Rain fell from the sky as fire.
— An anonymous scrawl on a stone wall atop Melzia Hill ──────────────────
Whenever Kavrun's visitation day came around, the air in downtown Melzia drew taut with every kind of longing.
A deep shadow spread overhead. Then the flock circling the sky folded its enormous wings in unison and descended into the middle of the square.
Two webbed feet touched the ground. Through the slack black veils covering their faces, the outlines of swollen bill pouches showed through. Their legs were no different from human legs, but compared to their upper bodies—muscles bulging as though ready to burst from bearing the weight of those powerful wings—they looked pitifully thin.
They were Neikans: formless beings whose traits combined those of humans and nonhuman species.
The square was already packed with people. They stood in long lines, each holding several sheets of paper. Some muttered without pause, cursing anyone who tried to cut in line. Others were busy rereading the sentences they had written, making one last check.
An old woman clutched the hand of a child pointing at the Kavrun and shouting, “It’s a bird!” Behind a man covering a sneeze with the papers he carried, a young woman retied her hair with a pen between her lips. Beneath the unusually clear sunlight, the body heat of countless people standing in line mingled and gave off a simmering wave of warmth.
Abel stood in line like everyone else in town, both hands clasped around his Sium paper, folded neatly in half.
Directly behind Abel stood Galliva, once a regular at his mother’s tavern. With his full beard, shiny face, and prosperous air, Galliva spoke first.
“It’s been a while, Abel. You’re twelve already, aren’t you? You’re a proper Sium obligee now.”
His characteristically generous, oily voice pushed through the noise of the square. Abel answered with a small bow of his head.
“Yes. This is my first Hesium.”
Galliva nodded with a good-natured smile.
“Good. That’s something to celebrate.”
The warmth of his congratulations didn’t last long. Galliva’s gaze slid down to the paper clenched in Abel’s hands. Before long, the wrinkles around his eyes had gone taut, and his voice sank.
“You didn’t write down some nonsense about seeing an Olm again, did you?”
“Don’t worry. I don’t do that anymore.”
It had happened three years ago. Back when Abel had stubbornly insisted he would prove the existence of the extinct creature that appeared only before his eyes. The adults’ cold looks and mockery had left a memory in the young boy like a shameful scar.
“Good. I’m glad you’ve come to your senses. If you were still going around saying things like that, you’d have ended up like them.”
Galliva clicked his tongue lightly and jerked his chin toward one corner of the square. The air there was heavy, utterly different from the orderly line of people waiting to submit their Siums.
Several wagons stood in formation behind a crude brick wall at the edge of the square. In front of them, those destined to be loaded aboard knelt in a single row.
Galliva casually raised a finger and counted them.
“One, two, three, four… Four this week.”
Every captive’s eyes were covered with black cloth. Their lips had turned blue, and their shoulders sagged heavily toward the ground. Each time the gray-uniformed enforcers prodded their backs with clubs, the bound prisoners staggered toward the wagons.
They were people branded as exiles under OLM’s system of rule. While the Kavruns took flight with Sium papers filled with the hopes of Melzia’s people in their bill pouches, these people were destined to be driven into Perem.
Galliva quickly looked away, as if he had seen a rat carcass lying in the street. Then he replaced his expression with one of broad, benevolent cheer, as though nothing had happened.
“I asked how to increase my shop’s sales with this Hesium.”
Both of Galliva’s eyes gleamed, soaked in anticipation.
Abel turned over the words he had heard countless adults repeat like a catchphrase.
“OLM always gives the right answer.”
There had once been a time when Galliva, a widower, struggled to make ends meet while caring for his only daughter, who had badly injured her leg. Exhausted from juggling work at a silk factory with nursing his daughter, Galliva had sent a Hesium in desperate search of an answer.
OLM’s reply arrived a week later and was somewhat difficult to understand. Taken on its own, of course, the proposal was exceedingly simple: quit the silk factory immediately, clear out a corner of the house, and open a restaurant.
