I sit beside the fire and think –
Of how the world will be,
When winter comes without a spring –
That I shall ever see. (…)
I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago –
And people who will see a world,
That I shall never know.
J. R. R. Tolkien: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring
CHAPTER 1
THE MYSTERIOUS GUESTS
The earth beneath my feet begins to tremble – first gently, then with violent force. A purple streak of light slashes mercilesly through the perfect black of the sky. A scream of despair tears from my throat. I collapse to my knees. Lightning blooms one after another, like blood-red roses in the darkness of the night – the terrible night of doom.
The ground spilts open; monstrous jaws gape just besides my knees. I scramble away. There is no escape from the world’s torment, from this unfathomable agony. The tremors do not cease. I see no other people. I see nothing at all. More projectiles whistle ominously, pressing against the Barrier. Amid the defeating clamor of the enraged barrage, among the groans of shattering rock, my scream grows thinner and thinner. And then – there is no scream left. There is no me.
Today, our enemies will win. The Shield no longer protect us. A crack, small at first, spreads rapidly. The armor of our world buckles under the hail of bombs they’ve rained upon us for decades. Deadly shards slice through stone like butter. This is the end. They’ve broken through. After so many futile attemps, they’ve finally done it.
And then, at last, the Barrier shatters above my head like a glass ceiling…
“Noooo!!!”
The moonless night pressed down with its velvety weight, a nightmarish dread squeezing her heart in a vise of fear. Arina sat up in bed, trembling like a leaf. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around her thin shins. With the back of her hand, she wiped away tears of helplessness from her cheeks. The same dream again – always identical, always equally terrifying. Night after night, she dreamed of annihilation and woke up screaming, clinging to the faint hope that her parents, asleep downstairs, hadn’t heard her cries.
Today, our enemies will win. The Shield no longer protect us. A crack, small at first, spreads rapidly. The armor of our world buckles under the hail of bombs they’ve rained upon us for decades. Deadly shards slice through stone like butter. This is the end. They’ve broken through. After so many futile attemps, they’ve finally done it.
And then, at last, the Barrier shatters above my head like a glass ceiling…
“Noooo!!!”
The moonless night pressed down with its velvety weight, a nightmarish dread squeezing her heart in a vise of fear. Arina sat up in bed, trembling like a leaf. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around her thin shins. With the back of her hand, she wiped away tears of helplessness from her cheeks. The same dream again – always identical, always equally terrifying. Night after night, she dreamed of annihilation and woke up screaming, clinging to the faint hope that her parents, asleep downstairs, hadn’t heard her cries.
She decided she wouldn’t sleep again that night. The nightmare would return, of that she had no doubt. She wrapped herself in the blanket for warmth and clung to the unfriendly darkness, alert as a watchdog.
June nights are short, even in Poland. The kind dawn drove away the demon of fear, and the brilliant rays of the sun dried her tears. Arina dressed slowly, savoring the freshness of the morning hours. She checked her mail. This time, among the pile of spam, she found one important message – from the Institute. The secretariat informed her that the distinguished guest’s visit was scheduled for Friday only. There was no need for her to come to work before Thursday, when the preparations for the ceremony would be in full swing. Unless, of course, she really wanted to come earlier. There would surely be something for her to do, and if not, she could always work on the old prints. Deciphering them always brought her so much joy.
She sighed. Always the same. Her job wasn’t the kind people called “good.” She didn’t have many responsibilities. At the Institute, she was still treated like a student, her employment seen as something temporary – a chance to learn and pursue her interests. In the eyes of some, this ruled out serious work, the kind aimed at earning a decent income.
She turned on the videophone. No messages. Olaf hadn’t tried to contact her since yesterday either. It saddened her a little, but over the years, she had learned to trust Olaf and stopped tormenting him with her worries and suspicions. She gave up on the idea of leaving him a message. He was probably still asleep or hunched over his computer, working on that graphic program he had been so excited about during his last visit. Or, taking advantage of the charm of the polar day, he might be playing football with his friends on the local pitch.
So, she had five whole days to herself. It had happened before, quite often, since she finished her studies. She also had plenty of ideas for how to spend that time. Maybe she could look for another temporary job?
For now, though, she immersed herself in reading a thick collection of medieval Nordic fairy tales and legends. She didn’t need translations. She loved reading them just as she was doing now – in Norwegian.
* * *
She sighed. Always the same. Her job wasn’t the kind people called “good.” She didn’t have many responsibilities. At the Institute, she was still treated like a student, her employment seen as something temporary – a chance to learn and pursue her interests. In the eyes of some, this ruled out serious work, the kind aimed at earning a decent income.
She turned on the videophone. No messages. Olaf hadn’t tried to contact her since yesterday either. It saddened her a little, but over the years, she had learned to trust Olaf and stopped tormenting him with her worries and suspicions. She gave up on the idea of leaving him a message. He was probably still asleep or hunched over his computer, working on that graphic program he had been so excited about during his last visit. Or, taking advantage of the charm of the polar day, he might be playing football with his friends on the local pitch.
So, she had five whole days to herself. It had happened before, quite often, since she finished her studies. She also had plenty of ideas for how to spend that time. Maybe she could look for another temporary job?
For now, though, she immersed herself in reading a thick collection of medieval Nordic fairy tales and legends. She didn’t need translations. She loved reading them just as she was doing now – in Norwegian.
* * *
The kitchen was large and spacious, so it doubled as a dining room, since the living room table was only set for major holidays. Arina liked spending time there, though she rarely cooked. The true ruler of this domain was her mother.
“Good morning, Mom! Good morning, Dad!” she called out, coming down the stairs.
“Good morning, sweetheart!” her mother replied, grabbing the handle of a large frying pan with a thick oven mitt. The pan sizzled with a mouthwatering smell of eggs fried with bacon.
Her father only grunted, as usual absorbed in scrolling through the internet on his laptop screen. Arina pulled up a chair and glanced toward the window. She took in the wooden fence around the house and the quiet street beyond. The newspaper delivery man had been at work since early morning. Every family that had paid for a subscription found fresh news in their mailbox, as warm as newly baked rolls.
