Immortality for an elite E-Book

Erich Romberg

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 446

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

In this volume, the author has compiled 48 short stories, narratives and other short prose pieces. The first ones date back to the early 1990s. He welcomes the third millennium with the sarcastic column: My 2000 Column It reflects critically and sarcastically on the transition to the new millennium. It is an examination of social injustices and questions the complacency and ignorance of modern society towards global and local problems. The text uses a mixture of irony and seriousness to draw attention to the discrepancy between wealth and poverty. The author is firmly convinced that the world does not end at the horizon. That is why he likes to address his own quirks and weaknesses, which he imposes on his protagonists, and makes fun of them. After all, we are no longer the type of people who do such strange things. However, not all the human oddities he writes about come from his own life experience, but are the result of careful observation of the events around him. In some stories, he exaggerates human idiosyncrasies and weaknesses to the point of absurdity. He particularly loves human idiosyncrasies because they are what make us human. Take the story ‘The Pedantic Passenger,’ for example. This story describes in minute detail the observation of a corpulent passenger who devotes himself with meticulous precision to the ritual of eating during a flight. Sometimes there are also stories that seem ridiculous at first glance, but on closer inspection are not so ridiculous after all. For example, ‘Aus dem Leben eines Kaugummis’ (From the Life of a Chewing Gum). Here, a completely trivial matter is exaggerated and told dramatically. One could say that there is meaning in the trivial. That, too, is human. The author likes to pick up on psychological or philosophical aspects in his stories, such as in ‘The Firebird.’ It is a mythical story that tells of creation, renewal and the search for the meaning of existence. It combines nature, spirituality and cosmic cycles and weaves together motifs of transformation, consciousness and rebirth. The protagonist, the firebird, symbolises the original consciousness and the essence of life, which is constantly renewed through the cycle of creation and destruction. He does not shy away from psychologically disturbing stories either. Anyone who reads ‘Das Kindergrab’ (The Children's Grave), for example, will agree. It always becomes disturbing when human coldness or apathy come into play. The author also gives scientists tremendous possibilities and describes how overwhelmed humans are in dealing with them, for example in the title story, ‘Immortality for an Elite,’ or in ‘End of a Chromosome.’ It is impossible to summarise the breadth of the stories in a few words. In motivations, background information and explanations, as well as an extensive appendix, the author provides insights into how the stories came about. Here, readers will also find references to when the stories were written. This appendix is intended to enable readers to understand the meaning of the more difficult or seemingly insignificant stories.

Leseprobe

Erich Romberg

Circles and horizons

Immortality for an elite

Short stories

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my family of almost exactly 20 years: Silvia, my daughter Sarah and my son Eric. After a long period of wandering around in the world, they have given me a firm place in this universe. Sarah taught me what makes children tick at the age of 4. Two years later, I was able to try out what I had learnt with my son Eric. I learnt that not all children tick in the same way. It's best to just let them grow and try to be a role model, which doesn't always work.

I'm no wiser now than I was before, but I can deal with the uncertainty better.

Thank you, family!

Foreword

In this volume I have compiled 48 short stories, tales and other short prose pieces. They date back to the beginning of the 90s of the last millennium. I welcome the 3rd millennium with a sarcastic column.

I am firmly convinced that the world does not end at the horizon. That's why I like to address my own quirks and weaknesses, which I impose on my protagonists, and then I also like to make fun of them. After all, you're no longer the guy from back then who did such strange things.

However, not all the human oddities I write about come from my own life, but from careful observations of what is happening around me. In some stories, I exaggerate human idiosyncrasies and weaknesses to the point of grotesqueness. I particularly love human idiosyncrasies because that's what humanity is all about. Let's take this story:

"The pedantic passenger." This story describes in meticulous detail the observation of a corpulent passenger who devotes himself with meticulous precision to the ritual of eating during a flight.

Sometimes there are also stories that are, on the face of it, silly, but which, on closer inspection, aren't so silly after all.

Let's look at: "From the life of a chewing gum."

A completely trivial matter is played up and dramatised here. You could say there is an importance to the trivial. That is also human.

I also like to deal with psychological or philosophical aspects in my stories, such as in "The Firebird", in which the suitability of Homo Sapiens as the crown of humanity is critically scrutinised. I don't shy away from psychologically disturbing stories either. Anyone who reads "The Child's Grave", for example, will agree. It always becomes disturbing when human coldness or callousness comes into play.

I also give scientists tremendous possibilities and describe the excessive demands placed on people when dealing with them, e.g. in the story "Immortality for an elite" or in "End of a chromosome".

It is impossible to present the range of stories in just a few words.

In Motivations, backgrounds and explanations, an extensive appendix, I provide insight into the creation of these stories. Here the reader will also find references to the time of origin of the contributions. I have endeavoured to assess my own texts as if I were analysing other people's texts. Of course, this is not so easy, especially when a text is based on a true experience. However, the text is usually not the experience itself, but an invented story in which I use the characters and the context of the experience and often exaggerate them in a pointed way. I do not describe any actual living persons.

This appendix should enable the reader to understand the meaning of the more difficult or seemingly trivial contributions.

I invite you to scrutinise me and my stories.

