Alter

By Joanna Pettersson

Alter is a story of courage, passion, and selflessness. In a world ruled by Gods, Goddesses and Fate, two Princes meet – perhaps it is better to say clash. Alter, The Chosen One, tells his memoirs at a breathtaking pace. Flashbacks,
returns to the present, twists and turns set the pace for the writing of this compelling story. The son of the Gods and the son of Demons: what can happen when two opposing people, two worlds that have always fought each other, come together? Intrigue, kidnapping, revenge, and magic frame the meeting of two souls. The royal obligations of Alter and Malager only complicate the relationship between the two.
Not even the help of all the Gods and Goddesses will prevent the Reader from getting involved in this overwhelming adventure.

Joanna Pettersson (pen name) was born in Słupsk, in northern Poland. She received her MA in Scandinavian languages from Adam Mickiewicz University in Poznań, and achieved her PhD in linguistics at the University of Lund. Since then, she works as a university lecturer. Currently, she holds the position of professor of translation theory and intercultural communication at a university in Norway.
In her free time, she writes fiction. She published two novels: Rozbita Tarcza (Broken Shield), 2018; and Alter, 2020; and collections of short stories: Opowieści z Nordponte (Tales from Nordponte), 2011; Szczęściarze (The Lucky Ones), 2012, and Potępieńcy (The Condemned Ones), 2013. The latter book was qualified for the Angelus Award (an award for Central European authors) in 2014. 
Two of her short stories: Wheatherby, 2016, and Dom pod północnym lasem (A House by the Northern Forest), 2021, were awarded in literary competitions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Europa Edizioni
• Release date: Mar 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9791220125444

Book preview

Translated from Polish  by Susan Erdmann and the author

© 2022 Europe Books| London www.europebooks.co.uk | [e-mail]

ISBN        9791220118231

First edition: February 2022

Distribution for the United Kingdom: Vine House

Distribution ltd

Printed for Italy by Rotomail Italia S.p.A. - Vignate (MI) Stampato presso Rotomail Italia S.p.A. - Vignate (MI)

Alter

My warm thanks go, in the first place, to my colleague and friend, Dr Susan Erdmann, Associate Professor at the University of Agder in Norway. Dear Susan, without your kind and

fully voluntary help, I would never manage nor dare to transform Alter into English. Our joint venture was quite unusual from the theoretical point of view, since the translator-in-chief had no command of the source language, but your marvellous communication skills made it possible to overcome such a trifle. I thank you with all my heart!

I’m immensely thankful to the Europe Books staff. From the Editor Alicia Guinot I heard so many warm words about my book that I started feeling as if I were blessed by all the gods of my fantasy universe. Elisa Giuliani, the Head of the Production Team, took care of me and Alter in the best way one can imagine. Daniel De Prosperis provided information and administrative assistance, for which I owe him many thanks.

No book should be presented to readers without a careful, professional review. The story that the narrator of Alter has

written in his mind is not an exception to this rule. I was fortunate enough to get acquainted with Maria Vitelli. No more words are needed here – apart from that any mistakes are entirely my fault. Thank you, Maria!

I also express my gratitude to the Poligraf Publishing

House, whose staff worked on the Polish edition of Alter enthusiastically and efficiently. Last but not least, my thanks go to my friends who contributed to the promotion of the original: Danuta Sroka from the District Library in Słupsk and Daniel

Kalinowski, Professor of Polish Literature at the Pomeranian

Academy. Without your encouragement, this story would not result in what you now hold in your hands. 

Part I

Two Lakes

Chapter one. The prisoner

It’s cold here. The ceiling stones are probably covered with a thin layer of ice. Fortunately, I have a sable cloak. When I add the bedspread to it, I can stand the cold. The bed is comfortable, with clean sheets. I’m quite well fed. The food is delivered three times a day by a creature that, despite my knowledge of the natural world, I cannot classify – all I know is that it is about eight feet tall, with black skin and four front legs. 

Disposing of the food-leftovers is rather efficient, too: instead of a smelly prison bucket, I have a hole in the floor, covered with a flat stone. When I move the stone away and use the facility, I hear water splashing. It’s not the ocean, I don’t smell salty water, but it’s hard to tell if it’s a river or a lake. I suppose my cell is situated on the lowest floor of the castle, just above the waterline.

