Send to the far-off 1999

Many thanks to L’s translation and help.

After the Apocalypse, I managed to get my current job. The lady responsible for making contracts was very kind, and she suggested me sign a one-month short term contract first. She had seen too many people breaking the contract because of ethical burdens, leading to a huge loan not even possible to pay back in lifetime, and then vanishing eternally. I was very grateful, but all I did was to shrug. “Hum… I won’t. I’m not that sentimental.”

As an outsider without valid identity, I wouldn’t have any income in a very long time if I lost the chance. Even though the Apocalypse was in the past, even though people wouldn’t die easily because they couldn’t afford the high medical fees, lack of money was still a terrible thing for me.

I didn’t have much material pursuits, but I just couldn’t stay in the same place for long. This meant I needed enough savings for escaping anytime from anywhere – although I had no idea of where I should go. Yes, the most chaotic time was over, the whole world seemed to be awake from the nightmare and follow up a neat path. But what had this to do with me? I lived through the Apocalypse, to be exact, survived, and continued to live after it, still surviving in this place where everything needs an identity. I didn’t care about politics. I just needed a job that paid.

My job was very easy: many among the generation of youth growing up in the Apocalypse were not willing to return to city and live, so they were considered instable. Due to a certain zeitgeist I couldn’t understand (or tales and traditions, or something similar to those I don’t know much about), bards and their music became a harbor for them again. We were commissioned by the government, pretending to be bards, and wandering around, talking to these suspicious people and recording their actions. This provided references for policy making – the type of policies that would not be recorded explicitly.

Before officially starting, we were given a period of closed training, mainly on common talking tips and basic survival skills in wild – after all, our targets of focus usually spread out in ruins in wild – and of course, some psychological guidance. We were told that there was no need to ask for more or form a relationship with our targets.

To my confusion, in this seemingly professional training, there was nothing on instrument playing at all. How could someone that didn’t know how to play lyre at all pretend to be a bard? But I knew this was not a proper question to ask. I thought maybe in their opinions, if someone actually learned how to play, he would turn into a real bard, free and out of their control. Or maybe there were in fact nobody that knew how to play lyre in the whole world.

At the end of the training, I received a new lyre issued to everyone. The officer slammed the instrument into my hands heavily, like he was venting his anger. “Only psychos will believe in this.”

I didn’t care who was right and who was wrong, so I nodded politely and left with my lyre, off to my long journey. I had no interests in any religion or group… but this was a lyre I had only read in books, and it looked so beautiful, almost shining.

I attempted to play it but failed in the end. Afterall, mastery in instruments relied on practice, and I had no opportunity to practice. Anyone hearing noises I made would immediately know I was a doppelganger. So I had to put the instrument on my back as if I cherished it so much that I didn’twant to play too easily.

Things went well and nobody discovered who I was. I walked past decadent ruins and plains full of dry grass, dyed golden red by sunset. Those young people trusted in me, or trusted in my lyre, so they told me about their love, their dreams, and their complaints. I recorded each and every word and provided sufficient comfort.

To my surprise, I knew about the existence of people like these before I got the job. However, I had always thought that they must be determined and firm if they weren’t willing to return to cities and paid a huge price for it, while the truth was that there was also hesitation unknown to others. They always wanted exact answers, to the questions about the future of the country and themselves. But what on earth was exact? It was just me, sitting by the bonfire with my own agenda, promising them I would write all of these in my ballads, and carrying them to distant future and distant places. “Even if we fade quickly, at least music and poetry will last.”

A lonely journey was indeed boring and tiring. Sometimes I spent my night hugging with young people I casually met with no other people around and took different paths in the morning. To my employers, they were dangerous radicals. But they behaved far too sheepish to me. If I asked some of them to die for me, I would probably not be rejected. Everything was too peaceful. I once jokingly asked one of them, “Check out my lyre. It’s so new and every string is shining. Aren’t you doubtful that I might be a fake bard?”

But all he gave was silence. He just put his hand around my waist from my back and slowly formed a hug.

I supposed he must have been doubtful sometimes, but he was just too exhausted living in a time like this. New cities and new rules popped up every day, but old ruins and old selves remained silently, like haunting ghosts. Mysteriously I reached out and touched his face. “Have you seen any other bard?”

