Book Review: On the Beach by Nevil Shute

Bem... eu irei escrever este review em portugues porque talvez pela primeira vez as palavras falhem-me em ingles... On the Beach... vi este livro juntamente com outros que tenho sobre catastrofes apocalipticas aonde o mundo muda radicalmente... Desde meteoritos que embatem na terra (Lucifer's Hammer) um virus (The Stand ou Earth Abides (nao é so uns virus mas fica no geral) ataques nucleares (Alas Babylon, On the Ship e On the Beach).
On the Beach é um pouco diferente do habitual... escrito em 1957 no apogeu da corrida as armas nucleares, era um assunto que movia muita gente... tinha se visto o que acontecera em Nagasaki e Hiroshima e o crescimento de outras nações as armas nucleares como a URSS e a China.
Bem aqui a história diverge (por acaso vamos aos livros que mais aprecio (sem ser fantasia) os livros de historias alternativas... ou mais conhecidas como WHAT IF?), a história em si nada interessa.. nao interessa quem começou a guerra ou o porque (embora expliquem)..

Antes de fazer o review a uma coisa que desde o principio até ao fim me supreendeu que foi a história... para quem leu vai comprender e para quem nao leu eu vou dizer agora.. nao existe nenhum preposito ou objectivo.
Todos os livros sao dedicados a variados assuntos .. desde um livro que fala de amor e traiçao, um sobre a vida ou a morte, sobre a vingança, sobre o raio que o parta mas fala de algo... este livro não. Este livro trata de como as pessoas ficam impavidas a espera da morte... impavidas nem é o termo, inconscientes/conscientes..

Bem o livro é o seguinte.. começa com um tenente da marinha que é colocado num submarino americano que estava ao servico da austrália.. Estamos em Dezembro (mes do calor para os australianos) a um ano e meio que todo o hemisfério norte tinha desaparecido sobre uma nuvem de poeira radioctiva.. tudo morreu... desde pessoas, a animais.. engraçado ou nao , nao fazem referencia a arvores..
Bem neste momento da história um ano e meio depois a nuvem cobre todo o hemisfério norte, (eu tou morto e toda a gente) e ja chegou a indonesia no estreito do equador... no norte demorou alguns dias para tudo estar contaminado mas para sul é um pouco diferente.. para quem se lembra de estar nas aulas de geografia do 9 ano, eu vou explicar mto facilmente.. existem ventos no hemisfério norte que nao vao para o sul directamente.. ou melhor nenhum vai, todos param no equador, e por sua vez algum tempo depois passam para o hemisferio sul.. e como nem eu percebi o que disse ponho aqui uma imagem

















o que acontece é que demoram anos até os ventos do norte chegar ao sul.. e melhor ainda ficaram com o mapa.. muito bem, este historia passa-se em fallmouth uma terra no sul da australia.. a direita e em baixo.. ao pé da ilha da tasmania..
Bem seja como for eles sabem que até setembro do ano a seguir toda a australia estará contaminada.. nao existe nada a fazer pk toda a terra estara contaminada..
Primeiro pensei.. vao para a nova zelandia que é mais a sul ou entao para a antartica mas nao vale a pena pk só estao a atrasar a morte algumas semanas... (engraçado ou nao, as pessoas do hemisfério norte nao fogem para o sul... estranho)

Nao existe nenhuma maneira de escapar.. lembro-vos que isto foi em 1957, nao havia computadores ou satelites ainda.. bem eles começaram a receber um som de seatle.. embora os técnicos dizesem que nao era nada eles quiseram saber se passado quase dois anos talvez a terra tivese boa para viver mas foi em vão.. nada existia lá.. tudo morto, tudo pacifico.
Para quem nao percebe a dimensao de um ataque nuclear, lembrem-se de chernobyl.. demorou 20 anos até alguém poder viver lá livre, e mesmo assim nao podem comer nada vindo dali pk embora o ar esteja pronto a ser respirado a radiaçao inflitrou-se na natureza, contaminou os animais que comem ervas.. vai demorar 100 anos para tudo estar bom para viver...

Como na maioria dos livros de destruiçao macica que nós lemos, ou vemos na televisao os humanos tentam lutar de alguma maneira, por mais futil que seja.. quem nao se lembra daquele filme o qual nao me recorda o titulo (armaggedon creio eu)em que eles constroem uma nave especial para ir destruir um meteoritio ou entao o Dia depois de amanha em que devido a uma idade do gelo as pessoas vao para sul? Os humanos reagem.. este livro nao há maneira de reagir.. nao podem fugir para nenhum lado, nao podem construir bunkers pk sem tecnologia nao havia maneira de "fabricar" e purificar o ar.. nao poderiam viver lá 100 anos... (embora no jogo KKND ou Falloout e entre outros eles tenham feito isso..)
Temos que ter consciencia que pela tecnologia é bastante antiga.. nao esquecer que ngn tinha inventado um computador mais retrogado que fosse.. nem um satelite.. enfim... as pessoas poderiam entrar em panico, mas faltavam 2 anos para morrerem. Que horrivel por Veles...
As pessoas dizem .. quem me dera saber quando vou morrer.. assim aproveito á grande mas é mentira. Ninguém consegueria fazer isso...
Bem.. mas saber que tudo é futil, cada um reage de maneira diferente... perguntei-me varias vezes que faria eu se soubese que o fim está proximo mas assim tanto tb nao.. 2 anos?
Pensem voces tb... continuariam os estudos e os trabalhos? Entrariam numa bebedeira descomunal ou festas dubidosas? Como seria? dificil predizer ou prever...
(Isto é deprimente.. nunca tive tanto prazer e ao mesmo tempo tristeza ao escrever algo)
Bem nesta história as pessoas continuam a viver como podem... ja nao existe petroleo, os carros na sua maioria ja nao andam, os barcos estao parados... mas de qq modo continuam a viver o mais normlamente possivel.. ngn para.. embora alguns tendam em ir até aos extremos.. alguns vao para festas todos os dias mas a maioria continuam a trabalhar no campo ou na cidade...

O mais estranho de tudo é o seguinte.. as pessoas fazem planos para o futuro!?!.. raios como podem elas o fazer? uns constroem um dique e uma cerca na sua quinta (para ser util numa altura que nao estarão lá), outros plantam legumes para o ano a seguir.. uma das personagem principais que é americano, tinha uma mulher na america a dois anos morta e ele sabe-lo e no entanto fala dela no presente, compra prendas para os filhos para quando os vir.. enfim.. a mulher do outro personagem principal nao consegue captar que a filha (de um ano) vai morrer.. ela sabe que vai morrer mas nao mentaliza o fado da filha... enfim.. coisas que a data leitura apetecia-me saltar para a história e dar uma chapada a cada um e dizer "ACORDEM PARA A VIDA!"
No entanto nao o fiz.. não o fiz pk como disse, foi um dos livros que mais pensei e meditei... eles vivem mas esquecem-se do futuro proximo... da morte..
O livro é lento, mas torna-se muito rapido no ultimo capitulo.. ai é choradeira total.. sao para ai 30 paginas e digo-vos passei todas elas com os olhos em agua ou a chorar.. a momentos tinha que parar pk nao conseguia ver .. totalmente melancolico. Nunca vi nada assim.. nenhum livro ou filme.. eu sou um gajo que tem a mania de chorar pelas personagens mas estas 30 paginas foram demais.. li noutros reviews no amazon que eles tb choravam.. nunca duvidei e até digo mais .. I DARE SOMEONE! Aposto que ngn consegue ler o livro todo o nao chorar... nao acredito...

