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einereiseblog · 2 years

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Ich schielte auf die Karte auf meinem Handy und las die winzigen Zahlen im nachmittäglichen Schein einer unversöhnlichen Sonne. Der Tempel der Artemis war definitiv auf der Karte markiert – Nummer 23. Wir hatten den Morgen in Ephesus verbracht, Turkey's ikonische archäologische Stätte und waren nun auf der Suche nach dem Tempel der Artemis, einem der berühmten sieben Weltwunder der Antike. Wir waren drei verschiedene Pfade entlanggegangen und an die Grenzen des Geländes gestoßen, ohne den scheinbar mythischen Tempel ausfindig machen zu können. Schließlich latschten wir zum Südtor, die Arme in unnatürlichen Winkeln ausgestreckt, um Luft um unsere schwitzende Haut zu lassen. Wir wurden am Tor von einem typisch geselligen Türken begrüßt, der uns fröhlich erzählte, dass der Tempel der Artemis überhaupt nicht im Komplex von Ephesus, sondern 3 km entfernt, in der Nähe der Stadt, sei. Obwohl uns ein 3 km langer Fußmarsch selten einschüchterte, sprach die Aussicht, in der gottlosen Hitze zum Tempel zu schleppen, keinen von uns an, also sprangen wir stattdessen in ein Taxi. Zehn Minuten und 5 US-Dollar später fanden wir uns auf einem kahl werdenden Hügel aus sumpfigem Schlamm und verdorrtem Gras wieder. Atlas & Boots Fit für eine Göttin? Der berühmte Tempel der Artemis thront auf einem kahl werdenden Sumpfhügel Wir gingen zu einer verlassenen Informationstafel und überblickten die Szene dahinter. Wir haben nicht viel von dem Tempel erwartet (bis auf die Pyramiden von Gizeh wurden alle antiken Wunder zerstört), aber wir haben mehr Fanfare rund um die Stätte selbst erwartet: vielleicht ein Samtseil oder eine Art Gedenktafel – etwas, das an die Bedeutung erinnert Der Seite. Stattdessen fanden wir eine einsame Säule, die von verstreuten Steinen umgeben war. Atlas & Boots Was bleibt heute Es scheint, dass der Tempel der Artemis, eine Hommage an die gleichnamige griechische Göttin der Jagd, jetzt zur viertbesten Sehenswürdigkeit der Stadt nach Ephesus, der Burg Ayasoluk und der Isa-Bey-Moschee wurde. Wir verbrachten 20 Minuten damit, um die Ruinen herumzulaufen und konnten uns wegen des sumpfigen Beckens nicht zu nahe kommen. Der um 800 v. Chr. erbaute Tempel wurde dreimal nacheinander durch Überschwemmungen, Brandstiftung und Plünderungen zerstört. Die dritte Inkarnation stand 600 Jahre lang und umfasste über 127 Säulen, von denen nur noch eine am ursprünglichen Standort erhalten ist. Als wir vor der einsamen Säule standen, versuchten wir, ihre Bedeutung aufzunehmen; um sich in den Echos einer glorreichen Vergangenheit zu sonnen. Leider war alles, was wir fühlten, ein Gefühl der Unterdrückung, gefärbt mit dem Schuldgefühl, Brite zu sein. Wie Sie sehen, wurden Teile des Tempels ausgegraben und in den „Ephesus Room“ des British Museum transportiert, nachdem die britischen Archäologen John Turtle Wood in den Jahren 1869-1874 und David George Hogarth in den Jahren 1904-1906 gearbeitet hatten. Natürlich ist es nicht das erste Mal, dass die Briten wertvolle Artefakte für sich beanspruchen. Andere umstrittene Gegenstände sind der Rosetta Stone aus Ägypten und die Elgin Marbles aus Griechenland. Die Behörden in beiden Ländern haben sich lange für die Rückgabe dieser Objekte eingesetzt, aber das British Museum hat sich geschickt geweigert und behauptet, dass die Schätze Weltkulturerbe und für Besucher in London besser zugänglich seien. Das British Museum ist wahrscheinlich auch besorgt darüber, dass unbezahlbare Artefakte in ausländischen Museen gefährdet sind, die weitaus weniger Mittel haben. Schließlich wurde im Ägyptischen Museum in Kairo der Bart von König Tutanchamun mit alltäglichem Kleber wieder aufgeklebt. Schließlich könnte das British Museum, wenn es einem Anspruch nachgibt, die Schleusen für Dutzende anderer öffnen. Andererseits ist das britische Eigentum an wertvollen Artefakten im Allgemeinen das Ergebnis kolonialer Streitigkeiten und nicht diplomatischer Vereinbarungen. Wenn wir einem modernen Verhaltenskodex

