Chronicles From The Future: The amazing story of Paul Amadeus Dienach

We found our friends easily. They were watching some friends of theirs perform, female poets from Blomsterfor, the painter Nichefelt, Syld and their old friend Aria, all of whom were taking part in the ritual.

The magnificence of the entire ritual exceeded all expectations. It was a fabulous spectacle and experience overall, not only for the luxury of the costumes and the unimaginable number of precious and semiprecious stones that adorned every object and every corner, but more for the spiritual tradition of centuries that was honoured by all these venerable people in the famous establishments of their universal now capital.

All the great minds of today were present in the temple for the anniversary. Most of them had come from Norfor, Blomsterfor and other European regions, especially from northern Europe. And there, in the sea of gems that adorned the uniforms of the Tilteys

, the Lorffes and the Ilectors, there, close to the complex of chapels that constitute the Temple of the Unsung Martyrs, Stefan showed me two elders, the only ones without a diadem on their white-haired heads.

“Look,” said Stefan, pointing in their direction, “It’s Nicolas Lajevski and beside him Gunnar Hiller Jr.!”

I caught myself staring at them; their shadows were the only ones that didn’t sparkle in that golden congregation. So it is them then! They’re the ones that Stefan talked so much about this autumn. They are the ones whose life and work he admires so much and constantly exalts to others! These are the poet and the philosopher that have been holding the top positions in the modern spirit for eighteen months now. They are considered to be the greatest among the living. Little Lasia revived me from my momentary trance, asking me when the fluttering was going to be heard and pointing at the interior domes that weren’t lit tonight.

“Once a year,” she said, “on the evening of this anniversary, billions of little souls come to the temple to present themselves at the memorial.” The pure, the chosen ones, the ones “whose souls have sensitive antennas”, might be lucky enough to even hear them fluttering when they enter the temple.

I asked Stefan—silently so that no one heard me—who had told such fairy tales to this child and why they were in the habit of making children believe things that aren’t true. He casually, almost indifferently, replied that she must have read it in some children’s book. And the truth is that I wasn’t that surprised. Besides, it’s not the first time that I witness this. It’s not the first time that I feel like these people do not particularly care for reason and critical thinking and that they deliberately cross the line between reality and dream world...

Meanwhile, the first hundreds of the four-part procession, which arrives at the city-centre in the shape of a cross from the four different points of the horizon, had begun to arrive at the four gates, one in each of the four sides of the temple. But as I had been informed, all that gigantic torch lit procession would remain outside of the temple. The processional banners and the flower floats would only enter from the west gate. No one uttered a word. They had all turned their attention to the procession, looking with respect and pride as the girls, who were to begin their service in the coming days, silently laid all the ancient emblems of the trade unions, that date back to their 2nd century, under Kersteen’s plastic composition in the Golden Square. Everyone was looking at them, from the most prestigious Lorffe to the last Civis.

The songs could still be heard outside the temple. And then, six by six the flower floats started to enter the temple. The flowers that were meant to cover the emblems had been symbolically sent from all around the world.

“For the children that died every day,” said the girls while depositing the flowers. “For the people who were dying of hunger while others threw away their food”, “for the homeless who breathed their dying breaths on icy streets”, “for the sick who died because they had no money to pay for their treatment”, “for the crippled children, the children that were burned alive, buried in groups, died for no reason” were some of the things people exclaimed when paying their tribute.

I felt a shiver run down my spine… We never paid such a tribute to the victims of our lifestyle...

The depositing of flowers—the old flowers, our flowers, not their modern floricultural achievements: hydrangeas, violets, begonias, mimosas and carnations—continued for hours in the same solemn atmosphere. The ceremony would end with prayers. The first break was after the twelfth group of six with flower canisters had entered. We benefited from the opportunity and left because Stefan also wanted to visit the area of New Karelia before it got too late and we had to go back to the gestel.