Not fairy tales

Thing called spring

Once there was a thing called spring…

Spring is here!

Why doesn’t my heart go dancing?

Spring is here!

Why isn’t the waltz entrancing?

No desire, no ambition leads me

Maybe it’s because nobody needs me?

The monumental bulk of the Tengwang Pavilion stands out clearly against the background of the river at this sunset time.

The lanterns circling the tower are about to flash, echoing the color of the brick-red walls and the emerald-green roofs. Actually, the pavilion could be called a pagoda, but it lacks the usual elegance of these traditional structures. However, it makes a remarkable impression: yes, it is new, but something so ancient, some spirit of place, no doubt, lives in these stones. And surrounded by dozens, hundreds of skyscrapers, each year more and more squeezing their arms – both on this coast and on the opposite one – scratching the clouds with their claws, the Tengwang can seem like a pillar, piercing and linking the past and the present.

The rain that had fallen since this morning had washed everything away, making the colors more vivid. The wide stone staircase leading up to the pavilion now looked more like a rock than a human creation.

Two young men – obviously out-of-towners, tourists – stop right at the Yin-Yang symbol – the Great Limit sign – take their eyes off their smartphone screens, and look up.

«Hmm, there it is. Well, not bad, huh? We didn’t go here for nothing.»

«Impressive. It’s not a small thing,» the guy sips his iced tea from his cup, smacks his lips. «You know, it’s not bad. I don’t really like herbs, but it’s nice and refreshing.»

His buddy sips his drink too, nods.

«Yeah, it is good. Well, shall we go?» he waves his hand in the direction of the rise.

«Soon, give me a couple of minutes. Let me catch my breath: you’ve been dragging me around all day… didn’t even take a taxi.

«Taxi… You’re such a sissy. We never even left the neighborhood. And dragging… like I made you do it.»

«All right, all right, it’s about work, I agree. But it’s time to rest now, isn’t it? So, what’s the hurry? This tower isn’t going anywhere,» he looks at the Tengwang again. «Look, what’s that up there?»

At the corner of the curved roof, remotely resembling a dragon’s spine, stood a strange figure. It wasn’t easy to make out the silhouette in the twilight: not human, but certainly someone alive.

«Wait a minute, I think that’s one of them. He’s going to jump, look! Oh, that’ll be a sight to see! Come on! Jump!»

***

He is standing on the very edge.

In general, the weather today is windless, but not here, not up there. However, the wind is a friend, one of the few: violent, uncontrollable, necessary.

Now any gust threatens to rip him off the roof. Rip him off, throw, spin… no, not now… a little more later…

Down below, behind him, a dark ribbon of river winds, lazily rolling its still-cool waters into the distance: a few weeks, and the heat will take over. A heat from which he must get away. Is it worth it?

For what now?

Why should he go back to his homeland now? Alone… without her…

What’s driving him back?!

Spring…it’s all her, part of the eternal cycle of this world. The law of the universe, if you will. A law demanding and inexorable, embedded in the very depths of the subconscious. To go back…

He thought they would go home together. Together from this seemingly benevolent place to which they were strangers.

Aliens. Incomers.

Scarlet faces, scarlet feet, white covers.

They are different.

No, they haven’t been harassed here for a long time. They’re even protected. People take care of them, you could say. But people care more about themselves and their well-being.

What about them? They’re not from around here. Valuable, but different.

They will never understand each other. And people are stronger. Stronger, more insolent, more demanding.

And they take the water. They limit themselves, but still inexorably take away space for life. Not here, but there, just to the north – here he came by chance, circling and circling, and here – but the city will soon approach there as well. It would come and take new lives, as it had taken his beloved. Would kill others as it had killed her.

No, no one hunts them on purpose: the local governments have long forbidden such things. But man stains everything around him with his presence: everything he has created can bring death. Many things are not her weapons at all, but almost every grain can suddenly summon this cold, empty-eyed lady.

Simple fuel for people’s boats is poison for the likes of him.

Dirty death. Accidental death.

They were found too late.

He called out to people, calling desperately, trying to lead them to her, dying in that muddy puddle, but people didn’t understand. They shouted in admiration, pointed their fingers at him, smiled, wished each other happiness. As if he had come to them to show off. As if they couldn’t hear the hopelessness and grief in his cry.

People sat in their cells scattered over the ground, stacked one on another, formed the tall ant towers like the ones across the river. People sat there thinking only of themselves.

Sometimes they remembered creatures like him, too.

Not everyone: only the most understanding or those who could benefit most from it.

Then they decided to surround the strangers with care.

For now, all care is the bracelet draped around his leg. Yes, they had put a tag on him – trying not to hurt him, but still against his will – a tag that could be used to track his life.

But what does it matter to him?

His sweetheart also had a tag, a shiny little thing wrapped around her shin.

Did it help when the wearer was convulsing? That’s right.

They also gave him a name. A strange name, similar to their own.

Heng Chun. The Permanent Spring. The Eternal Spring.

Hah!