folgen wollen, dann besteht die einzige Möglichkeit darin, wertvolle Artefakte in ihr Herkunftsland zurückzugeben, unabhängig davon, ob es die Mittel und die Motivation hat, sie so zu erhalten, wie wir es tun würden. Eine Sache, die uns bei Atlas & Boots immer wieder erstaunt hat, ist der unfassbar herzliche Empfang, den wir als Briten auf der ganzen Welt erfahren. Inder haben uns Landsleute genannt, ein Fidschianer hat Großbritannien das „Mutterland“ genannt und Kenianer haben uns stolz erzählt, dass sie immer noch den Schilling benutzen. Es scheint, dass die koloniale Vergangenheit Großbritanniens so kraftvoll, so vollständig war, dass es ihm gelang, nicht nur ferne Länder zu beherrschen, sondern sich auch selbst beliebt zu machen. Vielleicht ist es für Großbritannien jetzt an der Zeit, Demut zu zeigen; die gleiche Höflichkeit zu erweisen, die andere uns bieten. Vielleicht ist es an der Zeit, unsere Schätze zurückzugeben. Besuch des Tempels der Artemis: das Wesentliche Was: Besuch des Tempels der Artemis in Selçuk, Turkey. Wo: Wir entschieden uns für das Akay Hotel, das perfekt gelegen ist, um Ephesus sowie die anderen Sehenswürdigkeiten rund um Selçuk zu besuchen. Es liegt in der Nähe des Tempels der Artemis, der Burg Ayasoluk, der Basilika St. John und der Isa-Bey-Moschee und nur 10 Gehminuten vom Stadtzentrum und dem Bahnhof entfernt. Das Hotel verfügt über einen einladenden Swimmingpool, eine kleine Bar mit kalten Getränken, Snacks und Bier und sogar ein Paar Schildkröten, die durch den Garten streifen. Der eigentliche Anziehungspunkt ist jedoch der weite Blick auf die umliegende Stadt und Landschaft. Das Frühstück wird außerhalb Ihres Zimmers mit Blick auf die Aussicht serviert, fragen Sie also nach einem Zimmer im Obergeschoss. Das Personal hat nur begrenzte Englischkenntnisse, wird sich aber sehr bemühen, Ihnen bei allem, was Sie brauchen, zu helfen. Şükran hatte ein Wörterbuch in der Nähe und schrieb fleißig Sätze auf, um sicherzustellen, dass wir uns richtig verstanden. Wann: Die beste Reisezeit für Ephesus ist der Frühling (März bis Mitte Juni), wenn das Wetter gemäßigt und die Tage lang sind. Beachten Sie, dass es vor allem im April ein oder zwei Tage regnen kann. Auch wenn es milder als im Sommer ist, unterschätzen Sie die Sonne nicht. Der Sommer wird definitiv heiß und wahrscheinlich überfüllt sein, während der Winter kalt und regnerisch sein kann. Wie: Sie können vom Akay Hotel zum Tempel der Artemis laufen, da er nur 1 km entfernt ist. Der Eintritt ist frei. Tatsächlich gibt es keinen Eingang; Sie können einfach darauf zugehen! Wir sind angekommen Turkey am internationalen Flughafen Atatürk in Istanbul und verbrachte einige Tage in Istanbul, bevor es nach Selçuk weiterging. Wir nahmen einen Inlandsflug nach Izmir (1 Stunde) und stiegen dann in einen Zug nach Selçuk (1 Stunde 20 Minuten). Der Flughafen ist international und hat überall Verbindungen zu einer Reihe von Inlandszielen Turkey. Buchen Sie über Skyscanner zu den besten Preisen. Die Züge erwiesen sich als sehr zuverlässig und einfach zu bedienen. Weitere Informationen und Buchungsmöglichkeiten finden Sie auf der Website der Türkischen Staatsbahn. Wir nutzten auch den Zug, um nach Denizli weiterzufahren, um Pamukkale zu besuchen. Einsamer Planet Turkey ist ein umfassender Reiseführer für das Land, ideal für diejenigen, die sowohl die wichtigsten Sehenswürdigkeiten erkunden als auch weniger befahrene Straßen nehmen möchten. Leitbild: Atlas & Boots .

#Turkey #Artemis #die_Architektur #Erbe_Ruinen #gestohlenen #Großbritannien #Schätze #Soll #Tempel #zurückgeben

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gweniala · 1 year

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Morphine

When a cat purrs, it is not always because it is content. Sometimes it will purr while resting, and this is thought to support muscle and bone regeneration. A cat will also purr when it has been injured or scared as a way to comfort itself. When a cat is dying, it will purr until the very end.

Morphine

A knock on the door.

“Ich bin’s.”

“Come in.”

Slowly, carefully, Nehmen opens the door. His two brothers are as he left them an hour ago. Krevel is reading in a chair by the bed. Nike is lying curled up by Krevel’s side, and he’d appear to be asleep if his eyes weren’t wide open. His pupils are pinpricks of black.

Nehmen flips the power switch on his translation box. “I hab’ euch Essen gebracht,” he says, and the box says in its monotone voice: “I brought you food.” He passes Krevel a woven basket; the Hoodian sets his book down, puts it on his lap and peeks inside.

Nehmen grins weakly and assures him: “Keine mulberries.” “No mulberries,” the box drones.

Krevel returns the small, tired smile, and takes a sandwich out of the basket. He offers it to Nehmen, then takes one himself. “Nike,” he says and hands his apathetic brother the third sandwich. “It’s lunch time.”

“Es ist Mittagszeit,” the box says, and its voice betrays nothing of the sad tenderness in Krevel’s voice.

Nike blinks once. Twice. He looks at Krevel, then at the sandwich. He closes his eyes, pulls in a slow deep breath and lets out an unending sigh. He sits up, takes the sandwich, nods thank you and starts eating.

They share the food quietly. When they finish the sandwich, Krevel lots out pink grapes from the basket. He and Nehmen watch Nike carefully. The hoophead eats slowly, as if deep in thought, and they take care to match his pace. If they finish their meal first, he won’t finish his.

To finish, there’s a bottle of water. Nehmen drinks first, then Krevel. Nike repeats after them. He drinks deeply, tilting the bottle until there’s nothing left. He eyes its emptiness with mild surprise. But Krevel is already passing him a second bottle, and Nike downs half of it before he sighs and returns it. His brothers exchange a relieved, victorious look. He barely ate or drank anything yesterday. Now Nike is leaning back against the wall, a slight smile on his lips, and his gaze is wandering around the room instead of staring lifelessly ahead.

