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?To these people we are the aliens, intruding into their world.? Every media, print, television, radio and social began their story with those words, or a translation thereof. They were repeating what had been reported by Pierre, one of the first two human scientists to encounter ?these people'. The earth would never be the same again.
A Boy Falls in Love with a Mountain
The path and purpose of Quebecois scientist Dr. Pierre Aroussen's life began with his first excursion into full-length novels with his reading of Jules Verne's epic Journey to the Centre of the Earth, which he read in the original French under the title of Voyage au Centre de la Terre.
The idea that the earth was not just a hunk of rock inside, but had ever-changing dynamic forces that could change the face and future of the planet inspired him as a precocious child, and as a young professional geologist.
When asked at 10 years of age where he would most like to travel to, he quickly said ?Iceland?, and then he would very slowly and carefully say Snaefellsjökull, the name of the inactive volcano that provided the path to the centre of the earth in the book.
His First Visit to the Mountain
It wasn't until he was in his twenties that he got to see his dream mountain. He was a graduate student at Laval University in his hometown city of Quebec, and given a grant to go to a conference on geology at Reykjavik University. Like the mountain, it was on the west side of the island country. Fortunately, most of the people he spoke with, and listened to presenting papers spoke English, and some French, so he was able to learn much about his dream mountain, and eventually could pronounce the name properly. The conference trip to Snaefellsjökull did not disappoint the eager young scholar. His doctoral dissertation was all about the mountain.
A Change Takes Place in the Mountain
One thing that Pierre learned about geology, was that the earth, and hotspots such the mountains in Iceland were ever changing. And the shifting climate was now a player in that change. So he wasn't totally surprised when he received a call from an Icelandic colleague talking about how the glacier that had lay for a long time on top of the mountain, was fast melting, giving opportunities to interested scholars to learn more about what was inside the inactive volcano.
Inside the Mountain.
For Pierre this was a childhood dream come true. He would be taking his own journey much closer to the centre of the earth than he had ever been. He just did not know how far that would be. It wasn't much time before they were surrounded by darkness, pierced only by the battery-powered torches that they had brought with them.
But as they descended deeper, they began to catch glimpses of other lights. They knew that those lights could not be lava, as they would have been able to feel the heat. And the lights were too far away from them, and too bright to merely be reflections of the torches that they were shining downwards. Their sources were independent.
Now Pierre's wife Shona was a deep sea biologist, and both of them were more than willing to talk and, what's more listen to the specialized knowledge of the other. She had taught him about bioluminescence, that the ability of marine animals she had studied to give off and control chemically produced light. Was that what the kind of light they were seeing now? He thought so.
Did the different colours have meaning? He noticed that certain sources would give off blue light, to be ?answered' with red. After about three or four such communications were sent and answered, both would be sending each other blue light. There were a few exceptions. In those cases the red light sender would appear to move away. What did that mean?
Pierre would soon learn in a way that he would never have expected. He saw a blue light cover Gunnar's face, and then saw him smile. Then he, too, was struck by the blue light. There was a great calm that he felt, like someone had assured him that there was nothing for him to be concerned about. This was followed about a minute later by a brief red flash, first shading Gunnar's face, then his own. At about the time that he saw Gunnar's look of anxiety, he began to feel the same emotion himself This did not last as long as the previous emotion, as the blue returned, and with it a sense of complete calm.
The deep earth creatures drew nearer. Pierre got a good sense of what their bodies looked like. They were about four feet long and very thin. Rather than skin, they had a shell or crust like a crayfish, but had hands and feet, not claws. Their eyes were huge, their ears quite small.. These were what gave off the light. Pierre soon learned that there were other colours to their communications, a combination of emotions, directions, agreement, and disagreement, and, more complicated, signature shades for names.
And the people that Pierre and Gunnar encountered, were just explorers from of one community of a widespread network inside the earth. This they would learn when the two groups managed to establish a form of communication that mixed together words and thought colours. It was from that makeshift ?language' that Pierre was able to know enough to be able to say, ?To these people we are the aliens, intruding into their world.?
