Lille Pedro

Chapter One

The body lay in perfect repose on the Victorian fainting couch, looking more like a sleeping beauty than a victim. Detective Sarah Chen had seen enough death in her ten years with the Metropolitan Police's Special Cases Unit to know that natural death never looked this peaceful. Something was very, very wrong.
'No signs of struggle, no marks on the body, and yet...' She leaned closer, studying the victim's face. Charlotte Mills, aged 28, was found by her roommate this morning, apparently having passed away in her sleep. Her expression was serene, almost blissful, but her eyes - those were what caught Sarah's attention. Behind the closed lids, her eyes were moving rapidly, as if still deep in REM sleep.
"You see it too, don't you?" The voice came from behind her, rich and cultured with a slight Irish lilt. "She's still dreaming."
Sarah turned to find a tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit standing in the doorway. He hadn't been there a moment ago, she was certain of it. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and his eyes were an unusual shade of amber that seemed to shift color in the light.
"This is a closed crime scene," she said firmly, her hand instinctively moving toward her weapon. "How did you get in here?"
He smiled, but it didn't reach those strange eyes. "Dr. Marcus Thorne," he said, pulling out a card that somehow both looked official and seemed to shimmer slightly. "I'm a consulting specialist with the Department's new Oneiric Phenomena Division."
"The what division?" Sarah frowned, taking the card. The moment her fingers touched it, she felt a slight electric tingle, and the letters seemed to rearrange themselves before her eyes.
"Dreams, Detective Chen. We investigate crimes involving dreams." He moved into the room with fluid grace, his attention fixed on the victim. "And this is the third one this month."
Sarah's mind raced. There had been two other deaths recently - both young women, both found peacefully dead in their sleep. She'd seen the reports but hadn't made the connection until now. "How do you know about those cases?"
"Because I've been tracking the killer for quite some time." Thorne knelt beside the body, his eyes now definitely more gold than amber. "He's what we call a Dream Collector - someone who has learned to enter and steal dreams. But this one has developed a taste for more than just dreams. He's taking souls."
Under normal circumstances, Sarah would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But there was something about the scene, about the victim's still-moving eyes, about Thorne himself, that made the impossible seem suddenly plausible.
"If you're tracking him," she said carefully, "why haven't you caught him?"
Thorne's expression darkened. "Because he only appears in dreams. The physical world is my domain, but his... his is the realm of sleep. To catch him, we need someone who can walk between both worlds." He turned those unsettling eyes on her. "Someone like you."
"Me?" Sarah almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat as memories she'd long suppressed began to surface. The dreams that felt too real, the nights she'd awakened to find objects moved in her room, the way she sometimes knew things she couldn't possibly know...
"You've always known you were different, haven't you, Detective?" Thorne's voice was gentle now. "The dreams that come true, the hunches that turn out to be right, the way you can sometimes see how people died just by touching objects they owned..."
Sarah took an involuntary step back. "How do you know about that?"
"Because I've been looking for someone like you. A Natural - someone born with the ability to cross the threshold between waking and dreaming." He gestured to the victim. "Charlotte here won't be his last. There will be others, and their souls will remain trapped in an eternal dream unless we stop him."
Just then, the victim's hand twitched, her fingers moving as if writing something. Sarah moved closer, watching as invisible words were traced in the air. Thorne pulled out what looked like an antique monocle and held it up. Through its lens, golden letters shimmered in the air where Charlotte's fingers moved.
"Help me," Thorne read aloud. "He's coming for the others."
Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. She looked at the victim's peaceful face, at those restlessly moving eyes, and made a decision that would change her life forever.
"Tell me what I need to do."
Thorne's smile was grim. "First, you need to learn to control your abilities. Then..." he held up the monocle, through which Sarah could now see strange symbols glowing all around the room, "you need to learn to hunt in dreams."
Outside the Victorian townhouse, storm clouds gathered, and Sarah Chen, homicide detective and newly discovered dream walker, took her first step into a world where nightmares were real, and death was just another kind of sleep.

