Leaving the country which wants to know nothing about itself, the
country of pleasant and tormented people, forests slipped by
incomparably quicker than Falcon's galloping. Something, known only to
an unknown power, carried us free of our will.
Not until I viewed on the horizon low hills surrounding the Great Valley,
did I calm myself. I recalled the warnings of Mary the Jewess that I was
doomed to return to the Valley always before a new journey, time,
country. Wonderful torment and misery was I given for my farewell and
hopes.
Still in the saddle, I looked at the maps of my Lord. Glad I was to
recognize that, carried by a powerful wave of time, I was able to mark on
the charts the country in which I enjoyed deep forests, wrestled with the
unhappy and dear friend. There I should return one day. At least for the
beauty of the country and creatures. To witness that even then Nothing
will remain nothing.
Coming closer to where once stood the first, hastily built settlements I
felt sick. I was also overcome by joy at approaching the Column as well
as by misery at meeting the bloody phalanx.
Nothing was the same as at the time of my first visit. Those who first
arrived at the valley, now as powerful as few only in this world, forbade
access to the edge of the Valley. Only the most powerful or their
representatives could cross the brink. Everything was divided in precise
and strict order of authority and in classification of duties, as if steel
strings pulled from invisible locations. Not one step could be omitted. To
omit it would result in omitting one's own life.
The Usurpers, who ambushed the white postmen, had become specially
trained executioners, hydra-men, or yet only human images of the lethal
hydras.
The first phalanx of Usurpers in comparison with these now, seemed like
naive scruffy haired gold diggers at the mercy of chance and providence.
They had been amusingly unfit compared to the present order of
murderers that raged at the edge.
When they realized that they were losing profit by breaking and tearing
the frail postmen, they started to catch their plunder with unusual skill
taking the botty from the bags and leaving the postmen unhurt. They
would either drive them into specially built boxes where their load would
be taken from them with skill and finesse, or the faster, more experienced
and resourceful would be sprayed with something human. I could not tell
what. Touched with some human substance the white postmen would
faint or swoon into momentary lethargy until the shadows of great men
had been easily taken from them.
Yet a most miraculous change occurred at the entry to the former
settlements built in bygone years when people had first found out about
the Great Valley.

All the hastily built huts and their dwellers, that I intended to crush under
Falcon's hooves, disappeared as if erased by an obscure hand of force.
All murdered, vanished, dashed as if never built, obliterated. At the edge
where once stood the Usurpers' settlements, I was now welcomed by
newly planted forests, thick grass and scenery so beautiful that a
voyagerventurer would never expect that an hours ride separates him
from a place filled with strange people and fields, as if in boiling human
honeycomb, they played a mad game - who can grab the most and the
best or who will pay less and seize more.
Strange how quickly nature overgrows and covers everything. It simply
forgets, as if in its skirts, leaves and roots there has never been death,
tears, blood, lust and cruelty. Forgetting, it grows denser and softer as if
it has always wanted to be like this. A feeling of shame came over me as
I looked at the luxuriant trees, planted again, caring for nothing. Maybe
nature only protects itself from people. Perhaps it needs not people so
whenever it can, it tries, and succeeds, to forget and overgrow them.
Squeezing through a crowd to reach the front lines, reserved for specially
trained Usurpers, I saw how self-confident and arrogant they were and
felt a strong desire to make my Damascan sword dance. Invisible, cutting
them in two, I could bring horror. A story could spread of eternal
damnation for any who dare become Usurpers. I was taught by my Grand
Mentor that people dread most anything which is invisible and
inexplicable. A permanent stroke of my sword could make them weak in
their fear and they might think that some supernatural power may lift the
heads of the bravest among them.
I waited till the next appearance of the postmen and then started to
open the gates of horror. There followed a miraculous tale of fantastic
slaughter.