When her father asked why she was up so early, she replied that she had already gotten enough sleep. She could have stayed in bed longer, or at least lounged around. After all, she wasn’t in a hurry to go to work. But in June, Arina never slept in. The pull of the early morning was even stronger then, almost unbearable. Fortunately, it faded a bit in winter.
Her mother served the eggs and sliced the bread. The three of them began to eat. After finishing his meal, her father wiped his mouth with a napkin and downed his cold coffee in one gulp. Then, unexpectedly, he spoke up:
“Maybe it’s time, Arina, for you to finally find a proper job? At a bank, for example. Yes, I’d like you to get a job at a bank. That’s where the real money is.”
“Dad, I already have a job.”
“You have a job? You spend more time at home than working, and when payday comes, you bring home some pitiful change. You graduated from a good university, daughter. Don’t waste your life’s chance.”
“Dad, I know,” she sighed, pushing her plate away. “I promise you, soon, very soon, I’ll look for a good job. But not yet. Give me a little more time.”
“How much more time do you need?!” her father snapped. “It’s been a year since you graduated, and you’re not working. It can’t go on like this, Arina.”
“It’s time you started settling down,” her mother added. “I’d be so happy if you met a decent young man and started planning a future with him.”
“Mom, what about Olaf?”
“He’s Norwegian!” her father interjected again. “Polish girls should marry Polish boys, or our nation will die out. Besides, that Norwegian will never propose to you.”
“Look at Marta,” her mother continued. “She finished her studies, married well, has a great job, they bought a house, and now they’re raising two adorable children. Why can’t you be more like her?”
Marta. Arina’s eternal torment. Her older sister, the embodiment of perfection. Compared to her, Arina, with her aversion to stability and her incomprehensible dreams, always paled. In this kitchen, at this table, she had been compared to Marta so often and to her own disadvantage that the comparisons had started to amuse her more than anger her. And yet, she couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling of inferiority.
“Mom, you’ll be proud of me one day. I promise I’ll find a good job, meet the right man, and get married. You know I’m a patriot. I know how a Polish woman should behave. But not yet. Not today.”
“And what about Olaf?” her mother echoed. “You’ll have to break up with him.”
“I will break up with him, I promise.”
“You’re always gallivanting around Europe,” her father suddenly snapped, for no apparent reason. “You’re wasting all your meager earnings on it. If it’s not Norway, it’s Sweden. If not Sweden, then Estonia. If not Estonia, then somewhere else. Instead of thinking seriously about your life, you’re just wandering around Europe with that good-for-nothing lover of yours.”
“Because it has to be this way,” Arina muttered, abruptly standing up from the table.
She rushed upstairs. She could feel the burning tears behind her eyelids. Maybe she did want to become financially independent from her parents, but that would mean giving up Olaf and her trips. It was so unfair.
The videophone rang sharply. She answered immediately. It was Olaf. How good it was to see his dear, fair face.
“Hey, little bird,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”
She hesitated for a moment. She could lie. She could say she’d slept wonderfully, that no nightmares had haunted her, that her parents were the best people in the world. But she never lied to Olaf.
“Well, what’s wrong, little one?” he pressed, not letting her speak. “I can see you look out of sorts. Your eyes are puffy all the way to your chin. Bad dreams again?”
She nodded sadly.
“They’re back.”
“Same as before? Or did you watch that stupid American movie again before falling asleep?”
“Well… yes. I watched it. There’s something about it that… I can’t stop thinking about it, Olaf. It’s stronger than me. It’s a prelude…”
“Nonsense,” he interrupted sternly, knitting his well-shaped brows. “You’re tormenting yourself with that junk. Stop it, Arina.”
“You don’t understand anything. The Silent Invasion isn’t just some ordinary American junk. You’d know what I mean if you’d watched it at least once.”
“I don’t want to watch it,” he said, a grimace of disgust forming around his mouth. “I don’t want you to watch it either. I don’t want that ‘brilliant’ prelude to drive you to the brink of madness.”
“What are you afraid of?” she cried desperately. “That they might be right?”
“Arina, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied coldly.
“Olaf, I need to get away from all this for a while,” she groaned. “I feel like the world is falling apart. I have five days off, so I’ll come to you, okay? Can I come?”
“Of course,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “You know you’re always welcome in my home. I love you, Arina. Never forget that.”
“I love you too. But everything is changing. We can’t just close our eyes and cover our ears. We can’t pretend it’s not happening, that it never happened. I don’t want to live in denial anymore, Olaf.”
* * *
She needed to feel alive again. To drive once more along the Trollstigen and experience that delightful dizziness as she looked down. To climb one of the bleak, rocky plateaus – the fjell – and, if only for a moment, feel like an eagle at the top of the world. To savor once again the thunderous song of the Seven Sisters Waterfall, to marvel at the raw power of the element as it plunged from the steep cliff with unrestrained force, down toward the blue-green, tranquil surface of the fjord. To cross the Arctic Circle once more, that magical boundary for her. To sail to the Lofoten Islands and bow her head in respect for the hard work of the fishermen who eke out a living in those harsh, cold lands. To visit the fish market in Bergen. And finally, to feel once again the strength of Olaf’s arms encircling her waist, his hot breath on her neck, and hear the words of love whispered in the sweet tongue of the North.
All these things were essential to her life. Just as essential as the museums full of treasures from bygone centuries, the stave churches – of which Scandinavia has more than the rest of Europe combined – the medieval manuscripts copied by pious monks, adorned with faded illustrations, which she sometimes accessed through friends at the Institute. As essential as the bustling port cities, the harsh and cold North Cape, which she had already visited with Olaf three times. And above all, she needed the breathtaking beauty of the northern lights, blooming in all the colors of the rainbow across the sky of those distant edges of her known world.
She had graduated in economics because that was the future her parents had chosen for her. The mere mention of the word “Scandinavian studies” was enough to spark wild arguments at home, with her father leading the charge. He insisted that investing time and money in such nonsense was the height of stupidity.