Tamos no ano 1957 ou 59 quando foi escrito.. eutanasia? o que é isso? nao existia tal coisa...
E estas personagens tiveram que escolher... ou morrem da radiaçao e diga-se de paisagem nao é bonito.. mais doloroso que a colera e morres com falta de sal e agua (sabiam?)
bem.. é terrivel... 3 ou 4 dias..
O escritor para além de querer mostrar ao mundo a decadencia do caminho que as grandes potencias levavam (eu como amante das guerras, e nao vejo isso como um lado negativo humano, nunca gostei muito da polvora, muito menos das bombas atomicas... nao tem qq tipo de dignidade ou honra... )
para além disso ele tb mexe em outros conceitos... a eutanasia é outro, o papel das mulheres na sociedade outro.. e ainda diz lá mal do nacionalismo.. (embora seja só uma frase) ele culpa o nacionalismo aquilo que aconteceu.. embora neste momento sabemos que guerra fria foi mto mais que nacionalismo...

As personagens como ia a dizer tem de escolher entre morrer assim ou matarem-se com cianeto.. escolhem cianeto as personagens principais, excepto o capitão..
Gostava de escrever o que acontece mas para voces, nao iam saber a nada.. nem emotividade iriam mostrar pk nao viveram o livro..
há uma que acho importanto nevertheless..
Um casal com a filha de um ano.. um dos pais tem que matar a filha... nao há outra maneira.. ou eles morrem e a filha fica viva mais uns dias sozinha.. ou entao morre antes.. nao podem.. eles tem que matar-la... que emoçao, que amor pela criança..
a mulher deita-se, veste o pijama, mto doente.. o marido aquece um chá... pega na filha e da-lhe leite... acaricia e da-lhe para a mae beijar.. da-lhe a injeccao e coloca-a no berço ja desfalecida.. veste o pijama.. da o leite a ela.. e bebem-no... ela agarra-se a ele e diz-lhe que pelo menos vamos todos juntos... diz-lhe que sempre o amou e agradece-o por tudo o que fez por ela... ele beija-a e diz-lhe que ama-a e tomam o cianeto...
mal sabia ela as palavras que ela disse.. a radiaçao afecta todos, mas alguns conseguem reagir e ficar melhor, nao dura mais de 10 dias.. depois morrem mesmo, e ele ficou bom.. ele poderia se ter levantado e ido sei lá para onde... 10 dias de vida... mas ele recusa-se.. ela é tudo para ele.. a filha era tudo para ele.. 10 dias de vida.. para que? mais vale assim...

A história continua com as mortes das personagens todas.... as lagrimas correm pelas bochechas.. Pergunto-me se alguém conseguirá ler livro sem emotividade... aposto que nao.. eu sei que não.. é pena nao ter em portugues senao comprava e emprestava a todos.. leiam em ingles.. é facil leitura... existe um filme tb..

Nao existe nenhum livro tao triste e melancolico como este.... considerado por muitos prémios como o livro mais triste até hoje escrito... acreditei quando li as reviews... e agora sou mais um deles... comprem-no.. vale a pena...
O livro tem erros..coisas que ele diz sobre a radiaçao (que na altura nao se sabia), a escrita é facil mas ele segue tudo em frente.. é capaz de estar a falar de uma personagem num sitio e no paragrafo a seguinte ja é outra.. nao há palha... ele diz que vai e no paragrafo a seguir ele tá lá .. nao conseguo explicar-me mas nao é grave...

Acabado isto, vou-vos dizer algo... acabnado o livro eu senti-me mal... nao conseguia parar de chorar.. depois veio o ódio e a furia a vida .. a vida futil que ela é... eles tinham dois anos, eu tenho quantos? 1 dia? 1 ano? 1 decada? 5 decadas? nao sei..
Perguntei-me pk raios estou aqui e pk raios estou vivo e nao consigo perceber nada... a morte é algo que nao me incomoda.. o que me incomoda profundamente é o que há para além da morte... por mais que leia nunca hei-de saber e isso irrita-me.. pk? agora que escrevo e analiso sei o pk.. pk eu nao controlo isso.. pk eu nao sei o que existe e nao poso saber.. logo nao controlo ou nao posso controlar.. tudo o resto eu posso... tudo.. a morte é a unica coisa que nao posso..... e peço desculpa pela linguagem, foda-se para a merda da vida e a nossa existencia.. somos peoes... apenas peoes que nao sabem para aonde vao, nem de onde vem.. (como dizia aquele quadro ou filosofo ou raio que o parta)
Desculpem este desabafo mas precisava de escrever...
(nada do que eu disse da treta de vida significa que nao sou feliz, pk até me considero, apenas nao gosto de sentir-me uma marioneta..)
Enfim, deuses.. aqueles que me ouvem, os meus deuses ja sabem o que eu penso de tudo.. e eles nao me deixam ficar mal.. nunca deixaram, nao é agora que vão...

Esta é a capa do livro que nao quiz por no principio pk nao queria que passasem a frente pk pensariam que é um review.. e é mais que isso....



Author : Nevil Shute
Pages : 280
Edited : 1959

Film

Theatrical Release Date: December 17, 1959
Production Company: Lomitas Productions Inc.
Actors: Gregory Peck, Ava Gardner, Fred Astaire, Anthony Perkins, Donna Anderson...
Directors: Stanley Perkins
Não reli o texto.. se tiver erros.. peço desculpa.

Book Review: Orphans of the Sky - Robert A Heinlein

This was my first book of this author. Famous for Starship Troopers. This book is small with only 209 pages. I don't know if I like it or not. Lol. This is unusual but the book as some good things and some bad.

First I must say that this book was written in 1951. I read another site which said at 1961. So it was around that time. He was one of first to write scientific/military genre.

This story is about a crew close in traditions. Who live in a "world" called Ship of Jordan. Jordan is the name of their god. They use the converter to put the dead in. They are divided in small villages on the bottom decks. The upper decks are ruled by muties (mutants). There are a difference of weight from bottom to the upper deck. The upper deck where is the main control room and the captain verandah is a zone of no-weight.

Well this is a story about a boy (a technician-to-be) who is exploring the mutie land and his capture. One of the muties leader with two heads takes him to see the control room and to end his arrogance and almost fanatical blindess of the laws of Jordan.

The boy starts to ask questions and have a "brilliant" ideia to get the chief enginner to make him see what he have seen. The starts and the Travel.

