Chapter 5 Lokos

"I brought back some fish," said Perturabo.

Morse reluctantly lifted his heavy head from the top of the wicker chair, betting that any living person who drank from the old ale buried behind his house would do better than him.

"Okay, very good." Morse waved his right hand lazily, using soft finger movements to express his indifference. "Bake it yourself, or do whatever you like with the fish...and what does that have to do with me? Farewell, Perturabo."

Perturabo looked at him intently for a moment, then left the house and closed the door behind him.

Morse put his palms in front of his eyes and quietly blocked the sun for a while, until the persistent sun smeared his eyes with a hazy light red.

Of course he knows that the sun in Olympia is not called the sun, or that the scientific name should not use the unique name of ancient Terra; but people here still call the pale and blazing solid circle in the sky the sun with reverence and awe. Maybe this is what humans are.

He slowly and wantonly rubbed his thumb, middle finger, and index finger one after another, snapping his fingers twice in a row, one strong and one weak, to help himself regain his consciousness.

Then Morse jumped off the wicker chair, pushed open the wooden door, leaned against the door frame, and crossed his arms across his chest.

The weather is still dry and crisp today, and any clouds full of water vapor seem to be deliberately staying away from the Lokos boundary. Some birdsong, some chewing sounds of Lokos deer, and the sound of Lokos people walking and moving in the distance... Morse captured these trivial movements within the range of his psychic ability.

Morse withdrew his psychic powers and focused on the present.

Perturabo was cleaning his fish in his yard, the smell of blood wafting everywhere.

"If you insist on polluting the clean, dry forest air that enters my nose, I will pay you for it," Morse said.

"Can I pay on credit?"

"no."

Perturabo silently used the stone knife to cut off the nerves on the fish's back. He shrugged his shoulders and used strength, and the scales were peeled off layer by layer from the stone knife.

Morse taught him only once how to handle fish in the river, and Petula learned quickly.

Then the boy said; "What do you want?"

"Give me a fish."

"good."

"Two?"

"dream."

There was not even a second of time difference between Perturabo's response and Morse's request.

Mors swayed to Perturabo's side and leaned over exaggeratedly, so that his upper body and legs formed a vertical posture like the corners of a table and chair. Perturabo said nothing, but continued to chop his fish.

The fish's eyes radiate a strange light.

Morse grinned and was about to leave, going to the corner to get his semi-finished stone sculpture.

Ever since he smashed the head and hands of the stone statue of Perseus last time, he had the idea of ​​renovating the entire stone statue.

He has yet to decide on the material for this sculpture.

Maybe it's a beast, maybe it's vegetation, maybe it's a replica of another precious but missing souvenir in the long history of mankind, or maybe it's a brand new portrayal of his own life experience, for example, he and Perturabo A photo of them eating barbecue side by side.

Morse didn't know.

These days, he just casually swings the chisel at the marble, waiting for the sculpture to grow out of the stone.

He picked up the heavy damaged stone statue with his own hands, let the tools float behind him, and prepared to walk to his comfortable long-term handwoven straw mat.

When he passed Perturabo for the second time, the boy suddenly stopped him.

"Morse?" he said quietly.

"Um...what's the matter?"

】

"what do you want?"

Morse patted the stone sculpture, the smooth surface of marble always reassuring. These heavy, fixed, unchanging, cohesive, everlasting, only subject to the wear and tear of time, caring, never rebellious, outspoken dear stones are more deserving of a love than any living creature. hug.

"I don't know," he said. "Do you mean long-term, short-term, today, now? If it's the last one, then I want you to deal with the fish quickly."

Perturabo stopped. Several fish were lying cleanly on the smooth stones under his scarred palms, their entrails and scales thrown aside.

He looked up.

"Long-term." His rare calmness and self-denial gave his words the sweet quality of the sound of delicate machinery. "The longest term, otherwise I will never know what I should give you, and I will never know how you can be satisfied."

Morse's eyes rested on the stone in his arms. "Do you think I know how to satisfy you? No, Perturabo, you must also tell me about your dream."

"It's only fair," said the boy. "We trade with each other what we need."

"You do learn quickly."

Perturabo's eyes lingered around Morse for a while, from his messy half-long black hair, to the black clothes and trousers that covered his body, and the cold white stones in his arms.

He wiped his hands, stained with the fish's cold blood and slime, on the straw mat he had made.

These days, he sleeps on the straw mat in the courtyard, sheltered by the cold black sky, enjoying the caress of the afterglow of the sun reflected by the satellites above Olympia - similarly, Morse only taught him how to weave once.

"I'll say it first." The boy gripped his cushion tightly, his Adam's apple rolled, and his throat tightened and relaxed. He cleared his throat and pulled out two broken grass stems from the straw mat in his hands.

"I don't know where I came from." He said, "I want to know."

"Is this your greatest wish?"

Morse put down the stone sculpture, one leg erected, one leg flat, elbows supporting his sideways body, and sat on the straw mat.

He thought for a while and shook his head: "I apologize to you, I owe you one, because I have no wishes."

"I can only tell you that I am a failed craftsman, hate puzzles and codewords, and am naturally mutually exclusive with great prospects and the magnificent galaxy. I am just a small chess piece without a master in this vast sea of ​​stars, without hegemony or hope."

The earth conveyed some warning vibrations to his elbow. Morse sat up straight without making a sound and smiled: "The only thing that can give me a little bit of mean comfort now is that I guess the craftsman who made your tool is not very successful either."

"This is conjecture." Perturabo said dissatisfiedly, "It is an unfounded slander!"

"I always feel that when I belittle your creator, you are more excited than me."

"More nonsense." Perturabo bit his lip, looking unwilling.

Morse let a short sigh escape his tongue. "Well, I owe you one anyway, you can remember that. Now, we have more things to deal with."

As Morse reminded, the sound of gold and iron colliding became clearer.

The authority of these artificial swordsmen is constantly creating the characteristics of existence through the sounds coming from afar. The new iron boots stepped on the dry woodland, the heavy handles cracked the branches and vines blocking the way, and the colorful helmet patterns were absolutely incompatible with the harmonious green and light orange in the forest. This is almost a proof of some kind of human nature-a natural conqueror, whether it is to nature or to others.

"Lokos..." Morse whispered. "They are coming for you, Perturabo. I guess you haven't assassinated their tyrant?"

"I think I'm just too good." Perturabo said.

Morse looked up and smiled.