And cut I did. Intentionally I was attacking the most experienced ones
occupying the first lines of the phalanx. As they would knock down a
postman and reach for the bag, I would quickly bend over them and in
the deafening noise of Falcon's hooves would cut off something that only
by its shape resembled a human head. Strange, even the faces of this
scum would twist in fear and pain. Even the ones holding in their hands a
paralyzed and half-dead postman. Even them! Falcon was rejoicing in the
feast. I felt miserably tempted and unreasonably sickened. This was
nothing like fighting on our battle-fields. In the damned period of time
between my two visits people had changed. It is unbelievable how soft
they had become. The sword was cutting as if nothing was under it. My
arm almost ached from the lightness of the sword slipping through their
necks and bodies when I cut from head to the waist. The blade would
flash with such ease that my elbow almost leaped out with every stroke
as there was no resistance. They were soft, terribly, unpleasantly soft
for the Damascan knight's arm. My God!
It proved that nothing, not even Kir-Stephan's army could stop what was
taking place at the edge of the Great Valley.
Wishing to rest my arms from the slippery lightness, impatient to lay my
eyes on the holiness of the Column, I made my way towards it.
By a horrible sight were we met, hardly bearable to human eye or
thought. Oh, my Good Lord, I looked at the Column and for the first time
my eyes could encircle its width. Not its height. The Column changed and
become narrower. I was unaware of the length of time that had elapsed
between my former visit and now, but the Column had become thinner
and for the first time it looked like a column, visible in its full great mass.
Powerful, awfully powerful, but now visible in its thickness. And,
surprisingly, it seemed to deliver its embryos more urgently. The postmen
were now reaching the edge of the Valley more and more frequently,
keeping the Usurpers permanently busy, so the dreaded market never
stopped.
When I realized that my efforts had been in vain, I attacked with greater
rage, day after day, until, pursuing them, I heard the Usurpers whisper of
the inglorious fate of their task, of scattered heads, of horror rising
towards the edge of the Valley, of bloated butchered corpses. Dear Lord,
as if danger and that horrible specter caused insanity and pushed them
harder and faster onto their enterprise. Their fear, so obvious, overcame
my feeling of disgust for their softness and made me forget their
spinelessness. I hoped I was doing something important, here, at the
once sacred and now besmirched brinks of one of the globe's sources.
As I began the massacre, I grieved that we had not been attacked by an
enemy like this, once, when we had almost lost our empire.
In the seventh month of cutting through these bloodsuckers and filthy
scoundrels, when it seemed that my efforts would finally succeed, around
holy noon a terrible shock occurred. The earth began to shake at the
edge of the Valley and then, suddenly, everything exploded. Everybody
started to flee. I saw the phalanx of Usurpers run in all directions and
leave a large empty space around an unconscious postman. Well trained
robbers fled as far as possible from the postman. Captivated by the sight
of the Column becoming thinner, I could not make out what caused this
chaos - this flight and desertion of the postman, leaving him in an empty
circle, the centre of a wasteland. 
I saw the bravest in headlong flight disappearing somewhere underground
and decided to follow them.
I descended a steep hidden path. Steel sentries stood on guard a meter
apart on both sides. I saw the members of the second order of the
phalanx, carrying shadows kidnapped from the white bags, patiently
waiting to be let through heavy gates. Even I, invisible, barely pushed my
way through the gates. I found myself in a spacious auditorium
overwhelmed by an unusual silence and tranquility. One voice only, hardly
audible, was announcing the virtues of a future great man's shadow. Only
a subdued ripple of voices testified that an auction had begun. Not a
trace of the former extortion for every shadow, the instant extermination
of any Usurpers that dared offer a higher price than in their superiors,
that their superiors, that I had seen before. The resemblance to the
strict protocol and order of my master's court at the time of receptions
and official visits of foreign rulers was amazing and so unbearable.