“You need a career with a future, Arina!” he would roar. “I won’t let you waste your life chasing after this rubbish!”
“Listen to your father, dear,” her mother would chime in. “You know we both love you very much and only want what’s best for you. There will always be demand for economists. And look at Marta…”
And it’s the same old story, over and over again. She eventually gave in, but in truth, she never truly surrendered.
In her free time, she pursued her passions in every way possible. She taught herself the basics of Norwegian and, at just nineteen years old – during her first year of university – she landed a part-time job at the Polish-Norwegian Friendship Institute. She invested her earnings primarily in language courses, and soon she could converse fluently with Norwegian guests in their native tongue.
The Institute organized art exhibitions – both by renowned Norwegian masters and contemporary artists – as well as photography displays showcasing the beauty of Scandinavian nature and the lives of its people. It also hosted meetings with prominent figures from Poland and Norway who had contributed to strengthening ties between the two countries. Additionally, the Institute held integration events and various gatherings, both internal and open to the public, all aimed at promoting Nordic culture in Poland as widely as possible.
They also ran an international exchange program for children and youth. Arina’s duties included looking after Norwegian children and showing them Poland at its best. She was happily given this task, not only because she spoke the language well but also because she was rapidly improving her skills. On the other hand, she participated in many trips and camps organized for Polish youth in Norway. As an Institute employee, she didn’t have to pay for these. She advanced quickly, and within just three years, she was attending camps as a supervisor and guide.
The Institute maintained close cooperation with its counterpart in Trondheim. The permanent and seasonal staff of both institutions formed a kind of large family, gathering several times a year for festive dinners that often lasted late into the night. They danced, sang, discussed every topic imaginable – in Polish, Norwegian, and a variety of other languages.
It was at one of these balls that Arina met Olaf Sorensen. It was one of those love-at-first-sight stories, at least from her perspective. The eighteen-year-old Olaf seemed to her the most beautiful creature she had ever laid eyes on in her short life. Tall, blond, with fair skin, gray eyes, and a slender figure, he won her heart not just with his appearance but also with the calmness he radiated, which made him stand apart from the whirlwind of social life. He stood by the window with his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze wandering somewhat absently over the already tipsy guests and the richly decorated hall.
Arina hesitated for a long time about whether she should approach him and strike up a conversation. And if so, what should she say? But in the end, she did it – she won his heart and body. Later, she couldn’t remember the first words she had said to him. Annoyed by this, she asked Olaf, and they both laughed for a long time at her initial embarrassment. As it turned out, she had said:
“Could you pass me the mustard?”
They spent the rest of the evening together, and before parting, they exchanged videophone numbers. Soon, they started calling each other regularly and meeting whenever they could, and later, even without an occasion.
Olaf was learning Polish, so they supported each other. They spoke to each other in both languages, switching between them so seamlessly that they soon stopped noticing. Both were fluent in English, and Olaf also knew Swedish and Danish. Arina eagerly learned the basics of other Scandinavian languages, and since they were all quite similar, it didn’t take her much effort. She had learned German in school and had a basic knowledge of French, and she never missed an opportunity to practice these skills.
* * *
“Good morning, Mom! Good morning, Dad!” she called out, coming down the stairs.
“Good morning, sweetheart!” her mother replied, grabbing the handle of a large frying pan with a thick oven mitt. The pan sizzled with a mouthwatering smell of eggs fried with bacon.
Her father only grunted, as usual absorbed in scrolling through the internet on his laptop screen. Arina pulled up a chair and glanced toward the window. She took in the wooden fence around the house and the quiet street beyond. The newspaper delivery man had been at work since early morning. Every family that had paid for a subscription found fresh news in their mailbox, as warm as newly baked rolls.
When her father asked why she was up so early, she replied that she had already gotten enough sleep. She could have stayed in bed longer, or at least lounged around. After all, she wasn’t in a hurry to go to work. But in June, Arina never slept in. The pull of the early morning was even stronger then, almost unbearable. Fortunately, it faded a bit in winter.
Her mother served the eggs and sliced the bread. The three of them began to eat. After finishing his meal, her father wiped his mouth with a napkin and downed his cold coffee in one gulp. Then, unexpectedly, he spoke up:
“Maybe it’s time, Arina, for you to finally find a proper job? At a bank, for example. Yes, I’d like you to get a job at a bank. That’s where the real money is.”
“Dad, I already have a job.”
“You have a job? You spend more time at home than working, and when payday comes, you bring home some pitiful change. You graduated from a good university, daughter. Don’t waste your life’s chance.”
“Dad, I know,” she sighed, pushing her plate away. “I promise you, soon, very soon, I’ll look for a good job. But not yet. Give me a little more time.”
“How much more time do you need?!” her father snapped. “It’s been a year since you graduated, and you’re not working. It can’t go on like this, Arina.”
“It’s time you started settling down,” her mother added. “I’d be so happy if you met a decent young man and started planning a future with him.”
“Mom, what about Olaf?”
“He’s Norwegian!” her father interjected again. “Polish girls should marry Polish boys, or our nation will die out. Besides, that Norwegian will never propose to you.”
“Look at Marta,” her mother continued. “She finished her studies, married well, has a great job, they bought a house, and now they’re raising two adorable children. Why can’t you be more like her?”
Marta. Arina’s eternal torment. Her older sister, the embodiment of perfection. Compared to her, Arina, with her aversion to stability and her incomprehensible dreams, always paled. In this kitchen, at this table, she had been compared to Marta so often and to her own disadvantage that the comparisons had started to amuse her more than anger her. And yet, she couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling of inferiority.
“Mom, you’ll be proud of me one day. I promise I’ll find a good job, meet the right man, and get married. You know I’m a patriot. I know how a Polish woman should behave. But not yet. Not today.”
“And what about Olaf?” her mother echoed. “You’ll have to break up with him.”
“I will break up with him, I promise.”
