Welcome to the Metz O Bar.

  The disembodied voice whispered lightly in Seluma's ear canals, a feathered tickle, a soft chuckle. Neither masculine nor feminine, devoid of inflection but resonating with childlike enthusiasm, a sound that seemed to fade away as soon as it was heard... In fact, it never completely faded away. Seluma had paid attention to it during her many visits. The voice no longer spoke, but remained in the air, becoming a barely audible sound, modulated like a closed-mouthed, continuous song, accompanying the visitor for the entire duration of the experience.

  Perhaps it was the voice of the Plant itself, she thought as she entered the circle of light. Her consciousness. The Lord of the Nine Gates.

  The whiteness that enveloped her felt solid against her skin, a thin veil that caressed her, the warm breath of a giant, smelling of freshly cut grass.

  The alternation of brightly lit areas and dark sectors created the illusion of a hive of small rooms in a place where, in reality, there was no dividing wall, no wall at all. The Bar was a single hall, a disk at least half a mile in diameter, an endless red brick floor, large opaque tiles with an embossed finish, and a surface that cut the sphere to a third of its height. In the center, through a shaft the size of an apartment building, passed the gnarled trunk, studded with stalks and tendrils that sometimes grew and expanded under the surprised gaze of a customer.

  The smell of vegetation was so intense that it overwhelmed even the alcoholic aromas of the drinks and the essences sprayed from the fountains set up in the bright light. A whiff of wet earth, damp wood, and withered leaves.

  Mushroom-like shapes sprouted from the ground, opening in a corolla at different heights, surrounded by seats suitable for patrons of all sizes and forms. Inside these structures, bartenders moved in the dim light, one or two per customer, busy serving drinks but mostly listening.

  Seluma was enchanted to see a couple of them interacting with a strange-looking, almost entirely animalistic individual, a sort of plump monkey with a long, bushy-haired tail that dangled from the stool like a false appendage. The customer leaned forward on the bar, face to face with one of the bartenders, his snout hidden by huge bat-like ears. He wore human clothing, proportioned, rich and gaudy: thick, deep blue velvet, rich embroidery edged in silver, the gold buckle that held his cape in place, and even a feathered hat perched on his small gray head.

  She was certain that he was from the White Gate. A strange certainty indeed, for even though the White Gate was the only sure thing Seluma had found time and again, she had never been able to surprise anyone who had appeared from there. On the other hand, this creature was the strangest patron she had ever met; the air around him flickered and his figure even seemed blurred, like an illusional image.

  Seluma let her gaze wander, turning around. There were no landmarks in this place; even the decorations changed from time to time.

  She searched for the White Gate. The one Gate that never changed its position or appearance: a real gate, of white-painted metal, all worked and twisted into rich, twisted spirals as thin as filigree, almost glowing with its own light.

  Here it was.

  The other Gates changed from time to time. Reinforced portals, small light wooden doors, colored curtains, simple arches that opened into nothingness. They appeared at random points in the hall, surrounded by a barely visible silvery glow.

  She was not even sure if there were really nine of them. It seemed a simple matter to count them, but in fact the view was blurred and the environment itself seemed to rotate in a slow dance.

  Seluma moved with no clear intention, aimlessly. The sizzling sensation of being in a place forbidden to most returned to tickle her baser instincts, awakening her shameful weaknesses.

  Not this time; they called me, she protested, addressing herself and Marghi.

  The place was as crowded as ever, yet it managed to give everyone the intimacy they needed. One did not come to the Metz O Bar to socialize, but to free oneself, at least for a moment, from the too many thoughts that filled the mind, from the too strong emotions that crushed the heart. To open up and confide, to vent to someone —something— who would not judge.

  The Plant. Tree or shrub, creeper or rhizome, fruit-bearing or decaying weed. Not even its appearance would be agreed upon. The trunk, surrounded by a halo of darkness as dense as fog, might have looked like that of a thousand-year-old giant, a solid redwood, an ash, an elm. Or was it the illusion of a trunk, not of wood, but of the assemblage of hundreds of thousands of hardened stems twisted around themselves, a community of herbaceous plants growing together and strengthening each other? Some claimed that the faintly glowing spheres at the edge of the bubble, silhouetted against the black background, were fruits that, if bitten, would bestow divine powers upon mortals. Others said they had collected fragments of leaves that, when returned to the outside world, had turned into precious stones.

