Kitabı oku: «Hired Self-killer or The Winner’s Trial», sayfa 6

“And yet you were not completely honest with me. From time to time, people see both ghost ships and ghost trains. That means someone doesn’t share your desires and aspirations and comes back. It’s a fact even if we assume that all of you gathered here voluntarily, not trying to call a free choice the decision that was made for you by someone else,” the Reliable suggested.

“That means nothing. Sometimes there are valid reasons for their return – for example, the preparation of Gates in certain places. Of course, now you might think that we are still ‘guilty’ of helping someone to save ourselves, but in fact, hundreds of them do that eagerly while only a few are dissatisfied. In fact, it is not always necessary to create a Gate; it just helps to split the shell to those who are ready for this. But rejection happens even without a Gate. And sometimes those who are aliens here, to this environment, could be rejected from here too.” The Greeting Ship continued his slow speech. “In general, it is quite normal that you are asking such questions now. It is not a common thing, but it happens. In time, you will assimilate into this place, and you will change your mind. You will stop thinking as an over-confident teenager who believes that only his opinion about everything is true and indisputable always and forever, whereas the certain established ideas are wrong just because the majority follows them.”

“I’m not going to stay here and get used to anything. The matter is not whether I am some kind of ardent individualist. Now I’m much more concerned about the fate of my captain and his crew. So where are they, after all?” the fishing vessel repeated his question persistently.

“I don’t know for sure what exactly happens to people during rejection. But I assume that the event brings nothing good for them. I have never been particularly interested in the technical side of this issue. I also do not know why the event does not affect fish and similar beings, but I believe that the matter here is not only about the presence of a relatively developed mind that ordinary underwater fauna does not have. Rejection is disturbing in itself; however, if one returns immediately upon arrival, until that reality is still ready to receive him, and this reality is still ready to reject, then people can appear on board again. Sometimes they will be safe and sound but will not have any memories about the event or understand what was happening during their absence. Sometimes they can go mad or die. And sometimes they may not reappear. The returning itself is extremely rare and has different consequences.” The Greeter waited a moment so that the Reliable could comprehend his words and continued after the pause, “And it will be a huge risk for you. While your beloved people still have some chances, you personally will most likely lose your sentience and become an ordinary floating bucket with no individuality and consciousness.”

“This insanity contradicts all the known laws of nature,” the fishing ship shared his view. He perceived the interlocutor’s words with obvious difficulty.

“Exactly; it contradicts the laws of nature as you know them. And if one asks people about the fishing vessel who imagines himself the dragon ship’s descendant they would say that such a vessel cannot exist at all,” the Greeter quipped, not being able to restrain himself any more.

“Let’s suppose you’re right. But what about those who leave this place on business?” the young ship inquired, seeking to find out as much as possible about his situation.

“They are leaving this place only if they get used to it. Then, there is no risk, as well as a chance for a happy return of the crew. However, mirages sometimes appear on board. It is a kind of residual effect that represents deeds of those who once travelled, flew or sailed by these crafts,” the colossus responded, kindly and sympathetically, as if he was talking with a naive child. “I advise you as a senior: do not be silly, give up this venture.”

“I have the right to make my own mistakes,” said the Reliable. “Tell me how I can return.”

“If you say so,” a new voice suddenly rang out. One could feel the whole depth of past centuries in its tone. “I will help you. But I can’t vouch for the consequences.”

The young ship didn’t realize at the moment who was addressing him, but soon he froze, struck by a guess that was immediately confirmed.

