InkMind

There is an annoying pimple on my arm. It’s a huge, angry, red mountain, full of pus wanting to burst out. I try to do my work, but the pimple annoys me, angers me too much. It cannot be so, I must do something about it. I get up from my desk and realise how late it is. The only light in the apartment is coming from the laptop screen. White light from the empty page I’ve been staring at for hours. 

I make my way towards the bathroom, slowly putting one foot after another, arms stretched out in front of me. And still – obviously – I shriek and swear with all the language of Babel and the ferocity of a Central European grandmother, when I kick my shin on the corner of the bed. Finally, as I jump, holding my shin with my hand, I reach the bathroom, fingers crawling on the wall and I flick the light on. The sharpness of it seems to my brain like a flash bang – and still holding my shin with one hand, I must once again steady myself. But not steady enough, I sink to the floor, back rigid against the door frame, I can feel my vertebrae scrape one by one as I arrive with a thunk slap of my thighs against the cold tile. 

Back to the pimple in question. As pathetic as I am, here I go, shimmying myself on the floor to the cupboard to take out a pimple patch. Could get up, but at least here I can be sure that there is nowhere lower. Where the fuck is the patch? I swear it was next to the huge bag of “absolutely sanitary” band-aids. Which might do just as perfect as the extremely expensive Korean skincare bull crap pimple patches I got on TikTok Shop. Why do I even keep buying crap from there, honestly, it is probably full of asbestos or some shit. Surprised my face hasn’t melted off yet. 

After I fat finger the whole band-aid bag and now the floor is covered in definitely not sanitary any more bandages, I pick one at random. Stick it on the fucker, with the reassurance of a five-year-old, out of sight out of mind. But the band-aid is too big, it snags my skin, and I am already more annoyed than I was when the pimple was left alone. From this moment, I believe I was dead. I ceased to exist, my soul left my body, and I was not controlled by myself. There is no other explanation. And there was nothing left of me after what happened, so this must have been the moment. I died. 

I always kept scissors with the bandages, in case of a never happening medical emergency, where I have to bandage up my friend bleeding out from a cut, they self-inflicted with the dull end of a bottle opener. Or something similar, anyhow. It is a quite ordinary object, red plastic handle, can be used by both left and right-handed, sharp metallic edge, ready for life-saving necessities. 

But I thought – or didn’t think because I was dead – that the best spot for cutting off the excess of this bandage is on myself. I must not remove this emergency sticker and waste it because of my inability to think ahead; no, I must cut it off myself, on myself. So, there I was, I took the ordinary scissor and started carving away at my own flesh. Nothing deep, just enough to cut the band-aid, but not myself. Or that is what went through my head, before I’ve seen fresh blood trickle down my arm, dripping, disappearing between my legs and down onto the tile, seeping into the cracks. 

From here on, what happened is absolutely out of any normal existence, or of any rational, reasonable ideology of any human. And I’m still shocked, astonished, marvelling, because my hand did not stop there, it continued, with this blade, cutting swirls, patterns, lines and crossovers into flesh. My own skin, bursting open, with the sharpness of a thousand suns, sending a million volts of acute pain in the way only cutting skin can hurt. 

Though the pain doesn’t register as I keep carving and splitting, the tiles under me forever stained with blood. It doesn’t stop on my arm, I continue, carving at my legs and hips and hands, all the way around, wherever I can reach. I am carving a human Fabergé egg of myself. The original reason for my being here is already so faded in the background of the dripping reverberating in the bathroom, that I am not sure I ever even was.

InkMind

She stood in front of the floor mirror, wearing only black tights and colourful bangles on her arms. She put her arms up in the air, touching her fingertips together above her head. ‘My hair is so long, it feels like I am wearing a wig.’ She gathered the waist long, curly black hair and piled it atop her head with one sweep move. ‘Don’t you think it looks like a wig?’ – she asked, turning around. ‘Even if it were a wig, it suits you. But I am glad it isn’t one.’ The man was baritone, sitting in a decorated Victorian style chair, legs apart, wrapped in skinny jeans, shirt open. ‘And why is that? What would be the problem with a wig?’ – she walked towards him, turned again and knelt down with her back against his knees. ‘Because I couldn’t do this’ – he grabbed her hair gently and pulled her head backwards. She arched her back and spread herself onto his knees, her breasts gently flowing to her side. He let go of her hair, leant forward and spread his hands out on her chest, grasping with lust. She moaned and moved her chest around like a snake swimming through sand. ‘But you said it’s time to go for you again.’ she slowly arched forward and stood up with a gently flowing motion. He also stood, slowly walked around the hazy room as he buttoned his shirt up and lit a cigarette. ‘It is time. But I won’t be long. Stay.’ She took a cigarette from the silver case in his hand, took it between her lips, leaned closer and lit it with his cigarette. ‘Stay. Hmm. Perhaps I’ll stay forever.’ He walked to the corner of the room, and knelt on a colourful rug, surrounded by knick-knacks, junk and beauty stuff. He brushed his shoulder-length black hair slowly. ‘Perhaps you want me to bring something?’ She walked in front of him, spun around and dropped herself in his lap. Slowly, excruciatingly, she started to grind her hips. He dropped the hairbrush and firmly grasped her hips with both hands, pulling her closer, leaning into her hair, breathing in her scent. Their cigarettes burning up on the floor next to them. They moved like so, swirling together like dancing snakes, until he pushed her away and stood up abruptly. ‘I really need to go now. Stay. Please.’ He picked up the silver cigarette case, and walked out. She listened to his hurried footsteps on the creaking wooden stairs. She stood up, picked up the remains of her cigarette, inhaled and exhaled sharply. She turned towards the mirror again, staring at her reflection. As if she were trying to make sure she is still herself. She grabbed a small stool, dragged it to the inner edge of the balcony, climbed atop and pulled down the rope, which was waiting for her prepared. She inhaled a last drag of her cigarette. She put the rope around her neck. And as she watched him get on the bus across the street, she said: ‘Perhaps I’ll stay.’ With that, she kicked the stool out from under herself.

