Pocopoe do Eon
The problem with dreams is, the alarm clock makes for terrible cliffhangers. Translated from German.
Mother had never liked the taxidermies, and now they were in particularly bad shape. The birds were missing feathers, the furs of the mammals were showing holes and stains. It wouldn’t do but to hire an expensive conservator to get these beauties presentable again. The sparrowhawk, the buzzard, the … “Hey Mom, what’s this one doing here?” A large, black specimen I had never seen before was hanging between the two. “And this one!”
Where had these new animals come from? Even in the corner between the bookshelf and the door sat a stuffed — weasel? No, it was much larger than that. What was that called again? I wanted to tickle its whiskers when the thing stirred. Oh, so it wasn’t stuffed after all.
“And since when do we have a dog?”
I descended down the open stairs towards the alcove in the bent wall overlooking the cliff, where another of the preserved furries was crouching on top of a stone emblem.
“Do you know what this is?” I yelled up the cold steps.
“The brickwork is ancient,” my mother explained from above while I continued to circle the wall. “I’m not sure, but if I remember correctly it has to be an old brewery insignia.”
I came across another, bigger alcove, sitting underneath a few supporting arches jutting from the wall. From between them I could look across the valley at the steep mountainside shimmering blue and white. Something wasn’t right. An eagle soared over the old castle ruin, his cry heralding perdition.
The storm had begun.
I scurried back around the gallery and up the stairs. Only the glow of yellow lamps flickered on the naked walls of the circular tower room where our living room had been before. In front of the ruined masonry stretched the sculptures of the cemetery. Icy blue frost glittered on the crosses and twisted statues, and the air was filled with a howling that threatened to resurrect the ancient monuments to new life at any moment.
“Come,” my mother said.
“Come? Whereto?” I answered, confused. She pointed at the warm light above the crest of the hill.
“To Narnia.”
Just as we stepped through the golden cloud, a stocky, pygmean man in livery came to greet us. Around us hummed the busy bustle of the hotel. People were hurrying along on the heavy red carpets, clerks, sitting at dark, massive oak desks, hacking away at their typewriters, and everywhere was the glint of silver and fool’s gold.
“We’ve been expecting you, yes, yes, we did. Expecting you we have been for a long time,” the dwarf bubbled, while he maneuvered us through the crowd. We passed a pool table — it was a true magic pool table, the like that’s only found in Narnia; I did a few shots, and every ball found its hole, just as if I was a real pool master — and were ushered into a cramped backroom stuffed with closets and cupboards. Our host sat down on a dimly lit coffee table and asked us to do the same. There were no chairs.
“Now, to business,” he said. I had no idea what he was talking about. “You are in the possession of the one item that can save us all.
“You know what I mean. I’m talking, of course, about Pocopoe do Eon.“
If you have, thank you for reading! January 2017.
I’m an independent writer, translator and editor. If you think I can help you with something, shoot me an email at chrisloveswords@gmail.com.