Chapter Two

The basement of the Natural History Museum was the last place Sarah expected to find the headquarters of a secret dream investigation unit. Yet here she was, following Thorne through a maze of storage rooms filled with artifacts that seemed to pulse with their own inner light.
"The mundane world only sees what it expects to see," Thorne explained, using an ornate key to unlock a heavy wooden door marked 'Private Collection.' "To them, this is just museum storage. To us, it's the largest collection of dream artifacts in the Western Hemisphere."
The room beyond defied physics. It stretched impossibly far, filled with glass cases containing everything from ancient masks to modern-looking devices. Floating orbs of soft light illuminated collections of bottled dreams - actual dreams, swirling like liquid mercury behind glass.
"Your badge, Detective," Thorne held out his hand. Sarah hesitated before handing over her police credentials. He placed it on a strange device that looked like a Victorian music box crossed with a computer. When he returned the badge, it felt different - heavier, somehow more real.
"Now you'll be able to access both worlds officially," he said. "Look at it again."
The badge had changed. Alongside her regular police credentials, new text had appeared: 'Special Inspector, Oneiric Investigations Division.' The letters seemed to shift between English and something older, something that made her eyes water if she looked too long.
"Before we can hunt the Dream Collector, you need to understand what you're dealing with." Thorne led her to a case containing what looked like a normal pillow. "Touch it."
Sarah reached out hesitantly. The moment her fingers made contact, the world tilted. She was suddenly standing in someone else's dream - a sunny beach, but the sky was green and the sand whispered secrets. She jerked her hand back, gasping.
"Good," Thorne nodded approvingly. "Most people can't pull back from their first dream artifact. You have natural barriers."
"What was that?" Sarah's heart was racing.
"A dream fragment from 1892. A young girl's last dream before the influenza took her." His voice softened. "We preserve them here. Dreams carry memories, emotions, sometimes even pieces of souls."
"And this Dream Collector... he takes entire souls?" Sarah remembered Charlotte Mills' peaceful face and restless eyes.
"He traps them in eternal dreams, feeding off their essence." Thorne moved to another case, this one containing what looked like a cracked mirror. "Each victim becomes part of his collection, their souls powering his abilities, letting him dreamwalk without natural talent like yours."
Suddenly, the cracked mirror began to frost over. In its surface, Sarah saw Charlotte Mills' face, mouth open in a silent scream. Then another face appeared - another victim, she presumed - and another.
"He's showing off," Thorne growled. "He knows we're investigating."
The temperature in the room dropped dramatically. Frost patterns spread from the mirror to nearby cases, and Sarah heard what sounded like distant laughter.
"Well, well," a voice echoed through the room, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere. "A new player in the game. And such interesting dreams you have, Detective Chen."
Sarah felt something brush against her mind, like cold fingers trying to pry open a door. Instinctively, she slammed her mental barriers shut. The presence withdrew, but not before leaving behind an impression of amusement.
"He's already caught your scent," Thorne said grimly. He pulled out a small velvet bag and removed what looked like a dreamcatcher made of silver wire and black pearls. "Wear this when you sleep. It won't keep him out entirely, but it'll stop him from stealing your dreams while you're still learning to defend yourself."
As Sarah took the dreamcatcher, her fingers brushed Thorne's, and suddenly she was hit with a flash of his dreams - centuries of memories, battles fought in realms of sleep, and a profound sense of loss that made her gasp.
Thorne withdrew his hand quickly. "Your abilities are stronger than I thought. We'll need to work on your control."
"What are you?" Sarah asked directly. "You're not just some government consultant, are you?"
Before he could answer, an alarm began to sound throughout the facility. One of the dream bottles had turned black, its contents writhing like smoke.
"He's hunting again," Thorne said, already moving toward the exit. "Someone in the city has just entered their last dream. Are you ready for your first real case, Detective?"
Sarah touched her new badge, feeling its power hum under her fingers. "Do we have time to save them?"
"If we're lucky, we might catch him in the act. But remember - in dreams, he's incredibly powerful. One wrong move and you could lose your soul."
As they rushed from the dream archive, Sarah caught one last glimpse of the cracked mirror. In its surface, she saw her own reflection smile back at her with eyes that weren't quite her own.
The hunt was about to begin.