Prologue

A tractate on art and THE ALTERNATE VIEWSITE

Erich Romberg, 1998

THE ALTERNATE VIEWSITE

You are only aware of one drive; oh never know the other! Two souls dwell, alas! In my breast, and each one strives to part from the other.

(Quote: Goethe, Faust1, Translated from German.

THE ALTERNATE VIEWSIDE is the artist's second soul. He has experienced the polarity of his being; within him are ying and yang, maternal and paternal blood, the capacity for happiness and suffering, Abel and Cain, the divine and the diabolical. His are two beings that want to break the tight corset of the body, which he can only keep under control by learning to accept and love them as his nature, recognising polarity as an inseparable unity and not misunderstanding it as a rift. This unity manifests itself in art.

The following applies to the artist: do not deny your ALTERNATE VIEWSIDE; do not suppress the dark side in you, as the Philistines do; banish it to the canvas, hurl it onto paper or carve it into stone; shock the Philistines by putting THE ALTERNATE VIEWSIDE, their ALTERNATE VIEWSIDE, in front of their noses. Through art you can experience that darkness and shadow are only born through light. Just as ratio and irrational ratio need each other, just as space and time only gain their meaning through light and matter, so it is only through art that THE ALTERNATE VIEWSIDE becomes apparent, that the artist can reach those of us who have also experienced THE ALTERNATE VIEWSIDE.

Art is an expression of truth and THE ALTERNATE VIEWSIDE is part of this truth.

My 2000 column

I know it's not particularly original of me to write a millennium column now.

I join the thousands and thousands of columnists who are thinking about what the third millennium has in store for us, what we expect, desire and demand. This time I am not ashamed to be part of the great herd of columnists, because experiencing this event is so incredible that it would be appropriate for anyone with even a modicum of literacy to write their two-thousandth column.

We are crossing the threshold into a supposedly modern third millennium, and there are still far more illiterate people than people who can even begin to write. So I belong to an elite that can at least write its name, a special class that can do much more than that, and I distinguish myself from them by even trying my hand at a two thousand column.

So how grateful I must be, even as the millennium draws to a close, that I belong to an elite herd of columnists. It is precisely this gratitude that is scratching the surface of a problem that I am realising right now. I have unlearnt gratitude, just as a large number of the many columnists almost certainly have.

We take far too much for granted, so much so that we usually don't even begin to think about how little the achievements of modern times are taken for granted by the majority of the world's population. Even the most trivial things are not the norm. The following is still considered normal today:

- Wars are being waged, even if they are not yet taking place here. Should we be happy about that?

- Millions of people live without adequate shelter, half a million in the affluent country of Germany alone.

- Millions and millions of people go hungry and starve to death every year,

- Children are exploited, abused, violated and killed, there will be, there will be, and ... and, I could continue the list indefinitely and it would certainly go on for a long time.

We are inundated with bad news, reports of disasters and war; reports of displacement, human rights violations, the destruction of bodies and souls, and yet the public drumbeats are just the tip of a huge iceberg.

Woe to all the many small disasters when even the loudest sounds go unheard.

If I quietly and bashfully ask myself what sets me and my non-suffering comrades apart from all these unfortunates, I have to humbly admit: I have no merit of my own, I was just brought into the world at the right place at the right time. Almost everyone around me was brought into the world at the right time and in the right place; yet my ears are ringing from all the lamentations of the unfortunate lucky ones.

So if, ignorant as we are, we leave out the street children in Romania or ignore child prostitution in the Philippines, i.e. child abuse, not least by our fellow countrymen, we have to ask ourselves: what went wrong in the right place at the right time? It would certainly not do justice to reality if all the suffering caused by personal catastrophes in our affluent society were to be played down by pointing to the areas of misery in this world. So allow me for a while to ignore the misery of our own affluence. This misery is not imaginary. I realise this again and again when I see a person looking for something to eat in the rubbish, an emaciated yellow junkie huddled on a bench in a train station or somewhere else. It strikes me when I see a girl at the age at which I made my first shy eye contact with the opposite sex, a maturing child offering her childish body for sale to greedy, omnivorous men in order to earn the next fix. It makes me sick to my stomach when I have to look at the fat, fat citizens shaking their heads at this imposition, because this misery disturbs the idyll of Christmas shopping. People had just bought themselves off by generously handing an old homeless man, who was obviously no longer able to work in his old age, with his disability, in his neglect, a fifty penny piece, a mark or even a two-mark piece. How much better the five-mark sausage, six-mark punch or mushrooms at the Christmas market tasted to the benefactor. How ultimate the kick is when you buy the rubbish for forty-nine fifty, having just made your contribution to saving this world from misery. The intellectuals among us can then go to the cabaret after three or four cups of mulled wine or punch to roar with laughter or smile with intelligent restraint, depending on whether they have understood the hackneyed social criticism or not, to get their virtual intelligence orgasm. Now you're ready for the new millennium. Christmas comes and goes. The ugly is out. You can wallow in a familiar, perfect world, the tears of sentimentality flow in torrents in the Christmas elation, proportional to the amount of alcohol consumed. You don't see the scum's punctured veins here, even if they are your own children - they are out of sorts. The well-behaved unwrap their presents and are happy as they should be. The misery outside has to be dealt with by politicians and the police.

