the Elder died in his bed, respected to the end, as though he hadn’t played a part in the tragedy that tore the city apart. But my father knew the truth: his father had died defending Kampa from the Faroese raiders. So he chose not to hate the old man.

Knut the Younger was another matter entirely. Gone was the petulant youth; in his place stood a hardened hawk — as we call such men here. He had become a mercenary of some repute, drifting from war to war. And every so often, when a contract ended, he’d reappear in Kampa, strolling the markets, drinking with old friends, as if nothing had ever happened. Then, when boredom set in, off he’d go again to ply his bloody trade.

The injustice gnawed at my father. For years he held his tongue, not wishing to dishonour the family that had taken him in. But once he was his own man — strong, self-reliant, unafraid — he came, one evening, to the house where Knut the Younger was known to lodge.

He waited for nightfall.

If you were to comb through the public records of that time, you’d read that Knut died in a fire brought on by carelessness. Guests had overindulged in foreign spirits, fallen asleep, someone knocked over a hearth, and the blaze took the house. Today, that decades-old tragedy still serves as a cautionary tale for our youth: a vivid warning against the perils of drink.

But only my father and I know the truth.

Well — he knew it firsthand. I only know what he told me.

Had my grandfather gone hunting gold a little sooner, perhaps I’d have had a hand in it too. But it wasn’t to be.

The papers omitted a curious fact: everyone escaped the fire — except the host. My father had found him in the bedroom, half-asleep, perhaps drugged or drunk. He’d pressed a hand to his throat, not quite strangling, just enough to subdue him. Then, with a pair of handcuffs he found on the bedside table — of all places — he chained him to the iron bedframe. It seems Knut had an appetite for certain games with his many admirers.

Father raised a false alarm to give the rest a chance to flee. Then he woke the man, explained why he was there, and lit fires in several corners of the room. He took a few supplies, locked himself in the cellar, and sat in the dark, listening — listening to Knut’s screams, to the footsteps, the shouts, to justice rendered at last.

The circle had closed.

When he emerged, he was a new man — one who had torn from his soul the burden of forced forgiveness.

Strangely, the fire was oddly contained. Only the bedroom burned. The rest of the house was untouched.

Years later, as we wandered through Kampa, my father pointed it out to me. The house still stands.

As I grew older, I came to realise that I not only enjoyed collecting stories like these — tales of our island life, steeped in wind and salt — but also recounting them to others. Selectively, of course. Not every scrap was worth retelling, and some were better left in peace. Least of all did I wish to embarrass anyone — especially myself. The whole truth, I’ve found, rarely does anyone any good. Mixing it with falsehood is inadvisable, yes — but in its pure form, truth must be served in careful portions, with tact and timing.

I first began testing this little life philosophy of mine on my sister.

Tandri was a sweet girl, always tried not to upset me — though I suspect she did nurse a quiet jealousy, as older siblings often do when a younger one arrives to upend the established order. A four-year age gap feels vast in childhood, a chasm. So I waited. Waited until she turned eighteen and I had crossed into that troublesome hinterland beyond fourteen.

She took after our mother — tall, slender, with a grace like the silver birch that grew behind our house. I caught up to her in height around twelve or so, but by then I was already running with the brothers of her friends. They, along with their sisters, were inveterate chatterboxes. They let slip more than they meant to, and I made a point of listening. Thanks to them, I learned a great deal — about our neighbourhood, yes, but also about Tandri in particular.

I never tattled. That wasn’t my style. But I couldn’t resist the temptation to test my knowledge, to observe how she’d react when prodded with a carefully chosen hint or insinuation. Don’t think ill of me — my jests were always good-natured, never cruel. In truth, I held the female half of our species in a kind of reverent awe, even treated them with an excess of delicacy that earned me frequent ribbing from boys my age, who had not yet been burdened with thinking too much when instinct might have sufficed.

Before she married, by my reckoning, Tandri fell in love twice. Both times, disastrously.

The first was with none other than old Mr. Crowley.

By then, Crowley was already the proud owner and operator of his own modest little tourism venture. He started by “recruiting” my mother — roping her in to oversee the kitchen operations. As you may have guessed, Crowley lived alone. None of us ever saw him with a long-term lady companion, or even a short-term one, for that matter. Most took him for a harmless eccentric, a whimsical soul who had woken up one morning and decided to start a business. In truth, it wasn’t morning at all.

It was a bitter, damp night, and he awoke from a fitful sleep, wrapped himself in a blanket, and stepped out onto the porch. The moon hung pale and smeared above the narrow strait, and there, glistening in its ghostly light, the islet of Monaco resembled a giant tortoise sleeping in the sea. The sight struck him. It struck him so deeply that he later confessed he knew, in that moment, that it must be shared with others. Perhaps it would inspire someone to paint, or write a book. But above all, it inspired him — and from that night forward, he set about making something of the vision.

Bit by bit, dream became form. A private dock was built. Agreements were struck with the island elders to build another landing on Monaco’s far side — hidden from view so as not to disturb the pristine vista from our coast. A small, ponderous ferryboat appeared, bobbing in its moorings, dependable if not exactly swift. A large loghouse rose near the dock, part tavern, part inn. My mother began vanishing for hours at a time, then longer stretches, and then Tandri joined her, and before long it was clear that, if not a roaring success, the business was at least turning a steady profit for all involved.

Crowley, for all his love of books and head-in-the-clouds musings, had no illusions. He knew that in the beginning, his patrons wouldn’t be pilgrims from the mainland but our own countrymen — visitors from other islands, especially the north. And why shouldn’t they come, he argued? To rest in peace and quiet, far from their own routines, to sunbathe, to swim. Our winters, after all, were milder here, sheltered as we were by the thick forests from the harsh northern winds.

At one point, he even managed to enlist my father’s help — just before one of our first journeys to Kampa. My father had promised to speak to some friends and former associates on Crowley’s behalf. Meanwhile, Crowley prowled the nearby town of Okibar, talking up the idea to traders and merchants, inviting them to bring their families for a holiday, or offering a cut of any income earned from guests sent his way.

Later, it turned out his arrangements went further than we’d realised. The dock wasn’t the only concession the elders had granted. Having read in one of his many mainland books how such ventures worked elsewhere, Crowley had persuaded the elders that tourism — unheard of in these parts before him — might not be grand in a spiritual sense, but was certainly lucrative. He painted them a vision: visitors spending money not only at his lodge but in the markets, the bathhouses, the taverns, the gaming halls. A rising tide that would lift all southern boats. And so, he argued, they too had a stake in his success and a duty to support him.

I don’t know all the details, but I heard his eloquence won the day. The elders opened their purses. And Crowley — well, he flourished.

He began dressing like a peacock. Always clean-shaven, neatly turned out, he looked less like a local granddad and more like a city gentleman. And not just by chance. By then I had access to more than just his veranda. I knew his books and glossy magazines came from the mainland, sent by some distant relative. Magazines about travel — yes, and those always set my imagination ablaze — but also about weapons, fishing, automobiles, cinema, fashion, fine dining, literature, and countless other things.

The texts were in all sorts of languages, most often English. And little by little, I taught myself to read them. Crowley, meanwhile, would sometimes tuck a fashionable magazine under his arm and head off to the town’s tailors. A week or two later, the results would arrive: a three-piece suit, a new waistcoat, a dashing scarf, a smart cap — whatever it was, it always came together in a way that transformed him into the very image of a gentleman-explorer, like the Captain Cook of my grandfather’s tall tales.

It was no great surprise that our Tandri fell in love. For her, it was the first overwhelming feeling of its kind — she had not yet learned to hide such things — and so, one afternoon, summoning all her courage and entirely unaware that I was quietly flipping through magazines in the shady corner of the veranda, she approached Crowley as he sat puffing on his pipe in his rocking chair and announced, quite solemnly, that she intended to marry him.

Crowley listened to her with all due seriousness, said nothing, and in place of an answer handed her one of those exquisite candies — a jewel-like sweet brought to him by some guest from the East, where they truly understand confectionery. Then he sent her off with a gentle nod and the words, “Wait for your time.”

Tandri was nine at the time.

The poor girl had no idea she’d just been dismissed.

I, of course, told no one of what I’d overheard — but I was absolutely beside myself with anticipation, eager to savour this unfolding comedy in glorious solitude.

Barely two days had passed before she returned, this time dressed up and radiant. Crowley was once again in his chair, unmoved and unhurried. But I had changed position. I was now strolling about in front of the house, quite conspicuously in her line of sight, making it abundantly clear I had no intention of leaving. The poor thing lingered hopefully, praying someone might summon me away, but when help failed to arrive, she lowered her voice and informed her would-be fiancé that she had waited long enough and had come for his answer.

Crowley bought himself time with another sweet.

And again, the hint sailed right over her head.

Now, however, I had full licence to tease my sister, and under the veiled threat of revealing her secret, I coaxed from her the reasons behind this sudden and baffling choice. Tandri explained that Crowley was “still a fine figure of a man” — exactly how our father had described him recently in a rather heated exchange with our mother — and that she genuinely liked him.

“Liked?” I spluttered. “You like him and that’s enough to want to marry him? That’s not love!”

“You don’t understand anything,” she replied, and — she was quite right.

I had expected Crowley, should she dare a third visit, to gently take her by the ear and march her home, just to impress upon the silly goose that men have more serious business to attend to. But when, a week later, she returned once more and everything unfolded exactly as before, our gallant neighbour did something wholly unexpected: he rose from his chair, kissed her lightly on the forehead, called out to me, and the three of us set off together — for the tavern.

There, it turned out, Crowley intended to ask our mother’s permission to take us both to the autumn fair in Okibar. September was coming to a close; the great island holiday — Yarnovo, our New Year’s festival — was just around the corner. Crowley, he explained, wished to bestow a small treat upon two such well-behaved children.

In truth, he ought to have asked our father’s permission, but Father was away at sea, and so Mother was left with the burden of decision. Ultimately, she yielded — besieged as she was by Crowley’s gentle insistence and Tandri’s imploring, shining eyes.

To be frank, I thought the man was making a terrible mistake. If he gave my sister even the smallest gift — some trinket, a ribbon, a charm — she’d fall for him completely, and that would be that. The situation would spiral into tragedy.

But what did a jealous five-year-old know?

Crowley knew better. At the fair, Tandri was dazzled by a veritable parade of glittering “gentlemen” in every imaginable style and age. By the end of the day, her mind was no longer on Crowley at all. From that moment on, her only dream was to return to the city again and again.

Crowley faded in her imagination.

And I? I was overjoyed.

I no longer remember what exactly Tandri received as a gift, because after that trip I was far too engrossed with my own prize — a brand-new bow, nearly real, nearly grown-up. It was perfect for shooting holes in empty tin cans, and for a whole week, until the string finally snapped, my mother lived in a state of high alert, terrified I might injure someone — or more likely, myself.

The string, oddly enough, snapped in the dead of night while I was fast asleep, so soundly I didn’t even hear my father return from his expedition. Discovering the calamity at dawn, I ran straight to him for help. But he was stormy as a thundercloud and vaguely promised repairs “at some point,” a point so undefined it might well have been never.

So I turned to Crowley.

Crowley restrung the bow using fishing line, and to be honest, it ended up better than it was before. My father, however, scowled darker than ever. I suspect he had words with Crowley after that — serious words. Not that it changed anything: I still visited the old man, and Mother still helped out in the tavern when needed.

Now, I understand that jealousy runs in our blood. My father was jealous of Crowley — jealous of the attention his wife and children gave the man — just as my grandfather had once been jealous of Grandmother’s former employer, and just as I had been jealous of Crowley over Tandri. The important thing was not that we felt jealousy, but whether we could master it.

Some of us could. Others… not so much.

I think Crowley managed to talk Father down. First, because he was never afraid of anyone and always assumed himself to be in the right. Second, because he pointed out, quite sensibly, the considerable age difference between him and Tandri — something which, in his mind, rendered the whole matter a nonissue. That argument wouldn’t hold much sway with me today, but Father must have found it convincing enough, for he dropped the matter entirely. What he did do, however, was start taking me with him more and more often, as if to say: Crowley may be charming, sure, but can he compete with journeys shared between a father and his son?

His calculation worked. My adolescence drifted away from Crowley. We kept in touch mostly through books. I would borrow one or another from his ever-expanding library and read it during our travels around the island.

As for Tandri, she fell in love a second time when she was already a grown girl of seventeen. And this time, the poor thing fell prey to my own theory — that girls are most often drawn to those who pay them no attention at all. Naturally, I had read about this in one of those clever books, but when it came up in a debate with my best friend Ljuv — the same one with whom I used to steal trinkets off corpses, if you recall — I claimed it as my own brilliant insight. After all, one must maintain the reputation of a seasoned authority in such matters, especially when vying for leadership in a group of boys.

Of course, Tandri had to pay the price.

By general agreement, the target of her “spontaneous” affection would be the newly arrived fiancé of one of my distant cousins’ daughters. The wedding hadn’t yet taken place, but the young man was already living with his future mother-in-law and spent his days in the little cobbler’s shop, bent over boots and sandals. People said he was shaping up to be a fine shoemaker, and business was growing fast — meaning Tandri would be seeing a lot of him.

He was, crucially, both skilled with his hands and easy on the eyes: tall, dark-haired, a tuft of chest hair poking from beneath the open collar of his shirt — and shy. As far as I knew, he adored his bride-to-be, kept to himself, rarely socialised beyond his customers, and had certainly never laid eyes on Tandri.

Naturally, I told my sister the opposite.

I sang her a tale of secret yearning — that the poor lad was hopelessly in love with her, tormented by the vows he’d made to another, and too honourable to confess his true feelings. Tandri listened without interruption. When I finished, she snorted, lifted her chin with queenly pride, and declared that I was a fool.

She wasn’t wrong, of course.

But I continued to watch. And sure enough, we soon noticed Tandri circling the unsuspecting cobbler like a hawk. I was ecstatic. He, true to form, ignored her completely — no doubt leading her to believe, as per my hints, that this was part of a grand strategy of noble restraint. The bait had been swallowed, and she was hooked.

It got so far that she scraped together enough coin — mostly by badgering Mother — to commission a brand-new pair of shoes from him. We boys hid behind a haystack across the street from the shop and nearly died laughing, watching the silent scene unfold through the window. I was drunk with triumph. No one doubted the plan had worked to perfection. The cobbler’s disinterest had kindled a manufactured passion.

But back at home, I got the dressing down of my life.

Tandri accused me of being utterly clueless, and worse — of playing games with things I didn’t understand. Because, as she had recently and rather shamefully discovered, the young man had no feelings for her whatsoever. No, she hadn’t asked him directly, but there are ways of knowing. His tone, his posture, that elusive thing called intuition — it all added up. Her foolish brother, the meddler and idiot, had simply got it wrong.

And the worst part? In the time it took for my deception to unravel, Tandri had fallen for him in earnest. Her heart now ached for someone who never saw her, never would, and it broke her a little. There were tears. Many tears.

But fate, as always, had a twist waiting.

By the time her order was ready — the shoes paid for, her feet measured, the pair completed — Tandri had cooled somewhat. She went to collect them, composed and smiling again. And that’s when she discovered the other side of my theory: the cobbler had changed too.

Apparently, somewhere along the way, he had started to look at her differently. Against all odds, he’d fallen for her as well.

They even managed a few secret meetings — clandestine, of course, though I knew everything. And had Tandri not already begun to move on, who knows what havoc might have erupted in my aunt’s house.

In the end, all ended well. My aunt became the cobbler’s mother-in-law after all and was soon surrounded by a whole brood of healthy grandchildren. And Tandri? She walked away with not just her first pair of heartbreak shoes, but a small collection — several of which, she claimed with great satisfaction, were gifted to her free of charge.

The only person who ever kept a steady vigil in the office was Crowley himself. Tourists came and went — sometimes a handful at once — and then Tandri and I eagerly pitched in, helping ferry visitors on the slow ferry rides to Monaco, tidying the tavern and its guest rooms, stocking up on supplies from the town. But quite often there were no tourists at all, for days or even weeks. On those quiet stretches, each of us busied ourselves with whatever work brought in a more or less steady income.

Truth be told, I liked tourists far better than hunting or fishing. My mind was always turning over schemes to attract enough of them so I could do nothing but that — and relegate everything else to a rare, pleasant hobby.

Reading those glossy magazines eventually led me to a very simple conclusion: the internet.

Undersea telephone cables had lain beneath the oceans — especially our Atlantic Ocean — since the late 19th century. Back then, they were only telegraph lines, but over time had been upgraded to telephone cables. Islanders, if the need arose, could contact a special service in Sanestol and place a call anywhere in the world. No one kept a telephone at home, of course; electricity in our villages had always been treated with a certain disdain. If you wanted to talk to someone, you saddled your horse or hitched a ride in a wagon in summer, strapped on skis in winter, and went visiting. Naturally, you sent a letter ahead to announce your arrival, and our island had long maintained a fairly lively postal system — not only through official postmen, but via any passing transport that could honestly deliver a message to the nearest post office.

So, I once read that a new form of communication was being attached to these telephone cables, called the “Internet” on the mainland.

The magazine I read this in was from two years prior, which told me the technology must be well established by now. I shared my thoughts with Crowley. To my surprise, he immediately caught on to what I was hinting at and set about making inquiries through his contacts. He instructed me to keep an eye on the occasional ships that called by and to meet their crews and passengers at the earliest opportunity to ask questions about this new invention and how widely it was used back on the mainland.

As it turned out, we were just in time — far from the rear of the technological train leaving the station, but somewhere in the middle.

When we both voiced the need for an internet connection to the mainland to attract new tourists, we learned that the elders had already been briefed on the idea but were unimpressed and withheld support. This second wave of information, however, was received with less outright hostility, so it was not immediately dismissed.

Crowley first made a wired call to his continental relative in Sanestol, who promised to send him up-to-date press on the matter as quickly as possible. Meanwhile, Crowley spoke with the local elders about rerouting a cable to us, so we could properly expand and become the island’s communication hub.

Sanestol, if you recall, lies to the west — where storms rage constantly, the Gulf Stream swirls — and it’s hardly a place to rival our southern shores for tourist traffic. Everyone knew the future belonged to the south. We promised solemnly to send our clients north to admire the mainland’s dryland sights.

Less than two years of hard work in many directions later, we had our own powerful server by the standards of the time, found some capable young men in town, and under Crowley’s and my watchful eyes created a respectable website detailing the joys of holidaying on our island.

Of course, the photographs posed a challenge: none of us had cameras, no one knew how to develop film, and we ended up sending prints to Iceland — at great expense — to be digitized and scanned. But at last, the website went live.

At a time when internet activity was just beginning, our site gradually attracted attention. Miraculously, visitors started to arrive more often. Not a dozen ships a day in the harbor, but at least one or two a week. Previously, one or two a month was considered good.

The elders grew uneasy, wondering if we had been granted too much freedom with our electronic endeavors. Not depending on the mainland, we never wanted to lose our island’s identity overnight or become a mere appendage of some distant power. Tourism was one thing, but moderation, they insisted, must be maintained. Otherwise, heaven forbid, fanatics might arrive to convert everyone to their religion, or drunks might take over the place from dawn till dusk — who needed such nonsense?

Crowley nodded his agreement with their concerns — he couldn’t do otherwise — but I could see the spark of excitement in his eyes, the hunger for more clients.

Our website was honest. Crowley and I wrote all texts ourselves, plainly stating what visitors could expect — and what they could not, no matter the cost.

As a result, those who came were generally mature folk, world-weary and seeking respite from the noise and haste of life, eager to spend quiet days in near-pristine nature among the island’s, well, somewhat grim-looking natives.

I can assure you: no one ever left us disappointed.

While we were filling out the website, a handful of rather significant events unfolded — ones I initially dismissed as trivial but which, mark my words, would shape the course of this tale. First, Tandri finally found her fate. Second, as I gathered the scattered landmarks of Frisland beneath the single roof of our site, my love for my homeland only deepened — and I began to sense the stirrings of a chronicler within me. I could almost feel the legends come alive beneath my fingertips; the sparse history breathed with newfound life, and strangers’ interest returned to me tenfold in energy and a burning desire to keep creating. No, I did not invent a single thing. That would have been dishonest — to our guests and to our island, which needs no flattering falsehoods. But I seemed to uncover in the mundane something magnetic, something that drew others in and swelled the ranks of our visitors — and the bags of coin in Crowley’s chest and my mother’s dresser.

Speaking of money: since Captain Cook and his mates arrived on our shores just after the Second World War, their presence brought at least substantial, if not startling, changes. We acquired banks. Or rather, one bank: Frisbank. A minuscule establishment by continental standards, with just two or three employees scattered among several branches across the island, but present in every key town. It served especially the newcomers, who, as you might imagine, could no longer pay in gold still circulating here.

None of the shops you might fancy would accept your crowns, dollars, or any other paper currency outright. Paper was useless to us. So the first thing you did upon disembarking was to find the nearest Frisbank branch and exchange your paper assets for our gold coins, with which you then settled all accounts.

The bank collected these paper slips into one pile, and occasionally one of its staff would board a departing ship — escorted by a couple of well-trained fighters and marksmen — and head to the mainland, either to exchange the paper for precious metals or to buy goods needed on the island.

In the end, nobody lost out, and everyone was pleased.

Over time, Frisbank earned such a good reputation that the elders entrusted it with issuing loans, a role formerly held by the Fortus councils or higher authorities. These loans, naturally, were interest-free, as the folklerul had always insisted. They were formed from the obligatory annual contributions of all permanent Frisland residents — also interest-free.

If a venture funded by these loans flourished, the bank and all contributors shared in the profits. If it failed, well, there were so many participants that the losses were negligible for each. Everyone knew exactly where their money was going and why, which inspired a strong communal desire to support the young enterprise.

Crowley, as a matter of principle, never took loans, preferring other means of raising funds, as I have already described. I suspect his Irish soul was not fond of sharing.

Personally, I would have been more open to communal money, but what boss pays heed to the opinion of a recently emancipated teenager?

I jest, of course. Crowley loved and trusted me in his own gruff, old-fashioned way — far more than I deserved. He liked my writing style. I’m sure he could have penned the site’s notes far better himself, but the old computer that arrived at our office was to him something wild and impenetrable. So I was the only one who sat at it, while Crowley read my drafts, sometimes edited, and often praised them.

He studied Frisland well but admitted he hadn’t learned enough to compose full-fledged legends, let alone lead excursions that involved traveling “on site,” guiding groups — i.e., with me — past landmarks, delivering memorable (I tried!) retellings of related events, arranging snacks at nearby eateries, overnight stays, and after some free time, either returning or moving on to the next point on our proposed route.

Such excursions, especially multi-day ones, brought us our greatest profits. Occasionally, our groups included not only foreign guests but also locals, mostly with children who seemed to enjoy my tales just as much.

I’m not telling the whole truth here — I suspect I know why.

Our island had never developed a publishing industry. Books were rarely printed for lack of demand. Life in extended families, with several generations living under one roof, allowed the young to absorb history through the oral traditions of grandmothers and grandfathers — a practice useful but not always aligned with the accepted narrative.

Take, for instance, the tale of three brothers from Doffais courting the beauty Eleanor of Sanestol. In the east, the story ran that Eleanor’s father sought only the best men for his daughter; in the west, her homeland, it was said the brothers themselves, all smitten with her otherworldly beauty, vied for her heart.

Down south, where we live, folk generally had little interest in such fairy tales. We preferred “bylinas” — heroic epics devoid of magic but full of courage, strength, and nobility.

The northerners, on the other hand, had plenty of deeply philosophical fairy tales, featuring animals and forces of nature as principal characters.

No standardization, in short.

At some point, I begged my parents to let me leave Crowley to his own devices for a while and set off across the island, speaking with the elders and collecting known legends.

Meanwhile, I managed to forge new acquaintances who later proved invaluable when it came to finding lodging for excursion groups and securing local support.

I doubt Crowley ever regretted the fishing rod his three-year-old godson had broken — because it led to our first real, man-to-man conversation.

I trust the reader has already grown accustomed to my habit of drifting away from the main storyline now and then, getting caught up in all sorts of minor details and explanations — but as someone once said, “the devil is in the details.” There’s also the saying, “If you build a trap, the beast will come running.” It was purely out of self-interest that we pushed to link Frisland virtually to the wider world — and lo and behold, this sparked a series of fascinating discoveries.

On one occasion, returning from an exploratory trip to the outskirts of Doffais — where I was fortunate enough to uncover some previously unrecorded details about the construction of the Kamp fortress — I found a young man with a meticulously groomed red beard and an almost Roman profile engrossed at my desk, working on the computer.

At my arrival, he showed neither the slightest embarrassment nor curiosity, continuing to scan the black screen and tap out a lively rhythm on the keyboard. There was no one else in the office, so I had to make inquiries myself. I cleared my throat. The stranger’s fingers froze briefly; he cast a distracted glance my way and said in a hoarse voice, “Hello,” before returning to his task as if I hadn’t appeared.

I dropped my backpack under the coat rack, slipped off my shoes, and, in thick woolen socks that muffled my footsteps, peered over the redhead’s shoulder. Across the black screen stretched long lines of greenish-white letters, numbers, and symbols, flickering like a code from left to right. Occasionally the screen went blank and immediately reappeared with an empty line and a blinking cursor, which darted to the right again, trailed by a swarm of characters typed by tireless fingers.

I had never before seen anything like it on our screen. I hadn’t even imagined someone could so easily penetrate a computer’s soul. Yet somehow, I never doubted for a second that this was exactly what stood before me — the very soul of the machine.

“I’m Tim,” I said.

“Hi, Tim. I’m Gordian,” replied the redhead, extending a hand over his left shoulder without turning around.

Here I must pause for a moment of explanation to clarify my mild confusion upon hearing that name. As you may have noticed from our place names and language — and however strange it might seem at first — long ago Frisland fell under Roman influence. That influence was, in truth, quite peculiar and left no visible trace. If you travel between Scotland and England, you can still see remnants of the stonework called Hadrian’s Wall, which legend says once separated northern Highland savages from the Roman legions occupying the English plains. But here? You’ll find nothing like it.

Still, as I mentioned earlier, our grammar draws heavily on classical Latin, with its cases replacing articles and prepositions. And no written monuments from those times have ever been found on our island. We don’t know Catholicism at all, which usually comes hand in hand with Roman influence. Yet we are absolutely certain that our ancestors must have included Romans at some point.

More than that, as fair as our folklerul is, and as equal as we Frislanders consider ourselves, it’s time to admit we’re not free from certain stereotypes. We sincerely believe that among us walk, stroke their red beards, and tap keyboards the direct descendants of those very Romans who lived here for a time and then vanished without a trace, overwhelmed by Germanic tribes who came from the east.

Those latter are called Vikings, but judging by the language they left behind, they weren’t your average Scandinavians, but rather people from the continent — possibly Britons, almost certainly Britons.

These Roman descendants are not quite sacred cows, as in India, but their resonant names and surnames inspire a certain reverence among some of us. It doesn’t mean that if your name is Gordian, your future is guaranteed and respect assured, but if you lack “that blood,” you simply cannot be called Gordian. Draw your own conclusions.

“What are you fiddling with?” I asked, noticing that the coffee maker had migrated from the kitchen and now sat within arm’s reach of the uninvited guest.

“Just tweaking some code,” he muttered, apparently guessing my thoughts, and sipped the cold coffee from a forgotten cup. My cup.

“Your site loads a bit slow, so Dylan asked me to check it out.”

I involuntarily wondered who Dylan was, not immediately realizing the guy meant Crowley. Friends and relatives were addressed by first name here; respected people, by surname.

By the way, I never shook his hand. And he didn’t notice. I stood watching the confusing shuffle on the computer screen, knowing that something was either about to be fixed or irreparably broken. Gordian typed confidently, expecting the former, while I braced for the latter.

Finally, the screen flashed and went dark.

I cursed.

Gordian slapped the desk in frustration and for the first time looked me over properly.

“What?!”

“Dead it?”

“Who?”

I pointed at the monitor, but then I heard a familiar hum and saw the screen revive with its familiar colors and greetings.

“I thought it died…”

Gordian looked at me sadly, shrugged, and got up from his chair. He was taller than me, somewhat too slender and delicate. I had no clue what to do next, and thought if he was older, he should take the lead.

And he did.

“Dylan said when I’m done, we can go grab a bite at your mother’s. You’ll take me?”

“You finished?”

“As you can see.” He leaned over the keyboard, clicked on the globe icon, and the screen filled with our familiar webpage.

“Better?”

“You’re already online?” I asked, genuinely surprised.

“Of course.”

“But you didn’t log in!”

I meant the one thing I despise most — the tedious ritual of dialing the same telephone number over and over until the modem, instead of sending Morse-like beeps, finally emits that smooth, welcoming tone signaling a connection has been made. Gordian nodded knowingly, picked something up from the table — and there it was, my poor, old modem. A box utterly disconnected from anything. “Yesterday’s relic,” he said. “You can sell it cheap to someone. Now you’ve got a direct line. That’s actually why I came. Optimizing your webpage is just a bonus. So, shall we?”

If it weren’t for the coffee cup, I might have liked Gordian. And how could I not? Here was a man just getting on his feet, someone who had found his place in life, who knew things and could do things — things quite unique for our time and, especially, this place. But that cup he left behind unwashed, just set it down by the coffee maker, wiped his lips on his sleeve, and was first to head for the door.

Just then, the door swung open, and there was Tandri — come herself to call our guest to lunch. Something was clearly off with her in his presence; she barely noticed me, her brother, whom she hadn’t seen in ages. Gordian, meanwhile, remained unfazed, chatting the whole way as if nothing was amiss. He told us about plans to open his own internet service company in Okibar — a service he claimed would soon be common on our island, not a luxury for a select few but as widespread as on the mainland and in America, where he had recently been and where he believed he’d gotten a solid technical education and experience.

The tavern called “Your Home” — simple, unpretentious, and welcoming — was run by Crowley. Now there was a man who knew how to behave! First thing, after seating us, he inquired about my trip, giving me a chance to shine in front of mother, sister, and guest as a vital part of our joint enterprise. I kept my report brief, so we were already eating dumpling soup when Gordian’s steady narration of his work began. After lunch, he left, and two days later, Tandri was preparing to leave. Mother and father reluctantly let her go. When Crowley learned this from me, he only gave a sly grin. I suspect they both guessed where this was heading — and didn’t interfere, for although no one would say so aloud, everyone dreamed in some way of linking themselves by marriage to those “Roman” names.

I once heard an even weightier reason for this reverence toward those foreign bloodlines: supposedly, somewhere in Italy — maybe even in the Vatican — they’ve stashed unimaginable treasures for a rainy day. So whatever they do, they can always afford to send their children to the best schools in the world and never know want. As for the last bit, I’m personally skeptical. On my travels, I met many bearing names like Cuomo, Manca, Romani, or Arena, who were barely making ends meet or, at best, certainly not living in luxury.

By the way, Gordian’s family bore the proud name Nardi. Six months after the events I’ve described, my lovestruck sister took a liking to him. The wedding was first held in the city, with a crowd of guests unknown to either me or my parents. I initially felt like a complete outsider — until Tandri’s turn came to toast, and to everyone’s surprise, it was Gordian who raised his glass, toasting with a very delicious blackberry cordial, “to the wonderful brother of my incomparable wife.” He said more, but I sat far enough away from the newlyweds to catch only the cheers and applause that followed. Everyone smiled at me, clinked glasses, wished health and happiness — in short, I finally found my place, and at the first chance, I sent Gordian a grateful look. He winked back.

I think that was the moment I first realized my sister was no fool. Since then, she lived almost exclusively with him in Okibar, truly became a Nardi, visited us only on holidays, and once sent me a postcard showing blue skies, green seas, white sand, and a yellow palm tree. She wrote that was the view from the window of their seaside hotel on the island of Pamalikan, part of the Philippines.

Looking at that postcard, I wondered what she meant to say — was she telling me she was happy, that I should envy her, that she missed our pine trees, or that if you were going to do tourism, it was best done out there, in the Pacific?