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

They arrived at St. Bartholomew's Hospital just as the emergency lights began to flash. Sarah followed Thorne through corridors that seemed to blur at the edges of her vision, her new badge somehow clearing their path without ever being shown.
"Room 307," Thorne said, his voice tight with urgency. "Young male, admitted for minor surgery, slipped into an unusual coma during recovery."
The patient, David Parker, age 23, lay perfectly still on his hospital bed, his eyes moving rapidly beneath closed lids. Just like Charlotte Mills. But this time, something was different - the air around him rippled like heat waves over hot asphalt.
"He's still in the process of taking him," Thorne said, pulling out what looked like an antique pocket watch. "We can follow if we're quick. Are you ready for your first dream dive?"
Sarah's heart pounded. "What do I need to do?"
"Take my hand. Focus on the patient. Let your consciousness slip between the moments of reality." Thorne's eyes began to glow that strange amber color. "And whatever you see in there, remember - dream logic is real logic in that world."
Sarah grasped Thorne's hand and looked at David Parker. The world tilted, twisted, and suddenly...
They were standing in a hospital corridor that wasn't quite right. The walls breathed slowly, the floor was made of flowing water that somehow supported their weight, and the ceiling was a swirling mass of constellation maps.
"His dreamscape," Thorne explained, his voice echoing strangely. "Every dreamer creates their own reality. Look."
Down the impossible corridor, a figure in a doctor's coat was leading David Parker by the hand. But the 'doctor' was wrong - his shadow moved independently, reaching out with grasping tendrils towards other dreams that floated past like soap bubbles.
"The Dream Collector," Sarah whispered.
As if hearing his name, the figure turned. Sarah's breath caught. His face was a beautiful mask of shifting features, never settling on one form, but his eyes... his eyes were endless pits of swirling dreams.
"Ah, the new dreamer," his voice was like silk over broken glass. "And my old friend Marcus. Still trying to police the dream worlds?"
Thorne stepped forward, and Sarah noticed his appearance had changed in the dream. His suit was now made of living shadows, and wings of dark light stretched from his shoulders. "Let him go, Collector. You've taken enough souls."
The Collector laughed, the sound causing the hospital walls to crack, leaking golden dream-light. "Taken? Oh, Marcus, you still don't understand. They give themselves to me. Show her, David."
The young man turned, and Sarah saw his eyes were glassy with bliss. "It's beautiful here," he said dreamily. "All my pain is gone. All my fears. He takes them all away."
"By taking everything you are," Sarah found herself saying. She took a step forward, instinctively reaching for her police badge. In the dream, it transformed into a shield of pure light. "David, this isn't real healing. It's theft."
The Collector's face rippled with anger. "You dare interrupt my collection?" The corridor began to twist, reality bending around them. "Let me show you what happens to those who interfere with my work."
Suddenly, the floor beneath Sarah liquefied completely. She started to sink, but instead of water, she was drowning in dreams - thousands of them, each containing a fragment of someone's stolen soul. She saw Charlotte Mills dancing endlessly in a ballroom of mirrors, saw other victims trapped in perfect moments that had become eternal prisons.
"Sarah!" Thorne's voice cut through the chaos. "Remember - dream logic! Make your own rules!"
Dream logic. Sarah closed her eyes, focusing on her years of police work, of protecting people, of solving puzzles. When she opened them, her badge-shield had transformed into a sword of pure thought.
With a cry, she slashed through the dream-flood. Reality reasserted itself - or at least, this dream's version of reality. She stood on solid ground again, facing the Collector.
"Impressive," he purred, but she sensed uncertainty in his voice. "You're stronger than the usual dreamers Marcus recruits. Perhaps we could make a deal..."
"No deals," Sarah said firmly. She could feel her power growing, reshaping the dream around them. "David, look at what he really is. Look with your heart, not your fears."
For a moment, David's eyes cleared. The Collector's beautiful mask slipped, revealing something ancient and hungry beneath. David screamed, pulling away from the creature's grasp.
The Collector snarled, his form shifting into something monstrous. "If I can't have him willingly..." Shadows exploded from his body, reaching for David.
What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Thorne spread his dark wings, shielding David. Sarah's sword of thought became a net of light, trapping some of the shadows. But the Collector himself simply... stepped sideways, vanishing into a door that appeared in the air.
"Sweet dreams, detectives," his voice lingered behind. "We'll meet again soon. After all, Sarah, your dreams are particularly... appetizing."
The dreamscape began to dissolve. Sarah felt Thorne grab her arm, pulling her back through layers of reality. Then...
They were standing in the hospital room again. David Parker was awake, gasping, but alive and whole. A nurse was rushing in, responding to his sudden revival.
"We saved one," Thorne said quietly. "But he'll be angry now. And he'll come for you."
Sarah touched her badge, still feeling echoes of its dream-power. "Good," she said grimly. "Because I have some questions for him about Charlotte Mills. And about what you really are, Marcus Thorne."
Thorne's expression was unreadable. "All in time, Detective. For now, you need to rest. Tomorrow, your real training begins."
As they left the hospital, Sarah could have sworn she saw her shadow move independently, reaching for dreams that floated just beyond the edge of sight. The world would never look quite the same again.