InkMind

Sitting at my table. I write words. Some of them make sense in the 2 AM moonlight sonata of the night.

Dangling feet
Finger snap 
Snap slo’ oh melodies
Slam bam

I laugh. Did I hear myself laugh? Aloud in the moonlight sonata, it seems like I committed a felony. Something unsacred, that goes against the laws of nature. Such a dare. To disturb the moonlight sonata like this. Let’s continue.

Small small so’ oothing sounds
Wave riding brain

There is nothing “so’ oothing” here. How can I imagine these? Images? Imagination. The ambulance dares too. Disturbing the moonlight sonata. Such bravery, pride. To be dying in the moonlight sonata. It’s gone; no-one cares anymore. The dying is gone, but the act was not disturbing us anyway. It was just the sirens. Now silence. I need to focus.

Crow on the balcony
Shit and fl’ I away.

How did the crow look like? It evades me. I can imagine something that isn’t but imagining that I remember doesn’t work. Even if I could, in that imagined remembrance there must exist also an image of what it was I remember. Of course, without the usual substances it would be hard anyway. As you can imagine. Can you imagine? Are you imagining or just following these words? Are you seeing me in my chair in the dark, face illuminated by the small soft light of the screen? Can you imagine? 

Let’s not talk about you. I’m sorry, but I am not interested. Return to the poem. The words still don’t make any sense, but somehow there is a form and when the form forms a form it is sense. Sense? What is sense anyway? Am I sense? Or is it sane? What language am I talking about anyway? How many words do I know for sane? Értelem, ráció, rezon, ész, eszmélet… No, these won’t help. To understand, to make you understand I would have to include some baggage. Can you carry it? Can you bear the weight? 

But I won’t, I won’t do that. If I am Sense, then I need to rip myself away from the past; the baggage doesn’t fit, I cannot check it in. More than 25 kilos. And I don’t have money to pay for the extra charge. So, stick with what you know. Sense. Do you know sense? He is a fine chap living in the other crescent over there. Oh, but I am pointing. And you cannot see. But can you imagine? I am pointing out into the darkness, my arm stretched out, and it feels like I am exiting the space that exists for writing. If I am not careful, if I need to piss and accidentally look in the bathroom mirror, the illusion is broken. There needs to be an illusion, an imagination of…of sense. I guess. I cannot unimagine myself by accident. What a disaster. 

But how do I imagine myself? First, I need to be realized, but not too much. If I am too real, I exit that space that exists for me to operate in. It is an exceptionally fine grey line. Promptly between 2 and 4 AM. Any time zone does, but a big city is best. Why? Because there are ones who dare in the city. And how else would I be annoyed? If there is no-one to dare, I cannot be annoyed and then it is all over. The best emotion for fine work is annoyance. It brings out that certain je ne sais quoi.

Do you know what? What, what? The words! Words are the most important! More words!

Lone rubble piece, rolling down the hill,
Splash in the water.
No. One. Builds. There. 
No. Spades. No. Working. Hands.
No. Living. Men.

Is it too harsh? Maybe it would sound like a marching band if I could hear it read aloud. Let me try. Oh, but I stepped outside. Now I need to find my way back to the zone. The consequences of my rash decisions. Let us relax and try to continue instead. Let me not disturb the moonlight sonata again, or I may lose it all.

Lone rubble piece, hits something soft,
A small hand, curled up. 
No. Living. Men.

Still, the harshness is there. Too rough, even to say it is a diamond in the making. But it must be finished.

No. Song. No. Bird. No. Thunder. 
No. More. No. Storm.
Living. Men. Know.

