The Carrot Stories. Issue 2. The Golden Hen of Poets or Literary Adventures in Central Asia

The final lecture on modern literature was coming to an end. All the students knew that it was the time for Dr. Velomudrov (the Russian professor from Saint Petersburg) to announce the results of the poetry competition which he always held among the postgraduates.

“That is all,” the professor said and breathed. “Now you know everything about modern literature. The next period is the future. Who knows, perhaps, many years hence, some of you will be included on the list of world-famous writers.”

After these words, the professor opened his leather portfolio and took out a sheet of paper. “As you’ve probably guessed,” he said, “I left a little time to announce the best poet of your University. So… This competition was special. To begin with, this is the last time it will be held. I’m retiring. This was my final lecture and my last working day.”

Cheers rang out. In this way, the students of Toronto University were thanking their teacher, who had instilled in them a love for literature and writing.

Dr. Velomudrov bowed in gratitude and continued. “Secondly, I was very surprised to find a real gem. I mean, among you there’s a person whose poems outshine all others.”

This sounded very intriguing. The postgraduates began looking around, trying to figure out who this genius might be.

“The winner is… Erwin Aprik!” announced Dr. Velomudrov as if he were a referee at a boxing match. “My congratulations! I shall send your works to ‘The National Literary Almanac.’ They are worthy of being published there.”

Cheers rang out again. The winner stood up and smiled bashfully. Erwin Aprik was a promising writer whose main dream was to develop his original style in poetry and prose.

“Moreover,” continued the professor, “I shall send Erwin’s poems to the Committee of the Intergalactic Poetry Contest which will be held in Uzbekistan. This is a very serious challenge. I would really like Erwin to take part in this contest. This time the jury will be headed by Doran Traperton, the mayor of Hensburg.”

“It’s an honor for me to participate in this contest,” responded the postgraduate. “However, I have absolutely no poems dealing with either the hen philosophy or the hen world.”

“That’s not a problem,” said Dr. Velomudrov. “You have one week to write such a poem – not less than thirty lines. The deadline for authors is July 15.”

Erwin accepted the challenge. When the lecture was over and all the students had left the auditorium, Erwin came up to the professor.

“I have no ideas,” confessed the student. “They’ve dried up. Without originality, my chances of winning are nill.”

The professor thought for a moment. Like every intellectual, he knew the hen philosophy well. One of its principles stated that all ideas can be divided into two types – dead and alive. Living ideas, generated from super galaxies and existing in the hearts of life, enter our world to evaluate. Dead ones represent products of our consciousness (intellectual activity); therefore, they are unable to evaluate. No doubt, Erwin meant the first type.

“Listen,” Dr. Velomudrov said at last. “As you know, poetic ideas are contained in the red heart. A lot of hen-power is required to attract even one such idea. This is not an option for us.”

“Are there any others?” asked Erwin.

“Yes,” nodded Dr. Velomudrov. “One can gain admission into the red heart.”

“How?” asked Erwin. “Has anyone ever done it?”

“Some have,” replied the professor. “And, perhaps, you’re one of them. Each flash of inspiration means that you’ve recently been in one of the six hearts of life.”

Confusion was written all over Erwin’s face. The young poet had always thought that living creative ideas came by themselves; however, the professor’s words left him completely baffled.

“It’s possible to visit the hearts only at nights, while sleeping,” explained Dr. Velomudrov, as if he guessed what Erwin was thinking. “As a rule, people remember neither the trip to the heart nor the ideas they encounter there. Later, people suddenly recall these ideas, and that’s why it looks like inspiration.”

“Why is it possible for only certain people to gain admission?” asked the young man.

“One must merit it,” the professor replied. “In my view, this isn’t easy.”

“How can I do it?” asked Erwin in great excitement.

“I don’t know,” returned Dr. Velomudrov. “As for me,

I’ve never been in these hearts.”

After these words, there was a pause. It seemed that both the professor and the student were thinking about how to get admission into the red heart.

“When I was your age,” said Dr. Velomudrov, finally breaking the silence, “I traveled around Central Asia. Back then, I wanted to become a writer. The nature and culture of this region seemed inspiring to me. Also, I suffered from a terrible illness – bronchial asthma.”

“And what was the result of your travels?” asked Erwin.

“The illness abated when my train arrived in Samarkand. Believe me, Central Asia is a special place. It has given us many great poets. I found both healing and inspiration there.”

The young poet realized that Dr. Velomudrov was gently leading him to the thought of visiting Central Asia. Erwin closed his eyes and imagined riding a camel.

“Of course,” added the professor, “I didn’t gain admission into the heart of theoretical ideas, but I found the power to be myself. It helped me to understand that studying literature was more interesting for me than writing.”

“Should I go to Central Asia?” asked Erwin. “What will I do there?”

The professor’s answer surprised the young poet.

