Serpents and Stairways

Chapter I - Part 2

"Correct, that's how I got here. And you?"

"Misfortune as well. Do you think your automaton could take out all six?"

So he saw behind the Veil. More good news—albeit moderately good, but better than nothing.

"They have firearms, and he's broken. I don't think so."

Once more, she imagined what could happen to these men's experienced reality if Servantes tried to intervene. Their consciousness would probably "fix" his image—fill in, paint over, fit into the surroundings. Would turn the automaton into a large wolf or some fantastic woodland beast, if they are prone to mythical thinking... No, that last one would be less likely even though there have been cases. But then, of course, once the heat of the moment dissipates, the mind will find a way to make their memories normal, more appropriate for the ordinary day-to-day of these people.

She shushed her own thoughts: pointless philosophizing. What difference would the way they perceive Servantes make? If the automaton attacks, the six would have enough strength to finish the job which gravity, moisture and rocks started—there was no doubt about that.

"Shame."

The captive sounded flippant. Dinah sighed and rubbed her forehead against the knee. A couple of airplanes flew over them—she understood that by the sound that had slipped past them.

"My name is Dinah Gremin." She introduced herself more out of a sense of helplessness rather than etiquette.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Gremin," he responded, as if at a grandma's picnic in Central Park. "Have you been to Silen before?"

"No."

"I've heard its Opera house puts on wonderful ballets."

"Are they going to kill us?"

"Not sure yet. And I think they aren't either."

One of the men poured water into a pot and placed it over the fire.

A voice that confident could have belonged to a protagonist of a fairytale—an ancient pre-agrarian one. A protagonist that—finding himself in a bone-witch's hut, spotting the firebird in the woods, or seeing his bride shed lizard skin—was never surprised and accepted as given his place in the story. From freshman year to grad school she had read a pile of those, searching for historical parallels, encrypted descriptions of the oldest rituals, and matching topographical details. And before that she had been a witness of the myth machinery in person—long ago, many years back.

"Don't be angry with them, they don't mean evil," the stranger continued, and, apparently noticing the flare of irritation on Dinah's face, added "you would've understood that yourself if you could see their faces."

"I'm not blind," she said, even though she really couldn't discern any faces.

"I'll keep that in mind. Just... I don't know how to explain that. The one who brought you here, with a silly professor's moustache, looks more like a literature teacher than a bandit. Another one wears a tweed suit, and all of them have neat nails, carefully trimmed."

"One can be a malicious man, and mind the beauty of his nails" she said, but the stranger didn't understand the reference and simply shrugged.

"May be so," he said, stretching the vowels.

But she didn't notice that. Instead Dinah heard Servantes—the barely audible rocking sounds so unlike footsteps—slowly walking around the camp. Hidden behind the hazels, he was getting closer, yet not too close to attract attention. What did that give them? Maybe not too much.