English version – Pascal
He had to get up. No, not yet… It was too early… A few more minutes of sleep… He tried to grab his pillow but found nothing. His fingers were only met with humidity. Still sleepy, he felt the wet linen, puzzled by its coarse texture. His blanket had totally disappeared. At a loss, he searched for it and brought back a handful of wet grass. Grass, in his bed?
Grass? In his bed?
Now wide awake, Pascal propped himself up. The landscape in front of his eyes had nothing to do with his room. No quilt to cover him. A grassy bed in guise of his mattress. The heavy fog soaked his clothes, answering an unasked question: the cold had woken him up, not his alarm clock.
Where was he? Why did his thoughts feel so muddy? What time was it? When had he donned his uniform? A gathering of clouds hid the sun and fed an icy and most uncommon drizzle. The subdued grey light gave the surroundings an eerie ambience, as if he were in an old horror movie. In an effort to warm himself, Pascal stood up and shook his limbs. His damp shirt stuck to his skin. Fighting an irresistible sneeze, he searched his pockets for a handkerchief and found only emptiness.
Perhaps he was still dreaming? He rubbed his eyes, pinched his arm, slapped his cheeks… to no avail: the pain confirmed that he wasn’t dreaming but still left him at a loss. Something was off. The colour of the grass, for one. Although he tried to convince himself of the opposite, it was jarring. The grass was… white? Grey? Sometimes it shone almost gold. More than anything, the air’s purity astounded him. The woolly silence smothered him with its weirdness, every noise digested by the mist. He cleared his throat, intimidated. The sound was swallowed by the dense haze.
– Hey?
Only his echo answered, yee-hoo, yee-hoo, faraway and sepulchral.
Echo? Hadn’t he just experienced its absence?
– Hey? he tried again. Anyone there?
He strained his ears, ready to call once more. If other people gathered with him… All would be well!
– Yeees, heeere, he heard.
In the fog, the voice’s provenance seemed to reverberate, to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Did auditive mirages exist?
– Where? he asked. I can’t hear very well!
He stepped forward and then thought better of it. His invisible interlocutor had fallen silent.
– Here!
Surprised, he swivelled around. So close? The voice had seemed so far away… And yet, the mist opened on a pale blond naiad with dewdrops shining in her soaked hair. Translucent pearls nestled in her lashes and water weighed down her white dress in an attempt to perfect the mystical illusion.
Relief washed over him: he knew the newcomer, Gabrielle, a classmate who presented her feminine side at the moment. His friend’s gender fluidity was always a surprise: sometimes Gabrielle, often Gabriel, the student changed pronouns to match the prevailing identity, for hours, days and even weeks at a time.
Reassured by her presence, he hugged her in a bear’s embrace. She relaxed at once and added her laugh to his.
– It’s okay, Pascal, you can put me down now, she giggled.
He complied and noticed other figures behind her, which he easily identified. There was Victor, his partner in History of Architecture, sporting a bored look to hide his uneasiness. His dark eyes darted to and fro under his discoloured fringe. Behind him came two other, less familiar scholars: Juliet and Tristram. The former, her face haloed by a short black bob, raised her chin high, every muscle tensed, ready for a sprint or perhaps a fervent diatribe. Her companion was pulling on his shirt, trying to untangle his long arms out of it. He brushed his brown hair out of his face with his fingers, so as to protect his light eyes from the glare. Finally, with an air of suspicion on her face, came Lucrece whose fiery curls had doubled in volume because of the humidity.
– Do you know what’s happening? she called.
– No…
– A simulation training? suggested Juliet.
Pascal was on the verge of correcting her when Victor interjected:
– No way, we’re always briefed before them…
– What if this time it was a surprise training? she countered.
Before they could even react, another voice rose from the silence:
– Uhm, you do know I’m here too, right?
The woman who had just spoken, a decade older than them, stuck out like a sore thumb – although Pascal was sure he had already seen her.
– Yolanda? You, here? asked Juliet.
– Who are you? Victor cut in.
– She’s a gardener at the Academy, explained Tristram. We chat with her now and then.
– Oh – Victor’s face fell. I thought she was a tutor…
Half-hidden under her auburn hair, the newcomer shrugged.
– Uh… Can you see this?
Victor, now ignoring the newcomer, was pointing at something on the other side of the ravine. As a now careful Lucrece stepped back from it, she checked that no one had witnessed her near death fiasco. Reassured, she turned in the direction the young man had indicated. Curious, Pascal came nearer to the edge, cautious of the demarcation between solid ground and steep drop. The abyssal chasm swallowed the light, its rocky outcrops disappeared in the heavy darkness which somehow got even thicker with the descending fog. On the other side of the precipice soared a fortified citadel, although it differed singularly from the fortresses Pascal learned about at the Academy. No European loopholes or crenellations, no Ottoman towers, no colonnades nor mosaics. The white stone, raw and silver-veined, rose in a myriad of domes and rounded roofs that pointed from the wall’s inner side, all dwarfed by a tall needle aiming for the sky. A huge chunk of glass blown by a giant completed the picture, probably the roof of a greenhouse.
It all reminded him of… a too elaborate wedding cake? No, such a comparison was an affront to its architectural wonder. Even with a mega-3D-printer, Pascal could never have conjured such a phantasmagorical achievement. The citadel sat on a large rocky pillar, in the middle of the precipice. How could they cross this natural moat?
