Darkness was falling. An all-consuming fear drove me onward as everything yielded to the night, and wild jackals began to howl their dreadful twilight songs. In time with the chirring of crickets, I repeated those monotonous, exhausting motions, widening and deepening the already vast crater.
Then my shovel struck something hard. A small object rang out with a tempting chime. At first I thought it was just a root, but no: by the sound, it was something closer to metal; by its size, akin to a handmade figurine or yet another worthless knife.
My heart seemed to stop. Before my eyes flashed something from other worlds. It was a statuette — staggeringly beautiful, flawless, smooth, perfect — gleaming with the reflection of the full, milky-white lunar disk, exalted in the depths of the night amid hundreds of tiny stars.
I immediately cast the shovel aside and reached for the miracle I had uncovered, scattering the damp earth around it. I lifted it gently into my hands and wiped it clean with my black coat, stiff with coarse bristles. It was a miniature of a corpulent man, his hands and legs neatly folded — he sat in the lotus position, layers of fat resting one upon another. His head had been torn away; in its place remained a clean cut along the line of the neck. And he was made of gold. Or rather, of something akin to it — for compared to gold, this construct was far heavier, and after my careless blow with a steel tool it remained utterly unharmed: no abrasions, no blemishes, no marks of any kind.
I brushed the light-blond hair from my face, stirred by the icy night wind, and in my eyes there passed that same greedy flash — perhaps they even reddened from the emotions and sensations overflowing within me. In that moment, I believe my gaze looked more ravenous than ever.
And this had nothing to do with the precious metal of which this proud, headless sage was fashioned, nor with the money I might gain from selling it. No — the matter lay elsewhere. My discovery was a breakthrough in the reconstruction of historical events, and everything found before it lost all meaning, paling into insignificance beside it.
According to certain legends and the testimonies of contemporaries, the chief attribute of the God-Emperor of all the lands of the Northern Continent was not crude, overtly divine power, but true insight — an enlightenment so profound that it manifested in our physical world as hundreds of statuettes of wise elders, forever hovering around the body of the All-Ruler. Their appearance was concealed from the common folk; only the most seasoned and discerning members of the communities: seers, augurs, bird-counters, and clairvoyants, could perceive the forms in which Nord's omniscience took shape.
Omniscience… as unattainable as immortality itself. Yet I do not crave immortality; I crave only to know all that was, all that is, and all that will come after. For all my life I have striven toward this alone, and yet I have not advanced by a single inch — I remain mired in shameful ignorance. This feeling gnaws at me without cease.
I lifted it with reverent care. My veined hand, long-fingered, was trembling, and the headless elder shimmered with a weary, pale radiance of moonlight and starlight.
This, I thought with quiet happiness, caught in the sincerest anticipation, is what all these years of foolish digging in filthy soil were worth — the sorting through tons of rusted relics, the endless expenditure of time, that most precious time which could have been devoted to my principal craft. And yet, this relic might easily have proved to be an ordinary forgery of some later people, steeped in the very legends I had already recounted to You.
Simon Alighieri, I continued to reason with myself, now already partly freed from my former doubts, as I gazed upon this incomparable work of art, unlike anything I had ever seen, you were wrong when you believed that all your years had passed in vain. You were wrong when you thought your labor was barren and would leave no trace behind. This — this was undoubtedly worth all of it.
I clenched it — the delicate, perfectly cast figure — and my soul rejoiced without restraint. I rose, gathered all my belongings, slung the sacks over my shoulder (which at once showered my costly coat in thick layers of dust), rolled up the lacework towel on which I had rested during quiet intervals, and tucked it under my arm as well. Already laden with everything imaginable, I nervously lifted the shimmering monument I had set aside below, cast a final glance upon it, and slipped it into the most concealed pocket I could find.
And who, I wondered, had placed it into my hands — this unique relic? Was it Ishtra, the god who drives furious masses of wind in all directions, who watches over every monsoon and storm? Or Natas, the man-eating god, immeasurably cruel, who burns his victims alive? Or those lesser-known gods whom we assign to the most ancient of all possible pantheons?