So he gets to the bottom and sees the chief-tech who arrests him as a heretical. He is under-arrested when the muties come and rescue him and take with them the chief-tech.

Well the story goes on with their quest to make the ship moving and getting to a planet.

Well the plot it's good but there are some flaws.

First - It's too damn easy the plot.

Second - It's too short (I guess that why is easy)

Third - Womans, do no read this book. The woman here are seen as animals who are only to procriate. In one part when they are escaping the main character shove the womans inside with his foot(and this is his wife). (the womans are seen as retarted in my point of view)

In overall.. I don't recommend this book unless you like books about Generation Ships.

Read his Starship Trooper. It's Great.

Tell Tale Lore (IV): The Story of the Painter

The story of the painter

When the moon was high in the sky the inn was full.
The inn of the black cat, in the city of Dale, was open to anyone. From the noble who wanted to enjoy the things he was unable to do while surrounded by others of his rank, to the merchant who didn't need to fear from thieving while enjoying a cup of ale. It was a safe haven. There was un-spoken truce between two rival gangs battling in the street or between bandits and the imperial guard.
There the assassins could drink and meet their sponsors without fear. There the travellers could sip a cup of ale while telling a tale. That was the main reason for the popularity. It wasn't the safe haven or the ale. It was the tales.
There were tales about the ancient history, about the elves and dwarves, about foreign lands and ancient treasuries.


Tonight the inn was full, as always. There were four imperial guards sitting in a table drinking some ale. By the crest in his helmet one of the imperial guards was a sergeant. The other three were already too drunk and they were just bursting into laugh by some previous anecdote. Soon the three imperial guards fell on the table and went to sleep. The sergeant got up and took the bottle of whiskey that was half empty (or was it half full?) and ask an un-spoken question to a group who were playing cards. With a kick in a chair the question and permission was granted and the guard sat.


In this group there was one dwarf with a greyish beard and an axe (?) back on the chair. He had a small purse which hung in his belt. If the dwarf were in other part of the city of Dale that purse would now hug in a pocket of a cutthroat and the dwarf dead in a alley. There was one human with a scar in his left eye and a famous hat with an emblem which had an opaque eagle grabbing a long spear with his extremity drenched in blood. That was the hat wore by a regiment of horse-riders of Niask, who were conquered by the imperial army thirty years before. The use of such emblem was seen as treason to the empire and consequently punished by dead by hanging. In the opposite end sat a beautiful woman who wore some foreign brownish leather armour and with two curve swords cross over on her back. She had some runic words written on her forehead which continue with tattoos in her face and were lost beneath her clothes. That display of mysticism and warrior-like made her more beautiful than any other women in the inn. Not the waitress nor the whores working for the inn, and even not the noblewomen, dressed in the finest clothes of silk and painted with the most exotic make-ups who came to the inn seeking debauched lusts which were denied to them ‘cause of the role of husband’s ranks, were more beautiful than her.


The bottle was now empty with a twin sister near it also empty. The sounds of coins tinkle and jingle on the table and the human with the hat burst into laugh. The dwarf roared something in his native language, which made the female smirk. The sergeant drop his head and muttered something to the table and tried to get up which he found impossible since he didn’t controlled his legs in perfect conditions and fell again supporting himself in the back of the his chair making it crack.
Some outsiders moved instantly to the back of the human and congratulated him tapping him and smiling too.
“And what will it buy you, friend? A few friends for the evening? They’ll soon forget your name once the money is lost?”
The human turn around to face the person who had spoken. Dress in a robe which resemble a mage or a priest, was a person. The robes were of a greyish colour with no ornaments. It had it’s face was hidden in the blackness of the hood of his robes.
“-If you’re jealous of my winnings, why don’t you join us for a game? Ask the human without stopping smiling and playing with his new golden friends.
The covered creature in the robes give a faint chuckle.
“-Oh, I have more money than I can count, friend, for what is worth, but it cannot buy back all that I have lost.” At the sound of its last words, the voice cracked and the gamble partners knew he was a she. The human stiffened in its chair. The dwarf and the female turn around to meet the stranger. They were attracted by the words and the voice of the strange woman. “Let me tell you a tale of wealth, my friend… and its true cost.”


“My name is Svetlana Kolinsky, and once I could have been the greatest artist in all empire.” All around the bar, the conversations stop and stare at the female. Even the bartender stop serving drinks and look at her. “My works were in the homes of the city’s great and good, but I had eyes on an even more influential patron…I wanted to serve the Arch Lector Von Wasmeier. The count of my home city, Cram Nud.
Cram Nud was a city in the far east of the empire and with more than four hundred and fifty thousand souls. It was a rich city by any empire standard. It had some of the most beautiful churches and chapels to Prakiea, the patron god of the Empire. There it was said that Prakiea had been born over three thousand years ago and joined every barbarian tribes to the greatest that was the Empire. There, too, had the most pious and zealous priests and servants of god.
Cram Nud was the centre of the art world. All the ones who wanted to be known throughout the empire had to join the Empire Art University. All famous and most rich artists had come from that university. Who didn’t know the famous painter of the cathedral of Prakiea, Hans Hubbel? Or the most notorious comedian Karl Johan Kurst and its Empire Theatre?
Von Wasmeier was known throughout the region as one of Prakiea most pious servants. His zealous punishment of the faithless was legendary. In fact, his love of a vengeful god was matched only by his love of artworks depicting that god. That love he had came from the very foundation of the city and of course the famous ancestors who were known to be one of Cram Nud’s most talent families.
The castle where it laid the sword of Prakiea and where was the home of the Von Wasmeier family had two thirds of all art that came from it.
And as work neared completion on his new chapel on the outskirts of Cram Nud, I saw my chance to impress him with my skills

To the artists of Cram Nud...


Arch Lector Von Wasmeier requires a work of the utmost holiness to be displayed as the crowning glory of his new chapel. All entries are to depict Lord Prakiea, and by created in the spirit of utmost piety befitting such a subject. The arch lector himself will choose the piece, and the chosen artist will receive the sum of 5000 crowns.Three months ago as I walked past the main street of Cram Nud I saw a poster that said:

It was wealth beyond my most fevered imaginings. It was the opportunity I had to be famous throughout the land.
I set work immediately.
I started working frantically. I work by night and day. I ignored my husband-to-be. I lost some of my weight from bad nutrition and got sick. But still I didn’t stop. I gave everything I had. As the weeks went by, however I realised to my horror that my muse had deserted me utterly. As I felt the prize slipping through my fingers I began to despair.
I began to cry and enter depression.
But fate plays strange tricks and when I was least expecting it, I stumbled across an old friend and lover – the artist Johann Sparsam.
At that time I was in a tavern called Death’s Serenade, a strong name but it was as far from true. It was a place where every artist who wanted to get famous went. It was a refugee. Many of the young artists who wanted to secure a name for them were founded by patrons there. And there I was trying to get so drunk that I wanted only to wake up after the end of the contest when to my dismay I learnt that only had Johann also entered the competition, but he felt that his new piece was the best work he had ever committed to canvas.
Dazed with alcohol and jealousy I stumbled back to his studio to see his masterpiece. Well I didn’t stumble, He stumbled, and I seduced him. I wanted to see it.
It was magnified. And then something strange happened to me.
Rage took me and by Prakiea I committed something that I didn’t knew I could do it. I took Johann out of the balcony and he fell to the his death.
Then as he lay bleeding, another kind of madness came over me.. I look once again at his beautiful painting of Prakiea, and I had another wonderful ideia.