Of course, I’d be more than willing to drop everything and run off — be it to Pamalikan, Egypt, or Tierra del Fuego. But I simply couldn’t afford it. Our tourist season was in full swing, and another group was waiting for me, having paid Crowley for a weeklong tour of the northern fortresses.

So I stuck the postcard with a magnet to the iron board in our office, where a small collection of similar tokens from grateful clients was gradually gathering — letters and postcards arriving for any reason or none, bringing news from home — and set about preparing for the journey ahead.

In truth, the season on our island had long since stretched into every single month, leaving me perpetually in short supply. Summer brought the northerners — no need to entertain them much, except that Crowley would take the helm of the ferry himself, ferrying eager tourists to Monaco to marvel at geysers, soak in natural hot springs, and catch some sun. The elders flatly refused to sanction any permanent structures there, so only a few stayed overnight in their own tents. Crowley had to make several trips daily — good for some extra cash, but a huge drain on his time for reading and reflection.

From the continent, visitors came mainly in summer, or May, or during their own Christmas in the dead of our winter. I still say “from the continent,” even though some were Britons, proud as we are of our island home. You might think there was little to attract them at these latitudes, yet they kept coming, eyes bright with excitement, eager to glimpse the lands their ancestors had long ago set out for — not out of choice, but driven by hunger or war. That became part of their history, and like us, like all people in this world, they needed to know and cherish their story.

Once, an elderly lady stayed with us, following the trail of her famous ancestor, William Bradford — the very man whose name, if you recall, opened this tale. She was refined and touching, eager above all to find the house where Bradford had spent the night. I felt sorry for her and wanted to help, so I asked my father. He admitted he had no idea where the future governor had lodged — if he ever set foot on land at all, or if he’d lived as a recluse aboard the Mayflower. More importantly, he warned me not to tell the lady about a letter signed “W. Brad.” If she found out, she’d pester until she forced it into sale. And since she didn’t have the money, I, a naïve fool, would likely give it to her out of kindness. He was right, and I heeded his advice.

With my mother’s permission, I showed the lady our ancestral home, but made sure to stress it was simply the oldest known building here — whether Bradford’s walls had ever been seen by him was God’s secret alone. The lady was touched anyway, shakily took photos with her antique camera, asked me to photograph her by the crooked porch, and left fully satisfied with what she’d seen and heard.

The next day we sent her on her way — toward the shores of the New World — and promptly forgot about her. Imagine my surprise months later when a postal notice arrived addressed to me, followed by a check for a rather handsome sum. I cashed the check at Frisbank, handed the money to my parents, and on my birthday received from my father a superb rifle — exactly like the one we had once admired in a little gun shop in Kampe. Crowley appreciated the gift when I bragged and told me I just had to learn to shoot.

I proposed a contest. I was sure the old man would refuse — never having seen him with a gun, I figured him a typical bookworm. The contest didn’t happen, though, for a different reason. Crowley rummaged around and brought outside a light Lee-Enfield rifle, which I hadn’t even known he owned — I had naïvely assumed fishing rods were the worst of it. Crowley smiled at the effect, worked the bolt, and challenged me to shoot cans at seventy paces. If I won, the rifle was mine. If he won… well, I refused. I should have accepted — I might have won. If I lost, maybe Crowley would have spared me. But I wouldn’t risk my father’s gift.

That episode made me see my friend and boss in a new light. It turned out I barely knew him, even though we’d lived next door as long as I could remember, and his door was always open to me. I didn’t even know his exact age. I just knew he was older than my parents, probably not older than my grandfather, but when exactly he was born — never crossed my mind. What I did know was where he was born: Ireland, as I said.

Once, among his books, I found a thick album, nearly empty, with a few faded photos. Strange people stared back at me, serious, no smiles. A woman in a high-necked dress sat on a chair, behind her a bearded man in a bowler hat with piercing eyes rested a hand gently on her shoulder. Beside the chair stood a short-haired boy in funny knickerbockers with suspenders, holding a small racket. I thought badminton, but Crowley explained he’d been fond of squash as a boy. That short-haired boy was him.

Another photo showed him alone on the street, in the same knickers, with a strange tower or rocket behind him. The tower was especially eerie, surrounded by crooked gravestones jutting out at odd angles. “Glendalough,” Crowley anticipated my question. “An abbey in County Wicklow where we lived. That’s the round tower — built, they say, by pilgrims returning from the East, where they saw tall minarets. A beautiful and sorrowful place.”

For some reason, I was shy to ask more then, but the rifle story stayed with me, and when the moment was right, I “accidentally” found the album again and sat with Crowley as he napped in his chair in the sun. He was still reluctant to talk, but I managed to glean some more stories from him.

His father, the man in the bowler hat, had been an active member of the Irish Republican Army, which, in the early decades of the last century, fiercely fought for independence from the English crown. As is well known, in 1921 the warring sides signed an agreement granting Ireland dominion status — a deal that inevitably split the IRA ranks. For a time, he even counted Éamon de Valera as a friend, but after the founding of the “Soldiers of Destiny” party in 1926, he grew disillusioned, seeing de Valera as little more than a planted agent from the United States who drew off the genuine fighters before laying down arms. Crowley’s father and his comrades were forced deep underground.

By the time Crowley was born, the family had been living a nomadic existence for years, forever either hiding from someone or hunting someone else. Knowing Crowley’s atheistic views, I was surprised to learn that his ancestors had been such fervent Catholics — but he just smiled and said religious quarrels were simply a convenient distraction wielded by those who seek to control world affairs, always hunting for excuses.

In truth, the real Irish never forgot how, back in the 16th century, the English began confiscating Irish lands to hand over to their settlers. Few would take kindly to that. So the Irish never welcomed their eastern conquerors. What difference did it make whether the claimant was Catholic, Protestant, Buddhist, Jew, or Muslim? Whoever came, you took up arms to defend your home. That’s what his father said, and that’s how Crowley understood his duty from childhood.

The trouble was, their family home no longer existed, and the Irish authorities — his own people — considered Crowley’s father a criminal, or as later became the fashionable term, a terrorist. Many years passed before the patriot realized his homeland was gone. His friends had vanished, though safely locked away in cells, and the idea of “homeland” had shrunk to the size of a weary family of a wife and two sons: Dylan, the elder, and Kieran, the younger.

The late 1950s brought renewed armed clashes in Northern Ireland, ending in new arrests. The brothers grew up and took part in the struggle on their own initiative, never quite clear what or whom they were fighting for. By then their father had reconsidered his views and regretted dragging his sons into such a thankless cause. He was the first to mention at a family meeting the idea of fleeing together to Frisland.

Despite their love for their country and culture, the Irish are famously ready to move at a moment’s notice. You can find them everywhere today. But for the Crowleys, a “joint” escape didn’t work out. Kieran was caught. He and Dylan were returning from a mission when they ran into an “OGSI” patrol. The mission had failed for reasons beyond their control, but both carried weapons and explosives. There was no evidence against them, and strong nerves could have saved them from trouble — but Kieran’s snapped. He fled from the shouting and shooting unionists aiming at his legs.

Dylan darted the other way and escaped pursuit, returning home at dawn to find his brother still missing. Their parents were in despair. Searching for Kieran was like voluntarily sticking your head in a noose. Crowley didn’t share the details, but I gathered they fought bitterly, and he felt accused of betraying his brother. He knew he was to blame by seniority — that perhaps he could have helped by firing at the enemy, but then they both would’ve ended up in the morgue. As it was, there was still hope.

Kieran didn’t return for weeks. Dylan, tormented by guilt and parental reproach, found no peace. Living in Belfast, in Hollywood near the docks, his search led him to overhear two drunken sailors talking about one of them leaving for Frisland in the morning and asking the other to watch over his wife. The joke made them laugh — but not Crowley, who already knew it was fate.

He left a note for his parents, confessing his mixed feelings and explaining where he was heading in search of a better life. It was cowardly, of course, but who among us in youth doesn’t think chiefly of themselves? Crowley was twenty-four at the time, which led me to guess he was born around 1933.

Leaving Ireland behind, Crowley vowed never to return — and he kept that promise. He set foot in our harbor and immediately fell in love with what he saw. Such things happen when you find yourself in a strange place but suddenly feel as if you’ve never left it.

He was utterly alone on a foreign island, friendless, penniless, with nothing but three hefty trunks filled with books. The lack of money explained the trunks. The family of a professor from Dublin’s Trinity College was emigrating to the New World with all their belongings. The professor died suddenly en route, and shrewd relatives decided to shed anything that might complicate their journey. None of the passengers or crew wanted the rich professor’s collection of old tomes — except Crowley, for whom reading and roaming imaginary worlds had long replaced Catholicism and Protestantism combined.

He offered the deceased’s family whatever he had, and soon found himself the owner of the island’s only library. In town, the treasure was of little use — he could only live in one trunk and burn the others for firewood. But then he met my grandfather, returning from the market, who suggested the young, cheerful man try his luck in our backwater.

That’s how Crowley became my neighbor when I was born.

I was curious about what happened to his parents and brother. He never saw his parents again, but they died happy — because Kieran eventually was found and returned home.

At one point, the Taoiseach, or “leader,” as prime minister is called in Ireland, issued a pardon for “prisoners of conscience,” and Kieran, who had been moved from prison to prison, somehow found himself in the Republic’s territory and was released. Kieran found a note from Dylan, kept by their mother, and wrote a letter with no exact address, which wandered the world and sat in Okibar’s post office for nearly two years.

When Crowley finally received it, his first impulse was to gather and return, but something held him back. He hesitated, postponed departure, and never changed his plans, replying instead with an invitation to his brother. Gradually, contact was restored.

Crowley came to know for certain that his parents were gone, and that Kieran had married Lucy Rose, a girl from Hollywood whom Crowley himself had once courted honorably but was rejected by her father. They already had a son, Conrad, and were considering moving to the continent — somewhere warmer and quieter.

The correspondence faltered for a while, then resumed. Kieran and his family now lived in Italy, on the Adriatic coast, somewhere between Ravenna and Ancona — in a town called Cesenatico, known for its open-air museum of old ships on a canal reportedly designed by Leonardo da Vinci himself.

They ran a proper restaurant there, popular with locals, thanks to Lucy Rose’s skill in adding a few distinctly Irish touches to the otherwise dull Italian cuisine, which pleased those tired of plain pizza and pasta. What exactly Lucy invented, Kieran never specified, but the tone of the letters suggested things were going well.

It was Kieran — and later his son — who kept Crowley connected to the wider world, supplying books and somewhat fresh newspapers as needed.

Notably, the old man never liked to talk about his private life. Perhaps his failure with Lucy Rose weighed heavier on him than he admitted. He never had a family of his own. When I was a child and naively asked if he had children, Crowley joked that he probably did — just nobody knew where.

I think Tandri was not the only one who fancied him, and his father’s jealousy over the mother wasn’t entirely unfounded. I never saw anything odd about him except his love for books and his impeccable dress. So when he died, I confess I expected at least a few heirs, if not many.

But fate had other plans — and that, my friend, is a story for another time.

Now it’s time to delve a little deeper into the geography of our island. If you glance at a map, you’ll see it resembles a stretched rectangle running north to south. The eastern side is almost perfectly straight, while the western edge sports three prominent jagged indentations. When Crowley and I first started crafting souvenirs, we used to depict Frisland as a bear in a skirt, lumbering leftward with a basket on its back. It looked amusing, stuck in the mind, and strangely enough, matched the actual contours of the coastline.

On old maps like Mercator’s — which anyone can find today — the island’s capital was named Frisland. In fact, the entire island was often labeled Frisland. The problem with such maps is that the city never existed here. That’s easy to remember since we only have seven towns — or rather, fortresses — scattered around: two in the west, two in the north, two in the east, and one, Okibar, down south. The western fortresses are Sanestol and Bondendia; in the north, Campa and Raru; to the east, Doffais and Godmer. Some say there used to be more, but I never found any proof.

The number seven also recurs in our islands. So far, I’ve only introduced you to the southernmost one — Monaco. The largest island is in the north, called Duillo. Two others, Ibini and Streme, lie off the eastern shore. The remaining three — Flofo, Leduk, and the Nameless — huddle together on the west, in the Southern Bay. Yes, you heard that right: our western coast is washed by both the Northern and Southern Bays. Who named them, I don’t know, but tourists seem to like the confusion.

In the heart of Frisland lies a dense forest, and within it stands our only mountain. Northerners call it Meru, while southerners refer to it as Hara. I once read that these names correspond to a mythical mountain said to be at the North Pole or even in the legendary land of Hyperborea, where Mercator placed it on one of his famous maps. But no, it’s right here — come and see for yourself anytime.

In our tourist program, Crowley and I originally called it Hara-Meru, to keep everyone happy, then shortened it further to Harameru. I think that’s better — no one can accuse us of inventing the mountain out of thin air or claiming it as our own.

Harameru stands tall — over two miles above sea level — and four rivers flow down its slopes, providing us with precious drinking water. The most curious among us once climbed it and discovered that it’s not four separate rivers, but four streams, all originating from a single spring at the summit. Need I add, we named them the North, East, South, and West Rivers. It couldn’t be coincidence — so Harameru and its rivers are considered sacred symbols of the divine origin of all life on Earth, and especially on our island.

Even in the coldest winters, they never freeze. Come spring, as the snow melts, they swell and flood wide, and at the lower rapids, daring souls race single and double kayaks. These events draw a lively crowd and let the lucky few earn a decent prize. Both the racers, who now compete not just for themselves but representing their towns supported by financial sponsorship, and the spectators, who are allowed to place bets during the races, make it quite the spectacle.

Neither Crowley nor I are gamblers by nature, but year after year we pitched in — first by simply reporting the races on our website, then getting hooked, eventually sponsoring prizes like free tours for the winners, and even putting our own kayak into the competition. It was painted with our colors and slogans inviting visitors to come see us.

Our kayak was a double. My friend Luv and his sister Ingrid paddled it. They did it with gusto and sometimes even won. Ingrid was small, agile, and very strong. I’d known her since childhood and at first had to tolerate her tagging along whenever I planned to go out with Luv. He’d say his parents were away and he was the man of the house, so we’d shift plans, hang around the village, and entertain her as best we could.

Later, she grew up, filled out nicely, and I began to see her differently — nothing serious, just no longer a kid in my eyes. She was actually the one who sparked Luv’s love for what’s now called “rafting” in many languages.

I tried joining them a few times but honestly, I quickly found myself lacking endurance and skill. Ingrid always sat in front, and whenever I jumped in as a third, she somehow always knew exactly where I failed — those tight turns that she and Luv handled with ease.

Soon, I gave it up, sparing both my friends and myself, and watched them from the shore instead. Though “watching” is a strong word, because kayaks fly past like arrows on mountain rapids. So spectators usually prefer to gather at the finish line, where everything becomes clear in an instant.

To somehow make up for my clumsiness and avoid looking like a hopeless oaf in Ingrid’s sparkling eyes, I proposed to Crowley the idea of sponsoring my friends and promoting our fine establishment. Oddly enough, Crowley immediately caught on and agreed. Sometimes he even encouraged me to place a bet on our kayak, and if we won, he’d throw a feast for all of us at his tavern.

By the way, it was Crowley who once asked me why I wasn’t courting Ingrid. I put on a look of genuine surprise, which the old man bought, and he went on to say that from his outsider’s perspective, the girl was clearly smitten with me. I tried to brush it off with a joke, but Crowley just shrugged, and that made me pause and take a closer look at my friend’s sister.

The old man was right: my very first tentative suggestion for a walk along the evening beach was met not with a smirk, as I’d feared, but with genuine eagerness. We sat on the docks until midnight, happily talking about nothing at all, and before the night ended, she kissed me impulsively. I tried to respond the best I could, but by then she was already gone without a trace.

The next day, we acted as if nothing had happened, but that evening she herself proposed to repeat our nightly vigil — which, it turned out, she had quite enjoyed. On the second night, though, Luv tagged along, so nothing interesting happened. But the next time, we hid ourselves away from everyone and kissed as much as we wanted.

I remember that on one of those dates, Ingrid looked thoughtfully at the sun dipping behind the horizon to the right and said quietly, “The Earth is flat, you know.”

I laughed and wrapped my arm around her shoulders. Honestly, I couldn’t have cared less whether the Earth was flat, spherical, hollow, shaped like a doughnut, or anything else. I wasn’t a scientist to ponder such nonsense. They say the Sun is 93 million miles away, but I kept wondering how, from such a monstrous distance, its rays could simultaneously create heat and summer in one place on Earth — somewhere in India — while in another, they’re so weak that it snows and ice forms.

Science offered two explanations, both sounding, at best, odd. Usually, they said seasons exist because the Earth’s rotational axis is tilted by 23.4º — or 66.6º, which, considering the total 90º, amounts to the same thing. The idea being: the closer a part of Earth is to the Sun, the warmer it gets; the farther away, the colder.

But wait, I asked my schoolteacher — whose classes I attended dutifully for years because my parents insisted — if the Sun blasted us from 93 million miles away, how could a mere thousand-mile difference cause such temperature swings? That would be like shooting a tennis ball with a flamethrower from a hundred yards and expecting the ball not to catch fire all at once.

The teacher paused, said nothing, but later returned honestly to my silly question and explained that the angle at which the Sun’s rays hit the horizon also matters. Something like: when the rays fall straight down, it’s hot; when they come at an angle, not so much.

I remember the whole class laughed this time, and I got a well-deserved F — for behavior.

“What makes you say that?” I asked, noticing Ingrid was utterly serious and didn’t react to my teasing touches.

“Look at the path of the sun,” she said.

I looked. The path was just a path — golden, beautiful, no better or worse than the tight braid of my companion’s hair. Meanwhile, she silently untied the ribbons of her blouse and, as if nothing were out of the ordinary, revealed her right breast — full and round.

“Bring me some water.”

Had she asked me then to drown myself, I wouldn’t have hesitated. I’d have run to the ocean and come back with a handful of salty moisture.

“Pour.”

I poured water over her breast. The wet skin sparkled and shone even more enticingly. I froze, not knowing what to do next. Ingrid turned her face toward the setting sun and tugged my hand.

“Look.”

Obediently, I fixed my gaze on her wonderful breast. I guessed it might be interesting and thrilling, but I couldn’t have imagined how much.

“See?”

Of course, she was teasing me. Surely this was how sirens tempt dazed sailors, and how bewitching devils lure hermits, priests, and scholars. But in this game there was a hidden meaning I was meant to unravel. I strained my eyes, staring at the living, glossy, wet orb with its dark nipple, counting the seconds and dreading the moment this miracle would end.

“No…”

“Fool.” Ingrid placed her warm palm on the back of my neck and pulled my head close so I could see what she saw. “When light falls on a flat surface, it makes a straight path, but when the same light falls on a curved surface, it makes just a spot of light. That’s what it would look like if the Earth were a sphere.”

“I want the Earth to be a sphere,” I blurted out, the dumbest thing I could have said — but Ingrid liked it for some reason. She laughed heartily and hastily hid all her beauty back under her blouse.

Those were wonderful times — perhaps the best I remember. We were young, happy, exploring the world, and believed it would last forever. Ingrid became “my girl” to everyone, which Luv accepted last of all, after our parents, but he accepted it, and we were nearly inseparable friends again. “Nearly” because Crowley, once again taking the reins of his sole employee’s fate (that is, me), decided I should head north, where local hunters had recently discovered some ancient burial site.

Ingrid wanted to come with me, but her family strictly forbade it — “respectable unmarried girls don’t do such things.”

So it goes: mythical Fate shows itself to us in the guise of perfectly ordinary people whose actions — or inaction — shape our lives more than they realize or intend. Following the well-known route, I reached Campa in two days (which anyone in the know would take as proof of how eager I was to get this mission done), spent a night in my father’s old house, and at first light pressed on to Raru, a little eastward.

There, I acted as usual in such situations: I visited the city council, introduced myself, explained about our tourist agency, handed out some gifts, and asked for details about the find so we could add it to new routes. They were surprised at my promptness but made it clear I’d have to wait — the find wasn’t actually there, but on the island of Ibini, reachable only by boat, naturally.

I understood at once: autumn was creeping in fast, and the locals were preparing for its first signs — rain and gale-force winds, when no sane helmsman would risk sailing into the jaws of the storm, especially not for some trifling business like this. They also made it clear I was on my own; though no one would hinder my search, there were no volunteers for help.

So I asked who had made the discovery and where to find these hunters, at least to talk and get details. Crowley had ordered me to scout it all personally, but I hoped to gather enough info not to get stuck indefinitely, or worse, drown trying to cross.

Thoughts of the flat Earth and Ingrid’s curves tugged me irresistibly back — but no such luck.

Once I learned about the hunters, I headed straight to their village by the bay of the same name as the fortress, where I found a sight that startled me.

A beautiful girl about Ingrid’s age, maybe a little older, was loudly crying and throwing punches at clumsy men dodging her blows, pretending not to understand what she wanted. What she wanted, I realized after listening, was for at least one of them to agree to ferry her to Ibini, where their friend — and her own father — was stranded. The storm the night before had carried off the only boat.

Her plea was clear, and the need to act obvious — but I couldn’t fathom why these deaf men not only showed outrageous indifference but even managed to smile.

The girl was nearly my height, wearing a simple village dress, her long chestnut braid tousled. I thought, if she looked beautiful even like that, how radiant would she be once she’d washed away her tears and smiled?

Sensing something and anticipating the unusual, I stepped in. I said I also needed passage to Ibini and was ready to pay generously. The word “generously” worked wonders; the girl fell silent, and the men asked businesslike how much.

I offered half of what Crowley had left me for the trip. The men said nothing.

I looked at the girl and added: The men said the storm from yesterday would surely return soon, and no fools were going to risk their lives over such trifles.

But when I added a little more, one of them broke down — the small sum turned into a reason to take the risk — and we shook hands.

The day was drawing to a close. The girl insisted we leave immediately: anything could happen overnight — frost, another hurricane — so if we were to sail, it had to be now.

I didn’t object.

Our helmsman, who gave his name as Lucas, had a fairly roomy yawl with freshly carved oars and a well-worn sail on a swaying mast — best, or rather, the only thing we could afford.

At first, the girl seemed not to notice me. She climbed to the bow, turned to the water, and only when Lucas had pushed the boat a safe distance from shore did she turn, catch my eye, and nod.

Some time later, she spoke in a voice quite unlike her earlier curses — smooth, almost low.

“What’s your name?”

“Timothy,” I answered willingly.

“And mine’s Vasilika.”

I confessed I’d never heard names like that before. I meant to say “such beautiful names,” but somehow I was shy.

“She’s unusual, that one,” Lucas interrupted roughly, grunting at the oars and clearing his throat. “Dreamed that her father’s boat was gone, and that we had to rush to save him.”

“Dreamed?”

I shifted my gaze from the smiling Lucas to Vasilika. She was busy fixing her braid. I repeated the question.

Her face showed a flicker of emotions, then settled into indifference.

“Dreamed. So what? I see things. Don’t know how, but I see. And if we hadn’t gone, something bad would’ve happened. Thank you, Timothy.”

Lucas didn’t exactly let me bask in the full glory of my heroic deed:

“I saw Bjarki the other day myself. He was fit as a fiddle, and his boat was moored by all the rules of the sea. Nobody here ties mooring knots better than your father, kid — mark my words. I taught the man myself.” Proud of his joke, Lucas chuckled into his bony fist and went on: “Bjarki’s a good lad, that one. Look at the daughter he’s got — stunning, that one. If I were younger, I’d have asked for her hand in a heartbeat. But now my old woman won’t let me go anywhere. We all love Vasilika…”

“Especially when I ask for help! And not for myself, mind you. You’re all a bunch of jerks.”

At that, the girl glanced at me again, clearly implying that those words didn’t apply to me. She unraveled her braid completely, letting her cascade of chestnut hair fall like a waterfall over her shoulders, then swiftly began braiding it again, fingers flying, silently mouthing some words. In our culture, unmarried girls don’t go around with loose hair. Little girls can — they keep their hair short to manage the length. But young women can’t cut it — their strength and allure lie in that single braid. After marriage, our women wear two braids.

I studied Vasilika’s glorious mane, half-hoping, half-fearing to find a ribbon woven through it — one that would mark her as “available.” There was no ribbon. How old was she, then?

“Is it true they found a burial site on Ibini?” I suddenly blurted, breaking the silence.

From shore, and even now after several minutes of rowing, Ibini looked like a thin strip just on the horizon. Our Monaco lies less than a mile from Okibar. In such a situation, no one back home would be worried about getting back. Here, it was different: a good five miles across, plus currents you have to constantly correct for, by at least a point of the compass, or you’d drift east. Lucas had already dropped the oars, and I helped him hoist the sail taut.

“Oh, you’re quick on the uptake!” he whistled. “You’ve heard it all already. So, where exactly are you from?”

Glancing at Vasilika and seeing that she was listening too, I tried to tell my story as fully and engagingly as possible: who I was, what had brought me to these parts, and the fact that I practically ran a whole tourist agency interested in developing Frisland, allowing me to travel extensively and forge valuable connections at all levels, including the elders of the towns — whom I often accompanied on tours for groups of tourists arriving from the mainland. Both my companions listened intently, and I didn’t regret leaving out some details — like the fact that I was the agency’s sole employee apart from its real owner, Crowley, that the elders promptly forgot my name the moment I left their presence, and that mainland tourists were literally worth their weight in gold here.

“Well, that makes sense,” Lucas concluded once I’d said enough and fell silent, furtively studying the girl’s wind-blushed face. “Only thing is, I don’t recall seeing you around here before. Or do your tourists just not like the north?”

“They love it, believe me! That’s why, when I heard about the find, I… I came to you in Raru, where I used to think there wasn’t much of interest besides the fortress. Now, if the find is confirmed, I’ll know better.”

“What do you mean, ‘if it’s confirmed’! Of course it’ll be confirmed! I saw that grave with my own eyes.”

“A grave?” I jumped in, sensing he was about to spill the whole story. “I thought it was a barrow.”

“Listen here, kid! When your cat dies, you bury it and call that place a grave. But what we found? It barely fits under ‘barrow.’ Now, hear me out — this is how it went down.” He paused, either recalling or fabricating as he spoke. “Bjarki and I, with three other mates, had cornered one fine old bear, but turns out he had a whole family. We couldn’t get to him right away and had to tail them, waiting for the old bear to finally wear out and fall. Why didn’t we just shoot him? Because there were too many others, and those bastards weren’t scared of our little popguns one bit. So, if you’re ever hunting our mountain bears, here’s a tip: shoot when they’re alone, and shoot to kill. We followed them for half a day, I’d say. The island’s decent-sized — not like your Monaco.”

“Monaco,” I nodded.

“Right… We’re all tired, no rest in sight, stomachs growling. Then we see, seems our bear veered close to the mountains, while the rest kept going along the forest edge. The mountains aren’t high, but they’re rocky. No rope or skill, no climbing there. So the bear heads there, and we follow. Suddenly, poof — he’s gone. We thought, ‘Well, that’s a joke from the clumsy one, leading us all day, then vanishing.’ We looked around and saw a narrow dark passage between the rocks. Narrow, sure, but since our wounded one disappeared there, that’s probably the way. He didn’t just fall underground, after all. So we cocked our rifles and entered the cave. A big one, echoing inside. A stream runs beneath our feet. The water’s already red — bloody. Our bear must have made it to the stream to drink and passed out. That’s where we found him, face down in the water. At first, we thought maybe the stream was poisoned, but no. The water was fine, cold even, but the wound… was no simple wound. Two barrels hit one spot, under the skin — not obvious at first glance, but upon closer look, it was a mess. God knows how he walked so far with those holes. While the men skinned and butchered the quarry, Bjarki and I moved further into the cave — never been here before, curious to see. We found another passage, and on its walls, two torches. Dead, of course, but real torches, like the ones used in the streets to keep away the dark. We exchanged looks and decided to check it out.”

“What about you guys — any lanterns?” I asked.

“Lanterns,” Lucas said after a short pause. “We walked down the passage like a corridor, the same stream burbling underfoot, but with boots on, it wasn’t a problem. We walked maybe a hundred steps, the passage twisting and turning, a long one, that. We kept looking back, not wanting to get too far ahead of the others. Finally — bam — the corridor ends, and we’re in another cave, huge, even bigger than the first. Water was dripping from the ceiling. Looking up, we saw several holes through which the sky was visible. Obviously, any snow or rain falls right in here, like an open mouth. In the middle of the cave was a whole pool — a pond, really, maybe thirty steps across. Don’t know the depth; we didn’t measure. The walls were all chiseled smooth, clearly shaped by human hands. Not all the way to the ceiling, just about human height, maybe a little higher. Beyond that, plain rock again. As if someone wanted to show off: ‘Look, we fixed nature a bit here.’ Fixed it good, too. Strange symbols were carved deep into the walls — not scratched, but carved to last for ages, all around the cave, except one spot where there was a big hollow — a niche, as Bjarki put it. And inside that niche was another stone, chiseled and long. We figured right away it was a coffin. The top had a smooth edge, like a lid covering it. That’s exactly what it was. We tried to move it, but even the two of us — two sturdy men — couldn’t budge the lid.”

“Was there anything else in that cave?” I asked.

“Cold and dampness — that’s about all we found,” Lucas said, clearly enjoying the rapt attention we gave him. “Nothing else, my friends. Except, of course, the torches again. We wandered around, studied the drawings, and then went back to our own business.”

“What about the lid?” I said, surprised. “Did you never open it?”

“Open it?” Lucas waved a hand dismissively, as if brushing away the first drops of rain. “After we finished with the bear, all five of us came back to try, try, and try again, but we couldn’t budge that slab.”

“Did you try lifting it?” Vasilika asked softly, almost coaxingly.

“Excuse me?” Lucas frowned, not catching the meaning right away.

“Not sliding it, but lifting it,” I explained, catching her drift and eager to show I could think quickly and sensibly too.

“Hell if I know… maybe we tried. If your father shows you, you try yourself, since you’re so clever. We didn’t have time for that. The cave and the coffin aren’t going anywhere, but bear meat, if not in winter, spoils fast. You know how it is. So we stayed the night, and at dawn we headed back to the boats. We went home, but Bjarki decided to hang back a bit. By the way — have you been dreaming about caves and ghosts?” He glanced over his shoulder at the girl, who pursed her lips.

“Oh, youth these days!” he grumbled. “Everything’s a vision to them, they think they know everything. What was I thinking, agreeing to sail with you lot?”

“You were paid, that’s why you agreed,” Vasilika reminded him. “By the way, can’t your boat go any faster?”

Watching her pull her hood up against the rain, I only now noticed it was coming down harder. It wouldn’t drown us, but could soak us through. Credit where it’s due: Lucas handled the sail with skill, no worse than my father — bringing it to the wind with precision, easing and trimming the wild canvas firmly and decisively. The story of the cave passed quickly, and now the island’s shoreline came into clear view. But the rain didn’t care. It seemed to challenge us to a race and suddenly poured down like a bucket emptied. I’m no stranger to rain — I’ve been drenched to the bone many times — but there’s a difference between knowing a warm home with a blazing hearth waits and being surrounded by churning waters, blasted by cutting winds, with a strange shore ahead and no shelter in sight. At that moment, only the thought of the girl — who’d chosen this fate consciously and now expected our support — kept me from despair or hysteria.

To warm up, I jumped to my feet and set about helping Lucas as best I could.

At first, he took me for a slow, dumb southerner, but I soon disproved that, getting into the rhythm of wind and sail — though I caught the sail in the face a couple of times, which only spurred me on. Before the rain could flood the deck, the first rocks appeared. Lucas cursed, tossed the rigging to me, and leapt to the stern, where an abandoned steering oar waited. Vasilika didn’t stand idle either. The daughter of a fisherman and seafarer, sensing danger, grabbed one of the oars, lay flat on the bow, and furiously pushed off the smooth sides of the looming rocks. Without waiting for orders, I pulled down the rigging I could, securing the rest with ropes, secretly chuckling at how I was giving the finger to the wind with this big wooden mast.

