WORTHY OF YOUR HUBRIS

Relja Antonić

 

It was the summer of 1940. The year of the War in the world outside, and of turmoil never ending on the inside. Insulated in my part of the world, but not quite safe, I was exploring a new literary concept with my mysterious friend whom I have never seen again after the war and die Rattenlinen, in aftermath of which he disappeared on a certain expedition – a daring young archaeologist, philosopher, explorer of the worlds physical and metaphysical alike. Sometimes, when I am in a great peril or pain, or when I dream, can I recall his full name. Less, as the time passes and the war gets further away, I can remember the shape of his face (but not the colour of his eyes), and his initials – which, strangely enough, are not A, B and C, but instead A, B and then K. And in order not to fully forget him and all we worked on; I shall try to pen down at least a short, subjective history of these strange occurrences.

A. B. K. was a proud man. A know-it-all type of person, a bit condescending, and well-versed in both mystic and symbolic meanings of the artefacts he had uncovered. Well heeled, he was the owner of the largest private library of the time, his adventurous but troubled brow often buried in the tomes which Poe and Lovecraft had named ‘the forbidden lore’. I presume that library had something to do with his disappearance – perhaps with his descent into Lethe’s waters as well, for after the turmoil, all his precious work and his social status were forgotten. And even he, being the way he was, admitted to not reading even ten percent of his books. It is understandable that we came to the decision to use his private collection for our research.

Vigorous we were still and determined to exposit and dilate Ovid’s “Metamorphosis” in its historical, metaphysical and psychological contexts. So, we split our research, and I was assigned to deal with Kafka, C. G. Jung and even a bit of Freudian analysis. And K’s part of the job was (re)reading, rewriting and understanding all his ‘forgotten lore’. And both of us studied the works of Ovid, side by side. A. B. started feeling unwell, he had a sensation that he was being watched and followed, he thought somebody is going to steal our work, and he started living in constant fear of being robbed of his money and archaeological artefacts and, most importantly, of his books. Although it was me who was studying Kafka’s “Die Vervandlung” and all his personal letters which pierced deep into his own insecurities – while still trying to discern the other side of the medal and perceive symbolic and non-allegorical context of his works – it was me again, and not A. B. K., who, on a hot summer night of February 29^th 1940, found, next to those two tomes, a strange, early Johannes Gensfleich zur Ladem zum Gutenberg’s print of an ancient text, marked as ‘accursed’ and probably never read or sold, never reprinted, and forever forgotten. It was titled “Hubris and worth – the weave-tragedy of ancient world of Agartha; post-decadent age”, and though it was quite similar to Ovid’s work, it was also reminiscent of Lord Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott”, and it was written in a form of a personal journal, and also quite short, perhaps long enough for a double-scroll tube of Alexandrian library. I will try to translate it on Spanish, and in context, here, although ‘Agarthians’ (or the real Far Eastern authors of much later periods) had obviously nurtured quite different style and concepts at the time – and so, the German (and maybe even earlier Hellenistic) translation has some minor problems. I will use the prothagonist’s name as she was later named in the Western wolrd, with no inclusion of the footnote of the unpronounceable name Gutenberg had given (or probaly had taken from Greek transcription).

The story tells of something like this.

 

It has become obvious that our Agartha, world of the Inner Infinity, sometimes leaks into their realm. It is a well-known scientific fact: our sometimes abstract and always subjectively idealistic tales and weavings shape their reality and their history. And know this, o weave-reader – the concequences of all our trivial actions in the world of the Inner, the world of ideas, also shape the world of the Outlands.

Condemned to forever weave my stories, to reshape and retell, to make my thick, rich tapestries, and veils thinner than shades, I almost never leave my royal castle. And I never sell any. Not anymore. So, many weavings cover every inch of my House, unsold, unused, not even accepted as royal gifts by other rulers… but returned to sender. “You are trying to entangle us in your worthless stories,” they tell me. But I weave all I see, I change all I want. My tapestries tell of the greatest sagas in the world. And I have always been proud.