“You are correct. I am the Ocean himself. Usually, I take a detached view on things that occur in me and outside of me, in the world, but sometimes – as now, for example – I can express my modest judgment. I happen to have a slight interest in your motives. And I would like to ask: kid, why do you care about people? I existed even before the first fish appeared inside me, before the first man appeared on Earth; I watched how the first pyramids were built and how Atlantis went under the waters. Meanwhile, the people and other creatures just fussed, reproduced and died. I saw how they constructed and set you afloat, as well as many others of your kind. So I repeat my question: why do you care about them? Their civilizations arise, perish and live for one pitiful moment. Of course, from my point of view, ships exist just a little longer than a particular person, if not the whole human race. You also live your one pitiful moment; you are born in a shipyard, set sail and fuss until people have any benefit from you. Perhaps, it somehow explains why people are so important to you, but they are still absolutely unimportant for many other ships,” continued the voice that sounded powerful and delicate at the same time, resembling a steel gauntlet in a silk glove.

“I won’t speak for everyone. I also don’t pretend that I know the ultimate truth. I speak only for myself and only from my standpoint. Others are uncomfortable with the very idea that somebody can decide something for them and use them for their personal interests. However, they forget that if the people have no personal goals, they won’t build us, wouldn’t launch airplanes into the sky and ships into the water. Let’s put aside for a while the specifics of creators’ and creations’ relationship, questions of their duties and responsibility, as well as thoughts of men in particular and humankind in general. It is certain people, not humanity as a whole, of whom I worry about at the moment – Leif Sigurdsson, Ulve Asmundson and the other members of my crew. And if the things I’ve heard here are true, then time is of the essence. Therefore, I would ask you not to delay my return, if possible,” the Reliable said hastily, without a second of hesitation or calculating any options and risks.

Even if he had no chance for salvation, there was at least a slim chance to save the crew, so the young ship had no doubts and was ready to pay the price. He didn’t consider freedom as a simple opportunity to do whatever he wanted and whenever he wanted, without regard to anyone ever. For him, it was more likely the right to voluntarily obligate himself and adhere to his obligations not because he couldn’t do otherwise, but because he wanted to do just that. Free-thinking was not a transition from a fanatic of one ideology into a fanatic of another, but the ability to choose his path consciously and without any pressure. And even foreseeing that he might end up on the rocks, he was ready to sink with the knowledge that, in any case, he was sailing on the right course towards the shore.

“You told me a lot, but you didn’t answer my question,” said the Ocean patiently. He had an eternity in a store, but unfortunately, it was not so for the ship or his crew.

“Well, I don’t know how to explain it better. And I have no time for this. Listen, you, the huge puddle: if you really can do what you said, then do it; or we have nothing to talk about,” blurted the ship who had never expected such boldness from himself. Then he continued, “And yes, I understand perfectly well with whom I’m talking to. You can make a storm, smash me on the rocks or tighten into the whirlpool. I don’t care. But I ask you only one thing – bring back my captain and his crew.”

“Well, let it be as you wish, little one,” the “huge puddle” replied kindly. “I must confess, this is the first time I’ve met such a tiny and impatient vessel.”

“Farewell,” said the Greeter, believing that he would part with the young ship forever. “I do not think we will meet again. I am not going to persuade or discourage you. Do as you see fit; this is your choice, and I will respect it anyway. But I want you to think about one thing before you leave: you would never have found yourself here, among us, if you did not want it, deep down inside.”

“Who knows,” the Reliable answered briefly, not intending to waste time in polemics. “The desired thing doesn’t always mean the right thing. And at the moment I don’t want to argue about what exactly I consider right and why.”

And then, looking around the water, the giant and the whole army of planes and ships, he added:

“Goodbye!”

“You know, you do remind me of a dragon ship somehow,” remarked the Ocean a moment before everything around suddenly became distant and vanishing.

The captain and his loyal workmates at first felt a little ailment similar to the hangover sensations. With bewilderment, they noticed the instantly changing weather, as they were surrounded by clear sky, calm wind and serene sea. Incomprehensible to them, the sun had moved, and recently caught fish was motionless on the deck, not giving the slightest sign of life. Thoughts gradually returned along with the awareness of who and where they actually were.

In any case, they didn’t find any obvious losses or breakdowns. But the Norwegian fishermen had their urgent unfinished business, so they rubbed their red beards and, not coming to a consensus about what had happened, they decided to keep quiet about the incident in order not to be treated as lunatics. The obvious exception was the captain who already had a certain reputation, but he still agreed to his comrades’ request and promised not to tell anything to outsiders.