I cannot verify this hypothesis, because the only small window is located right under the ceiling. I couldn’t have reached it even if I had put a table on the bed, and a chair on the table. 

He thinks he’ll break me by total isolation. He is not stupid; he knows that keeping a prisoner alone is more effective than torture, especially when the victim could die after intense beatings – the tearing of his nails and similar party games. He wants me to stay alive. He hopes that he can drive me to the verge of madness and make me agree to his terms. 

Once every few weeks, a tall figure in a black cloak lurks behind these four-armed creatures. He expects me to start speaking a certain language that interests him very much. I know over thirty languages, and in seventeen of them I’m quite fluent. But I won’t say a word in any of them.

They (the black-cloaked figure and two more, wearing scarlet) are not stupid, but they are not especially wise either. They don’t understand that there is not the slightest chance of driving me insane.

Once, I lived in a room similar to this one.

Even in a cell over unknown water you can create an interesting world. You can write; you don’t need a pen, ink, or parchment for this. You don’t even need a nail or a stylus to scratch letters on stones. Only commoners have to use such devices. I write in my mind, choosing the language that matches the content.

I boast so much about not being of the common people, but maybe I’m wrong, because I spent the first years of my life in a peasant cottage.

Stellan assured me it didn’t matter.

***

I notice that the previous sentences sound a bit incoherent, so I will take my time and revert to the word once. 

Once, I used to live in a room that resembled my current prison cell. It was a small room with a small window right under the ceiling. 

Stop, Alter! Your Master would correct the previous sentence.

Too many repetitions: room, small. Do you not know any suitable synonyms, my boy?

Yes, Sir! Excuse me, Sir! I could have used the phrase restricted place or detention location.

Whatever the terminology, my room had the advantage of being pleasantly cool in summer and nicely warm in winter. It was equipped not only with a comfortable bed, but also with a beautifully inlaid chest of drawers and two wardrobes – one for clothes, the other for books and related tools. There was also a table, two armchairs and a few chairs. The latter were very valuable to me because I could move them to the wall under the window and place them on top of each other.

Every day after having said goodbye to my Master, I looked out through the window. I stared at the hills, covered with waves of green in various shades from spring to the end of summer, sparkling with a riot of gold and purple in autumn. If winters did not disappoint my hopes of snow, the pines were covered in bright white, punctuated here and there with dark emerald spots. Snow did not fall often. Most of the winters I spent in my nice room, I studied the shapes of the trunks and branches of leafless linden, chestnut, and beech trees. They reminded me of the letters and words of ancient manuscripts. Maybe because of the view of the forest it was so easy to learn languages? My Master was pleased with my progress.

Between me and the forest there was the lake, changing colors and shades much more often than the trees. It would be untrue to say that I looked at the same thing every day. If we add the changing paths of the sun and both moons, and the activities of waterfowl and forest birds, otters, and beavers to the changes that the forest and the lake underwent, the view from my window was really entertaining, even exciting.

***

That evening – the one with which I will begin my story – I did not stand on a tower built of tables and chairs, because I was occupied by a book about the history of the noble families reigning in our neighboring principalities: Auguria, Venditia and Sangoria. It was written in the Sangorian language, which I understood quite well, so that I rarely had to check dictionaries; generally, the context allowed me to guess the meaning of unfamiliar words.

An unusual accident interrupted my reading: a pebble suddenly rolled across the table, and after a while, something – probably another stone – tapped on the shutter.

This was so interesting that the story of the murderous Prince Malager the First, which I was just reading, could not compete. I closed the book, put one of the chairs on the table, the other on it, and then I climbed to the top of this structure and opened the shutters wide.

My heart nearly jumped into my throat. Both moons were full and beautifully reflected in the calm surface of the lake, and a small boat wobbled slightly between both moon reflections. There was a small figure standing in the boat. It began to wave its arms frantically at the sight of my head in the window.

I rubbed my eyes, but the view didn’t change.

Any sailing on the lake surrounding the castle from the west was forbidden! Sailing, fishing, and even plunging a hand into its water meant a death so horrible that the mere thought of it made one shudder. The East Lake served prosaic purposes; the West Lake was dedicated to the God of Waters, Selenor, and it was inaccessible to humans. Water creatures and birds were allowed to use it. 

