I don’t believe in heaven. The universe may be vast, and humanity may not be able to correctly assess all of its glory, as the stars look down on us, but there’s certainly no heaven. There are strange times, however, when one may take the yawning gorge that is the night sky and interpret it as some cosmic joke. A joke filled with impulses of lifestream, vainly attempting to find a definite meaning where there is none.
Against every fiber of my being, I’m trying to find that meaning.
For simplicity’s sake, my name will be Max. My lineage is slightly known in my home country, having been involved in politics since the middle decades of the last century. Since I need everyone to understand what exactly is transpiring within my country’s borders, I suppose that my name and family can be dispensed with. For now, we’ll just say my last name is Bethke.
For those of you that don’t know, Venezuela is a very unstable region in the northern end of what Americans would call “South America”. Political turmoil has assuaged the region for two decades already, and only a handful of cities in the northern states offer a mirage of decency. This safe haven of sorts is not where my story takes place. My story takes place deep within the heartland, away from the interests of common people living in the capital.
I am a lawyer by trade, as has most of my family. Unlike my family, however, I’ve never had much interest in this sort of discipline. To be perfectly clear, my years in college were filled with mishap upon mishap. I wasn’t ever destined to be a good lawmaker, but it was the career I chose out of tradition. So it was then that I found myself working for the C.E.G. firm, a notorious buffet with tendrils reaching all across the nation - from military contracts, banking conflicts to economic scandals. While most prestigious, I was only serving as an errand boy of sorts. I was hired because of my family name and, in turn, I had to take whatever kind of work they gave me.
If I knew what I would encounter due to their influence, I would have gladly remained in obscurity my entire life.
There are many things we do not know about our own countries. Some individuals do wondrous acts of heroism, only to fade into obscurity. Other things are so abhorrent that they simply remain hidden in the dark depths, never to be seen again. The colony called Fortuna leaps to the forefront of my mind when pressed for an example. During the month of July, my employers asked me to travel to Bolivar state - the heartland, in other words - to help with a legal dispute. I was surprised, at first, since this was most irregular. Many firms send their low-level employees to do this sort of gruntwork, but I didn’t expect that C.E.G. would be in need to do that. I was to visit a colony by the name of “Colonia Ernesto Andrés de la Fortuna”, or Fortuna, for short.
I had never heard of it before.
Nevertheless, I blamed myself for such ignorance. After all, my country does suffer from capital-centric favoritism. We characterize the other regions as simple, provincial towns without much cultural value. It was logical of me to assume that this colony was, in fact, a very notorious tourist attraction that I simply hadn’t heard of. Pushing that aside, I asked my superiors for the details of the errand.
I was to provide the initial legal defense for an individual named Ylich Kalem. He was being accused of murdering two young men in cold blood. As my functions were mostly on a para-legal basis, I was to simply assess the necessary facts, and provide him with the necessary tools until his trial. It would be just a few days’ worth of trouble. This also struck me as odd. My firm didn’t usually provide criminal defense services. While they had a lot of reach, this wasn’t their usual playing field. Before I could ask, I was assured that everything proceeded as normal, and sent on my way.
The rest of my preliminary investigation was fruitless. Fortuna did not appear on any internet searches, nor did we have any useful information on our own library. I wasn’t provided any data on Mr. Kalem either, other than the place he was supposedly being held in. Despite none of this coalescing into a lick of sense, I was grateful for a job opportunity, so I departed on a Monday afternoon, riding a special company vehicle.
One thing to consider is the fact that my country has the Caribbean on its front porch. It has a humid, tropical climate. Some mountainous regions are cold and snowy, but the heartland is anything but. Our country’s core is filled with dense, rainforest-like areas, where unusual activity is expected. I waited to see the sights of dirt roads, impromptu military blockades to control traffic, while the sunlight crept in through the marsh and the branches, like a warm sea serpent dripping venom on top of us. For the most part, we did encounter things like these. I don’t like to dwell much on this, but suffice to say my company allowed us to trek freely across the country when normal folk usually find more resistance from the authorities. Tales of people being kidnapped by guerrillas and taken for human trafficking purposes briefly made me fearful, but nothing of the sort ever happened along the way.