Chapter Four

Sarah's apartment looked different when she returned that night. The shadows seemed deeper, more alive, and ordinary objects cast reflections that didn't quite match reality. The dreamcatcher Thorne had given her pulsed softly in her pocket, responding to the changed way she now saw the world.
She was exhausted but afraid to sleep. The Collector's words echoed in her mind: 'Your dreams are particularly appetizing.' Instead, she spread her case files across the coffee table - photographs of Charlotte Mills, the other victims, and now David Parker's medical records.
A soft chime from her badge interrupted her concentration. The metal had grown warm, and when she touched it, words appeared in that strange shifting script: 'Archive. Now. Emergency.'
The museum was different at night. Sarah's new badge led her through doors that hadn't existed during her first visit, down stairs that seemed to descend far deeper than the building's foundation should allow. She found Thorne in a circular room she hadn't seen before, surrounded by floating screens of light that showed various dreamscapes.
"We have a problem," he said without preamble. "The Collector's attack pattern has changed. Look."
The screens shifted, showing a map of the city overlaid with points of light. "Each light is a dreamer," Thorne explained. "The blue ones are normal dreams. The red..." He gestured, and several dots pulsed an angry crimson. "Those are nightmares being actively shaped by outside forces."
"He's attacking multiple targets at once?"
"No." Thorne's expression was grim. "He's leaving traps. Dream-snares. Anyone who falls asleep in these areas risks being pulled into a constructed nightmare. He's trying to overwhelm our ability to respond."
Sarah studied the pattern of red dots. "They're forming a shape... a symbol?"
"A summoning circle." A new voice joined them. Sarah turned to see an elderly woman emerging from what appeared to be a door made of starlight. Her eyes were milk-white, but she moved with absolute certainty.
"Sarah, meet Dr. Eleanor Price, the Archive's keeper," Thorne said. "And yes, she's blind in the waking world, but in dreams..."
"I see everything," Eleanor finished. Her unseeing eyes fixed on Sarah with uncomfortable accuracy. "Including what our friend the Collector is truly planning. He's not just taking souls anymore. He's building toward something larger."
She gestured, and the room transformed around them. They were suddenly standing in what looked like a vast library, but the books were made of dreams, their pages flowing like liquid memory.
"Every dream ever archived is stored here," Eleanor explained. "Including the oldest nightmares of humanity. The Collector isn't just a thief - he's trying to wake something that should stay sleeping. Something we locked away centuries ago."
She pulled a book from the shelf, and its pages burst open, projecting a scene of ancient horror - a time when the boundary between dreams and reality was thinner, when nightmares could walk in daylight.
"The Last Nightmare," Thorne said softly. "We thought it was safely contained, but if he completes that summoning circle..."
A sudden tremor ran through the Archive. One of the red dots on the map had grown larger, pulsing violently.
"He's starting," Eleanor's voice was urgent. "Sarah, you need to see something before you face this." She pressed her fingers to Sarah's forehead, and suddenly...
She was in a memory. A younger Thorne stood with a woman who looked remarkably like Sarah herself, facing down a shadow that threatened to devour the world. The woman - another dream detective? - sacrificed herself to help seal away the nightmare.
"Your mother," Eleanor's voice echoed in her mind. "She was one of us. Her sacrifice helped lock away the Last Nightmare, but the Collector has never stopped trying to free it. And now he's found you - her daughter, with her power."
The vision ended abruptly as another tremor shook the Archive. More red dots were pulsing on the map.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Sarah demanded, turning to Thorne.
"Because I promised her I'd keep you away from this life," he replied, pain evident in his voice. "But now the Collector knows who you are, and we're running out of time."
"The summoning circle will be complete at the next new moon," Eleanor added. "Three days from now. If the Last Nightmare wakes..."
"Then we stop him before that happens," Sarah said firmly, though her mind was reeling from the revelations. "How do we break these dream-snares?"
"It's dangerous," Thorne warned. "Each one is a trap designed specifically for dream walkers. If you're caught..."
"Then you'll just have to watch my back," Sarah said. She touched her badge, feeling its power respond. "Where do we start?"
Eleanor smiled, her blind eyes somehow twinkling. "First, you need to understand what you truly inherited from your mother. It's time you learned about the true history of the dream walkers - and why the Collector fears your bloodline above all others."
As if in response to Eleanor's words, the books around them began to glow, their pages rustling with the weight of secrets about to be revealed. In the map above, the red dots pulsed like a countdown to catastrophe, and Sarah realized she had less than three days to master powers she never knew she had.
The true game was about to begin.