When people ask me what I want for the new millennium, I can only say:

As long as people's concerns are reduced to whether or not the banks' ATMs spit out money on the first of January because of the two-thousand problem, I would like to see a big wheel on which we can turn back time by a thousand years to get a new chance for the development of real humanity by the third millennium.

Analysis

The dream designer

In those days, when people still had dreams, there was a special kind of artist. He was the only dream designer far and wide. The fame of his art extended far beyond the country's borders, and what's more, his fame transcended space and time. So it was no wonder that this fame reached right up to the present day.

In this present, there are no more dreams, and what people think are dreams are nothing but illusions. In this dreamless present, there is a man who distrusted illusions but did not realise that illusions are not dreams. He lived in the sea of possibilities, but the pull of illusions is too strong for him to grasp any of them.

The fame of the dream designer reaches his ears. At first it is just a fleeting breeze, one of the elements from the sea of possibilities. But this gentle breeze turns into a storm and he suddenly realises that his illusions are not dreams. He decides to seize this one opportunity to create a real dream for himself. He whirled through the maelstrom of time to land where the famous artist worked. He immediately sought him out to have a powerful dream created.

But it was not that easy to hire the dream designer. When the man from the present went there, the artist was extremely uninterested.

"You are not qualified to have me create a dream for you. Go and acquire the necessary qualifications."

The man from the present asked how they could be acquired.

But the artist replied:

"You have to find that out for yourself, it's part of the qualification."

The man was already thinking about travelling back to his world of illusions, because you don't have to qualify for illusions. But then the man came to his senses and said to himself:

"Have I been drifting around in nothingness for so long", as the sea of possibilities was called, "to capitulate here at the first difficulty?"

The man from the present decided to acquire the necessary qualification. However, as he did not yet know what he had to do, he asked one of the artist's journeymen. He said:

"The qualification is unspeakable, but I will give you one piece of advice: look for the blue flower and bring it to me."

Now the man from the present was more perplexed than ever. So he asked the master's apprentice about the blue flower. But the apprentice said:

"You can't find the blue flower because the garden in which it grows is not of this world. But I can give you some advice. The blue flower must find you. When it has found you, bring it to me."

The man from the present found his task more difficult than ever before. So he set out in search of the blue flower that could not be found, the flower that was supposed to find him. He wandered for days and weeks, crossed hills and travelled through valleys, asked the country and its people about the blue flower, but no one could give him any information. So one day, exhausted, he came to a small farmhouse. His only wish was to rest. With the last of his strength, he knocked on the door and the door opened, but no one had opened it. With no strength left to continue his journey, he entered the house and found a table laid for him.

He was hungry and sat down to partake of the plentiful bread, meat and wine. When he was full and his thirst quenched, he went into an adjoining room and found a bed that had been made up. He still thought that all this could not be true, but he was too tired to get to the bottom of it. So he went to the bed to stretch his tired limbs. It only took a few minutes and he had fallen into a deep sleep. And then he dreamt that the door to his bedchamber opened and a young woman came to his bedside. He could not recognise this woman, and yet he could not help thinking that he knew her. The harder he tried to recognise this woman, the more indistinct she seemed to him. But then he took heart and asked her about the blue flower. All of a sudden, he saw her clearly in front of him.

"I've waited so long for you, my love," she said.

And indeed, her face shone out of a beautiful flower whose bright blue dazzled him, but he could no longer avert his eyes. She was standing in a meadow with many wonderful flowers, but for him there was only this one, and picking it was his most fervent wish.

He awoke from his sleep and knew that his blue flower had found him. He hurried back through valleys and over mountains to rush joyfully back to the master's house. He thanked the apprentice for his advice, but told him that he could not give him the blue flower. He met the journeyman and told him the same thing. Then he stood opposite the master, who smiled. He took the master's hand and, with tears in his eyes, told him:

"Master, thank you above all for this wonderful dream."

But the master raised his hands placatingly and said:

"You created this dream yourself, I was only your assistant. Bring the blue flower back into your world and reality will be the most successful design of your dream."

Analysis

Where the sky touches the land

The night is clear and cold. A palpable silence has fallen over the land, broken only by Leo's familiar panting. He seeks me out and sometimes I can feel his body against my leg. The stars of the universe fulfil a very private task today; I know that they are only shining up there for Leo and me. Houses and huts are scattered around, painted into the landscape by an aesthetic god. With my gaze still fixed on the light of infinity, my steps carry me onwards. At night, the path down to the Glore River makes me realise and forget a thousand things; that's why I love these late walks.

Suddenly there is an old, shrivelled little man. Encounters at such a late hour are rare here.

"I was expecting you, how are you? " he speaks to me. A strange greeting; I don't know him.

"Not bad," I reply, caught off guard, and try to remember, in case there's anything to remember.

"It's already late, the river down there is waiting for us," he continues.

"The Glore?" I ask unnecessarily. The little man pauses for a while, then says:

"Yes, yes, my river, our river."

I caught myself and say that I don't remember him.

"I am who I am - Támé tú Féin."

Strange words and a strange name, I know I've never heard it before. I ask him where he lives.

"Where the sky touches the land," the old man says more to himself than to me. He seems to love being vague and points his bony finger at Leo:

"That's a nice dog."

