Nevermore/The Enygma Files

Volume 6

Hypnerotomachia

Part 1

Ever with thee I wish to roam —

Dearest my life is thine.

Give me a cottage for my home

And a rich old cypress vine,

Removed from the world with its sin and care

And the tattling of many tongues.

Love alone shall guide us when we are there —

Love shall heal my weakened lungs;

And Oh, the tranquil hours we'll spend,

Never wishing that others may see!

Perfect ease we'll enjoy, without thinking to lend

Ourselves to the world and its glee —

Ever peaceful and blissful we'll be.

Virginia Eliza Clemm, Valentine acrostic poem.

***

My forehead is still red from the kiss of the queen; I have dreamed in the grotto where the Mermaid swims...

And two times victorious I have crossed Acheron: Modulating turn by turn on the lyre of Orpheus The moans of the Saint and the screams of the Fairy.

Gérard de Nerval, El Desdichado.

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Prologue

The air smelled of iron and dust forming in swirls. At the same time, however, a certain humidity brought by the wind could be felt.

The she-wolf awoke with a shudder, her fur covered with fine wet sand. She had black fur on her back and gray underneath. Her blue eyes contrasted with the red color on the tips of her ears, which were raised and attentive at that moment. She didn't know how long she had slept, or where she had fallen... Had she really been sleeping? She sat up slowly, shaking the sand from her back, and looked around. The wind stirred her fur and she squinted.

A few palm trees and languishing plants shivered in a vast cloudy desert.

Ruins emerged from the sand like ancient bones: weathered columns of uncertain style, crumbling walls from different eras, and more modern, but equally forgotten, architectural forms loomed among the dunes. The architecture of the landscape was mixed, but all shared the same pattern of being in ruins. In the broken skyscrapers and bridges, or half buried in the sand, there were some floating shapes. They were debris that flake, but they did not fall, as if in certain parts the force of gravity had been completely forgotten, as was the case with the ruins themselves.

The she-wolf sniffed the air and sneezed, then looked around her, an old vehicle that looked like a forgotten RV and was almost devoured by a dune, a strange looking armor, pieces of column friezes of uncertain culture, a rusty old bicycle that floated carried by the wind.

All of it was shrouded in a murky twilight, a sunless light filtered through the storm clouds that drifted across the sky like living shadows.

In the distance, the horizon brightened. A flash of lightning struck with a dull sound, no echo, no roar of thunder. Then another. And another. Each electrical discharge in the distance seemed to follow a pattern, like a repetitive code of lights in green, yellow and red, forming impossible geometries in the firmament. They didn't seem to be normal lightning. Something was guiding them. Something controlled them, they seemed to have a purpose.

The she-wolf narrowed her eyes and licked her muzzle. She had no clear memories, but her instinct told her that she had to move, that this place was not safe.

Then she heard a sound.

It did not come from the wind or the sand, although it seemed to be carried by them. It was a faint murmur, a crystalline laughter that seemed to filter through the ruins. Children laughing. Voices that intermingled with the tinkling of bells, an echo that spread across the desert without a clear source.

The she-wolf raised her ears, alert. Her instinct told her something was wrong, but she could see nothing. She gave a plaintive whimper, searching for the source of those giggling voices.

The laughter died away and, in its place, a trill emerged. A high-pitched, pure song, as if the air itself had given birth to it. Something descended from the stormy sky.

A small bird with blue plumage. It was like a small sparrow, but as if someone had dyed its fluffy plumage. Its wings seemed to be made of silk, its plumage shimmered with a liquid, unreal glow that contrasted with that reddish and dark gray landscape. But at the same time it seemed more at home in those flashes of color on the horizon. It descended in a gentle glide and landed on the she-wolf's head without hesitation, as if it had always been destined for that place. The she-wolf did not move. She felt the bird's light weight on her fur and, for a moment, both animals remained in absolute silence, watching the ruins and the horizon. The once distant lightning now came dangerously close with the movement of the clouds.

The first raindrop fell on the ground. Then another. And another.

The scent of wet sand mingled with the wind, and the desert seemed to breathe. In the distance, beyond the dunes, whirlwinds of sand formed and unraveled, as if the desert itself was waking up, convulsing in response to the storm brewing in the sky.

The bluebird flapped its wings, restless, and took flight towards those little desert devils. The she-wolf, without understanding why, felt she had to go forward, following the bird. Noiselessly, they set off. The bird leading the way like a guide, watching with its little black eyes, as if it too knew that something was about to happen. And the she-wolf behind. Both of them running towards the whirlpools, the distant storm and beyond.

Behind them, among the ruins, the children's laughter filtered one last time on the wind, like a whisper that barely existed.

And then, they disappeared.

The she-wolf took one last glance behind her, but did not stop in her gait.

In a matter of minutes both animals disappeared in the dense rain of those ruins, heading for an uncertain destination.

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