It wasn’t until we reached Fortuna that everything seemed off. Along the way, the driver informed me a bit about the colony, even offering me a small pamphlet. Curious, I read it, given that no information of the sort had been available beforehand.
“Founded in 1956, La Colonia Ernesto Andrés de la Fortuna has represented a safe haven for European immigrants since its inception. Named after its founder, Mr. Fortuna escaped from the horrors of fascist Spain, reaching Venezuelan shores without much money. Inspired by the works of Ingram Rutherford - a preacher known for his revolutionary beliefs - Fortuna put his experience as a lawyer to good use and negotiated a truce with the dictatorial government of Marcos Pérez Jimenez, ensuring that his colony would never be harmed.
Ever since then, the Fortuna colony has survived through the decades, serving as a homing beacon for impoverished populations seeking shelter from an unjust world. Through the power of belief in God, mixed with honest farm work, the colony brings meaning to hundreds of lives each year.”
The pamphlet went on to describe several notable locations, such as the farming areas, the local plaza, school, and - of course - the church. I was amazed at the level of sophistication mixed with its apparent size. Our government normally didn’t give much support to inland communities beyond token gestures, so these areas didn’t flourish as much. How had they survived for so long with simple farming? There were other farmers in our country, and they too had faced the consequences of economic upheaval. It didn’t make sense.
By the time we reached Fortuna, the sun was tainting the sky in a blood-red hue. The promotional images did not lie: this colony was bigger than I expected, stretching for about 140 square kilometers. By my current estimation, the entire colony must be home to at least 300 individuals. Not the sort of thing one would be able to hide in my country.
The first thing I noticed was that it wasn’t modeled after modern architecture. It genuinely looked like other colonies around the country, with wooden houses and rocky roads unifying the various locales. Nevertheless, several places caught my attention as we approached the main entrance. A landing strip, big enough for two airplanes, was located nearby. In the distance, a relatively modern-looking building stood taller than almost any other house. I would soon learn from the guide that this was a hotel meant for tourists, built during the last years of the Perez regime that welcomed Ernesto Fortuna.
My guide seemed amiable enough, if dressed a bit plainly. He calmly spoke of the various installations, such as a hospital and a power plant meant to help during the common power outages in the rural areas. It was through here that the link to my firm became clearer: A lone gravel mill served for the production of materials of many important projects within the country - projects that C.E.G. had been involved in the past. Why hadn’t I found anything related to this back home?
My driver explained that he would be picking me up by the end of the week, so there was no further use for him at the moment. I’d be staying within the hotel’s walls. His figure disappeared along with the last rays of light. My guide was going to show me the way to the hotel, but I asked if it was possible to see my client now.
Curious, he asked why I would be in such a rush, given that I wasn’t going to leave soon. I simply said that I preferred to take care of the business end of things first and foremost, and it didn’t seem right to leave my client waiting. A slow, sly smile erupted upon his lips. Pursing them together, he said he’d try to arrange something. In the meantime, he took me to the hotel’s reception. Enchanted by the contrasting opulence of the place, I looked at the candelabra illuminating the wooden floors. The receptionist too was dressed in out of date clothing, but her demeanor wasn’t as welcoming. Something nervous in her tone put me in a state of unease, as I rode an antiquated elevator to my room.
From the comfort of my bed, I could see the rest of the colony. The spacious windows offered almost no privacy, but I was high enough to avoid any human eyes. The reach of the colony was laid bare before me, an expanse of gentle european taste hidden in the middle of jungle vegetation. I thought of Macondo, Latin America’s most famous literary invention, when I noticed something. Ever since I had arrived, the weather seemed… different. Dark clouds covered the skies, and there wasn’t an insect in sight. In fact, the hotel didn’t even need to provide an AC system, so chilly it felt.
Brushing those thoughts aside, I opened up the files regarding Ylich Kalem’s case. The firm had been kind enough to provide me with the necessary details beforehand, obtained from local colony authorities. Almost making me wonder what the entire point of me getting here was. A formality, perhaps. In any case, I re-read the files, which made my stomach turn if I’m being honest.