The tidal current caught us and swept us along the coast. Since Lucas didn’t shout and Vasilika stowed her oar and sat upright, I knew things were going as planned. But the celebration was premature. Thunder cracked. The wind by the shore died, but the rain became a solid wall. We cautiously skirted the island, looking for a safe place to land. Lucas wanted to reach their usual mooring but quickly realized the weather wasn’t right. Vasilika stood full height at the bow, waving where she thought we should dock. Lucas shouted back, “No, too deep here, and I’m not keen on swimming to shore.” She agreed but immediately started waving again, pointing out another cove.

I stood between them, ready for anything. If she’d told me to dive in and haul them ashore, I wouldn’t have hesitated. The water was everywhere — only our boots remained dry. In times like these, dry feet are everything. You can be soaked and chilled, but if your feet are warm and dry, you won’t catch a cold. Wet and frozen feet, though? No matter how you bundle up, a cough’s inevitable. Anyone living where we do knows these simple rules.

Our boat pressed on until Lucas spotted a shoal strewn with sparkling pebbles. I was already rowing hard to beach the boat as high as possible. The maneuver worked perfectly: in the end, everyone’s feet were wet, but not as badly as I feared. Driven by Vasilika’s renewed energy, we hauled the boat out fully and tied it to a nearby tree trunk. Satisfied that we had a retreat route, we ran after Lucas along the shore toward the makeshift dock and where Bjarki’s boat should be — there was nowhere else for it to be, unless, as crazy as it sounded, the dream had been right.

Warmed by the run, we soon came upon a narrow jetty with sticks poking out of the water. Or rather, I ran into Lucas, who stood frozen at the sight. Because now, with his own eyes, he saw the jetty was empty — no boat anywhere in sight. Vasilika was right.

“Where to now?” she gasped, bending double and offering her canvas-clad back to the rain’s relentless streams.

Lucas glanced around and then, with quiet confidence, led us deeper into the forest. Foolishly, I assumed we were headed back to the cave — a journey that, as I soon gathered, wasn’t exactly a stroll. Yet our guide explained as we walked that if everything our companion said was true — and he no longer doubted it — Bjarki wouldn’t have strayed far from the dock, knowing someone would come after him. At this, Vasilika let out a fierce growl and shot him a lightning glare that made Lucas flinch but say nothing.

It turned out the local hunters were as practical as any sensible folk. Half a mile from the pier, they’d long ago built a sturdy log cabin — just in case of exactly such emergencies — with a roof over their heads and a modest supply of provisions. If Bjarki was still alive, that was where he’d be. And sure enough, our approach didn’t go unnoticed. From the small cabin nestled among the pines, an unremarkable man emerged, rifle slung across his chest. At the sight of his daughter throwing herself around his neck, he deftly flung the gun over his shoulder and opened wide his fur-lined arms. For he was truly dressed for the cold, unlike us — furred and warm to the bone. His joy at our arrival, of course, was hidden behind a beard and mustache surprisingly well kept.

When asked by his daughter, he nodded and confessed he’d lost the boat through his own foolishness and carelessness, underestimating the sudden, fierce storm that had risen overnight.

Inside the cabin, I immediately noticed a solid wooden stump leaned against the wall, ropes already attached. From the look of it, Bjarki, trusting no one, had prepared to swim home if needed. The smooth stump would serve as a sort of flotation aid, preventing a weary swimmer from drowning.

Meanwhile, Vasilika animatedly recounted to her father the entire story — her prophetic dream, my timely arrival. She wisely left out the minor detail that Lucas had no intention of rescuing their friend until he was paid, but the main points were made, and the hunter’s pale blue eyes rested on me with interest.

I introduced myself briefly and recounted, as best I could, the things my companions already knew. I mentioned I was familiar with the tale of the cave’s discovery — or at least one version of it. Bjarki didn’t seem pleased that his buddies had loose tongues enough to lure a southerner into their midst.

Now I saw clearly he was one of those old-guard types who didn’t welcome the coming of civilization and wished the whole Frisland left alone. My tourism hopes meant nothing to him; new people meant trouble for the hunt.

I was about to reassure him that his doubts were baseless and that I understood the situation completely when Vasilika interrupted us. She shrugged off her extra layers and, now wearing just a long shirt, crouched by the warm hearth where our wet clothes steamed overhead.

“I want to go back there, Dad, if the weather clears,” she said. “I think there’s something in that coffin. You didn’t open it right. And Tim doesn’t mind, right Tim?”

I agreed enthusiastically, knowing my simple “don’t mind” was hardly enough to move two seasoned hunters who cared little for childish whims. Who wants to trudge off god-knows-where just to satisfy the curiosity of an excited girl and a surprise guest?

Imagine my surprise when Bjarki not only consented to his daughter’s wish but admitted he felt strongly drawn there himself.

The only snag was Lucas, tied to us by his boat. But he was so grateful to Vasilika for not snitching on him to her father, and burning with a desire to clear his conscience for having left a friend to fate and storm, that he willingly agreed to join us.

“I promised your daughter on the way here I’d take her, if the weather allowed,” he said.

Waiting out the rain silently on empty stomachs was the worst idea imaginable, so Bjarki emptied the contents of his sack onto the table, fetched several jars of compote from the shelves, eggs and potatoes from the cellar, and, together with Vasilika, started preparing a much-needed supper.

Since night had fallen, we unanimously decided to spend the night in the warmth and dryness of this cozy cabin and take things as they came in the morning. If the weather allowed, we’d follow the “bear trail,” as Lucas called it.

Lucas was sure Bjarki’s boat still lay where we left it on the shore. Who, in their right mind, would try to sail in such darkness and downpour — rain hammering the shutters powerless — even a mile, let alone all five of them?”

During dinner, my kind hosts subjected me to a proper interrogation. Bjarki started it off, probably having caught on to something between me and Vasilika, then she herself joined in — not wanting to seem shy or embarrassed, as I arrogantly supposed. She was curious about life down south; he, about my family and work. I admitted frankly that I couldn’t really call it work — I simply helped people discover more about our island out of pleasure, not obligation, and certainly not for profit. Bjarki seemed to miss the nuance — hunting was surely just as much a labor of love for him, and a beloved pursuit is never really “work.” Still, he liked what he heard and slapped me on the shoulder twice that evening, like a good friend.

No one really grasped the whole idea of websites and the internet, so I wisely changed the subject to stories about my father and his life in nearby Kampa. The tale of the “Knuts’ War” was met with quiet attention from all three of them. When I finished, Bjarki looked at me oddly, his eyes misted with a strange moisture. He said nothing, but later I learned the story struck a raw nerve — his older brother had died foolishly that very night in Kampa.

Vasilika was most taken with the story of how my father met my mother’s father. She herself had encountered waking bears more than once and knew well the danger they held. She was the first to suggest my grandfather must have been a hero, a giant of a man, to survive such a meeting. I agreed and added that, sadly, my grandfather was no longer with us in this world, but from another realm, he was surely watching over us and smiling. I didn’t specify at what exactly.

The mood brightened immediately, the subject shifted, and dinner ended with a delightful tea session: cranberry jam and insanely strong bagels. The cabin had just one common room, so we all slept together. Vasilika managed to persuade them to let her have the only raised sleeping bench, while we settled comfortably on the floor, wrapped in thick woolen sheep blankets, heads resting on bags, boots, or nothing at all.

I lay awake for some time, thoughts drifting to Vasilika, to my new acquaintances, to the boat, until I recalled Ingrid and began composing a mental letter to her — before falling into oblivion somewhere around the second line.

In the middle of the night, I woke needing the privy, got up, and sadly listened to the rain whispering through the treetops. Just as I was about to step outside, Bjarki’s unmistakably alert voice came from the darkness, informing me the facilities were just behind the wall. Apparently, whoever built this cabin knew a thing or two about simple comforts — or maybe they had rain and devised a way to outwit it. Whatever the case, nothing else of interest happened before dawn, and I awoke refreshed, alert, and hungry.

Morning brought a chill and clearing skies. At least, the rain had stopped, and the milky sky was punctuated here and there by bursts of cheerful blue. Vasilika wasted no time declaring we must go to the cave. The ever-prepared Bjarki had a second rifle, which he calmly handed me, signaling trust and confidence that I wouldn’t fail. We exchanged knowing glances. Lucas carried his own rifle. As for Vasilika, her arsenal that day consisted of an impressively large hunting knife at her belt and a rather unimpressive bow she’d borrowed right there from the cabin’s wall, complete with a quiver and a dozen arrows.

She looked stunning — like a true warrior — tall, slender, and lithe. More than that, I couldn’t help but notice a change in her that warmed me from within: she had lightly darkened her lashes, lined her eyes delicately, and brightened the thin lines of her lips, making her not just beautiful, but provocatively radiant. Whether she’d learned these feminine arts here or brought them with her, she clearly wanted to be noticed. By whom? That was another matter, but I was sure the answer was, of course, me.

When I’d asked my sister Tandri in similar situations why she bothered with makeup when “it’s fine as it is,” she’d sigh with exaggerated sorrow at having such a dim brother and say it was “only for herself.” I never believed her. And here, it was obvious Vasilika had no intention of admiring herself alone in a mirror as she strode through the forest.

She had found a reason — a person worth becoming more attractive for.

I watched Bjarki. He just smiled beneath his beard, surely proud of the daughter growing before him. Lucas’s wrinkled face showed no sign of rivalry. The conclusion was clear: my task now was to not scare away luck, to avoid foolishness, and at least prove to Tandri that her brother had grown up, matured, and could handle the opposite sex.

Truth be told, I had no idea whether I should pretend not to notice, or, on the contrary, offer Vasilika a graceful compliment. Intuition told me either approach might backfire or miss the mark entirely.

So I chose a third way — several times I let her catch my gaze. Burning, admiring, or wild — that was for her to decide. But I made sure my eyes spoke all the tender feelings I held for her.

It all happened over breakfast, which was really just the leftovers of our previous night’s dinner. Bjarki glanced up at the sky and declared we needed to hurry — a hurricane with rain could return by evening. How he knew, I have no idea, but his face was serious enough that we didn’t linger. We locked the cabin door with a clever latch — one no curious bear sniffing out cranberry jam could undo — and plunged into the forest.

Where back home in the south the woods are a mix of conifers and deciduous trees — birches and oaks among them — here it was almost all pines. Their flaky trunks soared, lifting the canopy high above, where every gust of wind whispered conspiratorially through the needles that carpeted the ground, filling the air with what I judged the most pleasant scent imaginable. We walked cautiously but swiftly. Breathing came easy in that piercingly fresh post-rain air, and I tried to imprint every moment of that remarkable day, knowing few like it would grace my life afterward.

Ahead crept Lukas, reputed among the local hunters — Vasilika whispered this to me — to be the best tracker around. Her father kept strategic rear guard, watching our backs and seeing everything unfolding before him. I knew this well and tried to behave naturally, neither pestering the girl nor looking like a dull brute. Lukas had to think me calm and composed, if clearly taken with his grown daughter. Truth be told, playing that role was no hardship. If anything, Vasilika grew more appealing by the hour. Yesterday, I’d seen her desperate and resolute in the village, efficient and experienced in the boat, sweet and curious at dinner; now she was spirited and playful. She kept finding reasons to talk to me, asking what I thought we might find in the sarcophagus, what I thought about the cave, then ended the long string of questions with an innocent:

“When are you going to bring the first tourists here?”

I answered honestly that I didn’t know, since, as she’d seen, whatever we might find, the trip here posed challenges — crossings and weather being chief among them — so it wouldn’t be sensible to plan the first excursion before late spring or early summer. Vasilika nodded merrily but I noticed a faint shadow cross her face.

As for wildlife, we saw a family of moose, a few squirrels, and heard a wild boar rustling through the bushes. Bjarki clarified it was a sow, but I doubted he could tell by sound alone. Not a single bear crossed our path. Lukas claimed that was all thanks to a ritual he’d performed the night before, secretly, during dinner. Well, secretly or not, nobody argued. The main thing was that an encounter with a bear was the last thing we needed. Whether we dodged it by chance or witchcraft made no difference.

We walked for about an hour and a half before boulders began to appear underfoot and, through gaps between the pines, sharp mountain teeth carved the horizon. The goal was near. Soon we emerged from the forest’s edge and skirted the rocky slopes. A dispute arose between our guides — each remembered the path differently — but Lukas prevailed. I guessed Bjarki conceded because, left alone on the island, he had tried to return to the cave but failed and now lacked the strength to insist on his version. Whether that was true or not, I can’t say, but feelings are what they are, and no one can take them from me.

As I mentioned before, except for Haramero, we had no high mountains, so it was fascinating to walk beneath these formidable slopes, which, though lacking snowcaps, were the sort that southern folk didn’t even know existed. The slopes looked forbidding, more likely to repel than invite. I’d read about people who suffered from “mountain sickness,” those who’d risk their lives chasing summit after summit — I was not one of them. To me, mountains were just terrain, beautiful terrain, nothing more. Certainly not obstacles. Any mountain could be circumvented, no matter how long it took. I was willing to sacrifice time, but not health.

Fortunately, we never had to climb. At most, we scrambled on all fours about fifteen steps up to the spot Lukas had marked without error, where we stood upright before the grim mouth of the stone belly. The entrance was indeed narrow, and I took note — not because I doubted a bear could squeeze through (they’re clever and nimble when they want to be) — but because I’d already begun to suspect the sarcophagus, the coffin, the scientific term for such a thing.

The passage was wide enough for me to enter comfortably, even without turning sideways, though I bumped my shoulders against the walls a few times. Lukas still led, shining a flashlight ahead. Behind him, Vasilika bounded on long legs, looking around in awe — sometimes at me, sometimes at her father lighting the way from behind. The passage was far longer than I’d expected. Patience was no problem — her back brightened the path — and the sight that awaited us at the end more than repaid the effort.

I recall thinking it was my first time ever inside a cave — and what a striking, unforgettable one it was. The four of us stood for a while, watching the little circles of light — the “rabbits,” as they’re called — dancing across the walls and ceiling from our flashlights. Beneath our feet, a stream murmured, while rustlings above hinted at no imminent threat of an annoyed bear’s intrusion. Still, I kept my rifle ready, just in case. With no time to spare, we decided not to linger and pressed onward.

As we crossed the cave, Lukas’s light swept the floor near the stream, searching for the spot where he and his comrades had once butchered their kill. Not a trace of the bear carcass remained. Lukas asked Bjarki’s opinion, who guessed some hungry predator had already been through. Apparently, the hunters hadn’t taken everything that time. It was clear the cave was known to — and frequented by — the local wildlife. The only open question was: which animals, and when. No one was eager to find out.

The torches and the second passage were as described. That latter path truly twisted dizzyingly, but like all things, it eventually ended. Here, we could switch off our flashlights; shafts of light streaming through holes in the ceiling were enough to illuminate the entire cavern. The cave was exactly as I’d pictured it from Lukas’s tale. The only detail he’d missed was its shape — a perfect circle carved into hard rock walls. Running my hand over the rough surface, I confirmed — though I’m no expert — that it wasn’t soft limestone.

I knew limestone from some of our old fortresses, built partly from it and now crumbling to ruins — fit only for tales about ancient settlements. Since no one was around to correct me, I admit I sometimes exaggerate in conversations with tourists. Harmless lies, you know — lies for the good of the island and the legends wrapped around it. Untouched fortress walls hardly speak to their eventful histories, but when they crumble slightly, you can add a legend or two, and suddenly history comes alive, captivating many. Repeat the tale enough times, and you start believing you’ve uncovered the one true explanation.

The walls of the second cave showed no signs of crumbling. I noticed Vasilika testing my theory herself, pulling the large cleaver from her belt to try and scratch the unyielding surface. Here and there, simple carvings appeared — the ones Lukas had mentioned — odd in that they were not scratched but deeply pressed, as if stamped into the stone. I’d seen similar things in photos of Egyptian monuments, but those were made in concrete-like materials, soft until dried and hardened. It was hard to imagine this entire cave being as artificially made as the Egyptian pyramids, which made the symbols all the more intriguing.

Actually, they weren’t drawings at all but mysterious signs. There weren’t many — about twenty — and most repeated, so the entire inscription boiled down to a combination of five or six simple symbols. Three in particular stuck with me: something like a vertically truncated arrowhead, a vertically cut half of its fletching, and two ovals resembling sideways chicken eggs joined by a curve underneath. It looked roughly like this, as I tried to sketch.

Vasilika said the carving resembled a human face with a thick nose and two eyes. I didn’t argue but thought to myself that if the creators wanted to depict a human face, they surely had the means to do so more realistically. I had a pencil and notebook handy, so I took my time carefully copying the entire circular inscription. This innocent act elevated me noticeably in my companions’ eyes — they now knew I wasn’t just a layman in sciences. Simple folk hold undeniable respect for those who carry knowledge. Had I pulled out a knife or fishing hook, their interest would have been strictly proportional to how familiar they were with the object. But carrying writing tools? That was beyond their daily understanding and earned me discreet, half-smiling admiration. Another point scored.

The round pool in the cave’s center held murky water. A thick beam of light, falling through one of the ceiling holes, struck the water’s surface in a slanting column of damp vapor but went no further. Here, Vasilika showed foresight — she’d brought a coil of rope and a small stone weight from the hut. We watched with interest as she tied the weight to the rope’s end and slowly lowered it into the water. The rope stayed taut as she gradually reeled it back in, finally holding the other end in her hand. There was no bottom. No one timed the length, but when measured afterward, it was nearly a hundred and twenty paces.

“Nice little pond,” said Lukas.

“More like a well,” Vasilika corrected, stowing the coil and weight away. “Too bad you only have two flashlights. Would’ve been interesting to drop one in and see how far its light reached.”

“You’re full of ideas,” Bjarki muttered, turning away.

I followed his gaze and saw the sarcophagus — a large, silent stone monolith, taller than a man, standing alone in a deep niche, almost inviting. I approached its end and sized it up. My initial guess was confirmed: the stone giant was significantly wider than my shoulders.

“There must be another exit somewhere,” I said, glancing at my companions, already anticipating the question that would follow. “Because there’s no way he could squeeze out through that hole to the outside.”

The legend was still too fresh for anyone to argue. Besides, it was hard to imagine dragging the sarcophagus through all those endless zigzags of the first cave. And since the surrounding walls here were solid rock, the only plausible explanation was that it had been lowered down through one of the ceiling holes. The height and angle made it impossible to judge their exact size, but there simply was no other way.

Vasilika took charge of lifting the slab. Without that, we all felt our expedition would be incomplete. She first tried to wedge wooden shims into the crack, but they hit something solid right away. Lukas quickly offered a theory — that this was no mere lid, but a solid block of stone with a carved slit for show, completely whole inside. I was about to agree when I noticed Vasilika’s wedge, though not driven deep, had slightly widened the gap. The slab was moving! Just as she and I had suspected, it was set onto something inside that prevented it from shifting.

Summoning all our strength, we pressed against the sarcophagus and pried the lid from beneath however we could. On the count of three, it gave way — heavy, threatening to crush our fingers, but it moved. Neither the first nor the second attempt budged it much, though. We needed leverage, and after some scrambling, Bjarki found not one but two metal brackets. The torch mounts had rusted from the dampness but were still sturdy enough to slip into the crack and act like jacks.

Easier said than done.

We ended up holding the lid barely raised with all our might, while Vasilika hammered one of the metal bars with a large stone, trying to break through the stone barrier beneath. After agonizing minutes of effort, groans, shouts, and curses, the first lever finally shifted. Once it moved, the work went faster; the second lever followed, and Lukas and I pushed upward from below while daughter and father pulled the raised lid sideways.

From the outside, it probably looked ridiculously clumsy, but we were far from amused. We all wanted to know what — or who — was hidden inside the stone coffin left in the cave. Gradually, the slab lowered under our efforts, yielding slowly but surely. When it slid far enough that a hand could slip into the gap, I discarded my lever and started helping Vasilika. Lukas followed suit, and things went quicker.

“Careful!” I called. “Don’t drop it!”

Now the lid was unstable and could be tilted down at one end and lifted at the other with relative ease. We grabbed both ends and laid it askew across the coffin. I still thought of it mentally as a coffin, though I knew that depended entirely on what we found inside.

As soon as it was safe, all four of us grasped the newly exposed edges with both hands and pulled ourselves up to peer into the dark hollow. Alas, it was too dark and deep to see anything clearly. Vasilika was the lightest, so we decided to entrust this crucial task to her. Bjarki helped her onto a stone, Lukas handed over the flashlight, and lying flat on her stomach across the slab, she was the first to see the contents.

I waited for a cry of horror or delight, but she kept tense silence for a moment, studying whatever was inside.

“Corpse?” Lukas broke the silence first.

“I can’t tell… It looks more like some kind of bundle.”

“Mummy,” I said, not expecting to be understood.

The main thing was that nothing jumped out, flew up, or grabbed Vasilika by her braid. The rest, I reckoned, we could handle. After a moment’s thought, she braced her hands on the freed edges and, like a gymnast on parallel bars, began slowly lowering herself into the fairly wide opening. She wasn’t afraid at all. My heart literally stopped.

She was standing upright in the sarcophagus, so from below I could see only the top of her head. When she bent over, she disappeared completely. We froze, exchanging anxious looks.

“It’s heavy,” came a muffled voice from behind the stone. I lunged to help her, already pulling myself up, when something hard and musty poked me right in the face. “Oh, sorry…”

The bundle was long, narrow, and indeed quite heavy. Its wrapping was a tanned animal hide, darkened with age but dry and dusty. Bjarki helped me take the precious load.

“Anything else?”

“No.” Vasilika swung herself over the edge of the sarcophagus and dropped to the floor, shaking herself off for a while. “Empty.”

“Interesting piece,” Lukas muttered, squatting near the bundle. “Shall we have a look?”

“What, protect it or something?” Bjarki snorted.

The hide — or rather the pelt — was tied with a thick braid, a cord that was once probably multicolored but now entirely faded and rather rotten. There was no point untying it properly, so Lukas simplified matters with a knife blade. As he carefully began peeling back the leather, I already knew it couldn’t be a corpse — child or otherwise. Too narrow, too heavy. Maybe a weapon?

We didn’t have to wait long. Laid out on the leather wrapping in the middle of the cave was something iron — a massive necklace, the kind a five-meter-tall giant might wear. Numerous rectangular plates and pendants shaped like upside-down drops were attached in a single bundle to what I would have called, under different circumstances, an eclectic cable — a tight bundle of wire wrapped in rings made of something solid, but not iron or plastic — more like hardened resin.

Besides the “necklace,” the artifact contained two metal rods about a cubit long, two fingers thick, round, and decorated with strange symbols. If I’d found something like this washed up on our beach or lying in the forest, I might have pocketed it — but probably wouldn’t have taken it seriously. There’s plenty of rusty junk around even on our island. But this thing had clearly been sealed inside a heavy sarcophagus for who knows how long — someone had deliberately placed it there, ensuring it stayed intact and protected from rust and prying eyes. The find demanded respect — and caution.

“I think it goes like this,” Vasilika said, taking one rod and showing the tip with two notches. Identical notches were found at the end of the “necklace.” She tried to connect them, but in vain.

“The other way around,” I guessed, pointing to the indentations on the other end of the “cable.” “If anything, those must be the grooves.”

We were right — the notches slid perfectly into the grooves, clicking lightly. We did the same with the second rod, which also had grooves for the cable’s notches. The result looked like awkward jump ropes with long handles.

“Looks like some kind of device,” Lukas mused thoughtfully.

None of us had the energy to agree or argue. Assembled, the whole contraption probably weighed over two stone. We stared at it dumbly for a while until Vasilika did what was obvious: draped the plates with their droplet pendants over her chest and slung the rods behind her shoulders like braids.

“Well? Pretty?”

Seeing the smiles on our faces, she knew the joke landed. She tried to toss the whole iron mess back on the floor in one move, but something warned me it might be unsafe. I caught the falling metal, pinching my finger in the process, but nothing worse happened.

My eyes fell on the exposed leather beneath our feet. The expected yelp turned into an astonished exclamation. Among the folds and cracks, a complex pattern was clearly visible.

“What is that?”

We carried the leather cloth out into the daylight and discovered that the pattern on it wasn’t drawn at all — it was meticulously embroidered, which only underscored its importance. Yet it was no easier to decipher than the symbols on the cave walls. At the center of the hide was a large ring. Its outer edge appeared nearly perfectly round, while the inner edge was jagged with tiny notches. Four much smaller but identical rings were embroidered nearer to the edges. Inside each ring, the creator had stitched shapes that, to my troubled imagination, vividly resembled dog droppings. Despite the difference in size, their arrangement was suspiciously similar across the rings. Here I was once again reminded how the same things can spark wildly different — and sometimes outright opposite — associations in different people.

“A magic tablecloth,” Vasilika said. “If you get hungry or bored, just spread it out and imagine it’s plates of food.”

“Sounds about right,” Bjarki said skeptically. “A feast cloth for the afterlife.”

Lukas and I said nothing. I can’t say I was disappointed by the sarcophagus’s contents. A two-human-heights-tall skeleton with two heads and six arms would, of course, have been preferable to an iron necklace and a piece of leather, but what’s done is done. The question now was what to do with all this dubious treasure. Since my companions were the default authorities here, I humbly asked for their opinion.

Bjarki and Lukas exchanged glances. Vasilika looked at me defiantly and asked in return, “So, what’s your plan?”

“I don’t know. But I don’t think we should leave all this here. The caves, the sarcophagus, and the lid will be fine. But the strange giant’s adornments and the leather drawing won’t survive bad weather for long. We should either put them back where we found them and close it up, or…”

“No way, Tim,” the girl interrupted confidently, glancing at her father for support. “We found these things, now they’re ours. We don’t have to put them back. If the bundle was there, it means it’s important and necessary for something. If we don’t understand what or why yet, that’s fine — we’ll figure it out. I think your tourists will have plenty to see here anyway.”

“I hope so…”

I really hoped this was just the beginning of a long and fascinating story. Had I known then how it would all turn out, I probably would’ve dropped everything and cowardly run home. But who is granted a glimpse of the future? Even those who claim they can see ahead, I’m certain, are never quite sure of their visions.

Bjarki slung the strange necklace over his shoulder, I folded and tucked the hide under my arm, and we set off thoughtfully for home. Before leaving, I luckily remembered the old camera in my bag — a Pentacon Praktica, no flash but loaded with slide film — and took a few shots to immortalize the cave, the ceiling shafts of light, the round pool, and the half-open sarcophagus.

The weather was turning sour again. The clouds thickened into a gray haze, the light dimmed noticeably, and distant rumbles of thunder whispered in the distance. As we made our way, our conversation grew animated — discussing the discoveries and swapping guesses. Lucas said our finds were no less than a thousand years old.

“Why not a thousand and a half?” Vasilika laughed.

“Or a million?” I chimed in.

“Maybe even a million,” Lucas frowned, making it clear to all of us that for him, “a thousand years” was just a poetic way of saying “a very long time ago,” not an actual date.

“The only way to shed light on the origins of those inscriptions and the sarcophagus,” Bjarki said thoughtfully, “is to talk to the old-timers. Though I suspect that if they’d ever heard anything, we’d know about it by now.”

“I’ll talk to them,” I volunteered. “It’s not my first time. There has to be a story behind a place this unusual. Strange no one found it before us — or rather, before you. Are there really no rumors about this island on Raru?”

“There are plenty of rumors,” Bjarki agreed, “but only rumors. People can imagine things anywhere, even in their own outhouse, no need to sail off to any island. Tell me, Lucas.”

“What do I know? I think Tim should talk to Whitney. If anyone knows anything, it’s definitely her.”

“She’s still alive?”

“Alive? Where would she go? I saw her at the market just last month. Buying cabbage, I think. She’s bent over, stooped, practically growing back into the ground — but nothing seems to bother her. She might outlive us all.”

From what I gathered, this was some old woman they both knew, but who didn’t live in their village. Well, I had time, and a good reason — why not visit someone else?

“Wait, are you talking about that Whitney? The witch who put a curse on my mother?” Vasilika suddenly stiffened, walking beside me. I noticed her voice trembled. “My grandmother told me about her…”

“That’s nonsense,” Bjarki cut in sharply. “Maybe she’s a witch, but she’s got nothing to do with us. Poor Shaneid died from mushrooms — you know that.”

“I know, but my grandmother — ”

“Grandmother! She probably cooked those mushrooms herself out of foolishness, and now she blames everyone she meets. Whitney’s never done anything bad in my lifetime, mark my words. If you want, you can go ask her yourself — with Tim.”

“I want to!”

The wind blew sharply; I took a deep gulp of cold air and almost choked. Vasilika was eager to go with me to find this Whitney — just the two of us! To Raru! What could be better than poisonous mushrooms and witchcraft? I’m joking, of course! But honestly, how thrilling!

When we paused to catch our breath, I asked my new friends to pose briefly for my camera. The weather threatened to worsen any moment, and I wanted to secure some proof that none of this had been a dream but very real. And, of course, to snap a portrait of Vasilika without her noticing. On a broad clearing, Lucas spread the leather with the embroidery before him; father and daughter grabbed the ends of the “necklace,” and I took photos of them together and separately, carefully counting frames so that the story of Raru and their Whitney would be preserved. Vasilika pretended to be shy, but it was clear she enjoyed my mock-serious attention. Bjarki took an interest in the camera, and Lucas, a born performer, kept goofing around long after I declared the job done. I had the feeling that the older generation only now grasped the seriousness of my intentions and maybe even respected me a little more. Vasilika, on the other hand, grew quiet, deep in thought.

The hut was just as we’d left it. Hungry and weary, we refreshed ourselves, revived our spirits, and happily decided not to linger any longer — it was time to head home. On the way to the boat, Lucas fell behind. When I stopped to wait, he came up and pressed money into my hand.

“You did a good thing, lad. Actually, two good things: you helped the girl, and you might tell the world about our cave. I’d feel guilty trying to squeeze more from you. Take this. When you get to town, buy something for Vasilika. And from me, too.”

He smiled apologetically. I took half and left the rest in his rough palm.

“No, Lucas, I want my conscience to be clean too. This is for the work.”

That settled it.

The boat lay where we’d tied it — upside down, to keep rainwater out. The mast and oars, removed from their slots, were tucked underneath. Bjarki looked a little sad, maybe thinking of some personal loss. He got to work so quickly that neither I nor Vasilika had time to help or even get in the way. Moments later, our whole group pushed off the shore, heading for the fog-hidden harbor. We hadn’t gone a mile when a foul rainstorm swept in with wind. Lucas and I manned the oars again, Bjarki fussed with the boom overhead, adjusting the sail, and Vasilika settled in her favorite spot at the bow, watching over the cargo and precious artifacts. I wasn’t worried about the embroidery on the leather — no moisture could harm the stitching. But the iron contraption resting on the deck, soaked in heaven’s tears, was another matter. I faced away from it, glancing at the girl from time to time. She wasn’t looking at me either, her gaze fixed into the gray ahead.

I think I was the first to hear it: a strange sound, like a faint hum in the air. Moments later, a barely perceptible, delicate trembling of the bench joined the hum. I nudged Lucas with my elbow. He listened, shrugged.

Bjarki noticed our confusion.

“What’s that?”

“A hum.”

“A hum what?”

Before I could answer, a blast sounded behind us. Well, I call it a blast now, but at the time it came as a sharp crack — one sudden snap — that knocked me off the bench, landing at Bjarki’s feet. He instinctively raised a free hand to shield his eyes because the impact was accompanied by a blinding flash.

“Vasilika!”

I don’t know which of the three of us shouted her name — I think all at once. I twisted to look back. The girl was still sitting at the bow, appearing alive and well, clutching her head — or rather, covering her ears with her palms. Bjarki, the only one who saw what happened, shouted from somewhere far off that it was the iron pieces — that they exploded — and that we needed to throw them overboard immediately.