“Has anything happened?” Nehmen asks. The box translates his words obediently.

“He was humming,” Krevel says. “For quite a while.”

“A song or nonsense again?”

“All around the Mulberry Bush, over and over again. It was driving me crazy.”

Nehmen cackles and hums the melody. Krevel resigns to listen. Then he says: “You’ve got it wrong. It’s…” and he hums the correct tune, as if he hasn’t heard it too many times today already. Halfway through, Nike joins in. His pinprick eyes are far away, but he’s gently rocking his head to the rhythm and his pitch is spot-on, rumbling low in his chest. A little surprised, Krevel repeats the tune from the beginning. Nike follows in a duet. Nehmen listens close. When Krevel stops, Nike doesn’t pick up again.

“No, it’s you two who got it wrong,” Nehmen says. “It’s la – la – la – la.” He frowns; the pitch of his voice is not quite right. “La la la la.”

“La la la la,” the box mocks him flatly. Nehmen growls at it. Krevel chuckles.

“Do you know the words?” he asks. “All around the Mulberry Bush, the monkey…”

“The monkey chased the weasel,” Nike sings, swaying his head. “The monkey thought ‘twas all in fun. Pop! goes the weasel.” His brothers look at him and then at each other in bewilderment. Nike hasn’t spoken a coherent sentence for the past five days.

“What did Hoborg give him this morning again?” Nehmen asks.

“Poppy milk,” Krevel says.

“Mohnmilch,” the box adds helpfully.

“But he said the stuff could be dangerous, right?” Nehmen says, frowning. “He’s been totally out of it. Is he alright? Shouldn’t we tell Hoborg he’s acting weird?”

“He hasn’t cried since the morning,” Krevel observes quietly.

Nehmen has no answer to that.

Nike sways his head in silence, in time with All around the mulberry bush, and his lips stir as they half-form the lyrics.

“So what are the words?” Nehmen asks. “I know it’s something about weasels.”

“All around the Mulberry Bush,” Krevel says and waits for the box to translate. “The monkey chased the weasel. The monkey thought ‘twas all in fun. Pop goes the weasel.” He glances at Nike. No reaction.

“Monkey as in, Skullmonkey?”

“Probably. What else has the guts to chase a weasel?”

Nehmen looks down. “Nike did.”

Yes. Just five days ago, Nike would have jumped into the Weasel Arena and raced the weasel. He would laugh, fearless and lithe, while the beast roared and snapped its pincers. It couldn’t catch him. Nike was too fast and tireless. He would dart around the Arena until you couldn’t tell who was chasing whom. When the weasel slowed, frustrated and exhausted, Nike would egg it on. His spirited shouts not to give up would carry far and wide.

Today, Nike’s head swings from side to side as he breathes around the weasel tune. His voice only comes when he’s sobbing. Just before he lost it, he said he wanted to die. His brothers are afraid that a part of him is dead already.

The silence that follows is unconsolable.

“Anyway, how do the words go in English?” Nehmen asks. The silence lifts like a boulder.

“All around the Mulberry Bush,” Krevel pronounces clearly and Nehmen repeats. He turns his translation box off so he can hear the sound better. The third time around, he’s got the lyrics down and Krevel starts singing. “All around the Mulberry Bush, the monkey chased the weasel.” Nike joins in again, and his glassy eyes soften with something akin to bliss. They sing the tune a few times, until Nehmen can carry it on his own. Krevel stops singing then and just listens with a wistful smile. He can almost forget the last five days. Nike has a great singing voice. It strokes the air in the same way a palm strokes a cat. The cat purrs and its breath vibrates back up your arm. That is Nike’s singing voice.

“The monkey thought ‘twas all in fun,” Nike sings. “Pop! goes the weasel. A penny for a spool of thread…”

Nehmen breaks off uncertainly.

“A penny for a needle,” Nike continues. “That's the way the money goes. Pop! goes the weasel. A penny for a spool of thread, a penny for a needle…”

Krevel and Nehmen exchange a confused shrug, and repeat the new lyrics as best they can. Nehmen is mangling the words and he knows it, but this is too peculiar to stop and ask for translation. Nike adds a third verse after a while.

“Half a pound of tuppenny rice, half a pound of treacle. Mix it up and make it nice. Pop! goes the weasel.”

Not even Krevel is sure what they’re singing this time around. Nike starts switching the verses around and, as if that wasn’t disorienting enough, he starts singing A penny for a spool of thread to a different, higher melody. Oblivious to his fumbling brothers, he eventually settles into a pattern. All around the Mulberry Bush, then A penny for a spool of thread in that unusual high melody, Half a pound of tupenny rice and finally A penny for a spool of thread again. They chant it over and over again until their throats are sore and their mouths are dry. They pass the remaining water around, taking care that two voices always carry the tune while the third falls silent. Krevel tries to sing in a harmony to mix things up; he isn’t very good at it but repetition makes him better. Nike picks up the empty basket, sets it on his lap and drums a simple rhythm to accompany them. Nehmen pulls his stem taut and twangs on it.

If someone listened by the door, he would wonder at how long they can keep it up, repeating with small variations, lost in the sound of their voices. The words lose all meaning and become sounds. The comfort of music envelops them, warm and snug.

It seems that Krevel and Nehmen are galloping ahead of the rhythm now. But no, it’s Nike who is slowing down. His hands move slower and slower on the basket, while his voice loses its volume and becomes a whisper.

