One guard’s missing an eye and can invent a spiel on order as explanation, for an appropriate fee, which the two of you can later discuss, if there’s time. On his shoulder sits a songbird: a Kavka it’s called, which is a stealing, gossiping bird, commonly known as a jackdaw, Corvus monedula, a bastard crow, a mutant raven of sorts, popularly referred to as a Halka, or Galka — the winged symbol of the world that would inherit its name, Galicia, a kingdom lost to history’s flight. Silesia’s silenced itself. Ruthenia rerouted. To here. In the socket that once held the guard’s eye, is the egg. In the egg, is the songbird for the next Group. And in the next Group’s songbird, the egg. Who’s singing now. Mingle though, if you can, as they’ve been instructed: do whatever’s necessary, is the idea, but try to seem amiable for the Officials, likable but not too, anything goes, but don’t attract undue attention, unwanted scrutiny, you’ll just hold everyone up; avoid Shibboleths of any kind, memory, remember, smile and be amenable, whatever you say. They line toward the barrier, the wicket just beyond the line. Waiting here, they try to memorize the tattered, torn scripts the Guide’s just handed around, not enough copies for everyone, you’ll have to share, doubleup; surreptitiously, at least they think, they whisper the lines to themselves, those prefaced by ENTRANT — roll the words around on their tongues, a muddy pebble, a common sweet (See — Where To Eat). Their Guide’s explaining everything quickly, muddled what with the passing and handing and folding, the grasping and the practice of whisper: the person desirous of entry would tell the setup, and the Guard would get the punchline; it’s all in the timing. Often, though, and here’s the trick, the tongue that trips many up (trepverter of the guardrail), the Guard would come out with the punchline first, and then the entrant — prospective — would have to be quick with the setup. If anyone fails, nu, it’s okay, acceptable, there aren’t any consequences worse than what’s to come, there can’t be, and, anyway, they’ve all don’t ask how managed to smuggle in money with them, mere sums, a few valuables, too, gifts negligible when compared with what they once could afford but still, trades in kind, plenty, enough: with each entrant failed, the Guard would nod, hymn, then walk back to his house, little more than a hut, on his way pocketing the quote unquote admission fee, to which any gift is to be considered supplementary, knuckling a rash at his scruff. The entrant then must wait as the ritual proceeds.