I propped myself up on my elbows. The “necklace” hadn’t moved, still lying where it was, but now faint bluish sparks flickered across its plates and drops. Bjarki was clearly determined to do what he planned. I felt deep down that it was wrong, even dangerous, even terrifying. Jumping to my feet, I leapt over the bench and caught him by the shoulder.

“Don’t touch it! It’ll snap!”

He heard me, understood, and froze, looking at his daughter. She kept her hands over her ears, grimacing, watching as I knelt down and carefully grabbed one iron rod with one hand, the resin rings with the other, and sharply pulled them apart. Nothing happened. Unsure whether that was good or bad, I did the same at the other end. The bluish sparks abruptly vanished. The “necklace” returned to a lifeless heap of metal.

“What was that?” Lucas finally burst out, breaking the charged silence.

“Discharge. An electrical discharge. Probably,” I answered. “That thing must’ve built up a charge from the water and shorted out.”

“And now?”

“I think it all depends on those rods. Without them, it doesn’t activate.”

“Well, I say we toss it overboard and be done with it,” Bjarki grumbled, still watching his daughter to reassure himself she was truly all right.

“No way,” I replied, as firmly as I could. “If I’m right, this thing is a generator. A powerful one. And it needs nothing but water. Do you realize what that means?”

They didn’t. I could see it in their faces, and in truth, I wasn’t sure they wanted to. Their fear was stronger than their curiosity now, and I figured that was just as well. They’d no longer want the “necklace’ in their keeping — and I’d make sure it got the attention it deserved, back in the village. It would make one hell of a tourist lure, too. A relic, a mystery, maybe even a revolution in energy — straight from the source, as the brochures would one day say.

Balancing myself as best I could and spitting rain from my lips, I quickly bundled the metal parts back into the hide and shoved the whole thing away from Vasilika, to the stern. We settled into silence for a while, each in our own thoughts, the oars creaking and the wind tugging at our soaked clothes.

“So what you’re saying,” Lucas said suddenly, as if he’d just now caught up with it all, “is that our prehistoric ancestors knew how to make electricity?”

“Looks like it!” Bjarki jumped in. “I thought we’d been bombed. Still got lightning bugs crawling in my eyes. You all right, girl?”

“I can still hear a bit,” Vasilika replied dryly, her voice velvet even when grumbling. “Tim, you sure it won’t go bang again?”

“Nope,” I admitted. “But whatever this thing is, it’s not as simple as it looks. I’ll experiment with it later. You didn’t see how it discharged? The rods didn’t touch each other? It was just lying there in the water?”

“Lucky for me, I was looking the other way…”

When I talked to her like that — so casually, so naturally — the rest of the world seemed to recede. She was the girl of my dreams, made flesh — and what a flesh! — flawless, clever, sharp, beautiful, and brave. Could some scrap of metal and a bit of hide really compare? I would’ve flung them into the sea and jumped in after if only I knew for sure that this enchantress would one day, in some life, be mine.

Ingrid, forgive me. I’ve already betrayed you in thought, and if fate permits, I’ll betray you in deed — with joy in my heart. O my soul, what am I doing to you? Why can’t you be split clean down the middle, half for one, half for the other? Why must I choose — abandon one and embrace the other?

I don’t want this.

I can’t do without this.

I am lost and I am found. My head spins with the joy of meeting and the grief of parting, the thrill of discovery and the sorrow of sacrifice. Maybe it was the sharp wind and the wild rain speaking. Or maybe the current never left, but leapt into me like lightning and got stuck in my heart, until then so comfortably numb.

Like that fairy tale, where the wicked sorceress hurled a shard of ice into her unfaithful lover’s chest, and he lost all power to feel.

Only with me, it was the opposite — I felt everything now. More than I could understand. More than I could think through. Where am I? Who am I?

“Watch your head!”

A soaked beam of the boom whistled past just above me. I blinked, snapped back to the present, met Lucas’s gaze, and fell back in rhythm with his powerful strokes.

The rest of the journey passed uneventfully — unless you count the fact we were all drenched to the bone. The bundle behaved itself, no sparks, no hums, no fuss. Somehow, I’d guessed right on the first try. Probably because I didn’t want to lose it — and didn’t want anyone hurt either. My intuition must’ve kicked into high gear, gave me the one correct answer to a question no one asked.

Oddly, I didn’t feel proud of it. I knew how close we’d come to losing everything. If Vasilika had been hurt… I couldn’t bear the thought. And Bjarki, I’m sure, would’ve helped me not bear it — permanently. But all’s well that ends well.

Eventually, the prow of the yawl bumped gently against the planks of the dock. We stepped out, wished Lucas goodnight, and — then I froze.

There I stood with the bundle in my arms and a bag heavy with rain on my back, caught in sudden indecision. We hadn’t talked about what came next. I felt awkward. I couldn’t just invite myself over, and I didn’t even know if the village had an inn or a guesthouse or anything at all.

Vasilika walked off without a glance. Bjarki started to follow, noticed my hesitation, and clapped me on the shoulder in that unceremonious way of his.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he said. “Of course you’re spending the night with us — even if I have to drag you by the heels.”

No dragging was needed. I was easily persuaded.

Soon we stood before a modest but well-built one-story log house with a steep roof and an attic window above. While Bjarki wrestled with the lock, Vasilika stood so close beside me that I could’ve sworn I felt the warmth of her fingers brushing the back of my hand.

I didn’t dare check if it was real.

Finally, the door creaked open.

If the Crowley household — so vividly painted at the beginning of this tale — was a sanctuary for restful idleness, an abode built for indulging in lazy daydreams and bookish complacency, then my newfound friends’ home was its exact opposite: lean, efficient, everything in its place, displaying only what was needed — and nothing superfluous. Remarkably, I found myself feeling at home here too.

By “lean,” I don’t mean cramped or austere. These northern folk design their houses to conserve firewood. Through a narrow vestibule (there is no veranda), two separate doors lead to two different rooms — both sharing the same whitewashed stove. One room’s stove stands on the left, the other’s on the right, allowing everyone to warm themselves with a single fire. It heats up fast and cools down slowly — clearly expertly crafted.

When we entered, I thought only the two main rooms existed, with the larger for me and Bjarki, and the smaller for Vasilika. Imagine my delight to discover four rooms: the larger served as a common parlor, a door from which opened to Bjarki’s bedroom. There, I found another door leading to a true bathroom. Half the ceiling held a flat water tank, fed from the attic — and integrated into the stove so it warmed as quickly as the room itself. The insulation kept it hot even in winter. A cast-iron tub and shower hose spoke volumes about their care for hygiene.

By the time I finished examining it all, Vasilika had already fired up the stove. Bjarki quietly ushered me into the parlor before disappearing behind a curtain into what I assumed to be a blank wall. Instead, it hid a utility room that stretched the length of both the parlor and bedroom — serving as kitchen, pantry, and workshop. Here sat an iron stove, built not so much for warmth as for cooking.

I offered to help with the evening meal. He brushed me off, confident he would manage alone. When I asked where to put our finds, he nodded to a corner, and I complied. Later, I realized I’d forgotten to hang out my soaking clothes to dry. Returning, I found Vasilika had already done it — for me. Yet what struck me was not her thoughtfulness but her attire: she’d shed most of her clothes and strolled about in a skirt alone, her braid unbound, cascading across her bare back. My heart leapt — but my cheeks burned. Bjarki, entering behind me, seemed oblivious.

I’d heard nothing of Northern permissiveness, and so I hovered awkwardly, reluctant to look, yet longing to. She asked if I had more to dry. I said no, and she laughed, teasingly — wondering if I planned to sleep in wet clothes. I pretended such things were normal; the rooms were warm, logs hissed in the iron stove. Seeing me self-conscious in just my underwear, Vasilika took pity and tossed me a towel.

“Not afraid of a cold snap? Go and wash.”

I saw no reason to refuse, and slipped into the bathroom. Our house had similar facilities — now electric-heated, not wood — but hers felt more purposeful.

Refreshed and mildly hungry, I was greeted in the kitchen by sizzling eggs and thick slices of cheese on hearty bread. A piquant aroma wafted through the air. When I asked, Vasilika offered me a steaming pink drink with a spoonful of honey.

“Stir,” she said.

It was raspberry mors, the kind they drink piping hot in winter — whereas we usually served it ice-cold. So potent was its memory that I too began reheating my mother’s mors at home, much to everyone’s surprise.

After dinner, Bjarki yawned and bid us good night, retiring with calm assurance. I stayed behind to help Vasilika clear the dishes and found myself thinking: what would happen if I dared to kiss her? Curiously, it was fear — not of doing wrong but of doing too much — that held me back. Ah, youth! How foolish and delightful we appear in retrospect.

It was Vasilika who made the first move: planting a gentle kiss on my cheek. “For helping me and my father tonight,” she said — and then she waited, shy as a spring breeze, for something in return. But I, fumbling with boyish awkwardness, uttered frightened nonsense: “Oh, you know, I just couldn’t do otherwise… Look at what we discovered!” She smiled mischievously and excused herself for a wash-up, reminding me tomorrow they’d rise with the dawn. Probably still thinking me a city boy.

I drifted to sleep to the sound of water trickling behind the wall, visions of her under the shower flooding my head. I barely slept, tossing and turning until exhaustion took over, and I awakened to the clatter of pots in the kitchen.

I’d overslept. She’d beaten me to the kitchen. Clambering into dry trousers and pulling a warm shirt from the stove, I hurried in to find her already there.

“Dad’s still sleeping. Do you know how to milk?”

Her question startled me. They didn’t own cattle, but a neighbor did, a cow always full of milk. The Rogers had helped buy her, and so each morning they took turns milking. Seeing me bewildered, Vasilika laughed and said she’d do it herself. But this time, I didn’t hesitate — I grabbed the lidded milk bucket and opened the door for her.

The morning greeted us with a brisk chill, sharp and insistent, but at least the skies were clear and gloriously blue. Who would’ve thought that only yesterday we were being thrashed by a torrential downpour? For the first time, I had a proper look at the village — previously glimpsed only in haste or smothered in darkness. The houses here sat closer together than back home, many tucked behind low wooden fences that marked out tidy plots. I asked what the village was called.

“Varga,” said Vasilika, nodding when I inquired whether the name also belonged to her family. It made sense. In the old days, villages formed around dominant clans, and if you knew someone’s surname, you also knew where to find them. These days, things had grown more complicated, and sometimes, people with entirely different names shared the same roof. Still, the tradition lingered. To my ears, “Bjarki Varga” had a nice ring to it. “Vasilika Varga,” though… that felt like a mismatch. “Vasilika Ruvido” would’ve sounded far more fitting — but at that point, it was only a wistful thought, and I kept it to myself.

The neighbor’s yard was, quite literally, neighboring. We didn’t even have to set foot on the main road. Vasilika opened a gate in the fence, we squeezed past a pair of yellowing bird cherry bushes not yet stripped of their leaves, and there it was — the shed with the sacred cow.

You might ask how I got such a fine view of the village if we never even left the property. Simple: the house stood on a slope, and from the back garden, one could see the entire valley spread out like a living map. The house itself faced the water, but we were moving through the rear, down a gentle descent where rooftops staggered below us in terraced rows that drifted toward the distant forest.

The cowshed door stood open. The cow, grey with white dapples, glanced at us with a look of quiet intelligence, flicked her ears, and made no complaint. Vasilika set the bucket beneath her, perched on a tiny stool, and began the day’s work. I propped myself on the step and launched into a light-hearted travelogue about my adventures through Frisland. I’d already learned she liked hearing about other people’s lives.

“Have you ever been to the mainland?” she asked, switching to the cow’s other side. The animal was broad and solid; you couldn’t reach the whole udder from one spot.

“My grandfather has,” I admitted. “But I spent most of my time with my father — and he’s the sort who never strays too far from home. Though for him, ‘home’ means the whole island.”

“I’ve been,” she said casually, not even glancing up. “When I was little. My mother took me.”

“Why, hello there!” rang a bright voice behind me, interrupting us at the most intriguing moment. “And who’s this visiting us so early?”

Next to me stood a short, sturdy woman with an empty milk can in her hand. She wore a simple blue jacket with white trim over a faded house dress. A scarf was tied over her hair, her eyes sparkled beneath a long fringe, and her chapped lips stretched into a knowing smile. Her skin had begun to crease, but not unkindly.

“Well, we…” I began.

“Marta, it’s me,” called Vasilika. “I only stepped away for a day, and look what happened — our Bricuha nearly burst.”

I stood as Marta gave me a once-over, nodded with mild approval, and stepped inside the shed.

“I’ve been under the weather myself — didn’t get out. How’s your father? Did you find him?”

“I did.”

“Boat gone?”

“Gone.”

“So the dream was right again?”

“When have I ever been wrong?” said Vasilika, rising smoothly from the stool and handing it over. “Tim, the bucket.”

I took the hint, ducked under the cow’s warm belly, and retrieved the heavy, fragrant prize.

“Looks like you found more than your father out there,” Marta chuckled as she let me pass. “Staying long, young man? You’re from Okibar, right?”

“Close. Nice to meet you. No, not for long, sadly.”

“Well, no need to be sad. Stay! You’ve seen it — things are livelier up here than down south.” Her eyes flicked meaningfully toward Vasilika. “You don’t get brides like this where you’re from, do you?”

“Marta,” Vasilika cut in sharply, “instead of teasing, maybe you could tell us how to find Raru Whitny.”

“Whitny?” Marta raised an eyebrow. “What in the world do you want with her, dear? Haven’t had enough trouble already? You know how it is…”

“I know. But I’m not sure. Father says it’s all rumors and slander. We just need to ask her something. Can you tell us where she might be?”

“I can,” said Marta, eyes narrowing. “But mind she doesn’t charm the boots off you while she’s at it. She’s got a sharp eye — that one. One look and you’ll forget your own name. And if that were all, fine, but they say she once made a girl fall in love with a tree. Imagine that!”

“Marta, stop it!” Vasilika snapped. “Tim’s no tree, and I’m no fool. Where is she?”

“Well, I don’t know where she lives, but she’s got a stall at the market. She’s not there every day, mind you, but if fate doesn’t scare you, here’s how you find her: go through the main gate, turn right, then count the third left. Keep going till you hit the soap-makers, then take a right just after them. Look for a big counter next to the twins who sell knives and axes. Got that?”

“I’ve got it,” I said.

“Good boy. Hard to miss. But if your sweetheart won’t listen to me, at least you take my advice — don’t lock eyes with her. Just pretend it’s the sea you’re listening to, or the wind in the trees. Words go in, sense stays out. That woman can kill with a sentence.”

“What does she sell, anyway?” I asked, more to change the subject than from genuine curiosity. “Potions and love charms?”

“She knits socks.”

“Socks?”

“What, you think there’s something strange about that? Maybe down where you’re from, but around here, a good pair of socks is worth its weight. Socks and mittens. Claims hers are special — enchanted, even. Charges extra for fools who’ll believe anything. Socks are socks. Though I’ll admit, my mother taught her. Look.” She hitched up her skirt and revealed a thick woolen sock with a rainbow-colored cuff. “Never had a winter beat it yet.”

Vasilika giggled and flashed one of her own — similar, though simpler, with no fancy trim.

“Don’t worry, we won’t be buying any socks from her. Only from you,” said Vasilika, brushing straw from her skirt. “Alright then, time to get moving — plenty left to do today. Take care, Brykuha, my friend! Don’t get too lonely!”

She smiled as we stepped back into their yard and she pulled the gate closed behind us.

“What are you smiling at?” she asked, catching the look on my face.

“It’s nice here,” I said simply. “Cozy. People have character.”

“Those who like it, stay,” she replied without thinking, and then quickly added, “Take the bucket to the kitchen. I’ll grab some greens from the garden.”

Inside, Bjarki was already up and about, washed, dressed, and clearly in charge. He said nothing about the milk — just gave a knowing grunt, sat me down at the table, and placed in front of me a steaming bowl of barley porridge sweetened with a generous spoonful of jam, a fragrant cup of herbal tea, and a plate of spiced gingerbread.

Nowadays I catch myself marveling at these details — the warmth, the scent, the hospitality — but back then, none of it struck me as unusual. Real food, after all, was just that: real. Not pressed into uniformity by machines, not sold in impersonal shops. Real food came from home — or at least from someone’s home.

By the time Vasilika returned, I had already brought Bjarki up to speed with what Marta had told us. The rest of breakfast passed in talk of Whitny.

As I’d suspected, she had once lived here in the village and was, as it turned out, some long-distant relation of Vasilika’s — technically her great-great-aunt, or something of the sort. Whitny had never married, never had children. That alone had always made people… uneasy. Vasilika said she understood that now, because she too sometimes experienced things no one believed — until recently, at least, when I had seen them with my own eyes.

Whitny hadn’t exactly kept to herself, but she was the sort who welcomed visitors rather than made visits. People went to her: some for advice, some for medicine, others for reasons even they couldn’t quite explain. She never took part in the folkerule, the village council, yet her voice had weight — when it suited her to speak. No one really knew how old she was.

When tragedy struck Sinead — Vasilika’s mother — the village had, for some reason, quickly decided that Whitny was to blame. The one who lit the match was Sinead’s own mother — Vasilika’s grandmother. My companion remembered the days after the genusbring, the ceremonial cremation of the dead (in case you’ve forgotten), when they walked the village together, and her grandmother told anyone who would listen that her poor daughter had eaten poisoned mushrooms brought by Whitny herself the night before she died.

No proof, of course — but many believed her. And once belief takes root in small communities, it flowers quickly. What began as subtle avoidance turned to open hostility. Then, when the grandmother herself died — quietly, in her sleep, though she had been healthy and sprightly — people took that as confirmation: some kind of dark spell, some evil eye. The council was summoned, and Whitny was cut from the kin, as we say — exiled.

Neither Bjarki nor Vasilika, who had only just remembered the old woman’s existence, believed she was guilty. Still, Bjarki doubted Whitny would be pleased to see his daughter, much less answer questions. But nothing ventured, nothing gained, and he gave us his blessing. He even pressed a few notes into Vasilika’s palm before we left.

Only then did it dawn on me that we’d need transport. I’d arrived on foot, but Raru wasn’t exactly a casual stroll away — especially not with the heavy bundle I now carried, an artifact with questionable manners.

Imagine my surprise, then, when Bjarki nudged the window shutter open with the tip of his knife and waved cheerfully. Outside, perched on the high bench of a sturdy wagon drawn by two stoic-looking horses, sat Lucas, grinning like a man with a secret.

They had planned it, of course — Bjarki had arranged it in advance and made clear I didn’t owe anyone a thing.

“Should I wait for you?” Lucas asked in a fatherly tone as we stepped outside.

“I doubt we’ll be back today,” I said. “I’ve got to head home.”

“To the tourists?”

“Yeah, to the tourists.”

“We’re not saying goodbye,” Bjarki said with a nod toward the bundle, which Lucas had just taken from my arms and carefully laid in the back of the cart. “If you’re ever in these parts again — drop by. Something about you sits right with me, boy.”

We embraced. Vasilika kissed her father’s cheek. The horses snorted as if sensing that their break was over and a journey lay ahead.

If only I had known how long, how heavy, and how bitter that journey would turn out to be.

The path I had walked on foot in just under an hour, we covered now in what felt like fifteen minutes. Lucas did most of the talking. Vasilika and I simply exchanged glances and stifled laughter from time to time. Lucas was in excellent spirits — joking, narrating in unnecessary detail his previous evening, even speculating on what “that crazy old hag” might tell us. Clearly, he had his own bones to pick with Whitny, though he left the specifics unclear.

Sometime during the night, he’d experienced what he called “a moment of clarity,” and now firmly believed that the artifacts we had found were no artifacts at all — but old electrical equipment, intentionally forgotten. Most likely, he claimed, the culprits were Icelanders who had snuck onto Ibini to secretly build some sort of power station or radio tower before abandoning the project for reasons unknown. He even ventured that maybe bears had eaten them. I didn’t argue. Instead, I pointed out that rudimentary galvanic devices capable of producing electricity had been found before — either in the region once known as Babylon, or perhaps somewhere in Latin America. Whether they worked on water, I couldn’t say, but people had known about electric current for ages without ever truly understanding it. And Icelanders, in this case, were probably blameless.

Lucas opened his mouth to object — but just then we arrived.

If you’ve ever been to Raru, you’ll remember its wall: jagged, crumbling, unforgettable. The main watchtower looks as if it’s been bitten clean through by some monstrous beast. Theories abound. Some say it’s the result of an old border war with the neighboring stronghold of Kampa. Others blame the ever-useful Icelanders, or the British missionaries who once sailed in to civilize us with their catechisms. Lucas, however, had his own opinion.

“Shoddy construction,” he muttered. “Fell apart on its own.”

We agreed he’d wait for us by the market entrance, parked among the other coachmen eager to drive anyone anywhere. He also promised to ask around, see if someone might take me as far as Kampa — it being a proper town, unlike sleepy Raru, and more likely to offer a ride south. I had little choice but to agree. The bundle we left with him for safekeeping.

Now, a market is a market — you’ve probably seen more than one — so you can easily imagine the swirl of smells, colors, and clamor we stepped into, weaving our way through the narrow lanes according to Marta’s directions. The only truly unique thing about Raru’s bazaar was the overwhelming number of vendors compared to the meager number of buyers. Maybe it was just the hour, but it looked to me like the sellers mostly traded with each other.

The liveliest corner was the one near the soapmakers, and no wonder. Their stall didn’t sell bars of soap. Or rather, it did — but calling them “bars” or even “soap” felt like an insult. These were little works of art: horses, houses, fish, people, flowers, fruit, characters out of fairytales, all scented and shining. Selling them was one woman — plump, rosy-cheeked, and constantly smiling. It was impossible not to smile back.

Clearly, people came here not only for something to wash with, but for a lift in mood.

Seeing my delight, Vasilika leaned in and whispered, “You should get something unusual for your folks.”

I did. Happily. I bought soap for everyone back home.

Vasilika arched an eyebrow playfully. “You’ve got that many girlfriends?” she asked with the sweetest innocence.

“Oh, that’s putting it mildly! This little fisherman in a boat — that’s for my father. The strawberry-shaped one, all fruity and sweet — for my best girlfriend, my mum. And this little fairytale cottage? That one’s for you.”

Vasilika, usually quick-tongued and steady-eyed, flushed pink and stood for a moment as if the words had caught her off guard. Then she gathered herself and thanked me with a kiss on the cheek — just like before.

We moved on through the market, but my thoughts lagged behind. I kept turning over what I ought to do. I was sharply aware that these might be the last moments I’d ever spend with her. She wasn’t just someone I liked. No, not even close — I was in love. So much so that I didn’t dare admit it to myself, afraid to breathe too hard and shatter the fragile spell we were under.

What I felt for her was nothing like what I’d once felt for Ingrid. Somewhere, I’d read that the ancient Epicureans defined love as “a friendship inspired by beauty.” That was it. Exactly that. Only trouble was, Vasilika’s beauty struck me like lightning — blinding, impossible to ignore. I couldn’t imagine simply being friends with her. Not when being near her scrambled my senses and made keeping up a mask of composure the hardest thing I’d ever done. It wasn’t even that I was ashamed of how I looked. By then, I knew that real women didn’t care much for appearances. They looked for what was inside — for spine, for spirit, for soul.

And those, I had in spades. Along with a generous helping of modesty, of course.

But seriously — seriously — I knew, with a kind of slow, settling clarity, that whatever decision I made today could change the course of my whole future. This wasn’t a game. Or maybe it was, if all of life is one big, curious game. But still, I had to do something. Say something. Because if I let the moment slip by, it wouldn’t come again. Never again.

And what a hopeless word that is. One youth has no use for. Youth knows only hopes, and longings.

“Vasilika…”

“Look! There she is!”

First I saw the twins — the two sellers who looked like one reflected in a funhouse mirror. They wore matching fur hats and nearly identical coats, and were waving their wares: one with a long-handled axe, the other with a saw-like knife. They grinned and nudged each other, their chatter so in sync it was hard to tell which was speaking and which was the echo.

And then I saw her.

She was exactly as I had imagined her: hunched, draped in black, with a beak of a nose and fingers gnarled like roots. Whether sitting or standing behind her stall, it was impossible to say. On the table before her lay a few woven charms, a handful of odd trinkets. Nothing to draw a crowd.

She didn’t look up when we approached. Just kept rolling a piece of ribbon between her fingers.

Not knowing how well she could hear, I started simply: “Good day to you.”

A nod. Barely perceptible.

I tried again. “Whitny?”

Another nod. No surprise. No curiosity.

At this rate, no one would be buying her socks anytime soon.

“I was told you’re a keeper of stories,” I said, blunt and direct. “Local lore and legends.”

Only then did she lift her eyes — and I could’ve sworn she was laughing.

“My name’s Tim. I’m from Okibar. I collect tales and folklore. I lead tours.”

“A guide, are you?” she croaked.

“A guide,” I echoed, though I was startled she knew the word.

“And you, Vasilika? What are you doing here?”

“I…”

“Think I’m blind, do you? Think I don’t see who’s who or know who’s what? I see you. All of you. I remember.”

She laid down the ribbon and pressed her fingers together, forming a small, wrinkled nest of hands.

“All right, little ones. Don’t be shy. Out with it. You didn’t come here for nothing. Something’s brewing, or you wouldn’t need me. Planning a journey? Yes, yes, I know,” she waved off Vasilika’s unfinished words, “I know. Since your father never dared settle things with me, it’s unlikely you’d defy him now. Speak plainly. I’ve long since stopped being afraid.”

“She’s interested in the burial site on Ibini,” Vasilika said at last. “We just came from there yesterday. Saw the cave. And some… strange markings.”

“Ah, I see, I see,” muttered the old woman, casting me a glance as sharp as a flake of obsidian. “And did you see the pond?”

The question caught me off guard. The pond? Not the sarcophagus?

I nodded, hesitating.

“Well, that’s where the heart of it lies.”

“You’ve been there too?!” I could hardly believe what I’d just heard.

“Oh yes. Once. A long time ago,” she said with a curious smirk. “Your grandfather took me there himself, sweetling. Your grandmother hadn’t yet gotten between us.”

That last remark landed like a stone in still water — too sharp, too bitter not to carry the echo of something real. In my mind, the whole story unfurled with startling clarity. So that was the origin of the feud. Whitney had been accused of sorcery, of casting some malicious spell… by the woman who’d once fought her for a man. Jealousy again. Never anything good comes from it. I had a feeling Vasilika pieced it together too — her eyes flickered, but she quickly steadied herself.

She had tried from the start to believe that she bore no grudge. That her mother’s death was simply a tragic accident, a misstep with poisonous mushrooms. And now, perhaps to show that she still held to that belief, she leaned forward and took the reins of the conversation:

“What do you know about that place? Please, tell us.”

Whitny picked the ribbon up again and began fingering it absentmindedly.

“And what is it to you, daughter?”

“I’m curious. He needs to know.” Vasilika nodded toward me and widened her eyes, calling me in for backup.

“As I said — or rather, as you already guessed — I seek out the hidden places on our island,” I explained. “I guide people. I tell them stories. Most are locals, but I’ve had groups from the mainland too. We visit the old forts, the coast, the markets… Sadly, we’ve not yet brought anyone to Raru. But that may soon change.”

I gestured toward her stall. “And what is it you sell?”

“Can’t you see?”

“Amulets. Trinkets. All of it… quite beautiful. People must love them.”

“Do you love them?”

“Of course.”

“Then why not buy one? No one at home you’d give a gift to? Or maybe her.”

Ah. The price of knowledge was, it seemed, a tribute. A quiet bribe.

I placed a few coins on the table.

She didn’t touch them. Instead, she waved a bony hand across the scattered charms. “Choose.”

“How many?”

“Two. One for her,” she nodded at Vasilika, “and one for Ingrid. Your mother doesn’t need one anymore.”

Cold swept over me. Ingrid? How did she know that name? And what did she mean — “your mother doesn’t need one anymore”?

Vasilika was right beside me. I couldn’t ask. I remembered Marta’s warning, but now even she seemed less reliable. No socks on the stall, after all. Only riddles.

“And what’s this one for?” I pointed at an amulet that looked most like the one we’d hauled from the cave — the one now lying in Lucas’s cart.

“That one’s not for anything. It’s toward something. Not an obereg — a shield charm — but a talisman.” She picked it up by its braided strands, lifting it just as we had dragged our own strange find through the forest. “It’s called Thor’s Flame. Meant to give strength and energy to the bearer. I’ve got one for women, one for men.”

“But didn’t Thor wield a hammer, not fire?” Vasilika wondered aloud.

“And the flame belonged to Prometheus. Or Lucifer,” I added, hoping to show I’d read a book or two.

Whitny scoffed. “Why come bother an old woman if you already know everything yourselves? Don’t want to buy anything? Fine. Off you go.”

She turned from us sharply, eyes drifting toward the twins who were still eavesdropping and trading sly grins.

“Tell us more about Thor’s Flame,” I said quickly. “I’ll take two. For me. And for her.” I laid down another coin.

Whitny gathered the money without ceremony, glanced once at each of us, then rummaged through a pouch at her belt and withdrew two amulets — identical in shape, but one was blue, the other red.

“Which one’s for who?” asked Vasilika.

“That’s up to you.”

The coins vanished into her purse. She didn’t look at us again. The transaction, such as it was, seemed over. To an outsider, it might’ve looked like a children’s game where the performance was everything and the result didn’t matter. To my surprise, Vasilika picked the blue one. I took the red and, not knowing what else to do, pretended to examine it with interest.

Whitny let the silence hang just long enough for it to grow awkward. Then, with a sigh like the creak of old hinges, she finally asked:

“So. What exactly do you want to know?”

“That cave. Where did it come from? And what do those markings mean?”

“There’s an old tale,” she began, and her voice changed. Suddenly, she was a performer on a stage, speaking not to two wanderers but to an unseen, rapt audience.

“A tale from long before our time. When Frisland was still empty and wild, the Makers of Worlds chose it as the place best suited for building the Transition Gate. They summoned a creature — a worm named Ibini, who did what worms do best: burrow. He began digging a tunnel, round and smooth. First he went straight down, down, until he reached the Deep Sea. Frightened of the water, he turned sideways, gnawed his way toward one of the Earth’s Pillars, but found it too hard to break. So he turned upward and kept climbing until he reached the neighboring world — ours — where people lived.

“One of those people, brave and bold, saw the worm and raised his sword to strike. But the Makers whispered in his wife’s ear, telling her to stop him. He obeyed. Let the worm emerge, turn, and retreat into the earth. Just as the last tip of his tail was disappearing, the man couldn’t resist. He grabbed hold. His wife, not wanting to lose him, grabbed him in turn.

“And so both were dragged into the Transition Gate. The worm carried them first into the depths, then turned back along its own path, back toward Frisland. The man and woman clung to it with all their strength, for fear of being lost forever in the dark. At last, Ibini burst from the rocks in that cave you saw, punched through the stone, and vanished into the sea.

“The couple stayed behind. And soon, others joined them, forming the first family on the island that bears the worm’s name.”

“Were they dwarves? Or giants?” Vasilika asked.

“No. People. Like you and him. The man was called Svart — because he came up from the earth black as pitch. The woman was named Lokka — for her secretive, unbending nature.

“They had two sons: Pervun and Kum. And a daughter: Hel. Hel was curious, too curious. One day she defied her father’s warning. She tied herself to a stone and descended into the Gate.

“When Svart discovered it, he cried out and ordered his sons to fetch her. But they were afraid. Disobeyed. Fled — Pervun east, in a boat, to Scandia. Kum flew south in a mortar, toward Etruria.

“Hel kept going. The stone she’d tied herself to turned out to be a great tortoise, long asleep in the cave. The rope chafed its neck — it snapped the cord. Hel plummeted down and struck the bottom with such force that she cracked the floor… and water from the Deep Sea surged up through the breach.