“A penny for a spool of thread, a penny for a needle. That’s the way the money goes…” The drum stops. Nike is looking down at the woven basket and his eyes are sharply, fearfully sane. His voice is faint when he sings: “Pop! goes the weasel,” and he hides his face in his hands.

Krevel and Nehmen move in sync. Krevel by Nike’s right side, Nehmen by his left side, they sit down and hug him. It’s for comfort as much as to keep him from lunging out the window. He has tried. They aren’t going to take the chances.

“I wish I didn’t have to lose this,” Nike moans. Nehmen glances toward his translation box. He doesn’t dare reach out.

“You don’t have to,” Krevel says softly.

Nike just shakes his head. His breath is coming in small hitches. He’s starting to cry.

“We can sing again,” Krevel pleads.

But Nike is shaking his head, eyes screwed shut. He grips his chest, wheezing and sobbing. “I can’t,” he gasps before his voice gives out. Only his mouth words “I can’t breathe”.

Nehmen springs to his feet. “Ich bring’ Hoborg mit,” he says. He isn’t welcoming the oncoming panic attack with open arms. Krevel nods and holds Nike tighter. Nehmen pecks the hoophead on the cheek before he darts out the door, leaving the translation box behind. It would slow him down. Hoborg can’t be far.

Krevel is left alone with Nike. He embraces him close and whispers: “It’s going to be all right.”

But the circle of nightmares is drawing closer, and their hissing voices mock those empty words of comfort. They know better. It isn’t going to be all right.

It will never be all right again.

***

Nike is lounging in the window of the BOBBY Room. The world seems so much larger when you’re shrunk. Go through the BOBBY machine, get turned as tall as a palm, and watch how the world swells around you. Nike dangles his legs above the yawning chasm of the BOBBY Room. He’s watching the commotion far underneath. Some Hoodians are playing tag in the Danger Square. They look like ants. Nike watches them like a removed, listless deity. He is alone and alienated, but he feels peaceful. He is at rest.

The trapdoor in the ceiling opens. The Hoodians in the Danger Square, directly below it, freeze. They giggle as two pairs of legs appear in the trapdoor: one with white boots and another with green boots. Nike grimaces. He knows what’s going to happen. Well. They’ll be fine. Both the big ones and the small ones.

Squash tag has a big proud winner. Krevel scrapes the Hoodian from his white boot and apologises again and again, cupping his in his palms while he’s regenerating. Nike should get down and tell them to cut it out. Squash tag is a stupid game. They have frightened his brother, who didn’t deserve it. But it all comes in to him as if through a thick glass. He’s too far away to do anything. He stays where he is. He watches.

Krevel and Nehmen get inside the BOBBY machine and walk out ant-like. They need so many steps to cross the BOBBY room, it takes them so long. Such a large world when you’re as tall as a palm. Wonder why he didn’t do that more often before he went mad. They disappear behind a corner, but Nike knows they’re going to the Bottom Lab. Of course they’d go there. Everyone goes there.

He waits. Time is sticky slime, like fwa sheep goo. One moment Nike is bored out of his mind, another he’s enraptured with a thought gleaming like a butterfly. It occurs to him that his brothers can’t scale the wall like he did. He takes a cord of rope out of his chest compartment. Stares at it. It’s covered with yellowish goo. It smells kind of bad, too. He shakes it and the yellow goo arcs through the air and into the abyss. He ties the rope to a thick bar behind him and throws the other end over the windowsill. Does it reach all the way down to the ledge? Hm. Time will tell.

First Krevel, then Nehmen clamber up the rope and join Nike in the window. The rope was long enough then. Nice…

“Hey,” Krevel says, wiping his hands into his white shirt. It leaves yellowish stains, which Krevel eyes in disgust. He washes often. That’s how his clothes stays white. Like a ghost. Like an angel. Like a daisy.

Nike smiles. Now that they are together, his peace is complete.

“We got one for you, too,” Nehmen says. “Here.” He takes a vial of milky purple liquid and three shot glasses out of his chest compartment. He pours them all one shot. “Cheers,” he says, lifting his glass. “Try not to cough.”

Krevel sniffs at the liquid. When Nike and Nehmen swallow theirs, he sighs and does the same. He grimaces. Ah. Their throats are burning, like someone spilled oil down their gullet and struck a match. Nike breathes slowly, fighting the urge to cough. Nehmen puts one hand on his chest and his eyes bulge as he suppresses coughing. Krevel can’t hold it in, and coughs.

“Fuck,” he wheezes and doubles over, hacking his lungs out. Nike’s insides are burning too, but he knows coughing makes it that much worse. Nehmen strokes Krevel’s back. “What is – in – in that thing?” Krevel manages to ask. Tears are in his eyes. He’s alright. He’ll be alright. Nike coughed the first time, too; so had Nehmen. That’s why they’re so careful not to cough the second time. It stops after a while. It stops. It will stop.

Nike wishes it stopped soon.

Someone down there is coughing as well. And he isn’t alone. The sounds echo, like Down in the Mines. It plays on the radio sometimes. A cacophony. Who ever thought this was music? The burning subsides. It leaves behind warmth and numbness. Krevel and Nehmen are leaning against each other, drawing slow, measured breaths. Nike can see in their eyes the same alienation he feels. Like a wall thrust between you and the world.

“It’s a terrible moonshine,” Nike says. The words roll off his tongue. He can almost taste them. “It eats at your insides. You just can’t feel it. Don’t open your chest compartment, your guts will ooze out.”

Krevel stares down at his middle. “How long does it last?” he asks.

“How long have I been here?” Nike asks Nehmen.