His skin… was unexpectedly delicate. I just realized that maybe he was not even twenty. “Yes. He’s just like you. Hanging around with a lyre. I knew you are a real bard at first glance. You all have same character.”

“What character?”

“Like a concise string. You sit next to bonfire, the shades of your faces hiding spirit of God of Song.”

I felt a bit funny, guessing that who he talked about was also a fake like me. We had same instruments, so we recognized each other instantaneously. I had even spent a night that could be called pleasant with one of them. When the dawn was approaching, we both woke up, so we had a brief conversation.

He said the lyre he carried was a heavy cross for him. He tried to cut the strings and scrap the body with stone chips, but he never succeeded.

“Maybe the instrument would be reallocated to others when we die.” He concluded.

“So, are there any real bards left in this world?” I made an anxious, insecure expression on purpose.

This obviously worked on him. Men in their thirties, met a younger junior by chance, talked about poetry, childhood and cross… and then had sex. Very easy to understand. He told me the whole story, with long, long premises like all myths and political metaphors. It was said that residents here were descendants of God of poetry and music and blessed by the God of song. Before the Apocalypse, they all held ‘complete freedom’, and lyre was a symbol of ‘freedom’. Later, to resist the catastrophe predicted in prophecies, all lyres were seized and people on earth lost contact with the God of song. But a very small proportion of people didn’t obey and left with their instruments. Suspicious people nowadays believed that these people didn’t die in the Apocalypse. Instead, theyfound a way of living very different from here and would never return.

“But… if stories here were taken away by bards, the people in the stories would have hope to return to the bless of God of song. And when bards’ instruments play, the audience can also return to the complete freedom existent only before the Apocalypse.”

I was, after all, but a foreigner, so not quite relatable to local beliefs mixing social topics and historical events like this. “Complete freedom, does it mean no recording of personal information?”

I teased. “Then they have already achieved that, haven’t they?” And then I realized I was behaving too frivolously so I adjusted my expression immediately.

“It’s something much more complicated… freedom engraved on souls.”

Not making any sense. “Then, why hasn’t anyone asked me to play it for so long?”

“Because the music of God of song is also a curse. You will never forget it if you listen to it, not even once. But now we on the earth has long lost our own strings, so we must live in lifelong regret.”

I nodded and said nothing more, thinking, if you held nonsense like this in your mind, then you didn’t fit this business.

He added another piece of firewood into the fire. To be honest, I didn’t think it was necessary, because the sun was rising slowly. Upon leaving, he bent down and touched my forehead. “You…you are still so young. If you can’t take it anymore, just return as early as possible. Payback can be finished someday.”

I nodded again sheepishly. Nodding was enough, nothing more essential.

And long has passed since this. I wandered around aimlessly all over the continent, had sex with dangerous ones met by chance and other fake bards, exchanging news. I also became an experienced senior, sharing stories of bards with younger junior that hadn’t been in the business for long. After getting used to it, life like this felt quite good, like a light feather. Good and bad stories flowed pass me and then left like a breeze, and a feather didn’t have to burden anything other than a breeze.

Contract deadline is much more important compared to the belief of God of song. According to the contract, I need to go back to the capital to end or continue it by the end of the year, or I would be considered as a traitor and given secret punishments not recorded in laws. But the terrible thing is that I almost forgot it and it’s only five days before the deadline when I recall. And yet I am in a desert distant from the capital.

“Doomed!” I quickly make up a flawed story and use it against the young man that slept with me on the previous night. “In one word, I must go back before the end of the month! Or I will be doomed!” He seems scared by me as well and promises he will find a way to help me out soon.

I have no idea about how he did it, but he manages to get a broken jeep car on the fourth day, alongside with half a drum of fuel. The myths definitely haven’t mentioned if bards can drive a jeep, so he also finds me a driver. I want to refuse because surely, I can drive a car, but I worry that this will further decrease my credits already at risk. So, I thank him for his consideration and sit on the passenger’s seat.

He waves me goodbye. I’m glad for helping you! And I reply with a gentle smile.