“Svart, seeing the great fountain of water shoot skyward where the cave had been, knew his daughter was lost. He named the realm beneath us after her.

“And that,” said Whitny, folding her hands in her lap, “is how the underworld came to be called Hel.”

And with that, she fell silent.

“What happened next?” Vasilika asked — not quite a question, more of a gentle plea.

“Well, after that, Svart and Lokka had more children, and their descendants spread across all of Frisland.”

“And what about Pervun and Kum? Did they just vanish?”

“Oh, not at all. But that part of the tale, you two already know. Pervun’s descendants came back centuries later — as Vikings — only to find Kum’s line already here, Roman conquerors, settled on their ancestral land. Your Tim could tell you more himself, if he’s been dragging folks around fortresses.”

“Right then,” she said, with a tone of finality, “enough chitchat, little ones. Off you go. Don’t scare away my real customers.”

“Wait! One more thing,” I said, catching her before she could fully dismiss us. “What about the markings on the cave walls?”

“They were made by Svart’s blade,” she said, matter-of-factly. “A warning, for anyone foolish enough to follow his daughter’s path.”

I thought of the symbol — like a bulbous nose between two wide eyes — and wondered if it was meant to represent the worm’s tunnel. The fractured lines on either side might be arrows, pointing down and up. It all seemed to click.

“But what about the sarcophagus?” I pressed. “You didn’t say a word about that.”

Whitny’s sunken eyes lifted to meet ours, and for the first time I saw not mischief or sarcasm, but something close to confusion.

“Sarcophagus?”

“A huge stone coffin,” Vasilika explained, unaware that something had shifted. “We managed to lift the lid. Inside, we found a bundle that — ”

“You didn’t know about the sarcophagus?” I interrupted. “When were you last there?”

“Only once,” she said slowly, as if choosing her words with care. “Must’ve been… oh, at least fifty years ago. A long time. Hard to even remember.”

“But you saw the pond in the center? The markings? And still no memory of a giant coffin?”

“No. Nothing of the sort,” she murmured. “If it was there, I didn’t see it.”

“It’s hard to miss,” I said. “Right there in a niche. It’s massive.”

“Well… I can’t say. Maybe it wasn’t there yet. Or maybe… I don’t know.” She gave a helpless shrug, then added with a sheepish smile, “So, what was in it?”

“Some old animal hide,” I replied quickly, cutting Vasilika off. “Embroidered. Nothing else. Strange, really.”

“And the sarcophagus was too large to have fit through any of the cave passages,” Vasilika added, unable to keep quiet. “So either it was carved in place or — » she glanced at me,” — or it was raised from the pond.”

At that, the old woman burst into laughter.

She leaned back, lifted her chin, clutched her belly and began to shake silently, puffing her cheeks like a child trying not to giggle in church. We waited. I felt ridiculous, like some overeager fool who’d dragged a girl into his own little farce.

When Whitny finally composed herself, wiping her eyes with her knuckles, she straightened a little and asked, still chuckling:

“You really believed all that nonsense I told you?”

“Every tale’s a lie,” Vasilika said lightly, “but every lie holds a hint.”

“That’s right,” Whitny nodded, catching her breath. “All hints. Nothing but hints. All right then. I’ve told you what I know. What I don’t know isn’t my concern. Now off you go, and may your tourists overrun this market, eh, Tim?”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Do. And bring them to me. Maybe I’ll even share more with you.”

“What did she mean by share?” I asked Vasilika as we wandered back, searching for Lucas and his cart. “Profits or stories?”

“Probably both,” she smiled, and I warmed at the sight. “She’s a strange old woman. And that was a strange conversation. Did you notice? No socks for sale.”

“Spotted it straight away. But thinking back… when you first spoke to her, did she react at all?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said: ‘Tim’s interested in the burial on Ibini.’ That word — burial. She didn’t flinch. Just nodded, like she already knew. And yet she acted completely ignorant of the sarcophagus. How does that make sense?”

“You liked her, didn’t you?” Vasilika teased.

“You’re joking.”

“I think Marta was right after all. We were never supposed to expect anything straightforward.”

“We got something, though.” I showed her my wrist, where I’d tied the red talisman. “Thor’s Flame, apparently. Notice anything odd?”

“What?”

“She claims she doesn’t know about the sarcophagus. Claims she’s never seen what was inside. And yet here she is, crafting charms that look exactly like what we found in it. Isn’t that a little suspicious?”

“You’re right!” she exclaimed. “That’s why you stopped pressing her about it.” Vasilika opened her hand. The crumpled blue ribbon didn’t look like much now. “Shall we throw them away?”

I don’t know why, but I felt an odd tenderness toward the little scrap of fabric. My hand instinctively reached to stop hers.

She froze, startled.

Our eyes met — closer than ever. I could feel her breath, light and near. Her gaze held mine, searching. I couldn’t see her lips, but I knew where they were. It would take only the smallest movement…

“Are you afraid?” she whispered.

I didn’t answer.

I leaned in, eyes still open, and kissed her — softly, barely brushing her lips. They pulled away, just a fraction, then returned. We stood there, motionless, timeless, drunk on the eternity of a single moment. The world fell away.

Like the flash before death, all of life rose up in me — my grandmother’s hands, Crowley leading me to Mother, Father’s laughter, my sister’s tears, Ingrid with her oar raised high against the rapids, the cave glowing with unearthly light — and then silence.

“I am,” I said. “But not too much.”

Vasilika laughed, low and musical. She gazed into my eyes again, searching for something, and whatever she found seemed to please her. Her lips found mine once more, and this time the moment didn’t just continue — it deepened, spiraling until I thought I might lose my footing.

It came to me, clear and solid: this could be real. This could last. If I dared.

This wasn’t a game.

It was the most serious thing I’d ever known.

“I want to ask you something,” I said.

“Ask,” she said softly.

“Do you agree?”

“I agree.” She squinted slightly. “To what, exactly?”

“Will you come with me?”

“If you invite me.”

“I’m inviting you.”

“Then I’ll come.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“What about your father?”

“He already knows.”

“Knows what…?”

“That I’m going. That I’ve said yes.”

“But — ”

“I told you, don’t be afraid. Whitny and her trinkets have nothing to do with this. I have a few talents of my own… and I see things too.”

“So you bewitched me?” I teased. “And here I thought — » I kissed the smile on her lips and laughed. “That’s not fair!”

“We’ll see who bewitched whom,” she said, taking my hand as we began walking again. “But one thing’s certain — Whitny had nothing to do with it. I felt her watching us the whole time, but she couldn’t get through.”

“Get through where?”

“It doesn’t matter. I have a feeling we’ll have reason to deal with her again. She’s hiding something, that much is clear. But dangerous? I don’t think so. At least, not for us.”

A band of children ran past, giggling at us. Strangers on the street smiled knowingly. Someone even gave us a nod. We must have been radiating something — joy, perhaps. Or something more contagious. I won’t speak for Vasilika, but I myself couldn’t recall ever feeling so light. It was as if something heavy had been lifted from my shoulders. We had crossed an invisible line, and nothing — neither I, nor the world — would ever be quite the same.

Long live Raru, Ibini, and Crowley!

Lucas was waiting by the cart. He took one look at us and, without a word, scratched his head.

“Home, or what?”

Vasilika glanced at me, as if double-checking that all this was real — that I was real. I wished someone would explain it to me. I gave her the most reassuring smile I could manage, whether for her sake or mine, I didn’t know. She turned to Lucas:

“Or what.”

He let out a theatrical groan.

“What am I supposed to tell Bjarcke now? He’ll never let me in the house again. I’ll have to help him with his new boat just to smooth things over.” He paused, then brightened. “Oh, by the way — found you some travel companions. Headed straight to Okibar. Should reach it by tomorrow evening if the road’s good. They’re leaving in half an hour from the Big Tower. Hop in — I’ll give you a lift. Who knows, maybe I’ll talk someone into staying behind.”

And sure enough, Lucas wouldn’t stop talking all the way there. Whether it was the joy of gossip or sheer relief, he turned his mouth into a runaway millstone. If Vasilika had had any doubts left about her decision, by the time the lopsided stone column of the Big Tower appeared on the horizon, they had dissolved entirely.

As for me, I was too distracted by Lucas’s endless chatter to focus on what we were stepping into. The weight of what I had just undertaken wouldn’t settle on my shoulders until much later…

I should probably clarify, for the curious among you, that the Big Tower isn’t particularly tall. It got its name from contrast. There used to be a second tower nearby — smaller, probably unfinished, and utterly unimpressive. That one had to be torn down because it blocked the road. But the taller one remained — and the name stuck, even after it lost all meaning.

These days, the ground floor of the Big Tower housed a cozy tavern, and in front of it lay a tidy square where carts and carriages could stop and wait. Now, you should know that here on the island, we still hold horse-drawn transport in high esteem. We are, of course, familiar with automobiles — but due to their general inconvenience and the damage they cause, we simply don’t use them. In fact, their absence is one of our island’s chief attractions for visitors from the continent.

On the usual tourist route, I always make a detour between Doffais and Godmer to visit the Hakola family farm — yes, from Finland — where a two-door Porsche 914 has stood for years. The car was an impulsive purchase by the eldest son on a trip to his ancestral homeland. He brought it over by sea just to drive a few miles… and it promptly stalled, never to start again. He fled back to Finland in disgrace, and the poor machine has since rusted in the field, a monument to the impermanence of modern wonders.

The coach — well, we call them zilots, though they’re closer to what you’d imagine a proper old-fashioned stagecoach to be — was already hitched up and ready to go. Two pairs of muscular horses stood patiently in their traces, their calm strength suggesting that few stops would be needed between here and the southern coast.

Let me explain: zilot has nothing to do with religious zealotry, despite the name. It comes from the root “zeal,” like the French diligence. Ours, however, are meant to be endured less and enjoyed more. Good springs, padded benches, insulated walls, the option to swap wheels for sled runners, and peat-fueled floor-heating for winter travel. Comfortable enough, really.

The one waiting now could probably seat a dozen, but from the looks of it, most folks had no plans to head south in this season. The windows were nearly all empty.

On the driver’s perch sat a scruffy fellow in an open fur coat, bare-chested underneath — a fashion choice no proper northerner would make before the first snow that doesn’t melt by sundown. I glanced at Vasilika. She too was dressed… for more than a trip to the market. Packed for a journey, it seemed.

Her father, I now realized, must have known. They must’ve had their talk that morning. She’d told him her plans, and even if he hadn’t liked them, he’d accepted them. What had she said? Let’s see how it goes — if Tim kisses me, I’ll take it as a sign? Or maybe something more practical: I’m tired of this village — I want to see the world, and he has a whole enterprise for that.

Who knows? I’ve never been good at understanding women’s logic — or magic. And I have a habit of overthinking things until I spoil them for myself.

But I was spared from drowning in self-doubt when I looked up at the coach window and saw — believe it or not — my own sister, Tandri.

Her eyes lit up. She waved enthusiastically. I waved back.

She turned from the window, likely to report her discovery to someone inside.

A moment later, that someone’s familiar red beard appeared in the same window. Gordian, her husband, looking rather smug, confirmed that his wife wasn’t making things up.

Well.

Our trip home was about to get very interesting.

I jumped down from the cart, and Lucas handed me the mysterious bundle I still couldn’t decide whether to classify as precious or perilous. I shook his honest hand, wished him a safe journey home, and said I hoped this wouldn’t be our last encounter. Then, trying to look as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening, I ambled toward the zilot with an air of nonchalance.

Whether Vasilika noticed the abrupt shift in my mood, I can’t say — but she certainly must have caught the look from the striking, grown-up woman who was watching me with a fatherly sort of smile and an unmissable flicker of curiosity about who I was bringing along. I’ll admit, even I had stopped thinking of Tandri as a “young girl” some time ago.

“Am I waiting for you, then?” the driver asked in lieu of greeting, nodding over our heads at someone — presumably Lucas.

“They said it’d be one person,” he added, his tone not exactly brimming with joy.

“Are all the seats taken?” I answered in kind.

“Not yet. Climb aboard, boys and girls.”

“Where do I put this?” I asked, showing him the bundle, which I was now holding with both hands and increasing effort.

“Anywhere you like. If it’s weatherproof, best toss it in the trunk out back.”

He had clearly warmed himself nicely on the driver’s bench and didn’t fancy moving just to assist us. Normally, our drivers are helpful to a fault, especially with tourists who see riding a zilot as a full-blown adventure. They’re used to cars and buses, and this? This is time travel. They often say so outright, without the slightest intention to offend. Our coachmen, naturally, make no distinction between locals and newcomers, so I left the man’s indifference on his conscience and made my way around the carriage.

Gordian was already hopping down from the step to meet me. With one hand, he caught the end of the bundle; with the other, he opened the massive trunk that doubled as a luggage compartment — thankfully, it was nearly empty.

“What brings you here, little brother?” he asked, shoving the bundle deeper inside and waiting to see what I’d do with my shoulder bag. “Looks like you’ve been on quite the shopping spree. Shall I stash this one too?”

He winked at me then, and I realized — true to form — Gordian was teasing, without malice. Whether he meant the bag or my traveling companion, I wasn’t sure. I glanced back instinctively.

Vasilika, unfazed, had already slipped inside the zilot, and from within we soon heard the sound of women’s laughter.

“No, this one’s got my camera. I’d better keep it with me, if that’s all right.”

“What were you photographing? Pretty country girls?”

Ah, the noble Roman bloodlines — everyone not from the city is a peasant, apparently. As if Tandri herself were born on cobblestone and opera.

“Something a little more interesting,” I replied. I’m not one to make mysteries out of nothing. “Heard of the burial site on Ibini?”

“Only in passing.” He shut the trunk and motioned for me to go ahead. “Something valuable?”

“Too early to tell, to be honest. But it’s… striking. We’ve got time — I’ll fill you in.”

“And the girl? She with you?”

“Met her there. Name’s Vasilika.”

“Your greatest discovery?”

I opened the door and, with a mock-gallant gesture, let the smirking Gordian enter first.

My “greatest discovery” was sitting next to Tandri, and both of them greeted us with a round of applause.

“We’d just decided to leave without you, boys,” said my sister, pulling her legs in and nudging Vasilika to do the same. “You don’t mind if we swap places? It’ll be more comfortable for everyone. Right, Gordy?”

Gordian said nothing but obediently took the vacant seat opposite Vasilika. I sat down facing Tandri. Aside from us, the zilot held a grey-haired lady who paid us no mind at all, entirely focused on watching the coachman’s back through a small window. Four other seats remained empty — though likely not for long, since few zilots depart half-full for such a distant route.

“So what brings you here, sis?” I asked, echoing my brother-in-law’s words. “You’re the last person I expected to find out this way.”

“Gordy had some work to do,” she replied easily, then turned to her new seatmate. “And you? You’re from Raru?”

“Almost,” Vasilika said evasively. Her eyes danced from me to Gordian and back again. “You look alike. The two of you.”

“Also’? ” Gordian played along with feigned indifference. “Since when does Tim resemble Tandri?”

With harmless banter like that, we passed the first few minutes of our wait. It ended when the old lady behind me suddenly shrieked, “There they are! There they are!” and the next moment two equally grumpy men climbed into the warmth of the coach — presumably her husband and grown son. Grumbling vague apologies, they squeezed past and settled down silently, while she launched into a pointed monologue on the inconvenience of getting lost precisely when one isn’t supposed to and leaving her to wait like some forgotten peasant woman.

That word — peasant — having now cropped up twice in one day, gave me an idea: worst case, I could always set Gordian on her. City people understand each other.

Once it was clear our new companions were thoroughly wrapped up in their own drama, we resumed talking — this time, more substantively.

“Tim told me you two were exploring something on Ibini,” Gordian said to Vasilika. “Did you hear that, Tan? Your brother’s determined to scrub every blank spot off the map of Frisland.”

“Since when are you a fan of blank spots?” Tandri teased, turning her full attention to her new neighbor. “And you were there too?”

“My father — he’s a hunter — he discovered the place recently,” said Vasilika. “Tim and I just had to convince him to take us.”

“So that’s how you met?”

“Yep. In a boat, in the rain.”

“And now?”

“What do you mean, now?”

A pause followed — awkward in its precision, the kind that etiquette demands be broken by the person best placed to do so.

That would be me.

“…Now,” I said, in a tone as steady and sure as I could manage, “I’ve invited Vasilika to meet my parents.”

With that single sentence, I cleared the air of ambiguity. According to our unspoken but iron traditions, it is the man who must first bring the woman home. If his parents approve, only then does he visit hers to formally request her hand. Not every introduction leads to a proposal — but the order is sacred. With Ingrid, for instance, we had spent time together openly, and she had been to my home more than once, welcomed by my mother and father. And yet — I’d never brought myself to speak with her parents. Which meant, in the formal sense if not the emotional one, I had kept things undefined.

So turning now toward Vasilika was neither betrayal nor deception.

And, truth be told, it was the one thing about this whole tangled business that gave me a deep and quiet sense of peace.

Our companions nodded knowingly, and Tandri even leaned toward Vasilika to whisper something feminine, but caught herself in time — realizing it would be improper in such close company — and instead replaced the whisper with a friendly pat on her neighbor’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry, dear, it’s impossible not to like you!”

I hadn’t noticed before that my sister had any particular knack for speaking blunt truths — let alone dishing out compliments. Judging by Gordian’s scrutinizing gaze, he hadn’t expected such boldness from her either, as if she’d just busted the usual polite boundaries. Only Vasilika remained herself, taking everything at face value.

“I only get nervous when I’ve drunk too much water the day before, there are too many people around, and not a single bush in sight.”

Tandri snorted with laughter. Gordian pondered the remark briefly, then followed his wife’s example. I thought that if anyone else but Vasilika had said something like that, it might have made me so uncomfortable I’d want to end the conversation then and there. But she seemed pleased by the reaction and met my eyes in return. Somehow, she knew her words might unsettle me and wanted to make sure I understood the playful jab. I did.

“And I get nervous when I have to travel almost two days in the company of such beautiful and sharp-tongued companions.”

“Agreed,” Gordian backed me up. “Before we met, I used to think my wife was unmatched in all Frisland for that. But Tim, you’re right: you two are a delightful exception, Vasilika.”

“You’re a very pleasant young man, too,” she replied without hesitation, flashing him a charming smile. “Few people ever address me formally. By the way, you should stop that, too. I suggest we all just call each other by first names from now on.”

“Do you have a pet name at home?” Tandri asked after a while. “You see, this pleasant young man calls me Tan, I call him Gordy, and Timothy is always Tim for us. And you?”

“It depends on the circumstances… Listen, let’s change seats,” Vasilika said as she stood up. Tandri slid closer to her husband, and I found myself sitting opposite my beloved in every sense. She stretched her long legs, and I ended up holding her calves in my hands. Everyone else pretended not to notice.

“When Dad needs something done around the house, I become Silika. When we fish together, I usually hear either Durynda or Maladtsa. When I was little, he called me Vasil — he wanted a son.”

Tandri looked genuinely touched, while I noticed we had finally started moving, and quite briskly, too, along cobbled streets past the ruined fortress wall, past the stalls of stray craftsmen who couldn’t afford to rent space on the market, past sharp-roofed houses and low fences.

As a child, I could only ride facing forward because the soft suspension made me terribly seasick otherwise. But frequent travels with tourists had cured me of that, and now I could comfortably ride backward. Conversation lulled, and for a while we all watched silently outside, the view a curious novelty for us all. Only the neighbor behind muttered quietly to herself.

“Look there!” Vasilika touched my arm. “Is that them?”

I tried to see what she meant and thought I really did catch sight of a stooped black-clad old woman slipping through the tall arch of the inner city gates. Behind her, two sturdy men in fur hats and matching kaftans followed. The trading day wasn’t over yet; they walked lightly, so I assumed someone was guarding their stalls. Despite the Volkerul’s strictness, there was no guarantee against thieves.

“Yes, that’s Whitney for sure,” I agreed. “And the twins with her.”

“Who are you talking about?” Tandri asked, lively as ever. With age, she had lost the ability to suppress her curiosity, which I thought I had once managed to temper. “What did you say? Whitney? You don’t mean that Whitney…”

“You know her too?” Vasilika was surprised.

“Depends which one,” Gordian jumped in, stopping his wife just like I had stopped mine earlier when she almost spilled the beans about our main find at the market. “For example, in Okibar we have a Whitney who recently wanted internet installed at her place. She’s quite old but spry, keeping up with the times.”

It was obvious he was deliberately steering the conversation away. Tandri noticed and bit her tongue. I played along but looked at Vasilika. When I caught her slightly puzzled glance, I nodded, and she seemed to get it — at least she stopped probing. Lowering my voice a bit, I began recounting the legend we had learned about the cave and the Transition Gates. The others listened intently, not interrupting. When I finished, Tandri furrowed her brow and confessed she had never heard anything like it before. Gordian, the practical man, considered the tale and said he didn’t understand one thing: where exactly had this Svart and his wife come from?

“From the earth’s depths?”

“From another world,” Tandri corrected him.

“Where’s that? I always thought all corners of the globe were known, so if you dug a mine down, then sideways, then up, you’d at best end up in Scandinavia or Canada.”

“Gordy, why are you always so… smart?” my sister laughed, inviting us to agree, which we did with smiles. “It’s a legend, after all!”

“Every legend has a basis. When the Christians invented their story about Jesus, they didn’t really invent it but borrowed from earlier religions based on the sun’s journey across the sky. That’s why there are so many similar tales of heroes born of immaculate conception on December 25, who died on a cross and rose three days later, from Vikings to India and beyond.”

Seeing our surprised faces, he added, “When I lived in the States, I was interested in this and read a lot — I still remember it all.”

“Every day I learn something new about you!” Tandri raised an eyebrow. It was hard to tell whether it was admiration or mild annoyance.

“Who is Jesus?” Vasilika asked.

Suddenly, everyone fell silent. The question sounded so natural that it didn’t seem like a joke. She really might not know. For Gordian, that was undoubtedly embarrassing; for Tandri, a spicy surprise; and for me, a reason to immediately take up the Masons’ work of patching cultural gaps.

“There are several religions on the mainland…”

“… all invented for the same purpose,” Gordian couldn’t resist adding.

“One of them worships a man named Jesus Christ. There’s still debate whether he really lived or if he’s just another myth…”

“… though it seems this man did live about a thousand years ago. In France…”

I hadn’t suspected that this topic was Gordian’s favorite hobby.

“I think I’ve heard of that,” Vasilika’s eyes brightened. “They call it Christianity over there, right? Now it makes sense. I just never thought Christ and this Jesus were the same guy. Good to know. So, what were you doing in the States? In America?”

“In the very States themselves,” our resident tech guru settled comfortably in his seat. “Studying. You know about the internet, right?”

“Yes.” Her voice lacked confidence. “Tim told me.”

“Well, that’s what I’m working on now — helping our islanders get connected to the wider world.”

“Why?”

Vasilika’s question was straightforward, and no one was surprised. Gordian took a breath as if to launch into a long explanation, then paused, looked at us, exhaled, and laughed.

“To make money, probably.”

I recount our conversation in detail because I remember it vividly. I watched Vasilika gently sway side to side, her refined profile etched against the window, and thought I saw in her simplicity a reflection of my younger self — when so many things I now take for granted once sparked naïve questions hiding far more depth and worldly wisdom than their answers suggested.

The elderly lady began to feel motion sick. At first, I noticed the silence behind me, then one of her men cracked a window and asked the driver to stop. We were only about three miles outside the city. Husband and son helped the poor woman outside near some bushes, where she seemed to be sick. Strange, I thought, how some childhood ailments never quite leave with age. When they returned, she looked pale but somehow brighter. She apologized for the inconvenience and confessed it was only her second time ever riding a zillot. I realized the problem wasn’t age but inexperience.

Since I had plenty of experience with such things, I took the liberty to help our neighbors make the rest of the journey more comfortable. I suggested the two men move to the empty rear seat — since the back of the wagon tends to sway the most — and advised the lady simply to lie down in the freed-up front seat, resting her head on something soft, and try to sleep. I assured her she wouldn’t disturb us at all, and the motion would be far easier to bear that way.

Apparently, my argument was persuasive: all three complied without objection. After a few minutes, the lady called out to thank me; she really was feeling much better. Vasilika, who had been watching everything, took my hand and squeezed it. Tandri, of course, couldn’t resist explaining to the whole group how I had come by such knowledge. Gordian turned it into a scientific discussion and agreed that converting the lateral sway into a fore-and-aft motion by lying down was an interesting idea. As for our driver, at that moment he was thinking less about his passengers and more about keeping to schedule, nudging the team forward.

The cobblestones had long ended, replaced by ordinary gravel reinforced with natural bitumen mined from bituminous sands on our eastern coast. Lewu told me about this — he had worked summers at one such mine. With our cool climate, bitumen and gravel make an excellent surface, wearing only in extreme cold. In winter, the snow buries the roads, and instead of clearing it, we switch to sleds.

Perhaps the presence of the unwell woman dampened the mood, for we traveled in silence for quite some time after that. Taking advantage of the pause, I studied our neighbors behind Vasilika’s back, swaying shoulder to shoulder. The younger man looked no older than twenty — well-dressed, rosy-cheeked, tousle-haired, and broad-shouldered — the very opposite of his father, a clearly worn man around forty, stooped and somewhat gaunt. Their shared gloominess persisted, though the father’s face brightened slightly when he looked at me, as if nodding in recognition. I tried to imagine what they did in Raru and why they were heading to Okibar, but Vasilika’s pleasant presence distracted me. They barely spoke, except for the son occasionally pointing something out the window, to which the father squinted and nodded.

The passing landscape hardly interested me. I’d seen enough forests over the years — they’re just forests everywhere. More picturesque, in my opinion, are the roads on Frisland’s edges, where one side is lined with forest and the other bordered by water and a wide stretch of brown tundra. Without coastal swamps, our tundra is either peaty or rocky. The eastern shores are especially beautiful, dotted with polar poppies. If I’d been choosing the route to show Vasilika sights she might never have seen, I would have asked our driver to take a detour east through Doffais and Godmer — an extra day’s travel but worth it.

Of course, I didn’t waste time joking around; I just wanted to get home quickly with my two precious finds. Later, when things settled, I could take Vasilika on every trip and help her grow in many ways. In a year’s time, she’d know everything I know and wouldn’t ask naive questions about Jesus anymore. Although — why call them naive? Who knows whether such knowledge benefits us? Maybe the simpler our lives, the better. I don’t think Vasilika missed much, even without hearing of Christianity or the internet. Still, I wished not only for a beauty by my side but for a clever woman with whom I could have deep conversations. That, however, was fixable — and even exciting — since I would be the one to teach her what she didn’t yet know, and later she’d thank me for it. She clearly had both wit and curiosity. Right — always see the positive. I’m doing well!

While I pondered all this, my companions were, as usual, dozing off. Tandri leaned back and closed her eyes. Gordian pulled a book from somewhere and passed the time studying complex diagrams and formulas, seemingly to deter questions by making it clear he was deeply occupied. Vasilika and I exchanged glances and winks. What we wanted to discuss wasn’t for other ears, so we chose silence too.

Tandri must have truly fallen asleep because her posture relaxed even more — her head tilted to one side, arms sprawling so that her left lay on Vasilika’s lap. The girl gently lifted the arm and set it aside. At the same time, I felt her foot nudging mine, beckoning for attention. She wanted to show me Tandri’s left wrist, which bore the same talisman as ours — but not blue or red; this one was vivid green with a suspicious black stripe.

That could only mean one thing: they knew Whitney — not some fictional character Gordian invented on the fly, but the real one from the market. And for some reason, they didn’t want to admit it. Why? What connected them? What was Tandri hiding from her own brother?

I had to find out before it was too late. Thinking that over, I lightly nudged Gordian’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” He closed his book, holding a finger to his lips.

“Nothing. Look at this.” I showed him my wrist.

“Does it mean something?”

“Should it?”

I silently pointed at the green snake on his wife’s wrist.

“And now, while she’s asleep, tell me in detail — how is it that you know the same Whitney as we do, and what took you to see her? Given what you know about my story, I’m sure you understand why this matters to me, right?”

I think the tone of my voice said more than the words themselves. Catching the righteous anger in it, Gordian surprisingly gave in without much resistance.

“We didn’t want to announce it prematurely, but if all goes according to plan, in a few months you’ll be an uncle.”

I glanced sideways at my sleeping sister.

“So you traveled across the whole island just to get advice from some witch because of that?”

“No, I actually had a client in Raru. The visit just happened to coincide.”

“Then why’d you lie to us at first?”

“Not a word.” His finger slipped out from the book he was holding. “There’s also a Whitney in Okibar. But I didn’t want to say much about this one because Tandri is keeping her condition secret for now — not to worry anyone.”

“Wonderful!”

“Well, cut me some slack.”

“No problem. But now, tell me your side of the story. What do you know about this Whitney, and what did you two talk about?”

“Nothing special,” Gordian said in a low voice, careful not to wake his wife. Vasilika, eager to listen too, leaned forward and jabbed her elbows sharply into my knees.

“We arrived three days ago. While I was working, Tandri tried to get in touch with her, but Whitney ignored us for two evenings. I don’t know why. She finally agreed yesterday, late at night. We went together. She lives by the tower, near the market where you met her. I was a bit surprised she’s completely alone there — no men, no friends, no hangers-on. She opened the door herself, let us in herself. That actually put me at ease; it showed confidence. From what I can tell, it’s the dishonest ones who are afraid. We sat and talked. Your sister was mostly concerned about how her pregnancy would go and what could be said about the child’s future.”

“That’s not good,” Vasilika remarked.

“What?”

“There are things better left unknown.”

“That’s not on me.” Gordian glanced at Tandri with what I thought was sympathy. “One of her friends told her that Whitney can work near-miracles, and that it’s worth talking to her so nothing bad happens later. She can protect against the evil eye, and…”

“…cast the evil eye herself,” I snorted.

“I hope you’re wrong.” Gordian’s voice lacked conviction. “Honestly, I liked how our conversation went. She’s no ordinary woman and said a lot about us — things we hadn’t even noticed ourselves. And naturally, she gave some… instructions for the future. Sorry, I’ll skip the details.”

“And this talisman?”

“She gave it to us. Didn’t take money.”

“What do you mean?” Vasilika asked, surprised. “At all?”

“No, of course she took money, but the talisman she gave as a gift and said you don’t charge for such things.”

We showed her our souvenirs at once, assuring her that money definitely does change hands. Although, when I thought about it, I’d just handed her some coins too, and it turns out she gave us this “Flame of Thor’ just out of kindness. Either way, the old woman didn’t lose out.

“Let’s hope everything turns out all right,” I summed up. “Now you’ll tell your parents, right? Mine will definitely be happy. By the way, what kind of ‘magic’ did she do for you?”

“A boy, obviously.”

— That’s great! — What’s great? — Tandri perked up, finally stirred awake by our joyful exclamations.

Gordian had to confess that he’d spilled all our secrets. Vasilika finally released my cramped knees and straightened up. Looking at her, I couldn’t help but wonder — could this really be the woman destined to bear my children? To be honest, I once looked at Ingrid the same way. For some readers, my seriousness might seem strange or even amusing, but upbringing is upbringing. Maybe there are languages where “love” is expressed by different words depending on what kind of love you mean: love for children, parents, homeland, a beautiful seductress, reading, nature, or even food. Because, let’s face it, if you think about it, what we lump together under one word is far from a single feeling. Take my example — pretty typical, I’d say — any man knows the difference between seeing an attractive woman and sensing intuitively, out of nowhere, that she is the one you’ll marry and stay with until death. I’m almost joking. For me, in both cases, intuition either kept silent or lied outright. A new thought made me smile: what if, on the contrary, the inner voice was right, and I’d have heirs from both? Vasilika had no way of knowing my thoughts, but I noticed she was smiling too. How I liked her!

