November 2022, at the "Haus des Blicks" in Sonnenblumendorf.

On an ordinary evening, twilight descended upon the quaint suburban hamlet of Sonnenblumendorf, or "Villa Florida de los Girasoles" as it translates. This idyllic village, characterized by five turrets perched upon a hill, serves as a satellite to the sprawling Anáhuac Megalopolis. From these turrets, one could peer into the distant mountain ranges that enveloped the main valley. Among these mountain peaks, the historic Kloster der Heilmittel, or "Convent of Remedies," stood prominently. Beyond it, when the weather permitted, one could catch a glimpse of the volcanoes that had inspired a millennia-old legend of love.

In this picturesque setting, within a three-story ancestral mansion known as the "Haus des Blicks" or the "House of the Gaze," nestled near the "Schatzbrücke der vier Häuser," or the "Bridge of the Hacienda of the Four Houses," spanning the Chico de los Remedios River, sat Homero Núñez, a sexagenarian writer who went by the pseudonym "El Cuentero (The Storyteller)." He had been attempting to write, yet satisfaction had eluded him. In truth, he was unclear about the subject of his writing. He had been grappling with a creative block like never before, as his thoughts meandered around the circumstance that had defined the world for the past two years.

In a manner reminiscent of the early twentieth century, the most consequential pandemic of the early twenty-first century had endured for three years, from March 2020, when the World Health Organization officially declared it, until the same month two years later, when its conclusion was declared. The toll in lives lost had been substantial, yet, in proportion and owing to medical advancements and the characteristics of the involved coronavirus, the mortality rate had been lower than that of the influenza during the fateful first quarter of the twentieth century.

During that time, as in ages past, numerous events unfolded around the world, adding complexity to the situation. With a comparative perspective, both novices and experts in various fields, enthusiasts and professionals of history, pondered and imagined the recurring similarity of these events, attempting to predict, albeit with some imprecision, what would transpire. For individuals like "El Cuentero," all it took was a glance at historical precedents to envision a plethora of potential developments. For others, a deeper examination of the consequences of abuses, vested interests, and human omissions was required to forecast a less auspicious future.

Of course, there were those exaggerated soothsayers who, fueled by conspiracy theories, news of the virus supposedly created by the Chinese long ago to initiate a war against the United States of America, and a myriad of other speculations, predicted the imminent extinction of the human species. Arguments both in favor and against these conjectures abounded, along with audacious fallacies and paranoid fears. Anyone could interpret an event as an ominous harbinger of the impending apocalypse. Much like in other grim moments in history, scholars and believers embraced the most suggestive prophecies to justify their distress and despair.

Democracy was put to the test. Tyrannical impulses saw in this occasion a fertile breeding ground. They thrived under the influence of populist demagoguery, nurturing the most sinister ambitions. These forces, believing themselves to be victorious after the fall of real socialism following the collapse of the Berlin Wall in 1989, which had haunted them for forty years due to predictions of the end of the Oil Era around the year 2050, seized upon the promise of a new order stemming from the pandemic and did everything in their power to maintain their privileges. They even resorted to the subterfuge of presenting their supposedly libertarian solutions under the guise of the most outdated communist rhetoric. As the saying goes, "the enemy of my enemy is my friend." Thus, the pent-up needs and desperation of the populace, accumulated over years of subjugation to wealth and political power, compounded by the injustice and resentment during the pandemic and its ensuing economic downturn, merged with the opportunistic aspirations of the greedy, who found new ways to sway the citizenry, further dividing the world.

While on one hand, the circulating currency exhibited distressing fluctuations, on the other hand, the virtuality of digital currencies and cryptocurrencies presented itself as the panacea for equity. Even the inclusive efforts of so-called vulnerable and discriminated minorities contributed paradoxically to the construction of this new Tower of Babel, where the prevailing norm was the censorship of any expression that might possibly bruise someone's sensibilities in the slightest. Thus, grammar, words, phrases, gestures, and adjectival behaviors that once served the purpose of descriptive clarity were confined to the realm of pejorative linguistic stereotypes. This was presumed to be founded not just on a malicious intent but rather on something blatantly segregationist. Those who dared to employ them as part of their rhetorical discourse were branded with other, even more reprehensible epithets. These accusations allowed the accusers to derive a certain satisfaction from casting their self-loathing onto the individual who became their target.