I envied the otters that played on its shores. I would also like to play with someone, I thought. Someone who wouldn’t be bigger than me. But I’ve never met someone like me. However, that night...

Hi! The little man from the boat shouted.

It was a greeting in the Khari language. Master used Khari when teaching me geography and modern history. 

Hi! He repeated. Do not be afraid, there is no living soul in the castle except you!

Despite my fear, I waved my hands at him and said out loud: Hi!

I didn’t want him to disappear. I have never encountered such an interesting puzzle in my life!

If you want me to come see you, get away from the window! He exclaimed. I’ll dock the boat and be right with you!

I jumped eagerly onto the floor. If this stranger is not afraid of Selenor’s revenge for sailing on the forbidden lake, then perhaps he can fly, I thought. I didn’t think he’d going to hurt me, his voice sounded so kind... Anyway, I can defend myself if necessary, I thought.

There was a soft whistling sound, and a steel anchor caught the windowsill – the kind I’d seen in the engravings in the book about castle sieges. And soon after, a bronze face appeared in the window, framed by disheveled curls a tone darker than the face. The eyes of my unexpected visitor were also dark, almost black, but full of luminous flashes.

The owner of the eyes and the hair was straddling the window, and a second later he stood in front of me. He was dressed in a hunting suit the color of pine needles.

I’ve finally lived to see the double autumn full moons, he announced. You can’t sail on the West Lake on days other than the days of the Great Sacrifice. They would tear a man to shreds if they saw him. A terrible waste not to use this lake, but on the other hand, I’m glad to have it for myself! Here there are such big fish, and in the East Lake, there are at most tadpoles. 

He pointed with his arms outstretched, then with two fingers, and laughed.

I replied with an uncertain smile.

Recently, I was fishing on the Night of the Midsummer Fire, continued my unexpected guest. On Midsummer, they make sacrifices in the temple of Selenor until morning. Who knows what they offer and what else they are doing; until you turn sixteen, you’re not allowed to be there. Anyway, I’m glad about it. I have five years left!

I realized that in front of me, there was a boy my age.

I... I’m eleven, too, I said shyly.

I thought so, he said cheerfully. I saw you in the window on the Midsummer Night. You couldn’t see me because the boat was in the rushes. I called you, but you did not hear me, probably because of the terrible wind that was blowing then. When I came out of the reeds, you already left the window and closed the shutters, and I had nothing to throw at them, because I only had a fishing rod and a bag for fish. This time I stocked up properly. Oh, sorry, I forget my manners, as usually. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Stellan Kharian.

Stellan Kharian, I echoed. Are you the Prince’s son?!

Yes. I’m his third son. The youngest one, which means I’m not important at all. I have no chance to take the throne. But I’m glad about it. I would not like to reign.

He laughed again.

What’s your name? He asked.

My mother and my sister called me ‘Auri’, I replied, sounding a little bolder this time. Master calls me ‘Alter’.

‘Auri’. This I like, Stellan said. Can I call you so?

Sure you can, I agreed, embarrassed again. However, boldly staring into Stellan’s eyes, I added: I have no surname. I come from a peasant family. My father was a blacksmith.

Stellan smiled.

It doesn’t matter. If Master keeps you here, you must be important. You’re probably much more important than me. Perhaps you will be Master’s successor? And you belong to the Last Ones.

The Last Ones?! I echoed again, but this time in a questioning tone.

Stellan’s eyes widened.

Man, what remote village were you born in that you don’t know what’s going on in the world? 

Then his face softened. Sorry, he said in a conciliatory whisper. Maybe Master brought you here when you were a baby, and that’s why you don’t know anything?

I’ve been here for four years, I replied, but I really don’t know much about the world, because the forge was a long way beyond the village, and the village was in a deep forest. What does it mean: ‘You belong to the Last Ones’?

It’s not your fault you don’t know. Stellan looked apologetic. You see, not a single boy has been born in the whole country for eleven years. Very few children are born, at most five or six girls a year, in the whole realm! And there are no boys younger than us at all. You and I are the Last Ones.

Now it was I who opened my eyes wide.

Things are similar with the animals, but some females are still born, my new friend continued. Some cows still give milk. But why bother about cows! In a dozen years or so, serious worries will probably begin, but it is such a long time that I can’t even imagine it. Anyway, I’m not going to rule Kharida.

