I have the key in my hands, but there's no lock around here. There can be no locks here at all, because there is only a steppe, a steppe, as far as the eyes are concerned. A feather grass walks in waves smells like wormwood, heavy insects hum, and the sun leans to the west, but still high enough.
You can choose any direction, but you won't get any closer to the castle. He was lost somewhere else in the world, there is no way to find any thread that could lead to where he should go. And I squeeze the key harder, and then I get caught in the arms of the grass. Well, let it be. So it's not the time yet.
Time. It freezes with a drop of honey and sun, not in a hurry to roll. It's a bit bitter, like a wormwood flavor... And, having closed my eyes, I enjoy slowly, like honey molasses, the current moments, moments, droplets of time, which are so tangible here in the steppe world that in others you start to miss this feeling.
***
...I guess I'm asleep, but I'm awakened by the incredible silence.
When I open my eyes, the sky hangs above me with a starry canopy. Thousands of thousands of eyes look up, and the silence that the steppe maintains seems cautious and attentive. It's like they're all waiting for what I'm going to say, it's all there, it's all there, it's all there, it's all there.
But I can't control my voice, and I keep silent, but the key is that I'm squeezing so tightly in my hand, I've frayed my skin, and now the blood drops are slowly flowing down my wrist to finally get to the ground.
The moment this happens, the steppe world will accept or reject the sacrifice, and...
Will he or won't he?
The sky is still looking at me, and I want to hide from this piercing look, but I don't take my eyes off. A drop of blood gets to the crumpled feather grass and flows through the stem. Another second, another...
And now the steppe sighs with the awakened mind, and the stars begin to shiver, the sky rings, the earth buzzes - my blood, in which the aromas of different worlds are mixed, has accepted this one.
Before embarking on this new and almost endless journey, I notice a bizarrely rolled sink at the side of the road. I raise and lookup. It is small and fits easily in my bloody palm. And you don't even have to bring it to your ear, and you can hear the ocean's voice locked inside.
With the shell in my pocket, I'm starting a new path. The moth whispers about something, the stars look up from the sky, and before dawn, there is still a whole infinity.
***
By morning, I'm on the beach, the shell was a promise. The road leads directly to the rocky beach, where large gulls have settled here and there. Seeing me, they soar into the air with a sad and piercing scream. I recognize this shore, but I wasn't here before, I just dreamt of someone else's picture, a fragment of someone else's thought, in which this shore was waiting for something infinitely.
The shell in my pocket hits the key with a deaf knock, and I take it out to stroke the patterned beard with my fingers, to study the cold metal, to breathe in its slightly rusty smell. Steel will crumble, crumble with time, and the key will become completely useless, or rather, will cease to be the key. It is necessary to find the lock sooner. And now I know that it is at the door, which looks towards the sea.
And I already know that somewhere on the edge of another world, there is a lighthouse, the flame under the glass of which is as golden as the rising sun. To get up to the unquenchable fire, you have to unlock the three doors. I have a key to the first one.
Where are the other two?
***
When the beach stays somewhere far away, I know there's a forest haze around. Quietly, only the leaves rustle, disturbed by the breeze. The sunset in this world has expired, giving way to the place of the night, only a moment ago.
I don't need light, I'm used to the darkness of the woods, and soon my eyesight gets so used to it that I seem like a wild animal that glides in the shadows. A big owl is silently taking off from me, and a frightened hare is running past me. And everything stops.
The forest is awake, he is watching me.
The air is damp and I soon get out to the creek, which runs almost silently to the north. I sink my hand to my elbow and only then do I touch their round barrels. Suddenly, my fingers, which are almost icy and have not lost sensitivity, just because my palm is mercilessly saddling, because the wound has not yet tightened, cling to some flat object. It's dark, it's not clear what it is, so I take it out and look at it, putting it in the palm of my hand - another key shines with moisture. It's made of stone, but it's made so elegantly that you can't help but respect an unknown master.
The second key.
The road calls me to the town that I've been downstairs, surrounded by gardens, where the red barrels of apples are pouring in. I climbed up. This is where I'll find shelter for the evening, but for now, I'll wander the streets, looking for what was calling me here.
Maybe another key?
I squeeze both keys in the palm of my hand again, they're still cooling my skin, and the wound keeps reminding me of myself.
My keys are suddenly almost asking a question. And I promise, my darlings, we won't be here as long as the lighthouse is still waiting for us. But for now, we'd better breathe in this apple world, find another treasure here. Unless, of course, this town itself is a small treasure.
Or the key.
It's time to check it out.