In this climate, everything became bewildering, and it was not uncommon to hear cynical rulers proudly assert that the pandemic had fallen into their laps like a godsend.

Emotions became more pronounced during this time. The government's control measures around the world resulted in mandatory confinement, and soon, the toll was exacted in various ways. It ranged from broken families to the eruption of social conflicts fueled by frustration, hunger, and intolerance, even among those closest. For Homero, it resulted in his isolation.

However, for individuals like Homero, things unfolded differently. That evening, time seemed to pass unnoticed for him as he wrote and discarded his notes.

"Contrary to what anyone might think", Homero would occasionally say to himself, gazing at the back wall of his house, much like an echo reverberates through a canyon, "life doesn't progress linearly. Perhaps it moves in leaps, if not in fits and starts. Of course, if you look at the progression of days on the calendar, you get a different impression, and the assumed continuity of life seems natural, following the logical premise that we are born, we grow, we procreate, and we die; in that order, and no other."

In Homero's case, the last two stages were yet to be seen. On the other hand, dreams and memories seldom appear in a linear sequence, resembling instead scattered fragments of consciousness, disposable pieces of some parallel life and world. That's why a writer not only uses their own dreams and memories to create worlds but also borrows from others.

As the late hours of the night approached, Homero paused his work. The cold drove him back into the house. He put on his bedclothes, lay down, closed his eyes, and sank into a brief yet profound sleep, from which he abruptly and startledly awoke in the middle of the early morning. Following his method and habit, he immediately took up the pen and began to record his dream just as he had done years ago when he captured his dreams with fresh memory and shaped them into poems, or sometimes merely with the hope of extracting an idea for a fiction project, like the one he had been working on since shortly after the pandemic began. First, he jotted down a reference point to indicate that the story would unfold...

* * *

In a remote corner of the universe.

Like an excerpt from Dickens' Christmas tale, the hum of white noise generators aboard the spaceship filled the air. Perhaps the footsteps of one of the crew members interrupted the monotony. Brief corridors surrounded or intersected the oval structure of the ship, with just around two thousand cubic meters of space, more akin to a house in its layout than an interplanetary cruiser. Some translucent walls, floors, and ceilings scattered here and there served as windows. Through them, one could glimpse the vastness of space, albeit somewhat blurred, and only in a few scattered portholes could it be seen in greater detail. The vessel smoothly traversed space, warping it to achieve speeds greater than that of light.

Our destination, a planet labeled CA001, seemed close, and personally, I was excited, though skeptical of myself. I had been so, so long, mired in depression that I wasn't even sure if joining this adventure within an adventure was a good idea. But they say the first step can be the last, and since life is an adventure in itself, and I was already on the path I had once dreamt of, all I could do was let things flow, hope that something out there would give me the motivation and reasons I needed to not just overcome my creative block but perhaps redefine, maybe redeem my existence. So there I was, Homero Núñez "Cuentero," a simple writer, like Mr. Scrooge persuaded by a ghost, now a member of the crew aboard the Magallanes-HS001A shuttle, sitting at my seat in the central dining area, savoring a comforting hot soup whose aroma transported me back to my mother, to my childhood on Earth.

I peacefully gazed at the traces of stars beyond the spaceship's fuselage, much like distracted dreamers watching raindrops race across the windshield of a speeding car. Suddenly, alarms blared, and the ship went haywire.

The captain and the pilot acted as swiftly as they could to control the emergency, but every effort seemed to complicate the situation further. The vehicle shook and groaned tremendously. I looked at my fellow travelers, some tense, others even horrified; meanwhile, I felt shame for my uselessness in such a predicament.

"Damn it! What a shake!" one exclaimed before succumbing to the gravitational effect. Then, through one side of the ship, I caught a glimpse of the cause of the imminent ordeal, and my blood ran cold.

* * *

Homero released the pen. He stared at what he had written for a long while. He read and reread it. In his mind, Homero had a jumble of styles and themes, and he couldn't quite decide on one or the other. At some point, he thought about constructing a post-apocalyptic science fiction novel, like those old classic stories that already foresaw the 21st century teeming with humans. But the news a few days ago of the birth of the eight-billionth inhabitant dashed his idea, because contrasting fiction with reality forced him to place the apocalypse either just around the corner or in a future even farther from what he had imagined.