The day came when all the artists came into the Arch Lector Von Wasmeier and he said:
“It’s divine in its perfection! I can only t hink that the spirit of our father Prakiea himself must have guided you when you created such a masterpiece.
Johann’s painting was brilliant and no-one could contest it.


“So what is your problem stranger?” – Asked the dwarf “You won the gold and the patronage of a powerful priest. I fail to see your point.
“Avarice is a trap waiting to be sprung. I won the prize but lost the one thing I truly needed.” Said Svetlana Kolinsky.
After I’ve received the prize money and seen the general appreciation of the nobles, Von Wasmeier approached me and took me at side into a small room and said:
“Your skills are such magnificence, that it troubles me to think of them being used on any less worthy subjects. The results could be nothing less than heretical.” Is voice was calm and he added “I feel duty-bound to ensure you work for no one else.”
Svetlana unveiled her hood and the companions at the table were taken aback. For the first time they seen her face. Her lips twisted in a wicked smile.
“My sight.”
Her eyes were gone from their sockets.

This story was began at XVII/I/MMVI by the fullmoon blessed by Felicitas, the roman goddess of good fortune.It was then finished at XXI/V/MMVI.
This story was inspired in Darius Hink story/BD. Printed in the Warhammer - Tales from the Ten-Tailed Cat.
Dedicated to my girlfriend Mina.


17/January in celtic traditions, on this day the rite of Wassailing apple trees is performed. Cider is poured over the roots of the trees, and a chant is offered to drive off evil influences and make the trees fertile (but I won't tell you).
The word wassail is from the archaic/old english for "be of good health".

Tell Tale Lore (III): The Dead Man

The fog was so dense that the guards in the double doors couldn’t see each other. The temperature drop so fast that the armour in the bodies of the guards chilled their bones.
“Damn, what in name of Lëba is going on?” asked the guard in the east side of the door.
Franz “It’s cold as death, Friedich.” Laugh heartlessly the other guard. “Thank the gods we are going to be relieved in half an hour.”
“T-This weather creep me out Franz. Something unworldly is going to happen. This change is unnatural.” said Friedich.
“You are a coward Friedich.” riposted Franz. “I know you came from a tribe which believes in other things son. I promise you there aren’t here any undead beings here.” add “Now be quiet, its thirty minutes from relieve and you know the rules.”
“No talks.” – concluded Friedich.


*


A warrior wearing full plate armour throttled down the road. The fog was dense but still the warrior could see beyond the human reach. The fire of the lanterns in the house burned bright.
The warrior grabbed the hilt of his sword and walk forward to the building in front of him.
There were two guards in the entrance.
One of each was talking to the other. The other guard if he was listening didn’t say nothing and neither looked. It was like a statue.The warrior was now at 20 meters but still the warriors didn’t see it. The fog was getting denser.


*


“Did you hear that Franz?” – asked Friedich with a startled voice.
“It is nothing, probably a mouse” – said Franz. His voice was no longer a full confident one.
“It was the sound of steel. Which mouse wears steel Franz?” shouted Friedich unknowing that his voice was rising.
“Be quiet you! I will take a look. Go stand near the bell alarm.”
The warrior took his sword and walked forward. “Damn kid stories.”


*


The full plate warrior saw the guard walking with one hand stretching forward. Apparently he didn’t have his eyes. The warrior started to move with his plate jingling. The guard stopped and asked something. When his mouth open to ask again no sound came. A sword was impaled in his throat.


*


“Franz? What happened?” His voice was cracking with fear. “It’s you coming? Why won’t you say anything? Stop scaring me man.”
The forms of a warrior appeared. It was to dark to the guard to comprehend at first what it was. Then the being was only 5 meters away. Friedich mouth was wide open. No voice came out. The fear was so intense that he could not ring the alarm bell. His pants were full of uncontrollable dejection. The warrior raised his sword and the guard fell dead. A pool of piss mixed with blood.


*


He open the door with such strength that the doors smashed into the wall with a noisy sound making the white marble of the wall fall. Several guards appeared from the west and east wing. Even outnumbered six to one, the warrior was in advantage. The face of the guards was of pure fear.
The warrior was in bright silver full plate armour, lacquered a deep blood red and chased with bronze accents. The sword was almost one meter and a half. It was almost as bigger as the warrior. His head was entirely encased in an elaborate helmet, build to look like a dragon’s head.
The very sight of him turned the guards blood to water. But if not enough for a man quake himself he had gruesome features of a ghostly dead pale face.
The guards for moments didn’t moved at that was enough for the warrior to raise his sword and dropped it in an arc. The guard in front of him felled headless and the one next to him went red with the blood of his comrade. The despair in his eyes make him quake. He tried to run, but the warrior was blocking the only way out. Despair came with a scream and he raise his axe, but it never came down. The sword of the warrior impaled him through his lungs making him ascend from the ground. The guard wasn’t fat but neither was he lean. Yet he had raised him like he had nothing in his sword. The scream of the impaled soldier was so scaring that one and then another dropped his sword and run away to the door. But they never got out. The sword of the warrior cut from the lungs to the head and got free just to plunge into the bodies of the soldiers who tried to run. One got his arm severed and the other with his back slashed. That is the fate of the cowards.
The guards still remaining fled and went to the dormitory where the remaining soldiers were getting dressed.It was the solstice of winter, the smallest day of the year. Each year the realm made a great celebration to all gods as a sign of a coming of a new year. In the Mayor’s House only a small contingent of guards were guarding it. Six guards were already dead. The warrior walked through the door the guards had just fled. A bifurcation and he turn left and then right. Many paintings were on the walls. Most of them were with naked woman or other lustful situations. His plate was scratching the corridor that was too small.He open the door in the end of the corridor just to be confronted with the remaining guards and one other human with expensive clothing.
“I don’t know who or what you are, but you have made a bad decision. You will die invader.” said the human holding a pistol with his right hand. “Kill him.”
The four remaining guards were now with four crossbows and fired the bolts. In that range nobody missed. Two of them ricocheted in the armour but the other two strike home. One went to heart piercing to the armour and the other to the joint. The gun blasted into his armour making the creature draw one step back.
But still the warrior did not fell.
The warrior started to move towards the attackers when the pistollier shot more five rounds. All of them hit he armour. But that didn’t slow the warrior.
“What a hell are you” Ask the pistollier. “Why won’t you die?”
The warrior stopped and said something that made the guards feeling a chill so intense that some of them dropped their weapons. It was like being hit by the cold gale of the mountains but instead of being ripped apart from the outside it was like the wind was inside them.
“You cannot kill me, ‘cause I am already dead” – The voice was harsh and hard. “I was a soldier fighting in the eastern front. Then I was killed in one ambush by our enemies. I thought that when I die I was going to the afterlife to wait for my wife. But it was not that, that happened. I remained behind. The boatmen that should have taken me to the other side said that I was not going. When I ask him why, he said I had a last quest. And then when I was coming back I saw something that made me cry. I didn’t remember the last time, if I had ever cried. But I did then. It was my wife and child. They were there. DEAD” The warrior shriek so loud that one soldier fell to his knees covering his ears. “They were dead! She said to me, that you “pointing to the pistollier” had gone to our house saying that I was dead and now she needed another husband. And when she said she didn’t want anyone, you raped her. “His voice was cracking, visually disturbed.
"The gods granted me a chance to avenge my wife and child. I will kill you all.” Added the warrior.With a leap and his sword with an arc he stroke down two guards, bumping against the pistollier making his sword drop to the ground.The guard who was in his knees tried to raise his sword to block the attacker but the sword cracked and his head was smashed by the giant sword of the ghost.
The pistollier grabbed a sword of a comrade and prepared to face the warrior.
“Who are you spirit?” – asked the pistollier.
“Don’t you recognize your own brother, Jürgen?” – said the warrior.
The warrior pierced his giant sword through the belly of Jürgen, who didn’t try to defend himself. His face was of pure shock, like he was bedazzled.
The last guard run to the backyard, screaming to arms, where all company was celebrating.
The body of the pistollier fell to the ground. For moments the warrior looked to the broken body of his brother. Always his brother had envy the wife he had. With the dead of a husband, the brother had the privilege to marry the wife of the deceased. Except if the deceased has already a son. This is a law to protect the lineage.
The warrior left the room through the door the last guard had fled. It was a giant yard with almost two hundred meters large. The guard had already alerted the companions. Waiting the warrior were now the remaining ninety guards of Jürgen.
Each commander had one hundred soldiers. When Jürgen had rape his wife, the soldiers had watched laughing. Some of them raped her too. The wrath of the dead man was not only to his brother but with all of his guards.
The guards had closed the doors leading to the forest. The fog had dispersed and now the bright full moon shone. The dead man smiled.