DEL 1: Lille Pedro

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FØRSTE DEL

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LILLE PEDRO

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Kapitel 1

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1
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De kFom& Fen^ oLnPsd$ag^ mfSorO xattO nhVeÉnre.tÉtPe mwiBn gfaXrS.a
Når jeg ser tilbage, burde jeg have fornemmet, at der var noget galt under morgenmessen tre dage tidligere. Den nye præsts jomfruprædiken havde efterladt menigheden splittet - nogle kede sig, andre var vrede - aldrig et godt varsel i en lille colombiansk by.
Da menigheden rejste sig for at gå, standsede Señor Muñoz, min kæreste Camilas far, kortvarigt op i midtergangen og lænede sig mod Papá.
"Må jeg tale med dig udenfor? Han kiggede på mig og tilføjede: "Under fire øjne.
Jegf var 1I5T Vår ga!mmelT nog' HbefaÉndt Ymóióg_ is HteenakggeOrensc ldiDmjbSo:_ 'jeggN vqaGrI MipkókJew &gTampmzelB dnoGk tliIl atu )bliv)ex inidOdnragmeGt iC MvoNkse'nld.i(skus(si,orneZr, men MhleFllTePr iXkke Gulng *nJok PtiVl ath alø_bQe ud$ GowgR lweCgmeZ.m MeYnst dKeR .vokdsnNe XtjaltFe,, *sytodé djNeRg på khirmkienRsl OtbrAappeZ sammexnk mekd' CvamkiJlWaD ÉogL Umuiln .b&eGd!s!teg nv!ewnB PalIiGlRlo og venQtDeOdce Xpå&, faztk dKe skuldle Sbdl,iFvea if'ærdCiXg.e, meNncsm deA vJoVkvsjner téaBlfte.S
Palillo, eller "Tandpik" - hvis rigtige navn var Diego Hernandez - kunne lide at skabe ballade. Og han kunne lide at skubbe andre ind i dem og derefter løbe rundt om dem i ottetal som en hund i langt græs.
Han var et halvt hoved højere end os, og nu draperede han sine arme over vores skuldre, lagde hænderne bag vores hoveder og drejede dem mod vores fædre. De var dybt fordybet i en samtale, som de kun afbrød for at klø sig på hagen og kaste betydningsfulde blikke i vores retning.
"¡Pillado! erklærede Palillo gladeligt. "I to er så busted!
"D_up skXa.lk ikrkeé NhHøre! pIå& ham,W Pbegdro,I" ksÉagdNew ,C,amiPla qog itr'aqkO sóiYg! )udT af Pa'l!ibllRos gwreSb.S P"Hvi^s micn KfyaRr mviKllieJ slapd're&, $vJicl.l)e whan hanvRej hsagt' nlogket Ltilé os éføjrQst.B
Camila var et år yngre end os og lige så smuk som altid, selv om hun havde tømmermænd fra den foregående aften. Mens Palillo gjorde det til sin mission at røre ved mit liv, arbejdede Camila på at berolige mig. Hun havde en magisk måde at beskytte mig mod verden på, uden at kritisere andre.
"De stirrer på dig, Pedro," insisterede Palillo.
"På os alle sammen," svarede jeg.
Jegl v$aTr KpqaTra$t ZtViyl aty påFtadgue mdigm *mriKnT dSehl! óaf uskyldhen_ fqo.r d.en fóorUegåhenWde nats fóesMtU,I ,sQelVvx om dyet v)ar LPalillod,h dJeNr hUavdDeó ktrævetp, Iat vRiU kskMublle kpørTeJ IneHdg tsicl( rebs$vDinJgeyttræeYt),J éowg IPaliyll)o,z d(erm haJvHdBes fsretmédYrVageRtL ,eVn f'l(asVke$ *cubFannsCk, rozm rog OpressDeBt VC_azmilaX pt(ili aNtb TsGkulDe g"PbnareW eat ggliasl mxere"U usXeDkNs pganrge mUerce^.b
"De prøver sikkert at finde ud af, hvem der har begravet bonde Díaz," sagde Camila, mens hun med tommelfingrene glattede mine folder i panden ud. "Eller de diskuterer den nye præsts prædiken. Var det ikke ynkeligt?
Hun fortsatte med at spekulere. Jeg fortsatte med at rynke panden. Jeg vidste, at Camilas far havde en uvillig respekt for mig. Så længe jeg respekterede hans udgangsforbud og hans datters kyskhed, ville han tolerere mig.
Problemet var, at jeg ikke havde overholdt udgangsforbuddet i går aftes. Palillo havde insisteret på, at Camila ville klare sig; de havde fyldt deres maver med mælk. Han sagde, at han ville tage personligt ansvar. Men klokken 22 var det mig, der stod tilbage med en beruset kæreste og stod i et dilemma: køre hende hjem til tiden, men snublende fuld, eller vente, til hun i det mindste var nogenlunde ædru. Fra sit vindue havde Señor Muñoz set mig komme to timer for sent.
"DJelg $bQlevP tlabgOet*",F glfæ,dXede! TPailLillNod sigM, xlæneAde sigs hlXigne findz if Nmitó aSnsiigth !ogV ikÉiJlAdLedKe& minte QkinzderF med gs'i.ne la.nYgeÉ,. swortef Vfifng!rgeQ.*
"Fuck det! sagde jeg og slog hans hånd væk. "Jeg går over.
"Nej, for helvede, det gør jeg ikke! De vil korsfæste dig.
"Jo, for fanden. Se mig!
Jieg_ rhadée$deh fPoXlTk,j CdYer. nægtede Lató kon(frontóerFe utinxgR.z Jegp Cgihk uhen !mozdz viores cfnæsdrqe,( opTmzuUnGtrget aBfj deFt fDaXktZumj uahtÉ Camila suå ppåz.
"Godmorgen, Señor Muñoz. Jeg hilste høfligt på Camilas far og gav ham hånden.
"Pedro. Han nikkede og tvang et smil frem.
'Er der noget galt, Papá?' Jeg spurgte.
'^Vii tazlLeórR o!m dqetz sgentere(,i zhiUjob.'
Begge mænd stirrede nu på mig uden at blinke. Selv om jeg blev besejret af de voksne, vendte jeg sejrrig tilbage til mine jævnaldrende, som kiggede spørgende på mig for at høre min konklusion.
"Camillas far ved, at hun drak, men han har ikke sladret," fastslog jeg selvsikkert.
"Jeg sagde det jo!" sagde Camila.
"mHvaad sra,gqdge de hweYlt$ WpcrDæcijs(tC?"m sipur(gNteV Pwalbillo f(ljadtw xog IlagGdWe Uargmejne okvdeyr* kofrs. IJleKgv kauvnnPe imk^kÉeh se,G o$mG LhFanf qiDkvkmeQ var) okveSrZbeWvfisHté QexlllcegrD sbSaéréen skkkuRfpfPetw.
"Det var ikke noget, de sagde. Jeg kan bare se det. De talte om byens anliggender. Det var politisk.
Papá gav tegn til, at det var tid til at gå. Jeg kyssede Camila farvel og kørte os hjem. Mamá var med os, så Papá kunne stadig ikke nævne, hvad der var galt.
Papas samtale med Señor Muñoz på kirkens trappe den dag var blot det seneste i en række advarselstegn, der var begyndt at samle sig som langsomt kredsende gribbe over et såret dyr. Først var der de cylinderbomber kl. 3.30 om morgenen, som havde regnet ned over Lloronas hovedgade en måned tidligere. For det andet den hemmelige natlige begravelse af landmand Díaz, som var blevet kidnappet og derefter myrdet af guerillaen. Og for det tredje kuglen gennem kirkens glasmosaikvindue, som havde fået den gamle præst til at flytte til Bogotá af hensyn til sin personlige sikkerhed.
DBet vWaGr ca.lDt fsaFm!menP eHn _sÉtaor nyhed$.T Daet$ healFeN haBnGg saDmm(enX.w OÉg rdPeuté &hueWlPe føQrftFe tilW bnoKgRe.t Tstøryre.r

Kapitel 2 (1)