The ship safely arrived at the port, even though the return was delayed for the first time in a while. The captain continued to write poetry, talk with his ship, paint pictures and play the violin, and his people fished and devoted their free time to beloved wives, parents and kids. There was only one change – the ship named the Reliable no longer had his dreams. And meanwhile, the ancient Ocean, almost as old as the world itself, was reflecting that not only people become attached to precious objects in a way they become ready to sacrifice a lot (or even everything) for their sake. Sometimes one can see the exact opposite situation.

Wine Vault

A bottle of wine contains more philosophy than all the books in the world.

– Louis Pasteur

The pleasure a man experiences from consuming wine is no match for the pleasure that wine experiences when it is consumed. But it is known that there are no two wines alike in this regard. There are easily accessible copies which immediately begin, as they say, “to circulate” before they can find themselves in the bottles, and people, draining the bottles of such wines to the bottom, soon lose interest. But there are also rare exclusive samples: they lie in the darkness of the cellars for many years, gradually accumulating a noble touch of dust, waiting for their hour. A bottle of one of these collectable wines was in a special storage of a special cellar, in the cold and darkness, conditions that were created for it. For some reason, they were considered comfortable.

At the time, this bottle was one of several in the main cellar; there was a great variety of wines from around the world, differing in age and colour, whether young, vintage or mature, amber, red or pink. This was the Tower of Babel indeed, with its constant chattering and polyphony invisible to people. Wines from France, Italy, the Caucasus, Hungary, Russia and other parts of the world, talked, joked, asked each other about the world, argued about all kinds of differences between young and mature people, their sorts and quality. Some claimed that Caucasians are the best in wine drinking, others praised the Italians or the French, or someone else, but this, as we know, was a matter of habit and taste. Sometimes the wines would fight with each other: either on the basis of mentality differences, or on the basis of age differences, and even without any apparent reason. But those were relatively “simple” wines – even though expensive and respectable.

Meanwhile, in an exclusive store, set apart from all the others, collectable wines pass their time bleakly. They were considered the best and valued above all others combined, and over the years their cost only increased, but there was no sense, no benefit, no joy in it for the wines themselves. Their gastronomic value was dropping to zero because no one drank such wines. They were purchased individually or in small rare collection batches by wealthy people or specialized museums and not for drinking at all, but in order to keep in their cellars and be proud of them, boasting at every opportunity, and then, when they were tired of possessing such, – sold or presented to other rich people or museums. And, of course, these people didn’t care about the deep feelings, personal tragedies or dramas of some bottles of wine.

For the time being, it seemed to a certain bottle of collection wine that things could not be worse; however, as it turned out, it was bitterly mistaken. For anyone in trouble, it was always made easier with someone able to share and understand the pain. But centuries went by – all the other bottles were given away or sold, and this one, it seemed, was to stay alone, in darkness and cold, in permanent storage, for the sake of a ridiculous human whim. But what exactly is that “prestige”? Probably, it was necessary to be human to understand it, and for the dusty bottle of wine left alone in the whole world, far from friends and relatives, it all seemed like one great injustice, moreover – stupidity.

As a result, having a whole eternity in a store, it was necessary to fill the time somehow in order not to get bored out of one’s mind. So, wine, the bottle, cork and label entertained themselves by continually inventing all sorts of things. Darkness, dust, cold, walls, shelves, and less and less frequently lit light bulbs (used only occasionally, when someone went down to the cellar for something) rarely got involved in their conversation. They weren’t alike in temperament, which was alien to wine and its companions unfortunately, (chatting with whom, in turn, wasn’t an adequate replacement for communication with other wines, as communication with Friday could not fully compensate Robinson for the lack of people from his culture).

