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arguments, for me the accident seemed suggestive. And I have not changed my opinion: I made
beset in a silver manacle, I added the chain, and I hanged it to the neck. How it fell upon my
head, or from where? I don’t know; if it is the same hand of the XIII century, I don’t know
neither; and what meant that it fell upon my head in that moment, it is something that belongs
to the field of the most obscure enigmas. But I like the piece and I will take it with me until the
End.

Chapter XVII

It is very little what is missing to add to this Epilogue, or Prologue.
Once passed the shock that undoubtedly, the departure of Uncle Kurt produced to me,
evidentied in the abnormall serenity with which I was reflecting about the symbols of the
Sword, Dogs, Fowls and Beasts, and surpassed the painful effect of the hit on the head, I
started to take consciousness of the reality and my nervious system entered in violent crisis. I
felt that I was crumbling inside; I tried to maintain myself armed from outside, screaming a
thousand insults and oaths against all our foes. Belicena Villca, her son Noyo, the Captain Kiev,
the Loyal Siddhas, the Führer, and even the Unknowable, resulted included by my
irreproducible blasphemies. I’ll not justify myself, because the known events explain this
irrational action. How they would not break my will, if in the term of four days my family was
outrageously murdered, all my family, the close and far relatives, and the only survivor apart of
me, was Uncle Kurt, had just left to never return?
I went mad. I uttered insults and kicked with impotence the corpses of the Asian killers.
With irrational aggressiveness, I was just to clear out on those diabolic corpses the charges of
the useless pistolemachine, when some whimpers coming from the interior brought me
providentially to the reatlity. I was not alone! I remembered all of sudden that during the
attack we had heard some screams of sorrow.
With the countenance still decomposed by the fury, some demential brightness in the
eyes, and with the guns in my hand, I entered decidedly in the house, causeing the consequent
alarm of the person who was handcuffed over the table of the dinner room. He was Segundo,
the Indian descendant of the People of the Moon, that Belicena Villca mentioned in her Letter,
and to whom I saw some two times as visitor of the Neuropsychiatric Hospital of Salta.
He looked awful, because Bera and Birsha had booted his nails frm the hands and feet;
however, he had to be grateful to the Gods, and to the Bumerang Operation, because the
Demons lacked of time o cut his tongue and ears, and clear out his eyes, and finally flay or
behead him. When I untied him I asked him if there was a medical kit, the Indian recovered the
speech.
–And the two men? –He asked with caution.
–They were not men –I replied in bad manner– but the Demons Bera and Birsha. Both
are dead, outside: we killed them with the shots that you heard. And now my Uncle is chasing
him until the Bottom of the Central Abyss of the Universe, until an infernal place from which
they may never come back.

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