But, lo! Also beware of the facts of alchemical sciences! Gods punish hubris, and reward valour for its worth, unless that valour is better than their own works. So, the time came, and I could not go out ever again –only do my noble work– and I could never rest… but continue seeing and picturing everything, nowadays without even a blink. With every possible usage of my perfect memory, I can never maintain the reproduction of all the occurrences I see, and all the changes My perfect imagination grants them – but I never stop, and since I never forget what I see or what I dream-weave, I really do not care how late I am running behind with my weaving with the loom and hands.

Gods and Goddesses also judge all the others they do not like. For it is known, they had made apes once, from the unworthy and lazy First Men. They made weasels from sneaky bastards, crawling reptiles from even worse people, and then… Gods went mad with power, I’d say.

All the non-human species have spread across the Inner Infinity from then on. The unclean ones. The clean, but dumb ones. All of them were once Humans.

The world turns on itself, and the Inner Core blinks gently. Someone also turns, into something else. Again, day after day. Streets get infested with rats and mice, forests spawn lucky vermin with magical paws and horrid elongated ears. Huge bloodthirsty beasts roam the inner landmasses. Maybe some of them also roam the small Outer Universe. For our shadows have been leaking there, and probably forever shall.

I hear roaches chirping and hissing. The castle is infested with bugs. Always eating, smacking their mandibles, never producing, never giving. Oh, what a horrid sound they make! When I go hungry, I catch and drain some of them, but always looking all around me, never blinking. Always weaving what I see… even scene of that vile deed. Ever changing the stories but not sugar-coating them.

And one day, the Herald comes, carrying a parchment. He gives it to my envoy. The parchment says:

“Let it be known that, by the verdict of the High Council, princess Arachne is to be permutated and deviated into the Mother of Weaving Spiders, and all remaining, yet unturned members of her court, into digger-spiders. Let there also be known she has offended Us vastly. Thus, she and the remaining humans of her House shall be metamorphosed into this new, foul kind of creature. Hers is to weave forever and never to blink, always hungry and needy. They are to burrow in their pitiful holes. And, let there be known: as Inside, so in the Outer! Thus spoke the High Council.”

I know inhuman animals stop thinking soon after the Turn. I may not have many opportunities to tell my last story – maybe just now, while my mind is still fresh, for I know not if my veils and tapestries will be readable in the future, even if I would be subconsciously able to produce them. So, I try to conjure some skeletal kind of memoir from my infinite weaving, pulling it aside from everything else in this chaotic mash of knowledge. May one day someone rewrite that which he or she has seen on this tapestry and spread the word!

 

I do not remember whether I ever showed A. B. K. this document. Maybe I did, and maybe I stole and hid it. I just don’t know. I vaguely recall we continued our research during the years of the outer war, and that he disappeared afterwards, before we have made anything. And, after that, he was washed out of history and memory. I am not sure at all if I would remember even this much: his initials, our history together, or the shape of his head – if I had not received his last letter, signed only by three letters of the alphabet.

And these are the contents of that letter I found in the late 1946.

 

Dear J. L. B,

The world is turning.

And decadence is pouring from the Metaphysical. For it is the infinite and endless sea beyond Plato’s Cave. It is real, and we have spoiled it somehow – all of us, you and me included.

I am not sorry at all. I am proud, and I would do that again, for I grew up feeling unworthy of my father and mother, and now – after all my adventures and findings, and after time spent in my family’s library, all that noble pursuit and everything I’ve accomplished – I know one thing. I do not care anymore - for I should not care anymore, and I shouldn’t have cared back then. And you and I… we did not end the nightmare, we maybe won’t even explain it (we may or may not be so lucky), but we have paved the road for future discoveries and arts.

So, if I never see you again, for I really am in grave danger, may you know you shouldn’t give in to despair. I will excavate lost stories and weave new ones –everywhere, even on this expedition, and ever on– until the day I am no more, and so should you, even if we do not meet again to finish this one.

Yours truly,

A. B. K.

Relja Antonić was born on December 17, 1988. He lives and works in Šabac, Serbia, and has been writing and illustrating for over 10 years. He contributes to at least three magazines, has published short stories in several anthologies from countries of the former Yugoslavia, and likely considers himself a fantasy writer.