As if Leo had understood him, he cuddles up to him. He seems to like the old man, because this trusting behaviour towards strangers is unusual for him. The old man pats his head. We talk about my dog, about the weather in this neighbourhood and about this beautiful night. Then the old man's eyes flash at me with a fire that seems to outshine even the stars.

"We meet because we have overcome the time between us for a little while," he says mysteriously, "we have to use it by doing me a little favour that will also benefit you."

This mysterious puzzle game is starting to appeal to me, or is it not a game at all? I ask cautiously whether I would be able to.

"Certainly, in terms of the effort involved, it's really only a small thing, hardly worth mentioning. But it's very important."

It feels strange and I say:

"Small effort and great significance, what is it?"

"Because of the importance of the moment, I don't want to tell you until just beforehand. But I can tell you this much: it's a good thing. The moment you do it, you will realise the significance and be free afterwards."

"If it's good, then so be it."

"Great," says the old man, "let's go down to Glore."

He grabs my wrist and pulls me with him. As I walk beside him, he lets go again. His gait is determined, his arms swing briskly against his body. His steps are as silent as those of a shadow. The silence is again broken only by Leo's pitter-patter and his panting, thoughts racing through my head. I furtively observe the scraggly shadow next to me; there is nothing about him to suggest what he might expect from me. Then we hear the familiar roar of the Glore, which flows through the valley at considerable speed.

Leo's panting is now swallowed up by the sound of the river and a little later we are standing on the narrow bridge. The old man has hurried ahead of me, reached the other bank and swings over the waist-high quarry stone wall onto the field behind with an ease I wouldn't have believed him capable of. Leo follows him wagging his tail, he loves this place. I follow him and we walk for a while in the direction of the river in the field, the old man always three steps ahead. Now he jumps over a low ledge and stops after a few steps. The old man has turned his face to the west and stares silently into the current. He stands there as if rooted to the spot, a gnarled little tree. I have reached him, but I don't dare speak to him.

After he hasn't moved for a while, I sit down on the embankment, close my eyes and let the melody of the river work its magic on me. A breath of peace and freedom fills me, and neither the old man nor Leo disturb me.

I almost believe that he is listening to the quiet legends of this clear night, the intoxicating music of the river, and that the synergetic experience of shared enjoyment is where the pleasure lies. When I awake from a kind of trance after a long time, the old man is sitting next to me and looking at me.

"This is where the sky touches the land," he says in a low whisper. After a while, he asks in the same whisper:

"Are you willing to do me the favour now, then I will reveal it?"

"What should I do?" I breathe, the night not allowing a loud word.

"Follow me into the water and cleanse me, as you know from the Bible."

His strange request takes my breath away, but I can see from his face that he's not joking.

"I don't expect you to understand yet," he knows my astonishment, "it's not a big deal for you today, but it means a lot to us."

He walks the few steps to the bank and without another word the strange old man steps into the river and kneels in the middle of the current, the water just reaching his hips. I don't bother to get rid of my clothes.

Silently, obedient as a lamb, I follow him. The cool water washes around my knees, the current tugs at my legs. When I reach the person being baptised, he has folded his hands and bowed his head. He says solemnly: "Tá mé tú féin, only time unites us."

After these enigmatic words, I pause next to him for a moment. Déjà vu! I realise what I have to do and I understand what I am doing. I grab the back of his neck and gently pull him backwards, he willingly dives under. After a few seconds, I slide my other hand into the water under his head and lift his upper body out. Without hesitation, the old man rises and says in a still muffled voice:

"Thank you, my boy. Our destiny has been fulfilled, we are free. Mistakes and folly will accompany our path, and over the years we will learn to separate the wheat from the chaff. You have freed me from my folly tonight and I can return to my origins, God bless you."

He steps out of the water and, without turning round again, walks down the riverbank. I have grasped the sacredness of the moment, remain lost in thought and look after the rejuvenating figure of the old man. Soon her outline disappears where the sky touches the land.

Analysis

The firebird

In the beginning of time, a great beautiful bird rose from the maw of the mighty volcano on the eastern circles of the earth, along with glowing stone and ash, long before the ancestor of our species left the water.

The egg of the firebird had incubated for myriads of years at the bottom of the volcano, only to break its diamond shell in the seething embers of the fire on the very first day of earth's existence. Just like the protective shell of the egg, the bird's feathers were made of the finest diamonds and the fire of its dress glittered across the land.

The firebird soared thousands of miles above the glowing maw, carrying the consciousness of the world within it.

After reaching the outermost circle of the earth in steep flight over days, weeks and moons, it feared to leave the protective power of the earth and swivelled into an orbit on which it circled it from then on. It flew around the earth countless times, while many millions of years passed.

As the bird carried all consciousness within itself, time did not pass in vain. He thought about the meaning of his being and came to the conclusion that all this fire of the earth must be part of a great whole, created to bring forth him, the firebird. In the beginning was the egg, he thought, and this thought manifested itself in him. In the flow of time, he recognised a meaning behind all this being.

Long before his birth, these fires must have been burning and the blazing embers were not an end in themselves. All this flickering and burning led to one goal: to give birth to him and make him the bearer of consciousness.

There were many fires in the universe, more numerous and more powerful than any on earth, and once upon a time they were a great whole. Long after their creation, they separated so that at least one of them could fulfil the purpose of its burning and produce a diamond egg.

