The pen is soft, but it fails to write the flow of the years or the songs lost among ancient tombs.
The story begins with the death of my grandfather, a decade ago. The old man passed away at eighty-eight. I remember returning home for the funeral: the walls smelled of old wine and burnt incense. My father drank in silence, and between three bitter glasses, he muttered: "Your grandfather's life could fill an entire book."
I took advantage of his drunkenness and let him talk. That is how I learned that my grandfather, Eldric de Varn, enlisted in the army when he was sixteen. He fought in too many wars, in an era when defending one's own land was the duty of every man.
For eight years, he fought against invaders no one remembers by name anymore. Later, in the fifties of the Kingdom of Aramont, he was sent to fight in the so-called War of the North, in defense of the Republic of Karel. He returned alive three years later, which was nothing short of a miracle.
Then came the bitterest years: an entire decade marked by purges and revolts, the so-called Era of Purification, when families were divided, and no one knew whom to trust.
In the last ten years, I have heard my father say, more than once, that our family was plundered no fewer than four times. And, in truth, everything revolved around my grandfather.
Eldric de Varn was not just a war veteran: in the eight villages surrounding the Taren Valley, he was known as a master of the Art of Soul Currents (Arte de las Corrientes del Alma), an ancient discipline that some compared to spiritual cartography.
Were it not for the respect his name commanded-and the old war symbols carved on his tomb-I am sure they would have desecrated his rest long ago. No one knew for sure what they were looking for, but it was said that Eldric had hidden something before he died.
A year after his death, the family decided to move the ancestral Varn tomb to higher ground, next to the Rheos Forest, where the earth breathed better, according to the masters of the Art. My father hired a practitioner of these methods, Mr. Marnel, to choose the new location.
When they opened the ancient crypts, they found seven coffins in total. The oldest was rotten with time. My father and his three brothers descended with red cloth bags to collect whatever remained.
The relocation was discreet; only the three of them participated, fearing that some outsider might see the hidden tombs and start rumors about buried treasure. The Varn family was never rich, just well-off farmers; at most, a lineage of lucky peasants. Nevertheless, among the remains, they found a dozen silver coins and a very ancient book, written on bamboo slips tied together with decayed cords.
Years later, my uncles sold me that object. I had opened a small antique shop in Aramont, and although the book had no collection value-neither academic nor historical-I paid them thirty thousand coronas. I did it more out of respect than interest; I did not want something so insignificant to break the peace among brothers.
It was through those bamboo slips that I understood why our house had been ransacked four times, and everything pointed to that book. It was neither a diary nor a family chronicle, but a compendium of knowledge from the Art of Soul Currents. The title, engraved in six archaic glyphs, could be read as The Threshold of Currents.
Besides explaining how to recognize spiritual veins-resonance caves, pools of wind and stone, subtle lines of the earth-the text also recorded forging and sealing techniques, although it did not specify their purpose. Thinking it over, I understood why Master Marnel had been so cautious: certain arts are best observed sidelong.
During the Era of Purification, the valley's temples were razed. Today, barely an abandoned plot remains next to the old military road, with a broken stele in memory of the War of the North. Even so, many continue to believe-from the ancestors to the present-that the location and proportions of a tomb or a house matter: the axis of the door, the shadow of a tree, the depth of a cave. Call it faith, tradition, or practical metaphysics; the truth is that, when properly applied, it offers certain advantages.
My antique shop in Aramont was never much. In a small county, finds are not abundant; the first years I scraped together some profit, but later I barely survived. Whole seasons of silent shop windows came, years lying fallow. Seeing the shop on the verge of closure, I understood that I couldn't fix the course by staying still. I decided to travel, hoping to stumble upon a valuable piece that would give me some breathing room.
In the antique business, destiny, the eye, and the hand count. Famous places had already been combed a thousand times; so I opted for risk: travel far, towards the eastern border, to the province of Zarevia, where the Karanth Mountain Range rises, known by the locals as the Hundred Thousand Peaks. There are countless ancient tumuli and sealed caverns there. If there are tombs, there are objects; and if there are objects, perhaps destiny will grant me one or two lucky finds. That would be enough to keep the shop door open for another year.
First, I took the train to Karned, then a car, then a tractor, and finally a cargo wagon for cattle. The wagon moved slowly, jolting with every step; the road was rough, although the landscape compensated for the fatigue. The Hundred Thousand Peaks offered an infinite view, a thick, brilliant, almost oily green, so beautiful it made me sigh more than once. The air was humid, dense, with a strange but intoxicating vegetal perfume.
Also traveling in the wagon was a fat man, with a northern accent. By his clothes, he seemed well-off. Hearing me speak, he noticed I was also from the North, and we soon found common topics. He said he was traveling for pleasure, and upon learning that I was interested in antiques, he showed curiosity. He said he wanted to accompany me, that if I found something valuable, he would also like to acquire a piece.
But when we arrived at a village they called "large," we found ourselves completely isolated. All around us were only rolling mountains and endless forests. Dozens of hamlets, but not a column of smoke in the sky. There were no visible roads. That gave credence to an old saying: the road only exists because someone walks it. Beyond a barely perceptible sheep trail, no other means of transport passed, except that cargo wagon struggling through the broken earth.
The worst part is that there is no electricity here. To have a candle is a luxury, and whoever owns a flashlight that works with three batteries is practically a magnate. The backwardness of this place completely surpasses everything I could imagine. Our phones, once they run out of battery, aren't even useful as a brick.