After giving her husband a scolding, Tandri asked if we’d be reaching anywhere soon. She’d had a bad dream and resisted telling it for a while, only confessing after Vasilika gently warned her that if you don’t face a nightmare, you risk letting it come true on its own. I’d never heard that superstition before, but Tandri believed it and admitted she’d dreamed of Whitney from Raru, who, with two accomplices, was chasing our zillot all the way to Okibar, demanding the return of something we supposedly stole from them.

“Well, you couldn’t have stolen her child, so calm down,” Gordian said, lecturing. “It’s just you two left, my friends. Come on, confess — besides the talismans, what else did you take from the old woman?”

He was joking, but I felt uneasy. As you’ve probably guessed, my mind immediately jumped to the bundle. Whitney was connected to it. Her suspicious ignorance about the sarcophagus, the recognizable image of the “necklace” in her talismans — three of us had them — and her appearance off the market near our zillot, accompanied by both twins — wasn’t that a cause for concern? I glanced at Vasilika. I don’t know if she read my thoughts, but she looked clearly worried, which made the smile she gave Gordian strained.

“Nothing but youth,” she said.

My memory is selective, so it didn’t hold the details of the following hours of that remarkable journey. Tandri didn’t fall back asleep, which meant Gordian couldn’t return to his favorite reading. If I’m not mistaken, he took on the role of chief storyteller for the trip. I helped him now and then, offering a short break, because Vasilika grew increasingly curious — about life in America, the internet’s possibilities, Gordian’s work, and life in Okibar. She asked timely questions and listened with such attention that ignoring her was impossible.

The lady up front quieted down, occasionally sighing softly. The father and son nodded silently, pretending not to care about our conversation but betraying their interest with smiles at Gordian’s or Vasilika’s jokes, or quietly exchanging impressions about the scenery outside. At least, that’s how it seemed to me, since they faced each other and their lips moved.

Meanwhile, the zillot kept rolling. I knew that as long as we were inside it, our fate and time were entirely in the hands — and the whip — of the driver. They’re like that here. If you don’t ask nicely, they’ll push the horses until they’re forced to stop themselves. Makes sense — why stop in the middle of the woods when you can endure a bit longer and reach the relay station where you can stretch your legs, eat, and even nap?

I explained to my tired sister that before spending the night, we’d have a mandatory stop after noon for lunch and a smoke break. Vasilika understood this in her own way — she opened her bag and treated us to wonderful fresh apple-filled pastries. Looking around, she offered some to our companions, but they politely declined, citing a hearty breakfast. The pastries perked us up nicely.

Tandri also had a large flask of cold tea and two camping cups. I enjoyed sharing one with Vasilika. It felt like I was drinking and kissing her at the same time, right there in front of everyone, though our friends acted as if nothing unusual was happening — as it basically was, apart from my youthful nerves.

Slowly, I chalked up my earlier worries to excitement and hunger. The day was unfolding beautifully. The sun climbed high in a clear sky, pretending to warm us. The zillot rolled briskly, and amid friendly chatter, time and horses slipped away almost unnoticed.

By the last jolt and the driver’s shout of “Arrived!” I already knew Gordian’s nickname in the States was “Freezer,” his favorite dish was authentic Italian spaghetti with mushrooms in béchamel sauce, he wanted to name his son after his grandfather Silon, and he was now working closely with Americans to secure a top-level domain for our island — something like. fz or. fs after the dot in website addresses.

I honestly understood about as much as Vasilika why we needed that, but Gordian clearly had some selfish aim, probably wanting to become a sort of “future monopolist,” as he honestly put it. Since my sister’s and future nephew’s comfortable lives depended on him, I didn’t interrogate him further and just sincerely wished him luck.

Why we had to cooperate specifically with America and not Europe, I didn’t know and didn’t ask. Frankly, neither direction interested me much. Seeing the big world was fun in theory, like a trip to the moon — amusing but pointless. And why go anywhere at all when we still had sacred places like the cave on Ibini right here?

The station — or rather, the inn — where our driver decided to drop anchor was somewhat familiar to me. I had stopped here once or twice with my tour groups, even spent a night, if memory serves, though it had been long ago, and the name of the owner — a sturdy old man with a shock of snow-white hair who personally greeted guests, cooked for them, and even handed out the bed linens himself — had slipped my mind. Today, I saw no sign of him. Instead, two elderly women met us, and when I inquired after their father, they sighed and told me he had passed away several months prior. My face must have betrayed more than my words, for one of the women thanked me for my sympathy and explained that he had been ninety-three at the time — a venerable age when one can either crystallize into a living relic and outlast everyone, or decide that enough is enough and quietly embark on the next journey. Now, the inn was managed by these two sisters, who were naturally delighted by our visit.

They hailed from a neighboring village I occasionally visited with groups, offering what could literally be called a local attraction: water from a spring considered sacred. This water was among the purest on our entire island and possessed truly remarkable healing properties. The spring bubbled from the crown of a low hill on a forest clearing, trickling down a clay slope into a small hollow in the earth. The villagers had carefully lined this hollow with stones to preserve as much precious moisture as possible. To drink, one scooped water directly from the hollow with a special ladle. One edge was lower than the rest, allowing water to flow into a larger basin — almost like a bathtub — where you could soak your hand, your foot, or even climb in entirely. Why, you ask? To answer, I’d typically draw my belt knife and, before the astonished eyes of my listeners, swiftly slice my finger, showing the bright red snake of blood, then dip the finger in the water, count to five, and reveal a finger completely healed, without a trace of blood or wound. Everyone would rush to fill their containers, but I warned them that outside this source — outside the “baptismal font,” as we called it — the water lost its curative powers. If you poured it into a mug and dipped a cut finger in, the wound would heal faster, but not nearly as quickly. Tests on the clay, the stones, and the soil failed to uncover the cause. In my opinion, the secret lay in the perfect harmony of all components. But I digress.

Our driver loudly announced to the sisters that we had no more than three and a half hours to spare, as we needed to reach lodging before dark. He could still race the sun, but the moon? Forget it. The old ladies bustled about while the four of us remained on the open veranda, stretching our cramped limbs and breathing in the scents of the surrounding forest. Nobody opened the zillot’s windows, so the difference in air quality inside with seven breathing passengers and outside was striking. I told my friends about the late innkeeper and the daughter’s comment about age: you can either die of exhaustion or “crystallize,” as she put it, and live on.

“Well, to be exact, she didn’t say ‘live on,’ but ‘outlive everyone,’” Gordian interjected.

“Do you think that’s a significant difference?” Vasilika jumped to my defense.

“Undoubtedly. Consider it: you either live longer than those around you or live an indefinite amount of time.”

“That’s not quite right.” I was distracted by watching where our driver was parking the zillot with my bundle. “If the old man is very old and there’s a child growing nearby, you understand how long he’d have to wait to outlive him. And if that old man’s descendants surround him in turn, he won’t just live on — he’ll live forever.” The zillot backed under a covered shed and stayed there. The coachman, flapping the hems of his fur coat, strode past us inside. “Does anyone know why he’s so sullen?”

“Why are you looking at me?” Tandri laughed. “Am I supposed to know?”

“Because you’ve known him longer than we have. You arrived first.”

“Well, actually the sleeping lady arrived first,” Gordian defended his wife. “Ask her. Besides, she owes you.”

“Owes me what?”

“For advice on how to avoid motion sickness.”

Joking back and forth, we were about to follow the coachman into the fragrant warmth of the inn when the crunching of gravel drew our attention. A zillot-carriage — a two-wheeled, two-seater vehicle — rumbled past the inn, pulled by a pair of snorting horses with beautiful flowing manes. I thought for a moment the coachman, clad in a green cloak, intended to ease up on the horses, but at the last second, he cracked the whip sharply.

“Busy traffic,” Gordian noted, watching the carriage until it disappeared behind the trees.

He gallantly let Vasilika step ahead, but Tandri hesitated, turned to me, and whispered very softly:

“Call your parents. Warn them you’re not alone. You know how Dad hates surprises.”

She was right. About the surprises, at least — I wasn’t sure if my father would even get jealous at the sight of a girl. Probably not; more likely the opposite. But mother? She was a different story. Always kept up appearances in public, but behind closed doors, she let her emotions run wild and said exactly what she thought. Incidentally, she was the only one who hadn’t fully accepted Ingrid yet. That fact still gave me hope that things with Vasilika might go smoother, that I could count on her support in the complicated battle with my own conscience.

Following my sister into the large sitting room with its table already set, I cautiously asked one of the sisters where I could make a phone call. She cheerfully led me to a small room behind the kitchen — a kind of storage closet — and showed me an ancient wall phone with a bulky handset like a double horn and a rotary dial. We had no phone at home, but Crowley did, in his office, and I knew his number by heart, since I often called from the road. Crowley didn’t always answer, but it was lunchtime now, so I could reasonably expect to catch him.

I got lucky: on the third ring, someone picked up, and I heard his familiar clearing of the throat. By habit, he just waited to be told what was up.

“Uncle Dylan, it’s Tim. How are you?”

“Ah, hey, kiddo! Where are you?”

“Coming back.”

“Did it go well?”

“More than well. Tons of photos, a fascinating story, and something else.”

“Good. Waiting for you.” Crowley hated phones and was about to hang up.

“Wait! I have a favor…”

“What’s wrong?” His voice suddenly grew serious.

“We’ll be back by tomorrow evening, and I wanted to ask you to…”

“We?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I’m not coming alone. Her name’s Vasilika. I wanted to ask you…”

“Got it, no need to go on. I’ll warn your folks, then. Is the girl at least worth it?” He was clearly smiling into his beard.

“More than worth it!”

“Then don’t worry. I’ll tell them. And you be careful, don’t get into trouble.”

He hung up before I could say thanks. That was him through and through: the last word always had to be his, and if you still doubted, you simply weren’t worth his time, because he’d already figured everything out long ago.

Having secured myself with that tried-and-true method, I returned to the hall where our group was already seated on two benches around a large wooden table, bustling with my recent interlocutor. Her sister was tending to the weary lady and the coachman, who — as usual for his profession — had set himself apart at a separate table near the window overlooking the yard and the parked zillot. I’d bet he was keeping an eye on the local stablehands feeding his horses hay, the very beasts that would haul us for another long stretch before evening.

Gordian greeted me with a raised mug of foaming surya; Vasilika gave me a sweet smile; Tandri first looked questioning, then nodded approval. Once I arrived, the two young women fluttered off to wash their hands, and I quickly placed an order. To my own surprise, I asked Gordian his opinion.

“About what?” he replied, surprised.

“Not about what, but who. What do you think of Vasilika?”

He nearly choked but pulled a serious face and clarified:

“As a man, or as your sister’s husband?”

“In general.”

“That never happens, buddy.” He slammed his mug on the table, baring a set of enviably straight, white teeth in a grin. “Just say what you want to hear. That I envy you? Undoubtedly. That I wish you long years of happiness and so on? Of course.”

“That I’m not crazy.”

“Oh, I see! Doubts gnaw at you. Banish them. Banish them sharply and boldly, because when on the battlefield of your life, forgive the fancy words, your heart and mind collide, you must always side with the heart. Even if your mind is currently Goliath and your heart is… what’s his name…”

“David.”

“Exactly. One problem: you can’t have outside advisers on this. Each will use logic and come up with tons of reasons why you two must never be together, and others why you simply must. You can only feel the rightness of your choice yourself. And if anyone says that doubts mean you’re making a mistake, don’t believe them. Doubts are the mind’s work. And the mind likes to hedge bets. It thinks it’s responsible for your wellbeing. Partly true, but only partly. Feelings are given to us to control it. What do you think?”

“To be honest, this is new to me…”

“Seems serious, then. My advice: relax and don’t worry. And don’t think about what will happen or what anyone else might say. It’s time, old man, to make your own decisions and stand by them.”

No sooner had he finished than the coachman, peeking once more through the window, jumped up, knocked over a chair, and burst outside with a loud curse. Only at the door, where his coat caught on the handle and tore with a pitiful rip, did he stop and turn back to the hall, shouting:

“They’re robbing us!”

We all exchanged looks. Father and son were quicker than the rest. Without putting down their knives and forks, they rushed after the coachman, who was already yelling on the street. I sat near the door, so Gordian had to catch up with me.

Outside, a riot unfolded — people running, horses spooked and neighing, and near the road, the familiar green driver nervously bounced on the shafts of his two-wheeled carriage. The carriage door had just slammed behind someone, and a long whip cracked in the sun over the glossy haunches of the pair of horses.

“They’re getting away! They’re getting away!” shouted the husband of our lady.

Meanwhile, his rosy-cheeked son displayed impressive agility, instantly mounting a horse that appeared from nowhere. Spurring it on, he raced after the fleeing carriage. The poor father dashed after him but soon ran out of steam and stopped before the gate.

I froze, unsure how to help the brave youth lost among the trees. Almost knocking me over, two more horses thundered past, carrying bare-footed young men brandishing pitchforks. Their lack of shoes struck me as odd but gave my conscience a reprieve, letting me switch focus from the chase to the likely damage.

I hurried to our zillot, still safely parked under the canopy. All four animals casually chewed the leftover hay. The zillot had rolled forward slightly, giving access to the luggage compartment. The trunk was still there. Lifting the lid, I peered inside. My bundle lay covered with bags that hadn’t been there before. Probably no cause for alarm, I thought, remembering the father and son had come last, so these were likely their belongings — safe and sound. Fear has big eyes. Hopefully, the boy didn’t get into trouble. I needed to tell them.

Just as I reached for the bundle and tested its familiar weight, I stumbled back into Gordian.

“Looks like everything’s still here. We worried for nothing.” “Step aside.”

We swapped places. While he inspected the chest, I stepped out from under the canopy. Our coachman hurried toward us. I told him the belongings seemed intact. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and gave the nearest horse a reassuring pat.

“I scared those bastards off,” he sighed, his tone betraying a strange mix of frustration and pride. “Should’ve waited a bit longer, then we’d have caught them for sure.”

“Do you have any idea whose carriage that was?”

“If only! Definitely not from Raru or Okibar — I know everyone there by sight and name. I hope the boys catch up and drag them back. You can’t let things like that slide. Damn!”

His last words came just as distant gunshots rang out. The situation, far from resolved, was rapidly shifting from bad to worse. As you well understand, if you’ve read this far, firearms are just part of everyday life on our island. Every family owns something that shoots or cuts. And since everyone’s equally armed, nobody ever uses weapons for ill intent. Would you attack someone with a rifle, knowing they could answer with equal or greater force? Exactly.

But it’s not just that which keeps my people from misusing guns, bows, and crossbows beyond hunting. According to the folkerul I’ve mentioned many times, anyone found guilty — whether by investigation or fact — of unjustified use of weapons against another faces certain punishment, proportional to the crime. Kill someone, and the culprit will be executed without a shred of pity or defense. If the victim survives, the offender is exiled and stripped of all property, which goes to the victim.

You might wonder: where exactly can one be banished to on an island as small as our Frisland? Well, such sentences were rare in my time — only twice, that I know of. Maybe others escaped my knowledge, but it’s always an extreme measure. The exiles expect no mercy, often living out their days in the forest. Recently, I suspect some slip away on unsuspecting ships at the port, quietly sailing to a new home, knowing few here will hunt them.

Given all that, hearing gunfire near homes in broad daylight — especially under these circumstances — was, forgive the pun, unheard of.

Our coachman’s reaction was commendable: without hesitation, he slipped his hand into a hidden pocket in his coat and, shouting “Let’s go!”, pulled out a short-barreled shotgun. The next thing I recall: Gordian and I racing after the zillot that bolted from the spot. I jumped onto the running board, grabbing Gordian’s hand to haul him up. We sped past the porch where Vasilika and Tandri stood frozen in terror. Gordian pleaded with them to stay inside and not come out until we returned.

Then the trees blurred past, the wind whipped at my face. I realized neither of us was armed. The coachman cracked his whip so fiercely it nearly struck me. Gordian’s clenched fist held a knife — where it came from, I had no idea. I promised myself never to leave home unarmed again.

The zillot lurched from side to side. I couldn’t help picturing an even more unwieldy and unstable carriage for a chase. Only mad historians could believe ancient warriors used chariots in battle; nothing is less reliable over any uneven ground. Sure, racing around a sandy arena makes sense, but in battle, as any seasoned soldier will tell you, cavalry and chariots are the most vulnerable and least useful. Chariots won’t reach the enemy, and riders can only strike once before racing away — if something stops them, they’re swiftly cut down by more maneuverable infantry.

Likely, ancient cavalry used horses mainly as transport to the battlefield. I don’t know for sure, but if I were a cavalryman, I’d dismount at the crucial moment to level the playing field.

I drifted back as the unfolding drama before us reached its predictable climax. As I later learned, the desperate son caught the fleeing thieves first, forcing them to open fire. Two consequences followed: a bullet struck a horse, dropping it mid-road; the youth vaulted over the fallen animal and lost consciousness. The carriage veered into the woods, where it soon overturned. Two other pursuers quickly caught up.

Though the fugitives weren’t badly hurt in the crash, they fought fiercely, keeping at bay the brave men armed only with pitchforks. Our timely arrival proved crucial. While Gordian and I tended to the youth — luckily unbroken but suffering severe concussion and scraped skin — the coachman, a seasoned hunter, didn’t charge straight toward the gunfire. Instead, he circled around, eventually flanking the thieves from behind.

We later learned he shot one dead with the first blast, wounded another in the leg with the second, and shattered the carriage door over the survivor’s head with the third. The fourth shot was unnecessary. The terrified thief, dropping his rifle and raising his hands, surrendered to the victors.

They barely restrained themselves from impaling him immediately with pitchforks. Instead, they roughed him up a bit, bound him, and stuffed him back into the carriage. They would’ve preferred the zillot, but the injured coachman was still lying across the other horse.

We soon learned the youth’s strange name was Kukro. The pitchfork-wielding men turned out to be adult grandsons of the inn’s proprietors, helping their grandmothers with chores. One was the grandson of one sister, the other of the other, yet they looked like brothers.

We strapped the lone corpse onto the free horse, laid the wounded coachman across the second, and the elder grandson, Grisar, took the reins on the carriage’s perch. The younger, Mevit, tied the horses to the zillot and settled behind on the trunk to watch and make sure no one fell off.

Before long, the colorful procession triumphantly rolled back into the inn’s courtyard. The anxious women and the old man burst into joyous shouts. The victors were warmly embraced; the vanquished locked up in the barn for interrogation.

It turned out that something had been stolen after all — specifically, the last bags to be loaded into the luggage compartment, belonging to our fellow travelers. Kukro’s parents, visibly embarrassed, admitted they had been transporting a rather large sum of money. They had intended to purchase a property in Okibar for their son, who had chosen to study at the island’s only university.

As for who might have known about this, they had only vague suspicions. The subsequent interrogation of the surviving bandit yielded little of value. He had already regained his composure, figured out who we were and what kind of people we were, and decided to keep his mouth shut.

When we searched him, we found documents in the name of Trygve Sveinsson — an obvious sign that he was, as we like to say in such cases, “one of those Icelanders slipped in from the cold.”

The wounded driver turned out to be from Kampa — which surprised no one. That region had long been the first stop for wandering Icelanders, by some obscure tradition. He claimed to have been hired for good pay and swore he had no idea how serious his employers’ intentions really were.

While we were trying to work out who had ordered such a brazen assault, the sisters used the phone to call for reinforcements from the neighboring village. Events of this magnitude could not — and should not — go unnoticed. Intervention by the folkerul was required, along with the whole formal process of inquiry and judgment.

By an unwritten agreement, responsibility for such cases fell to the nearest settlements, who carried out the preliminary investigation and could then escalate the matter “up the chain,” so to speak — or not, if they deemed it unnecessary.

In our case, it was already clear the driver’s fate would be decided in Kampa, especially since the documents for both the deceased and the survivor — both foreigners — had been issued there. The local authorities, as issuers of the permits, would now have to account for their indirect involvement.

Within the hour, two wagons full of druzhinniki arrived from the village. The elder of them took statements, having each of us recount in turn what we had seen and heard. We complied without protest — no one wanted to be summoned to a formal session of the septuses later.

At least now we were free to continue our journey — though it was nearly evening. The sun was already low, and reaching our next overnight stop before dark was clearly out of the question.

Kukro tried to put on a brave face, but he looked far less fresh-faced and rosy-cheeked than he had before tumbling from the saddle. His parents, deeply embarrassed to have caused the delay, didn’t want to hold anyone back. His father proposed we press on; his mother, on the contrary, insisted her son needed rest and that they would stay behind and catch up “somehow.”

Our coachman, strangely hesitant for once, couldn’t make up his mind. In the end, it was Tandri who cut through the indecision. “We all stay,” she said firmly. “Morning is wiser than evening.”

Vasilika backed her up, and Gordian and I saw no better option than to agree. The innkeepers, for obvious reasons, were only too glad.

The captured bandits were taken to the village by cart.

As I stood in the yard, wondering whether I should call Crowley again to explain our rather substantial delay, Vasilika came up beside me. As if reading my thoughts, she asked where the phone was. I led her to the little storage room and was about to excuse myself to give her privacy, but she caught me by the sleeve, pulled me close, and kissed me with such sweetness that I forgot all about discretion.

She confessed she had been terribly afraid when we’d rushed off in pursuit, and after a long embrace in the dusty little room, I finally remembered why we’d come there in the first place.

“Who are you calling?” I asked.

“My father,” she said.

I was surprised — when I’d stayed at their place the night before, I hadn’t seen a telephone. Had I seen one, I would’ve been even more surprised.

Vasilika kissed me again — this time, as if to forgive my lack of insight — and explained that she planned to reach her father at the building of their local fishermen’s guild, which definitely did have a phone.

She dialed the number, and I stayed where I was, unable to leave her — neither morally nor physically.

Someone answered on the other end. She hesitated for a second, then introduced herself and asked:

“Is Bjarqi nearby?”

I heard someone shout in the background:

“Bjarqi! Your daughter’s calling!”

I looked at Vasilika. She looked at me. We smiled.

“Are you alright?” came the first words I heard.

“Yes, Papa, everything’s fine. We’re already halfway home. Tim sends his regards.”

“What happened?”

There it was — no fooling a parent who knows you.

“Nothing happened to us. But I wanted to warn you to be extra careful. I think Lukas already told you that we met Whitney. She told us an interesting legend about that place — says she’d been there herself, many years ago. But get this — she claims she doesn’t know anything about the sarcophagus. That’s suspicious. Especially because she’s been making amulets exactly like the one we found there. You understand? We didn’t tell her the details, but she’s a cunning old woman. Might’ve figured it out herself.

“Also… someone tried to rob the zillot here at the inn. They were scared off, but not before they grabbed our companions’ bags. They were caught, and they’re being questioned now.

“But here’s the thing, Papa — I have a bad feeling they weren’t after our companions at all. I think they were after us. Or rather, what we’re carrying.

“Just in case — be careful. Whitney has two big twin bodyguards with her. And try not to tell anyone about Tim. Better if they don’t know where to look. Warn Lukas. And Marta, too.”

“Don’t worry. When do you think you’ll be back?”

“That doesn’t depend entirely on me.” She glanced sideways at me, teasing. “Alright, I’ve got to go. Love you.”

“Be safe, Vasíl. Good girl, calling.”

To be honest, I didn’t entirely share her suspicions. Or rather — I convinced myself I didn’t. The story about the stolen money meant for a future home sounded perfectly plausible.

I’ve never liked detective stories. Either you guess the culprit from the first pages — like in those much-praised Agatha Christie novels, where all you have to do is figure out whom the author wants you not to suspect — or the villain pops up at the end from nowhere, dragged in by the ears.

The only detective worth reading for the sake of the journey is Conan Doyle, and no one in the genre has had his talent since. That’s probably why I don’t care for it when cheap-novel mysteries start bleeding into real life, which is already complicated enough.

“Why can’t things just be simple?” I asked Vasilika.

She told me she’d only heard about detective stories, not read them, and that she, too, preferred calm and clarity — but unfortunately, she had an overactive imagination, one that worked on its own and frequently painted rather tragic possibilities, which she simply couldn’t ignore.

I seized the moment to steer the conversation in a new direction and asked her how she envisioned the future of our relationship.

“Everything around is white. And freezing,” she said abruptly, catching me completely off guard. It was as if the answer had leapt from her lips before she’d even thought it through.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. You asked — I answered.”

There wasn’t even the ghost of a smile on her lips. If anything, her expression had grown more somber.

“I don’t understand…” I murmured.

Vasilika gently took my hand.

“I can’t explain it all — don’t you see? A picture forms in my mind — sometimes very vivid — and I could describe it to you, but the moment I try to analyze it, it disappears. That’s how I knew my father’s boat was gone, that something was wrong. And now, when I think about the two of us… I just feel cold. And all I see is white. Nothing else. Only white.”

“Why white?” I asked, genuinely confused. “What exactly do you mean by that? Do you think it’s… snow?”

“Maybe,” she said quietly, her gaze drifting past me, as though trying to peer into a distance only she could sense. “Usually, I see images. But this time, there’s no picture. Just a color.”

“There you are!” came a voice from the doorway. One of the hostesses had stepped into the storeroom. “Come along, I’ll show you your room, young ones. The others have already gone to bed.”

The news startled me more than Vasilika’s strange confession. Sharing a room with the girl I adored — who I secretly believed was the most beautiful creature in the world — was a dream. We had, in fact, already shared a night together… but that time her father had been with us. This was something else entirely. The women here may not have known we weren’t husband and wife — or maybe they did and simply chose to pretend otherwise — but it made no difference. I was staring down one of the greatest temptations of my life.

You may think dreams are meant to be fulfilled, and quickly. But you’d be mistaken. In our community, touching a woman before marriage — beyond an embrace or a kiss — was an insult to her honor. On the continent, as I’d heard, people had long ago discarded such traditions. But not us. We still lived by the old teachings. We still had something left to guard, and something to lose. That made it all the harder.

Vasilika, for her part, betrayed no unease. She thanked the hostess with perfect composure — perhaps even too much gratitude, which to my ears sounded surprisingly sincere. Yet she carried the greater burden. If such a thing had happened in our home village, and we hadn’t ended up marrying, she would likely have faced no end of trouble. A girl who once let herself go too far with a man? Not many would want to start a family with her after that.

The room we were given, however, really was quite charming: clean, tidy, warm, and spacious. Two long beds with embroidered coverlets stood side by side in such a way that, should someone wish, they could easily be pushed together. The washroom was down the hall.

Once the hostess had left and we were alone, Vasilika threw herself backward onto the nearer bed — the one by the considerately curtained window — folded her arms behind her head, closed her eyes, and picked up right where we’d been interrupted:

“And it’s not even white, really,” she said, her voice calm. “It’s blinding. So bright, it’s almost black.”

I stood silent, frozen in place. She added softly:

“But don’t be afraid. Not all of my visions come true. Especially as a child — I often saw things that never happened. Things can change. The path may be laid out, but the choice… the choice is still ours.”

“If you want… I can sleep out in the hallway,” I blurted. It sounded so much better in my head.

She opened her eyes, and the look she gave me burned hotter than fire. She knew everything. Understood everything. She sat up gracefully, brushing her hair back from her face.

“Too soon for that. Come. Let’s go for a walk.”

We stepped out into the dusk — that fleeting hour when the sun has already slipped below the horizon but night has not quite taken hold. Above the pines, the sky stretched wide and deep like a bottomless ocean, and a few bashful clouds blushed pink.

“Where should we go?” I asked, knowing full well how ridiculous the question sounded. I wasn’t used to walking for walking’s sake — at home, woods were for hunting. If you wanted to stroll, you walked by water.

“Catch me if you can!” she shouted, laughing, and darted off — not toward the road, but headlong into the tangled brush.

The evening was perfect. Or at least, when we returned — breathless, grinning, and giddy — I had no desire to return to my earlier brooding. Life felt simple again. Clear. And the girl beside me no longer seemed daunting, just near.

She confessed that she often went running before bed at home. I had to admit — she ran well. Lightly, easily, with not a trace of strain. Her parents had gifted her not only grace but sharp vision too, it seemed — she never stumbled or slowed, not even once, despite tearing through the dark forest ahead of me. I, on the other hand, nearly twisted an ankle on a root and slammed my shoulder hard against something unseen.

Since our inn stood some distance from the village — where by that hour all were surely fast asleep — we returned to find the tavern windows still glowing warmly and decided to step inside. No sooner had we entered than we were beckoned to join the long table for a round of tea. It turned out that our hostesses’ grandsons had made a quick trip to the village and were now recounting the latest news. Seated with them were Kukro’s father, the coachman, one of the hostesses, and a stranger who introduced himself as Kagrin. He was the local septus, and although he had come back with the boys from the village, he deemed it prudent to withhold the exact purpose of his visit. Still, it was obvious that his presence had everything to do with the day’s troubling events.

From the conversation that followed, we learned that the wounded man had continued to guard his silence with near-heroic tenacity — even under the first signs of coercion (for one must understand that in our more remote settlements, such methods are not only tolerated but at times expected, especially when time is of the essence and sentiment a luxury). The coachman, however, quickly realized the gravity of the situation and began to talk. He recalled that, while it was the “Icelanders” who had hired him directly, just before their departure from the city, a strange trio had approached the carriage. What made them memorable, he said, was that two of the men looked precisely alike. With them was a young woman of pleasing appearance, who did most of the talking with the Icelanders, while the twins stood off to one side.

You can imagine my state of mind as I listened — especially knowing these villagers had no inkling of how closely their tale brushed against our private entanglements. I was grateful Tandri and Gordian weren’t present; panic might easily have broken out. As for the “young woman,” it seemed to me the coachman had deliberately softened her role — perhaps to shield Whitney. But was he truly that frightened of her? And if so, why?

Just as I was about to blurt out something ill-advised, Kukro’s father stirred and remarked that he might actually know those twins. Their names were Richard and Ruhard. They were tool merchants, known to frequent the market, and had come to visit him and his wife some time ago, among others who’d expressed interest in two Norean draft horses and a full ploughing kit that the couple had reluctantly decided to sell. Their son no longer wished to farm, and they, weary from years of toil, had set their sights on buying a home — something modest, but their own. The funds from the sale would go a long way toward that.

Kagrin stroked his beard and asked why he was only now hearing of this. Kukro’s father — whom I must still refer to thus, for he neither introduced himself then nor ever would — admitted that in the heat of previous interrogations, the matter had quite slipped his mind. And besides, the visit had taken place not recently, but well over a month ago.

At that moment, Vasilika rose, thanked our hosts for their kindness, and wished everyone a good night. I had no choice but to follow suit — though truth be told, I would gladly have stayed and listened longer to these innocent speculations about a story that, unbeknownst to them, cut perilously close to my own.

We returned to our room, and the next morning I was in no hurry to open my eyes — especially with the steady drum of rain against the window accompanying my half-sleep. After a hearty breakfast, the rain had nearly let up. I paid for our stay, double-checked that our heavy find was still securely stowed, and our zealot driver, anxious to regain lost time, pushed the cart onward toward the south.

Kukro’s mother made it known to everyone that she’d packed us enough food for the road to last until evening, so we needn’t stop or delay — this, she said, was her way of thanking us for saving both her son and their money.

It’s curious how differently the same events can be understood by different people. Vasilika and I were convinced that the thieves had been after us — and that the bundles of cash had only been taken incidentally, because they were the easiest to grab. The Kukro family, for their part, had every reason to believe otherwise, and seemed almost eager to shoulder the blame for what had happened. Tandri and Gordian, clearly, were nursing their own theory — one they had chosen not to share. And we didn’t press.

As the road unwound beneath us, the conversation drifted now and then — inevitably, perhaps — towards the decline of morals in modern times. Our elderly fellow travelers lamented the state of things, recalling a youth in which such brazen criminality would have been unthinkable. Theft, of course, had always existed, but it had been of the petty, almost playful variety — market pickpockets, usually brash teenagers acting more out of bravado than greed, eager to leave some trace of themselves, however foolish, upon the world.

