Evening descended upon the village with a slowness that resembled the weary sigh of an ancient malady. The sun, exhausted by its day-long journey, receded behind distant hills, casting a copper-hued shadow over the dilapidated rooftops. The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and smoke rising from chimneys, while on the horizon, branches quivered like ghosts recalling their own names.
We were five, standing in the dust-choked square that separated the village houses, the orange light spilling over us like crumbling golden dust. I lifted my notebook and spoke in a subdued tone, hiding my unease:
— It seems evident that the villagers are incapable of providing any useful details.
From behind me came Ancaeus's voice, calm as ever but tinged with an unusual alertness:
— No, there is a recurring pattern… each of them mentioned hearing a thunderous buzzing just moments before the disappearance.
I turned to him. His eyes glimmered like sparks within the mist. Before I could respond, Castor interjected with his habitual sarcasm:
—The Buzzing? And pray tell, could such nonsense possibly lead us to anything?
Ancaeus paid him no mind. He raised his hand and rubbed thumb against forefinger, a fine electric thread arcing into existence, filling the air with a faint metallic hum. Watching the spark die between his fingers, he said:
— I cannot say what this buzzing truly signifies… Perhaps Simon employed the magic of lightning to vanish, or left a trace deliberately to mislead. Or perhaps… there was no buzzing at all, only a collective memory implanted in their minds.
A short silence followed, broken only by the wind's creak as it swept across the edges of the square. Lagrita stood against the fading light, her pale hair gleaming like polished copper. She spoke, her voice hesitant, almost a whisper:
— I do not think so… the buzzing was heard by everyone, not by chance, not as a solitary repetition. It must signify something.
Then she turned to the Detective, that man whose face seemed a mask of patience, unreadable in every expression. She asked:
— What do you think, Detective? Do you suppose this detail carries meaning?
At first, he did not move, only staring toward the horizon as if beholding something unseen by us. Then his lips parted in a faint smile, devoid of warmth or mockery, and in his usual measured tone he said:
— Oh, dear Lagrita… have I not always told you that in the smallest details lie the greatest certainties? Note this in your notebook; we shall return to it when the time comes.
I recorded his words carefully, watching the shadows stretch around us. I said:
— The Detective is right. We have the problem before us, yet we strive to solve it before understanding it. We must record every observation, not fill our minds with conjectures that flatter our pride.
The Detective nodded slowly in agreement.
— Well said, my steadfast friend. Attempting to unravel a mystery from the first thread your eyes fall upon is naught but a wasteful folly.
We exchanged glances, and under the glow of sunset, the five faces appeared as though cast in bronze. The air was so still that Ancaeus's faint buzzing lingered in my ears long after it had faded. At last, we moved, each of us absorbed in our own silence, while behind us, the village seemed to swallow the evening light as the earth swallows its ancient secrets. I knew that this night would not pass quietly, and that the "buzzing" would not be the last sound to haunt this case.
The road before us melted into the sunset like old wax; the dusty earth exhaled the scent of burning wood, and a cold breeze stirred particles of dust into our throats. We walked with no clear destination, each step drawing us closer to a half-revealed villa on the village's edge, its grandeur trembling under the weight of the evening. He bent over his notebook, delving into its pages as if they bore the fingerprints of time itself.
Then came Castor's voice, brief and sharp, like rain striking a closed windowpane: "What is the next step?" The question was simple, yet its weight seemed to settle over the square. The Detective paused, closing a notebook we had leaned upon for minutes, his composure so complete that it seemed silence itself had granted him leave to speak.
In a voice both steady and incisive, like the lowering of a sword, he said:
— From the villagers' accounts, Simon disappeared last night along with all those present in the manor that evening—not his entire staff. A subtle distinction, but a fatal one. If the disappearance is confined to that location, there remain those outside its bounds: the ones absent from work last night, the retirees. They are the ones we shall interrogate next.
