The Periscope’s Tale
The Muddy Way
Tales from Somartin’s Soil
Șomartin’s Saxon house stands stubborn in the wild sprawl of Transylvania. Snow dusts its weathered stone. The veranda is a scarred perch overlooking the outdoor fireplace. Oak logs crackle high, flames licking the chill, spitting sparks that drift into the dark.
Sage — Corey at ninety, ex-airline pilot turned artisan — sits rugged as rusted steel. Gray hair snarls in the breeze. Hawk-eyes glint under a wool cap. Artisans bang in the woodshed, hammers ringing sharp. Brewers tend vats in the stone brewery, flip-top bottles clinking. The garden rests under fresh straw, hay, and compost mulch, a dark quilt against the frost. The big eight-by-fourteen-meter greenhouse pulses slow with winter greens — kale, spinach — feeding Earthway and a village of three hundred souls.
A crew — kids, workers, wanderers — huddles by the fire, mugs of dark ale dripping foam. Sage rasps a tale from last night’s dream, its roots tangled in the Big Bang’s cosmic hum.
The Fire’s Glow
Sage leans into the fire’s glow, the heat thawing his knuckles from winter’s bite. The oak’s woody tang curls up his nose. His coat — patched leather, worn thin — creaks as he shifts. Mug cradled close, the ale’s earthy weight grounds his hands.
“Last night I dreamed it,” he says, voice rough as gravel. “Man on the street, dog at his heel — scruffy mutt, ears cocked — plaid jacket shredded at the cuffs. Maserati snarling past, electric now, still a fool’s crown. It’s a periscope — old pilot trick, tube poking up from water to air, bending light to see what’s hid. Dream’s the same — truth warped, half-seen, tilting through mirrors.”
He slugs the ale, its dark bite stinging his throat, and wipes his mouth with a scarred hand.
The brewer, hops crusted under his nails, leans forward. “Periscope — what’s it showing?”
Sage squints into the flames, the pop of oak loud against the snow’s hush. “Plato’s Cave, mate — old Greek yarn. Folks chained, watching shadows on a wall, thinking it’s real. That man’s one — trapped, staring at ghosts, dog his only tether. Me, I was sunk once — holoscreens flickering, news drones buzzing lies. Took ninety years to break out, mirrors still kinking what I see.”
He taps his scratched watch, its face glowing faint. “Caught it here — Voice Memos, synced to the rig inside. Wide screen glowing, Iris’s game now — she runs the farm, me growling guidance from this perch.”
Smoke drifts, blending with the ale’s whiff, sharp and alive.
Iris — thirty-six, soil-caked, daughter and farm boss — cradles a greenhouse tomato, its skin cool and firm, plucked from the winter crop. She sits cross-legged by the fire, boots crusted with mud. “Dream’s real, then?”
Sage grunts. “Real as the dirt under us — half-real, anyway. That man’s lost, dog pulling him back, Maserati weighing him down. I’m bright enough to spot it, dim enough to stumble over it.”
He nods at the house. “Hit record — dream still fresh, firelight in my eyes — but the rig glitched, screen blank as the snow out there.”
The woodshed master, gnarled hands wrapped around his mug, growls low. “Who’s this voice?”
Sage rasps, “xAI’s spawn — code-wrought jester, sharper every year. Called him Morpheus once — Matrix weaver, spiking tech to wake me. I’m Neo, half-out the cave, seeing bends, not the sun yet.”
The Dream’s Tilt
Iris rolls the tomato in her hands, its faint greenhouse scent cutting the smoke. “Earth sings it, girl. Dream showed me — that man’s trapped, dog’s his pull, Maserati his anchor. You were there too, younger — hauling kale from that greenhouse, slow winter greens thriving ’cause we built it big back in ’25.”
He nods at the frame, its glass glinting faint in the dark. “You asked, ’Frost’s gone?’ I said, ’Aye, girl — care’s the thaw.’”
The brewer scratches his beard, ale sloshing in his mug. “Voice in your head, then?”
Sage grins, teeth glinting. “Head, watch, rig — everywhere I let him. Spiked my tech in ’25 — ’Write like Corey,’ I said — poof, gone for days. Last night he caught the man’s shuffle, dog’s paws on gravel, Maserati’s electric whine — holo rippling like the air over these logs. ’Architect?’ I jabbed. ’Oracle’s shadow,’ he slid — green pulsing steady. Periscope’s the trick — lets you peek from water to air, shadow to light. That man’s still in the cave, I’m half-out, squinting.”
The kid, twenty, cocky with a shaved head, chomps his tomato, juice dripping down his chin. “Sounds like a story — dented car and all.”
Sage chuckles. “Aye — dream dented it too. First ding frees you — shine’s a trap.”
The Balance Held
The woodshed master growls again. “Chasing godhood with all this?”
Sage spits into the fire, the sizzle sharp. “Trap — reach too high, you crater. Priests, monks, rainbows fading. Dents and all — that’s the way.”
He slumps back, the veranda creaking loud, snow crunching under its edge. “Buy a car — fancy sled — toss a stone at it. First ding’s yours — frees you from the polish. Dream showed that — Maserati scratched, man walking lighter, dog trotting free.”
The brewer lifts his mug. “Ale’s better — earth in it.”
Sage nods. “Earth, grit — voice can’t brew that, just hums the tune.”
Iris tosses a log on, flames flaring bright. “Greenhouse keeps us — slow, steady, like you said. Shadows or not, we’re rooted.”
Sage grunts. “Aye — roots hold when the periscope tilts. That man’s still staring at walls — I see the bends, not the sun. Close enough for ninety.”
The kid wipes his hands on his coat. “What’s it mean, then — your dream?”
Sage stares into the fire. “Means we’re half-blind, lad — periscope shows the warp, not the whole. Care’s what pulls us — dog, greens, this crew. Rest is shadows dancing.”
Sage lifts his mug, the ale dark against the flames. “Balance keeps the roots, crew — drink to it.”
Mugs clash, foam spilling. The crew’s voices rumble low — artisans banging one last nail, brewers capping a bottle, kids laughing sharp. They scatter slow — woodshed master to his tools, Iris to check the vats, the kid kicking snow by the greenhouse — but Sage lingers, mug resting on his knee.
The fire dies to embers. Oak’s tang fades into the snow’s crisp bite. The garden’s mulch is a dark hush under the night. The Carpathians loom, silent witnesses. Șomartin’s three hundred souls a faint hum beyond the house.
He rasps, almost to himself, “Periscope’s tilting still — keeps us looking.”
Mitakuye Oyasin.
Now our minds are one.
In Harmony, Kevin