19 março 2012

Devilish Flautist

It had been late in the afternoon; the sky was more of a twilight than a sunset, with a twinkling purple-flame color, encircled by a dense dark green mass which was the forest that surrounded the north of our village.

I was thinking, in that same afternoon, of what had happened earlier at the lake opposite the side we lived. There, looking at that afternoon’s end, I was remembering.

I had gone to the lake, the day was unusually warm and bright, as not seen for a long time. I was taking a shower when Caius appeared playing the flute. He played such a catchy melody that time seemed to stop and listen to it and I felt as If I were a leaf, dancing and whirling in the air while the sun caressed my skin dressed in water.

I did that in my mind because I was the time. I had stopped and lost myself hearing him play. And, Caius, among the notes he dreamed in that piece of wood, smiled.

That evening, still a sunset, leaning on the wall demarcating the northern outskirts of the town, I was remembering that afternoon, while I was looking at the dense mass of branches and leaves dressed with “almost”.

And as if out of a dream, from my reverie, Caius, on the other side of the wall, playing his flute, dancing and calling me to him. I also called him, but the more I did, the more he moved away towards the forest. Playing and dancing.

When he disappeared among the trees, I jumped the wall and ran after him, but the only thing I had of him was his melody. Caius had merged with the forest.

Looking forward to discern in which direction the melody came from, I entered the forest.

After a difficult hike, about half an hour, I found a clearing, where beautifully dressed figures gathered happily around a table.

The moon was already high in the sky.

So, Caius, with his bright black eyes, appeared behind me, along with his inebriating melody.

Snowflakes sparkled around us, like fairies.

Because of this, those beautiful creatures, those beautiful young men of pure white skin and leaden eyes, noticed our presence and, taking me by the arm, they put me in front of a chair. The one which was on the head of the table’s left side.

There, everyone was a boy and they seemed to be the same age as I was, although my brown eyes and Arabic skin tones contrasted with their whiteness.

Caius took his place, the head of the table, after having stopped playing (although the music continued!). He invited me to sit down and ordered to serve tea.

I sat down and drunk.

When I took the first sip, a small crow croaked, the moon disappeared, a cold wind cut the clairing ... Caius's eyes brightened even more, maliciously, and his fair skin burned, red, a hot phantasmagoric red. All the other eyes, the other boys’ eyes, were milky-white and their lustrous skin became yellow and peaked.

Around me, all that wonder that was the clearing, bright and cheerful with its engaging melody, became dark, with small animals’ bones and worms all over the floor and table.

And I, since that sip of tea, got stuck in that spooky and everlasting soirée.

Original written Le Flûtiste Hadéen, by Daniel Prestes
Translated to english by: Daniel Prestes (2012)
Reviewed by: Vinícius de Souza (2012)

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