Ch.17Ch.2 – No Country for Young Boys (5)

When the earth rose up to my neck, I couldn’t bring myself to go any deeper. The pungent, damp smell of soil had restored my reason and common sense.

This wasn’t like walking down swimming pool steps or basement stairs—I was descending into a pool of alcohol.

“What are you doing? Aren’t you coming down?”

Noticing my hesitation, Abashina burst into laughter.

“You came all this way just fine, and now you’re getting cold feet? If it’s too much, just close your eyes and jump. There’s only one step left anyway. One, two, three!”

In that split second, my body was airborne. It felt like those falling dreams I often had as a child. But in those dreams, there was never a nun holding me tight.

All kinds of horrific deaths flashed through my mind. So I focused solely on sensation—the firm yet gentle pressure against my body.

The fall ended. The nun let go of me. I opened my eyes.

I saw an extreme landscape composed only of black, white, and gray. This wasn’t a harmonious world of tones and contrasts like a black-and-white comic or film.

The ground was a murky mixture of ash and black. The trees were rough-textured and dark gray, like abandoned taxidermied bears that no one had bothered to maintain. Yet paradoxically, their leaves gleamed like chrome in the moonlight.

But compared to my hands, that was nothing. My hands were lead-colored, like those mannequins commonly seen in tailor shops—cracked and chipped in places.

Only Abashina remained unchanged. She alone made sense in this world. Silver hair flowing to her shoulders, silver-gray eyes. A slender face with pale white skin through which veins faintly showed.

I asked her where we were.

“We’re inside a memory. Memories held by blood spilled on the ground.”

Abashina explained using similes and metaphors. Relaying her long, abstract, and complex story verbatim would be discourteous to you readers.

To summarize, Abashina can read blood. To her eyes, someone’s blood is like a text file containing vast log records.

Just as uninitiated eyes might see meaningless clusters of characters, while those who know programming languages can read messages that induce irritation, anger, and headaches.

“Why didn’t I read the blood on the handkerchief? That’s as difficult for me to decipher as a soaked, crumpled newspaper. It’s much easier to read properly preserved bloodstains on the ground like this.”

It seemed similar in many ways to the “psychometry” ability that was popular in dramas, or the “crime scene reconstruction based on bloodstain patterns” often featured in detective shows. I decided to understand it at that level.

But how did she find this place?

“The cemetery keeper reported to the police that ‘someone had left a trail of blood along the cemetery path, and a white handkerchief was found there.’ So I thought I might learn something if I went there. Oh, how did I know he collapsed at this broken tombstone? I smelled the blood. It was exactly the same as the blood on your handkerchief.”

Abashina tilted her head slightly.

“What? Do I really seem like a monster to you?”

I shook my head. There seemed no need to hurt her feelings unnecessarily. Ibashina turned abruptly and walked to a rock by the path.

“I’m a bit disappointed. But I’ll be generous. 60 points out of 100. Points deducted for lack of sensibility. Now sit here. You need some remedial lessons.”

As soon as I sat beside her, I heard a sound: hoo-hoo. It came from a creature perched on a branch—an owl of some kind.

Then the cemetery keeper approached. The same hunched, large man who had given me the handkerchief. He held a violin in one hand and a bow in the other.

“Wow. Is that actually a human arm bone?”

I wanted to say there was no need for such admiration. Treating human bones like that seemed like a cruel mockery. Not only carving the bone but attaching strings to make an instrument—it was excessive disrespect.

The cemetery keeper began playing the violin.

It wasn’t music. It was speech. I couldn’t understand why playing a violin produced speech instead of music, but it was definitely speech.

[Being mute he just indicated meaning by gestures that he understood give seen beyond inside the sanctuary those people]

Growing louder then softer. Pitch rising then falling. Stresses kept appearing, and long and short vowels repeated.

This wasn’t language. It was a meaningless string of words.

“It’s backward,” said Abashina, pulling her knees to her chest.

“He’s reciting the Bible backward. The words are read normally, but the sentence order is completely reversed. Why would someone do such a thing?”

It’s incomprehensible. .incomprehensible It’s

Why would someone do such a thing. .thing a such do someone would Why

Crude mockery. Vulgar lament. Deliberate distortion. .distortion Deliberate .lament Vulgar .mockery Crude

Language is a symbol symbol a is Language.

It’s a clear agreement between people people between agreement clear a It’s.

Stopping at red lights and crossing at green is because it’s an agreement and consensus consensus and agreement an it’s because is green at crossing and lights red at Stopping.

Deliberately breaking such order is is order such breaking Deliberately

Noticing my state, Abashina touched touched Abashina state, my Noticing

my forehead with her fingertips. Cold.

“Don’t open your ears to the echo. What we need to see isn’t the ripples on the water. We need to see the stone hidden in the lake, right?”

Her words were correct.

What awakened me from the confusion was touch. Though her fingers had no warmth, feeling someone else’s body temperature was more important.

I could see Abashina’s shoulders. They were trembling slightly. Even she found this world’s landscape distressing. Perhaps her cheerfulness was just a facade. What dwelled beneath that nun’s habit?

Hoo-hoo. The owl-like creature on the tree twisted its head.

“Look there.”

Two boys with hands in their pockets appeared. Everything about them looked awkward. Their clothes were too big, and their faces excessively shadowed—so severely that they resembled skulls with skin barely clinging to them.

A boy approached them. The two waiting boys greeted him warmly. This newcomer was probably O’Brien.