Over the centuries, wine had become skilled in the art of fermentation, but in addition, like any other wine that had more than enough time, it took up composing poems (in particular – ruba’i about the drinker Omar Khayyam), riddles, charades, pictures and philosophical concepts that, arising in its drops, gradually settled at the bottom of the bottle. Oh, if only someone could drink it – wine would bestow on anyone all that it had accumulated over the years: all the poetry, all the wisdom would settle somewhere on an unconscious level, in order to manifest itself little by little. But by the meanness of the situation, it was not destined to happen, and the wine clearly understood this.

“Perhaps you should try to master distant non-verbal hypnosis,” once offered the bottle, whether mocking or whether quite seriously, because these days even a bottle had an idea of distant non-verbal hypnosis. “So you could capture the mind of some unfortunate fellow, forcing him to go down, open the cellar and drink you to the bottom.”

“Oh, please, don’t start again,” the wine grumbled with irritation and resentment, having enough time to get tired of such mockery, which once again reminded of what it was trying to distract from for a while.

“Come on, the bottle has a point,” said the cork. “Well, bottle, how do you imagine that? Any specific suggestions?”

“I suppose, it is more difficult for a person to control his mind during sleep. Well, you know, all these somnambulists, sleepwalking…” the bottle continued intriguingly. “The main thing is not to forget about the corkscrew and find a person with high suggestibility.”

“And how exactly are you going to compel all this?” asked the label sceptically.

“It is necessary to pick up the right psychocode and communicate it telepathically, using the mental conductivity of space” the bottle continued to answer seriously, getting more and more excited. “By psychocode, I mean the poem. In fact, any person is one big coded poem. Take a look at the DNA – it’s a real poem, compiled by all the rules: with rhyme, rhythm and meter. Art is not only when someone deliberately paints a picture or composes a verse: life itself must be lived as it is a work of art. We need to adjust the rhythm and meter of the desired person, and then your incarceration will finally come to an end.”

“Human-addicts,” the dust grumbled with irritation.

“And you pipe down,” the cork had a go at it sternly. “The bottle has a point. Why not give it a try?”

“And maybe that’s enough already?” wine grumbled, starting to lose patience.

“Well, are there any other suggestions?” the label said, siding with cork. “At the bare minimum, it can be simply accepted as another new amusing game. We’ll have some fun at least. Still a change, after all.”

“All right then,” the wine grudgingly agreed, finding no probable cause to continue the dispute. “Let the bottle start, and we will listen.”

“To begin with, a strong thirst is needed to instil in a person and at the same time to establish an irresistible craving for wine, so that he does not go to quench it with plain water. Moreover, it is not enough for us to establish a craving for wine alone – we need to kindle a poetic spirit that will lead the taster right here. Using all sorts of cultural allusions is necessary. Wine is not just a drink, after all. Wine brought Noah into intoxication, which caused the curse of Ham and Canaan. The wine led to incest between Lot and his daughters. ‘And no man putteth new wine into old bottles; else the new wine will burst the bottles, and be spilled, and the bottles shall perish. But new wine must be put into new bottles; and both are preserved. No man also having drunk old wine straightway desireth new: for he saith, The old is better.’ The water was turned into wine. Wine is the blood of the Savior and an integral part of the Eucharist. Wine is one of the best gifts of the Creator, given to man for joy, but not for ridicule. Wine appears in the Melchizedek’s blessing of Abraham, or Isaac’s blessing of Jacob, and so on. In addition to a literal expounding, all this can be interpreted allegorically, anagogically and tropologically,” said the bottle with awe and reverence, almost chanting.

“I don’t doubt your enlightenment, but the chosen person may be far from all that, culturally. And what should we do in this case?” the label continued to stick to its guns.

“Doubting Thomas!” grumbled the bottle with a note of resentment. “Even in this case, we can cite as an example a huge number of examples from other areas…”

“… For example, a poisoned cup from Hamlet,” suggested the cork. “Although, that’s not a successful one. But, for example, we can recall the Oriental ruba’i about wine – fortunately, there is a myriad of them.”