“You’re always gallivanting around Europe,” her father suddenly snapped, for no apparent reason. “You’re wasting all your meager earnings on it. If it’s not Norway, it’s Sweden. If not Sweden, then Estonia. If not Estonia, then somewhere else. Instead of thinking seriously about your life, you’re just wandering around Europe with that good-for-nothing lover of yours.”
“Because it has to be this way,” Arina muttered, abruptly standing up from the table.
She rushed upstairs. She could feel the burning tears behind her eyelids. Maybe she did want to become financially independent from her parents, but that would mean giving up Olaf and her trips. It was so unfair.
The videophone rang sharply. She answered immediately. It was Olaf. How good it was to see his dear, fair face.
“Hey, little bird,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”
She hesitated for a moment. She could lie. She could say she’d slept wonderfully, that no nightmares had haunted her, that her parents were the best people in the world. But she never lied to Olaf.
“Well, what’s wrong, little one?” he pressed, not letting her speak. “I can see you look out of sorts. Your eyes are puffy all the way to your chin. Bad dreams again?”
She nodded sadly.
“They’re back.”
“Same as before? Or did you watch that stupid American movie again before falling asleep?”
“Well… yes. I watched it. There’s something about it that… I can’t stop thinking about it, Olaf. It’s stronger than me. It’s a prelude…”
“Nonsense,” he interrupted sternly, knitting his well-shaped brows. “You’re tormenting yourself with that junk. Stop it, Arina.”
“You don’t understand anything. The Silent Invasion isn’t just some ordinary American junk. You’d know what I mean if you’d watched it at least once.”
“I don’t want to watch it,” he said, a grimace of disgust forming around his mouth. “I don’t want you to watch it either. I don’t want that ‘brilliant’ prelude to drive you to the brink of madness.”
“What are you afraid of?” she cried desperately. “That they might be right?”
“Arina, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied coldly.
“Olaf, I need to get away from all this for a while,” she groaned. “I feel like the world is falling apart. I have five days off, so I’ll come to you, okay? Can I come?”
“Of course,” he said, sounding a little surprised. “You know you’re always welcome in my home. I love you, Arina. Never forget that.”
“I love you too. But everything is changing. We can’t just close our eyes and cover our ears. We can’t pretend it’s not happening, that it never happened. I don’t want to live in denial anymore, Olaf.”
* * *
She needed to feel alive again. To drive once more along the Trollstigen and experience that delightful dizziness as she looked down. To climb one of the bleak, rocky plateaus – the fjell – and, if only for a moment, feel like an eagle at the top of the world. To savor once again the thunderous song of the Seven Sisters Waterfall, to marvel at the raw power of the element as it plunged from the steep cliff with unrestrained force, down toward the blue-green, tranquil surface of the fjord. To cross the Arctic Circle once more, that magical boundary for her. To sail to the Lofoten Islands and bow her head in respect for the hard work of the fishermen who eke out a living in those harsh, cold lands. To visit the fish market in Bergen. And finally, to feel once again the strength of Olaf’s arms encircling her waist, his hot breath on her neck, and hear the words of love whispered in the sweet tongue of the North.
All these things were essential to her life. Just as essential as the museums full of treasures from bygone centuries, the stave churches – of which Scandinavia has more than the rest of Europe combined – the medieval manuscripts copied by pious monks, adorned with faded illustrations, which she sometimes accessed through friends at the Institute. As essential as the bustling port cities, the harsh and cold North Cape, which she had already visited with Olaf three times. And above all, she needed the breathtaking beauty of the northern lights, blooming in all the colors of the rainbow across the sky of those distant edges of her known world.
She had graduated in economics because that was the future her parents had chosen for her. The mere mention of the word “Scandinavian studies” was enough to spark wild arguments at home, with her father leading the charge. He insisted that investing time and money in such nonsense was the height of stupidity.
“You need a career with a future, Arina!” he would roar. “I won’t let you waste your life chasing after this rubbish!”
“Listen to your father, dear,” her mother would chime in. “You know we both love you very much and only want what’s best for you. There will always be demand for economists. And look at Marta…”
And it’s the same old story, over and over again. She eventually gave in, but in truth, she never truly surrendered.
In her free time, she pursued her passions in every way possible. She taught herself the basics of Norwegian and, at just nineteen years old – during her first year of university – she landed a part-time job at the Polish-Norwegian Friendship Institute. She invested her earnings primarily in language courses, and soon she could converse fluently with Norwegian guests in their native tongue.
The Institute organized art exhibitions – both by renowned Norwegian masters and contemporary artists – as well as photography displays showcasing the beauty of Scandinavian nature and the lives of its people. It also hosted meetings with prominent figures from Poland and Norway who had contributed to strengthening ties between the two countries. Additionally, the Institute held integration events and various gatherings, both internal and open to the public, all aimed at promoting Nordic culture in Poland as widely as possible.
They also ran an international exchange program for children and youth. Arina’s duties included looking after Norwegian children and showing them Poland at its best. She was happily given this task, not only because she spoke the language well but also because she was rapidly improving her skills. On the other hand, she participated in many trips and camps organized for Polish youth in Norway. As an Institute employee, she didn’t have to pay for these. She advanced quickly, and within just three years, she was attending camps as a supervisor and guide.
The Institute maintained close cooperation with its counterpart in Trondheim. The permanent and seasonal staff of both institutions formed a kind of large family, gathering several times a year for festive dinners that often lasted late into the night. They danced, sang, discussed every topic imaginable – in Polish, Norwegian, and a variety of other languages.
It was at one of these balls that Arina met Olaf Sorensen. It was one of those love-at-first-sight stories, at least from her perspective. The eighteen-year-old Olaf seemed to her the most beautiful creature she had ever laid eyes on in her short life. Tall, blond, with fair skin, gray eyes, and a slender figure, he won her heart not just with his appearance but also with the calmness he radiated, which made him stand apart from the whirlwind of social life. He stood by the window with his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze wandering somewhat absently over the already tipsy guests and the richly decorated hall.