  These were all rumors, legends that Seluma's experience could only disprove. After her first visit and the beginning of her enslavement, she had eagerly devoured every text that spoke of this enchanted place. But the disappointment had been immediate: no one knew anything, really. They talked, dreamed, speculated about nothing.

  No one had ever been to the Metz O Bar more than once.

  Why had she been allowed to do it? The sacrifice, the ceremony, had been a show, and now she was more certain than ever. She never really had the power to open a portal. It was the Plant that wanted her.

  Then there was the witch Cassia, who claimed in her evil verses to explain the mystery of the Nine Gates and the One who guarded them: The only book about the Metz O Bar which to Seluma's great dismay she had not been able to obtain. She had come to regard it as a fraud, but still she would have liked to take a look at it. Cassia, who not only claimed that she could visit the Metz O Bar at will, but that she could pass through the Gates in any order, enter any Gate and not just the one that led to her world...

  How could she do that? How could the witch return, find her way back after such terrifying journeys through space and time?

  Seluma inhaled the light scent that permeated the air, absorbing it like a fine drink.

  Maybe she would not come back. The thought made her shudder. But perhaps this Cassia had become —willingly or unwillingly— a kind of cosmic wanderer, hopping here and there without rules, without reason, and without purpose.

  Even so, just to pass through here and do her business, Cassia had to be on very intimate terms with the Lord of the Nine Gates, to be friend with him.

  Friendship. What an absurd word in this context. Ridiculous. What else could one call it? However powerful in a relative sense, an insignificant mortal surely had nothing to interest the Supreme God, could render him no meaningful service.

  He probably just tolerated her.

  Or he was having fun behind her back.

  Seluma turned around. Nothing of the outside was visible. The walls of the sphere were completely opaque, dark as pitch, like the darkest night. They reflected nothing of the surrounding light. And yes, sometimes small balls appeared, flashing for the time of a breath, orange dewdrops sliding along the inner concavity of the bubble, but from there to think they were fruits, material and tangible... even edible...

  The same darkness covered the ceiling. The space above the bar floor must have been a huge dome, and upon reflection, it was only a blessing that it could not be seen. In that place, the unknown foliage of the Plant spread out, if there was any. There were no leaves to be seen, unless one considered the irregular, green, pleated organic partitions that separated the sofas of the shadier areas as such.

  She passed a fountain that smelled of mint and paused to look at something floating on the milky water. A fish, perhaps, a flattened white thing that disappeared beneath the surface with a faint splash. The shape of the waves that rippled the water's surface was that of an arrow, and Seluma followed it, stretching out a protuberance until it brushed the liquid, just at the point where the creature reappeared.

  It was a manta ray, the size of a saucer, that slid under her skin, lapped at her as if it wanted to be caressed, and then returned to the depths of the pool, its fading limbs a cloak whipped by the wind, its long, threadlike tail undulating hypnotically.

  The water was freezing cold, and Seluma had to pull her appendix back in, hammered by a dull pain; she came out of it with the impression of a sharp blow, a jolt that woke her from a dangerous dream. For the briefest of moments, it had seemed to her that miniature pieces of furniture, a table, chairs, and a chest of drawers, had been placed at the bottom of the tub. White and poorly defined. But now they were gone.

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  Should she sit by one of the mushrooms and talk to the bartender? What would that accomplish? “It’s not my problem, for goodness’ sake!” she found herself shouting. This was not something a conversation could fix!

  She stopped and crouched down in a shady place. She still felt like crying.

  It's not me who doesn't know what to do! It is the world that has gone mad!

  The darkness was a pleasant cloud. Fountains and statues stood at the center of the circles of light, shining objects, iridescent, almost alive. Jets of water that refracted colors outside the normal spectrum, spherical and elongated shapes that seemed to soften and melt like wax, and you could never be sure they had not moved if you looked away for a moment.