He looked around my room and suddenly tugged on my sleeve, abruptly changing the subject of our conversation.

Look!

He pointed at the mirror above the dresser. 

You see it? We look alike, only our colors are completely different!

He was right. The mirror’s silvery surface reflected two figures of exactly the same height and with almost identical faces. The colors made the difference. I have already described Stellan’s face, hair and eyes, so a fairly sharp reader will easily guess that the head of the other boy, which means me, was covered with blond hair, and his eyes were gray-blue. The colors of our dresses were what the books on optics called complementary: dark green and deep red.

Together, we look like an autumn forest, I blurted out, and felt a little embarrassed again, but Stellan nodded and smiled enthusiastically.

As there was silence – Stellan kept his eyes on the mirror – I had a moment to think about the situation and realized that I was acting inhospitable. In one of the cupboards, I kept not only books and writing utensils, but also some tasty things. So, I disappeared from the mirror, and – after removing the chairs from the table and placing them in their right places – I put a plate with dried fruit, another one with almond cakes, a bottle of raspberry juice and two crystal cups on the table.

Please, why don’t you grab a bite, I said.

Stellan did not fully wake up from his thoughts. He sat down and automatically put an almond biscuit in his mouth, but he held my Sangoria history book in his other hand and stared at it with an interest that – at least in my opinion – matched his previous fascination with our reflection in the mirror.

I know three words in Sangorian, each one more indecent than the other, he said finally, and you read such thick books! But of course, if you weren’t extremely clever, the Master wouldn’t be hiding you like this. How did he find you?

I told him, although I omitted certain events and did not report my story in a literary fashion. However, I have given Stellan an outline of the most essential facts, which I summarize below in a more mature language.

Chapter two. Auri

The first images that stuck in my memory were the dark beams of the ceiling with gray smoke drifting under them. It formed fantastic shapes that I gave names to. Hrragon... serges... mhalo..., I whispered to myself.

Sometimes a face appeared against the ceiling, her eyes as gray as the smoke, framed by small wrinkles. She spoke to me, and I answered her. At first my answers made her smile, but that changed over time. My words began to cause an angry frown and a curl in her mouth. But sometimes, she still repeated: "Say: ‘mum-my’! Say:

‘mum-my’, Auri!"

I tried to repeat it, but of my mouth, completely different sounds came out. 

The face of the woman with gray eyes stopped leaning over mine.

Other people showed up. I understood what they said to me, but I could not make myself understood.

This fool, my bulky stepfather used to say, coming to dinner after a busy day in the forge. Why does Mother Earth bear such dumb creatures? Wouldn’t it be better if I took my hammer...?

Mother (my mother, not Mother Earth) would then give Bea a quick glance, and my sister would grab me in her arms and hide with me in the darkest corner of the kitchen. We sat down for supper later, when my stepfather had taken a jug of wine in one hand and put his other hand around my mother’s waist, and together they’d wander unsteadily towards their sleeping room.

Bea was the only one who didn’t find me simpleminded, and her name was the only word I could repeat. Unfortunately, I soon ceased to enjoy my sister’s warm embraces and her whispered assurances that I was the cleverest and cutest boy in the world, and that someday we would wander away and find an enchanted treasure. 

Bea couldn’t live up to that promise. She wept bitterly on the day she was married off; much more desperately than the custom required. 

Her bridegroom, an innkeeper from a nearby village (in whose pub my stepfather was in serious debt), categorically refused to accept a little idiot under his roof, despite my sister’s pleas. And Bea could not refuse the innkeeper’s proposal, because my stepfather would have bludgeoned her to death; Bea’s beau promised to cancel his debt in exchange for my beautiful sister.

When Bea became engaged, I was almost seven years old, and I was already smart enough to get out of the way of my parents as much as possible. The best shelter was the orchard and the garden, especially since Bea was in charge of them.

I helped her pick fruit. I climbed the gnarled branches of old plum trees and the trunks of apple trees covered with gray growth. I jumped from branch to branch like a squirrel, but unlike that animal, I craned my head up and stared at the sky. Hands and feet found branches and fruit without eyes, and to me there was nothing more beautiful than the cool autumn sky: the blue sifted through the golden and red leaves.