There is nothing eternal in this world, only the stars that light up in the blackness of the nights.

But they are there, far away, leading with their radiance to home – that’s all.

And there is no spring in his soul.

Her breath is all around… everywhere… everywhere…

Everything is blooming, everything is alive… Only it is as if he died inside on that shore, where she let out her last breath.

One step, one more step, and then crash down.

No, that’s something only they, the humans, can do. And they are horrified by it. And they marvel at it!

See, and now they’re looking up at him with all their eyes.

They’re watching, discussing something, gesticulating wildly. Waiting.

Yeah, it’s like they’re waiting for something…

The wind brings unlocal music. That is, their music, human music, just not typical of this place: jagged, rough, sharp-cutting with the edges of the words.

He doesn’t understand the meaning, but the rhythm is hammered into every bone in him.

…Und der Mob fängt an zu toben

Sie wollen seine Innereien

Und schreien

Spring*

A piercing cold and scalding heat. The blood roars. Painful and… cleansing. As if spring had washed over him with rain.

He shifts from foot to foot, swaying, then freezes again on the ridge of green-painted wood. The bow-curved corner of the roof is designed to prevent demons from sneaking into the house, to make them roll down this arc like a springboard and fly off into the sky, falling apart. Now the words roll down the curve.

Jetzt fängt der Mann zu weinen an

Fragt sich was hab ich getan

Ich wollte nur zur Aussicht gehen

Und in den Abendhimmel sehen

Und sie schreien

Spring**

Down below, people are waving and shouting something. Hundreds of sparks are flashed by the cameras: they are trying to capture him. Why? Or maybe it’s not about him? Maybe it’s the building, burrowed into the ground like a giant tree, that catches their attention. Maybe no one notices him at all.

He looks around, looking at the rugged silhouette of the city, illuminated by the setting sun. It looks like the forest he encountered on his way back home. It is distantly similar, because the forest is much larger, more majestic, because the forest spreads so wide that at times it seems insurmountable.

And now he doesn’t even want to overcome it.

Although… it’s all his own. Maybe he could find solace there.

Many people there almost worship them like gods. They call them sacred. They celebrate approaching happiness if they see them.

There are no cities there that look like a bunch of needles poking into the sky. Everything and everyone are closer to nature there, at least if you get to the right place.

So why did they come here? What called them to this distant land?

They came for warmth and sustenance. They came because they are used to coming. Because they didn’t know how to change, didn’t know how to seize new territory like humans. They came to the only place they knew.

On the shore of a beautiful lake they found their shelter, as they had always found it. The place was still there. Worse was the food.

That’s why the two of them went on their way. That’s why they came here: to the city, to the man.

That’s why she died.

Randomness: life is a chain of accidents.

Regularity: people trying to help in small things do not notice how they hurt in big things.

They cried when they found her. Dead. They cried. But do tears change anything?

Their fault.

Their fault!

Why does this world put up with what they do to it?!

The same song cuts through the crowd’s clamor again.

…tausend Sonnen brennen nur für dich…

Spring

Erlöse dich***

He’ll have to go, even if it’s without her.

Make their usual way for both of them. To worship the flourishing of that land as bequeathed by their nature.

It’s time. It’s time.

He opens towards the wind, clinging to its flow.

The fall… and the rise.

He makes a sharp turn and crosses the river and heads north, away from the city, into the night that engulfs its silhouette.

***

«Will he jump or not? Do you think he will?» the guy tosses the empty cup into the trash. «It should come out beautifully, I think.»

«I guess. They’re rare around here. I mean, in the city. Usually they stick to the park, the lakes. They say it’s good luck to see one. Have you heard of it?»

He nods.

«Yes. It’s full of these symbols: posters, magnets, stamps,» he points the camera phone again at the green and red lights illuminated on the pavilion, the silhouette standing almost motionless on this man-made cliff. «They are weird, really: the proportions, the colors.»

«But beautiful,» objected his buddy. «White always looks great.»

«It’s a pity he’s alone. I think they usually travel in pairs. I’d love to see them dance! Oh! Look, look! He jumped!»

Above their heads, spreading its snowy wings, the Siberian Crane plummets from the roof and, with a long cooing sound that resonates throughout the neighborhood, flies north to catch up with the spring coming to its homeland.

* Here is an approximate translation. With great gratitude and respect:

Down

Two pairs of eyes watched through the narrow pupil of the porthole as the thin cable unfolded in the darkness, stretching more and more, almost indistinguishable against the ghostly blue glow of Earth’s atmosphere. The graphite-gray strand emerging from the A-11 airlock had already gained full length, and the platform attached from below must have already reached the South American stratospheric port, flying a dozen kilometers above the planet’s surface. So, it would be no more than an hour or two before we descended.

«Has the guy changed his mind? Still want to risk it?» an elderly trembling voice cut through the quiet hum of the thirty-third compartment’s walkway zone.

«No. You can’t talk him out of it once he’s made up his mind,» the respondent said, not hiding a bit of regret. «You know… that’s why he’s here, if you think about it.»