The city of LVIV (formerly Poland until the Nazi invasion). Now Ukraine, USSR.
Boots pound up the marble stairs to Father's office. ?Run and don't look back,' he says.
I push the box back into my father's hands, ?Come with me,' I plead. The men in our family never plead. I expect to see disdain, but his eyes glisten. I can't bear to leave him. Soldiers crash through the reception door. Murderous, demanding German voices clash with the terrified screams of Father's secretary.
?But? I?. Father.' Tears stream down my face.
Dragging my eyes from him; I take the box and edge towards the window and the fire escape, slipping out into smoke-filled muggy air. The office door flies open. I duck out of sight. But I watch.
Father walks towards the door. A giant. He's immaculate in his dark brown pin-striped suit, leather shoes shining. His back is poker straight, his chest broad and strong. The walnut clad castle is his last stronghold within the crumbling city named ?Life.'[1] But now, it reeks of death. Streets run red with rivers of Jewish blood, political prisoners and now that of the bright minds of the university. Massacred in thousands.
A gun fires.
And father crashes to the floor.
The sharp twang of cordite smoke hovers over him.
They want the box.
Soldiers tear through Father's ordered office.
The metal fire escape sways on a few remaining bolts as I slide down one step at a time. I reach the ground and glance up to the window. Glaring straight at me is the German Officer.
?Hör auf, Junge, oder ich schieße!'
I run.
Bullets cut through the thick air-hunting me! They rip through trees; splinter fences. I keep running. I duck as metal sparks off the street sign above my head, but I keep running. The main street opens up ahead. A woman staggers in front of me with torn clothes. She is screaming. Her nose is bloody. Boys, the same age as me chase her with home-made clubs. Want to help, but have to run. Have to live. I jump over the body of an old man who's clutching a paper to his chest. He lays in a pool of blood that seeps from his head. Leaping over a mountain of rubble I skid down the other side. Grit stings my eyes and cuts my knees. Scrambling to my feet, legs like rubber, adrenalin drives me on to the cemetery.
?Stoppen Sie diesen Jungen. Er ist ein Verräter der Riecht!'
Swirling ironwork mark the entrance to the cemetery. I recognise the sign of the Polish resistance scratched into the paint. Shining black statues cradle the graves of dead citizens of Lviv. I was once terrified of this place and imagined it to be the domain of vampires. Now I see beauty in the stone angels and skulls which guard the memories of Lviv; the beating heart of the city. They weep for the souls that the Nazis rip from the living, but I know their tears will restore it. She will be free and I must help.
I search for our crypt. The only family property that was not taken by the Reicht. I hear Hitler is superstitious. Perhaps disturbing the dead - even for the Devil - is a step too far. I find our tomb next to a tangle of roses. It has imposing columns and our family crest engraved on the arch. It looms over the other graves.
?Miko?aj Zadlowski?' A voice whispers from the shadows.
?Yes.'
?You have brought the box?'
?Yes,' I pull it close to me; my eyes alert for witnesses.
?Show yourself,' I say, mustering a voice to replicate Father's authority. My thirteen-year-old version sounds ridiculous.
Small fingers curl around the black column and a girl follows, stepping out from the shadows of the crypt. She has black hair, violet eyes and a small mouth. A smile teases the corners. Her delicate fingers follow a line carved into the masonry and something extraordinary happens. The budding roses snake up the granite and bloom. They release a scent which sweetens the acrid bitterness of the smouldering city below. The perfume reminds me of the home we lost. My throat tightens. Honeysuckle and jasmine coil around each other and their yellow flowers burst open. I gawp. Then reach to touch them to check if they are real and snap my hand away as a straggly haired creature darts between my legs. The girl smiles, ?Excuse my goat; he's nervy.' The goat has matted grey hair, a broken horn and devilish rectangular pupils.
[1] The city of Lviv was named after its founder's son, Lev. His name means heart or life.
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