by Unknown
THE TEMPLE OF THE UNSUNG MARTYRS AND THE GREAT PILGRIMAGE
20-VII
Yesterday we dedicated the entire day to visiting the Temple of the Unsung Martyrs. All four of us went there twice; the first time early in the morning and then again at night. It is located on the western side of the Valley, eighty kilometres away from our gestel. We arrived there in four minutes of course, thanks to their air transport. I had read a great deal about yesterday's holy day and seen some bits of this grand procession this autumn on the Swage. This procession takes place here and around the Valley in the vast gardens of Terringa once a year with the participation of millions of pilgrims from around the world. Experiencing all this was one of my greatest desires. To walk in the gold-paved square, to see Kersteen’s masterpiece and the evening procession from above, through the huge openings of the towering roof, had always been a dream of mine that finally came true! If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes my imagination could have never conceived such a spectacle! Over the last six hundred years, the Lorffes had achieved a degree of organisation, grandeur and wealth, both material and spiritual, which was unimaginable in ancient times.
Once again, the girls were sitting by themselves in the dining room in silence, watching pictures and videos from last night. Stefan approached me with the hint of a smile. “So what did you think of last night?” he asked me, now smiling broadly. I didn’t know what to tell him and so I avoided his gaze. Had everything I saw last night been for real? I had heard the words “rivers of gold and light” being used to describe last night’s event, but I had never dreamt of such grandeur; millions of people, countless lit white candles, such incredible organisation, no fuss, no noise, not even the slightest whispering. And now I had Stefan, who was of course anticipating my surprise, standing in front of me with this grin of satisfaction, asking me what I thought of last night! What do you answer to that?
SYMPTOMS OF AGORAPHOBIA AT THE GOLD TEMPLE
This morning, at the beginning of the pilgrimage, I had clear symptoms of agoraphobia again, like I had in Blomsterfor last month, in the Toeplitz 1812 square. It happened when Silvia suggested we crossed the Golden Square. Little Lasia, the second unge that was sent by Jaeger, hadn’t left our side all these days. Many times she’d sit and tell me stories about the Valley in great detail when Stefan didn’t have time to do so. We wanted to go see Davis’ statue Christ with the Children, which was on the opposite side and, truth be told, I would have preferred to get there by going around the square instead of through it, but Stefan stood by me and held my arm to help me manage.
The golden, circular square with the elaborate decorations on the floor was about half the size of our St. Peter's Basilica in Rome. It did not, however, have any chapels or pulpits enhancing it. The huge curvilinear pilasters of chiselled marble, twelve in total, supported the thick, carved stone roof, built in the shape of a coin. On the interior, the pilasters were decorated with masterful murals by their famous 9thcentury painter, Fabius Sigra. Its construction was not metal-based. It was built in such a way that even if you removed all the metal bits, the twelve towering pilasters wouldn´t be affected at all; they´d still stand proud and tall.
“Let’s go to Christ on the opposite side of the square… Let’s go to Christ…” I kept whispering to Stefan, begging him almost while desperately clutching his arm. “That’s where we’re going,” he replied gently, trying to calm me down, “but we’re taking a shortcut, much to your disappointment…”
My friend looked somewhat embarrassed as if he had been entrusted with the care of a defenceless child deprived of judgment. “There is no sin in the use of gold, “he says. “Why would you consider it a sin? It serves no purpose nowadays.” I felt guilty for my unreasonable attitude. Several days ago he told me that “temple” here also means a commemoration place. “You need to learn how to distinguish the places of religious faith and worship from the mere memorials. Gold is not even considered wealth nowadays. Our glothners and our institutions are our gold. This is the true wealth of today. The gold here in the temple is the entire amount of the world’s remaining gold, which now has no benefit for the economy, but which during the “dark years” was the main source of human suffering. The gold in this temple is nothing but a symbol of peace.”
I asked him if it was true that the forefathers of today's ruling class were industrial workers. He confirmed it saying that the ancestors of today’s Ilectors and Lorffes worked in the glothners of the time, just like they all do.
I look around me and I see that, thanks to Kersteen, numerous real tragedies of the “prehistoric” for them years have survived and are commemorated here. As in the work of Thoralsen, Vana-Aregia, here the skilful artists have managed to breathe real life into synthetic ivory.
Soon we had to leave; it was other people’s turn. I barely had time to see a few parts of Fabius Sigra’s frescoes. I happened to see quite a few scenes from of our own Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Match Girl”, perfectly depicted on the curved interior walls. The text was written below in small, gold letters. It was the original text in the old Scandinavian language!
THE OATH AND THE GRAND PROCESSION
We stayed for two-three hours in the gestel in the afternoon to rest. When we flew back to the temple in the evening, the crowds throughout the Rosernes Dal were unprecedented; people filled the vast squares, the wide streets and the numerous parks.
