Morok

Chapter VIII. Salep

A shadowy figure followed Gorenski, blending into the scenery and swerving away from the growing crowds of hustlers ready to start their workday. The screeching of trams, the honking of cars and the hurried steps of people were all sounds Gorenski could separate from one another like a chemist would clarify a substance using centrifugal force. Gorenski could partition sounds and smells, always knowing where they came from. But this time, his perfect, cat-like instincts did not help him as much as he expected.

In his marrow, Gorenski felt the foreigner's presence. Yet he could not separate their smell and sound from the rest of the city. Unyielding to reality, holding an invisible magical umbrella above their head, the pursuer did not leave imprints behind. Could it be the Zora Bukur, the woman everyone had warned him about? Perhaps. Gorenski did not dismiss the idea, narrowing his eyes to stare at the crossroad.

If he demonstrated his awareness, the enemy would likely disappear, and Gorenski would not have an opportunity to learn more about them. No, a simple attack would be too crude of an approach. He could not allow himself such foolishness. Neither could he grind to a halt in the middle of a busy street, even though the possibility seemed appealing.

The pull of the unknown sparkled his mind, sending shivers through his body. Everything that intrigued Gorenski was destined to be solved. That was how Gorenski's insatiable brain worked: no puzzle could challenge him enough.

Courteously, he invited the pursuer to follow, smirking to himself. Whoever it was, they were desecrating the fine art of surveillance with their careless approach. But Gorenski's ultimate test had nothing to do with his enemy's ability to keep up with him. It had everything to do with Morok.

When he reached the imposing Karlskirche with its pseudo-Antique portico, Gorenski did not stop, passing the building and entering the green area behind it. Although tidy and groomed like most parks in Vienna, Giredipark preserved small islands of wilderness where crowds were rare. Shrubbery gleamed in the sunlight, sprawled across the curbside, and half-naked trees stretched their twisted branches upward. As Gorenski made a sharp turn, abandoning the pavement, his pursuer lingered behind.

In the misty bleakness of early morning, the outlines of the bushes blurred, leaving Gorenski surrounded by half-transparent coils of whiteness. If someone could follow him into the White City, perhaps they would. While Gorenski did not dismiss such a possibility completely, he found it unlikely. No one else could access the Archive at will. They could only wander in.

When the fog embraced him, Gorenski entered a long corridor of blinding brightness that smelled uniquely of white cotton and rain-filled clouds. The pursuer hesitated. As expected, they did not follow. What a shame. Gorenski could have easily tracked them if they did.

Over the centuries, Gorenski had discovered many paths leading to Kitezh, his White City. Some appeared out of nowhere after a destructive storm, and others remained in place for years. As the Curator, he felt their presence the way birds felt the meridians of the Earth.

A part of his genetic makeup, his blood and bone, Morok guided him and yanked him back into its orbit whenever Gorenski wandered away. But ultimately, it was Gorenski's choice to accept Morok. That he did, and then he went on to defy Morok and every god in existence because he could. Because, like so many uncanny and unconventional traits of his character, defiance was a part of his genetic makeup.

Finding himself on the familiar island of Kitezh, with the lake's water brushing small stones away, Gorenski looked up. There was no sun in Kitezh, only a curtain of translucent fog. Below, the city lay sprawled over cliffs and stony beaches, its structures peculiar and dream-like - pieces of fantasy unbound by physics. From the lake, uneven streets stretched forward, intertwining, opening into squares with endless tent-like temples where music reigned supreme. There were no icons or priests to greet visitors inside them. Only sound penetrated the air. Inside those music vaults, Gorenski could find Liedke's and everyone else's compositions, all carefully preserved.