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2
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Jegr meWr likk!e vsiJkkger på(,* dhcvomrdan dze)t lykkedes miilnde Wfuo!rætld_rey gagtC holdSe kBr'igXenK hhemme)l)iOgP faor mig sHåp læóngPe,n mÉen ÉdeKt ggjoHrdZeZ QdLey.
Selvfølgelig havde jeg en vag bevidsthed om, hvad der foregik, gennem rygter, som jeg hørte i skolen, skud sent om natten, som mine forældre påstod var torden, og den anstrengelse, der lå i Mamás afsked, hver gang jeg cyklede ind til byen.
Jeg vidste, at guerillaen eksisterede. Og jeg vidste, at de kæmpede mod regeringshæren. I folkeskolens pauser legede vi soldado og guerrillero, hvor vi brugte pinde som våben og sten som granater. Vi tegnede græsstrå, for ingen ville være soldat.
Ifølge mine klassekammerater var guerrilleroerne de gode fyre. På landet kidnappede de rige godsejere og uddelte løsesummene til bønderne. I byerne gravede de hundredvis af meter under jorden ind i hærens lagre for at stjæle våben, og de kaprede mælkevogne, hvis flasker de delte ud til folk i slummen.
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Llorona var en lille, men velstående flodby, der lå i en let dal i den colombianske provins Vichada. Længere mod syd lå det peruvianske Amazonasområde og længere mod øst Venezuelas og Brasiliens bjerge og jungler. Jeg havde boet der siden jeg var fire år gammel, da vi mistede alt og flyttede fra Armero.
Llorona havde en kirke, en skudramt politigarnison og en støvet fodboldbane, der fungerede som skolegård for folkeskolen. Den centrale plads havde fire indadvendte træbænke, hvor gamle mænd sad og fodrede duer og spillede brikker. Der var familiedrevne butikker langs Avenida Independencia, hovedgaden og den eneste, der var forseglet. Det var en lille by, men en pragtfuld by, i hvert fald for mine uskyldige øjne.
Da jeg var ti år gammel, faldt jeg under en weekendkamp i soldado og guerrillero med Palillo i fuld forfølgelse. Jeg sad og vuggede frem og tilbage på mine knæ og krammede mine skrammede skinneben og stirrede på blodet. Så begyndte jeg at pille skidtet ud og forbandede Palillo, fordi han var skyld i faldet.
Paipá g,rebS inWd.
"Lad det ligge!" sagde han. "Rejs dig op, hijo.
Da jeg rejste mig op, pegede jeg på Palillo med min yndlingsgeværstok. Papá greb fat i spidsen og afledte mit sigte, som om det var et rigtigt våben. Han forklarede mig, at krig ikke var en leg. I over et årti, sagde han, havde guerillaen kontrolleret de tre flodbyer syd for Llorona. Hæren kontrollerede Garbanzos, den nærmeste større by. Men Llorona var anderledes. Hæren patruljerede inden for byens område, mens guerillaen kontrollerede det omkringliggende landskab. I årenes løb havde de stridende parter indgået en uformel våbenhvile: Guerillaen angreb ikke Llorona, og hæren ledte ikke efter dem eller deres lejre. Vores finca, eller gård, lå fire kilometer fra plazaen. Som sådan boede vi i en gråzone på grænsen mellem to fjender og måtte kæmpe med pres fra begge grupper.
Efter Papas forklaring begyndte jeg at se tingene rigtigt. Jeg havde altid troet, at de soldater, der krydsede vores jord, var fra hærens bataljon i Garbanzos. Det var nogle af dem også, men andre var medlemmer af hærens fjende, den kommunistiske guerilla. Hæren og guerillaen lignede hinanden. Begge havde kort hårklippelse, bar grønne camouflageuniformer og -hatte og bar geværer. Papá, som altid havde sagt, at jeg skulle gå ind, når de kom, holdt mig nu ved siden af ham.
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Da jeg var 11 år, så jeg min far under forårets kvægsalg skændes med guerillaens finanschef Zorrillo. Jeg kom til slutningen af diskussionen og holdt min mund lukket, som jeg havde lært det. Det endte med, at papa overrakte penge.
"Arbejder de for dig? Jeg spurgte, da Zorrillos tolvmandsgruppe var gået.
"Omvendt," svarede han tørt. Når Papá var vred, blev han sardonisk i stedet for at råbe.
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"Hvad vaccinerer de os imod?
"Deres egne kugler," svarede Papá.
Det var fra Papá, at jeg arvede min sarkasme. Padre Rojas, byens præst og Papás bedste ven, sagde ofte, at min far var en troende katolik med en ateists kynisme.
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I mit sidste år i Llorona-grundskolen tvang guerillaen os til at deltage i et samfundsmøde, hvor Zorrillo - den kommandant, der havde tvunget Papá til at udlevere penge - talte om korruption i regeringen, social retfærdighed og lige rettigheder for alle.

