When they turned onto the trail leading from the Ayasrava steppes to Nitsirk, Autrom raised his eyes to the sky—which looked like the eye of a dead giant—and to the comet following them everywhere. To the comet that pursued them like a hired assassin, like a younger brother clinging to his older brother’s trouser leg, like a crime that set the conscience trembling… He struggled to ignore the frozen ground, the dry air, and the bone-chilling frost, popping the collar of his tailcoat to cut the cold. In vain… The fog descending from the mountain along whose skirt they traveled grew steadily thicker, obscuring Autrom’s view of the trail. He loosened his muscles and turned his eyes back to the path framed by rigid bushes. “I trust you,” he said to his horses, and cracked the whip.
Sitting opposite the direction of travel, Neven quickly counted the roses in his bouquet with his deft, plump fingers, then slid to the right on his bench and rested his head against the window of the mail coach. Snow had begun to fall lightly outside, and the distant hills had turned white. When he released the deep breath he had drawn in, death-white steam dispersed through the cabin from between his purple lips. When Nityez turned her face from Tahabes’s chest toward Neven, two thin white trails of Tahabes’s milk leaked from the corners of the young girl’s pitch-black lips, tracing down her chin. As Nityez smiled with gleaming white teeth at the boy freezing before her, Neven met this smile with a blank stare. Tahabes said to Neven, “You can be friends with Nityez if you like; that way you won’t get bored during the journey.” Neven shifted his eyes from Tahabes to Nityez, appraising the little girl. “Okay,” he said, paying no mind to how Nityez acted as if she were constantly wrapping something around an imaginary ball in her hands. “This is a riddle,” Neven said. “A guessing game.” Nityez smiled with excitement and began to breathe rapidly, nearly stopping her play with the imaginary ball in her hands. “How many roses are in my bouquet?” he asked. As Nityez’s joyful excitement gave way to an icy unease, the angry eyes of Tahabes and Oahc—who had been watching everything unfold until that moment—turned toward Neven.
Harsh winds had begun to blow outside; the horses struggled to walk, and Autrom struggled to keep them under control. On the roof of the carriage, directly above Nityez and Neven, the long navy-blue hair of the Tailor—lying lifeless wrapped in a blanket—began to spill out and whip in the wind.
Sitting opposite the direction of travel, Natan quickly counted the roses in his bouquet with his deft, plump fingers, then slid to the left on his bench and rested his head against the window of the mail coach. A warm rain had begun to drizzle outside; on the distant hills, poppies and white daisies embraced the raindrops among the lush green grass, while field mice, squirrels, and rabbits scurried about, and starlings and sparrows flew. When he released the deep breath he had drawn in, a small spit bubble emerged from between his pink lips. Shaking off the sleepiness brought on by the heat, Natan straightened up and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. When Kumap turned her face from Tahabes’s chest toward Natan, two thin white trails of Tahabes’s milk leaked from the corners of the young girl’s crimson lips, tracing down her chin. As Kumap smiled politely at the boy about to fall asleep before her, Natan met this smile with a blank stare. Tahabes said to Natan, “You can be friends with Kumap if you like; that way you won’t get bored during the journey.” Natan shifted his eyes curiously from Tahabes to Kumap, smiling playfully at the little girl in pristine white clothes. “Okay,” he said, paying no mind to how Kumap acted as if she were constantly wrapping or unwrapping something around an imaginary object in her arms. “This is a riddle,” Natan said. “A guessing game.” Kumap smiled with excitement and began to breathe rapidly, nearly stopping her play with the imaginary object in her arms. “How many roses are in my bouquet?” Natan asked. As Kumap’s joyful excitement gave way to a clammy unease, the angry eyes of Tahabes and Oahc—who had been watching everything unfold until that moment—turned toward Natan.
Outside, the rain began to pick up, and the wind, which had been warm and gentle until then, began to blow fiercely. Sitting on the left side atop the carriage, embroidering a peaceful, endless meadow onto her needlepoint canvas, the Tailor struggled to control her needle against the jolting of the coach as it dipped into water-filled ruts and the intensifying rain. Her long navy-blue hair and dress grew heavy with water, clinging to her skin. When she took the needle threaded with a gold spindle from the navy-blue pincushion on her arm and began to embroider a sun onto the meadow on her canvas, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. Yet no matter what she embroidered, dark clouds gathered before them, lightning flashed, and the mail coach hurtled toward the center of a hurricane.
Sitting between Neven and Natan opposite the direction of travel, holding his hat containing his gloves on his knees, Mr. Oahc watched Nityez and Kumap greedily suckling at both breasts. His right side freezing while his left sweltered, Mr. Oahc was astonished to see Neven and Natan do everything simultaneously as they counted the roses in their hands with deft, plump fingers. Then he shifted side to side on the bench, trying to relieve his back. The right side of Mrs. Tahabes was gray and matte, as if coated in frost, while her left side was vibrant and bright. Mr. Oahc saw snow falling lightly outside on the right side of the road, the distant hills blanketed in white; on his left, a warm rain was drizzling, poppies and white daisies embracing the drops among green grass on distant hills, field mice, squirrels, and rabbits scurrying around, and playful little birds flying as if racing one another. When the girls released Mrs. Tahabes’s breasts, blood trickled from the corners of both their lips. Mrs. Tahabes, indifferent to her exposed breasts dripping blood at the tips and to the fact that half of her appeared dead while the other half brimmed with life, smiled with warmth and serenity. While the white wool thread between Kumap’s arms turned gray in Mrs. Tahabes’s lap and black in the ball of yarn in Nityez’s palm, the children prepared to play a game at Mrs. Tahabes’s suggestion. On the left side of the road, thunder and lightning clashed, while on the right, a blizzard and wind whistled ominously through the jagged rocks, as if whispering that nothing would come easy.
Before the children’s game could begin, Mr. Oahc stood up and opened the winter-facing door of the moving mail coach. As he climbed the narrow iron ladder at the back leading to the roof toward the side where the Tailor’s corpse lay, Mr. Autrom turned around: “What you are doing is very dangerous, Mr. Oahc. If you step down while the carriage is moving, it will be impossible to know which time you will fall into. We would not want to lose you in time. So please, return to your seat.” Ignoring the warning, Mr. Oahc continued climbing, held onto the blanket wrapping the Tailor, and sat cross-legged atop the roof of the carriage. With the living Tailor on his right and Mr. Autrom on his left driving the coach through two different seasons, Mr. Oahc managed to keep his balance by holding onto the Tailor, who simultaneously lay wrapped in the blanket as a frozen, deep-purple corpse.
Amid the howling wind, Mr. Oahc shifted from his cross-legged position and straightened up on his knees; shielding his eyes with his hand, he peered intently toward the end of the road. “Nitsirk is there!” he shouted. “I can see its domes!”
The Tailor and Mr. Autrom, turning toward Mr. Oahc as he rose to his knees, merely exchanged glances. Above the Nitsirk Bathhouse on the right side of the road, dark clouds gathered and lightning flashed, while on the other side of the road, the ruined city lay like a corpse buried under the snow.
As the fog grew thicker, obscuring Mr. Autrom from view, Mr. Oahc’s left side froze while his right was drenched. Drenched under heavy raindrops, he tried calling out to the Tailor, who was hastily embroidering escape routes onto her canvas: “Will we be able to reach it?”
No answer came from the Tailor, save for a shrug of her shoulders and a grunt.
Overcome with despair at the feeling that they could see the destination yet could not draw any closer, Mr. Oahc called out again: “We must get rid of the girls!”
When the Tailor turned around, her eyes were wide with curiosity: “Which girls?”
ANARCHISTALES 