“One by one they died
A massacre that took all night
They had no chance, it was no fight
You can't kill what has been killed before They died...”


This was a text I made some time ago after seeing my favorite wrestler.That day I remember all matches I saw in my youth and the ones I see now...
May you (Undertaker) never rest in peace and live forever!
My thanks go also to Mina for believing me...
All rights go to me except the poetry part which is from the authory of Within Temptation (Gate keeper of the Enter album)


This text was made under the beautiful waning moon of XXV/XII/MMV. Today all christians were happily celebrating the pagan Roman fest of "Dies Natalis Invicti Solis" - The birthday of the invicible Sun... How I love the irony and falsehood of the Christian Religion.

Tell Tale Lore (II) ...(and nothing more)

A Tell Tale Lore of Hope and Love
(Made and Dedicated to Mina Mariova Anguelova)


Art thou an æriéd being?
A nymph from the woods?
Ne’er e’er hath I seen ye
Whence dost thou cometh?
It doth not matter
Moreo’er that I found thee
(Thancian to a feallan star)


Wailing and glooming, sour and dour
Thou art walking hither and thither bewildered
Wherefore art thou morose?
“They tæsan and mock me
Due to my skin is hued damask
hence they run onweg”
Quoth Mina, the Byzantine Princess


Deem dearest being of faärytales
If they cannot beholdest beyond thy hide
They art not worthy of thee and believe me
Henceforth hwæt yore they tæsan thee, they wilt desirest






The following words are Anglo-Saxon (or Old English)
"thancian" for "thank(s)"
"tæsan" for "tease"
"onweg" for "away"
"hwæt" for "what"
Every other unfamiliar words are Archaic English or I have written uncorrectly. (which is more likely eheh)


This poem was written in the cold night of VII/I/MMV under a Dark Moon, blessed by Sekhmet,the goddess of Egypt which sustained the spirits of the dead, which was being celebrated Her day, and while enchanted by the gothic metal Theatre of Tragedy (Aegis).

Book Review: I am Legend - Richard Matheson

There are several different types of vampires.

There are the common vampire seen in the folklore.

There are those who were produced by books and movies.

There are several famous books about vampires.. Older books like The Giaour by Lord Byron in 1813 was the first, followed by The Vampyre of John W Polidori in 1819, Dracula of Bran Stoker in 1897.Then there is I am Legend by Richard Matheson.

Vampires... what do we know of vampire?We know of the fiction books and movies. But, there are something that almost every people does not know. Where do they come from? I mean, where were they created? There are many cultures and folklore tales that gives us insightful. I will put here something that will help understanding the grandeur the monster is.

The word (vampire) comes from the translation of the german word Vampir, who in turn comes from vaper in old polish which in turn comes from Old Slavic oper and opiri. The word Upir as a term for vampire is found for the first time in written form in 1047 in a letter to a Novgorodian prince referring to him as 'Upir Lichyj' (Wicked Vampire).

But throughout history there have been several beings in ancient mythology which gives us some insight. Since Lilu in early babylon demonology and even before Akhkharu in the Sumerian. These female demons were said to roam during the hours of darkness, hunting and killing newborn babies and pregnant women. Later one of them, Lilitu was later adopted by the Jew as Lilith. The mother of all vampires. In the ancient Egypt the goddess Sekhmet in one myth became full of bloodlust after slaughtering humans and was only sated after drinking alcohol colored as blood.In Homer's Odyssey, the shades that Odysseus meets on his journey to the underworld are lured to the blood of freshly sacrificed rams, a fact that Odysseus uses to his advantage to summon the shade of Tiresias. Roman tales describe the strix, a nocturnal bird that fed on human flesh and blood. The Roman strix is the source of the Romanian vampire, the Strigoi and the Albanian Shtriga, which also show Slavic influence.In early Slavic folklore, a vampire drank blood, was afraid of (but could not be killed by) silver and could be destroyed by cutting off its head and putting it between the corpse's legs or by putting a wooden stake into its heart.

But enough of history or myth.

Well the book is called "I am legend".I bought this book 'cause of a metal band Stormlord (www.stormlord.net/). They have a music entitled "I am legend". I like the lyric so much that i search for the book. Now I've received it and start reading it. IT was one of the fastest times I've read a book. It was done in three times.

(the plot)

(the plot)The book takes place in the then-future of 1976–1979, and opens with the monotony and horror of the daily life of the protagonist, Robert Neville. Neville is apparently the only survivor of an apocalypse caused by a pandemic of a bacterium the symptoms of which are very similar to vampirism. He lives in a house fortified against nocturnal attacks by the roaming infected, and sallys forth by daylight to kill the sleeping vampires. Every day he also makes repairs to his house, boarding up windows, stringing and hanging garlic, and disposing of vampires' corpses on his lawn.