Thanks to Jaeger’s help, Stefan and I managed to climb up to the peripheral outdoors halls of the domes, where one has an unobstructed view in all directions. The plan was to stay there for about half an hour, while our friends would view the entry of the Lorffes underneath and would save us seats in the tiers of the large golden square.
When the last rays of the sun had faded, the oath began to sound. People were gathered there and in three more locations around the Valley. A great number of Ilectors along with the highest representatives of the Ministry addressed millions of young people who would soon begin their two-year service. They addressed them directly, but also the rest of the people indirectly. Thanks to their incredible sound systems, each phrase of the oath resonated across the Valley, but without hurting your ears. The oath was recited in the sui generis old language of the Ilectors. Nevertheless, I did understand a few words: “For the homeland!”, “for the soul of the nation”, “for the pride of our ancestors”, “for our institutions”, “for the rise of the human spirit”, “for our culture”. And the young men and women repeated: “I swear!”
My lifeless pen is powerless to describe the power and energy of the moment. Following the oath, the children began to sing:
Beloved children from the distant past,
From those old times,
Join us today in the spring meadows
Let us free you from untold pains...
Deeply satisfied and with some kind of a secret pride, I grasped Stefan’s hand, striving to hide my emotion from others around me. They also sang two of Johannes Brahms’s compositions; “Lullaby” and “Sisters”! I secretly wiped a tear away before it rolled down my cheek. Then we all descended down to the ground floor hall-square, leaving in the middle of that magnificent spectacle.
We found our friends easily. They were watching some friends of theirs perform, female poets from Blomsterfor, the painter Nichefelt, Syld and their old friend Aria, all of whom were taking part in the ritual.
The magnificence of the entire ritual exceeded all expectations. It was a fabulous spectacle and experience overall, not only for the luxury of the costumes and the unimaginable number of precious and semiprecious stones that adorned every object and every corner, but more for the spiritual tradition of centuries that was honoured by all these venerable people in the famous establishments of their universal now capital.
All the great minds of today were present in the temple for the anniversary. Most of them had come from Norfor, Blomsterfor and other European regions, especially from northern Europe. And there, in the sea o
f gems that adorned the uniforms of the Tilteys, the Lorffes and the Ilectors, there, close to the complex of chapels that constitute the Temple of the Unsung Martyrs, Stefan showed me two elders, the only ones without a diadem on their white-haired heads.
“Look,” said Stefan, pointing in their direction, “It’s Nicolas Lajevski and beside him Gunnar Hiller Jr.!”
I caught myself staring at them; their shadows were the only ones that didn’t sparkle in that golden congregation. So it is them then! They’re the ones that Stefan talked so much about this autumn. They are the ones whose life and work he admires so much and constantly exalts to others! These are the poet and the philosopher that have been holding the top positions in the modern spirit for eighteen months now. They are considered to be the greatest among the living. Little Lasia revived me from my momentary trance, asking me when the fluttering was going to be heard and pointing at the interior domes that weren’t lit tonight.
“Once a year,” she said, “on the evening of this anniversary, billions of little souls come to the temple to present themselves at the memorial.” The pure, the chosen ones, the ones “whose souls have sensitive antennas”, might be lucky enough to even hear them fluttering when they enter the temple.
I asked Stefan—silently so that no one heard me—who had told such fairy tales to this child and why they were in the habit of making children believe things that aren’t true. He casually, almost indifferently, replied that she must have read it in some children’s book. And the truth is that I wasn’t that surprised. Besides, it’s not the first time that I witness this. It’s not the first time that I feel like these people do not particularly care for reason and critical thinking and that they deliberately cross the line between reality and dream world...
Meanwhile, the first hundreds of the four-part procession, which arrives at the city-centre in the shape of a cross from the four different points of the horizon, had begun to arrive at the four gates, one in each of the four sides of the temple. But as I had been informed, all that gigantic torch lit procession would remain outside of the temple. The processional banners and the flower floats would only enter from the west gate. No one uttered a word. They had all turned their attention to the procession, looking with respect and pride as the girls, who were to begin their service in the coming days, silently laid all the ancient emblems of the trade unions, that date back to their 2nd century, under Kersteen’s plastic composition in the Golden Square. Everyone was looking at them, from the most prestigious Lorffe to the last Civis.
The songs could still be heard outside the temple. And then, six by six the flower floats started to enter the temple. The flowers that were meant to cover the emblems had been symbolically sent from all around the world.
“For the children that died every day,” said the girls while depositing the flowers. “For the people who were dying of hunger while others threw away their food”, “for the homeless who breathed their dying breaths on icy streets”, “for the sick who died because they had no money to pay for their treatment”, “for the crippled children, the children that were burned alive, buried in groups, died for no reason” were some of the things people exclaimed when paying their tribute.
I felt a shiver run down my spine… We never paid such a tribute to the victims of our lifestyle...