***

When I feel a little sad in my soul, I close my eyes and remember the orchard. Sometimes I even hear Bea’s voice, humming a sad song in a merry tune:

Sister, sister, do not mourn,

For your brother will return.

They took him to be a soldier,

But he’ll be back some year…

I never knew if that brother had returned, because Bea had always cut off the song on the first verse. She laughed at my acrobatic performances on tree branches and filled the baskets with red, yellow, and purple fruit. The sunny scent of the orchard went to my head and lungs, reaching up to my heart. Among the fruit trees, I used to forget about Bea’s upcoming wedding, and I was very happy. 

For now, however, I have not revealed to Stellan what I discovered when helping Bea. My sister taught me to be cautious.

***

When Bea got married and moved to the village, the cottage by the forge became so unpleasant that I hardly ever showed up, I said matter-of-factly. "I would sneak into the pantry early in the morning, grab some bread, cheese, or whatever, and run away for days – not into the orchard anymore, but into the forest, farther and farther away from home. I would climb trees all day long, look at birds, and pick berries. I would come back late in the evening, eat the leftovers from my parents’ dinner, and, depending on the weather and the mood of my stepfather, either sleep during the coldest night hours in the corner behind the kitchen stove, or run straight away into the forest again.

During the first days after Bea’s departure, our mother would come out in front of the hut at dusk and shout in a muffled voice: Auri! Auri! But soon, she stopped calling. I suppose she made this decision on a drizzly fall evening when I was considering whether to spend the night in a hole in an old oak, or to slip into the kitchen and warm up behind the fireplace. 

Auri! I heard. And then my stepfather’s voice broke in. Unusually enough, it was free from the echoes of fermented fruit:

Woman, stop it! Be grateful! Perhaps the gods would be content with him and this misfortune would be turned away. After all, he was the last...

I didn’t hear the rest of the words. The rain drowned them out.

***

Your stepfather said: ‘the last’? Stellan interrupted my story.

Yes, and he certainly added some kind of invective. 

Listen, Auri, Stellan put down his half-eaten almond cookie, Please keep in mind that I don’t sit over thick books from morning to night. What does ‘invective’ mean?

An invective is an unfavorable word; an insult, I explained. He must have said ‘last fool’ or ‘last idiot’, or something yet worse. I suppose he used the adjective ‘last’ in the sense of ‘lowest in rank or importance’. Like in the phrase: ‘in last place’.

Oh. By all gods, can’t you speak like a normal human?! Stellan swallowed the rest of the almond cookie and reached for another, but his hand stopped in the air. 

Auri, I’m sorry..., he added with sincere remorse. I always say something first, and start thinking later...

Never mind, I assured him. I told you, I was not able to speak as a normal human. I couldn’t utter a word in Khari or Dhagram, or even in that barbaric Minang dialect used by frontier villains. There was a diverse clientele coming to the smithy, and everyone liked to have a drink and a chat while waiting for the wagon to be repaired or the horses shod. Some guests were even friendly; they patted me on the head, talked to me… I understood what they were saying, but I could not answer. My tongue and my lips made different sounds than I intended. I was believed to be an idiot, and little wonder that people thought so. Later on, I gave up trying to communicate with my voice. I used only gestures; this made people less angry.

But somehow you’ve learned to speak like a human, a too smart one, Stellan remarked.

Yes, I agreed. It started that evening when I decided it was better to spend the night in the woods.

Stellan stared at me with wide eyes, and I continued.

It wasn’t completely dark yet. One of the moons was full. I was running through the forest, jumping and swinging every now and then on tree branches to cheer myself up. As I hopped off one of my favorite beeches, I heard a horse snort.

Somebody looking for the forge, I thought, because that was a sound that a horse makes when it has lost a shoe and gotten tired of walking on a bumpy path on uneven hooves.

I peeked out from behind the beech. Sometimes it paid off to bring a client to the forge. Even a mute fool can explain with gestures that he will show the traveler the way. From time to time, it happened that the owner of a lame horse gave me a coin; of course, I handed it over to my stepfather, and he patted my shoulder and let me spend the night at the fireplace.

The horse snorted painfully again. I moved one more step from behind the tree.

A tall figure in a blue cloak was leading the reins of a big steed that was as gray as the rainy sky. The horse, as I had guessed, had lost its front shoe and was limping.

Eh, sndhara khai! Aki ferrohone a heri, akire savi anmohri..., exploded the traveler angrily.

