Tras Aquella Cortina de Niebla...
Le dijeron que no había nada, que la estepa, si no era infinita, por lo menos era lo bastante grande como para no ser abarcada por una persona ni aún viviendo 100 vidas, pero él estaba desesperado. Oyó un llanto tras la cortina de niebla y de inmediato pensó en su hija, perdida hace ya mucho, llamándole para que le rescatase. La locura y la aflicción envenenaron su memoria y le hicieron olvidar que ya había encontrado a su pequeña, sus restos al menos; o quizá no lo recordaba porque nunca quiso aceptarlo, sus ojos ciegos ante la cruel realidad. La fantasía era un escape, y dicho escape estaba tras la cortina, así que fue.
Imposiblemente alta, incomprensiblemente extensa, la cortina de niebla estuvo allí desde antes de que el país tuviese nombre y permanecerá incluso después de que lo pierda. Más oscuro que una noche sin luna, de un silencio ensordecedor, capaz de volver los latidos del propio corazón un estruendo insoportable. Era a donde solo iban quienes ya estaban perdidos en espíritu y cuyo cuerpo vagaba sin alma. Encontrar algo más que soledad en su interior era menos probable que pasar un camello por el ojo de una aguja, pero los locos son conocidos justamente por hacer locuras.
En la nada de la niebla él podía verlo todo, a su difunta abuela ofreciéndole cobijo, a su ausente y abusivo padre queriendo abrazarle, a su hermano décadas perdido queriendo contarle sus aventuras, pero no había rastros de su hija, nada más que el eco del llanto que se oía a lo lejos. Él siguió caminando a ciegas entre la niebla incluso después de que sus pies se tornaron purpúreos y sus muslos exigieran que se detuviese. Cuando sus piernas al fin sucumbieron, él siguió avanzando, arrastrándose, raspando su pecho contra el suelo áspero y duro como lija hasta que su piel desnuda hizo contacto... Y siguió avanzando.
Hacía mucho que pasó su locura inicial, a mitad del camino había aceptado que lo que había oído era solo una fantasmagoría... pero aún así siguió adelante. Una locura mayor a cualquier locura lo movía y le decía que siguiera.
El una vez le contó a su hija sobre la Cortina de Niebla, que no había nada allí, a lo que la pequeña respondió que era imposible, que por lo menos algo tenía que haber.
Él vivió tanto como viven los locos, aún cuando su cuerpo iba muriendo poco a poco. Antes de que desfalleciera por completo, descubrió dos cosas: primero, que era cierto que la estepa de la Cortina de Niebla era inconmensurable, tras tanto tiempo avanzando, jamás sintió que estuviese cerca del final; pero también supo que se había equivocado, ya que en aquella estepa inhóspita, aislada e inclemente, él pudo encontrar algo a lo cual aferrarse y así dejar ir su último aliento...
Una flor.
Beyond That Curtain of Mist...
They told him there was nothing there, that the steppe, if not infinite, was at least vast enough that no single person could ever traverse it, even if they lived a hundred lifetimes, but he was desperate. He heard a cry behind the curtain of mist and immediately thought of his daughter, lost long ago, calling out to him to rescue her. Madness and grief poisoned his memory and made him forget that he had already found his little girl, her remains, at least; or perhaps he didn’t remember because he never wanted to accept it, his eyes blind to the cruel reality. Fantasy was an escape, and that escape lay beyond the curtain, so he went.
Impossibly high, incomprehensibly vast, the curtain of mist had been there since before the country had a name and would remain even after it lost it. Darker than a moonless night, of a deafening silence, capable of turning the beating of one’s own heart into an unbearable roar. It was a place where only those who were already lost in spirit and whose bodies wandered soullessly would go. Finding anything other than loneliness within it was less likely than passing a camel through the eye of a needle, but madmen are known precisely for doing mad things.
In the emptiness of the mist, he could see everything: his late grandmother offering him shelter, his absent and abusive father reaching out to embrace him, his brother, lost for decades, eager to tell him of his adventures. But there was no sign of his daughter, nothing but the echo of her crying in the distance. He kept walking blindly through the mist even after his feet turned purple and his thighs demanded that he stop. When his legs finally gave out, he kept moving forward, crawling, scraping his chest against the rough, sandpaper-hard ground until his bare skin made contact... And he kept moving forward.
His initial madness had long since passed; halfway there, he had accepted that what he had heard was just a phantasm... but he still pressed on. A madness greater than any madness drove him and told him to keep going.
He once told his daughter about the Curtain of Mist, that there was nothing there, to which the little girl replied that it was impossible, that there had to be at least something.
He lived as long as madmen live, even as his body slowly died. Before he completely succumbed, he discovered two things: first, that it was true the steppe of the Curtain of Mist was immeasurable; after so long moving forward, he never felt he was near the end. But he also knew he had been wrong, for in that inhospitable, isolated, and unforgiving steppe, he was able to find something to hold onto and thus let go of his last breath...
A flower.