“Not any verse from this great variety will suit us, but those that will make a particular person descend particularly here, so quoting does not fit. In any case, we have to compose it on our own,” the wine reminded.

After a brief moment of thinking, the bottle spoke impromptu:

 
Inspecting old cellars, the wine you can meet
The wisdom of ages is pouring from it
And also great melodies, stanzas and dances,
While all other bottles are just full of…
 

“Don’t go on please, it is not quite suitable for us,” the cork protested. “Firstly, all this is very rude and unethical towards all other wines: perhaps they are not so old and noble, but that’s not right, seriously! And secondly, we could spend more time to give birth to something really worthwhile. I mean, there was the poetry of baroque, rococo…”

“…Cock-a-doodle-doo. Well, maybe it’s rude. Well, maybe not entirely ethical. But, most importantly, that may well work. And if it doesn’t work – then we will compose another, and so on. Are we in a hurry to go somewhere?” retorted the bottle.

“So, let’s say a poem is picked up. And how are you going to convey it now directly?” the label asked, still doubting.

“First, we’ll wait until late hour…” the bottle started confidently.

“And how do we know from here?” the cork surprised.

“Hmm, that didn’t occur to me. Well, it doesn’t matter – we will transmit around the clock. In general, it is something like a vibration created by a tuning fork. A person is not able to catch our message on a conscious level, but we don’t need it. It will immediately pass the barrier of prejudice on the sly, sneak up the sentry of consciousness, sweep away the dusty taint of the daily routine from the soul and dissolve into the unconscious,” assured the bottle with the confidence of an expert.

“We have been storing alcohol here over the years, but we hear such things for the first time,” the walls suddenly shared their view.

“What did you expect? If someone keeps wine within for centuries, like the bottle, it’s no wonder it’s verbal vomiting,” the darkness quipped.

“Ugh, how rude. How prosaic. ‘Alcohol’. Pah! Wine is the whole universe, you know! But to whom I am telling all this,” the bottle grumbled with irritation.

“It’s just poetic dreams,” noticed the shelves. “But even if your crazy idea suddenly succeeds, won’t you feel sorry for the human?”

“But why should we? Firstly, he’ll gain something that’s worth a lot. And secondly, not everyone can afford such a luxury,” remarked the cork.

“Firstly,” the dust started sceptically, “that’s pretty illegal, and considering the cost of the wine sample, a person will face long-term imprisonment or a large fine, not to mention the fact that after such a trick the poor fellow can’t find a job even as a janitor. It’ll also be one hell of a scandal. And secondly, this isn’t the worst part. The worst thing is that having tasted such an old drink, a person can turn up his toes right here, in this wine vault, right on the cold floor. Frankly speaking, once it may have been wine, but now it’s not. It’s just an expensive collective poison that one can admire, adore, be proud of, but drink – alas and alack. And all because it was noticeably kept for far too long.”

“Hey, choose your words carefully, dirt!” the outraged wine blurted out in a fit of anger, although it understood and even shared the views and concerns of the dust to some extent. At an emotional level, it was simply afraid that it would not convey all things that had been accumulated during these long years: all the beauty, all the taste, all the wisdom and poetry.

At some point, the wine became so enraged that it seemed that it would soon boil and explode along with the bottle, leaving stains on the shelves and walls. But, suppressing this impulse, the wine listened to reason, and stated somewhat calmer than before:

“Of course, you are right in general. In any case, violence is not an option. But that’s fine: I still keep the taste, the colour, the flavour, and I believe that my time will come sooner or later. They are just not ready for it yet. Everything must be in line – with beauty, with wisdom, with poetry. And a seasoned wine needs a seasoned man.”

“Well, as you wish. We’ll support you in any case,” the bottle assured.

“Yes, certainly, we will understand and support,” the label and the cork supported.

Of course, the old faded label, and the cork soaked from the bottom, and the wayward bottle shouldn’t care, by and large. Little would change for them whether someone drank the wine or not. But in fact, they did care, and that was called friendship.