Even so, I didn't feel discouraged. Maybe I was catching the enthusiasm of the Fat Man (El Gordo); everything in this unknown environment was new and curious to me. There are many wild meats here that are almost impossible to get in the North. The landscape looks a bit like the mountains of the Northeast, where they hunt deer, catch fish with scoops, and pheasants almost fly straight into the pot. The same thing happens here. The only-and biggest-difference is that there you die of cold... and here, of heat.
We lodged at a farmer's house. With a single red bill, we could stay a whole month. That night, during dinner, we drank plenty of homemade wine. We wanted to pay him, but the man refused; instead, he asked us for help.
He explained that he had to go up the mountain to look for his sons, who had been missing for two days while collecting jackfruit, which was about to ripen this season. His worry was noticeable.
The Fat Man nodded immediately. I also intended to help, but the locals insisted that we didn't know the mountains and that, if we went out at night, we would only be in the way. I had no choice but to desist.
The next morning, guided by a boy about seven or eight years old, the Fat Man and I walked while chatting. He kept swallowing and saying: "Brother, who would have thought that such delicious things are eaten in this lost village! I thought the best they had was that nut drink!"
I gave him a look of resignation and replied: "The truth is I've never tried jackfruit. I've only heard it tastes quite good."
The Fat Man immediately cheered up. He inhaled the humid air of the river and exclaimed: "Did you know, boy, that this fruit has a special name?"
Seeing that I shook my head, he added proudly: "They call it 'Incense Teeth.' You'll see, Brother: when you try one, you'll fall in love."
The boy accompanying us led us to the jackfruit field. He picked two and returned right away. The Fat Man and I gathered some firewood and sat next to the grass shed while he opened one of the fruits. It was very sweet, almost cloying, as if it had honey sprinkled inside. Behind us was the makeshift shelter; if it rained, we could go in there.
I took a stick and went for a walk. They said that monkeys, pheasants, and civets came around the area to steal the fruit. The field was a few hectares large, and it took me at least half an hour to walk around it. I don't know how many animals I scared off, but luckily, no big ones appeared. I hummed as I walked, just to give myself courage.
Maybe I ate too much jackfruit. A strong hiccup rose in my chest, and still, my mouth kept tasting sweet. I tried a different, rougher fruit, hard to swallow. I thought about going back to the Fat Man after a while, and so I did.
When I returned, I found him very focused, as if he were plotting something. Seeing me, he looked up with a smile and showed me what he had: a freshly hunted pheasant. With skill, he plucked its feathers, emptied its entrails, skewered it, and told me: "We're going to taste the true flavor of these mountains."
The Fat Man turned the meat over the fire. The grease crackled as it fell into the embers. I was already full, but the aroma woke up my hunger again. As I watched him roast the pheasant, he asked me: "Brother, how long have you been in the antique business?"
"Five or six years," I replied, still looking at the fire. Then, sighing, I added: "Still, here we are, sweating in the middle of the night. And you? What do you do?"
The Fat Man looked at me, smiled, and said nothing. He reached into his chest and pulled out a pendant, which he showed me under the firelight. "Look at this," he said. "If you recognize it, you'll know what I do."
The pendant was the size of a thumb, dark and translucent, with a damp shine under the fire. At the end, a sharp point; at the base, a golden metal loop interlaced with silver threads. It looked ancient, precisely crafted. On one side, delicately engraved, were two words: "Touch Gold" (Tocar oro).
"'Touch Gold'?" I repeated. Naturally, I recognized that object. In our antiquarian trade, it is common to deal with tomb seekers, so I had already seen some. That, without a doubt, was authentic. And not just any piece: that pendant was made with pangolin claws worked over fifty years ago.
The Fat Man gave me a thumbs-up with a smile. "Brother, you can tell you're a true wanderer. But don't dream about it: this is my life. No matter how much money they give me, I won't sell it!"
I smiled bitterly. Deep down, I would have liked to buy it, but after what he said, I was reluctant to insist. "A gentleman doesn't take advantage of another," I said. "Besides, if it's your life, better keep it. So, you didn't come to travel? You came to work?"
The Fat Man nodded frankly. "You're not like common antique dealers, it shows. I'll tell you the truth: in my family, for three generations, we have been gold touchers (tocadores de oro). Lately, I've been short on money, so I went out again to try my luck. This year I want to find a good tomb."
"I see..." I sighed. "It's different. I go out to look for pieces, you go out to open them. And, well, my business isn't doing well either; I'm on the verge of closing. "
I felt a certain sympathy towards him. He had confided an important secret to me, so it wasn't fair to hide mine. I changed my tone and asked him: "And have you raided any big tombs?"
The Fat Man, naturally, began to boast. He said he had even entered an imperial mausoleum. I knew he was exaggerating, but I let him talk. In the ancient kingdoms, there were emperors with monumental tombs, and some have still not been discovered; their history continues to resonate in the darkness of the centuries.
As he spoke, I couldn't help but think of the bamboo book I was carrying. I took it out of my luggage, along with the bottle of wine, and told him: "Brother, take a look at this. Can you understand any of it?"
The Fat Man took the slips, observed them for a moment, and read the words engraved on the title: "'The Threshold of Currents'..." he murmured. Then he paused and looked at me seriously. "Brother, where did you get this?"