He followed the advice, figuring he had nothing to lose. The result was a spectacular success.
His young daughter’s appearance as she gingerly descended the stairs on two unsteady legs to help in the kitchen was enough to stir the customers’ cheap sympathy. The regulars gladly added generous tips under the pretense of wishing her a speedy recovery.
But the best part came afterward.
Even once her wounds had completely healed, OLM calculated perfectly how long the girl should continue using crutches and pretending to be injured, right down to the ideal time to end her performance. Thanks to that, Galliva seized a fortune he could never have touched as an ordinary wage earner. His daughter, who had spent years flawlessly imitating a cripple, put that talent to use and became a promising stage actress in a small theater.
For seventy-nine years now, the omnipotent three-letter acronym had ruled the world. Some worshiped OLM as a prophet or god. Others still doubted it. The latter were, of course, overwhelmingly outnumbered.
OLM was even tolerant of conspiracy theorists who criticized the system. It did not censor their beliefs or force them to have faith. It merely sifted out those who clearly disturbed social order—by stealing from others or injuring them, for example—and threw them into Perem.
Compared to the tyranny of the countless kings recorded in history, wasn’t that a remarkably reasonable arrangement?
Galliva had no desire to doubt OLM, either. He was one of the utterly ordinary people who believed it was better to rely on the prophet’s insight than waste time arguing over right and wrong. After all, he enjoyed a comfortable life precisely because he had faithfully followed OLM’s advice.
Hesium, which delivered an answer the following week to a question one submitted; Pensium, in which one confessed things about oneself; and Lengsium, in which one reported experiences within one’s relationships with others. Whenever the weekly day came for the Kavruns to fly in and collect Siums, people willingly handed over pages filled to the brim.
They firmly believed that this diligent obedience would return to them as tremendous benefits. The more information accumulated about those under its rule, they thought, the keener the ruler’s insight would become.
“Well, let’s see. What wonderful question did you write for your first Hesium?”
At Galliva’s affable question, Abel cautiously unfolded his paper.
In the center of the page was a bright yellow flower. Its petals, gathered neatly around the bud, looked as though they had been drawn with considerable care.
Beside the drawing, in crooked handwriting, were the words:
— What is the name of this flower?
A gentle smile spread around Galliva’s eyes. He found the boy rather adorable for using his one precious opportunity each week to ask the name of a flower, but at the same time, he wanted to teach Abel how to put that opportunity to better use.
He lightly patted Abel’s head and said, “If you want to learn more about the world, you should visit Boreka Library sometime.”
Galliva was one of the adults Abel had known since childhood. A familiar regular who came to his mother’s tavern, nursed his drinks, and offered all sorts of advice about life. But this time, that adult’s advice left a fairly clear mark on the boy’s heart.
“Next.”
At last, a flat voice called out the next person. Abel carefully stepped forward.
The enforcer accepted the Sium paper Abel presented with both hands. With a face that revealed not a trace of emotion, he examined both sides of the paper intently, then passed it to the colleague beside him without a word. The next enforcer checked both sides with the same mechanical movements and passed it on again.
Abel’s Sium paper went through five such inspections before the final enforcer slid it into the collection box.
Turning to look at the neighboring line, Abel realized that everyone else’s Siums were undergoing the exact same inspection process, as if by prior agreement.
At last, Abel had submitted the first Hesium of his life. He had no time to bask in the satisfaction. He immediately followed Galliva’s advice and headed for Boreka Library near Melzia Square.
Though he had left the noisy square only a single block behind, the road to the library was strangely deserted.
The timeworn stones underfoot had been worn down by rain over the years, each proudly displaying its own unique pattern of cracks. Moss pushing through the gaps gave off a cool, bitter smell.
Abel kept walking in silence without turning his head even when a wagon passed close by with a dull rumble. Not even the somber faces of those being carried away to exile in Perem could distract his gaze. Even then, the one thing that followed steadily behind Abel was none other than Olm.