Arina hesitated for a long time about whether she should approach him and strike up a conversation. And if so, what should she say? But in the end, she did it – she won his heart and body. Later, she couldn’t remember the first words she had said to him. Annoyed by this, she asked Olaf, and they both laughed for a long time at her initial embarrassment. As it turned out, she had said:
“Could you pass me the mustard?”
They spent the rest of the evening together, and before parting, they exchanged videophone numbers. Soon, they started calling each other regularly and meeting whenever they could, and later, even without an occasion.
Olaf was learning Polish, so they supported each other. They spoke to each other in both languages, switching between them so seamlessly that they soon stopped noticing. Both were fluent in English, and Olaf also knew Swedish and Danish. Arina eagerly learned the basics of other Scandinavian languages, and since they were all quite similar, it didn’t take her much effort. She had learned German in school and had a basic knowledge of French, and she never missed an opportunity to practice these skills.
* * *
A wide knowledge of languages was nothing unusual in the United Europe of the early 23rd century. After a long period of fascination with technology and the natural sciences, Europe had grown weary of modern science – which, while allowing it to conquer the world, had failed to elevate humanity even a single step in spiritual development. The continent returned to its old humanism, and languages once again became highly fashionable, especially for those who found the borders of their homelands too confining.
This shift began sometime in the mid-21st century. A common belief emerged – no one knew quite where it came from – that “enough was enough”. Enough of new technological marvels, enough of aggressive development in computer systems and artificial intelligence, enough of space travel. It was time to stop chasing shocking discoveries and inventions, nuclear energy research, and new types of weapons of mass destruction. It was time to abandon complex mathematical theories understandable only to a handful of specialists. It was already time to focus on oneself.
This did not mean a return to the Middle Ages, of course. People did not abandon the conveniences and comforts that already existed. They continued to be refined and beneficial innovations kept appearing; the only thing that ceased was the attempt to make another major technological leap. The 2055 directive issued by the European Commission reduced the scale of funding for the development of the new technologies, transferring those funds to the humanities and social sciences. As might have been expected, most Europeans did not mourn its passing.
* * *
She wanted to feel alive again. To savor the intoxicating speed, to fall asleep to the lullaby of the wheels, rolling tirelessly along the tracks.
At the turn of the 21st and 22nd centuries, rail travel made a triumphant return, becoming the primary means of transport for thousands, if not millions, of travelers. Meanwhile, the number of private cars was drastically reduced. This shift was driven by two key factors: the urgent need to cut carbon dioxide and other harmful emissions – which, throughout the previous century, had dangerously intensified the greenhouse effect and raised average temperatures across the continent – and the necessity to break free from dependence on oil imports from the Middle East and other regions of the world.
Air travel, too, lost its prominence. The slowing pace of life meant that the need for lightning-fast travel from one end of the land to another had virtually disappeared. People learned to savor time as it drifted lazily and majestically, like grains of sand in an hourglass or droplets of water slipping between their fingers. No longer did they waste their energy on a frantic race against others – or against time itself, that ruthless and utterly indifferent titan.
Arina left her parents a short note:
Mom, Dad. I’m going to Olaf’s. I’ll be back Wednesday evening. Don’t worry about me. Love, Arina.
She pinned it to the fridge door with a magnet, placing it where they couldn’t miss it. She planned to take the night train; that way, she would arrive in Trondheim by morning and greet her beloved first thing.
This shift began sometime in the mid-21st century. A common belief emerged – no one knew quite where it came from – that “enough was enough”. Enough of new technological marvels, enough of aggressive development in computer systems and artificial intelligence, enough of space travel. It was time to stop chasing shocking discoveries and inventions, nuclear energy research, and new types of weapons of mass destruction. It was time to abandon complex mathematical theories understandable only to a handful of specialists. It was already time to focus on oneself.
This did not mean a return to the Middle Ages, of course. People did not abandon the conveniences and comforts that already existed. They continued to be refined and beneficial innovations kept appearing; the only thing that ceased was the attempt to make another major technological leap. The 2055 directive issued by the European Commission reduced the scale of funding for the development of the new technologies, transferring those funds to the humanities and social sciences. As might have been expected, most Europeans did not mourn its passing.
* * *
She wanted to feel alive again. To savor the intoxicating speed, to fall asleep to the lullaby of the wheels, rolling tirelessly along the tracks.
At the turn of the 21st and 22nd centuries, rail travel made a triumphant return, becoming the primary means of transport for thousands, if not millions, of travelers. Meanwhile, the number of private cars was drastically reduced. This shift was driven by two key factors: the urgent need to cut carbon dioxide and other harmful emissions – which, throughout the previous century, had dangerously intensified the greenhouse effect and raised average temperatures across the continent – and the necessity to break free from dependence on oil imports from the Middle East and other regions of the world.
Air travel, too, lost its prominence. The slowing pace of life meant that the need for lightning-fast travel from one end of the land to another had virtually disappeared. People learned to savor time as it drifted lazily and majestically, like grains of sand in an hourglass or droplets of water slipping between their fingers. No longer did they waste their energy on a frantic race against others – or against time itself, that ruthless and utterly indifferent titan.
Arina left her parents a short note:
Mom, Dad. I’m going to Olaf’s. I’ll be back Wednesday evening. Don’t worry about me. Love, Arina.
She pinned it to the fridge door with a magnet, placing it where they couldn’t miss it. She planned to take the night train; that way, she would arrive in Trondheim by morning and greet her beloved first thing.
The train from Warsaw was able to cover that distance in just twelve hours, thanks to the high-speed rail network – a system that the member states had heavily invested in during the first half of the 21st century. In the decades that followed, the European Federation did not halt the development of rail transport; on the contrary, it prioritized its functionality and service quality, treating trains as a key element of infrastructure. This allowed Europeans to travel more easily between different points on their continent’s map and fostered greater integration among nations.
From Poland to Denmark, the route ran through the Baltic Sea Tunnel, built at the end of the 21st century between the Gdańsk coast and the island of Zealand. From there, the line continued from Copenhagen – across the nearly eight-kilometer-long Øresund Bridge, opened at the beginning of the century – through Malmö, Göteborg, and Oslo, and then straight on to Trondheim, skirting the picturesque Scandinavian Mountains. Arina regretted that she wouldn’t be able to admire their beauty at night, but this way, she could reach Olaf before dawn, without wasting a single moment.