Taking the first path would make his story not only implausible or alarmist for being too imminent, while taking the second path would render it just as utopian as all those classics. With all this swirling in Homero's mind, causing bewildering confusion, drowsiness overcame him. He closed his eyes and would not only sleep until mid-morning but would also experience something more than just another simple dream.

* * *

Planet Earth, year 2135.

There exists a mysterious document known as the "Shenfú Manuscript" - Konstantinos Mirídakis explained to me during the journey to the archeoastronomy conference organized by the SEIACA association. It begins by describing that in two distant worlds within the vast universe, two astronomers have been unknowingly observing each other, each focusing their telescope on an extraordinary event occurring in deep space from their respective perspectives. The distance separating them is a palindrome, but not everything around them is identical. One of the astronomers has located the event near a lenticular galaxy, which, from his viewpoint, is the oldest ever known according to his theories. The other has placed it in a spiral galaxy, which, from his perspective, is the oldest ever known according to his theories. One is situated in the first, and the other, as you can guess, is in the second. Both are mirror-type galaxies connected to other galaxies very distant from each other through a network of wormholes.

The first astronomer has named the second galaxy Calima; the other has done the same with the respective galaxy, but curiously in reverse, naming it Amilaç.

The first scholar has divided Calima into eight quadrants labeled with the letters of an ancient language and the names of winds: Alpha-Tramontana (Atram), Beta-Gregario (Begreg), Gamma-Levante (Gelev), Delta-Siroco (Desir), Épsilon-Ostro (Epôs), Zeta-Lebeche (Zetaleb), Eta-Poniente (Etâpon), Theta-Mistral (Themis). The second has done the same with Amilaç, vice versa.

On the edge of quadrant Atram, very close to the border with quadrant Zetaleb, there is a small blue planet classified by both astronomers as CA001 or in reverse, depending on their individual perspectives. Similar to Earth, its atmosphere is rich in oxygen and features extensive oceanic and continental areas, orbiting its two red and blue suns in a prolonged orbit. It is Klimhá, the home of one; while for the other, it is Ahmilk.

What these astronomers still don't know, given Klimhá's distance from Ahmilk and from us, is that although they are parallel worlds to Earth, their slightly wider-than-elongated shape and axis inclination have endowed them with broader and colder poles during their winters. In contrast, their equatorial zone is much warmer due to the slow rotation resulting from having three very close moons named Leda, Lamia, and Wica, the smallest of which.

In a first part that has been deciphered, Konstantinos continued, the "Shenfú Manuscript" focuses its attention on one of these worlds.

Klimhá is inhabited by furris and sarracinos, two distinct species that have learned to coexist happily and peacefully. Their social, economic, and governmental systems, if described in terrestrial terms, are a blend of religion, magic, monarchy, and social-democratic capitalism.

The sarracinos, dark and scaly or colorful and feathered, with a bucolic lifestyle, derive their name from the continental region in the northern hemisphere where they originated, Sarracenia, a swampy land populated by the honey-producing but foul-smelling insect-eating plant of the same name.

There is another region, in the equatorial zone, called Silamabad. Rather arid and volcanic, centuries ago a branch of the sarracinos migrated there, known today as sarrios. They evolved and adapted to the harsh environment. With a bellicose and adventurous lifestyle, they took refuge in caves around sulfuric pools, lost their scales and feathers, developed smooth, diverse-colored skins-coppery, red, yellow, pink, black, brown, white, or spotted-mostly with a few hairs, but never as abundant as in the case of the furris. One could say they became more human in appearance.

The furris, on the other hand, are distributed across the broader regions spanning both hemispheres and the poles. You can find them in archipelagos with large islands featuring temperate forests and misty black jungles. Among these, you can discover large cities with skyscrapers, surrounded by small agricultural villages organized into castle-like suburbs. Over time, the furris also evolved into a multitude of subspecies, each adapted to the ecosystems of their respective islands.