“There it is! An Olm!”
A bright voice rang out. Only then did Abel stop and turn around.
Beside a fountain, Jerome was shouting with both arms raised high. Three or four friends his age huddled around him.
“I’m telling you, it’s true! Do you know what Abel did against that huge Neikan?”
With his face flushed with excitement, Jerome was delivering an impassioned account to his friends. Abel let out a short sigh and walked toward them.
“Abel went, ‘No!’ just like this—”
Jerome waved both arms, trying to reenact the scene with dramatic exaggeration. Abel lightly put a hand on his shoulder to stop him.
“Jerome. I told you to stop talking about that.”
“But I remember everything…”
Jerome’s voice wilted in an instant.
“I don’t remember any of that.”
At Abel’s firm reply, giggles broke out among the children around them. Abel quietly looked down at Jerome, whose shoulders had slumped as far as they could go, then hesitated and rummaged through his pocket. He pulled out several small candies wrapped in crumpled silver foil and handed them to Jerome.
“I got these from a customer yesterday. They’re supposed to have Taresi pollen in them.”
“Whoa! Did these come from Perem too?”
Jerome accepted the candies in both hands, his eyes shining as though he had never been gloomy at all.
“Yeah. I don’t know if it’s true, but they say the flavor changes depending on how you’re feeling. Share them with your friends.”
Before Abel could finish, one of the children standing beside Jerome darted out a hand and snatched a candy. He tore off the wrapper and popped it into his mouth, then immediately screwed up his face and shouted, “Ugh! It’s really sour!”
A faint, amused smile touched Abel’s lips.
“Then you must be terrified right now.”
That one remark set the children off laughing again. This time, the target of their ridicule was the child who had stolen the candy. Jerome shouted excitedly, “See? Abel knows everything. I’m telling you, he really is an Olm!”
Emboldened, Jerome unwrapped a candy of his own and popped it into his mouth. His brow trembled, but he stubbornly held back the grimace and began to boast.
“Hmm… It’s only sweet to me.”
One of the children watching Jerome’s forced reaction with great interest asked Abel, “What kind of feeling makes it taste sweet?”
Abel did not answer. He couldn’t bring himself to reveal that sweetness represented embarrassment, not when it concerned his beloved younger brother. But lying and feeding the children’s fantasy wasn’t in Abel’s nature, either.
He simply continued down the road without answering, leaving behind the children calling, “Where are you going? You have to answer before you leave!”
“Geez, you idiots! Sweetness is obviously something only the incredibly brave can taste!”
Jerome’s boast gradually faded into the distance.
Boreka Library finally appeared after the road passed the fountain and turned through several narrow alleys. At the end of the maze-like lanes, a long gallery flowed naturally into the building, making it impossible to tell where the library’s domain began.
Beside the gallery stood an old bell tower that had long since lost its use, quiet and dignified despite having no bell. Beneath the tower, weathered by years of wind and rain into a cold gray, an unnamed wildflower had pushed through the cracks in the dry stone floor and held the pale sunlight in its petals.
When Abel finally reached the main entrance, he gripped the handle of a massive door that looked at least three times his height and slowly pushed forward. But the door did not budge, as immovable as a boulder.
This time, he threw his weight into it and pulled as hard as he could, but the result was the same.
As the bewildered boy stood before the firmly closed door, fumbling helplessly up and down along its handle, a low, unhurried voice came from behind him.
“That’s not a hinged door. It slides sideways.”
When Abel turned his head, a tall, white-haired old man was approaching quietly. The old man naturally took hold of both door handles and pushed them apart to either side.
[Swish—]
The old man’s fingertips did not seem to exert any particular effort. And yet the heavy door that had refused to move opened smoothly. Abel watched the effortless lateral motion with astonished eyes.
Looking back, Abel’s entire world had consisted of going between home, the tavern, and the alley where Jerome lived. To a boy who had only ever opened creaking hinged doors, the concept of a sliding door was as unfamiliar as Perem.