Neville's psychological disposition is a significant element in the novel, and his struggles with despair imbue the character with intensity and gravitas. The author emphasizes that he is an ordinary, flawed man trying to deal with an extraordinary catastrophe.

Much of the story is devoted to Neville's struggles to understand the plague that has transformed everyone he meets except for himself, and the novel details the progress of his discoveries. In this regard, the novel is unique in vampire fiction in that instead of asking the reader to accept a supernatural explanation for vampire phenomena, the author strives to offer scientific bases for such symptoms as aversion to garlic, craving of fresh blood, and resistance to bullets but vulnerability to stakes and sunlight. The aversion to mirrors and crosses (or, in the case of one vampire of Jewish origin, the Torah) is classified as psychological.

Eventually, Neville discovers that while he is the only person immune to the bacterium, he is not the only one still alive. Others who have been infected have discovered a means to hold the disease at bay. However, during the daylight hours, they appear to be fully involved vampires. Thus, along with the vampires, he has been killing these still alive persons. He becomes a source of terror to the still living, since he can go abroad in daylight (which they can't) and leaves their dead behind. Just as vampires were regarded as a legendary monster that preyed on the vulnerable humans in their beds, Neville has become the last of a dead breed; a mythical figure that kills both vampires and the infected living while they are sleeping. He becomes a legend as the vampires once were, hence the title.

In the all book there are two things that make me feel kind of squeeshy.. i don't know if this is the term.. I mean two things that made me feel kind of sad...

The first thing was the dog that Neville found after almost a year. (Bare in mind that nothing lived) He tried everything to befriend the dog and after days and weeks he catch the dog ('cause the dog was suffering with one of his leg) and he died. It was very sad... Here we see him fall again in depression...

The second it's his friend, or late friend Ben Cortman, which was turned into a vampire, and for three years he came to his doorstep call for him. In the end we care about him. He may be what he is but we care for him and Nevile too, and when the live vampires come to get Robert they kill Ben Cortman and we see Neville cry for him. It's sad... very sad indeed.

I would like to add two more things...

1. I would recommend this book to anyone who likes a good vampire story or a good psycological personage. Or anyone else who like to read a good book.

And I reccommend to my girlfriend which don't read much...

2. I would like to add here the lyrics of the music entitled I am Legend, by Stormlord.

Hear me! I'm the last one left

of a long gone kind,

I stand alone

But as sun sets and darkness falls with hundreds voices the air comes alive

And every night they're comin' out for me

With hate filled rage they try to force

their way inside

Knocking and banging they pound the door

And they thrash the windows' boards... the roof... the walls...

Listen! I'm the one your kids will be taught to fear, I'm a scary tale

'cause when sun shines the Earth is mine,

that's when by my hand you will die

And every night I fight a war that's lost

Aware that even if I'm killed I'll live in your minds

Forever and ever I'll haunt your dreams,

My memory'll be enough to chill your spine

One more night shatters my nerves, and shreds my sanity away

Starving they scream their hunger as they try to draw me out

One more sunrise breaks the spell, releases me from this hell

To cast me into a new nightmare where nothing I knew has remained

I'm what you'll never be again, one of a kind

I am your fear

... your hate

... your doom

I am legend

Hear me! I'm the last one left of a long gone kind, I stand alone

But as sun sets and darkness falls with hundreds voices the air comes alive

And every night they're comin' out for me

With hate filled rage they try to force their way inside

Knocking and banging they pound the doorAnd they thrash the windows' boards: the roof

One more night shatters my nerves, and shreds my sanity away

Starving they scream their hunger as they try to draw me out

One more sunrise breaks the spell, releases me from thishell

To cast me into a new nightmare

where nothing I knew has remained

8/10

Tell Tale Lore (I): O Atirador Furtivo (1 Parte)

O Atirador Furtivo

(Para mais facil entendimento, as partes em espanhol sao as falas em que os portugueses conseguem ouvir. Tudo o resto, incluindo espanhois a falarem com espanhois foi escrito em portugues. PS: nao creio que seja necessaria a traduçao.)

A metralhadora disparou rajadas atrás de rajadas. Dois soldados tombaram de imediato, um terceiro gritava após ter sido atingido no estômago. No meio da batalha um guerreiro atingido no estômago, significava morte. Gritando deixou cair a arma e agarrou o estômago. Esqueceu por momentos que estava num campo de batalha. As fezes saíam automaticamente, sem consciência. Os companheiros tentaram chegar perto dele, enquanto balas passavam ao lado deste sem o acertar. Uma bala certeira, de uma arma de alto calibre ecoou pelo metro acertando em cheio na sua testa. A metralhadora calou-se para respirar e os soldados inimigos aproveitando o re-carregamento avançaram, começando a descer as escadas. Havia no centro duas antigas escadas rolantes e perpendiculares duas escadas de pedra. Enquanto desciam rapidamente disparavam para o local aonde antes estava a metralhadora a disparar. No momento em que eles acabavam de descer as escadas, de dentro das duas primeiras lojas apareceram dois partisans de cada lado. Dispararam apanhando-os totalmente desprevenidos. Aqueles que vinham a descer no fim das escadas rolantes tombaram sem vida. Das escadas perpendiculares os soldados saltaram um pequeno muro caindo junto a parede e esconderam-se. Aqueles que iam a descer mas mais acima tentaram voltar atrás, indo contra outros que iam em frente. Caos imergiu e mais 6 soldados caíram. Ouviam-se gritos dos feridos. O chão com destroços estava a ficar vermelho do sangue. Aqueles que tentavam dar cobertura aos companheiros disparavam sem quase olharem para aonde disparavam. O chão que outrora fora mármore era agora uma mistura de entulho misturado com vidro esmigalhado e pó. Outro tiro de uma sniper e mais um soldado, que dava cobertura escondido atrás de uma parede, tombou com um tiro na garganta.
Uma granada foi lançada pelo exercito atacante contra os partisans que estavam na loja da direita, fazendo-a explodir. As paredes abalaram com o estrondo.
“-Idiota, quieres hacernos morir a todos? Si las paredes se caen morimos todos. Más nadie usa explosivos.” Gritou um em espanhol.
Os dois soldados da loja oposta continuavam a disparar incessantemente. Quando um disparava o outro carregava. Outro estrondo e mais um soldado espanhol morto.