«Yeah… What if… what if he makes it? After all, they do work on those costumes, Ars.»

His friend shrugged his shoulders. His cheekbone face, riddled with a mesh of wrinkles – the evidence of a tumultuous life – twisted into a grimace of doubt.

«Well, so far, none of them have been successful with that option. And anyway… Tell me, Charlie, how many people have gone back down? In your memory? Not just like that, almost directly, but through other experiments? How many have won their freedom?»

The old man scratched his bald head, sighed, and hunched over more than usual.

«Two…»

«Yeah! And how many people have tried? Two dozen? Three? Five? I’ve lost count.»

«Actually, this guy seems to be on his game.»

«Yep… But I don’t understand why he’s so eager to go back. What’s pulling him there? I mean, he’s struggled with this new system himself.»

«And he’s got it, isn’t he?» Ars grinned wryly, «no one chip here. Consider it the freedom he wanted.»

«Freedom?!» his interlocutor rounded his eyes, smiled, and laughed, clucking. «Freedom… oh, I can’t… Here on the „Daisy“? Hey! Freedom!»

Continuing to cheer, Charlie took a dozen steps to the right, bumped into a silvery wall, turned around, shuffling in an attempt to imitate running, and moved back. Another thirty steps and another obstacle in the way. The laughter broke off. The old man slammed his palm on the metal surface:

«Here it is, our freedom. Thirty meters across, and that’s it. Is this cage better than that one?»

***

The Experimental Correctional Station, or, to put it simply, the orbital prison, has been circling the Earth for almost half a century.

The inmates affectionately and ironically called it «Daisy» because of its resemblance to a multi-petal flower. The visual resemblance, however, was the end of the story.

The multilayered disk with its petal compartments was spinning nonstop around the control module sphere, which also served as an intake and distribution point for new arrivals. However, the West Space Elevator’s delivery pods came no more than once a week, or even less frequently, so the central sector was not under much strain. The fully automated system coped with its task perfectly.

The most dangerous criminals on the planet were kept here: maniacs, terrorists, and also political opponents who were not successful but posed a threat. «The risk of undermining social foundations, the welfare of the population,» as they called it, those who managed to exile their enemies who created obstacles on their way to power here. Or perhaps the prisoners here were indeed monsters?

They kept three of them per unit and never all of them were seated at the same time. Old-timers and newcomers were regularly swapped places: one by one they were transferred to other cells or to newly-joined cells. Occasionally, prisoners were given the opportunity to communicate not only with their cellmates, but also with other residents of the prison through the internal communication system, but few became buddies or even friends in such an environment. The majority suffered from loneliness.

And the owners of the station turned it to their advantage.

Maintaining a prison in orbit was not cheap, even with stably operating space elevators and available energy. Therefore, the ECS became a base for experiments: they were always well paid, especially the extreme ones. And where to find test subjects for this, if not among criminals? A longstanding practice, in general.

And if you turn everything into a show… A show, with stakes on the outcome of each experience. A show with stakes on someone else’s life. Will the subject survive chemical blood modification? Will the subject remain sane after exposure to infrasound? Will the bones withstand the wave blows? Will a person be able to descend into the atmosphere without a capsule, only in a spacesuit?

The ECS program has long rivaled the profitability of the best casinos on Earth: the chances of winning are so slim – prisoners almost always go to waste – but the sweeter the desired prize.

Only in recent years, it has become increasingly difficult to understand the true meaning of the station’s existence: the isolation of scoundrels from society plus scientific achievements or, all the same, the spectacle.

Well, anyway, he’s already made up his mind. He can be a lab rat, a clown, a buffoon for a while, if the final result is what they promise. If he wins.

Christophe heard bursts of laughter behind the thin bulkhead of his room: the old buddies managed to have fun even here in the cage.

At first, when he just arrived here, the other people, the other inhabitants of this enclosed piece of space, seemed a boon. You might say they helped him get used to it. But now the cellmates only got in the way. For three days now – since the announcement of his participation in the descent experiment – they had dissuaded him as best they could. They assured him that it was a lost cause, that no one could manage it, that there was too much unpredictability in the case.

By the devil, he’ll manage to get through the suit and make it all the way down. He’ll go all the way and come back down. And then… then we’ll see.

Yes, everyone on Earth considers him a monster, perhaps even his former comrades-in-arms, his friends. But he would explain it to them, prove it to them. He was right, no matter what. It was worth it.

It was worth it!

***

In the experimental sector A, work was in full swing.

Preparing for the descent. The experience was to be the seventy-third, unless a participant dropped out at the last minute. This was the year that about half of the applicants withdrew from the experiment before launch. Fear, and justifiably so.

Flying down from the station to the stratospheric port, without pods or anything like that, just in a spacesuit – it was scary for her too. Of course, there was a rope, but it was rather for the cameras – so that the participant of the experience did not fly out of sight. And this thin string is not too reliable: even thick webs of space-lift systems sometimes break, but here is only a triple tape of the twentieth order.