Ylich Kalem, eighty years old, was accused of murdering two young men: Karl Seewald, aged 18, and Salvador Muller, aged 19.
There were pictures.
Lying against a wall, two misshapen bodies whose anatomy made it seem as if they had been conjoined. The damage was such that it was impossible to determine where one began and the other ended. The mouth of one was open in such a way that the lower jaw had been left hanging, showing various broken teeth. Their eyes… Forever frozen in a horrified expression, as their cold damp bodies lay upon a pool of blood.
According to the report, this was the last photograph taken of them, as their bodies had been devoured by local dogs, leaving only the hands. How this could have happened under the supervision of local authorities was beyond my comprehension, but a chill trickled down my spine as the cold breeze flew through the room, carrying the cries of local birds.
It was then that the bedside phone rang, letting me know that an arrangement had been made. I’d be able to talk a bit to Mr. Kalem, but I was to present him with the facts of his situation and be brisque. I didn’t have any problems with this. I asked if they would take me to the local penitentiary, before being informed of the contrary.
“No need for that, we’ve arranged for a local meeting house near the outskirts of the colony.”
Once more, I was left confused. By this point, it didn’t matter. I wanted to be done with the legal affairs so I could worry about something else. After a 15 minute wait, some authorities came by the hotel to escort me by car. I almost half expected them to be riding a horse.
The “meeting house” was isolated from the rest, almost like it had been shunned from normal contact for fear of infection. What struck me as odd was the relative opulence of the place. Three stories tall, with immense windows overlooking the rest of the town from a nearby hill.
“Quite the place you’ve prepared for interrogating the accused” I said.
The driver smiled at me. “Oh, this house doesn’t belong to us. This is Mr. Kalem’s house.”
My heart skipped a beat or two when we opened the front doors, with the creaking sound echoing in the inner halls. The architecture reminded me of old spanish households, meant to house royalty that had been slowly decaying over the decades. Despite the antique look, it was clear that the rest of the house was modern: it possessed running electricity, and a faraway kitchen was filled with busy personnel. I was ordered to sit by a large, dining room table, while I waited in the darkness.
Eventually, something changed. A sound - a large, scurrying sound of something walking on the upper floor. A door opening, the vicious, volatile steps turning simpler and quieter. Eventually, the recognizable gait of an old person reached my ears as they approached me from the bottom of the hall.
I have never been so terrified of meeting a normal looking person. Ylich Kalem was not unusual in any sense of the word. But something about him stood off, like when one looks at the sun directly and one knows that the flash of light does not represent the whole. His skin was extremely pale, with short white hair sticking closely to his scalp. Bony hands clutched firmly a cane made from various knots as he slowly approached me with a smile that showed sharp teeth. He reminded me of a predator that’s trying to look docile in front of an unsuspecting prey.
And the eyes - by god, the eyes. A yellow tinge peeked from the viscous bulges, as if the rot of the wooden floors had taken hold of the man himself - as if he wasn’t supposed to be alive, and yet here he was.
He sat there in silence, offering me his hand to shake.
“Mr. Kalem, a pleasure”, I said. He said nothing. “I’m Max Bethke. I represent C.E.G. and I’m here to inform you about our services.” He merely nodded while smiling. “We’re going to serve as your defense, given that you’re being accused of-
A loud cry was heard, coming from one end of the house. I turned in shock, but the sound disappeared as quickly as it began. Mr. Kalem beckoned me with his hand to continue, so I tried to regain what little calm I had left to explain the facts - namely, that as he himself apparently claimed, the act was done in self defense. The one witness had been a local farmer, who only saw the old man lying between the two corpses. According to Mr. Kalem, the young men had attempted to rob him. If all of this was true, there was no fear of any legal repercussions. It was a clear and cut case, if he were to take our services.
“After all,” I said. “It’s hard to imagine a person of your age seeking to hunt and harm young men.”
Mr. Kalem smiled.
“Though…” I said, a trembling tone betraying my apparent confidence, “It’s also difficult to see how you managed to overpower them in the first place.”
Mr. Kalem gave a sigh, like he was fondly remembering something. “Do you believe in anything, Mr. Bethke?”