“I’m Arno, the librarian. Pleased to meet you.”
The old man adjusted his glasses with one hand and held out the other. Abel instinctively took it, startled by the rough yet warm sensation. He had often seen adults shake hands at the tavern, but in his short life, no adult had ever offered a child his hand first and welcomed him as an equal.
“I’m Abel.”
“That’s a fine name. Come on in.”
The moment Abel stepped inside at Arno’s invitation, a soaring ceiling too high to take in at once overwhelmed him. In the sunlight pouring through the windows, drifting motes of dust glittered silver.
Abel looked up at the grotesque mural decorating the ceiling.
In the painting, a man covered from head to toe in hair was bound and engulfed in flames. A bearded old man held a torch in his hand. A kneeling woman pressed her palms together and wept before the fire.
A child watched the entire scene from behind them. Wings sprouted from the child’s back, and with an expressionless face, the child aimed a tautly drawn arrow at the praying woman.
“Did you paint all of that, Arno?”
At Abel’s unexpected question, Arno gave a small laugh.
“No matter how tall I am, I couldn’t possibly reach that high.”
Arno led Abel deeper inside.
The dense forest of bookshelves was utterly unlike a wide-open grassland. To Abel, it was no different from Perem. As he focused on the lofty scent rising from the tightly packed books, a gentle hand settled on his shoulder.
“Come with me.”
Arno led Abel to a window in the corner of a rarely used reading room. Hunching his long back and bringing his face close to the cramped windowsill, he soon whispered with brightened eyes, as though pleased.
“Now. This is the moment. Look this way.”
Beyond the narrow, dust-clouded window was a flock of dozens of Kavruns. They cut across the sky, proudly displaying their swollen bill pouches. Slanting afternoon sunlight shattered across their broad white wings.
As if trying to give a tailwind to the creatures flying with Sium papers filling their bill pouches, Abel blew against the hazy glass. With a [whoosh], dust scattered from the sill and tickled the tip of the boy’s nose.
“At this time of year, you can see exactly that scene through this window. Quite a sight, isn’t it?”
Arno smiled, then continued.
“No one knows where those Kavruns go or what happens to the Sium papers held in their bills. That’s why some say they all head for the unknown land of Perem, and that OLM, which rules over us, is there as well.”
“There’s no Olm.”
Abel’s firm reply made Arno burst out laughing.
“Hahaha, that’s right. Olms are extinct. But our ruler, OLM, does exist. When we convey our wishes through Hesium, Pensium, and Lengsium, OLM always gives us an answer.”
To Abel, who had only just become a Hesium obligee, Pensium and Lengsium were distant concepts he could not yet grasp. Pensium was an obligation taken on at fifteen, while Lengsium came at seventeen, when one became an adult. Compared to those ages, which seemed impossibly far away to the boy, even the library’s ceiling felt closer.
“Is that fat, bearded old man painted on the ceiling OLM?”
“That mural was painted long before OLM was born. It was a time when countries were divided and warred with one another. They even had something called religion back then. If you get the chance later, I’ll recommend a book about it.”
Perhaps disappointed by the vague promise of later, Abel looked away from the ceiling and moved toward the shelves lined up beside him.
As Abel slowly scanned the tightly packed spines, his gaze stopped on a book with an especially ominous color. Rising onto his toes, he pulled out the book titled Become a Rain of Fire. Arno watched him and nodded.
“When people experience a shocking event, they try to record it in their own ways. This is a book of verse that weaves that tragedy together with poetry and pictures.”
The red cover depicted enormous beings that were half bear and half human attacking people. Their thick arms, covered in shaggy fur, and their large claws were drenched in blood.
“You vaguely remember the devastation of that day, don’t you?”
After staring down at the cover for a while, Abel slowly raised his head.
“Is it about that day? When the Neikans came…”
“Yes. More precisely, it was the event that set that terrible tragedy in motion.”
Arno carefully turned the old pages and continued.