“How should I know?” Nehmen retorts. His accent is worse, words blurry. Or maybe it’s Nike’s head that’s blurry. Can’t tell. “I left… half an hour ago.”

“At least half an hour then,” Nike concludes. “If you want it to stop, just drink the giant brew. Sobers you right up.”

“Yeah,” Nehmen says. “I got big, and it was all gone.”

Krevel places his hand on his belly. “Will they really ooze out?”

Nehmen snickers. “Try it.”

Krevel presses the white button on the side of his chest, and he watches as reddish goo trickles down his shirt. He blinks slowly. “It doesn’t hurt,” he says. He palpates the edge of the hole. Gingerly he reaches inside. He takes out a slim notebook, covered in reddish slime. He gawks at it, smells it, hesitates and places it aside. “I can’t feel anything at all. This should be disgusting. This should make me… I don’t know…”

“Afraid,” Nike completes for him. He beckons toward the Danger Square. “They aren’t afraid either. That’s why they’re playing squash tag. Every bone in their body breaks, but they can’t feel a thing.”

Krevel ponders this. “That’s dangerous,” he says.

“You don’t sound convinced,” Nehmen says.

Krevel nods slowly. “It feels like nothing can hurt me.”

“Yeah! We should go out and get in trouble!” Nehmen says. He looks to Nike.

Krevel’s brows knot together. “Isn’t that exactly what we shouldn’t do?” He looks to Nike as well.

Nike smiles. “Let’s stay here and sing.”

Krevel’s eyes sweep the room below and Nike can practically hear the cogs turning in his head, the automatic denial coming on: “Not where others can hear.” But the trail of thought vanishes and the cogs stop turning. Krevel grins. “Better than going out and getting in trouble.”

“Let’s sing Doo Ba,” Nehmen pleads. It’s his favourite song, a three-part cannon. It’s in gibberish so he doesn’t have to worry about the words. They all start together. When they’re sure in their track, Nike picks up the second part. Then Krevel starts on the third part. The melodies entwine, rise and fall. Like vines on the Spiky Tree, they bloom and give off a sweet scent.

They can’t get enough of it. They keep singing, on and on, hungry for the next verse, thirsty to hear the counter melody bubble up. They float in an out of consciousness as autopilot takes over. To mix things up, Nike lowers his voice and they sing quietly. Then they build up a crescendo until they’re singing as loud as they can, yelling across the BOBBY Room.

It takes ages.

It takes an eternity.

It takes ten minutes.

Nike doesn’t know.

Finally he raises his hand, meets Krevel’s and Nehmen’s eyes in turn to make sure they’re reading him, and flattens his palm to signal the end. They conclude in a chord. Perfect.

A private silence surrounds them. The rest of the world has gone away; here and now only they three exist. Their eyes glide from one to the other. Nothing can hurt them. They are together.

“This is what it felt like,” Nike says. “When I was dying in the Castle and Hoborg gave me poppy milk. All the pain went away. I was just there. And you were there, too. Nothing hurt.”

“Maybe this stuff is similar,” Nehmen slurs.

Nike looks out the window, to the black sky. “Yeah,” he says. “It feels just like poppy milk. Only the gut melting is new.”

“They call it kilko,” Nehmen says. “The killing cocktail.”

Nike looks down from their ledge into the cavernous BOBBY Room. He says only: “Fitting.”

They sing until Hoborg storms in and orders everyone to sober right up.

***

Singing becomes their retreat. A soft nest of security. A playground where they can handle bad surprises. They pick up instruments to colour their singing. Nike drums because his brothers can’t keep a rhythm for the love of Quater. Krevel falls in love with the twang of the bass guitar. Nehmen, who is self-conscious of his singing voice, learns to play the saxophone. The sax does the singing for him. Its voice is cracked, like Nehmen’s. Whimsical. Ironic. It can be understood no matter which language you speak.

When people start asking about their first concert, it amuses Nike how his brothers react. Nehmen would love to show off what he has learned, but he’s embarrassed to perform alone. Krevel has little confidence in his skill and public performance terrifies him. So they both look to Nike to defend them, and Nike says: “Maybe later.”

Frankly, why would anyone want to listen to their music? The way they play is ad infinitum. They repeat and repeat, soaking in the mood, giving each other space to improvise. Their music runs like a river. Always the same. Never the same. It is music for making, not music for hearing.

Still. The idea of performing is growing on them. They discuss – hypothetically – what their band would be called. Krevel says the first thing that pops into his mind.

“Morphine.”

They look at him blankly.

“It’s the painkiller in poppy milk and kilko,” Krevel explains. “It’s called after Morpheus, the god of sleep and death.”

“Ah,” Nike says. “So the audience knows that our music will put them to sleep.”

“And then kill them,” Nehmen adds with a laugh.

Morphine sticks.

They play when they’re bored, when they’re lonely, when they want space. Making music together is their panacea. It is a getaway and a connection in one. Others join in sometimes, the Hood is full of musicians after all, but no one sticks around. Nike knows why. It’s because Morphine is theirs alone.

Trees bloom. They give fruit. They bloom again. Hoborg gives Krevel a custom-made bass. It’s red-and-white and it has only two strings. Nehmen thinks that’s hilarious, and he shows up to the next practice with two saxophones. To their surprise, he can play them both at once. It doesn’t sound half bad either. Krevel starts making counter-melodies for the sax as well as the voice. He’s getting better at it. Even if he says otherwise.

They blame each other when Kalikat sows them stage costumes. Who the hell put the idea into the tailor’s head? Apparently he thinks they’re starting a poppy-themed band! He takes them to the Workshop one day, gives each a bundle of clothes and tells them to put them on. He turns away while they change, too excited to be proper and leave the room.