  The bartenders' stations were in semi-darkness, in areas where the light was soft enough to encourage intimacy but not too dim to frighten. Darkness hung over the couches, the purpose of which was difficult to understand. Seluma could not remember ever seeing anyone there. Were these places where some object sucked in light to shield guests from the view of others, just as the canopies over the counters absorbed voices to protect the secrets of each person?

  Was she herself now invisible to others?

  And why?

  A muffled vibration reached her from the floor. The large surface area of her body in contact with the tiles allowed her to notice a difference in the intensity of the tremor, a wave of propagation that moved from center to periphery as regularly as a breath. The quiet, almost imperceptible cycle in the brightness of the room followed the same pattern.

  She moved toward one of the mushrooms, where a pale bartender waited unblinkingly.

  Too many unexpected things in these few days, too many bad things. Defeatist talk, fear, the loss of friends.

  The Eggs Sower.

  According to popular belief, this was the device by which a god could create a complete place out of nothing: a forest full of trees and animals, a lake full of fish, a populated city. It sounded beautiful, as described, but those who had delved into certain readings, who sought knowledge even in unorthodox circles, knew differently. The ritual required a cost of equal magnitude, an unimaginable sacrifice —and it had to do with manipulating the “Arrow of Time,” whatever that was.

  “But you don't believe in gods, do you, Seluma?” the creature murmured, placing a cup filled with a sparkling, soft pink liquid in front of her.

  Was she thinking out loud?

  The bartender was not only pale, but completely white. Covered in wool, coarse but white as if freshly washed, thick curls like ribbons, with a dense, impenetrable fleece. The skin of the muzzle was darker, as were the long, drooping ears, but in that burst of whiteness one could not be sure.

  A sheep standing upright.

  “I do not rule out the possibility that there may exist beings so powerful, incomprehensible, and immense that they can rightly be called 'gods,'” she pointed out with a sigh, drawing the cup to herself with a tentacle. “But I doubt they have anything to do with us, or are even aware of our existence.”

  “Then you don't believe in prayer and religion,” the bartender replied, subdued, polite, but unwilling to let it go. His hooves, articulated and prehensile, rubbed hard against the counter with an immaculate dish towel.

  Seluma sipped the drink slowly, the bubbles tickling the inside of her mouth. Tiny needles pricked her mucosa, stimulating her to the threshold of pain. But she could not stop.

  The other bartender approached with what appeared to be a small tray. He placed it on the bar and she looked into it. It was the aerial photo showing Nelatte from above. The one the mayor had given her as a greeting.

  All she had left of him. Why were they torturing her? She looked at the two bartenders in confusion, barely able to see them in the dim light. Two protruding faces, blurred ovals. Of the body, she could only make out the torso emerging from the post, and the way they swayed made her wonder what kind of legs they had.

  Maybe they had wheels, like Fuig...

  She touched the surface of the photo, smooth and silky, following the threadlike outline of her dying city from right to left. There was something she needed to understand...

  Fuig. The Corleroys' photo. Was there a connection?

  She recoiled sharply, pushing the glass away as well. Was there any point in dwelling on it? Now that she had learned that her aide was not a living person, the emotional motivation fell away as well. Finding out what might have happened to him was just a puzzle to play with, not a crime to be solved for the sake of justice. And who could think of games now?

  But they had called her there for a reason...

  The Corleroys. Transported on Swallow's flight. The automata. The Pipers.

  Something connected them, and they were not the sand smugglers; let the Rift swallow them!

  The grief increased rather than diminished, the burning of the drink in her digestive system a well-deserved torment.

  She crawled away from the mushroom without looking back, even though every move took twice as much effort as if she were moving through molasses. The vague outlines of other lost patrons were barely noticeable shadows in her field of vision. She would not have noticed them had they not emerged together from one of the Gates, a crooked door in a fragment of worn stone wall.

  A pair. It was an unimaginable thing. No, the portal was individual, the experience inside the Metz O Bar was a revelation for the individual. No, she repeated stubbornly, shaking her head and withdrawing her eyes to deny what she saw, and when she looked again, the two newcomers were still there. She did not see them move or walk, but in small jerks, one of the two figures grew larger. Seluma stared at it in horror, sure that this person —no matter how impossible— would run over and trample her.