I felt as if I were transported back into my childhood and were witnessing
my native customs. Anxiety, brought on by the phalanx leaders seized me
and all visible and invisible superiors and their agents. The shaking of the
earth and the echoing coming from the edge of the Valley were becoming
stronger and louder. Panic had arrived and was creeping through the door
straight into the centre of the auditorium, into a workshop of human fall,
raising it to the peaks of anguish and bewilderment.
Somebody decided, or ordered, that the auction should stop, and that
everybody from the hidden underground hall should start moving toward
the edge of the Valley. The lower orders of the Usurpers' phalanx now
had the opportunity to see the faces of their masters in daylight for the
first time. They became disoriented and confused wondering whether
they should bow in humble greeting or take this chance to form an
inquisitive line and come as close as possible to their untouchable
masters.
Shadows of strange future men had been extracted from the white bags
before. Empires used to shake when they had heard of them. The
powerful used to disappear secretly and their places were taken up by
the worst and the most pernicious. But this, what made them move now,
bore a seal of serious precedence.
As we were approaching in a horde the lines of usurpers at the edge, it
was obvious from the fear of these, I suppose, people, that that
afternoon, unexpectedly, a strange shadow, shocking, dangerous and not
at all saleable, was pulled out of the bag.
The Usurpers were constantly drawing their masters' attention to a small
shadow in the centre of the circle.
A child, no, a man, red all over, with an inconspicuous beard and
extremely high forehead, stood there terrified, so suddenly revealed and
pushed into the centre of human evil. The shadow was continuously
stretching his right arm towards something unknown, was shivering and
shaking off his redness but at the same time his presence was inspiring
fear.
Many and more out of secret hideouts were reaching the edge. Still was
the murmur of voices and the rumble of arrivals. Everything became
petrified in silence and astonishment. Everybody that was swarming down
this once secret and innocent land stood caught now by the revelation of
the danger of their enterprise. It was obvious, though, that no one might
try to catch this shadow and offer it to anyone to buy, No one, ever.
The strange appearance of the shadow made the things that were
happening at the edge of the Valley completely absurd. And truly, no one
moved to offer anything for the uncovered shadow. Nobody even tried to
turn this into a joke. On the contrary, all stood silent and still, nobody
ready for a joke, this so important bridge of human crossing from
unbearable to bearable existence. Perhaps somebody would have laughed
or jested had there been humans among them. The only hum among the
crowd of usurpers was a question - What if this were the beginning of
the appearance of shadows as dangerous as this one that nobody
wanted in their empires. What then?
One of the auction masters spoke up loudly enough for the others to
hear, his question ripping the first thread in a tangled web of silence:
"What would happen if we put him back in the bag?" The Usurpers
answered:
"Nothing. Once carried off a shadow can neither be returned to the
Column nor may its way be blocked. He was not born by a mother in a
hut so that she might strangle him without witnesses. The Column gives
birth. It cannot be turned back."
This scene caused to unite in their common anxiety robbers, thieves,
murderers, usurpers, magicians and fortune tellers who were paid in gold
to foretell future professions, talents and virtues of shadows so their
masters knew how much to offer for them.
The masters of the opposite side of humanity knew everything but what
to do and how to get rid of the little boy's, no, man's shadow with the
red beard and high forehead.
Even worse, they could not work out why and where his stretched arm
was pointing while his left hand was resting on his chest. Many magicians
were taking out their secret instruments, what they normally would not
do in the presence of others, and were calculating the possible paths in
the direction of the shadow's stretched arm. Cards were shuffled, dies
were cast, various skills and faculties of foretelling and prediction were
employed. The masters were requested to approve the best paid
prophets to emerge from their secret underground rooms to be brought to
the edge of the Valley should they reveal anything about the red shadow.
Everything was becoming numb and caught by stupid solutions of absurd
attempts. Many of them tried to hide their solutions as they were turning
to nonsense and tyranny, to visions of millions of people dead and exiled,
to a common loss of identity and dignity, to a vision of their own death.
Many and powerful ones gave up and submissively withdrew.