“First of all, you should spend some time in the Pamir Mountains,” said Dr. Velomudrov. “This will bring you piece of mind and some new impressions. Give my words serious thought.”

Erwin didn’t univocally say if he wanted to go to Central Asia; however, the very next day he boarded Hen Air, Flight 723K, Ottawa – Dushanbe.

When the plane took off, the young poet recalled one interesting fact regarding his journey and recent conversation with the professor: many years ago, while a student in elementary school, Erwin found an old thin book written in Persian at home.

“What’s this?” he asked his mother.

“Your grandfather brought this book back from a geological expedition,” explained the woman. “None of us knows Persian, so I can’t say what it’s about. All I know is that now your granddad hopes to get good money for it.”

Leafing through the book, little Erwin closed it. Naturally, a serious book written in a foreign language didn’t attract the child’s interest. The boy quickly forgot about the find, and a few weeks later it was sold at auction.1

“Where’s this book now?” wondered Erwin. “Who bought it?”

The young man gazed around the cabin as if the answers were written somewhere on its surface. However, the only writing he managed to find was the famous proverb “Only mountains can be better than mountains”. These words were running across the screen installed straight above the door.

“No doubt,” Erwin said to himself. It was getting cold, and the young man wrapped the plaid around himself. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. Hen Air planes were notable for their comfortable seats, which was very important during long flights.

What do salespeople do when there aren’t any customers in a shop? Usually, they read. Clara Atkins, the salesgirl at a shoe store, was no exception. That July evening, she opened the latest issue of “Celebrity Life”. The article titles were promising. Which one to choose?

Unfortunately, Clara had no time to arrive at a decision. The sound of heavy steps made her look up. A tall long-haired man between 40—45 years of age approached the counter. He was dressed in a long red leather cloak, buttoned all the way up. The girl felt that a sepulchral chill fill the store space.

“What’s this?” the stranger asked, placing a high-heeled sandal on the counter. “Do the women of your planet have six toes?”

“No… five,” replied Clara, turning pale. “It’s just a heel… a decoration… fashion.”

“Fashion?” grinned the man. “In my galaxy, women don’t know what heels are.”

Then the stranger looked at Clara’s hands.

“What’s wrong with your nails?” asked the stranger. “They’re purple. You have a disease?”

“No, no, no,” the girl replied in confusion. “We cover our nails with polish. It can be of different colors. That is…”

“That is fashion,” the man completed her phrase.

“Who are you?” asked Clara. “Where are you from? You make me nervous.”

“No need to fear,” the stranger assured her. “I’m looking for Erwin Aprik the poet. You know him, don’t you?”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Clara replied. “Nothing personal, I can’t give you his address.”

“There’s no need,” said the stranger. “I don’t have to see him in person. Just give him this.”

Clara was surprised to see a green notebook (the same type Erwin had taken with him). She wondered how the stranger had managed to get it.

“It contains poems written by Erwin,” explained the man.

The girl opened the notebook and nearly fainted. Its pages were absolutely blank – not a single word anywhere.

“The poems will appear only when their author takes the notebook,” explained the stranger. “I know it sounds unbelievable, but you must trust me.”

After these words, Clara was completely dumbfounded.

“The hen philosophy teaches us to receive mystery as a common thing,” added the man. “Mystery and trust are our main principles.”

“Yesterday Erwin left for Central Asia,” Clara said at last. “He wants to visit Tajikistan and Uzbekistan.”

“That’s not a problem,” replied the man. “This notebook will find him on its own.”

The stranger looked at the high-heeled sandal on the counter.

“Thirty-seven dollars,” said the girl. Clara understood what he wanted to ask.

“Our women are sure to appreciate it,” said the stranger. He purchased the item and left the store.

As the stranger walked along the street, all the passers-by turned around and gazed at him in wonder: a man carrying a high-heeled sandal is a very rare sight, indeed.

There is no the present. The past is dead. Only the future exists. Evolution, destiny, real life …all these are just a late projection of the future. And what is the future? What is its nature?

As is known, the Hen of light is the place where all perfected ideas are gathered. The combination of these ideas determines the position of their container, and, as a consequence, the position of the body of attention. Thus, the Hen of light is a hen-shaped glowing body, the initial source of which is the golden egg.2 Does this egg have any other function? Yes, it does. By the highest standards, it is nothing but intellect of the Universe – its memory and thought. By means of energy received from disappeared super galaxies, the Universe creates the line of tridimensional images which are sent to the real (material) world. A set of particular images forms the destiny of a human being. When an image reaches a person, it immediately becomes dead (the past). This means that images remain alive only while they’re in the future. Thus, the future is the only space where life exists. The material world serves as the boundary between death and life. Thus, we could say that the reality we see are simply images we ourselves broadcasts project.

When images become dead, they turn into dim two-dimensional photos with motionless characters. These waste images are gathered and stored in chronological order (in essence, the past is dead image storage).