*

“- Aonde está esse maldito atirador?" perguntou o sargento para ninguém em especial “Cabrão” pondo a cabeça de fora tentou procurar pelos escombros, nas lojas e em possíveis esconderijos. De ambos os lados disparavam uma rajada escondendo-se de imediato na parede.
“- Quantos restamos Juan?” – perguntou ao soldado atrás dele. “- Tirando nós seis deste lado, do outro lado estão o Amador, o enfermeiro e o “rádio”. Lá em baixo estão pelo que sei Sebastian e Fonda do lado direito e do lado esquerdo o Rico.
“-Rádio, quando vêem reforços?" Sussurrou Tajo. Uma bala acertou junto a parede aonde estava escondido, fazendo cair o mármore que estava ainda seguro a parede. Uns centímetros ao lado e teria despedaçado a cabeça dele.
“Foda-se merda” praguejou Tajo caindo para trás em cima dos companheiros. “Já não basta o maldito atirador. Fustiguem esses sacanas que estão nas lojas.”
Vindo do lado direito das lojas mais dois partisans apareceram. Cobertos pelas rajadas dos companheiros das frentes correram na direcção oposta para dentro da loja do lado esquerdo. Os espanhóis vendo presa fácil abriram fogo de ambos os lados expondo-se.

“Cuidado com o…” – Gritou o sargento tarde de mais. Outro soldado espanhol tombou sem vida.

“-Viram de onde o tiro veio?” perguntou Tajo. “Vocês ai em baixo, viram?”

“Não senhor. Se nos pomos a mostra os das lojas matam-nos. Precisamos de cobertura para fugir daqui. Estamos encurralados.”
“Merda” sussurrou Tajo. “Somos muitos mais mas por causa de um merdas estamos aqui como coelhos a espera de sermos mortos. Não vale a pena. A não ser que… Hey Juan, que tal dar a volta? Do outro lado deve haver uma entrada não? Vê ai o plano desta zona.”

Os espanhóis embora muito superiores em números e armamento, não tinha o conhecimento que os partisans tinham. Embora controlassem as ruas e os sítios chave. Mas havia sítios ainda não controlados que rapidamente eram bombardeados com aviões. Como os espanhóis não queriam uma cidade em ruína e também pensavam que os partisans eram pouco mais de algumas centenas eles iam rua em rua.

Antes de invadir Lisboa, os espanhóis tinham emitido um aviso para todos aqueles que apoiavam a invasão, ou que não queriam morrer, teriam que abandonar a cidade indo para os vários campos provisórios a volta da cidade. Por isso quando eles entravam nas casas matavam toda a gente quer fosse combatentes ou inocentes. Nas zonas antigas de Lisboa, as ruas eram estreitas e os soldados espanhóis eram vítimas de ataques vindos das casas. Não podiam mandar pelos ares com os tanques que os acompanhavam com medo do prédio ruir em cima destes. O Castelo de São Jorge era dos últimos sítios controlados pelos partisans a céu aberto. Debaixo da cidade existiam caminhos que os espanhóis desconheciam como os esgotos, outros eram batalhados constantemente como os caminhos de metro mais algumas estações de metro. Qualquer zona controlada do sub mundo que caía nas mãos do inimigo eram feitas explodir para não os deixar entrarem nos caminhos subterrâneos.
“Hmm, realmente podíamos dar a volta Sargento. Mas com certeza eles têm alguém a guardar essa entrada, e para mais se tentamos sair daqui ele sacana mata-nos.” – Respondeu Juan sem deixar de olhar para o papel como a magicar uma solução.

“Rádio, contacta o Teniente e pede que mande alguém pelo outro lado.” – Abanando a cabeça o soldado fez o que lhe mandaram. Limpando o pó que acumulava na sua face o sargento grunhiu. “Raios… estamos completamente paralisados aqui. Se ao menos tivéssemos mais homens poderíamos atacar.”
Pondo um bocado de espelho virado para o lado contrario ao caminho conseguia ver o que se passava sem se expor demasiado. Lá em baixo estavam destroços de mármore por todo o lado, bocados de tecto caídos acumulavam-se dando ao caminho totalmente irregular e com obstáculos. O atirador poderia estar escondido em qualquer lado, deitado atrás de uma poste caído, atrás de pedras, dentro de um ventilador com a mira de fora. Era impossível saber de onde vinha os tiros. Mesmo na ponta do caminho, estava caiado um poste que não tocava totalmente na parede oposta. Ele poderia estar escondido ali. Deitado era impossível vê-lo, a não ser que se estivesse a 2 metros dele. Como se soubesse que estava a ser observado um tiro ecoou pelo silêncio que se assolara entretanto partindo o espelho.

“Sacana, encontrei-te.” – Encostou-se mais a parede e virando-se para os companheiros continuou “Foi por pouco que não me arrancou a mão. Ele está lá ao fundo ao pé do pilar caído.”
As metralhadoras por parte dos partisans começaram a soar contra as paredes fazendo com que os espanhóis nem tentassem disparar. Tentavam por a arma de fora e disparar sem olhar mas os tiros iam para sítios aonde não havia ninguém.
“Senhor” – Chamou o Rádio “O tenente vem ai com um pelotão e vai mandar outro pelo outro lado. Vamos encurrala-los.”

“Hmm… Não sei quem vai ser encurralado…” - acrescentou Tajo para si mesmo. Aquele sacana deve ter algum truque na manga. Ele foi capaz de acertar num espelho pouco maior que 15cm, provavelmente poderia ter rebentado a minha mão se o quisesse. Raios. Já tombaram 7 soldados só pelas suas mãos. Incluindo o nosso Teniente que foi logo primeiro. De 40 solados restamos 11. O gajo é bom mas vamos ter que o matar. “Quanto tempo demoram eles Rádio?” perguntou.
“-Ele disse que estava no cimo da avenida e que vem já ai mas…” Outro tirou estrondoso e o Rádio caiu sem vida.
“Merda. Porque razão aproximou-se ele da parede. Que estúpido.” – Estava raivoso, odiava mais que tudo descuido. Nesta guerra urbana, aquilo que eles menos podem ser é descuidado. Vindo de qualquer lado pode vir uma granada ou um atirador furtivo.
“Yo ya no aguanto. Vamos todos morir.” Gritou Rico, o solado que estava sozinho do lado esquerdo. Ele estava contra a parede completamente isolado dos companheiros. A pressão e as mortes continuas do atirador enlouqueciam-no. Pegando na metralhadora saiu do esconderijo a disparar rajadas sem qualquer tipo de precisão.
“Noooo. Se queda adónde estás, loco.” Gritaram os companheiros, mas foi tarde de mais. Os partisans que estavam escondidos dentro da loja saíram e começaram a disparar contra ele, fazendo-o tombar.
Por detrás da parte superior, os seis homens que ainda se encontravam do lado aonde estava o sargento saíram e começaram a disparar. Do outro lado o Amador e o enfermeiro também saíram, tentando com este acto louco, tentar que os companheiros ainda escondidos no andar debaixo conseguissem subir. Um dos partisans levou um tiro no braço deixando cair a espingarda e caindo para dentro da loja. Estando em inferioridade numérica os outros dois partisans esconderam-se.
Outro tiro estrondeou acima das rajadas de metralha e um dos soldados que davam cobertura caiu. Vendo-o cair e irritado o sargento e mais 3 companheiros concentram o fogo para o pilar tombado, tentando de alguma maneira assustar o atirador o tempo suficiente para os companheiros subirem as escadas. Mais um tiro e outro tombou.
Subiam as escadas, tropeçando nos cadáveres em todas as pedras os soldados esconderam-se mais uma vez.
“Raios. Subiram dois e morreram dois.” Suspirou Tajo Entre suspiros, sem se virar para o colega acrescentou. “Juan, já reparaste? Ele facilmente teria morto o Sebastian ou o Fonda que fugiam de costas mas em vez disso matou dois que disparavam contra ele.” “Um atirador com honra?” – Gozou Juan.
Um riso irónico e trémulo ecoou pelo metro, sem tiros, nem gritos de moribundos, o metro era um sítio demasiado calmo. Não se ouvia nada. Nem se conseguia ouvir os tanques a passarem nas estradas por cima, nem os gritos. Ocasionalmente ouvia-se o estrondo de uma bomba e terra cairia do tecto.
“Francotirador, viene ay un pelotón. Si fuera a ti iría aunque.” Gritou o sargento rindo. “Ni com tu pericia conseguirás matar cuarenta soldados” Ele esforçava-se para falar um espanhol que fosse mais parecido com o português. Tinha pronúncia de galego.


