MI AMIGO, EL GUSANO
Mi amigo Juan era un gran aficionado
a la obra de Frank Herbert. No había reunión, o conversación, por banal que
pudiera ser, en la que no sacara a colación alguna referencia a los personajes
del escritor norteamericano. Cuando no era alguna cita extraída de sus novelas
–que sabía casi de memoria- era una historia inventada basada en algunos de sus
personajes.
Así, unas veces aparecían los
planetas de la saga, envueltos en brumas de misterio y acción. Otras, las más,
aparecían los fremen, los Harkonen, o Atreides, envueltos en tramas enrevesadas
sin final aparente. Pero eran los gusanos de Dune sus personajes preferidos,
con los que nos “deleitaba” en algunos almuerzos y cenas, recreándose en su
aspecto espantoso y sus cuerpos alargados como grandes serpientes.
Confieso que nos hartamos de él y de
sus incansables peroratas sobre el mismo y recurrente tema. Un día, decidimos
darle un escarmiento.
Le engañamos vilmente, invitándole a
cenar en una fiesta sorpresa. El plato que devoró casi con gula fue de su
entera satisfacción. Solo entonces le dijimos que estaba compuesto en su mayor
parte de gusanos convenientemente triturados y cocidos.
Nos miró estupefacto. Creímos que
gritaría, nos maldeciría o rompería todos los trastos que alcanzase. Pero no
hizo nada. Guardó silencio, se levantó, mitad pensativo, mitad sonriente. Desde
entonces pasaron varias semanas, y Juan no dio señales de vida.
Alarmados, fuimos a su casa. Lo
encontramos muerto. O, al menos, hallamos algo que se parecía a él, porque solo
su cabeza, ligeramente deformada de una forma difícil de describir, lo
identificaba. El resto de su cuerpo, de cintura para abajo, se había
transformado en una especie de cápsula alargada… en forma de gusano.
Solo encontramos una nota, sobre la
mesita de noche, en la que había escrito con su puño y letra: Yo soy el pequeño Hacedor de Arena[1].
MY FRIEND, THE WORM
My friend John was a great fan of Frank Herbert's work. There wasn´t
meeting or conversation, however it may be banal, in which he didn´t bring up
any reference from figures of the american writer. When it wasn´t a taken quote
from his novels,
–which he knew almost by
heart– it was an invented story based on some of his figures.
So, sometimes planets appeared in the series, wrapped in
mists of mystery and action. Others, most of the time, the Fremen, the
Harkonen, or Atreides appeared, wrapped in convoluted plots without apparent
end. But worms of Dune were their favorite figures, with which one he was
delighting in some lunches and dinners, delighting in his frightening
appearance and elongated bodies and large snakes.
I confess
that we've got tired of him and his non sense things about himself and its
recurring theme. One day we decided to give him a punnishment.
We deceive him vilely,
inviting him a dinner with a surprise party. The dish was devoured for him
greedily almost his fully satisfaction. Only then we said him that it was composed mostly of crushed
and cooked properly worms.
He looked stunned. We thought he is shouting, cursing us or breaking all things around him. But he didn´t any. He kept silence, he stood up, be half thinking, be half smiling. Since then several weeks went and Juan didn´t show any sign of life.
He looked stunned. We thought he is shouting, cursing us or breaking all things around him. But he didn´t any. He kept silence, he stood up, be half thinking, be half smiling. Since then several weeks went and Juan didn´t show any sign of life.
We were
alarmed, we went to his house. We found him dead. Or at least we foud something
looking like him, because only his head, slightly deformed from a difficult way
of describing, was looking like him. The rest of his body, from the waist down,
had been coverted an elongated shaped capsule... it was looking like a worm.
We just
found a note on the bedside table, which one he had written by his own hand: I'm the little maker of sand[2].
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