The smell of notebook pages and pungent oil mingled in my nostrils as he spoke, as if the letters themselves carried the flavor of certainty. Ancaeus nodded, then gestured toward a sprawling villa that in my eyes seemed to clash with the poor wooden huts around it in sheer, tasteless audacity.
— Only those who serve the Baron could afford such a thing.
His voice was sharp; the texture of his words felt to me like the worn velvet of an old curtain. Fatigue washed over me; my neck ached, my ribs yearned for warmth, and a cup of tea seemed a luxury beyond reach. I spoke in a whiny tone, incapable of jest:
— Friends, I am no superhuman being like you—I tire, I hunger, and I wish to bathe. Must we not postpone the investigation until morning?
The air I exhaled was damp, mingled with the scent of old tobacco.
The Detective scoffed, a brief, toothless laugh:
— Oh, my steadfast friend, justice does not sleep.
His words struck like a bell; in his eyes, I saw not mercy, only duty that knew no rest. I tried to justify myself:
— I am a physician and a writer—I have performed four heart surgeries, yet I am no policeman chasing a murderer through London.
The word "London" sounded strange amidst the shadows; curiosity flickered across three of their faces like a spark of electricity against old windowpanes.
Lagrita approached with a serene smile, holding a small magical circle in her hand… The sensation it gave me was like a dentist advancing with silver pliers shaped like a monster's jaw, about to wrench open your mouth. Her smile, though warm, heightened the terror. Then she whispered:
— I can lift your weariness, Master Thomas.
A faint metallic chime sounded as she held the object between her fingers, the scent of ozone drifting like distant lightning before its flash. I could not tell whether her tone was intended—or if fear had tricked my mind into hearing it that way.
I shook my head in silent refusal—I did not wish to explain that I had longed for a tangible body. I could not convey this to the young ones, who had never heard of distant places; the words remained imprisoned within my chest.
Then a whisper shifted in rhythm, a swelling crowd forming at the gate; a group gathered around a man who appeared to be a priest, his voice rising with a vibration that seemed to tremble through the damp air.
The Detective smiled—though I could not see the smile, I felt it, and I thought: this smile carries reconnaissance; "more of the small details." We moved toward the crowd, each of us guided by instinct, and I felt a shiver in my fingers, as if the evening itself whispered that something had just begun.
The crowd clustered at the village gate like chunks of human cloud, their cries and wails sounding like a saline spray wetting the air. As we drew near, the scent of smoked candles and moaning clay pierced my senses, and the echo of beseeching tongues filled the space like a lost choir. The priest stood upon a splintered plank, his voice rushing forth with a coppery harshness, proclaiming that what had befallen us was divine punishment, as though calamity itself were a cleaver poised above the necks of the guilty.
He screamed
Faith is the sap of worship; sin is the pus that soils the heart.
O children of our House, you who bear the city's cross upon your breasts, hear this: the night of Simon's vanishing was not an empty void, nor an accident without portents. That night was a proclamation from on high — a voice in flame and shadow: whoever toys with the bounds shall be chastened; whoever fills his palace with pride shall find his throne traded for an emptiness that teaches the fearful what fear is.
Simon had no plea, no way out — for destiny instructs that he who forgets mercy is forsaken by God. We do not merely declare a companion gone; we declare a rift — between him who sought eternity for himself and the treasuries of Truth. He who made his palace the altar of his obsession saw that palace become the mirror of his fall. He who rendered the people absent from his justice found himself absent from Heaven's mercy.
Do not curse the night that swallowed him. Do not rail at the hollow walls. Do not exhume the corpses of words in search of a body that will not return. The curse is not in the dark — the curse is in the heart swollen with pride that feigns surprise when what was given is taken away. The curse is in those who traded service for submission, and justice for might.
Come to the Temple now. Let your voices be the sap of confession coursing through the city's veins. Fill the altar with pure intent, for faith does not bless the silence of spectators. We proclaim this disappearance a divine warning: let the dark-hearted repent; let the tyrant relent; let the Tree of Life be fed by the steadfastness of your hearts.