“We look pretty good,” Nike reckons. Kalikat looks them up and down, and blushes with delight. Nike continues: “The poppy armbands are a nice touch and the fit is great. But tell me one thing.” He shuffles his feet. Blue winks up at him. “Why are they so revealing? You had our measurements. Don’t tell me you don’t know where our markings are.”

Kalikat smirks. “Of course I know where your markings are. They peek just~ a little bit to give you zazz.” He gazes at Krevel, who is trying to tug down his crop top and hide the white stripe on his stomach. Krevel returns him a sour grimace. Even Nehmen, the showman, is anxious that his golden star is peeking from under his ruffled top.

Nike sighs. “Can’t you fix it?”

“There is nothing to fix.”

The stage costumes embody Krevel’s anxiety. He doesn’t want to hear that they’ve become good. While Nehmen is trading front row tickets for favours, while Nike is piecing together the song list, Krevel keeps finding flaws in their performance. Insists they try again. Practice, practice, practice, it can’t be anything less than perfect. What if it is less than perfect? Then… then he will never play with them again. You can’t say much to that kind of threat.

So it happens that the first time they perform, they are all high as kites.

They don’t get to keep many memories of the concert. Morning after says it was… improvised. Krevel’s guitar is plugged into the wrong socket and Nehmen can’t find his other sax. Hoborg is livid. Apparently Klester mixed all of the forbidden brews for his party. The chemical H-bomb explains the amnesia, the headache, and the fact that they had a concert. For the first time in his life, Krevel is glad to have forgotten something.

The second concert comes strangely easy. They just set everything up in the Public Park and go through their repertoire while Hoodians come and go. It isn’t painless, and Krevel wishes he weren’t sober, but they manage.

The third concert. The fourth concert. They stop counting.

Somehow they become one of the established bands. Somehow Hoodians like their style of repeat-and-improvise, their poppy-themed costumes, their off-world music. They become a band which plays in the evening. Half their audience is asleep by the time they finish. They like it that way.

They haven’t written any songs yet.

***

“…and she said: ‘I’m not wasting any more time with you, fwa-sheep-goo-for-brain.’ and she left!” Nehmen expects outrage of his two listeners. Krevel, sprawled on his back across purple swirls, just groans.

“She leaves for five minutes and she’s all you talk about,” he says. “Can’t we do something better than replay Caline’s day?”

Nike smiles and suggests: “We could play.”

“Yeah!” Nehmen says. “Let’s compose a song for Caline.”

Krevel groans again and curls up. Seeing the red-skinned brother is not willing, Nehmen addresses the hoophead instead.

“You’ll help me perform it, of course. I need your help with the lyrics, too.”

Nike gives Nehmen a non-committal look. “You want us to compose and perform songs so you can court Caline?”

“You’ll do it for me, right?”

Nike stays silent for a while. Then he says: “Krevel, look up. He’s doing his best puppy eyes.”

“That’s why I’m not looking up. I don’t want to compose any songs for Caline.”

Nehmen whines: “Please!”

Krevel groans, loud and long. He doesn’t, doesn’t want to do this. He sits up. “Alright,” he says, “but Caline can’t come to our practices until the song is done. Ah, ah, ah - otherwise it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

Nehmen thinks hard.

Nike laughs. “You should drive a harder bargain. Demand that Caline doesn’t come to our practices ever again.”

“But she likes them!” Nehmen protests.

“She makes Krevel nervous,” Nike points out. “And she’s useless both as a singer and as a player.”

Nehmen glares at him. “She’ll learn if she keeps coming.”

“No, she won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can. She doesn’t have the gift. We can all see that. You can see that.”

“If she just keeps trying…”

Krevel ponders whether the song should be in a major or minor key.

***

They’re supposed to play on Caline and Nehmen’s wedding. It took them months to prepare the gig.

Five days before the Day, Caline disappears. Her suicide note is addressed to Krevel. It says she didn’t feel truly loved. It says she can’t go on anymore. It says her world is living hell.

The wedding is cancelled. The gig is cancelled. Everything is cancelled. Morphine would be cancelled, but comfort is too rare to give up these days.

The abandoned Nehmen buries himself in the company of his two dozen friends. Just don’t mention Caline and he’s fine. She went for a nap or something. He’s happy. He’s good. Good. The facade is all that’s keeping him together.

But in the evening, when darkness falls and all grows hushed, Nehmen can’t sleep. He keeps seeing the love of his life in his mind’s eye. With each memory and each future plan that won’t unfold, his heart shrivels. He cries and cries and anything is better than that, so he gets his brothers together and they play. While darkness thickens, while the Hood becomes eerily silent, long after midnight… they play. As long as Nehmen’s sax is singing. As long as he needs it.

When Nehmen dozes off, Nike and Krevel lie down beside him. They curl his stem around their hands to make sure he doesn’t give them the slip. But Nehmen isn’t like Nike. He isn’t like Caline, for that part. The void scares him too much. All the warmth he knows comes from his loved ones. Whatever awaits him in the drain is worse than what little he has here.

They keep tabs on him night after night. But they can’t keep it up forever. One night, he slips away. He looks down the drain for a long time. Then he walks away. He steals the lifeseed Hoborg has prepared for them. And he creates Alan, a son to be with him forever.

Alan Zurückgeben makes Nehmen better. He takes his life’s mission very seriously. He does what’s best for his father, in spite of his father if he has to. He’s kind, which earns Krevel’s favour. He’s principled, which earns Nike’s favour. He has no taste in music, and he doesn’t pretend otherwise. So he’s allowed to attend their practices.