A few years earlier, she had learned to sleep on trains, and the monotonous clatter of the wheels lulled her to sleep more than it jolted her awake. She harbored an almost loving affection for the railway. The complex web of tracks, stretching more or less evenly across the continent, seemed to her like the natural circulatory system of a living organism. She couldn’t even imagine traveling any other way.
* * *
She loved to be alone in the quiet of the evening, in her cozy upstairs room. She would draw the curtains, reach for her DVD collection, and play the same film every time. She knew it by heart, so she didn’t bother watching the screen. Often, she turned off the picture entirely. She’d switch off the light, lie down in the darkness on her bed with her hands clasped behind her head, and listen.
She listened again and again, dozens, hundreds of times, until it hurt. She listened to the prelude to The Silent Invasion, a long introduction spoken in a deep, monotonous voice – a voice that evoked the darkest of mysteries, unsolved riddles, and stories of horror that sent shivers down her spine.
For thousands of years, they had traversed the cosmos in search of a new home. Their bodies withered and died, weary under the weight of countless generations, but their spirit – ancient and mighty – blazed brighter and more fiercely than ever before at the twilight of their existence. With their last strength, they built colossal vessels capable of crossing the unfathomed depths of the universe. They shed their dying flesh and boarded the ships, their fiery spirits shining like a million suns.
They sent their ships to every corner of the cosmos, no longer caring for their old planet, parched by the heat of their swelling sun. As they wandered through eons of light-years, the ancient spirit dreamed of a new home – a warm, young planet, lands carpeted with lush greenery, equatorial forests bursting with millions of life forms, waters hiding countless species in their depths. Their mighty thought, amplified a millionfold by their bodiless existence, fell in love with its own dream. The pure light yearned for the gentle twilight of ocean depths and the cathedrals of ancient wilderness.
Finally, one of their ships reached Earth and hovered like a specter over the pole. The spirit took a liking to this new world, so rich in the diversity of life, so primitive, so barbaric in thought. Intellect was only just beginning to stir on this planet, taking its first timid and fearful steps. The spirit saw potential. In its infinite wisdom, it longed to realize all the wondrous possibilities that arose within it, time and time again. It yearned to give them new form, so it left its ship and merged with the bodies, minds, and hearts of the two-legged creatures inhabiting a small continent in the Northern Hemisphere.
From Poland to Denmark, the route ran through the Baltic Sea Tunnel, built at the end of the 21st century between the Gdańsk coast and the island of Zealand. From there, the line continued from Copenhagen – across the nearly eight-kilometer-long Øresund Bridge, opened at the beginning of the century – through Malmö, Göteborg, and Oslo, and then straight on to Trondheim, skirting the picturesque Scandinavian Mountains. Arina regretted that she wouldn’t be able to admire their beauty at night, but this way, she could reach Olaf before dawn, without wasting a single moment.
A few years earlier, she had learned to sleep on trains, and the monotonous clatter of the wheels lulled her to sleep more than it jolted her awake. She harbored an almost loving affection for the railway. The complex web of tracks, stretching more or less evenly across the continent, seemed to her like the natural circulatory system of a living organism. She couldn’t even imagine traveling any other way.
* * *
She loved to be alone in the quiet of the evening, in her cozy upstairs room. She would draw the curtains, reach for her DVD collection, and play the same film every time. She knew it by heart, so she didn’t bother watching the screen. Often, she turned off the picture entirely. She’d switch off the light, lie down in the darkness on her bed with her hands clasped behind her head, and listen.
She listened again and again, dozens, hundreds of times, until it hurt. She listened to the prelude to The Silent Invasion, a long introduction spoken in a deep, monotonous voice – a voice that evoked the darkest of mysteries, unsolved riddles, and stories of horror that sent shivers down her spine.
For thousands of years, they had traversed the cosmos in search of a new home. Their bodies withered and died, weary under the weight of countless generations, but their spirit – ancient and mighty – blazed brighter and more fiercely than ever before at the twilight of their existence. With their last strength, they built colossal vessels capable of crossing the unfathomed depths of the universe. They shed their dying flesh and boarded the ships, their fiery spirits shining like a million suns.
They sent their ships to every corner of the cosmos, no longer caring for their old planet, parched by the heat of their swelling sun. As they wandered through eons of light-years, the ancient spirit dreamed of a new home – a warm, young planet, lands carpeted with lush greenery, equatorial forests bursting with millions of life forms, waters hiding countless species in their depths. Their mighty thought, amplified a millionfold by their bodiless existence, fell in love with its own dream. The pure light yearned for the gentle twilight of ocean depths and the cathedrals of ancient wilderness.
Finally, one of their ships reached Earth and hovered like a specter over the pole. The spirit took a liking to this new world, so rich in the diversity of life, so primitive, so barbaric in thought. Intellect was only just beginning to stir on this planet, taking its first timid and fearful steps. The spirit saw potential. In its infinite wisdom, it longed to realize all the wondrous possibilities that arose within it, time and time again. It yearned to give them new form, so it left its ship and merged with the bodies, minds, and hearts of the two-legged creatures inhabiting a small continent in the Northern Hemisphere.
She fast-forwarded, stopping only when she reached another part. Then she’d lie down in the darkness again and listen over and over to the story of her own world.
Europeans had become unwitting pawns, unaware executors of the aggressor’s plans. Deprived of free will, stripped of their own desires, they served those who had ended their lives millions of light-years away on a dry, desiccated planet. With their hands, the spirit had erected the Barrier—a powerful force field separating Europe from the rest of the world. But mankind saw through the deceit of the Others. With heavy hearts, it was decided that those who were no longer human had to be sacrificed. It was too late to save them; the only mercy left was to end their suffering. For the first time in history, Earth united against a common enemy. Regular bombardments of Europe began, but the Barrier repelled the missiles. The energy shield protected the Others, hiding in all-too-familiar bodies, all too well. Yet the true humans did not give up...
