Sunday, March 17, 2013
Screamingly, the three racing cars rip open the shrouds of the quietness of the morning surrounding the small hovel on the hillside. The first one, a Jaguar, is a dark reddish blur, already disappearing in the mist, not too narrowly followed by a bluish-white Ferrari. The brownish one in the back looks like Bugatti on oversized, heavily threaded wheels, and is in fact a custom built offroad vehicle. The slicks of the Ferrari skid hopelessly on the damp dirt road, then on the grassy bank, forcing the driver to cut the throttle before taking the next corner, and the custom built leaps forward, seizing the opportunity, cuts off the Ferrari, spraying it with dirt and gravel, accelerates even more and hurtles along the hill-side road, out of view.
Angrily, the Ferrari driver floors the gas pedal, which turns the car's slingering into a violent spin. The left fender grazes a fence, pulling down and against the forward motion, and the back of the car bucks, lifts further, and the car ends up on its roof, coming to a rest after screeching up quite a few metres on the hill-side. The engine still idles, then cuts off, and an sudden silence sets in, for the duration of many hasty heart-beats. Then, a noise like a deep breath, a swoosh, and the leaked fuel that soaks the bluish white chassis and the last bit of the tortured path of the car, catches fire.
Cut. The slim driver, fit in a white leather overall, and looking like an emanciated astronaut, has crawled on top of the hill. She sits with her back to a shed, looking dazedly and uncomprehending at her burning car. Her racing helmet, white with think light blue stripes, sits next to her, on the ground. Alien Jesus bends down to her ear, whispering a few words we cannot hear. She gets up, and is no longer the driver. Her path starts here, and she follows it, with slight unsteadyness, and as yet unquestioning.
Alien Jesus remains where she left, looking at the flames that eat away at everything combustible left in the ruined car. Then he bends down, collects the helmet, and walks down to the car. He picks up a purse next to its opened door, and takes an object from it. He gingerly holds the object in its hand: a grey cocoon, shaped like a fat spindle, about the length of a hand. He throws the purse and all its remaining contents into the fire, then lightly steps up the hillside again and places the helmet and the cocoon into a wooden cask next to the shed.