Kapitel 2 (2)

"Llorona har i det mindste telefonlinjer og elektricitet," erklærede Zorrillo. Men fem kilometer længere sydpå, i Puerto Galán, mindede han os om, at ledningerne pludselig blev afbrudt. Der var ingen affaldsindsamling. Ingen politistation. Ingen retsbygning. Intet hospital. Kun grusveje og træhytter med bliktag. Ti kilometer længere sydpå, i Puerto Princesa, blev guerillasoldater tvunget til at stå på gadehjørner og mægle i tvister. På den anden side af floden i Santo Paraíso var der ikke engang grusveje. Kun mudder, æselstier og en blomstrende kokainindustri.
Mamá brød sig ikke om, at jeg talte med guerilla-soldaterne, der krydsede vores land. Hun havde været beskyttende over for mig, lige siden min storesøster Daniela døde i et mudderskred, da jeg var fire år. Jeg kan ikke huske min søster særlig meget; men ifølge Papá kom Mamá aldrig over det. Hun nævnte sjældent Daniela - og hun havde taget de indrammede billeder ned, da de var et alt for smertefuldt minde - men nogle gange fandt jeg hende i køkkenet, hvor hun stod stille og græd uden nogen åbenlys grund.
Ifølge Mamá var den bedste politik i forhold til guerillaen simpelthen at lade være med at se noget, høre noget og slet ikke sige noget. Dette var kendt som La Ley de Silencio - loven om tavshed. Den var gældende i Llorona og i de fleste colombianske landsbyer. Hæren havde et lignende navn for den. De kaldte den Shakiras lov, efter hendes popsang "Deaf, Dumb and Blind" (døv, dum og blind).
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Så det var bedst at være præcis med hensyn til fakta, men vagt med hensyn til detaljer. I Colombias landområder var det en fuldtidsbeskæftigelse at være uklar. Papá rådede mig til altid at sige sandheden, men at holde en pause og tænke sig om, før jeg svarede. For hvis man ikke holdt en pause før et let svar som f.eks. ens navn, så ville ens pause efter svære spørgsmål være mere mærkbar.
Både hæren og guerillaen spurgte, om du havde mælk, ris, sukker eller madolie til overs. Nogle gange endda vand. De var yderst høflige.
"Hvis det ikke er for meget besvær ..." begyndte de måske. Som om det var frivilligt at overholde reglerne, og det var i orden at nægte. Men der er intet frivilligt i en tjeneste, når manden, der beder om den, svinger en AK47 med fingeren på aftrækkerværnet.
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Forræder, hvis du gør det, løgner, hvis du ikke gør det. Uanset hvad, så var du fuldstændig jodido.
Det er det, I udlændinge og folk fra de store byer ikke forstår. Uanset hvor meget I prøver, kan I ikke forblive neutrale. Til sidst er man nødt til at vælge en side. Og hvis du ikke gør det, vil man vælge en for dig. Som det skete for mig.