Usually, she paused the disc at this point and went to the window. She’d stare intently at the night sky – an ordinary black sky, dotted with a swarm of stars. From time to time, a purple streak would cut through the void, and a distant, ominous hum would reach her ears. A shudder ran through her. The Barrier will hold, it will hold, she repeated to herself, but the unease would not fade.
Then she’d flop back onto the bed and hiss through clenched teeth:
“It’s all lies, vile American lies! None of this happened – they made it all up to mess with our heads, those damn soap opera space experts…”
Yet some force compelled her to start the whole ritual anew, until she was completely mentally exhausted. Finally, she’d fall asleep from sheer fatigue, and her dreams were always the same. She dreamed of annihilation and the end of the world.
* * *
Olaf knew. They didn’t see each other often, but they kept in constant touch via videophone. The relentless obsession with The Silent Invasion and the nightmares had left a deep mark on her psyche. The unnatural pallor of Arina’s sweet, slightly childlike face, her permanently dark-circled and bloodshot eyes from sleeplessness, and her tired voice – none of it could escape the notice of a loving friend.
Besides, Arina had no intention of keeping it a secret. She didn’t want to, and couldn’t, hide something that had shaken her to the core. To do so would have been, in a way, a lie to Olaf. On the contrary, she felt the need to share this nightmare with him, to find support in him. But Olaf refused to discuss it at all. He’d get angry at the slightest mention of The Silent Invasion, and his only advice, repeated without fail, boiled down to: “Stop wasting your time on that American nonsense once and for all.”
So Arina was left alone with her doubts. She buried her fear deep inside, searched for a way out of the labyrinth of her own emotions, and kept returning to the same dark place. She would never dream of confiding in her parents, and “perfect” Marta was no confidante either. She’d probably just open her eyes wide in astonishment and ask, in that calm, painstakingly practiced voice of a bureaucrat:
“Why waste your time and health on such things?”
In her most violent waves of despair, she cursed Pernilla Johansson in her mind – the only person she could blame, even if only partially, for her current state. She had met Pernilla Johansson, a Swede by birth but a permanent resident of Norway, at one of the social evenings for employees and supporters of the Norwegian-Polish Friendship Institute in Trondheim. Olaf had been preparing for an important university exam at the time, so he skipped the event. Arina, used to his constant presence during all her trips to Scandinavia, felt lost at first among the mostly older crowd, but she quickly regained her composure. Naturally sociable, she never shied away from people, eagerly making new acquaintances and deepening existing ones.
It was on that very fateful evening that she met Pernilla Johansson. The pleasant, fair-haired Swede, only four or five years older than Arina, took to her immediately. They discovered they shared many interests, including cinema. Pernilla seemed a bit stiff, as if trying at all costs to maintain a safe distance – but then, that was the case with most Scandinavians, at least at the beginning of an acquaintance. Over the years of her “romance” with the cold peninsula, Arina had learned not to expect effusive warmth from its inhabitants.
Their initially safe, casual conversation about new films soon veered into “dangerous” territory. It started innocently enough, with a brief mention of Tolkien’s work. Arina could sense exactly where Pernilla was heading. Continuing this conversation in any language, in a room full of people, would have been at least indiscreet.
The Swede slowly rose from the table and casually remarked in Norwegian:
“Forgive me, Arina, but my makeup needs a touch-up. We’ll finish this conversation in fifteen minutes.”
Her lips briefly formed the English words: “Come soon.”
Arina waited a few minutes for decency’s sake, then stood up with a feigned nonchalance and headed toward the ladies’ room. As she had expected, the bathroom was empty – except for Pernilla Johansson, powdering her neat little nose.
“I have The Lord of the Rings,” Arina blurted out immediately. “All three parts. It’s a great piece of art, even if it is American. I’d be happy to lend it to you, but as you can imagine, it’ll be a bit tricky. I have them at home, not here…”
Pernilla pressed a finger to her lips, as if Arina’s torrent of words meant no more to her than last year’s snow. Arina fell silent, slightly offended. This conspiracy struck her as rather ridiculous. In the European Federation, owning or watching films made in USA was either illegal or at least in poor taste. Though, as far as she knew, no one had ever been truly punished for it. American new releases and classics still found their way in, through channels known only to themselves. Always available like fresh pastries, they waited “under the counter” in every multimedia shop. All you had to do was ask. If you looked hard enough, you’d find at least a few such discs in every European home. And yet, many fans of American cinema would rather die than admit to such interests in public. Screenings usually took place only among family and closest friends.
Arina wished this whole matter would finally stop being an open secret. Why illegalize and ban something everyone does anyway? she argued passionately to her loved ones. Why couldn’t American films, which still sparked great interest in Europe, simply be legally sold and shown in theaters?
“What are you talking about, Arina?” Jacek, her brother-in-law, seemed genuinely astonished, even slightly scandalized by the girl’s idea. “Get such nonsense out of your head. It’s the only way we can defend ourselves against their flood of trash. Otherwise, they’d drown us again in their mass-produced garbage in the blink of an eye.”
“That’s not what I meant to say,” Pernilla finally spoke, with a hint of amusement. “I’m not interested in classics. Have you seen The Silent Invasion?”
“No. Should I?”
“Maybe… Maybe everyone should see that film.”
The fair-haired girl threw the sentence into the void, as if forgetting Arina for a moment. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, and her eyes took on a glazed, distant look.
“What kind of film is it?”
“You’ll see for yourself. It’s some kind of science fiction. You know, an alien civilization traveling through the galaxy, and things like that.”
“In that case, I’ll definitely like it. I bought all nine episodes of Star Wars last year…”
“No!” Pernilla cut her off abruptly. She gripped the edges of the sink tightly, and her eyes flashed with something wild, almost mad. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, girl! The Silent Invasion isn’t some cheap space saga. It’s something… entirely different. But it’s all lies anyway! I don’t believe a single word of it…
Arina could hardly believe her eyes. The Swede, who just minutes ago had been so composed, almost dignified in her perfect self-control, now trembled with inner turmoil, barely restrained. So what was The Silent Invasion? What terrible secret did it hold? Her suddenly awakened, feverish fascination demanded satisfaction – and as quickly as possible.