Quando Espanha entrou em guerra com Portugal, duas zonas de Espanha, apoiaram directa ou indirectamente Portugal. A Galiza sempre fora uma parte de Espanha que mais se identificava com Portugal. Tinham costumes parecidos com os nortenhos. A maior parte das pessoas que vivia no Minho e Trás-os-Montes, antes de começar a guerra, iam a Galiza muitas vezes, muitas delas, tinham familiares de ambos os lados. Por parte da Galiza sempre muito mais próxima do Porto que a sua própria capital Madrid. Odiavam serem espanhóis. Não foi de estranhar quando muitos galegos, quando a guerra começou, não a apoiaram-na e até fizeram grandes manifestações para terminar. Com o fracasso da diplomacia e das manifestações, muitos galegos combatiam lado a lado dos portugueses, na sua maioria na cidade do Porto e Braga e também nas florestas. A outra zona foi o Pais Basco, que aproveitou o envio dos tropas para Portugal, para rebelar-se. O mundo dera uma grande volta em apenas oito anos.
Tajo tinha familiares em Portugal, a sua própria esposa era portuguesa. Quando a guerra começou Tajo não teve escolha. Ele era um militar da guarda real espanhola. O primeiro casamento era o exército. No princípio ajudou os familiares da sua mulher a escaparem pedidos vários favores aos guardas fronteiriços e aqueles que atacavam Portugal vindo da Galiza. Eles ajudaram, a maior parte dos soldados também tinha pessoas conhecidas no norte do Portugal. De toda a guerra que se vinha a alastrar a meses, o norte foi o que deu mais luta, mas também foi aonde não se registaram grandes massacres como aconteceu no sul.
Vindo das escadas atrás do sargento, começaram a chegar os reforços. Iam descendo e ficando atrás uns dos outros. O Sargento disse-lhes para terem cuidado e não se aproximarem da borda da parede porque senão seriam mortos por um atirador.
Um tenente vestido de castanho-escuro que empunhava uma espingarda foi o ultimo a descer. Tinha os olhos negros como a noite sem lua. Usava barba por fazer. Tinha uma ferida no braço, mas isso não lhe impedia de empunhar a arma e ter nas costas uma mochila cheia como qualquer outro soldado. Deveria pesar mais de 15 quilos.
“Como estão as coisas Sargento?” – perguntou com uma voz rouca. Tinha os dentes amarelos, parecia que não lavava a boca a dias. Um cheiro a alho saia-lhe.
Fazendo a continência com o devido respeito “Estamos encurralados Senhor. Lá em baixo estão pelo menos 3 partisans com metralhadoras e um atirador furtivo.”
“E porque razão estão aqui ainda?” a sua cara contorceu-se de raiva “Estão aqui sentadinhos a fazer um piquenique? Eles são 4 vocês eram 40. Como foi capaz de perder quase toda a sua equipa Sargento?” – O tenente gritava com o sargento, mas o barulho das bombas tinha-se intensificado, sendo difícil para ambos se ouvirem.
O sargento era um veterano, já estava no exército a 26 anos. Provavelmente mais anos que o próprio Tenente, que parecia um miúdo acabado de sair da puberdade. Mas a cadeira de comando, não liga a idade. Tajo, irritado pela fúria do inexperiente soldado, queria espanca-lo. Mata-lo com a faca que trazia na bota desde a sua recruta. Tão rápido que seria. Seria misericordioso para os soldados do tenente. Mas a cadeira de comando não vê bem uma insubordinação e seria fuzilado. Suspirando, engoliu uma arfada de ar e respondeu-lhe

“Eles eram mais no principio senhor. Estamos presos porque o tempo que demoraríamos a chegar as lojas aonde se encontram os partisans era tempo de cairmos todos. Aquele atirador furtivo não é para brincar. Só ele já matou mais de 10 homens.”
“Tretas, bando de preguiçosos. Todos de pé. Vamos atacar frontalmente. Ficam aqui 4 homens a dar-nos cobertura.” Enquanto falava tirou a cavilha de segurança da sua espingarda e colocou a baioneta pronta. Os soldados começaram a carregar as armas. Os nervos em franja. Sabiam que iam morrer. Estavam a atirar-se para a boca do lobo.

*

“Hey Raist.” Sussurrou Tomás. “ Raist.” Chegaram novos soldados. Tu ouviste o espanhol. Vamos embora.”
Tinha uma ferida ligeira na barriga. Provavelmente um estilhaço tinha rebentado e raspou-lhe na barriga. Começou a procurar os corpos dos colegas caídos, tirando todo o tipo de armamento, quer espingardas e facas, bem como todas as munições. Meteu-as na mochila. Um partisan não tem fabricas de armas como os soldados espanhois. Utiliza aquilo que tem a mão. Não era de estranhar, cada partisan ter uma arma de modelo diferente.
“Seu malandro. Tinhas aqui um petisco e não partilhavas com ninguém.” Disse Tomás ao camarada morto como se esperasse que ele brincasse de volta. Era um bocado de queijo. Estava com um bocado de bolor, mas era delicioso. Comparado com ervas ou pequenos roedores como ratos, pão duro de dias atrás e enlatados, um bocado de queijo era uma regalia, mesmo com o bolor. No meio de uma guerra não se pode ser esquisito. Já tinha comido coisas piores.
“Hugo” Gritou Tomás. “Ajuda o Vítor. Isto está a ficar muito cheio, e sabes bem que eu sou timido. Vamos embora.”

Hugo abanou a cabeça e ajudou o companheiro pondo o braço a volta deste e falou-lhe sorrindo.
“Vamos embora amigo. Parece que o Tomás está a ficar claustrofobico”
Vítor arreganhou os dentes num sorriso forçado mas as forças foram-se e encostou-se a parede tentando ganhar forças e recuperar o fôlego.