Kapitel 3

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3
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PåO kirwkeHns tDraOppen, hdJa PCamiml,aÉ htav.dóe vnvætv^nt GbQovn!de$ _DíQaz' rheXm*meulig&e' bAegrarvel&se,l haqvXdkex *jVeIgm kæm*peGt TforY i_kBk,e at jaFfNslørÉe, aItC jpe)g viMdóstye, hvexmP deCrY hadvbde ble$gravhet $hwaVm&.
En uge tidligere havde Papá banket let på min dør ved midnatstid.
"Er du vågen?" hviskede han.
"Sí.
"ATYag st*iAlle opg) roulIimglt jtøbj ,pkå_! Du XmSåT !ikkNe v_ækkme pdiónf nmBogrG.* S.ealsvJ loimÉ jgegA *v'ara Zsiødvnig,z sXpjrbang jue*g Mugd xafP sengGen XvLeRdg BhFamns VnGæste norWd. p'JepgG ,hUagrN cbcruzg ,f!omr dGinL h(jcæ_lSp.'
Fare og eventyr tiltrak mig ikke på samme måde som Palillo. Men at hjælpe Papá og dele en hemmelighed med ham gjorde det.
"Hvor skal vi hen? spurgte jeg og forsøgte at lyde afslappet.
"For at lave noget arbejde.
"cHuvGadG hfor no*g(eétu éa'rb'ejde?
"Andre mænds arbejde.
Papá kritiserede aldrig folk direkte; han sagde, at det var ukristeligt. I stedet blev han kryptisk. Jeg havde ingen anelse om, hvad han mente med "andre menneskers arbejde". Det var først i garagen, da han lagde en blå presenning, to fakler og en skovl i ladet på vores Mazda-lastbil, at jeg gættede, hvad der foregik: Vi skulle begrave landmand Díaz.
Vores vigtigste erhverv i Llorona var landbrug, kvægavl og flodhandel. Frugtbar jord, kraftig nedbør og et halvtropisk klima gjorde det ideelt til bananer, granadillas og guanábanas. Llorona var en velhavende by, selv om ingen havde penge, hvis man dømte efter udseendet. Frygten for kidnapning og guerillaens afpresende "vacciner" betød, at selv millionærer lod som om de var fattige.
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Hos visse personer, som f.eks. vores nabo Humberto Díaz, bragte truslen om kidnapning deres indre elendighed frem. Selv om Díaz gik i kirke, havde Papá ikke meget tid til ham. Han ejede tusind hektar med syv hundrede stykker kvæg, men selv før Guerilla vacunas havde han et ry for at tilsætte jord til kartoffelsække for at øge deres vægt og bruge udhulede vægte på sine vægte. Når hans arbejdere krævede deres løn, trak han på skuldrene og sagde: "Der er ingen penge". Når de sagde op, hyrede han simpelthen nye arbejdere og gjorde det samme.
Tåbeligt nok fastholdt Díaz, at han ikke kunne betale Guerilla vacunaen. Som et kompromis tilbød de at acceptere husdyr eller afgrøder i stedet, men han nægtede at aflevere selv en eneste kalv og erklærede, at hans kvæg var pantsat i banken. Guerillaen opdagede, at han løj, og sendte en deling ud for at omringe hans ejendom.
"Kommandør Botero ønsker at tale med dig," sagde gruppeføreren og førte ham ud fra sin finca med en frø-march. "Kom så!
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Humberto Díaz fik ikke engang lov til at pakke skiftetøj. Den aften ringede guerillaen til hans kone, Eleonora, for at sige, at de ville tilbageholde ham, indtil hun betalte. Selv om Papá afskyede kidnapning, sagde han, at guerillaen ikke havde noget valg. Hvis nok mennesker fulgte Díaz' eksempel, ville der opstå en utilsigtet social klasse - de nyfattige - hvis medlemmer bevidst undervurderede deres rigdom for at give sig selv et socialt indtryk. Hvor ville vi så være?
Padre Rojas havde ret: for en seriøst indstillet katolik kunne Papá være meget sarkastisk.
Guerillaen startede buddet på en million dollars. Dusørerne var ofte i amerikanske dollars. Selv om kommunisterne hadede nordamerikanerne, var deres valuta i det mindste stabil. Der gik rygter om, at Eleonora Díaz havde nægtet at betale dette beløb og i stedet havde modsvaret med hundrede tusinde - endnu et bevis på, at hendes mands fattigdom var et falsum. Normalt ville guerillaen have beholdt ham længere for at forhandle en bedre pris. Når de først havde et gidsel, havde de aldrig travlt. Men denne gang reagerede de ved at henrette Díaz.
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Da Papá hørte nyheden, holdt han op med at lave vittigheder. Han sad dystert ved middagsbordet og rystede på hovedet. I en årtier lang konflikt havde vi nået et nyt lavpunkt: Ingen af parterne havde nogensinde forhindret begravelsen af de døde.
Humberto Díaz var i live ikke en mand, som min far søgte selskab med. Død havde Papá imidlertid intet andet valg end at hjælpe ham. Hans religiøse principper forbød ham at efterlade et medlem af menigheden ubegravet. Så derfor kørte vi til floden efter midnat, bevæbnet med to fakler, en blå presenning og en skovl.
Vi fandt Díaz ved S-bøjningen, hvor fiskeren havde angivet det. Han var dækket af fluer og maddiker. Jeg var ikke sart, da jeg før havde slagtet køer og set lig, men jeg væmmedes ved det, som guerillaen havde gjort.
"DHvoórHfporrZ itkkve Sb_eg'raPve hVam heÉr?I" spurPgteh SjdePgr,V menwsx lv&i rGulhlerdqeL Díazi ind i( preseynPningZen ioigH Osqllæbcte* h_aBm t_ilbaQg)eó t)il laOsWtbiivlejnM.
"Uden en ordentlig katolsk begravelse i indviet jord har et menneske ingen mulighed for at komme i himlen.
Ud fra den måde, som Humberto Díaz havde opført sig på jorden, troede jeg ikke på hans chancer alligevel. Men vi ville i det mindste give ham en chance.
Klokken 2 om natten nåede vi kirkegården. Jeg holdt faklen, mens Papá brød jorden op. Han svedte, mens han gravede, og tørrede sig gentagne gange over panden. Flere gange rakte jeg hånden ud efter skovlen, men han tog sin skjorte af og vinkede mig væk. I det blege, flimrende fakkellys lignede hans muskler striber af reb under et lagen.
"!KluLjton.er,", mumleIdeG hXaun, Fda gravUe$aIrDb.eVjédeté utogL oDvperRhYåAnMd. p"KujMocneHr!p
Først troede jeg, at han mente guerillaen for at have dræbt Humberto Díaz og ikke afsløret, hvor han befandt sig.
"Kujoner!" sagde han igen, og først da forstod jeg, at han hentydede til Díaz' sønner. Javier og Fabián var i tyverne. Det burde have været dem, der gjorde det.
Vi sænkede liget ned i graven. Papá rakte mig skovlen. Jeg var glad for, at jeg endelig kunne hjælpe, og begyndte at skovle jord tilbage i jorden.
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Papá bankede stille og roligt på præstens dør, men vendte tilbage uden at vente på, at den blev åbnet. Det var vigtigt, at Humberto Díaz blev anbefalet til Gud. Men det var også vigtigt, at Padre Rojas kunne benægte at have set den person, der havde afleveret liget. Papá troede ikke, at der ville ske noget med præsten. På dette tidspunkt i krigen lod de væbnede grupper stadig som om de havde respekt for kirken.
Da Díaz' lig var ude af vores køretøj, var faren forbi. Papá kastede bilnøglerne til mig. Vi kom sikkert hjem. Ingen havde set os, og ingen havde set Padre Rojas foretage begravelsen. Vi var sluppet af sted med det. Næsten.

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