After circling the earth for myriads of years, the radiant bird realised the deeper meaning of its existence.

He had reached the limits of his own thinking. Although he believed that all his consciousness was the cause of existence, he could not find the meaning of his existence in the next few myriads of years. He sensed that he alone would not fulfil the meaning. Therefore, he decided to return to complete his task.

From the deep expanses of space, it plummeted to earth, which had now formed a dense atmosphere. It surrounded it like a viscous pulp and when it plunged into it so abruptly, the diamond plumage heated up; the bird glowed and burst into blazing fire. When its body reached the ground, it was burnt to ashes.

And lo and behold, out of the ashes rose the phoenix, more beautiful and wiser than the old firebird; but it no longer carried all the consciousness. He had freed himself from the limits of knowledge and flew higher than his father ever had.

A large part of the consciousness remained on earth. The ashes mixed in the swamps and after a few billion years a lizard crawled ashore, carrying the sleeping consciousness within it. It was a very long time before it awoke and realised that it was the cause of existence.

Over time, consciousness has spread over many billions of parts, constantly renewing itself, like the phoenix, to become more beautiful and wiser than the old.

Since that time, countless eyes have been gazing at the stars at night and most of them do not realise that they are looking at themselves. The bearers of these eyes commit and desire foolish things and believe they are living for them. But the old firebird knew about all this and that is why he had distributed consciousness so lavishly.

One of thousands of pairs of eyes in every generation search the night for the phoenix that carries the consciousness of this world with them. The time will come when it will glow again and the consciousness of the world will reunite. A new phoenix will be born from the ashes: Bigger, more powerful and more beautiful. It will once again carry the meaning of existence and its spawn will be knowledge, long after the foolish things of this world have burnt out.

In the beginning was the egg, and at the end is the realisation.

Analysis

The boy who was different

Once upon a time, there was a ten-year-old boy who was different from other children. He didn't realise that he was different. That's why he didn't know why other children didn't want to play with him.

He stood on the edge of the pitch and watched them play football.

It looked great when they ran across the field and chased after the ball. He would have liked to join in the chase, but nobody wanted him there. You can't do it, said the friendly ones, the bad ones, you're too stupid for it. Regardless of whether they were friendly or nasty, neither wanted him to play. The pupils were allowed to put together the squad themselves when tournaments were coming up. As the boy was different, the teacher let it happen. He also believed that football was not the right thing for him.

The boy was allowed to take part in training during the warm-up phase, but during the others' matches he was only supposed to collect the missed balls.

When the boy came home he was sad, but his parents didn't bother to find out why, he was just different.

They had a big meadow at home and because nobody wanted to play with him, he played alone with a football whenever he could and when he played, he was happy. He did the exercises with the ball on his own, just as he had learnt to do, and he was really good at juggling the ball. But nobody was interested.

It was all normal for this boy and he accepted it. Nobody knew about his silent suffering, not the parents, not the teachers, not the other children.

But then the team got a new sports teacher who had watched the pupils' football performance during training. As they had lost the last five tournaments, he decided to reorganise the team. During a training match, the teacher divided the children into two groups. When he wanted to assign the underdog to the team with the red training waistcoats, the children began to grumble and one of them half-uttered: "Not him!" The teacher had already realised that the boy was being treated as an outsider and assigned him to what he considered to be the stronger team.

He had expected this reaction.

"What do you mean," the teacher asked the speaker challengingly.

"He can't play football," he replied.

"If that's the case, then it's because he's never been allowed to play and you're partly responsible if he lacks practice. The way I've set you up, you're the squad for the next tournament. It's in your interest that your team-mate is fit by then."

Now the team had to deal with the boy who was different, for better or worse. To their surprise, he was not at all unskilled with the ball in this training game. The boy grew into the squad over the next few weeks and finally felt lucky.

On the day of the tournament, he scored a dream goal in the last minute to secure the team's victory. Now he was their hero!

Analysis

The boy who sought his shadow

The boy, Andrew McDonagh, lived in a cottage in the mountains of Donegal. One day, on his 18th birthday, he realised that he was different from his peers. He had no shadow. This was well known and he had been a loner and outsider for a long time, but until now it hadn't bothered him. The realisation that he was different hit him out of the blue. He was shunned, he sat alone on his bench at school and the chair next to him remained empty. It was almost as if they were afraid of him. Other outsiders were teased, but he wasn't given as much attention. It was as if he didn't even exist.

Andrew left school at the top of his class, but when he looked for work, the owners of the few local companies found many excuses to turn him away. So he stayed at home and looked after the garden. Now everything was different, he felt lonely and abandoned, his mum was his only human contact.

"Why don't I have a shadow like the others?" he asked at the lonely birthday table.

Her mother shrugged her shoulders and replied: "I can't tell you that. You were born with it like everyone else, but it was taken away from you when you were little."

"Who?" cried the boy desperately.

"I can't tell you that, my boy. You have to accept it as it is." His mother took his hand and continued.

"Leave the others, I love you and I don't mind that you don't have a shadow."

Andrew became very angry and pulled his mum's hand away. He jumped up, ran up and down the room and shouted:

"I can't go on living like this. I have to go away and find my shadow."

The mother shrugged her shoulders again and said:

"I can't and won't stop you, do what you have to do. But don't expect me to support you, you're on your own out there. Don't blame me later."

