Copyright © 2019 by Simon Harrak
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SPECTRE OF CHAOS
1
LOYALTY WAS LIFE. Erik Burscheid had always believed that. What would the world look like without a commitment to one’s family, to one’s friends, to one’s land? Without loyalty, there would be no civilisation. No progress. Empires grew because people did their duty. Those kids who treated their phones and even friends as disposable objects, they had no idea what an oath meant. You would get a blank stare if you asked them what long-service leave was. They owed their existence to the fact that their ancestors hung around. In the animal kingdom, staying together was the difference between survival and annihilation. Burscheid even stuck to his hairstyle, having had his ponytail since he was sixteen. He took pride in his consistency and dependability.
The League Of Reckoning was family, and Erik Burscheid would gladly sacrifice his life for it. He maintained loyalty at any cost, doing whatever the leadership asked of him. Pick-ups, drop-offs, mundane errands, breaking some bones here and there. Delivering a package or burying a body; it was all the same to him. It was all about loyalty.
He had just carried out his latest errand for The League, having dropped off the Abel kid to his apartment. As he left Abel’s place, the weariness of the long drive back from Copenhagen had hit him like a sedative. He picked up a Currywurst with fries for lunch then headed to the Grand Luxus to get some rest in his room. The search for street-side parking needed more time than usual, since the out-of-town soldiers bolstering Kalakia’s fortress had taken most of the spots. At least Burscheid could sleep easy knowing they were out there.
Once he managed to find a spot at Zoologischer Garten, he crossed the intersection and made for the hotel. He passed several soldiers on the way, many of whom he knew well, but still did not acknowledge — official policy. At the entrance, however, he did pay attention to a bright green food truck selling hot dumplings. He gave it a long glance while continuing toward the revolving glass door. Then he stopped. He spun around and glared suspiciously at the man inside the van. There was something about him. He had a sweaty, chubby face with red cheeks and a downturned mouth. He was staring into thin air and tapping his fingers on the bench. What’s bothering you then? Burscheid kept staring, analysing every feature of the man, bemused by his presence. Then Burscheid smiled. For all he knew, the guy’s one-night-stand from a couple of months ago had just called and told him he had knocked her up. If that were the case, then he would need to consider sticking around for the kid to have any chance at life. No running away. Not like Burscheid’s father had. Coward.
The fatigue was getting to Burscheid. He knew that because his mind was wandering. He had barely stopped in the few days since the attacks. The nap would do him good. He forgot about the sweaty-faced man and went through the revolving door. He was looking forward to that king-sized mattress, and figured he could even have a nip of whiskey before he dozed off.
2
The milk had coated her feet white. A thick pool of it flowed slowly outwards from the pot which had hit the floor with an ear-piercing clang. Her sharpened, disbelieving eyes remained on Kalakia as she studied his face, barely breathing, not daring to move.
Kalakia broke the stand-off by stepping around the mess and picking up the pot, placing it on the kitchen bench. He then lifted the tea towel from the cabinet handle and crouched down to begin dabbing the milk off his mother’s feet. Before long he felt a hand on his shoulder. He froze, then stood up. With a gasp she lunged forward and wrapped her arms around him. He responded by placing a hand behind her head and pulling her firm, tiny body into his chest.
“You’re here,” she said, pulling back and placing a hand on his cheek. “My boy,” she added, her eyes now softening and filling with tears.
Kalakia looked carefully at his mother. He had not seen her in over four decades. She was smaller than he remembered, and she had lost weight, especially around her face. She appeared weary, but her stare remained potent, seeping into him and flooding him with old emotions.
“Come,” she said, placing a hand on his wrist. “Leave the mess.”
She took off her shoes and placed them by the doorway before walking barefooted into the living room, where Kalakia followed and found her on the couch. He passed by her and ran his fingers along the old books on the shelf. The classics were still there, including Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy. Kant’s ‘Critique of Pure Reason’ also caught his eye. He recalled how much of an insatiable reader his father had been.
“Sit, my boy,” said his mother and patted an empty spot beside her.
Kalakia complied. My boy. He had not heard that phrase in a long time.
“I felt it was important to see you,” he said as he sat. “Trouble is coming.”
She nodded solemnly as though she understood everything.
“Trouble has always followed you, and you have always conquered it.”
“This is different.”
“I thought about you many times over the years,” she said, ignoring his ominous statement.
“Did you?” he said.
“Of course.”
“I assumed you would try to forget me,” he said.
“Forget you?” she said with a headshake. “Nonsense. You are my son. I was angry at you, that is true. Angry at what you did to that boy, the path