The depositing of flowers—the old flowers, our flowers, not their modern floricultural achievements: hydrangeas, violets, begonias, mimosas and carnations—continued for hours in the same solemn atmosphere. The ceremony would end with prayers. The first break was after the twelfth group of six with flower canisters had entered. We benefited from the opportunity and left because Stefan also wanted to visit the area of New Karelia before it got too late and we had to go back to the gestel.
On the way back, I thought about the wall paintings of Fabius Sigra, these 9thcentury masterpieces. I remembered the golden letters on the wall, narrating the story of “The Little Match Girl”.
I wonder, all you great artists, you “prophets” of the past with the shining faces, do you know where all your inspiration was coming from? Or did you think your spirit was the source of everything? Did you believe you were making a better world from nothing? Yes, that’s what you thought; that’s what we all thought at the time.
THE SNOW WHITE SANCTUARY
22-VII
The snow-white sanctuary with the walls made of synthetic ivory that I was told to visit was not far away from the Pantheon after all. I came here today believing that I would see the navel of the Valley, but there are neither temples nor statues here. They have maintained the place almost exactly as it was; they’ve respected the charm of the past. With the exception of the luminous clarity of the rose petals, fruit of the newly planted rosebushes that surround the area, the lined up banners of Rosernes Dal and the thousands of candles burning on the golden candlesticks, almost everything else has been kept exactly as it was on the day of the big event, in its old simplicity. It’s like time has stopped in the year 986, giving you the chance to feel the atmosphere of that era.
There are only a few pilgrims here at this time of day and the peace and quiet that prevails is priceless. One breathes an air of ecstasy, prayer and deep faith here, an air that purifies all surrounding things.
I can’t help thinking about the past, about Volky, or the way I have imagined Volky from the stories of Astrucci and Lain, and I’ve reached the conclusion that the greater the temporal and historical distance that separates us from this huge figure, the more we appreciate it and the more his preaching, the preaching of the “greatest hero in the history of human spirit”, illuminates all sides of the mental and spiritual lifestyle of our own humanity.
It’s been now over five hundred years that man has been following the way that he paved. Thousands of years after the creation of the concept of the exquisite panhuman love of Christ that shaped humanity, and the treasures of emotion that followed it, thanks to Volky, there came that much sought-after moment when the borders of the “existent world” finally opened to such an extent that even the most spiritual and open-minded men of the 20th century wouldn’t have dared to imagine.
That spiritual “revolution” was something incomparably greater than what religious faith had ever dared to preach even when it had hit its highest peak. It showed people the truly important things in life; it vindicated ideas and values that had unjustly been the subject of mockery for far too long and clarified the important role they played in the Great Reality even if we did not have an inkling about it.
24-VII
(Back in our villas late at night)
We flew back here directly from the Valley. My eyes couldn’t get enough of the marvellous views of the countryside. From up above I could discern some of my favourite places from last year’s travels. They brought back so many memories from our meetings with the group and from the first days of my love for Sylvia… Just like I used to every night ten months ago, I sat and gazed again tonight at the beauty of the distant countryside. It felt like yesterday…
25-VII
This is the house where Silvia grew up and the thought of her running around this house as a child moves me deeply. I feel like this environment somehow heightened my responsibility to make her happy—a feeling that has pervaded me over the past few months.
26-VII
(At dusk)
The form that our love has taken is now completely different. That first thrill and enthusiasm has now given its place to feelings of immense affection. When I’m with her, I completely forget about myself. Never in my life have I cared so much about someone else; a dear friend, a neighbour or a beloved person. I think that whatever I do in life, I could never stop being her faithful and devoted friend; I could never stop being “hers”, ready for any sacrifice if needed. I profoundly experience the pain and concerns of her parents, their anguish and their yearning for her happiness. I feel as if I have a heavy responsibility towards them, as if I had been chosen among thousands of others to ma
ke her happy…
BACK TO HIS HOMELAND
30-VII
Home, sweet home! I flew back to you again! This time, my being here brings me neither sorrow nor regrets, like the last time I was here with Stefan, nine months ago. Today I arrived here all by myself, flying above the old familiar landscapes of my childhood.
Who says that I have nothing of my own in this new life? I have one of the richest galleries of the world, right here, before me! These sights, these incredible images, are more mine that anyone else’s! For the rest of the world they’re just harmonious lines and colours.
Oh my dearest homeland… Tomorrow when I’m back, will be a double joy for me! I’ll ask Silvia to come with me and share my great joy, a world of vivid life memories and familiar places.
They’re right when they say that there’s no place like home! I’ve often virtually travelled back to the places where I grew up, I’ve often let my memories consume me and take me back in time for a while, but there’s no feeling in the world like when you’re actually there, no matter how long it took you to return and no matter what you had left behind, even if what you had left behind is not there anymore… I feel so blessed, so privileged to have the chance to be here again and I thank Lord for that, for I’ve never done anything to deserve such incredible fate, such luck and such divine gifts. I feel as if I belonged in the truly enlightened elite, as if I were one of the chosen ones of the Rosernes Dal.
