The wind brought the scent of lavender, so strong that the wind itself seemed purple. For the first time in my life, I had listened to a fairy tale. And I liked to think that Wind Petal made it up just for me. I asked:

‘That girl, the blacksmith's daughter… was that you?’

‘Even if you liked the fairy tale, you're still too grown-up to take everything on faith.’ She tilted her head to her shoulder like a cat and her earrings chimed softly. I wanted to touch them and now I could have. But I did not dare. I must have been silent for too long and she, not waiting for an answer, continued, ‘Who knows how many petals the wind carries? Maybe it's me, or maybe not. Or maybe you're that prince who was searching for his death?’

‘I, of all people, am not fit to be a prince.’

‘Is that so? They say your mother was a queen. Or was your father a king?’

‘They say my mother was a rock. Or my father was a bull. Isn't that so?’

‘Either way,’ she shook her head and her earrings danced, chiming louder, ‘You and any of these good knights — you're all in love with your death and no matter how many times I bring you back to life, you keep chasing her, day after day, year after year. How curious! I have seen the waves of distant seas and the sands of the desert. Palaces of jasper and porphyry and huts — you won't believe it! — made of dung. I have seen people with skin black as night and pale as moonlight. Their customs and appearances vary, and it seems impossible to find two alike, for even twins differ in habits and disposition. And there is only one thing that is common to all.’

‘And what is that?’ I asked.

‘Bloodlust. Be they black, white or yellow-faced, they do not know how to live in peace. Why do you suppose people have been killing each other for centuries — out of hatred, or for love — and cannot live without wars?’

‘I don’t know. I am not human,’ I replied to her, averting my gaze.

I looked at the mountains, disappearing into the distant mist, at the tops of beeches, oaks and chestnuts. At the clear blue sky, which even I could not stain with blood. At the sun I loved. At the approaching outline of Mount Tabor — and my heart was tormented by cruel longing. What was I to do? What was I to say to her? Would we part as simply as we had met? Would we part so soon?

Suddenly, a flock of birds burst from the dense foliage and, as if striking the sky, sharply changed direction and flew away towards the misty mountains.

I heard Wind Petal’s quiet sob and was surprised that a maiden as strong as the sun could be brought to tears by her own words. I turned around, intending to say something silly and cheerful to her, more in the spirit of lo Ros than of de Bornel, and saw an arrowhead protruding from between her breasts.

5

For a moment longer, Wind Petal looked straight ahead with a surprised and seemingly joyful gaze — her eyebrows and the corners of her lips slightly raised, her eyes wide open so that I could see the reflection of the sky in her pupils — then black blood gushed from her mouth, she swayed and collapsed onto me.

Her cheek pressed against my chest, her fingers, still warm, touched my neck. The tip of the arrow that had struck her scratched my skin and our blood mixed.

Time froze, became stuck, then disappeared, and I saw a future that would never come to pass. I saw it with such irresistible clarity, as if I could indeed remember every moment.

Embracing my fair Madonna, Wind Petal, I suddenly realised how much I desired and loved her. How I wished she would fall asleep, pressing her cheek against my chest and wake up, touching my neck with her delicate fingers. Could I build her a stone house by the sea? Guard her on her journey? See exotic cities? Waves of distant seas and desert sands? Experience the wonders of wandering? Live long and happily? Could she love me too?

Who knows?

She was dead and her hot blood was cooling, mixing with mine.

The Game of Jart, Gloria Mu

Translated by Simon Hollingsworth

Art by Aleks Klepnev

Published with authors' permission