And there it was: my expensive, comfortable home—a dignified two-story structure, luxurious by the standards of the rest of New Milan. Its elegant facade was adorned with dark roof tiles that had acquired a subtle, noble patina, quietly speaking of the building's age.
A large circular window always drew the eye; through it, I would usually observe the star-filled sky with my telescope. The path leading to the house was paved with smooth stones, and on both sides stood elegantly trimmed shrubs.
A little farther on stretched tilled garden beds, adorned with plump orange pumpkins. I used them mostly to make sweet liqueurs and pumpkin beer. I myself drank very little, but I always had something to offer my visitors.
I did not build this house, but I bought it ten years ago and poured my soul into it, carrying out a thorough renovation that reshaped both its exterior and its interior.
I turned the key, which, fortunately, had remained with me. Stepping inside, I crossed the threshold and, as I removed my shoes, felt the weight settle in. My eyes filled with tears, for I truly mourned the lost artifact.
A silence reigned in the house, stronger than ever. The very walls seemed to guard the silence. I am thirty-two now; I have neither a wife nor children. I live entirely alone, with only two faithful companions: science and my craft.
I went down into my laboratory, which I had entirely dug out and outfitted with my own hands. There, I found and applied several remedies that allowed me to reliably ward off possible infections.
For instance, I poured a large amount of wine over the wound, feeling the burning liquid seep into the pores, down into the very depths of the injury. When I was fully certain that no fatal disease — the kind usually transmitted by the bites of such beasts — threatened me, I took out a match.
I waited for the flame to catch, then brought it to a metal table utensil — a spoon — heating it thoroughly. I pressed it to the wound, biting down on a scrap of cloth I had grabbed to dull the pain. I repeated the procedure twice.
I took out a small needle, set my leg upon a recently washed stool, nervously found some linen thread, and began to stitch up. The metal needle went in unpleasantly; at once, a thin stream of blood spilled onto the scuffed tiled floor. But after a few minutes, the open, hideous wound on the lower part of my leg, near the foot, was completely stitched closed.
Only one sack remained with me. In place of the former greatness of that curiosity, it seemed to be the more useless of the two — overfilled with uninformative sketches and rusted fighting knives. Even the vase had been left behind in the forest, abandoned to oblivion.
I considered going back to search for the vase, but the weight of those grim impressions would not let me return — to plunge once more into the midst of wild, dangerous beasts.
I stared at the ceiling, deep beneath the earth. It was damp and dark there, but a lit candle — wax dripping loudly onto the floor — made the surroundings slightly more bearable.
The room, square in shape, felt cramped not because of its size — it was, in fact, quite spacious — but because crates filled with the things I needed stood everywhere. The unremarkable walls, barely visible behind the clutter, were cast from dull gray concrete, made of sand and gravel.
Standing out against everything else was a spacious wardrobe with two large compartments, its top reaching all the way to the ceiling, occasionally creaking and trembling. I shifted my gaze to the glass terrarium set atop the table opposite me.
Yes — I still had to return to my work. Inside it, small, glossy black slugs crawled about briskly, until the moment I brought a lit candle close, which made them freeze instantly.
Each time, I returned the candle to its holder and then recorded the results with a quill, writing over a scroll already crammed with similar notes, layered almost one atop another.
It is curious: I caught the slugs on Grace's Cliff — the only place they inhabit, a beautiful place that at the time seemed almost impossible to reach. It was a long journey, and I had not even expected to venture so far.
I spent two weeks on the journey, sleeping in tents, in the wildest of places — where not only savage, dangerous jackals roam, but even bears, and at times the urgate apes: large primates with powerful forelimbs that allow them to climb cliffs and trees. They bear a stone-gray coloring, but in the darkness — when they hunt most actively — the males are marked by faintly glowing patterns, helping them recognize one another at night.
That expedition was especially perilous, considering the cataclysms that occur on our continent… I completely forgot to mention them to You. In our lands, there exists a species of tree that emerged relatively recently — only a few thousand years ago.
It is the wild pink lilac — a tall, spreading tree, encountered rather rarely, whose seeds infect humans. It is exceedingly difficult to distinguish it from the common lilac, for they appear almost identical; the only difference lies in the paler, more delicate hue of its blossoms.
Carried by the wind, in May and August its fruit breaks free and rises into the air, drifting in large, spherical swarms. An immense pastel-pink orb, crowded with hundreds of flowers…
Moreover, inhaling the seeds almost certainly leads to death, and even a single touch causes large ulcers to form, spreading across the body.
Here, strong winds — strange as it may sound — are dangerous to humans. That is precisely why my native city, New Milan, is surrounded by high walls. In rare cases, even they offer no protection from the lilacs.
I looked at the tableau hidden within the full horror of my disorder — ruined blueprints and sketches, ideas left unfinished; small diagrams of flying machines, wings, and other contrivances; spare parts, drawings of human and animal organs, fragments of skeletons, models of body parts. Glass jars casting odd reflections of acidic hues, manuscripts, broken rulers and compasses, the remains of insects, scraps of fabric; other jars, calmer in tone, filled with oils and resins; clocks meant to measure time, no longer working.
Completely broken. No one cares about them.
I should have cleared all of this out hundreds of days ago… or even several years ago.
I abandoned the idea of drawing long ago. But this sketch I made outdoors, in the open countryside, four years ago, in May. I had a day off then and slipped out of the city without even obtaining a permit — I managed it through contacts with local smugglers.
Please, do not judge my escapade too harshly — the lilac bloom was drawing to an end, and the process of obtaining an exit pass takes more than a week. I walked for a long time that day, sweating in the heat; my legs buckled and turned limp, my toes rubbed raw until they bled…
But I found a hill from which I could behold that mesmerizing sight. I set up the canvas and frame and began to create. It was one of those rare moments — unique in their kind. I hope you know them as well. Moments when you step out of the ordinary, tangible world through a door — an imaginary door — that leads into some strange space, akin to the night sky.
Somewhere far away lie the unreachable lights of other worlds, but before you stand thousands of doors — each one holding a moment, a fragment of special knowledge that found its way there for some reason, even the most unknowable one.
You see that very sfumato you first encountered in the deepest reaches of childhood—perhaps at the age of three, in the family manor… and you reproduce it with absolute precision.
The purity of contours glimpsed somewhere else; light, shadow, depth, tonality, the underpainting, the detail and delicacy… And there it is — the flawless painting comes into being.
And the door closes.
I stopped painting pictures, for when I paint, the door no longer appears open.
But then why did the door appear?
I cast a glance in its direction, made out a distant needle-like spire of rock, slyly piercing clouds shaped like sheep. There was something there. A spot, a grain of sand — brilliant, intensely violet in color. It looked like nothing more than a blot…