Know. What do I even know? Or know about? I know about some things, but do I really Know anything? Like that story said. To Know with a big K. I would need to enter another cosmology to understand that. To Know “K” anything. But there is no cosmology for me to fit in. There are fragments of cosmologies that I inserted myself into. Do you understand? Do you follow? I aggressively. Aggressively! Inserted myself into a cosmology. Because of my arrogance. I am an arrogant person. I never said otherwise, but that is even more arrogant. To know that I am Arrogant with a big “A”. There is more.

Under the equator we are in the earth, smoking brown-brown,
And here we are in the clouds smoking white-white,
The substance of life until you see some One with your own eyes drop dead from the
White-white that is paid for by the others and one brown’th of the brown-brown
They smoke down there under the equator, this great divide,
We are in the earth here, down-down and we are here in the clouds white-white
Life-life, smoking away our brown eyes
And we are brown and we are white and we All die the same.

And I arrived at the other end of the scale. The moonlight sonata slowly rescinded. And I have not noticed that I half-leg entered the cosmology of everyday images. Too real. This is what you should take care of. Not to be too real. Do not fall into the imaginary. Because you can lose yourself at both ends of the same tub. So, goodbye. Have a day.

InkMind

The pavement is so hot I can feel my shoes slowly melting into the ground. If I walk faster the shoes will be preserved. On the other hand, sweat is not the nicest look on me. I sway around the next panelház. The remnants of the soviet era, the great socialism we tried to build. The whole block smells like childhood. But slowly as I weave my way through to the small shop, it smells like my grandfather. Pure pálinka and cheap cigars. At least surely, they will serve me here.

Good morning.

Morning darling. What can I get you? 

3 boxes of Marlborough Gold and 4 bottles of Tekila. But not the vizezett shit, the normal one.

He looks at me with a puzzled expression.

Are you sure, little one? Those are expensive.

Hah, ‘little one’. How old are you boy? I bet he just turned 18. What a shitty first job, serving the local drunks their daily salvation.

I have money.

A shout from behind me. A voice I know.

Serve her! she’s [REDACTED]’s granddaughter. None of usses’ goin’ turn her in!

I look at the shopkeeper. On the inside I am screaming.

You know there is a limit now.

Are you ‘gona serve me or not? I don’t have all day.

Another shout. Another man, from the same table.

Serve her goddammit!

The shopkeeper looks at me again. He can’t decide what to do.

I know how much it is. And I know the extra. Don’t worry about it.

He serves me. Bottles clinking in the cheap see through plastic bag. I hand over the money, with extra. I turn around to leave, I look at the table of men with a thankful expression. As I leave, I remember to embarrass the shopkeeper. I shout lightly:

Thank you, little one!

Now he knows where his place is. The men laugh. Another memory of my childhood. My grandfather was so happy here. I make my way back through the concrete jungle. The bottles clink even louder in the stairwell of the building as I run up. Here it is, 4th floor, flat 16. The key turns easily, and the door opens. It smells like dust and death. Everything is covered in stuff. A life’s worth of garbage. And I am alone, here to take care of it. To clean you up. I light a cigarette. The smoke makes me cough, I’m not used to real cigarettes anymore. But I wanted to smoke. Out of pure spite. Because you hated it.

My stomach stirs me up from the three-hour grimy sleep. The rush of vomit coming up through my throat rips me into reality. It snaps me out of my dissociation. I am in the bathroom, in the darkness. I am me again. The ghostly self has gone back to where it belongs. But how can I be sure that this is all real? I must find tangible evidence of my existence. Here it is, the mirror. Hanging on the wall, in the dark bathroom. The small light on the nightstand can’t reach this spot. I still feel like a ghost, half-existing in this darkness. Dissociation is hammering my brain. It only took 5 shots of alcohol to get to this place. I can think about us here. Think about things we should have told each other. And there is leftover to drink. I can’t talk to death sober.

I wonder what comes first. What time will I fall back to? But I can feel it coming. On a rainy day, soaked leather jacket and shoes unfit for autumn.

How dare you ask me to stay? When I begged, pleaded, cried, offered solutions for years. How dare you put me in this position? Because if I say no, I will regret it. I’ll know that I’ve done it out of spite. With the deepest anger I tried to repress. And if I say yes, then I wasted years and I am giving up something I fought for. Something I went through and something that made me stronger. But I realized long ago that this is how you always protected yourself. Just let me make the decisions, put all the blame and responsibility on me. After calling me childish, doubting me, telling me I will change my mind. Well, I didn’t. Even after you left, I did not change my mind. But I had no opportunity anymore to prove it to you. Life happens. Sometimes I feel like it was divine punishment for being so stubborn.

And it’s you, looking at me. Of course, it’s you in your jeans and blue shirt tucked in, like a presentable adult. Your three-day stubble telling me of the late nights you spent thinking about this conversation, and how you were going to ask me to stay.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the pain.