Nehmen’s broken heart slowly mends. You still can’t mention Caline around him, but at least he stops crying at night. He’s a millennium older. The weariness doesn’t suit him.

One day, he requests they write a song about… her. Yes, normally he hates when she’s brought up. But he feels like this might help. There are things he needs to say and he doesn’t know how to say them. They’ll help him out, right? As long as they don’t say her name…

Candy asked me, if she died, if I could go on. Of course I said I couldn’t, and of course we knew that’s wrong. But Candy, I said, Candy no, you can’t do that to me because you love me way too much for you to ever leave.

They disguise the elegies. Change the names, add nonsense detail. As they sing about “her”, the distant and cruel and tantalising one, longing for something that cannot be attained becomes the core of their music. After all, most pain in the world is unfulfilled want.

Take me with you when you go. Don’t leave me alone. I can’t live without you. Take me with you. Take me with you when you go.

***

Something incomprehensible has happened.

Caline has returned to the Neverhood.

She says jumping down the drain doesn’t kill you. She says you just fall and fall. She was lucky to land, too. Even if it took half her life out of her.

Nehmen cannot reconcile the last fifteen years with Caline being alive. So he discards the past. They are to be married in five days. She’s just cold to him because she’s nervous.

Nike cannot fathom why Caline would return. This place was her worst nightmare. Why revisit it? He asks Caline, and she says she must test her new self against it. Nike finds a new appreciation for her then.

Krevel is too afraid to ask the thing he doesn’t understand. If they failed her so badly, why would she still want to be their friend?

Nehmen tries to court Caline, but it is in vain. He thinks she’s playing hard to get. Sure, he’s done wrong, but he will change. Their wedding is in a few days, for Quater’s sake! This isn’t the time to be throwing a tantrum.

He’s still hopeful on the morning of the Day. He gets all dressed up. He finds Caline and gives her the gold ring. Caline dashes it off the Neverhood.

That is when Nehmen finally understands.

He lashes out and blames on her everything that has happened since she left. That she jumped without asking for help first, so that she could hurt him. That she took revenge and had the audacity to return. That it would have been better if she had stayed dead. He’s screaming and crying and Alan, Nike and Krevel are trying to take him away but they can’t handle him. Nehmen is losing the love of his life a second time. He didn’t think that was possible.

But who would want him now? Who could forgive all of this pain being displaced on them?

It takes Hoborg to intervene. He creates a cup and forces Nehmen to drink from it. Nike and Krevel exchange looks. Nehmen’s eyes glass over. He stops fighting.

“Can we play?” he mumbles as his brothers take him away. “Anything.”

You’re a bedtime story, the one that keeps the curtains close. And I hope you’re waiting for me, ‘cause I can’t make it on my own. I can’t make it on my own…

***

Nehmen gives up on trying to comprehend his fate when Alan leaves his side. He plays his heartbroken saxophone while his brothers sing: Last night I told a stranger all about you. They smiled patiently with disbelief. I always knew you would succeed no matter what you tried, and I know you did it all… in spite of me.

Morphine is theirs only, after all.

Only theirs.

***

A clear stone lies silently on the blue guest room bed. It is as big as a Hoodian curled into a tight ball, and just as heavy. It does not speak. It does not move. It is a stone.

And yet Nike and Nehmen still think of it as their brother. Their world is bright with pain, dull with hurt. Why would Krevel leave them like that? Why did he do this? Why did he do this to himself?

The clear stone lies silently on the bed and never answers, even though they talk to it. In their dreams, it laughs at them. It laughs in Leverk’s voice, shrill and grating.

They bring their instruments and they play to the stone. But the music is empty without the bass. They bring the two-stringed guitar as well, and place it on top of the stone. Krevel, play.

They waver.

This is ridiculous.

They leave their instruments in the blue guest room. In a few months, some good soul puts them under the bed. The two-stringed guitar, the saxophone, the drums. They are left to rot.

Rot, rot, rot away!

Like Krevel did.

***

It takes Krevel twelve years to comes back to life. He finds his guitar under the bed and he strums on it, nodding his head happily. Just like that, whoosh, the twelve years are gone. Twelve years of painful silence. Erased. Like Leverk. Like the wish.

If only it worked that way.

***

Nehmen and Krevel stay on the Post Island for hours, long after Nike and Klogg have disappeared in the black distance, long after everyone else has left. Hoborg was the last to go. He invited them to come with him, think about something else. They declined.

Huddled on the ground, they are lost and tiny. Nike is gone.

Nike has left them.

Their fingers itch for their instruments, but they can’t play without him. Just like Nehmen and Nike couldn’t play without Krevel. It’s preposterous.

Finally, Nehmen says: “Let’s get some kilko.”

Krevel blurts: “Quater, yes, please.”

***

Nehmen rushes into the Garden. When he meets Krevel’s eye, they both blush and hesitate.

“You didn’t tell me you were playing again,” Nehmen blurts out. He sits beside Krevel, takes his two-stringed guitar from his lap and examines it. A century of neglect has done nothing to it. That’s best klay for you.

“I’m sorry,” Krevel says.

“What made you start?” Nehmen asks.

“The Garden. And the gardener.”

Nehmen glances at Arig. The gardener is busy pretending he isn’t there.

“Huh,” Nehmen says.

They stare at the ground. Krevel doesn’t dare raise his eyes.

“Can I play with you?” Nehmen asks.

“Of course!”

The gardener clears his throat.

Krevel leaps to his feet. “But not here. Let’s see if the combo still works.”

Nehmen skitters after his brother. “Oh man. I gave my saxes away. I don’t know if I can get them back after all this time.”