“You know that the Kavruns who carry the Siums are pelican Neikans, right? Their bill pouches are perfect for holding stacks of paper. A special saliva secreted in their mouths coats the Sium papers with a thin film, protecting them from getting wet or crumpled.”
With a dry rustle, the next page opened. Arno’s voice sank even lower.
“The problem was that the saliva was flammable.”
Across the open spread was a scene of things exploding one after another in the sky. Enormous fireballs rained down through black clouds, and the forest below was swallowed by raging flames.
Abel swallowed unconsciously as he stared at the illustration.
“No one knows what caused the explosions. But in that moment, dozens of Kavruns burned to death in the sky, and Sium papers bearing the hopes of tens of thousands scattered like rain made of fire. The nearby region of Perem became a horrifying sea of flames in an instant.”
Suddenly, a scene from that night flashed through Abel’s mind.
The vivid red light that cast a grotesque glow across the night sky beyond a collapsed wall. Jerome staring wide-eyed in wonder and saying, “Wow,” as though watching an enormous fireworks display. The huge bear Neikan that had suddenly emerged from the darkness—
“Never mind the Kavruns that exploded. We couldn’t even count the Neikans burned to death in Perem’s inferno. On the other hand, do you know how many humans were killed in retaliation by the Neikans enraged by that devastation?”
Arno quietly closed his eyes as he continued.
“…Only six.”
When Arno closed the book, its deceptive cover appeared again. Human corpses were piled like a mountain behind a group of large Neikans. More gruesome heaps of bodies stretched on and on beyond them. Including the rough sketches, there appeared to be hundreds—no, easily thousands.
“But many people believe this is the truth. Sometimes pictures make a far more powerful weapon than words. Even more so when the picture is carved into a cover.”
Arno tapped the book cover lightly with his fingertips and said, “I’m good at drawing, but I still can’t write very well.”
Abel’s cheeky reply instantly lightened the air that had hung heavy all this time. Arno laughed aloud.
“Hahaha. I’ve lived a long time, but I’ve never met a child like you.”
At that moment, old memories swept through the librarian’s mind—memories of standing at the lectern for many years, teaching countless children. The amusement faded from his wrinkled face, replaced by a faint shadow of worry.
“Distrust of OLM, contemptuous looks toward the Neikans… Ever since that ‘Sium Great Fire Incident’ four years ago, the confusion has continued.”
That day, Arno told Abel several more stories about the world. The hidden meaning behind the Sium system, disagreements over the eras before and after OLM, and the many theories surrounding the unknown ruler OLM.
Abel listened in silence, then left the library with the books he had received held full in his arms. The stack was heavy enough to block his view, but there was not the slightest sign of strain in the boy’s steps.
Just as he was about to head home, a single violet flower caught Abel’s eye. The shape of its petals, blooming through a crack in the stone floor beneath the old bell tower beside the gallery, was especially striking. Its five petals reached outward in a spiral like a pinwheel.
Abel set down his stack of books and crouched before the flower. He pursed his lips and carefully blew. [Whoosh.] The petals trembled, but in the end they did not spin like a pinwheel.
A week passed, and morning came once again with a flock of Kavruns cutting across the heavens.
The crowd in the square looked up at the bill pouches brimming with OLM’s answers, their faces full of anticipation. Abel was among them.
Galliva spotted Abel again that day and strode over first.
“I heard from your mother. You’ve been holing up in the library every day lately, haven’t you?”
Abel silently nodded, and Galliva stuck out his thick double chin as he said, “Well, let’s have a look at what your second question is.”
Abel immediately unfolded the second Hesium paper of his life.
A single violet flower was drawn clearly on the page. Its five petals spread from the center in smooth curves. The brushstrokes were far more confident than when he had drawn the yellow flower for his first Hesium.
Galliva looked at the sentence written beside the flower and could not hide his disappointment. Abel could not understand the reason for it at all.
Once again, Abel had simply wanted to know the name of that little flower, and so he had written:
— What is the name of this flower?