Andrew didn't answer and didn't think about it for long. He went to his room and packed up his things. When he wanted to kiss his mum goodbye, she turned away and turned her cheek to him.

"I hope you know what you're doing," she said.

Andrew left the house without turning round again. He walked down the village street and felt relieved when he left the village exit sign behind him. He had walked many kilometres before he began to think about his journey. They wouldn't know him in the next village. He knew how to do it so that his flaw wouldn't be noticed. His heart leapt as he thought of all the new opportunities that were now open to him. But worry also crept into his heart. How was he supposed to find his shadow, he didn't have the slightest idea.

The sun was low as he crossed the city limits. It was the time of the long shadows and he was glad that he didn't meet anyone here. When he reached the town centre, he decided to look for a job first, as he had only brought a few pounds with him from home.

There was a garden centre in the town and, as he knew a lot about gardening, he went there and spoke to the owner. He showed her his excellent references and told her about his skills. The boss took a liking to him and gave him a room, board and a few pounds a week pocket money. In the time that followed, he proved that he was more than worth the money and, as she wanted to keep him, he was earning something like a proper wage after just six months.

Nobody realised that he had no shadow. In the first few months, he often thought about how he could find it, but as time went on, he forgot more and more about it.

The people who met him liked him because he was a nice and polite boy. The girls in the village were soon talking about the handsome gardener's boy.

Everything was going well until one day, perhaps two years ago, an old man entered the shop. Andrew was assigned as a salesman that day.

"Can I help you?" he asked the old man.

"You have to ask the question the other way round," the old man replied, looking firmly at the boy.

"The question is whether I can help you," the old man continued.

Andrew was embarrassed and realised he was blushing.

"I, I don't understand," he stammered, "what would you want to help me with?"

"So, so," said the old man, "are you really all right?"

Andrew felt a fist clench into his robes.

The old man had recognised him, but how? The light in the shop was so diffuse that nobody cast a shadow. Perhaps he meant something else, so he answered cautiously:

"I don't know what."

The old man was still staring at the boy.

"Forgive me," he said, "I haven't introduced myself yet: I am the repression and I had your shadow. When you were a little boy, almost a baby, I was with you and I took him. I was called because he had become a burden to you.

He became more and more agonising for you, so much so that a child as small as you were at the time couldn't bear it. When I took him in, you no longer had to suffer. For a long time I had no trouble keeping your shadow, but then you turned eighteen. He became restless and unruly and almost got away from me. Then his rebellion subsided and after a few months he was tame again and resigned to his fate, until a few days ago when he escaped from me. I'm afraid he'll try to find you, but I see he hasn't been here yet, I'll stay with you and wait for him here, you have nothing to fear if you leave him to me."

Andrew had listened to the old man with great astonishment. For a long time he couldn't say anything, then he pulled himself together.

"Why should I leave him to them?" he asked the old man.

"Why do you ask? Don't you know what awaits you?

You will suffer unbearable pain if your shadow reunites with you, perhaps you will even die of agony. Shadows always try to stay united with their owners. That's fine as long as the pain doesn't become too great. But sometimes, like with you, I have to intervene and take it. I take painstaking care that they don't escape from me and harm their former owners.

I usually manage to put them away for good. People may not be happy without it for the rest of their lives, but they don't suffer. But sometimes a mishap happens to me, as it did to you, and then the dark, cunning thing tries to reunite with its owner. I try to prevent this with all the means at my disposal, after all I am responsible for it. So I have to ask you - for your own protection - to allow me to prevent the reunion.

It can be assumed that he's already lurking in the immediate vicinity, but he's still shying away from me."

"I want my shadow back," the boy shouted excitedly,

"Whatever he does to me, it can't be as bad as the unhappiness I feel when I have to live without him."

"You don't know what you're talking about," the old man hissed, "do you want to die?" The boy replied with the same agitation:

"I'd rather die than be unhappy, even if I've hardly realised it in the last two years. I would have loved to date a girl, but something stopped me. Now I realise that I was afraid she would notice my flaw. I want my shadow, whatever the cost."

At that moment, the room darkened and Andrew felt something enter him. Suddenly things appeared inside him that he had never noticed before, and they hurt, a lot.

"No!" cried the boy, "you can't do this." He crouched down and began to cry profusely, the tears flowing like rivulets from his eyes.

"That's him," the old man shouted angrily. He lunged at the shadow and tugged at it, trying to pull it to the ground, half succeeding. Andrew crouched on the ground and sobbed, the pain had subsided, he felt empty. But the shadow could no longer be subdued by the old man. As soon as he had escaped, he reached for the boy again, the torment took hold of him anew, the torture was barely bearable until the old man regained control for a short time, then his strength was exhausted.

"Farewell," he called to the boy, "I can't help you now, even if he tortures you to death."

Andrew did not die!

It was painful when the shadow reconnected with him, but the pain lessened over time. It took two years for him to fully accept it. From then on, it accompanied him wherever he went, it no longer hurt, the wounds were scarred. The happiness was indescribable, the feeling of having him as his own. Andrew soon fell in love with a girl, married her, had children and became happy with his family. He never let the old man cross his threshold again.

Analysis

The whistle

I can't even play them properly. Don't get me wrong, I can play them, but not the way I want to.