My heart leapt into my throat. These sounds were... my language! Sndhara khai – that would hit my lips when I was angry and resentful; I couldn’t explain exactly what it meant, but it expressed wrath or disappointment. And the rest of the words meant: Not a smithy to be found, nor a living soul... This mighty, noble wanderer was speaking my language! He used the sounds that everyone, except Bea, contemptuously called the gibberish of an idiot!

My heart was still pounding like crazy in my chest, but I couldn’t afford to lose the chance that had come to me.

In one leap, I found myself on the path. I bowed as deeply as my stepfather used to bow in front of the tax collector. And then I looked up and said as calmly as I could:

I pay my respects to you, my noble lord. The forge is nearby, my stepfather is a blacksmith. I can show you the way and lead your horse, Sir.

The stranger stopped. Now he seemed even more powerful to me; he must have been a head taller than my stepfather, whom I believed to be the biggest man in the world. The moonlight gleamed in the silver threads in his long dark hair, beard, and bushy eyebrows. Those eyebrows tightened on his forehead, and from under them the giant’s eyes stared at me so piercingly that a shiver ran through me.

No, he doesn’t understand me, flashed through my mind. Soon, he will call me a fool. Perhaps he will slap me, and he is so big that he may even kill me, even without trying to.

However, I didn’t move from the spot. My desire to solve the mystery was stronger than my fear.

I see, boy. You say the forge is nearby? The stranger said in a gentle tone, still using a language that no one around me ever had understood. That’s good. Your stepfather is a blacksmith? And who was your real father?

He was a blacksmith, too, Sir, but I don’t remember him, I replied. After my father had died, my mother married his helper, because someone had to run the forge.

Then who taught you Selhatl? The stranger’s voice sounded harsher now.

My eyes widened.

Selhatl, the language we are speaking now. The language of princes and priests, he explained. Who taught you? Was it a priest?

I have never seen a priest in my life, Sir, I said in a low voice. There is a wise woman in the village who can cure pimples and fever, but she speaks like everyone else, and there are no priests here. I have heard of the priests from the temple in Elkhorn, but I have never been that far from our village. I have been speaking this way for as long as I can remember, Sir, I cannot speak in another way... I mean, I haven’t spoken at all for some time, because people make fun of me, I confessed. When I pretend to be mute, they are kinder to me.

The stranger nodded.

Your stepfather and your mother don’t care for you too well, he said, eyeing me up and down.

I lowered my head.

Show me where the forge is, boy, he ordered.

While we walked, he asked me simple questions that adults usually ask normal children: what my name is, how old I am, do I have any siblings… He accepted my answers with a smile. I felt no fear anymore. When the roofs of our yard came into sight around the bend of the road, I was ready to follow the silver-haired stranger to the end of the world, if only he would let me.

And he, as if guessing my thoughts, asked:

Tell me, Auri, would you be very sad if I removed you from your mother and stepfather and took care of you? You would have to obey me in everything, and I am quite strict and demanding; but you would live in a large, beautiful stone castle, you would never be hungry or cold, and you would learn many things that even priests in the Elkhorn temple do not know.

I kissed his hand.

Then pretend to be mute as usual when I talk to your stepfather, he said.

Master bought me for twice the price of shoeing a horse, I finished my story. He brought me here. And I understood that evening that words are like boxes made of sounds, into which thoughts are put, and that sometimes in one language the same thought has to be divided into two or three such boxes, and in another speech, one box is enough... and that in different languages, the boxes with words are arranged in a different order." 

Wow! Stellan looked at me with admiration. Did you figure it out yourself?

I did! I did it when I was listening to Master talking to my mother and stepfather in Dhagram. I was ashamed that for so many years I had not been able to comprehend such a simple thing! If Master had not told me to pretend to be mute, I would have shown my parents that I could speak Dhagram as fluently as anyone in our village, and that I speak Khari no worse than city people. But I didn’t open my mouth because I had promised to obey my Master. Later, I asked him about that matter and he explained that ordinary children don’t speak languages they have never heard, but I am different. That’s why he called me ‘Alter’. ‘Alter’ in Selhatl means ‘different’.

