lunes, 13 de febrero de 2017


And I seemed to find in its necromancy a thing I had innately known or inherited, and for which I had always been vainly searching.
H. P. Lovecraft-The whisperer in darkness
We perceive the images of things but not the things themselves while the Admiral perceives them as they are. So does Bastet, his cat. It is clear to me that she lives in a dimension where space and time are absolute and her consciousness of the universe lies in that immobile and eternal perception. However, I am the Feline Seneschal and I should know but no, I do not. I have only a distant, diffused suspicion. I will receive the knowledge as soon as I am initiated in the sacred mysteries and, after going through the rigorous acts of purification and denial, my soul finally nestles in a symbiotic animal. In the meantime, the Admiral follows her orders, all of them. And all Bastet has to do is spread one claw over the navigation charts for the ship to set sail to unknown latitudes. Thus we came to this remote frontier where the natives considered us gods. Their adoration bewilders me but both, the Admiral and Bastet, revel in it. So much, they are not even disturbed by the deaths that resulted from our conquest. Our need for the locals’ extractive expertise was a good enough reason, they reckon. In exchange, we taught them the divinatory arts, the laws that govern the stars and the crops, the magic, and the funeral rites. Still, they were never satisfied. Many of the tribes felt oppressed and successive massacres failed to appease them. We fought them in battle and transgressed them. Despite it all, everything went wrong for us.  We mated with the daughters of men. An utter failure for our progeny is an aberration. And we quickly realized we were committing a blasphemy. If the Supreme One decrees it, there will be no expiation, much less, access to the ultimate knowledge. In the end, the enormous effort amounted to nothing. And now even Bastet seems uneasy as little is left of her quiet existence. The Admiral summoned us with urgency. He had received a directive: we must leave. In seven days time, everything will be swept away by a fabulous flood destined to bury the ingratitude of these perfidious beings. Although the ship’s log registers that it was their entire fault, I know we are accomplices of our own immorality. My name is Nu-ah. I will now defect and set free an innocent people. My soul will never unfold into a cat and I rather prefer it this way.
© Pablo Martínez Burkett, 2016

(*) This short story has been published in Revista digital miNatura 154 Dossier Cats.

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