Why did this thought come to me now, as I walked along this narrow path, paved with heaps of pebbles for the rare travelers of these lands, through a forest dense and somber? In truth, it matters little which of the countless gods proclaimed the existence of this world and now reigns within it — for I am ready to bow before them all, so long as I receive gifts such as this.
The calm that had seemed to settle over the place was suddenly shattered. I froze where I stood when I heard barking nearby — howling and growling. A chill ran down my spine, and I turned sharply.
In the midst of the darkness, where until then only the branches of centuries-old deciduous trees had been visible: alders, ashes, maples, oaks, and birches. Something alien appeared: two dreadful yellow eyes locked onto me. Within seconds, behind them emerged two more pairs of eyes — the hungry gaze of jackals that had decided to begin their hunt.
Perhaps the Deity, whatever it might have been, took offense at my inner monologue about gifts. Or perhaps this event had been inscribed long ago upon that determining symbol of dominion over the universe. How I wished I could glimpse, even for an instant, my own clay tablet of fate. And was it truly a savage jackal, a wolf, or Kingu himself, sent against me by Tiamat, goddess of the world-ocean, so that no one might ever behold the elder I had uncovered?
In any case, it no longer mattered when I broke into a run, my breath already ragged with rising terror.
They burst forth from different directions. Behind my flight came the frenzied rustle of dry leaves left over from winter, the crack of snapping branches, and savage barking. Then one of the jackals caught up to me, seized my leg, and tore away a large chunk of flesh — nearly down to the bone. I collapsed to the ground.
At the same moment, another grabbed my sack, ripped it open, and the gathered artifacts spilled out, their clattering briefly startling its companions. I had nothing left. I stood at the very edge of death.
So I drew the igniter from beneath my coat and pressed the trigger at once. A lightning-fast shot followed — a flash that lit the entire forest, startling every bird into flight as they erupted into the sky.
The igniter: an invention utterly absent from our world. And yes, I will not argue — I was not the first to invent it in all of history. But if we speak of this era alone, the situation changes entirely. I am the sole possessor of a weapon such as the igniter.
All these events combined drove the vicious beasts away. I managed to crawl to the sack that had not been torn apart and gathered several of the scattered items… then I reached for the place where the statuette had been — the inner pocket sewn into my chest.
Oh no…
The relic was gone.
Panic seized me. I paid no heed to the grievous wound; writhing almost in convulsions, I crawled across the ground, groping blindly through the darkness. I could not find that cold, smooth piece of metal. Perhaps one of the attacking curs had swallowed it, or a crow, lover of all that glitters, had carried it off, or it had simply rolled away somewhere unseen.
In truth, these were only attempts to explain what had happened. What remained was a single fact: the artifact, which had undeniably been in my possession, was lost.
I was bleeding out, yet I continued to search. Nothing turned up — not even after I lit a candle. Instead, I found a stick, pulled myself upright, leaned on it like a crutch, tore off my shirt, and desperately wrapped it around my leg to stem the bleeding.
Amid the oppressive, ominous stillness of the deep night when even the brightest stars dared not shine with their full strength. I continued to limp forward, dragging myself along as a trail of thick, black blood stretched out behind me. It was as though a living, sticky slime pursued me everywhere I went. It stretched on and on, until at last I reached the monumental brick walls that appeared on the horizon like a vision, or a mirage.
Yes, my native city is entirely encircled by colossal fortifications, raised by ancient hands by human will against the chaos of the outer world. They tower dozens of times higher than a man, inspiring dread and pressing down upon the soul. At times, gazing upon them, one cannot help but question our own magnitude and significance in this life.
I drew close enough for two enormous knights patrolling the majestic gate to make me out. They were clad in solid steel armor, their faces hidden behind visors, long crimson plumes rising above their helms. The men recognized me; we clasped hands. I produced a pass bearing the signatures of state officials, and I was allowed to enter.
I went on walking, feeling dizzy — whether from the savage terror I had endured or from the loss of blood, I could not tell.