I know that, Stellan said. "‘Different’ or ‘changing’, or ‘variable’. I had to learn a few prayers in Selhatl, and some grammar, as everyone of royal blood must do. Fa-

ther Selenor, Thou Lord of Changing Moons, Thou Lord of Changing Waters…, he recited and added stubbornly: But I don’t believe in Selenor."

My indignant look must have embarrassed him because he added conciliatorily:

Well... I mean, it’s not like I don’t believe in gods at all. I think someone had to create earth and water, and sun, and moons, and all that. People couldn’t do such things. But as to all those commands and prohibitions made by priests, all those prayers and sacrifices – I do not believe in them one little bit and I have plenty of reasons not to!

I didn’t interrupt him.

Master is definitely smarter than most people, but he deceives them, Stellan went on. Think, if he really could talk to the gods, he would have known long ago what to do to end this curse laid upon our country, right? But he only orders longer and longer prayers and larger sacrifices. Today they rushed two dozen sheep and a dozen cows to the Holy Mountain, all with silver-plated horns sparkling like moons, can you imagine? I bet the result will be exactly like offering cattle with gilded horns to Mother Asanda on the Night of the Midsummer Fire. None! You know, he lowered his voice, although no one was listening to us, some people say that the only way to get rid of the curse is to sacrifice one of the Last Children to Mother Asanda. Master forbade them from such ideas, threatening them with such horrible punishments that bathing in the West Lake would be a pleasure by comparison! Of course, he made up the whole thing, so that some madman wouldn’t plan to kill me. 

Just because the sacrifices do not work, or that a priest makes up something out of a higher necessity, doesn’t mean that there are no gods, I replied.

I don’t mean that there are no gods! Stellan exclaimed. All I’m saying is that Master and the other priests often lie. The best example is the story about the West Lake. For two years now I have been sailing on it, fishing in it, even bathing in it, and Selenor has not punished me!"

You... you entered the forbidden lake just to see if you would be punished?! I asked.

No, Stellan shook his head. No, I used to believe in this nonsense once, just like everyone else. I discovered the truth by pure accident. You know, two years ago, I received a beautiful setter puppy, a bird-hunting dog, from my father’s cousin, the Prince of Auguria. I have never seen a prettier pooch in my life! Smooth, shiny, black and tan, long ears... well, a miracle. He was only four months old, but he was already showing potential; at the sight of birds, he forgot about the world and ran blindly after them as untrained puppies do. One day, I went with him to the lake. To the East Lake, of course. I wanted to see if the dog would manage to scare some ducks out of the rushes. You perhaps don’t know, because you can’t see it from your window, but the East and the West Lakes are separated by a narrow strip of land, like a natural causeway; it’s high, rocky, and goes down on both sides as a cliff. It’s not much lower than this tower.

I nodded my head. I knew the location of the East Lake from the map.

The dog ran up the cliff in front of me and suddenly, he saw a flock of ducks on the West Lake. He ran like an arrow and didn’t notice that the ground ended under his paws. Stellan chuckled. Stupid puppy, he didn’t understand the difference between water and land yet. He fell into the lake like a stone, and the ducks flew up at the sudden splash. After a while, the dog emerged from under the water and began to swim in circles in panic; he was desperately pounding the water with his tiny paws. I hurried across the causeway and down where the shore is sloping; I whistled and called for the poor pooch to make him understand which way he should swim to get out, but he was so scared that he couldn’t cope. I was terrified that my dog would drown, so I ran into the water to help him. When I got him ashore, I realized what I had done. My legs buckled under me, you know.

I nodded with understanding.

I must have been sitting on the shore for an hour or more, looking at my hands, Stellan continued. I’ve been waiting for my skin to turn green and for my flesh to peel off the bones, he laughed. Of course, nothing happened, he held out his sun-tanned hands. Since then, I know that priests forbid things only to scare people and make them obey, that’s all!

I shook my head.

Master often criticizes me for jumping to conclusions, I said after a while. The fact that you have not been harmed by the water from Selenor’s Lake is not yet a proof that this water is harmless to everyone. Maybe you own some special properties.

Special properties? Stellan sounded amused.