Oh, don’t be. Don’t be sorry for the pain. I did that to myself; it was my incompetence.

This is the truth. I couldn’t tell myself for years, I just could not come to terms with it. But I guess becoming an adult is all about these things. Accepting that the bone crushing emotional pain is my own fault.

What then? For being equally stubborn? For loving you? 

No. No because that would be a lie. 

Enlighten me then. Even though I’ve had a hot minute to think about this, I am not an emotional x-ray like you. 

For being a coward. 

Ah, yes. It seems like I have forgotten that you not only throw daggers, you twist them around as well. 

Just another fault of mine. Congratulations, you were right, I don’t change.

Another conversation, you are looking into my eyes with those sparkling blue irises. The morning sun, rising behind you. Like every other Sunday morning we spent together, deciding on each street corner which way to turn, only to end up in our places. Me on the bus and you walking home on the pavement.

I took away many things from you? I put all the decisions and the responsibility on you? You are a grownup and still think that you didn’t take anything from me in return. You think you only did good by bringing me out of my shell. Where is my safety? Where is my loneliness? My comfortable cocoon of self. Where did it go? 

I made you better. I made you happier. I made us. 

Please. You sound like a villain. You took everything, wore it inside out like a second-hand coat until it fell apart on your shoulders. Everything I had was slowly replaced by you. Like I was a project. A human ship of Theseus. 

You were not a project, there was no purpose, no goal in what I’ve done. 

Still, am I myself after you replaced everything? Or am I just a twisted, sick version of you?

The halo of the sun is gone. Now it’s just relentless summer rays illuminating the horizon so much that I have to squint to look into the distance. As I stand here, with your ghost, I think about the time when you loved me.

You are pushy, too fast, snarky, slightly bitter, overly sarcastic. I am going to stop there, because I am already hurting you. I keep hurting you and you keep coming back. Like some sick puppy. It is hard to compliment you. If I do, you get excited and you think it is an affirmation of your feelings. You push me the right way. I love your clever sarcasm and your slightly bitter, snarky comments about people. I love to remind you to breathe when you talk too fast. I can feel your breath running out when you sit on my lap and just talk and talk and talk. I feel like I need extra memory in my brain to remember all the things you say; I want to etch your words into my mind forever. We are like puzzle pieces that almost fit together. That is why you feel that you need to compensate for my shortcomings. Pretending to be something that you are not, only to shape yourself to my edges. You compromise your relationships with your parents and your friends to please me. Or to feel like you are pleasing me. Ultimately it is all about you. When you lie about where you are just so you can sit on the stairs in my building waiting for me to get home. When I first saw you there, you didn’t tell me you were waiting. I was surprised how you got in. But of course, you talked to the neighbor. It seems so obvious to you, and I am just astonished by the audacity. Next time, you told me you will wait for me. I practically hid in the office until you gave up and gone home. I didn’t realize until later that you thought I just had to work late. You are so clever and sometimes so stupid. Did you really think that I would put myself through your game again when I had the chance to evade? Years later when I was already gone you remembered that day and thought about it. Well done, you figured out that I can be cruel too.

I look in the mirror again. I say things I used to tell myself at night. In my childhood bedroom, resting my head on the singular yellow wall I painted myself. The sulking of a teenage girl filling the room with palpable heaviness.

I’ve read somewhere this analogy about grief. It’s like a box with a button and a bouncing ball inside. When the ball hits the button, you feel grief. And with time the box will get bigger, so the ball hits the button less and less. But the box will be there forever. You can’t get rid of it no matter how hard you try. My box is quite new. It smells like a fresh car and some sickeningly sweet chocolate. And it is small. The button doesn’t get much rest. And often I feel like you go there and press the button just for your amusement. Like a child who’s been told not to touch something. You just can’t help yourself. It must be fun to see someone you loved suffer. And when I still get through the day without shedding a tear you feel justified. You tell yourself and show the others around you: See, that one is a monster.

Some realized my shortcomings, and if I am already confessing everything then why shouldn’t I say it all? It’s fine, no one can hear me anyway. None of this is happening outside in the real world where real people live. I am not real here; this self of mine was never real.

I told them not to bury me. My role in life was to be useful. And I wanted to be useful even after I was gone. Give my body to science. Let them cut me apart, squeeze me and scrape me down to my very core. They might find something inside me. Something that explains what I was. It’s important, because people need explanations. Everything always needs to be dissected and explained step-by-step. Jumping to a conclusion is never enough. It’s not satisfying. Because what if you spent your life nitpicking other people’s decisions and it was for nothing? Oh, it can’t be that caring about others’ lives more than your own wasn’t a good idea after all. That would mean you were wrong. It’s terrifying, isn’t it? The thought of wasting your life.