“Um… Not particularly, no.”
“No? That is a shame. I believe a man with enough faith can move mountains by himself. Strength does not come from mere skin and bones alone.”
“So you mean to tell me you killed your attackers through faith, Mr. Kalem? You did not have any outside help?” I said, puzzled.
“What do you believe in, Mr. Bethke?”
“I… I believe in a reasonably ordered universe, I suppose. A cosmos that was brought about by naturally occurring principles such as gravity and time. Something that does not need an intelligent creator. This does not mean I don’t respect-
“So you understand natural laws, yes? Then, you must be familiar with the fact that our planet has a set of conditions that limit our perception, correct?”
“Well… Yes. I mean, it’s logical to assume we haven’t seen the entire cosmos.”
“Like… A fish trying to understand a forest, while living inside a pond, wouldn’t you say?” His eyes bore into me deeply, clutching that horrible cane of his.
“The most pleasant of mercies bestowed upon man was the inability to comprehend all of the universe’s mysteries. Just as the fish chokes upon entering the realm of man, so too the mind of man chokes upon entering the realm of the heavens.”
I blamed the man’s old age for this sudden outburst. But, in the middle of this silent room, I could not find a way to excuse myself.
He signed some documents I had given him, finally averting his gaze. “I know of your family name, Mr. Bethke. You are in good company, with that firm.” Some birds chirped in the distance.
“You know my family?” My last name was somewhat well known… But by his tone, it implied a deeper knowledge.
“I have my ways of knowing. Young men trust their eyes, I put my trust in something far more powerful.”
“Walk by faith, not by sight, and all that?” I said sardonically, trying to lighten the mood. It was at this moment that his demeanor suddenly switched. His eyes… Something in his eyes changed, as if the yellow now reflected a hot, burning ball of hellfire.
“You’re a small handful of dust, dancing in the wind, Mr. Bethke. I would be careful with your words in these parts. You’re treading on sacred ground. Forbidden ground.”
I sat there, in silence.
“Do you know of the old jewish legend of God’s name? The reason why man writes His name as “YHWH” is in part due to fear. Fear of invoking that which is unknowable. Written in such a way as to not give it enough power to be spoken - once the name invades the airwaves, they feared it would take hold of them. But what can the frail power of man do, against that which is omnipotent, omnipresent and unknowable?”
“Well,” I said, arming myself with valor. “If God was so powerful - if he exists at all - why would he allow for so much sorrow? He is either powerless to stop it, or he doesn’t care. Which means he isn’t as righteous-
“Have you heard about the way in which stars work?” He continued. “You know, when we look at stars, we are actually looking at something that does not exist anymore. A dead star, its light reaching across the galaxies.” I nodded, I understood that. “You could argue that, in a way, the future is looking at the past. From the perspective of man, he is the future looking at what has already transpired. But what if stars could also look at men? What if they could see the earth and look at the future before it ocurred?”
“Imagine, if your mind allowed it, Mr. Bethke, a being so complete, so pure, that it could look at all the corners of the universe and see what has already been decided by cosmic causality before it happens. Imagine that being, calculating and biding its time, deciding when the appropriate time to act is due, bathing upon the vastness of the starways and the nebulas. Now… Imagine, Mr. Bethke, that you went to this being’s domain, and you insulted it and incurred its wrath.”
My entire self trembled. The man simply smiled. “I’ll let you be on your way. It is late, after all. I wish you a very pleasant week.” He suddenly excused himself, and disappeared into darkness and distance.
By the time I returned to my hotel room, it was late. I crashed and dreamt of dreadful portents, of universal pandemonium and godly figures bringing about the end. To this day, there are many other things I’ve discovered, but I’ll never forget the night when my eyes were opened.
Nor how it ended.
As my dreams became more nightmarish, I swore I could see an old man’s face peering through my window, eyes as yellow as gold, files and files of teeth turned into a satanic smile. When I awoke screaming, there was nothing by the window. Nothing, except for a strange mark imprinted against the window. A window that stood above all structures in the entire colony.
It had the form of a hand. Not a human one, but marked by long, bony fingers.