They say Enthustan was never on any map, not even the old ones that showed phantom islands and cities of gold. It was a country of the spirit, a republic of radiant obsession.
I arrived there by accident, having missed my train at a sleepy junction called Boredom. Following a path of overgrown fireweed, I crossed a border that smelled of fresh solder and old paper. The first citizen I met was a woman named Elara, who was trying to teach a flock of pigeons to sing barbershop quartet. She had been at it for eleven years. enthustan
I am writing this now from the other side, in a nation of schedules and budgets. But late at night, if I close my eyes, I can still hear the faint, four-part harmony of Elara’s pigeons. They say Enthustan was never on any map,
“They’re almost on the tenor line,” she whispered, her eyes wide as moons. “Don’t applaud. They get stage fright.” Following a path of overgrown fireweed, I crossed
Every week, another block of Vellichor would fade to gray. The fireweed would wilt. A citizen would wake up, look at their singing pigeons or their Jupiter-soled shoes, and sigh. They had caught the virus of Pragmatism.
The capital was a city called Vellichor, named for the sadness of a used bookstore. Its streets were paved with unfinished symphonies and half-painted canvases. The government was a single, exhausted librarian named Thorne. His only law was the Statute of Delightful Futility: “If it brings no profit and endless joy, it is mandatory.”
I asked Thorne how the economy functioned.