All right — stepping slightly away from my digression, we return to the tangible world.
A drop of wax fell into the terrarium, narrowly missing the frozen creature, and came to rest in the dense sand, which immediately clumped together. I decided to extinguish the candle, left the slugs alone, and began to make my way through the jungle of containers, sacks, books jutting out at odd angles, and various maps strewn across the floor. At last, I reached the ladder leading up to a wooden hatch.
I climbed up, opened it with one hand, and with some effort pulled myself out. The hatch was located beneath the steps leading to my bedroom, so at first I saw no light at all.
But as soon as I emerged from the closet, a beam nearly blinded me. It came from a double-paned window that opened onto my well-kept veranda.
On the windowsill stood a beautiful clay pot I had shaped myself; seated within it was a rare species of fern, trailing all the way to the floor, which I had found during one of my journeys.
To the right hung a painting — an exceptionally neat, even mesmerizing work. At its center rose a solitary, needle-sharp rock; a worn yellowish path led toward it, all of it carefully enclosed by a dense forest.
In the distance, the horizon was visible, above which the sun rose, only slightly veiled by clouds.
Everything was utterly serene. And I, still consumed by longing for the lost figurine, decided that on such a beautiful day I would take my first day off in a year.
It was a marvelous March morning.
I stepped outside, crossing a mottled rust and black rug, opened the front door once more, and descended onto the freshly shorn lawn, casting a glance at the neighboring houses around mine.
They were more modest structures, built from massive rounded logs, one coated in dark lacquer, another in a lighter shade. I lived in a wealthy district, and by the standards of the rest of the city, these buildings still appeared luxurious.
I decided to head toward the shed — a small, elongated building painted a bright red — standing in my backyard. Nearby stood a grand library as well, only slightly smaller than the main house. I am proud of it, for this library is among the largest on the entire Continent.
To assemble its collection, I had to visit most of the cities known to humankind. Over the years, I have read nearly all the works it contains, though roughly a third still remains untouched.
I then approached a barrel filled with well water. Using a sponge lying beside it, I washed my face, adjusted my hair, and looked into the mirror.
Dark circles lay beneath my eyes from prolonged lack of sleep, and my eyes themselves were red, with small gray pupils at their center.
I decided to make my way to the library building itself. I opened the gates and found myself inside a space resembling a barn — but instead of herds of cows and pigs, shelves lined both sides of the main aisle, piled high with neatly arranged books.
Here were the works of ancient esotericists, bound in red covers; violet volumes of astrologers; then history, mathematics, philosophy — more esoterica still…
I walked all the way to the far corner and finally came upon my round table, its top made of tempered glass. Upon it stood a fiery red flower with elongated petals — a lily — and beside it an old, grimy book, its cover torn and its title worn away.
It was one of the foundational works of the past — written ten thousand years ago or more — on the nature of human cognition, in which an author unknown to us attempts to answer the question of just how far we are truly capable of knowing the world that lies beyond our perception.
I had begun reading it only recently, but it is worth noting that I acquired the book at an auction in Firenberg, paying a great many gold coins for it, having judged it to be genuinely priceless.
I opened the book and continued to study it for several hours, until hunger finally set in.
As I read, I often found my attention drawn to the fiery flower, whose color faintly reminded me of the sage. I left the book where it was, slipped a bookmark between the pages, and once again walked down the long central aisle.
Above the main gates hung a wide triptych, painted by an ancient and eminent master. Describing it in any comprehensive way was difficult, yet it captivated with its richness of detail and beautiful landscapes. It was filled with mythological beings and exotic animals; here and there, themes of human sinfulness and lust were clearly addressed — I would even say they predominated. In places, the painting appeared almost absurd, with its unnatural bodies and strange symbols, the meaning of which seemed impossible to decipher.
The triptych draws me into strange thoughts. I see something I have seen before; a sweet sensation of nostalgia tickles the folds of my mind. Or perhaps it is truth. Yes — truth.
The air is saturated with the feeling that I have already been there. Or that someone dear to me — my yet-unmet companion — has been there in my stead.
Perhaps, once You learn all that is soon to come, you will understand where my thoughts plunged so abruptly, so sharply. They slipped from a cliff somewhere far away, were shrouded in a gentle mist, and vanished at once…
And yet — no. For the tiny lights, set far off on the extreme right, still grant me no peace.
Following the same path, I found myself in my kitchen.
The cleaner was at work there — a wrinkled elderly woman with long gray hair. I greeted her and moved on.
I reached for a dried flatbread, chewed it, then took a pouch of cured meat from the lower cupboard, ate, and washed it down with filtered river water from a flask.
When I was finished, I decided to return, content with the sight of the apple tree's buds beginning to open outside the kitchen window.
I stepped outside. Suddenly, one of the clouds was obscured by something — it vanished from my field of view. I squinted, trying to discern what it was.
Then my eyes were struck by a glint, a shimmer identical to yesterday's in every way, save that this time it bore a solar hue.
High in the sky, I made out that very golden statuette, held firmly in the beak of an extraordinarily massive black raven. It was a fantastical coincidence, yet to run after it would have been madness: the bird soared even higher than the walls of New Milan.
But then another miracle occurred. The raven descended straight toward me, settled upon the roof of my house, and began to look directly at me with its coal-black eyes.
I looked around, then cast another glance at the bird to make sure I was not imagining it, and afterward began desperately trying to haul myself up onto the balustrade, bracing my feet while gripping the wooden awning with one hand. The feathered creature took fright and, without dropping its trophy, flew off.
At first I tried to chase it, but then it rose once more into the air, to a height beyond my reach, and soon vanished altogether somewhere among the centuries-old pines.
I returned home, went into the library, and continued reading.
The day passed unnoticed. Nothing else occurred, and in the deep darkness of the night, amid peaceful silence, with the book nearly finished in my hands, I was finally able to fall asleep.
I saw a dream. I saw a dream that did not end. For some reason, I remembered that. I do not know why — but I remembered everything.
I lifted my head and saw predatory eyes that terrified and unhinged my once-clear mind. And yet I chose this… I knew what it would lead to!
Nothing good can happen anymore, and I have no power to undo it.
But I did have the power to make that foolish decision — I agreed to it!
No — those millions have long been dead already.
And yet I know why I chose it!
This absurd hermit's cellar, the dutiful status of a working man, a respectable scholar — I can no longer endure it.
I want more.
I know there will be an empire in my honor, temples, everything the mind can conceive. All that remains is for me to escape death three times.