Hear this: whoever renews worship in sincerity shall find mercy returned. Worship borne of fear alone is empty — yet fear is the root from which repentance grows into peace. O people, make your supplications a salve, your sacrifices the water that cleanses corruption's root. The hope offered upon the altar restores law to the city's arteries.
To those who ask, "Why did he vanish?" we answer: because God judges with His own hand when human hands are closed. And to those who would see justice made flesh — offer your souls in forgiveness, trade arrogance for humility, replace greed with remembrance, and let fidelity stand where covetousness once reigned.
We call you now to stand — not as mere onlookers, but as witnesses to the return of light. Raise your hands; pour forth your words like sap that quickens life. Let not the void become a shrine to doubt — make it an alcove of confession. He who seeks pardon shall find the door ajar; he who cries out in earnest shall find an ear that hears.
If this disappearance is punishment, let our worship be the key to mercy. If absence is lesson, let our repentance be its citadel. Bear this always: worship is no luxury, nor a play of words upon the tongue — it is the city's blood. Keep it, and you shall live; drain it, and even its shallowest roots shall die.
Go now, children of the Temple. Give your palaces new hearts; give your city a light that restores right. For there is no rest in power, no salvation in fear. Salvation lies in returning to the Source of Mercy — in worship offered not for dominion, but for life itself.
Castor suddenly roared, as if some fable had been trampled by truth, and even the strike of his staff upon the ground left a metallic echo in my ears.
— Damn the Church for turning every event into something sacred or cursed! They tell you there is one who sits above the clouds, watching every step, waiting for you to stumble so he may punish you… what a farce! Absolute power reduced to a chair-sitter awaiting the missteps of small mortals? How greatly they diminish and insult the immeasurable!
His words throbbed with anger, and the breath he exhaled carried the scent of sweat and leather. Lagrita stood beside him, eyes narrowed, lips curved in displeasure—her disdain for the rituals clear in the arch of her body and the flush of her cheek. Ancaeus remained calm, though in the subtle furrow of his brows I read a latent contempt for such naive claims.
The Detective, as ever, retrieved his notebook, his hand moving with methodical precision; his pen inscribed brief, almost fingerprint-like letters. This was no moment for idle talk, but for preserving words as fortresses: where the accusations began, who laid the blame, how repeated were the calls? At that instant, my body grew heavy; a yearning for warmth and familiar form returned to me, a small but insistent need refusing neglect.
Then the whispering was shattered by a sudden movement: a sound from the left, like wet cloth scraping against a wind that issued from the shadows. We all turned. There, by a small fissure near the gate, stood a man whose presence pierced the chest; black hair fell around a sharp face, as if carved by the night breeze, and his eyes were fixed, unblinking. His dark cloak fluttered slightly, as though a private air surrounded him, and under the candlelight, the metal of his buttons gleamed like tiny eyes.
In his right hand floated a blue orb suffused with light, hovering without ropes, as though a core of concentrated radiance. This light pressed upon my skin; a gentle warmth, an electric tremor slicing the air, accompanied by a faint, buzzing hum. The orb seemed a living talisman, demanding attention and enforcing silence. The man stepped forward, and when he spoke, his voice was restrained, dense with meaning I dared not yet name.
Behind him, through a rift in the air, as if a tear in the curtain of night, appeared an entirely different scene: joyous houses, a clear sky, a white church with its spire pointed, crystalline colors alien to our village's gloom. The contrast struck like a blow to the face; the scent of wet earth colliding with the perfume of imagined flowers, two worlds interlocked yet separate. The gate, if it could rightly be called that, stood as a frontier between divergent realities, and between the hand holding the orb and that luminous tableau hung an uneasy balance.
Thomasian Note
What struck me more than the blue orb or the bright world beyond the rent in the air was the silence the man imposed — a silence said to be the prelude to truths not easily spoken.