The three friends drank alcohol happily and chatted about various things. Gradually their faces grew serious. The boy wearing a hunting cap pulled out a long stick from his pocket.

Sudden… unfortunate… accident… red blood.

The boy who seemed to be O’Brien took out a handkerchief. He appeared to be trying to stop the bleeding. But the fallen friend’s head was already cracked. The two frightened friends ran out of the cemetery.

And then I saw it. The cemetery keeper playing his violin, walking toward the one lying on the ground.

The figure on the ground twitched and then rose, staggering. What would be indescribable agony to a living person seemed like the most beautiful music to one who had died and risen again.

To the strange speech-sounds, it twisted its body alone. The one who had been drinking and arguing with friends moments ago had now become a bizarre puppet, contorting to the cruel violin sounds.

Yet there was direction to its movements. The cemetery keeper’s stone house. It kept moving toward the stone house.

Behind a tree, O’Brien and his friend were spying on the undertaker. Both boys held stones in their hands.

The taller boy opened his mouth and rushed at the undertaker. His horribly distorted face resembled an angry monkey.

O’Brien grabbed the staggering figure that had once been his friend, who was wearing the hunting cap.

Then they all froze. As if someone had pressed pause and thrown the remote control out the window, they stood motionless.

“That’s all the story the blood shows us,” said Abashina, dusting herself off. It seemed there was nothing more to see here.

“So the cemetery keeper uses a violin to control corpses. He might be some kind of sorcerer. But what does he want with all those bodies?”

I tried pushing the cemetery keeper’s hut, but it didn’t budge. Abashina shrugged.

“We need to get out of here and open that hut’s door.”

But how could we leave?

We had fallen from high above. And there were no stairs visible anywhere.

“What’s the problem now, Mr. Common Sense Beast? You walked down into the ground just fine, but now you’re hesitant to escape through the sky?”

I hesitated. She was right.

“You’re so ‘human-like.'”

She still seemed unable to shake her prejudice that I was a beast.

“I thought you were a beast imitating humans. Now I’m starting to wonder if you might actually be human. Beasts, being beasts, can’t suppress their nature. Above all, they don’t imprison themselves in the framework of their own thoughts.”

Abashina gently grasped my chin. She pushed it up slightly, then moved it side to side.

“But you, just like humans, trap yourself in the framework of common sense. Tell me, beast. How can you pretend to be human so well? It’s an enviable skill. It took me quite a while.”

Isn’t it obvious? I am human. The nun didn’t seem pleased with my answer. She sighed deeply.

“Fine. Whatever. Let’s get out of here. The way out is very simple. Throw yourself into the sky. What’s with that expression, like I’m talking nonsense? Alright, alright. You really are a human who can’t step outside the framework of common sense.”

The nun spread her arms. Then she stared at me for a while.

“What are you doing? I’m telling you to hug me.”

My hesitation must have displeased her. Abashina rushed forward and lifted me up.

And we fell toward the sky. With heads and necks held stiff, we fell from the ground up to the heavens. My insides twisted against the sticky grip of reason.

Isn’t it right for people to fall from sky to earth?

Then why are we falling from earth to sky?

No, no, this isn’t my problem.

This is inside a memory etched in blood, isn’t it?

It’s this world that’s wrong.

So I am still human.

So I am still a person.

So falling toward the universe isn’t my fault.

Even the word “falling” is inappropriate.

Falling (墜落) means to drop from above to below.

Among the words I know, there isn’t one that means dropping from below to above.

[Thus this should rightfully be called “rising-fall” (墜昇)]

“Are you okay?”

Abashina looks up at me. She must have read my troubled expression.

“Still not with it? Maybe I should just let go.”

Abashina loosened her grip. Terrified of shooting up toward the ground, I hugged the nun tightly.

“I thought you just lacked sensibility, but you have no manners either. That’s an additional 10-point deduction.”

A failing grade.

* * * * *

Relief washed over me as soon as I saw the normal world again.

“Urgh, ugh!”

Looking down at the ground made me dizzy, and looking up at the sky made me feel like I might “rise-fall” again.

“Now you understand why I wear a blindfold?”

“Urgh!”

Though she grumbled, Abashina patted my back.

“I used to wonder why vampires cling to walls when there’s perfectly good ground. But sometimes I get confused too. Should I walk along walls? Should I crawl across crosswalks?”

“Ugh!”

“That’s too much. I may be a nun now, but I’m a Boyar. A noble. Why would I drink blood when there’s vodka consecrated with the Lord’s blood?”

With a thump on my back, Abashina walked to her motorcycle. She rummaged through the saddle bag and pulled out a small glass bottle.

“Mouthwash.”

It was vodka, of course. It seemed stronger than Vladimir Vodka—strong enough that I would have believed it was rubbing alcohol. Even after gargling and spitting it out, the sharp sensation made it hard to regain my composure.

“So. We seem to know where to go. How about it? If you’re struggling, I can go alone.”

Abashina pointed at the hut. Instead of answering, I walked toward it. My legs were a bit wobbly, but slapping my cheeks a couple of times seemed to help me focus. I was relieved to see my familiar skin color again.

Creeeak.

I flung the door open. The smell of rotting soil filled the air. Abashina and I examined various parts of the hut.

Under a dirty rug, we found a secret door leading downward.

When we opened the door, a low noise could be heard. It was the violin sound from the blood-etched memory, but fortunately not as distinct.

“Good,” said Abashina, pulling back the charging handle of the Thompson.

“Let’s go rescue the boy.”