Martin woke up in a cold sweat.
He had not seen this dream for many years: a man in white walked through a flowering meadow, and then turned around and gazed the young man in the eyes. "Such Flandern!" - as before, he said, and the picture began to fade. Martin reached out to the stranger, tried to touch him with his hand, but he - and Flanders with him - slipped away again. As in reality.
Restless knock on the door.
- Yes?..
Creak.
- What happened here ?! - August gave a voice.
Martin lifted his head to look at his old friend, and he staggered back. This brought the Knechte leader to his senses.
- Martin? ..
The young man looked around. He did not recognize the old motel room: the furniture had turned to wood dust, the walls were scorched, all the glass was broken. It smelled of smoke.
- Everything is fine. Thank you.
- What happened? - The old man sat down next to him.
- Flanders, August. Flanders.
- Where?
Martin tried to remember the details of the dream. Everything is the same as then: grass, animals, water, sun at its zenith ... low sun. The sun of the north.
- Direction - nord-nord-ost.
August nodded, got up and walked towards the door, but before reaching it, he stopped and turned around.
- I was expecting this.
Martin nodded.
The old man smiled and left. Voices were heard. Martin knew that by dawn the bollards would be ready to march.
Barely living tractors crawled along the dried fields, in which sat the dried, barely alive people in shackles. Their "owner", nicknamed the Duke, was sitting in an old castle and collecting rare spare parts, and in his free time from looking at the collection, he drove around the surrounding lands, accompanied by his retinue.
One general volley was enough for the duke, and the retinue did not even begin to fight: after seeing the death of the leader, they disappeared as quickly as they could.
- Well, at least we have great trophies. And we freed people.
Martin shook his head. He was sitting on the floor, leaning against the back of the armchair of the Duke, who had served the petty tyrant as the throne. Nearby stood an ancient kerosene lamp trying to disperse the darkness.
“This is not Flanders.
August, grunting, sat down opposite.
- Martin ... have you ever thought about the fact that Flanders is not a specific place? That this isn't a place at all? That Flanders is ... a destination?
Martin didn't answer. He looked now at the light of the lamp, now out of the window, where the branches of the micro-ash tree swayed. The old man sighed softly, closed his eyes and dozed off.
- August? ..
- Yes?
The lamp had apparently gone out a long time ago. August shivered from the cold that had filled the room, and finally woke up.
- We're going back to the Valley. You're right, we have good trophies. We need supplies. We need new bollards.
- And Flanders? ..
Martin got up and seemed to smile.
- We are looking for her even now.
