Being memoires of a young man whose name needenth to be mentioned right now, I present for your scholary enjoyment this gripping bittersweet tale about the Wanderings of Blogambar...
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Early June, I remember this clearly, it was snowing and I was hiking through the burning marshes of South-Belgium, when all of a sudden I came across a flute, played by the fairest maiden I had ever seen, not counting my mother, and while the sweet melody still echoed in the air, the horse had taken her away. Like spellbinded, I had to follow her, even though night was approaching and my supply of traveller's crackers was rapidly running out, which, as any woodsman knows, can be fatal, especially for diabetics and those with good appetite. I came near a total collapse, but just as the last light of day faded away, I spotted a mansion, built of stone and surrounded by a small moat, and with my last ounces of strength, I reached the gate and banged on the door desperately, begging the master of the house to allow the exchausted wanderer a place to rest overnight and strengthen himself by the fire. The door opened and a hooded figure of immense size appeared on the doorway, just as my feet collapsed from under me, and as I fell down, my senses begun to fade away and I was barely aware of being picked up and carried inside, before drifting into merciful unconsciousness...
The flickering light of candles was the first I saw when I woke up. I was lying on a soft bed, and the large figure was sitting next to me. Noticing I was awake, the figure turned to me and removed its hood. I was surprised to behold that it was an old woman, her face wrinkled, her hair grey, yet she seemed to be unusually large and strong. I remembered the ease with which she had picked me up earlier.
"Who are you?" I asked with a hoarse voice. The woman pointed to a wall of mossy stones, where something round and golden reflected the light of the candles. It was a medal, and with some squinting I could make out the writing on it. "1952 Summer Olympics" it said. "Women's Weightlifting". Well, that answered some questions.
"That, of course, was a long time ago", the old woman cackled with a surprisingly dark voice. "It was a time of laughter and joy. Then war ravaged the fair country of Belgium. The young went abroad to fight, to fight and die, and only the old remained. My son was among those who never returned."
"I am sorry to hear that, madame", I said with heartfelt sympathies.
"He was a good boy", the old woman mused. "They told me to not have children, due to all the doping, but he turned out just fine, except for the tentacles and some minor madness." She stared into the candles. "His name was Armand."
I did not like the sound of this very muchly, but at least the old woman seemed friendly and hospitable, and the crackers and mellow wine she offered me were slowly bringing my strength back. Still I felt something uncomfortable it the way she kept staring at me with great intensity, as I was nourishing myself, and the house itself seemed to have been laden with this unexplainably unnerving athmosphere, as if it was a relic of a different times, left behind when all else had faded, for some unknown, hidden purpose. By now I was nevertheless finished, and the old woman came to pick up the tray and take it away, when suddely as a flash, I remebered the very reason itself, which had brought me to this strange place. "Pardon me, madame, but would you happen to know if a young maiden who enjoys horseback riding and playing the flute, would happen to live anywhere nearby?" I asked. She halted at her feet in the middle of the room, and the tray fell from her hands to the floor...
"How did you know?" she exclaimed.
I had no idea what she meant, so I just said, "news travels fast."
"My granddaughter does indeed live next door," she continued, "or as near next door as one gets around here. But she will speak to no one except through AIM. A horrible curse she inherited. A curse that afflicted Armand ... I can't say when. Was it the shoes? Or it did it go back even further, to the day when he and Ralph were roommates? Alas, for the underwater tangos that are no more! sindalormanunda nestlë dubbyalondolimë caca!"
I felt vaguely anxious. Had the old lady lost her mind? Or had she never ahd one to lose in the first place?
"Nevertheless, I want to see her," I proclaimed. "I'm not afraid!"
"A fool you are to so speak," says the old woman with fire in her eyes now. "And for the sake of your immortal soul and indeed your very sanity, pray that you will never understand either."
She turned away to window, and started to talk as if to herself: "There was a young girl, who lived nearby when Armand was young, Imelda was her name. Her father was in the weightlifting team as well, so they were sort of family friends, and as with Armand, his doping use had left marks on her. She had one arm that was massively muscular, with red bulging veins, and other that was small and deformed. She could have been world-famous handwrestler but alas, it was her left hand that was the strong one... and as it was, she became but a source of pity and mockery. Armand was her only friend, and as it is with young people, they would let their raging hormones take the better of them, and one summer we discovered she was pregnant. It was then that Armand was taken to the war, and when the word came that he had vanished and presumed dead it was a blow she never recovered of. She died at childbirth."
She sighed slowly. "I consider it a blessing that neither of them was ever to see their offspring. Despite their disfigurments, they still had mostly normal human appearance, but she was worse."
"No! Lies!" I cried. "I saw here last night and she was the most beutiful maiden I have ever seen, not counting my mother of course. There was no disfigurments, nothing. She was... perfect."
She turned to look at me with wide gleaming eyes, and I was now certain that she must have been insane, and whispered infernally: "You-do-not-KNOW-what-you-have-SEEN..."
The secretive behaviour of the old woman had, by now, worn out my patience. I shamefully admit that for a moment I fully forgot my good manners, as well as my thankfulness for her rescueing and hosting me. But my desire to see the fair maiden from my vision again simply overwhelmed me. I guess I can blame part of my actions on her deceptively sweet and strong wine, though that in no way is an excuse.
In my rage I started to swear and heap abuse on the old woman. "Where is the maiden?" I yelled. "Admit it, old witch, you are holding your granddaughter as prisoner here! Let me see her at once! You will no longer lock her up!"
Yet all the old woman did was to repeat "You do not know..." over and over again, staring at or perhaps right through me. The next thing I remember is taking the mug from which I had drunk and hurling it at the old woman. Taken by surprise, she slipped and fell. I cannot say if she hurt herself, for I was already running out of the mansion and slamming the door behind me. As I halted on the foggy, eery lawn outside the mansion, I suddenly heared the flute again...
As in fever I gazed through the early morning mists, trying to locate the source of the haunting music, and suddenly I spotted a stablebuilding behind the edge of the mansion. This must be where they kept the maiden's horse, and maybe the old madwoman had locked her in there as well... And even though the flute was now silent, I was certain this would be where I was to find her. And yet as I now approached the stable, some strange uncertain sensation had settled over me. It was something the old woman had muttered just as I knocked her down and rushed away, and it kept creeping and crawling right under my conscious mind... "You don't know...all those steroids, growth-hormones and such... animal-esssances...you saw her riding, you think...fool..." There was the stable door. I could hear the hoofs clanging on the floor, and suddely the flute continued again. My hands and heart shivering, I opened the door carefully, and just then, as I peaked in, the last words she had whispered came back to me and I realised what she had been trying to say, but it was too late.
From there on, I remember very little. I must have run like a madman, through the dark marshes, all the way to the border of Germany and across it to safety at the custody of the Rheinland Rangers - if there ever safety for me can be, for I now knew the full horror that lies behind the state-controlled championship- level sport-doping - where I at the longest time could only repeat the last words the poor half-grazed old woman had muttered to me: "There-is-no-horse, there's-only-SHE!!"
The End