Turbinio

Medea's Poison

You had no recollection of the brief ceremony conducted at the entrance to Independence Hall. The only memory you've retained since stepping out of the wagon was the sight of the two guards, better dressed and better trained than the average patrol, standing soberly side by side waiting for you.

You said what you were told to say. Your name, your age, eagerly written down in a visitors' book where people sign in and out. The only thing that crossed your mind, however, was whether you would be able to sign out in that same book.

Then you were coldly escorted to the terrace. You didn't have time to count how many flights of stairs you had to climb, as you were concentrating on the decor of the place. Boring, empty, with the occasional picture hanging on the wall and tables that made no sense at all. It was much bigger than it looked from the outside, much bigger than it looked in the newspapers. But also much emptier, as if the constant presence of the guards was nothing more than that of tired, century-old ghosts.

You've never been there before. In fact, after the countless turns and flights of stairs and corridors decorated with mirrors, you were no longer sure how many there were of you, let alone where any of them were heading.

The discreet, anonymous guard led you to the balcony. You gazed at the view for a few seconds before asking.

"What? Are you going to ask me to throw myself down from there?''

The answer was a push forward and, without realizing how long it had been, your hands were free.

From the balcony, you could see the woods framing the vigorous silhouette of the president holding what looked like a binocular. It was silent, the whine of the wind softened by the branches of the pines above. It wasn't very close, but the building was high enough for you to see from the balcony.

"Come here.'' He said without turning around. ''I'm in no hurry to talk about your terrorism. Come and enjoy the view.''

And you did, trying to make your breathing not so shaky. The two guards didn't accompany you, they remained standing on the threshold. Then, approaching the balcony, he held out the same binocular and you took it. Curious, you looked in the same direction as him, slightly disoriented by the sudden magnification of the lens. You didn't know exactly what to look for in that direction; it just looked like a wood further away from the city.

The woods were enclosed, partially inaccessible and of no interest to the locals. In the distance, there was a narrow clearing with small piles of clothes. The clothes in question were accompanied by their owners. Small piles of purplish corpses - about ten to fifteen men - lay at the far edge of the woods, next to a huge gray rock. The dark green lichen on the rocks was the same color as their clothes and sometimes their skins. Mixed in with the dead leaves and earth. They seemed so much part of the forest that you wouldn't have seen them if it hadn't been for the rescue team and a bright blue spot.

Soft as velvet, the strange fungus or substance spread its mantle over the cold limbs. It followed the curve of the flesh swollen with gases, spewing out small flickering flames, like the undergrowth and trees of a forest invading desert terrain.

It was a vivid, electric blue, pure and strange.

"What's that?'' You questioned, not knowing whether you were talking about the bodies or the fire.

"The men the rescue team found too late.''

''Are the dead only from this stage?''

He didn't answer. His hands clasped over his lower back, the posture of a soldier.

''This color... What is it? Why is the fire blue?''

''Hm... ignis fatuus.'' That's what he said. ''Blue, phosphorescent blue. You don't see it anywhere except in war... on dead men.'' He lowered his gaze to you, his eyes tired and dismayed between his blond hair. ''You're in a war, miss.''