I didn’t want to waste one more moment. I wanted to feel the scratch of your stubble against my cheek and your arms around my waist. The rush of adrenaline, because I knew we were doing something sinful, breaking something sacred. But the only thing I feel is loneliness. This deep, thickness encompasses my body, like the liquid silver this mirror is made of. It is a cold suffocation, exactly like the time after you told me…

I know you think I am a coward. And probably you are right. Probability is interesting. Mathematical probability is completely different from life probability. Many things seem probable to me. I will die before you. I am older than you. Even if nothing horrific happens to me, I will still probably die before you. And that is fine. It is as things should be. Probably you will stop loving me. Or I thought so. I always thought that you would, at some point, stop loving me. And probably I was wrong. One of my regrets. I was full of doubt, fear, and uneasiness. Although I didn’t have these feelings towards you, I had them towards myself. You just happened to stand in the line of fire, and I took it all out on you. I should have been smarter, more compassionate, brave. Probably I should have done many more things, but I couldn’t. Not even for you. It is too late to think about our decisions now. It doesn’t matter if we decided together or on our own, it is too late. What is the meaning of it anyway? Why does it matter? I am gone and you will be gone at some point. You think that you will think about me forever, but that’s just not true. Because however much you are trying to preserve this feeling, you are still young, and you will find someone else to be happy with. So, what’s the point of it all? Why are you purposely re-traumatizing yourself?

I return. The mirror is showing me myself. The cold, smooth surface of the sink I am touching sends signals to my brain, almost screaming: This is real! Welcome home! What happened to me? What happened to us? I should confess that even if there was no goal to what I was doing back then, ultimately, I changed you. Piece by piece. Most of these memories are part of my old imagination. Conversations I wanted to have with you. Yet, some things happened outside of my head. We both said hurtful things to each other, without the intention of taking it back or apologizing for it. We wanted to hurt each other. This was the safest way. To play this cat and mouse game for years. Now it’s all on me. Because ghosts can’t write stories. There will be a version of you forever existing in my head. So, even though you are dead, no one can take me away from you. However much I’d like it.

InkMind

As the door opens and I step out of the car, I notice the earthy sound of gravel under my feet. The air smells of grapes, tomatoes and grass. The day is still fresh and inviting. I grab the edge of the car’s roof and pull myself up, flinging my feet on the seat and stretching my back like a meerkat so I can see down into the valley, the last remnant of early morning fog resting above the lake. Suddenly, my great grandma calls me over. I run, and the small wood bungalow welcomes me, with doors and windows open on one side, and the mess — that is supposed to be food storage, but my great grandpa took over it — spilling over the groundsill. Of course, my great grandpa had already started to work on fixing something, or maybe building a new contraption before he came to pick me up. My great grandma has been doing something magical as well: I can see the red tin bowls full of growing dough, spread out on the grass. Today is lángos for lunch. As I take this all in, I remind myself to slow down and listen to what my great grandma is telling me. I stand with my back straight, eyes up and absorb the words. ‘You can go down to the lake, but you need to be back soon. And don’t get yourself wet or muddy please.’ – she says this with a soft voice, but I still feel that I am walking on eggshells. I need to be careful or they will send me back, my parents will be angry and I’ll be put with my grandmother in that horrible stuffy flat of hers. I make sure that great grandma has finished talking before I spin around with a burst of happiness and excitement rushing through me. I feel that my emotions are uncontrollable, like a metronome ticking between absolute ecstasy and anxious seriousness. I shake my head in an attempt to make this confused feeling go away. I am going to be ok.

I run down the hill, careful not to twist my ankle on the slope. Our land stretches down to the lakeshore. It makes me think about how the hills collect the rain in their secret caverns before water comes, first slowly trickling down, then turning into many fast rivers eventually settling in the valley, forming the lake. This water is our heart. Without it, the land would be empty, nothing. There is no other way to water the vines and crops, and no way to cool our burning skins after a long day of work under the sun. I think of this water, and how it is in me, part of me. I am a child of the water, just as the grass, the trees and the crops.

A delicious smell brings me back from my thoughts. I start to stroll back up the dirt road, tomatoes on both sides. The largest bowl is now sitting on a small wooden stool that my great grandpa made for me to stand up on so I could reach the counter and help wash the dishes. I giggle. I’m tall enough to do that without the stool now. The feet of the stool are getting covered by grass year-by-year as it’s left out in the same spot. Next to the stool, stands my great grandma, tearing off pieces of dough with oiled hands and gently dropping them into the bogrács—a huge, cauldron-like cooking pot with layers upon layers of soot on the outside, hanging above the open fire. Running closer, I stumble as I stop abruptly, my great grandma holding her hand up in front of me. ‘Did I not tell you a million times not to run around the bogrács? You will slip and tip it over.’ I look at the pot, doe eyed, feeling dumb. I am more scared of the fire burning under it than the boiling oil inside. The crackling of fire always scared me. I do not like unexpected noises, and this noise especially — it can mean a burning piece of wood is flying towards me. I sit on the grass at a safe distance, for now. As the lángos fries and my great grandma puts the fresh ones in a basket, I stand again and creep closer, quickly snatching a lángos for myself. ‘Not too fast kicsikém or you’ll burn your tongue. The sour cream is in the cold box, get it for me please. And don’t forget the garlic and the salt.’