My whistle is handmade, a genuine Overton tin whistle. I own many tin whistles, English ones made of steel, Irish ones made of brass, in C major, in D major, in every key. They sound tinny and shrill, but none of them is like you.

When I hold my whistle in my hands, it feels soft and warm. It is made of matt aluminium and has the six holes of a tin whistle, but it is something special. The way it feels is the way it sounds. Not that you think it's easy to play. I mean, it's as easy to play as a tin whistle - technically, but it's not easy to speak to its soul. My tin whistle has a soul. So you have to play it with soul to ignite its warmth and fire.

Used without feeling, it blocks. She simply stops making sounds. Then I knock her out because she is clogged with saliva. Then she plays for a while, but then she refuses again. She can be very stubborn, but on these days, when she feels soft and warm, she is willing, then she makes me believe that I am playing her, but she is playing me. I close my eyes and hold Her in my hands, soft and warm. A melody resonates in me that she projects, a warmth that she radiates, a fire that fills the room. In these moments we are one, not flute and flutist, but just me.

***

Now I'm sitting here, on death row - without you. I wasn't given the time to look for you. Yes, you can believe me, I should have looked for you at the crucial moment. Forgetting you was normal for me, how often had I misplaced you. At times I didn't even think about you, I lived my life without you. But from time to time, often in difficult times, I missed you. I became restless and obnoxious. I just wanted to find my whistle. Like a man possessed, I searched for it, turned flats upside down and accused friends of stealing it. In those moments, I realised that I couldn't live without you. I found her again and again, she spoilt me with her most beautiful sounds, she felt soft and warm. She never took offence at my neglect. How often was she especially loving towards me after a long period of carelessness. At those times, her sounds resonated with the vibrations of my soul.

I'm sitting here waiting to die. I think I killed my father, or my mother. Maybe I killed them both, I don't know for sure. They told me I was a parricide and that's why I had to die. I realised that, because in this country parricides have to die. But they taught me that you don't kill parents. I did it anyway. They taught me that you have to honour and love your father and mother, but I killed them anyway. Now I sit here and wait for my just punishment. My brother and sister came to visit me yesterday.

I asked them to bring me my whistle, but they said I was evil because I killed my father and mother.

They would have loved me very much, but I didn't thank them. That's why I deserve to die. I realised that. They didn't want to look for my whistle.

That was yesterday, and they said they wouldn't be back - before then.

I sit here alone, waiting to die, missing my whistle. I hear footsteps that I know are coming to me.

It's my carer. He looks at me with compassion.

"You will be executed on Monday. The request for a pardon has been rejected."

I look this poor man in the eye, he is visibly affected.

"It's only a small step," I try to comfort him.

"I know," he says, "but it would be so easy to change that. I've realised for so long that nobody needs to be executed, but I can't do anything about it."

I look at my warder. He's sitting huddled up on my cot, a heap of misery. I feel very sorry for him, this poor man.

Suddenly the colour of his face changes, he seems determined, but his eyes still show hopelessness.

"Let me do something for you - please."

I don't have to think about it:

"I need my whistle, a tin whistle made of aluminium. I couldn't find it when they came to pick me up."

At this moment, the guard's face brightens.

"Is it an Overton that sometimes feels soft and warm?"

He looks at me hopefully. I don't have to explain anything to him, he is also a flute player.

"I'll find you!" he says.

There are still three nights until Monday, but I'm not worried. My keeper will find her.

Another guard comes on Saturday - he's not a flute player.

He tells me that his colleague is looking for something important, but he doesn't know what.

On Sunday evening, I hear those footsteps again that I know are coming to me. My keeper hands me the whistle with a beaming face.

"Now everything will be fine," he says. I take you and say: "Yes!"

He looks at me and admonishes me:

"But don't play until tomorrow when they've picked you up. I'll be with you."

I look at him lovingly and reassure him:

"You can go now, it's all done."

The next morning, I hear many footsteps that I also know are coming towards me. I clutch my whistle tightly. The cell door flies open and grim faces look at me. An important-looking man dressed in black reads to me from an important-looking document that I have killed my father or my mother, or both. In any case, I would be hung by the neck until death. They lead me through a long dark corridor.

An unspecified number of people walk in front of me and another unspecified number walk behind me. We enter a high room with a platform in the centre. A gallows with a noose made of thick rope dangling about fifty centimetres above the floor of the platform protrudes from it. I know this is the noose that will be placed around my neck.

There are a lot of people in the execution room, they all want to see a parricide die. I see my brother and sister in the front row. Sitting near them are nephews, nieces, uncles and aunts. They are all waiting for the brother, uncle or nephew to be executed for killing their parents, aunt, uncle, brother or sister. They all know that I deserve this punishment.

As I stand at the top of the platform, this important-looking official reads from the important-looking document that I have killed my father, or mother, or both, and will therefore be hanged by the neck until death occurs. I see my brother and sister applauding in the first row of spectators. My eyes search for my keeper, but they can't find him. The whole time I clutch my whistle tightly with my right hand, but the absence of my keeper worries me. The important-looking official has just finished reading from that very document. He looks at me and asks if I have another wish.

At that moment, someone taps me on the shoulder. I look around and recognise my guard, he is the executioner. He looks me kindly in the eye and says:

"Ask her to play one last piece on your whistle."