Then they decided to bring up the Great Molock who used to sit under
the Grand Master's chair sending him signals of shadows' characteristics
which were known only to the two of them.
Afraid of him they were indeed. Everyone. The Grand Master began to
shake at his appearance, discontented with the decision to approve his
presence. Molock was not walking. He was simply approaching.
Lost are those who decide to invite him, this evil is not done to talk
about, let alone look at him. As Molock was approaching everybody was
either falling into a prone position or was getting out of his sight.
After that, many a magician and fortuneteller started to leave the edge
of the Valley. Even if they were losing profit and a great fortune, they
were dropping their instruments and tools and like beggars they were
disappearing on the ways towards their native towns and countries from
which they had been brought to predict and fortune-tell.
Although paralyzed on their ignorance of what should be done, they knew
that this must stop and come to an end. Night was falling, giving signs of
its approach, and before nightfall every shadow must be sold and
removed from the edge of the Valley. Although its source was unknown a
sudden chill was spreading despite the usual heat around the Valley. The
Usurpers were trapped by the cold. Far away on the horizon a cool north
wind that freezes blood in the veins was announcing its arrival. Word was
coming that in the streams water was turning to ice. Both the members
of the phalanx and the mighty masters of the auction were terrified of
nature's miracles, of what?to their regret could not be paid for with
immense wealth, turned into a controlled course and forced into
obedience.
And the Grand Master of the Auction stepped out in the open space
making a halt between the boy's, no, man's shadow and the crowd. He
made an indistinct gesture, hardly noticeable.
His deputy joined him. Carefully as if reaching for a red hot stone, he took
a golden triangle and a pair of compasses from him. The Grand Master
made a few more steps towards the red shadow. Examined him
thoroughly again, straightened up and spoke in a commanding tone:
"A wagon!"
Nobody understood, or I thought so, me, the voyager from the Damascan
desert.
"A wagon", his voice imperious, "A green Finnish wagon. Bring railroad wax
and a seal too."
They obeyed, of course. Three of the most reliable Usurpers reached for
the red shadow. They took hold of him, the shadow, whatever, as
nothing was for sure any more. It was unclear what it was and what it
might become, who was there and who they wanted to take hold of.
The little one held up his arm again as if to stop them and went alone to
the wagon. Unexpectedly he had changed his course and approached the
Grand Master. The crowd screamed. It had never happened before that a
shadow of a man to be may show its own intentions, will or decisions to
do anything in this early phase.
The red shadow and the Grand Master stepped out. There was a
conversation, or at least it seemed so. It lasted painfully long for the
hysterical, frozen crowd. It looked as if they had reached an agreement.
The Grand Master nodded and the Usurpers grabbed the red shadow and
put him on the wagon. He stood straight at the door of the Finnish
wagon, put again his left hand on his chest, stretched his right arm, held
up his hardly visible red beard and everybody could swear that he
intended to speak. Maybe he made an inaudible speech.
They bolted the heavy wagon door, sealed it and marked it not to be
opened for a long journey. The Grand Master was given the key and he
made a signal. And push they did the Finnish wagon into the flow of time.
They pushed it as far as possible from the market, from the edge of the
Valley.
It could still be seen far on horizon plunging into and linking up with a
remote line of snow and ice. The Grand Master spoke up:
"Quiet. All still and quiet. We have done our part. There will always be a
pathetic, tragic and above all tormented nation to accept such a
delivery. Nobody will take it to them. Such figures are not to be taken.
They sneak in and poor people recognize them and elect them as their
leaders, always hoping that the recognition is their fate. The dear Lord
help them in heaven!"
I was watching the wagon disappearing in the dark, over the brink of the
Column, the brink of unknown dimensions and courses. Yes, it was me
watching, me, not a valid witness watching with eyes of the Damascan
deserts. I saw snow, the wagon, something resembling a frozen sea and
a large gulf in snow and storm.

(Translated by Mira Orlovic)