While I go to the cold box, I stuff the lángos in my face like a hamster. I grab the things great grandma asked for and return to my spot on the grass. I make my second lángos just the way I like it, with lots of garlic and sour cream, and decide to wander away to a nearby tree — away from the fire that’s getting hotter and bigger by the second — with the sour cream already coating the corners of my mouth as I take another big bite. I sit under the tree, munching, listening to my great grandma hum a song to herself. After eating, I lay under the tree in the shade. Here, no one moves after lunch: the sun is too strong. For a while, the hill goes quiet, even the cicadas take a nap.

I doze off and a few hours pass by. I am glad, the late afternoon sun is much more welcoming. A mild, orange light coats the hill, reflecting on the still water, painting the grass and trees in an autumnal color. In a short time, the air cools down and it becomes early evening, as the last light of the sun disappears behind the hillside. It is soon time for the stars. Silence is replaced by a fire crackling and chatter. I watch, as fence gates separating people’s land start to open, and everyone comes together to have dinner. I think of the water again. It’s in everyone here. All the elders and all the children. We are all one, in separate bodies. We belong together. My great grandma calls me over so we can start to roast the best-smelling pork belly pieces. It’s a ‘dinner ritual’. Great grandma brings the meat that’s sat in spices all day in the pantry; the stones around the fire are removed and replaced to form a large circle. I carefully rekindle the ash with some twigs, my body turned half away from the fire that isn’t even burning yet. But we started it too late. Great grandpa has to bring out the torches to give us more light. My nose fills with the smell of ignition fluid as he fuels the old torches up before lighting the wick. There is nothing more to do until the fire picks up, so I sit on the grass. I take the plastic tub my great grandma placed close to me, open it and rub the thick gel-like substance in my skin to keep the mosquitoes away. I am going to have bites anyway. The gel never works.

A little later, when the fire is burning again, I get a piece of meat from the bowl, pierce it on a metal grilling spear and hold it into the fire. I wish there was a better way, farther from the heat. With my other hand I hold a piece of home made bread to catch the dripping fat. Sometimes the bread is better than the meat. Great grandpa is roasting onions for me. Even though it makes his eyes water, and my great grandma says ‘You will smell like a skunk if you eat that.’ But I still like to eat it, especially because it was made just for me. After eating the meat, we get some cake from one of our neighbors. A juicy, sour lemon sponge cake. My favorite. I sit on the grass with my full belly, and watch the fire burn out. By the time the last flicker of light is gone from the ashes, my great grandparents are asleep in the house. I can hear the quiet snores coming through the open door. How can they sleep with the mosquitoes around? 

I get up from the grass, knowing that my shorts are probably green on my butt by now. I kick my shoes off my feet and hurl them aside before I go inside the house, to lay down on the mattress that’s there for me. I always loved sleeping like this, on the floor, between my great grandparents. I feel looked over, safe and sound. But I worry about the summer. I hope I won’t be a bother, and I can stay. I wish I could stay forever. I close my eyes and for now, want to dream about riding my great grandpa’s bike down to the local ice cream parlor. I giggle, as I think about last year when my feet got stuck in the bike frame and I fell in the nettle bush. Slowly, I drift to sleep, listening to the sounds of cicadas, and the faint swish of waves on the lake.

‘If I do the…and what sort of amalgamation…the calculations.’ – he muttered to himself.’ ‘Who goes there, at this hour?’ – came a shout from behind. 

‘Tis I, master Lewin. Don’t fret.’ 

‘Ah, Manchor. Morning to ya’ my friend. How are the spirits today?’ 

‘They are well, they are well. Today is the day, I tell you master.’ – he hurried his steps. ‘I see, my friend. Every day is the day to you. See you later then.’ 

‘To the left, to the right  where, where? Ah yes, this is the one.’ – he stopped in front of a broken, old gravestone, where a name was engraved: Ser Gavin Green the Kind, 1310 – 1335, He was gallant, but still exiled. Manchor knelt before the gravestone, gently touched the ground, bowed his head, and chanted. ‘Vita. Mors. Redi. Revoca hunc hominem.’ – the grave was silent, a lone crow crept above Manchor’s head, the trees cracked. ‘Ah, this man! no man! why it never works!’ – Manchor’s words reverberated through the graveyard, old master Lewin giggled at his friend. ‘Ah, I give up. There is no magic in me left. I should have become a scribe, like my mother said.’ – Manchor dropped himself on the ground, holding his head in his hands.