She got the film the day after returning to Poland. She satisfied her curiosity, but soon came to regret it. The Silent Invasion wrapped itself treacherously around her heart like bindweed, day by day robbing the girl of her sanity, stealing her peace, destroying forever her faith in everything that had seemed to her as solid and enduring as the very foundation of the world just yesterday. It brought nightmares, erected an impassable wall between her and Olaf. There was no escape, no way out of this madness – for that would mean admitting that all those horrors couldn’t have, shouldn’t have happened.
And yet, everything seemed to say that the film wasn’t lying.
So Arina was left alone with her doubts. She buried her fear deep inside, searched for a way out of the labyrinth of her own emotions, and kept returning to the same dark place. She would never dream of confiding in her parents, and “perfect” Marta was no confidante either. She’d probably just open her eyes wide in astonishment and ask, in that calm, painstakingly practiced voice of a bureaucrat:
“Why waste your time and health on such things?”
In her most violent waves of despair, she cursed Pernilla Johansson in her mind – the only person she could blame, even if only partially, for her current state. She had met Pernilla Johansson, a Swede by birth but a permanent resident of Norway, at one of the social evenings for employees and supporters of the Norwegian-Polish Friendship Institute in Trondheim. Olaf had been preparing for an important university exam at the time, so he skipped the event. Arina, used to his constant presence during all her trips to Scandinavia, felt lost at first among the mostly older crowd, but she quickly regained her composure. Naturally sociable, she never shied away from people, eagerly making new acquaintances and deepening existing ones.
It was on that very fateful evening that she met Pernilla Johansson. The pleasant, fair-haired Swede, only four or five years older than Arina, took to her immediately. They discovered they shared many interests, including cinema. Pernilla seemed a bit stiff, as if trying at all costs to maintain a safe distance – but then, that was the case with most Scandinavians, at least at the beginning of an acquaintance. Over the years of her “romance” with the cold peninsula, Arina had learned not to expect effusive warmth from its inhabitants.
Their initially safe, casual conversation about new films soon veered into “dangerous” territory. It started innocently enough, with a brief mention of Tolkien’s work. Arina could sense exactly where Pernilla was heading. Continuing this conversation in any language, in a room full of people, would have been at least indiscreet.
The Swede slowly rose from the table and casually remarked in Norwegian:
“Forgive me, Arina, but my makeup needs a touch-up. We’ll finish this conversation in fifteen minutes.”
Her lips briefly formed the English words: “Come soon.”
Arina waited a few minutes for decency’s sake, then stood up with a feigned nonchalance and headed toward the ladies’ room. As she had expected, the bathroom was empty – except for Pernilla Johansson, powdering her neat little nose.
“I have The Lord of the Rings,” Arina blurted out immediately. “All three parts. It’s a great piece of art, even if it is American. I’d be happy to lend it to you, but as you can imagine, it’ll be a bit tricky. I have them at home, not here…”
Pernilla pressed a finger to her lips, as if Arina’s torrent of words meant no more to her than last year’s snow. Arina fell silent, slightly offended. This conspiracy struck her as rather ridiculous. In the European Federation, owning or watching films made in USA was either illegal or at least in poor taste. Though, as far as she knew, no one had ever been truly punished for it. American new releases and classics still found their way in, through channels known only to themselves. Always available like fresh pastries, they waited “under the counter” in every multimedia shop. All you had to do was ask. If you looked hard enough, you’d find at least a few such discs in every European home. And yet, many fans of American cinema would rather die than admit to such interests in public. Screenings usually took place only among family and closest friends.
Arina wished this whole matter would finally stop being an open secret. Why illegalize and ban something everyone does anyway? she argued passionately to her loved ones. Why couldn’t American films, which still sparked great interest in Europe, simply be legally sold and shown in theaters?
“What are you talking about, Arina?” Jacek, her brother-in-law, seemed genuinely astonished, even slightly scandalized by the girl’s idea. “Get such nonsense out of your head. It’s the only way we can defend ourselves against their flood of trash. Otherwise, they’d drown us again in their mass-produced garbage in the blink of an eye.”
“That’s not what I meant to say,” Pernilla finally spoke, with a hint of amusement. “I’m not interested in classics. Have you seen The Silent Invasion?”
“No. Should I?”
“Maybe… Maybe everyone should see that film.”
The fair-haired girl threw the sentence into the void, as if forgetting Arina for a moment. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, and her eyes took on a glazed, distant look.
“What kind of film is it?”
“You’ll see for yourself. It’s some kind of science fiction. You know, an alien civilization traveling through the galaxy, and things like that.”
“In that case, I’ll definitely like it. I bought all nine episodes of Star Wars last year…”
“No!” Pernilla cut her off abruptly. She gripped the edges of the sink tightly, and her eyes flashed with something wild, almost mad. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, girl! The Silent Invasion isn’t some cheap space saga. It’s something… entirely different. But it’s all lies anyway! I don’t believe a single word of it…
Arina could hardly believe her eyes. The Swede, who just minutes ago had been so composed, almost dignified in her perfect self-control, now trembled with inner turmoil, barely restrained. So what was The Silent Invasion? What terrible secret did it hold? Her suddenly awakened, feverish fascination demanded satisfaction – and as quickly as possible.
She got the film the day after returning to Poland. She satisfied her curiosity, but soon came to regret it. The Silent Invasion wrapped itself treacherously around her heart like bindweed, day by day robbing the girl of her sanity, stealing her peace, destroying forever her faith in everything that had seemed to her as solid and enduring as the very foundation of the world just yesterday. It brought nightmares, erected an impassable wall between her and Olaf. There was no escape, no way out of this madness – for that would mean admitting that all those horrors couldn’t have, shouldn’t have happened.
And yet, everything seemed to say that the film wasn’t lying.
to be continued...
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