  An old hag, dressed in filthy rags, hunched over, her yellowish face full of malice, her hands clenched into fists, her dry lips moving to mutter something inaudible.

  Seluma did not move, she was more than sure of that. In fact, she had contracted her entire lower body to resist, until the pressure had become unbearable; a little more and she would regurgitate the liquor she had just ingested. But the tiles and the furniture were crawling under her and under the witch who was closing in on her; it was no use pulling back and holding her breath.

  But when the old woman came up beside her, at arm's length to her right, growling angrily, Seluma saw her vanish, as if she had returned to her elsewhere.

  Cassia, a voice in her mind suggested.

  And all she had to do was meet the man's gaze.

  He had not moved; he was still at the same distance, in front of the Gate. Without saying or doing anything, he forced Seluma to walk towards him. She struggled, huffing and sputtering, but her body moved, crawling forward in undulating motions, leaving its usual trail of shiny, chili-scented secretions.

  A man of considerable height, thin, hairless, and black. Not brown, as human skin might be. Black like the nothingness outside the walls of the sphere, like the cosmic void, the total darkness of a deep tunnel. Like the velvet robe he wore, wide, floor-length, where it piled up in lazy, thick folds that reflected not even the smallest fraction of light. Even his eyes were barely distinguishable, pits of darkest shadow. A uniform obsidian cylinder from the chest down; it might as well have been a pillar of rock fused to the ground. He might not have been wearing a tunic at all; it was all part of his body.

  Seluma's irresistible movement stopped softly a few paces from the figure. She felt every muscle fiber in her flesh contract with the urge to slip out of the corset, to burst out and break into a thousand lumps like jelly if there was no other way to escape.

  Now she caught glimpses —as if they appeared and vanished according to her ability to focus on the desire that they were there— thin, regular features in the dark oval of that face. She could not keep her telescoping eyes still, and focusing had become difficult.

  What about the background noises of the bar? The clinking of bottles and glasses, the soft music emanating from the hexagonal stones trodden by the patrons, and the splashing of the fountains? A muffled silence had descended upon her, as if she had put her head under water.

  She saw licorice lips, small and well-drawn, stretch into a smile.

  But it did not warm her. It was a patronizing gesture, too sad. The kind of fake-apology smile you give a cockroach just before you flatten it with the dustpan because, bear with me, my pantry is no place for you to live.

  Had you seen it before?

  Yes, said Marghi. We saw him a few hours ago. Have you realized who he is now?

  Seluma disagreed with all her strength, so much so that she let out a loud groan. She would not allow the husbands to appear here. She would not allow them to undermine her already shaky confidence.

  Faint sparks crossed the dark surface. No, they were not reflections. They came from within. They looked like stars. Astral bodies, planets, and nebulae, tiny galactic systems in an extreme sea of darkness and emptiness. His skin was an illusion. That was the material the creature was entirely made of, and only a reassuring trick of her mind had carved it into the most common and harmless three-dimensional form for her, the humanoid. In the eyes —iridescent pools— swirled spirals of gold and ice.

  What did that thing want from her?

  “Everything will work out. Everything always works out.”

  She had not seen him move his mouth. She was not even sure she had heard him with her physical senses. But it was he who had spoken, a voice like warm oil on her neck.

  Of course it works out, she thought. In the fatalistic view of the Palvi monks and a thousand other religious sects, everything happens exactly as it is written, so everything always works out. If you do your duty, fine, if you don't, whatever. It was meant to be. You live, you die, stars explode, planetary systems form, the universe goes on its own way, and who is going to tell it that it is wrong?

  It all boils down to that, she concluded, even if it was not the right metaphor. But what could one expect from a cook? In fact, what did anyone want from her? She straightened up, stiffened, and faced the monster defiantly. She had really pulled out two fists, she marveled, immediately softening the ends and reabsorbing them into her belly.

  She felt the god's amusement, a tickling on her face.

  “Exactly,” was the reply, and that was really all she needed to know.