As Manchor mumbled about his failure, something slowly stirred in the depths. 

Ser Gavin awoke and instantly felt cold and uncomfortable. ‘Where am I? What happened to me?’ He tried to take in his surroundings, but it was completely dark. He used his hands to feel the walls and his body, but he could barely push his arms down to his legs. ‘Am I…dead? But no, no, I am alive. Surely, I am, definitely alive.’ He relaxed his body, took a deep breath, and tried to remember what has happened to him, when suddenly he heard a shout. 

‘Are you there?’ – it was Manchor. ‘Ser, are you awake? MY GOD I CANNOT BELIEVE, I DID IT. IT WORKED!’ – as Manchor jumped around in his excitedness, he almost forgot about Ser Gavin in his coffin.

‘Wait Ser, I get my shovel and we’ll have you out of there in no time!’

‘OUT OF WHERE EXACTLY?’

Ser Gavin pulled himself out from the coffin and stood next to Manchor – towering above the small necromancer – with his armour shining in the morning sun. 

‘Well, thank you my friend. To whom do I owe the pleasure?’ ‘Manchor is my name kind Ser. Manchor, the necromancer.’ 

‘Necromancer you say? Feck, wait a second…I died. And here I thought it was a dream.’ ‘Yes, ser, unfortunately, ten years ago, as today is the first of April 1345.’ 

‘1345?! 1345?!! My lord, indeed, it has been some time then. Is our dear king Roberr still on the throne?’ 

‘Ah, his daughter, Margery is our precious queen now. But let us move ourselves from this place Ser. The local tavern is a fine establishment on the main square. Let me treat you to an ale, I have some questions about your resurrection. If you don’t mind’. 

‘I sure don’t mind an ale my friend.’ 

The tavern was busting with people, the noise of conversations and clinking of ale steins and wine goblets filled the air. The morning fog lifted off the ground, it was a fine spring day. 

‘There you go Ser, your ale. How are you feeling?’ 

‘Thank you Manchor. I am feeling quite grand, considering the circumstances. And call me Gavin, please, I think of you as my friend, after all.’ 

‘Thank you, Gavin. I appreciate the thought.’ 

‘So, Manchor, how did you become a necromancer?’ 

‘My mother wished me to be a scribe, but I was thrown out of the academy. I didn’t pay enough attention to my studies, I was preoccupied with my own interests.’ 

‘Your own interest being, raising the dead I suppose?’ 

‘Well, we can say that, yes.’ – Manchor’s cheeks got red, he turned his face away. 

‘Oh, don’t be shy my friend. There is nothing wrong with interest in nature, life, and death. Afterall, it is better to live, whatever way one’s life is.’ 

‘True, true. But be careful my friend, the god fearing of the town won’t like you opinion I’m afraid.’ 

Ser Gavin looked around and seen the townsfolk’s faces, all turned away, but clearly listening in on the conversation. 

‘This town never changes. But what do I have to be afraid of? What will they do to me? Kill me? Hah!’ 

‘Well, they won’t kill you, but they may make your second life harder. And to achieve mercy from the Queen, you need to be on good terms with the townsfolk I’m afraid.’ 

‘Tell me then Manchor, what did I miss in the past 10 years?’ ‘Oh, a lot indeed. The king died from poisoning…’ ‘Poisoning? Who? Why?’ 

‘Don’t fret, he did it to himself.’ – Manchor leaned closer and whispered. ‘Pineapple.’ ‘Oh no. I have bad memories about that wretched fruit.’ 

‘What do you mean?’ 

‘Why, Manchor, you don’t know my story?’ ‘Pray tell me, I’m interested now.’ 

‘Buckle up my friend, this is a long tale.’

1335, the king’s feast hall is full of people, busting music, all dancing and having fun. On the side of the glorious high table sits the king’s guard, Ser Gavor in his shining armour. The army just returned from great war, defeating countless nasty orcs threatening the kingdom. 

‘Wait a second, before you continue; you had a bride, didn’t you? What happened to her?’ ‘She went to study before the war started and a year later returned from the mage college with a diploma and another man’s child. But let us not talk about that, I shall continue the tale.’ 

The army was tired, the generals were angry. We couldn’t save three villages, the orcs murdered everyone, destroyed the crops and houses before we arrived. But the king was pleased, the war was over and that’s all that mattered to him. He never cared about the bloodshed, the suffering, the consequences. He only cared about glory…and food. Which takes me back to the feast. The king was adamant we ask for whatever food we desire. He wanted to treat us to the finest foods. This is how my demise came about. As the servants came to ask for my request, a slinky cat walked around the legs of the bards. And then the lute bard tripped on the cat, the music stopped, in the moment when I asked. ‘A pizza with pineapple.’ The hall got eerily quiet. I felt the king’s harsh eyes on me, he stood up and shouted: ‘AWAY WITH THE FOOL! HOW DARE YOU INSULT THE KING IN SUCH A WAY! AWAY AWAY WITH HIM NOW!’ I was taken away, thrown in the dungeon for weeks, without a word. I was confused, hungry, angry. Then one day a priest came, gave me a speech about divine punishment or whatnot and I was taken to the gallows where my sentence was exclaimed. 