Once, I read about an island in the Far East, I explained. People living there believe that their ancestor is the God of Fire. They call him Rami. According to their legends, this God took a beautiful earthly woman as his wife thousands of years ago, and the present-day inhabitants of the island are descendants of this couple. These islanders’ bodies are immune to fire. They can walk on red-hot coals and white-hot stones without suffering pain or burns. The author of this book is a very serious researcher, so I believe in his account. You can be just like this overseas tribe. Perhaps the water from the West Lake does not hurt you, because your ancestors are descendants of Selenor."

Well, there are legends in which our dynasty is called the sons of Selenor, Stellan replied. But they’re only fairy tales. Nobody but peasants believe in them.

I’m a son of a peasant, I replied. But this does not mean that I believe in every old tale and legend. Nevertheless, not everything is known about ancient times. Master says that some truths persist in fairy tales and legends, although they are often distorted.

Stellan looked at me in silence.

You’re too damn clever, he admitted. Yet worse, you may be right. Sorry for the peasant thing, I didn’t mean to hurt you. You’re not angry with me, are you? I hoped we’d go fishing together, plenty of time until dawn. But if you’re right about the lake and the gods, you cannot go with me. The water might poison you. That’s a shame.

I imagined us boating over the lake, over the reflections of both moons. I closed my eyes and saw under my eyelids the moon gleam of the silvery fish fluttering at the end of a fishing rod. 

I was afraid, terribly afraid. But I also thought that if I didn’t dare, Stellan would never want to meet me again. He wouldn’t be friends with a coward. 

I made my decision.

I don’t know if I’m right, I said. There’s only one way to find out.

Before Stellan could say anything, I put a chair on the table, climbed on it, and jumped on the window frame.

No! Auri, don’t! I heard, but it didn’t stop me. I had to act while I was determined.

Chapter three. The Lake and the Orchard

The boat swayed gently between the reflections of the moons; their beams glided over the scales of freshly caught perch, just as I had imagined an hour ago.

Well, nothing bad happened, I broke the silence.

It’s really just an ordinary lake.

Now you’re jumping to conclusions, Stellan squinted. The only thing we know is that the water doesn’t hurt you and me. But gosh, how you scared me!

Were you scared? For me? I dared to ask.

Sure. I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if you had died in torment because of my silly talk. I like you, Auri. You’re perhaps a little too smart, but overall okay. Well, all’s well that ends well. Let’s dock and bake these fishes.

I have never enjoyed a meal like this before. I kept repeating Stellan’s words in my mind: I like you, Auri, You’re okay.... No praise from Master had ever made me so happy.

Full and lazy, we lay by the smoldering fire. Stellan was absentmindedly tossing a spruce cone.

I stopped the cone halfway.

It might have cost me my life, but it didn’t seem especially important. Earlier that night, I had relegated my life to the background. Most of all I wanted Stellan to know everything about me and then decide if I was really okay.

The spruce cone soared above Stellan’s hand, approaching him like a tame bird, and when he tried to catch it, it slipped out from under his fingers like a clever sparrow and returned to me in pirouettes.

I let the cone fly back to Stellan. It obediently fell on his knee, rolled down onto the sand and went still.

Stellan looked from the cone to me and back again. Suddenly he jumped up and clenched his fists.

You... you have been fooling me all the time! He exploded. You are a god, a son of Selenor or Selenor himself, and you have had a great time listening to me saying that I don’t believe in gods and magic! Well, you can punish me now, but remember that I despise such ruses, even when a god uses them! Especially then I despise them! The stronger ones should not use tricks against the weaker ones!

I also got up and took his hands.

Stellan, I am not a god, I swear. I know as much about Selenor as you do, I said. Now, listen to me, please!

I told him about the orchard, about how I climbed the branches of apple, pear, and peach trees to help Bea. She said that I’d started climbing trees before I could walk properly. She called me her gray squirrel.

I wanted to help her, so – like a little kid – I threw fruit down on the grass, blindly, unaware that they would bruise and rot. If my mother or stepfather saw me, they would probably have smashed me the way I smashed apples and peaches, but they seldom looked into the orchard; they preferred to consume fruit in the liquid and fermented form.

No, squirrel dear, that’s wrong, Bea pleaded. The apples will rot when you throw them like this. Pick the fruit carefully, gently, my squirrel! Show me that you can do it!

She held out her hand.

Then I stopped the picked apple in the air and directed it to Bea’s hand. She laughed. She did not notice that, between the beginning and the end of her cordial speech, I had climbed four branches higher. At the top of the tree, the apples