I am allowed to go and my warder puts the noose round my neck.

"Have faith in me and in your whistle," he says.

I take her in both hands and she feels soft and warm. Unperturbed, she plays 'Das Lied vom Tod', the melody of which I could never remember.

"Trust your whistle," my executioner repeats and pulls the lever to the trapdoor.

The flap opens and the lonely melody of death drifts away on the wind.

Analysis

Waiting in Holyhead

The ferry to Dublin Port had been delayed by almost three hours; unforeseen maintenance work, I was told on enquiry. An hour and a half before midnight, I finally bumped my Volvo over the metal bridge that had been extended to connect the Inishfree to Irish soil. Still a little sleepy, I held on to the steering wheel and obediently followed the waving marshals towards the harbour exit.

I passed the three-hour wait in Holyhead with football, a pint of bitter and 3 Real Ale - that's what they called the natural ale - and some genuine Welsh gossip about a teacher who, a native of Manchester, had been indoctrinating Welsh pupils in Holyhead for 25 years.

After the bitter, I engaged George, the teacher, in a conversation about the most recommended ale.

As expected, he confirmed to me that the Reverend JamesBrown, the naturally cloudy ale pumped with a large phallus-like pin, was unrivalled. My next pint was a Reverend James Brown. The usual conversation ensued at first: What nationality? German; what part of Germany? Bochum; where is that? A few miles from Dortmund. Bang! Final tomorrow, Borussia Dortmund against Manchester United in the Champions League.

"No chance for Dortmund!". "Wait and see."

They drank a pint of Reverend James Brown together and George considered: "Maybe a draw!" George had to go, otherwise Dortmund would surely have won. Now I had two hours left in Holyhead. Nobody had interrupted our dialogue. Five minutes of silence, I clutched my second Reverend James Brown.

"Good luck to Dortmund," I suddenly heard from the right. The voice belonged to a stocky man of about 50 wearing a black woollen cap without a bobble. I was sure I hadn't heard his voice before. Even now, he didn't give the impression that he had spoken. He stood there almost motionless, staring holes in the air.

"Don't you stand by Manchester?"

A while passed, then he said, barely moving his lips:

"Manchester is English, we are Welsh."

"Oh, yes, of course."

He nodded and remained silent, but then:

"You have to be careful with George."

"Why?"

He looked at his neighbour, a gaunt man, for a while, then they nodded and the unbombed man continued:

"He's English and he's eavesdropping on us."

"Oh yeah?"

"You never know with them," the gaunt man intervened.

"What's he spying on?" I asked curiously.

They nodded to each other again and were silent for a while. Then the Bommelless spoke again:

"You don't know, but you have to be careful in any case."

"Yes, very careful," the gaunt man confirmed and unexpectedly said.

"Good luck for Dortmund" and added: "You speak English very well."

"Thank you, yes, it's not too bad."

"Really good."

After a while, the bommellos asked again:

"Are you here on holiday?"

"No, I have to take the ferry to Ireland, I live in County Mayo."

"Beautiful country, the Irish are Celts too. Do you like Ireland?"

"Oh yes, Ireland is similar to Wales."

"Yes, Wales is very beautiful, we are Celts too," said the gaunt man again.

"Yes, you are similar to the Irish, very friendly people."

"I think Dortmund will win, they are very good."

"Definitely," commented his friend with the bobble-headed woolly hat. We all let the last words melt in our mouths with ale. Considered silence.

"Very good players, the boys from Dortmund," muttered the gaunt man.

"No chance for Manchester," reflected the lower-ranked player.

"Would you like a pint?" asked the bommelless bemused man when he saw that my glass was ominously low on beer.

"I don't have time to give one back, my ferry leaves in forty minutes."

"It's all right, next time." The pint was already tapped.

I introduced myself and said Sláinte as they each held a new pint. They introduced themselves in turn, both holding their pints out to me.

"Hugo is a German name," I interjected.

"I think French," pondered the bumbling Hugo,

"Breton" he specified.

"The Bretons are Celts too!" said Seán.

"Very nice people," Hugo remarked, "we also really like the Germans," he added.

"But we're not Celts," I pointed out.

"Still, very nice people," he insisted. A good time to go.

I grabbed my pint, it was still almost half full, and drained it in one go.

"I'm afraid I have to go, it's very late." Hugo and Seán turned to me. The country lady behind the bar smiled at me in a friendly way, and I would have bet that she didn't smile often, but she did. I felt good, people liked me.

"We'll definitely meet again on my next crossing," I raised my hand.

"Absolutely," echoed several voices.

The Welsh are really nice people.

Analysis

The departure

When Erek R. woke up earlier than usual on the morning of 14 February, he immediately sensed that something was different than usual. He didn't feel the morning sluggishness and his thoughts didn't revolve around the day that was beginning. He felt light and everything that had weighed on his heart yesterday seemed out of this world. He hardly remembered what had happened yesterday, and the future seemed to have no more time. The restlessness that once again wanted to force him to leave the calm waters had become weighty. Erek got out of bed without any effort; in the living room, packed suitcases signalled his planned departure. Half a bottle of Crested Ten on the table briefly flickers in his memory. But yesterday he knew nothing of the finality of his departure.