The notion that grown men would arm themselves and pursue strangers halfway across the peninsula — on someone else’s orders, no less — was, to them, utterly bewildering. I listened politely and nodded, but inwardly I was not convinced anything so dramatic had changed. The idea of chasing down someone else’s money across the hills might sound absurd, yes — but if the true target had not been an old couple’s savings, but rather a strange and ancient relic, then the logic of the attack held up disturbingly well. It would make as much sense today as it might have done decades ago.

As I exchanged glances with Vasilika, I found my mind returning — again and again — to the question of what we were supposed to do now with that find. My original plan had been almost laughably naïve: display it as a kind of mystical centerpiece for our office collection, let it lure tourists into visiting the Raru cave, surround it on our website with sensational tales of a subterranean wyrm and the dramatic appearance of Svart and Loki. And now? Now such notions seemed dangerously childish. If the twins — and Whitney — weren’t soon pinned down and silenced by Kagrin and his companions, then it wouldn’t take long before they turned up at our village, wreaking havoc and leaving a trail of blood. And it would be my fault.

Because I had hidden the truth. Because I had warned no one. Because I had been too afraid of my parents’ disappointment — and of everyone else’s ridicule. Running around with some hunk of metal from God-knows-where, claiming it was magic? Of course they’d laugh. Of course they’d scoff. Better, then, to say nothing. Nothing at all. Silence and vigilance — those would be my watchwords.

First, the relic had to be hidden. Truly hidden — from everyone. Then, the story for the website had to be rewritten: the sarcophagus lid had already been shifted by someone before us. The tomb had been empty. End of tale. We’d say as much. Lucas and Vasilika’s father would have to be brought into it and quietly convinced to support this version. There had been nothing. Whatever had once been there was long gone. We knew nothing. Saw nothing. Touched nothing.

Only once it became certain that the twins and their clever instigator had received a sentence — one I did not doubt would be severe — only then would we consider telling the rest of the truth. If any part of it still mattered by then.

Our current surroundings, however, were not suited for sharing such schemes. Which meant I had to keep quiet, and keep composed. Vasilika noticed the tension and asked — gently — whether I was feeling motion sick. I deflected with a joke. She wasn’t so lucky, though; clearly, she had overestimated her stamina. Most of the way, she lay, forgive the phrase, like a log, her noble intentions of feeding us along the journey quite forgotten. Fortunately, her husband had a better memory, and played the host with great flourish, offering us delicacies from their shared provisions at regular intervals.

Their son, after the previous night’s ordeal, looked much restored — a fact that pleased me more than I had expected. I found myself growing genuinely fond of this family. The boy was brave, and I silently wished him a full recovery.

Little by little, conversation resumed. At one point, prompted by one of my sister’s questions, we learned that Kukro intended to study mechanical engineering. His parents, glowing with pride, spoke of his early gift for dismantling every toy he’d ever been given — only to graduate into building contraptions so clever he soon gained a reputation across all of Raru. For nearly two years now, it seemed, people had been queuing up to have him fix or invent something.

It turned out that Kukro hadn’t so much applied to university as been invited. The professors already knew who he was. One in particular — who had spent part of the summer visiting relatives in Raru — had watched him at work and been astounded. The boy had taken a perfectly ordinary bicycle and reengineered it to include custom gearing and a new saddle extension that altered the rider’s position so dramatically that pedaling for hours felt, in the professor’s words, like “lounging on a sofa.”

Then, when Kukro wheeled out a second bike — one he’d built entirely from scrap metal for himself — the professor, a seasoned mechanical practitioner, was so impressed he promised to secure the boy’s admission to the department without the bother of entrance exams.

Needless to say, our university — and Frislandic education in general — is firmly rooted in practical application. Thus, there are no faculties of philosophy or history, let alone philology or law; instead, biology, chemistry, geology, and engineering — what we simply call “mechanics” — are developed to the highest degree. Foundational subjects like reading and mathematics are covered thoroughly in three years of school, which suffices for those who wish to advance academically; those who do not may devote themselves to hunting, fishing, and other indispensable island professions. If you thought I’d forgotten physics, know that its practical laws — temperature, pressure, density — are taught within engineering, while the rest is omitted as superfluous.

For my part, three years of schooling was enough to kindle my love of books and continue my education independently, as I mentioned earlier. I imagine Kukro could have honed his skills without professors, yet he was drawn to university. His parents naturally couldn’t refuse their cherished only son, who himself had made necessary sacrifices — partially funding his studies by reluctantly selling his unmatched bicycle, promising himself he’d build an even better one in time.

Gordian knew university life well and evidently liked the boy, so he offered Kukro any assistance he might need, quite familiarly. Tandri supported her husband’s offer and even said the whole family was welcome to stay at their home until they bought their own place — a genuinely generous gesture from her, given her known fastidiousness about friendship. I, for example, had visited their vast home only once or twice since their wedding. Not because anyone barred me — rather, I was often away, and even our parents seldom called on her. The Nardi name, after all, imposed a certain distance. I could only assume that once the long-awaited grandchild arrived, they’d visit daughter and son-in-law far more often.

Thoughts of family brought me back to my relationship with Vasilika.

Now, listening to the chatter around us, she smiled and glanced at me slyly. Yet I recalled her utterly different self from that night, when I awoke sensing someone moving in our bedroom. Opening my eyes, I saw her silhouette framed by the unshuttered window, and understood she was, so to speak, naked as the day she was born. Broad shoulders, ample chest, narrow waist, sloping hips — all just as I had imagined.

At first, I thought she meant to climb into bed with me and provoke irrevocable consequences. But she moved not stealthily, with a straight back, and walked past the bed rather than toward it. Surprised, I propped myself on an elbow and watched as she shuffled barefoot slowly across the floorboards, turned in a circle, and retraced her steps. Realizing she was sleepwalking, I slipped carefully from the bed and approached her — close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her body and catch the pleasant grassy scent, like the air over a flowered meadow just after a downpour.

Her eyes were closed, as I’d suspected: her lashes fluttered, but her lids never lifted. I called her name; she did not respond or awaken, continuing her monotonous circuit of the room. I retreated, sat back down, and simply admired the perfection of her lines.

Eventually, she stopped, turned, lay down, sighed deeply, pulled the covers over herself, and peacefully slept until morning.

I, meanwhile, tossed and turned long, trying to comprehend what I had witnessed. Sleepwalking had never struck me as extraordinary. My mother, quoting my grandmother, told me that at two or three years old I too sometimes got up at night and, if no door blocked me, would have wandered outside. I’d never noticed such behavior myself but believed it possible.

Sleep, in general, is a mysterious thing, never fully explained.

Admittedly, with Vasilika, I comforted myself until breakfast with the thought she might have done it deliberately — to show off just a little, since in waking life I stubbornly displayed steadfastness and masculine principles.

At breakfast, I couldn’t resist and told her outright that I’d seen her sleepwalk. Not a word about my suspicions — I wanted to watch her reaction. She asked if it had frightened me, and when I assured her no, that I found somnambulism perfectly natural among creative types, she confessed it happened sometimes after a fall.

It was the fall from a tree in childhood. She even let me reach across the table and touch a small bump behind her left ear near the temple. She’d been about seven, had climbed a tree after rain, misjudged the slick bark, and fallen, lying unconscious beneath the tree for some time. Her mother found her and nursed her back with her grandmother’s help.

Since then, Vasilika had occasional visions — of the future or past, she wasn’t sure — and sometimes, at night, she would rise and walk without waking.

I again tried to reassure her I didn’t see sleepwalking as a flaw and cited my own experience. By her eyes, I could tell she was not wholly convinced. On the other hand, she surely appreciated that I stayed honest and open with her even on such a delicate subject, risking the fragile trust between us.

Lately, I’d noticed I behaved around her unlike any other girl I’d fancied before. I was testing her — and myself. With Ingrid, I wouldn’t have dared. I’d have feared to scare away hope for reciprocity.

With Vasilika, it was different. And I didn’t know yet whether that was good or bad, right or wrong. It simply was.

After several hours of nonstop travel, we were pretty worn out; conversations naturally fizzled, and some of us dozed off. The driver warned that if we didn’t mind, he was willing to make up lost time and promised to get us to Okibara before dark. As I soon realized, he meant it, noticeably picking up speed.

In the zilot, it barely registered: the road stretched straight ahead, so no chances of tipping sideways in a turn, the suspension worked perfectly, and we actually flew over every pebble and rut almost unnoticed. The only short break came well after midday — to stretch our legs and grab a bite.

Vasilika and I seized the chance and, under the pretense of having plenty of tasty treats with us, asked the driver if we could ride up front on the driver’s bench. Normally, there was room for just one, but once he brought over a sheepskin, it turned out there was space for two. His only condition was that he’d stay in the middle. I squeezed in on the left, Vasilika on the right.

At first, we both regretted the choice: after the warm, if a bit stuffy, cabin of the zilot, sitting exposed on the driver’s bench, blasted by the headwind, felt like a less-than-pleasant amusement. The cold air choked us, made us cough. Without saying a word, we glanced at our companion, who, as we quickly learned, was simply John, and saw him tuck his chin and hide the lower half of his face beneath the high collar of his coat.

Following his example, we found that experience was indeed a reliable teacher. Now all that was left was to get used to the wind in our eyes and to wipe away the tears that streamed involuntarily.

“Isn’t there, like, some kind of enclosed cab for drivers, by principle?” I asked.

“How do you imagine that?” John addressed everyone in our group informally, with a casual “you.”

“Well, I don’t know… make a windshield out of clear plastic, with slits cut into it, reins run through the slits…”

“Brilliant!” John laughed. “And attach the whip to a pedal so you can use your foot.”

“Something like that,” I admitted, realizing I’d just blurted nonsense, but the discomfort of the open seat was pushing my thoughts onward. “Hasn’t anyone — stable hands or blacksmiths — ever proposed something like that? It’s one thing now, but in winter…?”

“Winter’s fine,” my companion grinned, unfazed by at least two missing teeth. “Bundle up warm, shout at the fat horses, and go sliding through the snow on the sled. I even prefer winter. Summer’s not bad either — no sweltering heat, nice breeze. The only time it’s really bad is when it’s raining.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about! You need some kind of roof over your head.”

“There is a roof,” said John, tapping above his head with his whip at the accordion-like canvas canopy. “Only it doesn’t help much when you’re going fast, that bastard.”

“Why did you become a coachman?” Vasilika suddenly interjected with a question that caught me off guard. I would never have asked that myself — used to taking people’s occupations as given: if someone’s a coachman, then they are a coachman; if a hunter, then a hunter. But really, everyone ends up doing what they do for a reason, shaped by events — whether by design or coincidence. I personally found it hard to imagine who I’d be if I hadn’t chosen my path, though, if you dig deep, it all boiled down to living next to Crowley. Without him, I might never have thought to study the history and geography of our island, nor to lead groups of curious visitors willing to pay for it. Instead, I’d probably be fishing like Vasilika’s father, hunting alongside my own father, and maybe already have a family by now…

“Actually, I only recently took up this job,” John admitted, quite unexpectedly. “I just love horses. And, well… with a face like mine, where else would I go?”

“What’s wrong with your face?” Vasilika asked genuinely puzzled.

And then, out of nowhere, our own Charon softened and began telling us the story of his difficult life. Even now, recalling it, I’m still not quite sure how it came about. I suppose the strangeness of the situation and our attentive silence encouraged him to open up. He spoke somewhat haltingly, so I can’t reproduce his words verbatim, but I remember enough to sum up almost an hour of our conversation in a few sentences.

John was born in the west, in Sanestol, but a few years later his mother took him to the mainland — England — because his parents were tired of constant domestic quarrels and decided to part ways. It was in England he received his name. At birth, he was named Bronny, but since that was his father’s choice, his mother soon grew to dislike it. When they settled in their new home together, she forced her son to become just plain John.

In fact, they settled as a trio, because his mother didn’t remain single for long: the owner of the tavern where she had recklessly taken a waitressing job soon proposed, and with no other prospects on the horizon, she quickly agreed. John disliked his stepfather intensely — he seemed too old and too arrogant. Whenever John tried to point this out to his mother, she’d snap at him, get angry, and say he didn’t understand anything and that he’d better focus on his studies instead of meddling.

The one thing John wanted least was schoolwork. He went to school only because it was a good place to fight. The reasons for fights didn’t matter. In the lower grades, it was because of his scrawny build and short stature; later, it was girls. At first, he got beaten up, but soon the roles reversed.

Their neighborhood wasn’t a nice one, and it was easy for John to find a crowd of kids who supplemented petty theft with visits to a basement hall, where an old boxer nicknamed Hook taught them fighting moves in exchange for a bottle of strong drink.

They lived in Chester, near the Welsh border — a rare town still enclosed by a fortress wall. On that very wall, a fateful fight took place during which one of John’s friends tragically died, slipping and falling onto the cobblestones. The culprits were never found, but the victim was the nephew of the local police chief, so everyone got punished indiscriminately.

John and his mates were sent to something like a juvenile correctional facility. At this point, I had to interrupt and explain to Vasilika that on the continent, criminals were dealt with by locking them up in prisons where they served fixed terms, funded by the state — which also fed and clothed them. And if prisoners worked while inside, they were sometimes paid. Vasilika was surprised, but John confirmed I was telling the truth and continued.

Though it wasn’t technically a prison, life inside that facility was hardly pleasant for a teenager. Naturally, John dropped out of school, but among his fellow inmates were several Asians, one of whom had trained in an Eastern martial arts club and was a skilled kicker. They had plenty of free time and spent it sparring, honing their skills on each other.

During those years, his mother never once came to visit. When John was finally released — early, thanks to some mitigating circumstances — he didn’t return home to Chester but, on the advice of his Asian friend, headed straight to London. There he found the club, passed greetings, and was accepted into the team.

It wasn’t some shady operation but a serious organization where promising fighters received support, including financial aid, trained hard, even lived and ate on site. In return, they fought in various tournaments — both legal and semi-legal — earning their stripes through bruises and blood.

That was better than prison and certainly better than his old home. Moreover, John quickly showed talent, discovered new facets of himself, trained passionately, and began winning steadily. He attracted attention; important-looking men in suits appeared at the club, and eventually, he was sold to new owners — Americans, as it turned out — who took him overseas.

“You’ve been to America?!” Vasilika exclaimed, still caught up in the vivid tales Gordian had spun about it. “I wasn’t just in America, darling — I fucked America,” John answered bluntly, and for the first time, I saw him smile. That smile made me believe he wasn’t joking.

What he meant was that for over five years he had been fighting constantly — rings, octagons, under the various confusing rules of so-called mixed martial arts — and, by his own account, he won every time. Judging by what I knew of the scene, he must have been making quite a good living. I asked if that was true. “Oh, more than true,” he said. He could afford to live in a lavish house, had a different car for every day of the week in his garage, kept close company with beauty pageant finalists, and never denied himself anything. He even owned a small ranch in California where, as a favorite hobby, he bred horses.

John got so carried away in his memories that I half imagined the sheepskin coat beside us was empty — that he was back there in America, lying in a lounger at the edge of a warm, blue pool, sipping cocktails through a yellow straw and watching sun-kissed mermaids shimmering beneath their sunglasses.

“What happened then?” Vasilika brought him crashing back to earth.

“Well, what was bound to happen sooner or later…”

John got injured — not in a fight, but during training. Then another injury. Then another. Then he lost a fight, a second, a third. Suddenly it became clear: nothing comes without a price, and he had no way to pay. His sponsorship deals dried up. No one supported him anymore. One day, he was simply forgotten.

It was terrifying. He wanted to sell off his assets, but by some obscure law they no longer belonged to him — they’d passed to the bank where he’d had an account for some reason. In the end, they stripped him bare. He found himself not in a poolside lounge, but lying somewhere unknown, under the open sky, clutching a half-empty bottle of foul-smelling poison.

There he lay, staring up at the indifferent clouds, and a strange question struck him: “Why am I still alive?” Why hadn’t he followed the example of so many others and ended it all? What held him back?

Then he remembered his homeland — the island he hadn’t seen since childhood. Not England, not his mother, but Frisland itself. He realized what held him was what one American writer called “the call of the ancestors.” And once he understood that, there was no turning back — only a way forward.

To scrape together a one-way ticket, he committed a crime: he robbed the house of the bank manager who had taken everything from him. Feeling a grim satisfaction, he didn’t waste time — boarded a plane, and hours later landed at Reykjavík airport.

Already in Iceland, he felt much better. And when, nearly twenty-four hours later, he stepped off the ship onto his native soil, he wept with happiness and swore never to leave again.

The prodigal son found his aging father, who never remarried but, you won’t believe it, took up horse breeding. The father welcomed him back, helped him get back on his feet, and now, with his father gone, John carries on the family business in his own way — driving a small coach drawn by his own mares. Not a lucrative life, but freedom is freedom, and there’s always someone kind in need of a ride.

As John told us all this, I recalled how recently I’d seen him leaping between trees with a rifle, shooting fearlessly at enemies firing in every direction. A straightforward man who lives by his conscience and leaves others alone — until they mess with him or those he cares about.

I never doubted that his story was the pure, unvarnished truth. What intrigued me was understanding why he initially stood out abroad and then just as quickly failed to fit in. Why? I felt it must have something to do with his Frisian roots — though I couldn’t say whether it was the first generation or the second at fault.

This question had never troubled me before, but in the course of our conversations with Gordian and now with the coachman, I found myself unconsciously trying on their destinies — particularly the parts involving life in foreign lands.

Could I do the same? Would I leave if the chance came? Was what I had here enough?

For John, the choice had been made by his mother. Gordian went to the States on his own initiative, pursuing specialized education. Both returned bearing probably valuable knowledge — but both returned, like my own grandfather.

Should I try something similar someday? Or were my parents — the ones who never dreamed of leaving — a better example?

I didn’t know. I only felt, if I could put it that way, two things: a restless pull toward travel, and the certainty that I could never be long separated from our island.

The good weather held steady well into the evening. As I might have mentioned before, Frisland may be small, but the climate difference between its northern and southern parts is surprisingly marked. After a brief stop, Vasilika and I thanked John for the pleasant company and rejoined our companions. I brought up the weather, and to my surprise, everyone eagerly jumped into the conversation.

We’re not English, of course, but lacking anything better, we happily indulge in weather talk — and with remarkable unanimity, since no northerner would argue with a southerner that northern weather beats southern weather hands down. That much is settled.

What made the discussion interesting, despite seeming so one-sided, was how northerners, while generally agreeing, could point out specific details showing why the northern climate held certain advantages. In our case, no serious disagreement arose — Kukro had already started thinking of himself almost as a southerner, and his parents (his mother, in fact, so used to riding that she frequently perked up to join the chat) sided with him more often than not, more in solidarity with us than in opposition.

It goes without saying we whiled away the time pleasantly, each of us trying in our own way to forget the recent troubles, when John, on his own initiative, suddenly brought the zilot to a stop and offered to hear our wishes.

The choice ahead of us was clear and immediate: either we stayed another night at the inn waiting just a mile ahead, or we trusted John’s skill and the unyielding stamina of his horses and pressed on into the night to reach Okibar before the day was done.

The men fell silent, leaving the decision to the women.

Vasilika said we should go on. Tandri agreed. Kukro’s mother looked far from thrilled — John estimated at least three more hours of continuous travel — but she didn’t voice any objections, and so we set off again.

If I were Vasilika, I wouldn’t have been so eager to rush to Okibar. She probably hadn’t realized we still faced a journey to my village afterward — and finding a ride in the middle of the night, even a southern night, isn’t exactly easy.

Then, out of nowhere, Gordian spoke up.

His verdict was simple: everyone would be staying with them tonight.

I realized that Tandri’s hospitality — inviting the whole family of our traveling companions to stay indefinitely — was weighing on Gordian. After John’s dilemma, it was a perfect chance for him to prove to his wife that he wasn’t just idle talker, but cared about those around him.

Tandri, of course, supported her husband and embraced Vasilika like a best friend.

I watched them, smiled, and silently hoped all of it was truly heartfelt.

To pass the time, let me tell you a bit about our towns — especially Okibar. Now, if you’ve come here from Paris or London, you might barely notice them at all. I’ve even heard some tourists from the mainland quietly muttering phrases like “a tiny fortress with a few houses.” They said it softly, not to offend, and honestly, I wouldn’t be offended. They’re right, of course.

What we call cities are really settlements centered around a fortress — or what’s left of one. Like in Okibar, where the stone wall still stands nearly intact for about two hundred paces, and the rest has crumbled or been taken apart. Since what remains are the stone fortresses, I’ve long suspected they’re not as ancient as I’ve told our guests. The originals must have been wooden, but none of those survived. Worldwide, the disappearance of wooden buildings is usually blamed on fires. That’s hard to argue with. Here, every fire is remembered, and aside from the “Knut-Knut War,” I haven’t come across any stories of significant buildings lost to flames.

So don’t expect me to pin down exact construction dates for these fortresses. Oral traditions and the absence of chronicles only make dating harder. That’s why I invented a clever system for myself and my listeners: I tell the origin of each town through the myths and legends we have. Believe them or laugh — your choice, but no bribes accepted.

For Okibar, I picked one myth and one legend. As you might guess, the difference is that a myth is a tale of what people want to believe but almost certainly didn’t happen — at least not as told — while a legend involves real characters, though not always historically verifiable.

Almost all our towns are wrapped in legends; fewer have myths. Okibar is an interesting exception. Its founding is tied to both myth and legend.

The myth goes like this: The earthworm Ibini — yes, the very one from Whitney’s tale — started attacking Frisland’s inhabitants, especially those along the coast. Reflecting on the legend, I think this refers to the time he returned from the ocean to the island settled by Svarta and Loki’s descendants, though I hadn’t given dates much thought before. We have several different legends about Frisland’s settlement, which makes sense considering multiple waves of entirely different peoples each brought their own “truths” and settled in distant parts before uniting into the community we are today.

Back to the myth: Okibar was a brave hero who decided to defeat the ravenous worm. One day, when Ibini approached Frisland’s shores, he was surprised to see a man sitting on the rocks by the water — unarmed, showing no fear, not even glancing at the monster. Surprised, Ibini didn’t attack immediately, but asked why Okibar didn’t run.

“What would I run from you for?” the hero answered. “You’re a worm and a runt. I could kill you in one blow.”

“Me, a runt!” Ibini snapped, struck the water with his tail, sending a wave that only reached the shore by evening. Now, I won’t argue if someone objects that neither worm nor hero would wait that long — but a myth is a myth.

The hero just smirked and pointed to the sky. “If you can reach the dome and steal something from the Halls of the World Creators that we don’t have on earth, then, fine — I’ll believe you’re a giant and fight you.”

Ibini got furious, but Okibar wasn’t scared. The worm had to prove he was a real monster. The hero watched as the worm’s body stretched from the water toward the high sky and chuckled to himself. Initially, Ibini was thick enough to swallow four horses standing side by side, but he grew thinner and thinner. When he was no thicker than a pine needle, Okibar drew his hunting knife and cut him easily.

Thus, clever Okibar defeated the foolish Ibini, saved Frisland, and our southern town was named in his honor.

There’s a short but important sequel: Ibini actually managed to reach the Halls of the World Creators, and when Okibar killed him, he was carrying the Unknown — a thing never seen on our earth. Ibini opened his mouth in pain, and the Unknown fell through a hole in the dome, plummeting down like a meteorite. Grateful descendants built the first fortress on that spot and named it after Okibar.

When tourists ask me what that was, I smile conspiratorially — just like Okibar — and lead them to the Old Castle, standing in the former fortress’s center. It’s a handsome building with columns and arches, somewhat reminiscent of Florence’s Palazzo Vecchio, only looking much older — maybe because Florentines sometimes restore theirs, and we do not.

In the main hall’s floor, I show a hole where, if you lie down and peer in by candlelight, you can see a huge chunk of melted iron. Thanks to the candlelight and the need to lie on the floor, it impresses everyone.

To deepen the effect, I pull out a simple compass and show that the north needle refuses to point north; instead, it swivels toward the meteorite.

Some tourists ask why we keep calling it the Unknown if it’s just ordinary meteoritic iron with magnetic properties. I have no answer. We just like it that way.

Of course, today we understand that the meteorite falling and the fiery tail behind it probably inspired our ancestors to invent the worm myth. Until I met Whitney, I’d never heard the name Ibini.

So that’s the myth.

The legend, meanwhile, tells how long ago Irish chiefs and their warriors came ashore in swift wooden ships — dromons, keels, hulks, or naes, no one’s quite sure. First they camped, then they prepared to take this land from anyone who tried to stop them.

Had they landed farther north, few would have opposed them, but they settled in the south, and a fight was necessary.

On the first night, five warriors on guard were found dead — arrows in their backs, chests, necks. Alarm was raised, but no enemies were found. The arrows were ordinary except the tips were bone, not stone or iron.

The next night, more guards were set, but again five warriors were found hanged by their necks at dawn.

The chiefs convened. One said they must flee the cursed land immediately. Another agreed, but only to move inland and set a new camp. The third proposed splitting their forces: half stay, half search for the invisible enemy. The fourth said do nothing but stay awake all night and see what happens.

I usually ask my listeners which proposal they think was accepted. Opinions divide, but those who pick the fourth are right.

The warriors stayed awake all night, nothing happened. They tried the second night too — again, nothing. By the third day, exhaustion from sleeplessness and vigilance was so great many fell asleep before nightfall. By morning, those who’d stayed near the camp vanished without a trace.

The chiefs met again. The first begged them to flee. The second insisted on moving on. The third still wanted to split forces. The fourth was silent — he’d disappeared that night.

Here I ask my group for guesses, and the clever ones laugh, suggesting the Irish took the third path. They did.

Two chiefs stayed to guard the camp; the brave second chief ventured into the forest — and was never seen again. Not because he failed to return, but because when he came back days later with news he and his warriors had survived and captured a sturdy wooden fortress from the enemy, he found the camp deserted. Initially thinking his comrades fled, the burnt hulls of ships by the shore told another story.

Shaken, the chief returned to his fortress and vowed to one day uncover the mystery of his companions’ deaths.

That fortress, as you’ve probably guessed, became the model for our Okibar. Its name unmistakably echoes “oaky bar,” meaning “oak beam,” though, as Crowley tells me, “oak” isn’t “dair” in Irish. So perhaps the settlers weren’t Irish at all, but English posing as such.

Remarkably, the mystery remains unsolved despite many theories. This, to me, proves the legend is based on real events. Otherwise, someone would have found an answer.

Explanations vary wildly — from one chief staging it all to occult forces preventing strangers from settling here. Supporters of the latter don’t explain why these forces used bone-tipped arrows or how one of the four groups survived.

I take no side and tell our visitors just what I’ve heard. They may find this unsatisfying, but I see how the uncertainty captivates.

A history teacher from Germany once visited three times, sharing his research. He called his work “precedent history,” studying events through their repetition. He found similar legends among island tribes in Indonesia and the Bahamas, likely because they also migrate island to island.

His conclusions? He mapped Earth’s energy points — “power spots” or “chakras” — and claimed Okibar lies near one. According to him, the Irish fell upon this place during a lunar peak, which disturbed their minds. They fought each other and burned their ships in despair. Only those who escaped survived.

I was happy for him. And for myself.

Those tourists who come thrice are rare — and priceless.

We stayed in touch online. He boasted about publishing a book on his theory, mentioning Frisland as an example of historical similarity due to environment.

Probably no Nobel Prize in sight, but it pleased me nonetheless.

Now, whenever listeners press me for more on the unlucky Irish, I gladly share this tale.

As you approach Okibar, especially on a clear night, the first thing that strikes you is a golden glow shimmering just above the treetops. I remember the first time I saw it — I naively thought it was the sunset and said so aloud, only to embarrass myself immediately. If the sun ever set to the south, it was long ago, in some prehistorical age. Nowadays, it dips to the west more often. But jokes aside, Okibar rightfully claims the title of the brightest city on the island. The elders say it’s because of our innate desire to help sailors navigate coastal waters, though a more scientific explanation points to the South River’s current being stronger than the others, which makes the turbines at our power station spin faster and generate more electricity.

As I mentioned before, our towns were built around fortresses. In Okibar, besides about two hundred meters of the ancient stone wall, the central tower still stands. It vaguely resembles those strange round stone minarets you can find all over Ireland — like the famous one in Glendalough, which I once talked about with Crowley when we looked through his album. Our tower is round as well, but much wider than the Irish ones, giving it the look not of a rocket but more like a gigantic well or a huge tankard. Since ancient times — and still today — it houses the council of elders.

Several times I managed to arrange tours there, and once we were even greeted by Albert Nardi himself, one of the most respected paternuses and Gordian’s grandfather to boot. The meeting was staged as a chance encounter, and Albert Nardi seemed genuinely pleased by the guests’ interest both in the building and the council’s affairs. Despite his advanced age, he took over the tour from me, leading us through halls and staircases, sharing stories and showing what he deemed the most remarkable spots.

We saw not only the Great Hall, where many weighty decisions were and are made, but also the Hall of Gifts, the Armory, and the Scroll Hall. In the Hall of Gifts, for example, is kept a chalice long ago gifted to Okibar by the Icelandic jarl Ingi Magnusson, commemorating the resolution of a dangerous conflict between Frisland and our restless neighbor — right here, not in the north, contrary to Folkerul’s usual jurisdiction rules.

The Armory houses an intriguing collection of bows, swords, and axes with which our ancestors defended their freedom. My father told me that one of those swords was forged by my great-great-great-grandfather — not through my mother’s line, but through his own. Albert Nardi said nothing of the sort, and I was too shy to ask.

As for the Scroll Hall, its very existence doesn’t contradict the fact that we are nearly bereft of literature and literary language, relying instead on oral tradition. Among the so-called “scrolls,” there are fewer chronicles than one might expect and more messages the council has received from foreign governments. Prominently displayed is a document issued by the American military government to my grandfather Bor upon receiving his rank and medal in World War II. While grandfather was alive, the certificate stayed at our home, but afterward, my mother decided it would preserve his memory better elsewhere.

Albert Nardi didn’t fail to mention my tangential connection to the victory over Nazism, and the listeners even applauded.

In fact, Gordian’s grandfather himself had suggested, via Tandri, that I bring my group into the council tower when he heard among the tourists would be not only two former diplomats from England but also his, shall we say, counterpart from Sanestol, who had decided to visit our parts with a large, noisy family in tow. For some reason, the old man wanted to make a certain impression on the guests.

I asked Tandri about the details afterward, but she didn’t know either. I can only guess that Albert Nardi had something important to accomplish in Sanestol and sought to secure acquaintance and support.

By the way, mentioning the name now and reflecting on our towns, I come to the conclusion that their development was directly tied to the strength and influence of certain families. Indeed, if Vasilika’s Varga or my Ruvido clans did not particularly assert themselves, they were, quite literally, “written in their fate” to live out their days in villages, while the Nardi, who made themselves known loudly and boldly throughout history, rose above towns — or more precisely — above clans.

Honestly, I know the Nardi genealogy mostly by hearsay, but as I’ve said, their connection to the semi-legendary Roman conquerors made them special among equals. It suffices to say that one or another Nardi was invariably paternus in Okibar. They always headed something, directed someone, were always at the heart of events, which immensely strengthened their authority.

No one found it strange that the Nardi always had not one but many houses — and the biggest and finest ones — nor why all the city’s trade issues passed exclusively through them, nor why they were the largest private lenders even when the council denied aid, nor why they so often left our island to spend a month, a year, or even longer abroad, gaining knowledge and building invisible bridges.

If anyone besides Gordian had taken the reins of internet development here, I’d be very surprised. Of course, it could have been his brother, uncle, or nephew — but certainly a Nardi.

Even more remarkable is that during my lifetime, the Nardi’s influence began to spill beyond Okibar, showing itself in other towns — such as Bondendia, where with the direct involvement of Gordian’s father (Albert’s son) a shipyard was opened to build expensive wooden yachts, orders for which came exclusively from the mainland.

