The northern sun
Martin woke up in a cold sweat.
He had not seen this dream for many years: a man in white walked along a blooming meadow, and then turned around and looked the young man intently into his eyes. “Such Flandern!” — he said as always, and the picture began to evaporate. Martin reached for the stranger, tried to touch his hand, but he — and Flanders with him — slipped away again. Just like in real life.
A restless knock on the door.
— Hello?...
A creak.
— What happened here?! — it was the voice of Augustus.
Martin raised his head to look at his old friend, and he recoiled. This brought the knechte leader back to his senses.
— Martin?...
The young man looked around. He did not recognize the room of the old motel: the furniture turned into wood dust, the walls were scorched, all the glass was broken. It smelled of smoke.
— It's alright. Thank you.
— What happened? — the old man sat down beside him.
— Flanders, Augustus. Flanders.
— Where?
Martin tried to remember the details of the dream. Everything was just as it had been then: grass, animals, water, the sun at the zenith... the low sun. The northern sun.
— Direction — North-North-Eastward.
Augustus nodded, got up and headed for the door, but before reaching it, he stopped and turned around.
— I was waiting for this.
Martin nodded.
The old man smiled and left. There were voices. Martin knew: by dawn, the Knechte would be ready to march.
The barely alive tractors crawled over desiccated fields, where desiccated, barely alive people sat in shackles. Their “master” nicknamed the Duke sat in an old castle collecting rare spare parts, and he spent the time free from looking at the collection by travelling around the surrounding lands, accompanied by a retinue.
One volley was enough for the Duke, and the retinue did not even begin to fight: seeing the leader’s death, they disappeared as quickly as they could.
— Well, at least we have great trophies. And we freed the people.
Martin shook his head. He sat on the floor, leaning against the back of the Duke’s chair, who served as a throne for the petty tyrant.
An ancient kerosene lamp stood nearby, trying to disperse the darkness.
— This is not Flanders.
August, grunting, sat next to him.
— Martin... have you ever thought that Flanders is not a specific place? That it's not a place at all? That Flanders is a... purpose?
Martin did not answer. He looked at the light of the lamp, then through the window where the branches of the dead ash swayed. The old man sighed softly, closed his eyes and dozed off.
— Augustus?...
— Yes?
The lamp, apparently, has long gone out. Augustus shivered from the cold, which had time to fill the room, and completely woke up.
— We are returning to the Valley. You're right, we have good trophies. We need supplies. We need new knechte.
— And Flanders?...
Martin stood up and seemed to smile.
— We are looking for it even now.