Krevel laughs. “You’ve forgotten all the fingerwork anyway. I know I have.”

It is not acceptance. If they accepted Nike was gone for good, they’d never play again. Because then Morphine would be gone for good, too. But they know Nike is still out there. So they can play. Even if Krevel’s voice doesn’t purr like a cat and their tempo is all over the place.

***

They are astonished Nike still remembers their songs. He’s got new verses, too. He’s been singing them for relief for the whole journey. A hundred and five years later, he has them all fresh in his mind and his voice is more pleasant than ever.

They throw themselves at practising. Krevel and Nehmen feel what Nike won’t say: that he isn’t here to stay. He yearns for the vastness of space. They need to get their music into shape before his claustrophobia kicks in. They play in a frenzy, drinking while the cup isn’t empty.

They don’t make it.

“I’m leaving for the Brokenhood tomorrow,” Nike says. “Just for a couple of years.” It’s absurd that it seems like a short time to him. It is a short time. Neverhoodians have an eternity. It shouldn’t hurt so much.

But it stings and burns and drives tears into their eyes, so they pick up their instruments and play for Nike to come back.

There’s something sourly missing from the music they’re making, and the rhythm drifts faster and faster until their fingers can’t keep up.

But a sour drink is better than no drink. The alternative is chemical. They don’t want to go there again. The Guardian of Water wouldn’t let them anyway.

***

“I was wondering if you needed a drummer,” Ruze says.

Nehmen shifts his two saxophones, exchanges a wary look with Krevel. “Why would we need a drummer?”

“Because you can’t keep rhythm for the love of Quater.”

“Hah!”

They don’t want the Guardian of Invisible Forces as their drummer. He’s too pushy. He always wants things his way. He makes them restart time and again because they can’t nail the timing.

But damn, does he remind them of Nike. With his loud, deep voice. With his intolerance for bullshit. With his desire to lead them to a safer place.

It’s just for a little bit. It’s just for the concerts. It’s just… it’s just…

When Ruze gets a drum set, they know. They know they have betrayed. Morphine isn’t theirs alone anymore. The set sounds incredible. But Krevel has to sing the lead now, be the frontman, entice the crowd. He grows into it, all charm and caramel. He doesn’t sound as good as… but that doesn’t matter. Nike was the first to betray them. He needs his freedom more than he needs them. He loves his partner more than he loves them. And Morphine changes. Evolves with time. Everyone needs a balm for the soul. Theirs is music. And each other.

I’ll kill you dead! Is that a threat? Rubella, mumps and measles. Light another cigarette. Pop! goes the weasel.

They can’t make kilko anymore, anyway. The Guardian of Water watches the Labs like a hawk.

***

Something has changed the next time Nike comes back.

He watches from the audience while Morphine plays. There are tears in his eyes.

Then he tells them of the Empire.

***

Lights are blinking overhead. Red and white. Stars for the first time in a millennium.

No one knows what to make of them. No one knows anything anymore. Not since Hoborg disappeared. The angelic Klaya, the five Guardians, the black-eyed Tao, all followed him, vanishing without an explanation, without a trace. How could they make sense of this? They were supposed to live here together forever.

The answer lurks in the back of their minds. They do what they can to block it off. Because if it’s true… then nothing they do matters anyway. Eternity is coming to an end. And they can’t even enjoy the last moments because their hearts are too swollen in their chests.

Krevel and Nehmen sit together by the Mulberry Tree. The tree doesn’t scare Krevel anymore. It went barren a few months after the gardener disappeared. The two sit, back to back, and play something. They repeat it over and over. They have been at it for days.

I know a ship that’s leaving soon; in fact, this very afternoon. So don’t forget your parachute, and I’ll be there to catch you.

Where is Nike? Where is Ruze? Where are their drummers? Where is time?

Time is the blinking stars overhead. Time is staring into the Seer’s eyes and seeing nothing but despair. Time is in the slow beating of their hearts. In the numbness that settled in when they ran out of food to eat and water to drink. Even electricity ran out. Krevel had to put his red-and-white bass away and take up an acoustic guitar.

They are husks, unable to die, and the music is filling them.

Hand over hand up the lifeline. Luckily the knots stay tight. Silhouettes of the two of us climbing, climbing up the rope on fire.

What day is it? They stopped counting. Hoborg used to keep the time. And the sunsetter. They are both gone now, and the rest has lost count.

They played for them to come back. They played to be forgiven. They played to forgive. Not anymore. Today, they only play to forget. Lose themselves in the music. Pretend nothing exists but the two of them, two brothers, two lovers, the last two people in the world. Pretend their music is everything. The notes wrap around them. Comfort them. Drive everything else from their heads.

They sit by the Mulberry Tree, play and sing.

The red and white stars come closer. Strange shapes block them out. Roar of engines. Whizz of flybys. The Hood shakes when the first vessel comes gliding from the sky and carves a line into the Weasel Arena. A figure climbs out, shines a flashlight about him. He trains the light upon them. Their eyes water in the bright flood. The music peters out. More crashes, more shaking, as more vessels make contact.

“Hands in the air, swines!” the pilot bellows. “What are you looking at? This is an invasion! All hail the Emperor! Put those things away and get up!”

They stay close to each other. When they are herded into the Public Park together with everyone else. When they are boarded onto a spaceship. All they can think of is staying together.

The music is still ringing in their ears.

Someday, there'll be a cure for pain. That's the day I throw my drugs away.

#neverhood #fanfiction #morphine #krevel #nike #nehmen aber zurückgeben #alan zurückgeben #caline #hoborg #ruze

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