On one of these large islands called Brighton Tent lives Ana Gramma, a furri feline writer of the felix subspecies, who, despite her fame, has reasons to feel unhappy.

The document, strangely discovered many centuries ago in ruins in Turkey, Konstantinos continued, provides many other surprising details but seems to focus on the Calima galaxy, warning: "looking or traveling to the past, which appears to recede as the universe expands, is more like looking or traveling to the still unknown or being written future. In contrast, traveling to the future is retracing towards a past, an already written origin, a path already traveled, which, nonetheless, gets rewritten when retraced."

The vehicle that was transporting us parked in front of the auditorium. We were getting off when an explosion not far from there forced us to throw ourselves to the ground.

* * *

Haus des Blicks, mid-morning the following day.

Distant sounds awakened Homero. Voices shouting "Someone help, please!" alerted him. He got up and went to look out of the window of the main room, which had once belonged to his parents. Not noticing anything special, he returned to his bedroom in the center of the second floor, dressed somewhat presentably, and went out onto the street to determine what was happening nearby because the commotion continued. To his surprise, he witnessed a terrible situation. A municipal cleaning worker lay on the main avenue, under the trees, a police patrol diverted traffic, and a vehicle nearby was smoking. He approached, partly out of his journalist's curiosity, but also with a sense of solidarity, and had to stop as soon as he realized that the situation was more serious than he had initially thought. First, he imagined that the man had been run over, then he thought that he had been murdered and left there, but it was none of that. The man was being attacked by a swarm of bees, and the attack seemed to be spreading. Even some bees spotted Homero, the police, pedestrians, and launched themselves at them. The writer stepped back, trying to remain calm, knowing that adrenaline would only irritate the aggressors. None of them emerged unscathed, receiving at least one sting on the neck, face, or head. One of the police officers asked for help, requesting a bucket of soapy water. Homero acted accordingly, but it was impossible to approach the focal point of the attack until, a few minutes later, the firefighters arrived with a water truck ready. It was challenging to get close to the victim who was still conscious, surrounded by bees. Behind the firefighters, an ambulance arrived, some gardeners improvised a leaf blower to generate smoke, and when it was finally possible, paramedics placed the injured man on a stretcher and rushed him to one of the nearby hospitals. All Homero wished for was that the man had survived the effects of so many bee stings. He remembered the anecdote his mother told him when he was a baby of two or three years old, curious as he was, he tried to catch a stray and annoyed bee behind the curtain of a window in the living room of his first home. For this, he got stung in the hand. He remembered the anecdote as if it were a dream from another time, because there was no trace of pain in his memory, or maybe there was, buried under layers and layers of other wounds inflicted just by living. All of this greatly affected the writer's mood. As the day went on, in an attempt to regain composure, Homero chose to do other tasks around the house, including trying to find out about the worker's health. However, throughout the following week, neither the municipal government nor any civil or medical authority seemed interested in following up on the case to inform the community. This was despite the fact that they were all obligated to do so: one, as the employer; two, the union as the labor representative; and three, because the matter became a public issue due to Homero's role as a reporter who live-streamed the story on his blog and social media. They all shielded their negligent omission by claiming the family's right to privacy, and therefore, they were unable to hold anyone accountable, even though it was known that the labor delegate changed the worker's route and schedule for personal reasons, just to annoy him. Of course, both the delegate and the victim, along with many others, were unaware that there was a beehive at that location. Nevertheless, how much did that excuse the delegate and the others from responsibility, leaving the worker as a victim of his own clumsiness? Fortunately, it would later be known unofficially that the man had survived more than two hundred poisonous stings, in part thanks to the timely intervention of three citizens who, during the melee, overheated their vehicle's engine to smoke around the victim while shouting loudly for someone else to assist. Homero's head was spinning from what had happened, considering the possibility that it might serve as a catalyst for a story or at least a scene or chapter in his ongoing novel. He saw the bee attack as a kind of metaphor for his current situation, besieged by furious swarms of dreams and memories from which it would be difficult to escape.

______

* This project has been translated simultaneously while it is written in my native language, spanish. This one and the next seven chapters are just a tiny part of the first act entitled "Something has occured" of the first book of my saga Calima in progress. Thank you for the interest and feedback. Spanish version can be read also in this platform for the first time.