Naturally, all produced images have their own hierarchy, with the top level belonging to images closely related to creative ideas (especially to poetic ones). It should also ne noted that, unlike “usual” pictures, all the most valuable images have an enemy power called Vanity3. This predator tries to steal the top images if it likes the creative ideas which must be developed in their space. Vanity uses tridimensional images to build the golden hen – a hen-shaped body, whose main purpose is to become a receptacle for original poetic ideas, both dead and living. In other words, stealing images, Vanity changes to some extent the fate of poets, taking away the most pleasant and exiting moments of their lives. As one can guess, appearance of the golden hen threatens poets with extinction as a social class. On the whole, Vanity aims to create a poet whose talent will outshine all others.

Being a universal power, Vanity, as well as a small group of people, knew that Central Asia was the best place for writing. So, it’s not surprising that all stolen images were immediately sent to there, to the Karakum Desert, where it was decided to locate the golden hen.

Many caravanners crossing the desert these days see big golden cubes, which resemble huge bricks. These are stolen images. The golden color is due to the fact that the images haven’t reached their true owners (living images are always golden).

Thus, by July 17, Vanity had gathered almost all the images necessary. Only one “brick” was missing – the image allotted to Erwin.

Clara Atkins didn’t suspect that the meeting with the strange visitor hadn’t been included into the “official” program of her life (that it wasn’t her destiny).

That July evening, an ordinary Toronto shoe store was visited by the Total Future – the spirit which represents the common soul of all living images. As a rule, the Total Future appears as an image (a real situation, a life event).4 The spirit may decide what image to choose for materialization. It’s not necessary that the image be taken from the fate of the person before whom he wishes to appear. However, according to the general principles of future production, after a meeting each “used” image immediately becomes dead.

As one can guess, the conversation in the store was an image actually intended for Erwin.

Why was it necessary to remove one of the most important events of Erwin’s life?

Being the most powerful spirit, the Total Future can interfere in one’s affairs. Generally, this occurs when someone aims to do things which are not part of their fate (things which contradict the will of the Total Future).

As Vanity’s fate was also produced in the golden egg, the Total Future knew about each step of this negative power.

Jumping the gun, the Total Future rescued this image from its inevitable fate of being stolen.

In other words, the spirit saved the poems which were supposed to be written in Central Asia.

However, it would be a great mistake to assume that Vanity’s applecart was upset. As the rescued image didn’t meet its idea (poems), it was still alive; therefore, Vanity still had a chance to find it.

And who was this tall stranger in a red cloak? Where was he from? Why did the Total Future send him to Toronto?

To answer these questions, one must know how ideas, attracted to a particular galaxy, find those for whom they are intended. This becomes possible thanks to the Winds.

In galaxy N 711 there is the planet inhabited by six special purpose winds. These six brother-winds wear cloaks with the colors of the heart they serve.5 Like everything in the Universe, the Winds obey the Total Future. Their main function is to deliver ideas (place them with the corresponding images). They are also responsible for safety of the images where the ideas must appear. The Winds also rescue images which, according to the will of the Total Future, mustn’t get stolen, damaged or destroyed (if the total Future desires, it can move a rescued image to another place – integrate it with another fate).

Thus, the tall stranger in the red cloak was the Wind, serving the PT heart. He successfully carried out his task. Initially, Erwin was supposed to lose the notebook with his new poems. The Red Wind’s mission was to find it and return to the author.

Erwin was impressed with the wonderful nature of Tajikistan. High mountains, fast-flowing rivers, soaring eagles – all this was in harmony with unique Persian culture – medieval architecture decorated with oriental ornament.

To begin with, Erwin went to Panjakent – the city near which the tomb of Rudaki is located. The young Canadian poet felt honor-bound to visit the place where the founding father of the Persian poetry was buried. Erwin hired a car and a few hours later had reached his destination.

At last, Erwin saw the tomb. It was a structure made of red brick and topped with a blue cupola.

The young man crossed the little park and stopped in front of the massive wooden doors.

“Would you like to come inside?” sounded a voice.

Erwin turned around and saw a man dressed in a striped robe. His long grey beard and deep wrinkles bore evidence of his ripe old age.

“Would you like to come inside?” the elder asked again.

“Yes, I would,” replied the young man.

“Just push the door,” said the elder. “My name is Abdulla. I am the tomb keeper.”

Erwin hesitated. He noticed that the elder spoke without opening his mouth. His words seemed to appear in Erwin’s head by themselves.

“On my way here, I saw portraits set up along the road,” said Erwin. “Who are these people?”

“Persian poets,” explained the keeper. “Poetry is the natural state of this land.”

Erwin entered the tomb and stayed there for ten minutes. This was long enough to have a positive impact on the young man. He came out happy and peaceful.

“You’re Canadian, aren’t you?” asked the elder.