Ewa Bash - Crystal Garden
Prologue
The moonlight barely penetrated the narrow lancet windows of the medieval Bohemian church. Small candles dimly lit old frescoes depicting saints. The church was quiet and deserted, except for an elderly priest who was dosing over a book. The door opened almost silently, letting in an icy wind. A young man lingered in the doorway, as if considering his next move. He stepped in, closed the door behind him and walked up the aisle straight to the altar, the sound of his footsteps echoing from the stone walls. The snowflakes that sparkled in his blond hair melted, leaving footprints on his white coat. He held a long canvas package, and as he knelt before the altar, he placed it down and unfolded it to reveal an ancient sword. Upon the sword were engraved words that glistened in the candlelight. The young man folded his hands, bowed his head to the side, and looked up at the crucified Christ above the altar.
“So, here I am.” He spoke quietly in English with a slight German accent. “You know, this time I did everything I could.” He fell into a thoughtful silence before speaking again. “I ask only one thing of you – take care of them.”
Part I
1
I was born in Western Germany on a cold, rainy day in October 1986. My mother once told me that she had to travel to the hospital all alone in the pouring rain that night, as my father was at work – as usual. He was always working, day and night. His days were spent at the timber works, and at night he worked as a warehouse operative. Of course, on such a schedule, he didn’t have time for his family. As for my mother, she wrote for the local newspaper, giving tips on how to build relationships or grow gladioli. She was a perfect example of how you can give advice without actually being a specialist in anything. In our family, everyone was on their own. We were not even a family in its primary sense, just a collection of people under one roof.
It’s no wonder I became a troubled teen. I wasn’t a brawler or a drug addict, oh no. I studied well and came home on time. My “problem” was that nobody knew how to communicate with me. People around seemed so boring that I stayed silent most of the time, simply not understanding why anyone would bother to discuss such mundane things as weather, football or a film they watched last Sunday. In a way, I was a rebel, as I didn’t give a damn about public opinion. I was living in my own world by my own rules. I did what I wanted, the way I wanted.
The only person who could tolerate me was Sunny. His real name was Robert, but nobody called him that, not even his parents or teachers. I don’t remember how he came to be known as Sunny. Maybe it was because of his red hair and freckles.
Sunny pretended to be a pacifist and always avoided conflict. It was so important to him that everyone adored him. And people did adore him. He was positive, friendly, a ray of sunshine in this grey world. But I knew that this was only pretense, the mask he wore.
Nobody understood his relationship with me. It seemed to outsiders that we had nothing in common, but that wasn’t so. Our imaginations ran wild together, which troubled his parents. They scolded him, put him under house arrest, banned him from hanging out with me, or watching TV. My parents, on the other hand, had little interest in my life. Nothing was said as long as I came home before dinner, or at least before breakfast.
We lived in a small house in the suburbs at the edge of the forest. There, Sunny and I spent our childhood. At dawn, we would ride our bikes into the woods to our homemade hut filled with dishes, blankets and even food. We’d make a fire and cook fish that we’d caught in the Danube. Once, after reading “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” we built a raft to journey down the river, but it fell apart after a couple of miles. It was a miracle that we managed to get back to the shore. I remember being afraid of the water for at least a month after that.