Bondendia is known for having the best carpenters and joiners, and probably the best shipbuilding timber on the island, but what business did the Nardi have there? I remember teasing Gordian about this once, and he didn’t flinch but only remarked that Folkerul “limits the councils’ jurisdiction strictly to judicial matters and does not regulate the geography of commercial activity.” Exactly so! I was so struck I remembered his exact wording verbatim.

Though, in essence, he was right. Of course, right. The Nardi never err.

The second notable landmark in Okibar is its port. If you’ve read the legend about the Irish settlers carefully, you might wonder how a fortress built deep in the forest, far from the shoreline, became the heart of a bustling harbor town. The answer is simple: the descendants of those first settlers dug the Anephes Strait. Monaco Island was actually the very spot where the Irish first landed. Presumably, when the digging began, sentimentality won out and they decided to preserve the island itself. The geysers, after all.

Truth be told, I don’t know exactly what the coastline looked like back then. Perhaps it was a narrow spit ending where Monaco sits today, making it easier to carve a passage through. Or maybe I’m wrong and the work was truly monumental. Either way, what we have now — a strait and a bay — are not natural formations.

All the other towns were originally built on the shore, which is why they barely stretch into the surrounding forests, whereas our town is embraced on three sides by pristine woodland.

By Frisland standards, our port is sizable: the quay stretches over a kilometer. Depth varies with the tide — like everywhere in our northern latitudes, it fluctuates between two and four meters. At low tide, the water near the docks is about seven meters deep. The port is designed to accommodate a dozen small freighters and fishing vessels simultaneously, though I can’t recall ever seeing it completely full.

Recently, two decent taverns specializing in seafood opened there, which, I modestly believe, was sparked by visits from my tour groups. Before that, no one around cared much since dining at home is the norm here. But Crowley’s inn and my mother’s cooking made such a favorable impression on our guests that, finding nothing comparable in such an important place as the port, they voiced their surprise. Someone overheard, told someone else, and in a few months demand gave birth to supply.

By the way, the Nardi family has absolutely nothing to do with these taverns. They belong to another influential clan — the Podji — also, of course, with Roman roots. I’ll tell you more about them another time. For now, I’ll return to the zilot because we were nearly there.

By the end of our exhausting journey, late into the night, all passengers except me and Kukro’s father had fallen asleep, swaying limply in their seats. Riding backward, I was pleasantly surprised by the approach to Okibar. Kukro’s father perked up, leaned to the window, caught my questioning look, and nodded briskly: “We’re here.”

As if by magic, the road on both sides came alive — other zilots met and overtook us, drivers’ shouts mingled with the slap of whips, horses snorted excitedly, no longer able to run at their accustomed speed, and the wheels ground the long-suffering gravel like a relentless sea surf. One by one, the sleepers awoke, blinking at the flickering lights outside.

Gordian yawned, stretched, and quickly oriented himself before the others. He cracked open the window behind the driver and asked where he was headed.

“For your money — anywhere you want,” came the answer, followed by, “But normally my route ends at the market square.”

Since we were all invited to stay the night at my sister’s place, which wasn’t exactly central, Gordian wrapped himself up warm and climbed up beside the driver to show the way.

The zilot immediately took a sharp right, then a left. Our seasick lady gasped but before she could complain or lie down, everything came to a sudden halt. The doors flew open, letting in fresh forest air and distant road sounds.

We had arrived.

So, I didn’t quite finish my story. In our understanding, a “city” isn’t just the fortress itself (or its ruins) and the houses right next to it. The boundaries of what’s called a city also include nearby villages, which form natural districts. Unlike actual villages that specialize in a single craft or trade — one village might be mostly hunters, another fishermen, a third made up of technicians (former blacksmiths and the like), a fourth with women skilled in sewing, spinning, and knitting, a fifth where the livestock farmers live, and so on — residents of a “true” clan village, like mine or Vasilika’s, do a bit of everything. Whatever skills come easiest to them.

As you might guess, there’s a constant back-and-forth between villagers and city folk over who’s better at what. The debates are obviously pointless: sure, the quality of a particular craft’s product is better where everyone does that one thing, but I can state with full responsibility that in the villages we are far craftier, more resourceful and… well, I won’t waste time on details irrelevant to my story. Suffice it to say, the city people always seem convinced that we envy them. If anyone deserves envy, it’s the families like the Nardi or the Podji.

They — or rather their houses — make up the third component of the city’s architecture. Because these aren’t just houses, but entire multi-story estates with their own self-sufficient economies, towering over the gardens and vegetable patches — which are exclusively theirs, not neighbors’, since neighbors don’t exist. No fences, of course, but reaching them by any route other than the single driveway is difficult, sometimes even dangerous, since vigilant guards patrol and unpleasantness may ensue.

The Nardi had three such estates: one housed Gordian and Tandri, another his parents with his younger siblings, and the third belonged to the aforementioned paternus Albert Nardi, though I don’t know who lived with him. The distances between these places were such that it might seem like one family lived in different villages, yet they were officially within city limits, and Folkerul’s rules remained intact.

I’m almost certain there are “Nardi” families in Kampe and Raru, too, but I doubt our companions knew them, judging by their open amazement at the sight of a towering manor, its porch columns like the jaws of a toothy predator, nose pressed to the earth, with outstretched horseshoe-shaped paws. It was built from massive oak logs, perfectly planed and brightly painted — not eye-catching at night but sure to impress visitors in the morning sunlight.

I felt Vasilika’s hand grip mine tightly. Kukro’s mother forgot about her ailment and loudly admired the scale of the dwelling. Her husband kept silent, probably calculating how much and what they’d have to sell to buy something like this for their son. Only John, with an unruffled expression, helped Gordian unload our luggage. Having traveled through Europe and America, he had surely seen grander buildings.

“Where will you go at this hour of night?” Tandri asked him. “We’ll find hay for your horses, and you yourself can finally get some rest. Stay with us.”

“No, madam,” John replied, handing me my precious — or ill-fated — bundle. “Thanks for the invitation, of course, but I’ve got some plans in your town tonight. So I won’t impose. Goodnight to you all.”

With those words, he shook hands with all the men, whispered something in Kukro’s ear, sprang back onto the driver’s perch with a spring in his step, and the zilot that had almost become a familiar friend to us quickly rolled away into the night. Everyone soon forgot about him, as it was time to settle into the house.

The guests were assigned two bedrooms on the ground floor. The master bedroom was upstairs. Vasilika and I were accommodated in the left wing, given two separate rooms. The Nardi observed their traditions strictly: if you’re unmarried, you sleep separately. Formalities were observed. Everything else was up to us since we’d have the wing entirely to ourselves until morning.

Tandri said she’d show us the house tomorrow, but for now was ready to offer anyone willing a herbal brew sweetened with honey and bid us goodnight. No one objected; a day spent mostly sitting had worn everyone out.

To be honest, all I wanted then was to lie down. So, after making sure Vasilika was comfortable and needed nothing, and after checking once more that the bundle — lonely in the corner — was safe, I hurriedly undressed, collapsed onto a pillow, pulled the blanket up over me, and… woke up.

The night before, I’d forgotten not only to close the shutters but also to draw the curtains, so the harsh rays of the eastern sun mercilessly tore me from a deep sleep and persistently pulled me out of bed. Vasilika must have experienced the same because when I washed up and emerged from the shared bathroom, she slipped behind me from the corridor with a “Good morning, sleepyhead!” and clicked the lock behind her. I didn’t even have time to reply.

The next time I saw her was in the sitting room, where breakfast had just ended by the time I arrived. It turned out that although the sun had awakened me, it was far from morning — it was nearly midday.

Kukro had left for university to discuss admission with someone. His parents were ready to set off to look for an apartment. They’d already picked out several options and, now having secured the necessary funds, it was time to make a final decision.

Tandri did not lag behind. She picked up the phone standing there in the sitting room, asked to be connected to someone named Laura Lynch, winked at me, and when she heard her friend’s voice on the other end, inquired if she knew of any nice homes — houses or apartments — close to the university.

The unseen Laura, probably consulting her notes, said yes: there was both a house and an apartment. The apartment literally overlooked the university and was on the second floor of a public brick building; the house was a bit further out, wooden but in excellent condition, and naturally roomier than the apartment, with a yard almost ready for a garden.

Then came the most interesting and useful part for our guests: when Tandri asked directly about the price, Laura clarified whether the purchases would be made under the name of the Nardi family or someone else. It seemed my clever sister already knew the score because, without blinking, she answered “Nardi.”

You have to know our ways. This isn’t the continental chaos where mentioning a famous name instantly inflates the price by an order of magnitude, and the bearers of that name often brag about it. For us, it’s quite the opposite: if you’re well known, you deserve all kinds of support.

Cynics might say it’s obvious — otherwise who’d get involved with the sepsuses, fortuses, and other paternuses? But I assure them, it’s not so. Don’t imagine that such positions resemble those of presidents, prime ministers, archbishops, or popes.

When our internet arrived, I watched several times how leaders are chosen in various countries, and was frankly shocked that citizens truly believe they participate in elections. I was most dismayed by America, where the system ensures the victory of a candidate favored by certain interests regardless of how many vote for them. Voters feel they’ve voiced their will, but that will sinks to the bottom of a bottle while those influenced by entirely different mechanisms slip through the narrow neck.

It’s not even funny. The funny part is that Americans don’t see or understand it.

Such a thing is impossible here, if only because our Folkerul recognizes only open voting. No cheating, no collusion. Those unknown — even if only in the best light — are never elected anywhere.

So, if you are, say, a Nardi, everyone knows and respects you, and naturally goes along with you, because being able to say later, “I helped watch over a Nardi house,” is honorable and profitable: if such people trust you, you really must be someone to deal with.

Laura Lynch’s willingness to help my sister, even if partly self-interested, came with the right attitude.

In short, when Tandri hung up and announced the prices, the elderly couple standing in the doorway exchanged glances; the father sank heavily into a chair, while the mother ran to hug and kiss my smiling sister, calling her a beauty, a savior, a sorceress, and many other flattering things.

It turned out that if Laura’s options suited them, they could save at least a third of their budget.

Meanwhile, I pondered the strange quirks of technological progress that allowed me to call Crowley directly the day before just by dialing the office number on a phone somewhere deep in the sticks, while my sister, living in the city in a house belonging to a technically savvy husband, had to ask someone to connect her.

I didn’t know the answer then and drew no conclusions because I suddenly remembered that if Crowley had fulfilled my request — which I did not doubt — my parents were already worrying greatly about my absence.

I hurried to get ready, which didn’t escape Vasilika’s notice.

Imagine my pleasant surprise when she told me Tandri had already taken care of everything: Crowley himself had called her early that morning to confirm that we were safe.

My conscience was clear.

Still, I felt it would be improper to abuse family hospitality, so I hugged my sister, shook Gordian’s hand as he stopped by the sitting room, and said that Vasilika and I were about to leave.

“Not the best option,” Gordian remarked, catching my meaning exactly. “You’ll be faster on horseback.”

He probably still thought I was a naïve youth and assumed I planned to hire a boat at the port to reach our village. Tandri, present during our talk, approached the matter practically: she told Gordian to escort us to the stables, where they kept a suitable cart for just such occasions and a trained man — both groom and coachman. She had to wrap up some apartment business, so we hugged once more — this time for good — and Gordian obediently took the task.

The groom turned out to be a young lad who understood everything instantly and soon harnessed a willing fiery bay mare, her mane a striking copper-red, to a light two-seater carriage with four slender wheels. My bundle was too bulky for the flimsy trunk, so it had to rest at my feet.

Our farewell was a bit rushed. I sensed Gordian felt a little awkward around Vasilika. He wished us a routine safe journey, told Aldor — the groom’s name — to keep moving without delays since he and Tandri had plans for the evening, shut the gate behind us, and waved goodbye. But, true to Frisian style, not with the continental side-to-side sweep but a single backward wave, symbolically sending us off with a tailwind.

Of course, the wind was against us. I was used to it, but Vasilika, freshly escaped from the damp north, reclined comfortably against the carriage backrest, hands behind her head, smiling up at the sky, thoroughly enjoying it.

“How long have you been working at the stables?” I asked Aldor, trying to make him feel included.

“Since I was a kid,” he glanced back over his shoulder. “Oh, you mean the job? Since spring. I love horses. Your sister’s horses are a fine bunch — real beauties. Take Begunya, for example: she foaled just a week ago and already acts like the boss, practically begging to be harnessed.”

I didn’t clarify whether he meant the mare pulling our carriage now or the one that only wanted the harness in theory, because I asked the question that had been on my mind ever since Tandri mentioned the stables:

“Why didn’t you bring them to Raru yourselves?”

“They did go to Raru!” Aldor said, genuinely surprised. “No, I’m not in charge. They tell me what to do, I do it. If they don’t, I mind my own business. Besides, how would I even get them there? What would I use for transport?”

“Is this the only carriage you have?”

“The buggy? No, of course not. A couple more. But they’re no good for long rides. Summer’s okay, but I hear they’ve already had frost at night there, so it’s not much fun. Better not risk it. Me? I’d take the zilot myself.”

He was right, really. Having transport doesn’t mean you use it for every little thing. And indirectly, our coachman confirmed my sister had kept her trip secret from most folks.

“What are your parents’ names?”

Vasilika shifted, sitting upright and meeting my gaze steadily.

“Hamish and Erlina…”

She took advantage of the moment when no one was watching, tugged my sleeve, and kissed me sweetly.

Meanwhile, I was still wrestling with a thought that had plagued me for two days: Should I tell her about Ingrid’s existence or just hope for the best? Our parents always taught us to tell the truth — said it was easier and better that way; no need to invent or cover up. Yet, they themselves didn’t always follow that rule. Life experience had clearly taught them that sometimes a little deceit was necessary.

If I lied now, could our connection with Ingrid remain a secret from Vasilika? Only if we immediately moved to live with her in the village — which I had no intention of doing. So the truth would come out sooner or later. And then it would turn out it’d have been better to confess right away instead of leaving it hanging indefinitely, because then Vasilika would decide that if I was like this, I wasn’t trustworthy.

Ugh, someone please help me figure this out!

What do you think I did? Right, I just hoped for the best.

No matter how rough the road to Okibar had been yesterday, it looked like a royal highway compared to what lay ahead of us now. Crowley had been battling with the elders for years to make the tourist route to our office bearable, yet something was always missing, and in the end, the carriage — pardon me, the brake — was mercilessly rattled and jolted over every bump and pothole. The only victory so far was that enough gravel had been dumped to make the road at least passable in the rain. Vasilika found it amusing; she laughed so hard once she nearly bit her tongue. At least there was no need to look for excuses to cling to each other, helping one another from tumbling out. I even had to gently remind Aldor not to push the horses so hard.

The first people we met approaching the village were Luv and his sister. Ingrid spotted me from a distance, waved happily, and then froze when she noticed the woman sitting beside me, arms draped over my shoulders. Passing by without stopping was out of the question. Aldor begrudgingly pulled the reins when I asked him to halt.

“Going mushroom picking?” I asked as casually as I could.

“Mushrooms are already gathered,” Luv replied, openly appraising my companion. “How was the trip?”

They both knew perfectly well where I was headed and why, and Ingrid had even wanted to come along. She must have felt it coming. Her parents wouldn’t let her. Honestly, part of me was grateful for that, though…

“Excellent!” I masked my embarrassment with a bright smile. “The boss will be pleased. Opened a new route. By the way, meet Vasilika.”

I wasn’t quite sure how to introduce her. My new acquaintance? My greatest find? My future wife? When you don’t know what to say, it’s better to say nothing.

“These are my good friends I told you about,” I blurted out — I honestly don’t remember ever mentioning them to her, but she might have forgotten, and it slipped out quite naturally, maybe even well. “Luv and Ingrid, his sister. You should see them racing down mountain rapids in our kayak!”

“I’ve tried it too,” Vasilika chimed in, unfazed by any awkwardness. She leaned over me and extended her hand. “You know Ainara Nurdli?”

Ainara Nurdli was practically a hero on our island — no surprise there, an Olympic medalist in alpine slalom in Munich! Few knew exactly where Munich was, but Nurdli was Nurdli.

“He’s an old friend of my father’s. Taught me for a while. Said I had talent. Maybe someday we’ll race, alright?”

I watched their faces. That was a low blow — not just because it stroked their pride, seeing as Nurdli, their idol, they’d only glimpsed from afar — but because it made clear my companion was no shrinking violet and had come here to stay for real, and for good.

“So, shall we be off?” Aldor reminded us.

I was ready to hug him. We said quick goodbyes and set off again. Only two more bends, and then there it was: that desperate village I suddenly missed and yet was a little wary of.

“Is that Ingrid your girlfriend?” Vasilika asked in an offhand tone.

“What do you mean?” I feigned surprise.

“While we were talking, she didn’t even glance at you. Normal friends don’t act like that. And I guessed it, didn’t I?”

Her voice carried no tension, no excitement. She already knew the answer; she just wanted me to say it myself. I had only to play the slippery eel, instinctively resisting out of principle, though fate was sealed and the butcher’s knife already raised.

“I’ve known her since childhood. We’re friends, as I said…”

“All right. I understand. Looks like we’ve arrived.”

Aldor slowed the carriage where there had once been nothing but now lay a small square before the tavern and our office — a miniature town square that made clear who ruled here by its very existence. On good days, some of our neighbors even set up makeshift stalls, lending the place a bustling market feel. Today was one of those days.

I thanked Aldor and invited him in for a bite. He hesitated at first but then confidently declined, saying it was time for him to move on. Meanwhile, my first priority was to rid myself of a burden that was either precious or simply heavy. Slinging the bundle over my shoulder, I made my way toward the office, above whose door hung a recently carved wooden sign bearing my somewhat clumsy handiwork: “Crowley-Tour.” The lettering was a bit crooked, but the old man liked it enough to insist on painting the letters for visibility.

Vasilika trailed obediently behind. I was eager to introduce her to Crowley — or rather, to observe his reaction when he saw her. We didn’t have to wait long: as we approached, the office owner stepped onto the porch, puffing on his pipe. I was taken aback — never had he dressed so finely, not even when hosting the most prestigious guests or when impressing the elders himself. Apparently, Tandri had given him a thorough description of my companion standing just behind me, and Crowley had decided to dress up.

To play it cool, I didn’t gush over this but simply glanced back and pulled Vasilika close — ending up wrapping my arm around her waist.

“Well then, prodigal son,” Crowley said, releasing a slow plume of smoke. “Coming in, or heading straight to your parents?”

He tapped his pipe against the railing, a telltale sign of nervousness I had come to recognize.

“Uncle Dylan, meet…” I began.

“Come here, my dear,” Crowley opened his arms wide, and all I had to do was gently nudge her forward. “You must be the very Vasilika who has stolen the heart of my young friend?”

“The very one,” she nodded without a hint of embarrassment, shooting me a sly glance as she surrendered willingly to the old man’s embrace.

I’d been fretting all the way here about how she’d be received. Meanwhile, Crowley admired her face up close, discreetly giving me a thumbs-up behind her back before taking her by the hand and leading her inside to show off our flourishing enterprise.

Seating Vasilika at the table, he poured a full glass of carrot juice as a treat and casually remarked to me that a new group from the mainland was expected in a couple of days, so I wouldn’t have much time to relax.

Only then did he notice the bundle I’d carefully set down on the floor after closing the door behind me.

“Your second most important find?” he asked.

“You could say that. It’s why we were delayed — because of those who wanted to steal it from us.”

“No need to scare anyone prematurely,” Vasilika interjected, licking her carrot-stained lips. “We don’t know that for sure.”

“But we suspect.”

“I’m not as easily fooled as you might think,” Crowley said proudly to our guest, then turned back to me and strode over with dignity.

I crouched down and unwrapped the hide. “What’s this?”

“The main thing is to keep water away from it. Seems like these metal pieces work like a battery. At one point, we got caught in the rain, and it hit us with such a jolt…”

“Got it. Let’s put it in the storeroom for now, and see how it goes. And what’s this?”

“A hide. The metal was wrapped in it. And it all lay inside a sarcophagus with a heavy lid.”

Crowley ran his fingers over the leather, studied the embroidery.

“Interesting.”

“The story of the place is even more interesting,” — I assured him.

“I’m more interested in why my son forgot to say hello!”

We didn’t notice the door opening until my mother herself stepped in. She had probably spotted our arrival from the tavern window and couldn’t resist dropping by. Though her voice was sharp, her eyes smiled. We embraced. Vasilika hurriedly rose from the table and approached. My mother turned to her, and it seemed to me they looked at each other for an eternity. Finally, my mother reached out her hand, and when Vasilika shook it, she sighed:

“And what exactly did you see in him?..”

Everyone laughed. The introduction had been made. It turned out my father was expected soon as well. From Crowley’s accounts, they had already realized something serious was happening with their son and had prepared accordingly. While he kept the two women engaged in conversation, I slipped away to stash our suspicious treasure in the storeroom. I didn’t wrap it again but folded the hide separately. The storeroom, as usual around here, wasn’t locked, so I tied a knot on the bundle as a reminder to discuss it with Crowley later. Times were clearly changing, and it was foolish to expect old customs to hold.

Watching my mother coo softly at Vasilika, I couldn’t help but think of Ingrid, and a genuine sadness welled up. She had once been welcomed in our home the same way, loved and cherished. Though Crowley, as far as I remembered, had behaved more reservedly, and my mother hadn’t smiled so often. And now, though innocent of any fault, she wandered somewhere in the woods with her brother, probably crying, while he comforted her. I can’t recall who said it, but someone once remarked that you can’t build your happiness on someone else’s misery. The question was how to fix it now…

We were sitting at the tavern’s dining table when my father arrived. Unlike my mother, he made an effort to stay serious. He asked Vasilika about her life up north, about her family, about what they were catching these days, lamented that he hadn’t visited home for quite a while, was immediately invited to stay, said he’d consider it, asked about my impressions and the trip in general, then contentedly bit into a piece of fresh lamb with radish.

What surprised me most was Vasilika herself, whom I had worried for, but who now behaved at the table completely at ease and natural. When she wanted, she smiled; when she wanted, she was silent; when she wanted, she asked truly interested questions. By the end of the meal, she already knew much of what I’d described on previous pages and even proposed a toast to my traveling grandfather. I could see my mother was touched.

By the way, there was something to toast with, since our tavern subtly catered to continental tastes — or rather, humorously indulged the most demanding guests. My mother had quietly introduced a few kinds of homemade brews based on my grandmother’s recipes: fermented from birch and maple sap. She stopped the fermentation early, so the alcohol content was quite low — scientifically speaking, no more than two or three percent — but many liked it, and some even managed to get a little tipsy, thinking they’d been offered beer or wine.

Vasilika didn’t miss the chance to tell my parents how much she had enjoyed the hospitality of their eldest daughter’s home, carefully omitting the interesting condition of the latter. My father pondered aloud why Tandri and her husband had ventured out in such poor weather, and we just shrugged, then began to describe our adventures in two voices — the cave search, the discovery, the encounter with the sorceress, and its unpleasant consequences.

I wanted to soften some of the details and reflections Vasilika shared too candidly with our solemn listeners but changed my mind since it was really about our shared safety. I only added that we deliberately exaggerated things because most likely the attackers’ real target was our fellow travelers’ money, not a chunk of metal and hide. My father promised to look into the matter and said he’d get information about our acquaintance from the market through his friends in Kampa, which noticeably calmed my mother, who hadn’t smiled in a long time.

To steer the conversation onto a different track, I asked Crowley about the people arriving in two days and what kind of program they wanted. It turned out they weren’t quite tourists — young researchers from Chile, Argentina, and the States, comparing the flora and fauna of the Arctic and Antarctic Circles and planning to use us as their base for a few days. Crowley guessed their work wouldn’t be too demanding — helping them settle in, managing supplies, assisting with island travel — but their sponsors were either the Discovery Channel or National Geographic, meaning money wasn’t an issue. Definitely worth the fuss.

Vasilika perked up immediately but quickly got herself into a bind by asking how these people knew our language. We all stifled laughs, and I gently explained that with most tourists, we have to use their common tongue — English. For Crowley, an Irishman by birth, it was almost native, and I’d picked it up fairly well too, reading books and practicing with guests. Vasilika grew even more animated and begged us to talk something in English. What do true Englishmen chat about when there’s nothing to say? Naturally — the weather. So we did. Vasilika watched us wide-eyed, her charming ears even flushing slightly.

“Looks like ours, but ours is prettier,” she declared.

Crowley teased her to guess what we’d said, and to everyone’s surprise, she translated quite a lot on the fly.

“You’ve got a knack for this,” my mother remarked, offering to pour her a stronger brew, but Vasilika politely declined.

At these introductions, it’s considered rude to bring up serious matters — family business, specifically. There’s a time for everything. First, you observe and listen, then parents make up their minds about the potential bride and share thoughts with their son. The final call was always his, but parental approval, especially positive, was traditionally the cornerstone. That’s why no questions about Vasilika and me came up over lunch. We simply got a feel for each other and, it seemed, walked away satisfied.

The only hitch, a purely formal one, was that during such courtship visits within the same village, both parties continued living apart — at their parental homes — meeting by day and reluctantly parting at night. We didn’t have that luxury. Vasilika was to stay with us, as other unwritten laws demanded: hospitality laws. Even if I had my own house (formally, I did — the one my mother rented out to lodgers now and then), Vasilika would still have to live with my parents. I was waiting for Crowley to joke, “Let our guest stay with me,” but he held back, perhaps valuing goodwill over momentary fun.

After lunch, my mother and Vasilika stayed behind to tidy the tavern while the three of us returned to the office. Father wanted to see my find for himself, given its appeal to potential thieves. Taking advantage, I recounted the legend Whitney had told me and asked if either Crowley or Father had ever heard anything similar. Both admitted they hadn’t.

In the storeroom, we laid out the “necklace” and hide again on the floor. I showed them my red talisman on my wrist.

“Notice the difference from this iron thing?”

“Only the color,” Father grunted.

“Whitney weaves those and sells them. Calls them ‘Thor’s Flame.’ She never mentioned the sarcophagus in the cave, and when we asked directly, she said she hadn’t been there for half a century and hadn’t seen any sarcophagi.”

“If you’re right, I find such coincidences hard to believe.”

“Exactly! She knew perfectly well and sent someone after this iron piece.”

“Or the hide,” Crowley ventured hesitantly.

“The hide?”

“Look closer at the embroidery. Doesn’t it remind you of anything? What’s inside those circles?”

I looked closely but saw nothing except dog droppings on two plates and three saucers — stated frankly aloud.

“Blind,” Crowley concluded bluntly, not minding Father’s presence as he continued deciphering the pattern. “Never seen a globe?”

“A globe?”

“Yes. If you look at it from above. It’s called an azimuthal projection. The most important one, by the way — for navigation and aviation.”

“Why? You can’t cut a globe open like that along meridians.”

“They say it’s still the most accurate.”

“I thought the globe was the most accurate projection because it’s a scaled-down Earth…”

“Apparently, not everyone agrees.” Crowley smoothed the hide with his rough hand. I was already seeing the outlines of Africa, the Americas, Australia beneath it. “Just don’t understand why there are five of those freaks here.”

“Maybe they forgot to cut them out,” Father guessed. “Where’s Antarctica?”

“Well, usually it’s shown as a ring encircling the continents. See? It runs along the border as a frame. But why five?”

“How old do you think it is?” I asked.

“Who knows?” Crowley crumpled the hide between his fingers, plucked some fibers, sniffed it. “It doesn’t fall apart, no dust, reasonably flexible. Shame I have nothing to compare it to. If only I had a piece from some Egyptian tomb…”

“Why Egyptian?” Father asked. “We’ve got plenty of hides here. Some old ones. They’ll be tougher than this, but if tanned well, they stay soft for ages. Time’s no real measure. Besides, I agree none of us knows what will happen if it’s kept away from light and air for years inside a stone box.”

Their attention then switched back to the “necklace.” Both squatted, touching metal plates and fiddling with resin pendants. Father made me recount the circumstances of the electric discharge.

“Looks like,” he concluded, standing and addressing Crowley more than me, “if you put this thing in some vessel of water, it could supply us with free electricity.”

It’s worth noting that for using the turbines on the Southern River, all of us who use electricity — an ever-growing crowd — pay our dues. We pay into a communal pot, just enough to keep the turbines running and the caretakers paid. But Father was right, as always: why pay if you don’t have to?

Crowley agreed but with deadly indifference added it’d be nice not to end up like monkeys trying to drill stone with carbide bits. Very likely, he said, the whole setup was built for purposes we don’t yet understand, and electricity generation is a side effect that could destroy the device if overused. Then we wouldn’t even know what we truly owned.

Father faltered. I stepped in and assured them I’d met a sharp young fellow on the way who knew his tech and might come in handy.

We left it at that for now. Crowley promised to think about handling my finds so as to attract attention on one hand, but not too much on the other. Maybe keep both hidden here in the storeroom or somewhere even more secret, while showcasing photos online. If anyone wanted a closer look, we’d show quietly, maybe even charge a fee.

Crowley brought up the fee, and I quickly agreed just to end the preliminary talk. I was eager to resolve things with Vasilika — to see her again.

It turned out we’d spent enough time in the storeroom for Mother and Vasilika to spruce up the tavern, so when we stepped out, they were waiting, cooing peacefully.

Crowley solemnly assured me he was giving me a day or two off but then expected me back in full force — to help with the TV crew.

We wished him a good day and the four of us headed home.

It turned out that even before we arrived, our parents had already sorted out who would stay where, so we were simply presented with a pleasant fait accompli: Vasilika would stay right with us, as if she were my own little sister. I suspect my quick-witted mother had done some discreet probing among the neighbors beforehand and concluded that nobody these days would bat an eye at such an arrangement. That mattered a great deal to her, and I’m very glad things worked out that way. Vasilika had no inkling of all this; she was simply enjoying life and our hospitality. Along the way, she noted various differences between the setup of our village and hers, asked questions, sought clarifications — in short, she remained entirely herself, which, as much as it pleased me, also delighted my parents.

By evening, I even felt a bit vain, thinking they must have gained even greater respect for me after meeting Vasilika — me, who’d managed to find such a treasure in the remote northern wilds. Of course, I’m joking. But memories of those days still flood me with a sense of unending happiness — perhaps because the very nature of happiness is that it isn’t eternal.

We spent the evening, the next morning, and the entire following day inseparable from each other. Father somehow noticed I was a bit nervous and putting on airs of too much independence, so he confided quietly, advising me to “just be myself and be gentler with the girl,” which I welcomed gladly. At first, we took a walk through the village — not so much to be seen by everyone, but to acquaint her with the surroundings, the beach, and our peaceful bay. Vasilika loved everything. She beamed, smiled, held my hand, and looked extraordinarily lovely.

What would have been a mere fifteen-minute stroll at another time stretched almost till noon. Afterward, we stopped by the tavern, which surprisingly had quite a crowd, and Vasilika immediately went to help my mother in the kitchen. Later, I learned she had also offered some useful cooking tips, which were well received.

When Crowley arrived near the end of the meal and whispered that all these folks had come from Okibar to spend the day at Monaco, I quickly volunteered to take over the ferry’s helm, killing two birds with one stone: Crowley was old enough to enjoy a break, and Vasilika surely couldn’t resist a trip to the warm geysers. And that’s exactly how it played out.

Our ferry was old but powerful and reliable, equipped with a diesel engine and two ramps, so it didn’t matter whether it went bow first or stern first. We’d covered the not-too-wide deck with a canvas awning for rainy days, and the wheelhouse standing in the middle always reminded me of a captain’s bridge and lighthouse rolled into one. The ferry was so convenient that a single sailor — me — could handle navigation and mooring without trouble.

Once we set off, I let Vasilika take the wheel while I mingled among the passengers, confirming they were a few urban families determined to enjoy, perhaps, the last sunny day of the year. This discovery meant my involvement should be minimal — they knew what they wanted, and how to enjoy themselves. Indeed, Crowley had told me at the pier that no one had paid for the tour. So my day off remained intact, paid for by others.