The next thing to do is to cope with the driver. I plan to talk briefly with him, telling him I’m a messenger serving God of song so I can’t be lazy… or something like this. But unfortunately, he drives worse than me. It’s a very bumpy drive and I stay on the edge of throwing up, not even able to maintain my own image, not mentioning talking to him. We finally manage to talk when he parks outside the city at sunset, very close to the destination.He parks the car around the edge of the city and finds a corner without much wind to start a fire.

Only now do I realize he is probably the most beautiful young man I’ve ever met. He smiles with wit rare in this era and remains silent when not smiling. His eyes look at others distantly and gently, as if looking at the haze on horizon.

Half of my rage and tiredness is gone. I ask gently, “You…”

“Sorry, this is the first time I ever drove a jeep car. I will get more skilled next time.” His voice is nice too. I bet if there were bards in this world, they would have a voice like this for singing. “The capital should be just down the road. A half day of walk will take you there. I haven’t been here, so I don’t know about the path, maybe you have to rely on yourself.”

…… Oh heavens. He doesn’t even know the road to the capital. I am almost desperate now, opening my mouth but having nothing to say. Instead, he notices my new lyre lying next to the bonfire suddenly and gives a bright smile.

“Did you just start learning the instrument?”

“What?” This is unexpected. No one has ever asked me a question like this. “Ye-yes…” Meanwhile, my mind is thinking if he is also a dangerous one, and if I can make further contact with him on basis of this.

“Let me have a look.” He grabs my lyre suddenly without much care and strums a few notes.

“Umm… instruments of God of song will have better sound if played more. Yours is not used a lot, isn’t it? So the sound is obscure and not very nice.”

I am dumbstruck.

“Why are you looking at me like this? Am I not right? Or am I too offensive?”

“No, I am just, ehh…”

“I don’t have my own lyre with me now, or I will let you have a try.” He strums a cord again.

“…… Wait, so you are, a bard?”

“Yeah.” He smiles like he finds this interesting. “Aren’t you one as well?”

I don’t know what to say.

He smiles again and continues. “Have you left hometown for so long that you forget how to play?

It’s alright. If you don’t mind, I can adjust the strings for you.”

I once heard about adjusting strings from one of the trainers. It was almost a witchcraft in his description. But you will know once you’ve seen it. It’s just playing continuously until the strings are fit for performing. He takes over my lyre, switches to a comfortable position and plays by the bonfire.

Listening to bards playing… something will happen, right? Will I be cursed? The senior’s reminder flashes through my mind the instant the music starts.

But when actually sitting by a bonfire, I realize this is something too difficult to reject. It’s not about witchcraft, myths or something else, it’s just… difficult to reject.

It’s already deep autumn now, with no one and complete silence around. I sit by the bonfire, and the beautiful stranger plays me one piece followed by another. I relax gradually and ask, “Do you need a rest?”

He grins, narrowing his eyes. Clear music flows on the strings he strums like water. “A bard never gets tired as long as the music doesn’t end.”

I still have some evil thoughts on mind. “What if the strings are not adjusted to perfect at dawn?”

By this I mean maybe he could stop, so we can… do something else.

Or perhaps we can go on like this, forever and ever.“How could that be the case? You can sleep first. And don’t you have something to rush for? I won’t delay for sure.”

“… It’s not that rush.” I say before I realize. “I haven’t thanked you for adjusting my instrument.”

He smiles again in surprise. “No need to delay yourself for me… if we meet another time, play something for me as a reward, OK?”

I remain silent for quite a while. I want to say, but I have completely forgotten how to play it… But somehow, I fall asleep. I wake up to find that he has left already, and the lyre issued by government lies happily on neatly folded tarp. Only one night passed since the last time I saw it, but now it looks no longer a new decoration, but a real lyre belonging to a bard – is it the rustling of fingertips against the strings, or the light smell of pine resin? Or is it just… because it has been held preciously by an actual bard? I cannot tell what’s different about it, but I know it is indeed different now.

Can I actually pass the contract test with a lyre like this? I have no idea, but no matter where I’m heading off, I have to be on my way now. I think I will never know how to play a lyre, but since there’s nobody around now, I can’t help myself but reach out, strumming the strings that don’t and will never belong to me.