‘For his blasphemy, sin against the kingdom and insults to King Roberr the first of his name protector of the realm provider of glory, Ser Gavin Green is sentenced to exile and execution. Any last words?’ 

‘What are my sins executioner?’ 

‘One count of blasphemy for requesting a pizza with pineapple.’ – the crowd booed. ‘For that?! I am getting exiled AND executed FOR A PINAPPLE PIZZA?’ 

‘Be quiet Ser Gavin, your life is over now. We free you of your sin.’ 

And there I was, in my last moments, my life over with the thud of my head on the pavement. ‘Amazing, this is crazy.’ – Manchor sat with his mouth open. 

‘It is crazy. It is proper bonkerness I am telling you. For a pineapple pizza.’ 

‘Shhh, shhh. Quiet, quiet my friend. Now that you told me your tale, let me tell you something. The townsfolk talk of you still. You are a children’s tale.’ 

‘A children’s tale? Did I become a boogey man for god’s sake?!’ ‘More of a cautionary tale, but yes. How do you feel now?’ 

‘I feel disappointed I suppose. Death is not what I expected, and life is still the same after all.’ 

‘What do you mean, not what you expected? Tell me about it.’ 

As soon as my head popped on the ground, I was transported. It was dark at first, and I felt as floating in the air. Then a light came about, I was in a forest, alone. I looked around and noticed a small wooden hut in the distance. I thought – well, nothing can honestly harm me now – so I moved about towards the hut. At the door at an old woman, clothed in rags, gently humming to herself. She didn’t say anything – in fact she hasn’t said anything while I was there at all. I was at the hut the whole time, just existing in silence. We cut wood together, we foraged together, it was all very peaceful. But was not at all what I expected. Of course, I expected that “usual”, big, glorious father in the heavens and all that. But it was just a cabin and the old woman. 

Manchor looked at Ser Gavin, with sparkling eyes. ‘What a wonderful, peaceful place.’ ‘Hah, fool, did you believe that? Hahahahaaa! HAAAHAHAAAA!’ 

‘What? You lied?’ 

‘Hahahaaa, your face is worth it all. Fool, of course it was not like that. It was dark and gloomy, I could not feel or think, I just was.’ 

‘You are horrible, I hate you.’ – Manchor tried to look upset, but his smile gave him away. ‘Of course you do. Now ask me those questions of yours.’ 

‘Yes, so, I wish to know if…. 

And Manchor talked and talked. They spent the whole night awake in the tavern. When morning came, Ser Gavin stood up from the table and stretched his back. 

‘Are you coming with me Manchor?’ ‘And where would we be going?’ 

‘To the queen of course. I need to get back in favour.’ 

‘We can try, but I believe it will be hard to get inside the castle at this time.’ ‘Let us see.’ 

The castle stood at the far end of the city, towering above everyone with it’s smooth ivory stone walls. Flags of the kingdom flew all around the bastions, great shiny windows reflecting the sunlight, bathing the city in royal glow. The two friends walked up the grand stairs, where the royal guard stopped them. 

‘HALT! Who goes there?’ 

‘Ser Gavin Green and a friend.’ 

‘Hah, very funny. Ser Gavin died a decade ago. My father executed the bastard himself.’ ‘Ser please, believe me, I didn’t want to believe it myself, but here I am, standing in front of you, as you can see, my armour has my family crest.’ 

The guard reached out towards Ser Gavin’s chest and wiped away the mud from the armour. ‘Lord in heaven! GRAVE ROBBER!’ 

‘No, no, Ser guard, he is not a grave robber.’ – said Manchor, holding his hands up in protest. 

‘And who are you, may I ask?’ – the guard bent down to take a closer look at Manchor. ‘I am Manchor, the necromancer. A scholar of life and death.’ 

‘A scholar e’? Don’t make me laugh child.’ 

‘I am no child. I am an established scholar from the guild of Archaic Necromancers. Here are my credentials.’ – he handed over a scroll to the guard. 

‘Alright then, Manchor the necromancer, you are allowed for audience with the queen, but the knight stays here.’ 

‘That cannot be, I must take him with me to the audience.’ 

‘I said no, there is no discussion. Now you go in or get out of my sight, decide fast.’ Manchor and Ser Gavin turned away. They had to come up with a better plan.

– 2024, London

InkMind