Fascinated, Pascal went along the abyss’ edge, followed by the six others, as astounded as he was by this unbelievable fortress. The bastion floated above the precipice, its stone pedestal a challenge against gravity. Nothing connected it to the prairie. Were wings needed to access it? That did seem a little unlikely…
At least, the mist was rising – or rather, descending: it flocked to the chasm, swallowed by the deep. The vertiginous emptiness disappeared under this protective yet far from reassuring shroud: although thick, fog would not stop a human being’s fall… It would, at best, smother their cries of terror.
Around them, the horizon cleared: miles of hilly meadows rippled with gold and silver under the rays of a timid sun. Pascal finally discerned what he was looking for: the grey ribbon of a road. Although its origin was hard to determine, its destination was nothing but obvious: the ravine. The end of the route met without transition with the abysmal emptiness, which in turn confirmed the existence of a drawbridge to the city – and thus, to civilisation. They could find help, there, information about their whereabouts, a way to go home!
Excited by the news, Pascal turned to his companions:
– Look, if we get to the road, we could find people to help us!
The group did not respond to his aspirations: only Tristram and Juliet shared his eagerness. Lucrece, Victor and even Gabrielle remained circumspect. Yolanda, arms crossed, just shrugged. She counted on them to resolve the situation.
– No way, said Victor. We’ve no idea where we are, we don’t know if it’s a Sim… As I’m a strategist, heed my words: the road is always a trap.
Pascal wrinkled his nose. Victor and his high horses… And Lucrece, who had to add her pinch of salt:
– As I’m a strategist, she parroted, I have to admit that Victor’s not wrong. I’m not losing any points on a mission this near to the exams, just because we made a beginner’s mistake!
The athlete shrugged. These two pretentious kids were either blinded by their gimcrack rivalry or lacked experience if they believed they were in a virtual reality setting. The simulations could deceive one’s eyesight and the meteorological renderings improved at a fast rate; however, the technology did not replicate this well the aroma of the air, the moistness of the mist or the call of the chasm. And what about this unusual architecture? This alien vegetation? No, he had never seen anything like it – and he specialized in virtual worlds! At least, he did not try to hold on to a chimeric hope. They were lost in the middle of nowhere and any help would be welcome!
Out of the blue, Pascal heard irregular percussive noises in the distance. No… Yes! Over there, between the hills, pulled by two horses, a… carriage? Outdated, the vehicle confirmed his suspicions: the fortress was indeed inhabited! Covered in burlap, straight out of a period movie, a heavy coach rolled their way. Two men sat in the front. The horses advanced at a steady pace, their hooves clinking against the stone.
Hope engulfed Pascal and he broke into a run, his exaltation darkened by a new fear: what if he did not arrive in time? What if the drawbridge closed before they could cross it? What if the people did not wait for them? He accelerated his pace, his run became sprint. Soon he was bounding over the wet grass.
– Pascal, no! called Gabrielle.
He decided to ignore her.
Breathe in on three strides and breathe out on two, one-two-three, one-two, one-two-three, one-two, avoid getting winded and quell the side stitch, one-two-three, one-two, one-two-three, one-two. The distance between him and the road dwindled, the carriage dashed by, the intersection between their directions neared by the second. He could not slow down, he was almost there! He would get help for everyone, he would show them that they were wrong: they were experiencing something much weirder than a Sim!
The coach came to a halt whilst Pascal flew over the last metres. He stopped to catch his breath, calm his heart, gather his words. Behind him, with great strides, came Tristram and Juliet, shoulder to shoulder. Victor and a very red Yolanda, exhausted by the effort, appeared at the top of one of the little hills, followed by a leery Lucrece. He waited for Gabrielle to show herself, strolling down at a leisurely pace, before turning to the vehicle. What was her deal?! Why did she not support him?
The driver and his companion got out of the carriage. They were dressed in old-fashioned military uniforms; the fabric, too manufactured for the clothes’ outmoded cut, reminded Pascal of poorly documented reproductions of historical attire. However the realism of their weapons, pointy bayonets, was not to be doubted. One of the soldiers, the only one to carry a sword at his side, came towards him.
– Name? Origin?
– I-I don’t know, I’m lost… My friends too – he pointed to the group – we were looking for help.
The chief turned to the other six castaways then called his lieutenant to his side. Two more uniformed men stepped out of the coach. Tristram and Juliet were advancing at a now tranquil pace, covering the last metres. Yolanda and Victor were waiting for the stragglers.
The captain kept a short aside with his men, ten feet from him. Pascal listened, wary of any sign of danger, and thought he heard the term “player”. What were they talking about? The officer came back before he could deduce or obtain any more information:
– We are going to help you. Call your friends.
Pascal’s muted anxiousness vanished. He turned his back to the captain, waved his arms to his colleagues and called at the top of his lungs:
– Come on, come on, they’re gonna help us!
Tristram and Juliet caught up with him. Yolanda and Victor sped up, riled by his cheers.
– We’re saved, come on!
They were hurdling over the last metres when Pascal felt a swift movement from the captain. He did not pay any attention to it.
The next second, he felt an overwhelming pain – and yet, it was already over.
The sky flew down, the ground rose up to meet him.
Was it truly his decapitated body he saw crumbling down over there?
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Schütz, Emma. “Le féminin l’emporte-t-il sur le masculin ?”. Medium. Medium (11 May 2021). Web. 11 May 2021.