The two Foundation investigators trudge through the snow, like two cats with broken whiskers, making their way towards the rocks.
Investigator II: It's rather crowded ... If we dug down right here, do you think we'd strike oil?
Investigator I: I suggest we wait for the crowd in front of that rock to disperse a bit before we collect samples from the carvings on it.
Investigator II: Got it. You are the chief investigator, after all. What choice do I have but to listen to you?
Investigator I: Even so, I'd rather we make decisions together.
Investigator II: Understood! Not to interrupt, but there seems to be some commotion over there.
Investigator II: By the—let me see ... the biggest rock over there.
Investigator II: I suggest we go over and see what's going on.
Investigator I: ... Agreed.
As they approach, the sound of argumentation grows louder. The debaters are stubbornly holding their ground.
A crowd has gathered around them, awaiting the result with bated breath.
Tourist I: ... But it wouldn't be impossible to develop this island, even so far from the mainland ... After all, that's what several tsars spent two hundred years doing.
Tourist III: So if these are fake, who is зима's ghostwriter?
Tourist II: I still don't think there's a ghostwriter ...
Tourist II: Whether written on parchment or stone, there is an amazingly consistent and special warmth maintained in the language. It would be extremely difficult for a city dweller to emulate it.
Tourist II: I'd really like to meet the author ...
After a brief silence, the dissenter speaks again. This time with words of praise.
Tourist III: He's actually quite admirable.
Tourist I: ... The "savage," you mean?
Tourist III: Think about it: if it's true, then this person has been living here in this place for all these years. Somehow, he's survived while writing beautiful poetry in the process. And for some reason, he never escaped or left, even after becoming famous.
Tourist III: On the other hand, if it's false, it still means that someone has taken the time to scratch all these poems into these stones and write in three languages on those parchment papers you saw ... It's quite a feat.
Tourist II: Yes, from that perspective, it's remarkable nonetheless.
Tourist I: It actually is ...
A consensus, however brief, has been reached.
A new voice of dissent echoes from somewhere in the crowd.
???: H-how disappointing.
???: There's nothing ... r-remarkable.
???: One could see this ... anywhere.
???: Even a ... child could write this ...
"The crowds seemed to have ruined everything."
"They continuously poured onto the island, expressing their opinions about the engraved stones."
"They persistently searched for any trace of the poet's existence."
"But, this time, the poet did not hide."
"He tried his best to get everything back to normal."
Tourist II: Excuse me, do you know the poet? How else could you make such a judgment?
Зима: …
Зима: Anyone ... with eyes ... can see it ...
Tourist I: Then you have insulted not just the poet but all of us too!
Зима: These ... lines ... are so b-blunt and crude. The technique is ... inferior.
Зима: It's like sticking straw ... into the tundra and p-praising ... the land's vitality ...
Tourist II: Do you think you could write better?
Зима: ... I-it's just ... nonsense ... carved into stone ...
Зима: Even you ... could write ... better.
Tourist III: I suppose you are a famous poet yourself. May I ask what works you've written? When I return, I shall seek them out and read them.
This comment is met with a wave of laughter. During the conversation, the crowd has divided into two distinct camps.
The instigator, who is vigorously disparaging these poems, stands alone in the center, like Moses after he parted the Red Sea.
The difference is that this "Red Sea" has not parted to give way to him, but to allow them to confront him more fiercely.
Зима: …
Зима: I ...
The chickadee perches on his shoulder, pressing against his neck, eager to alleviate this moment of speechlessness.
Language, whether written by hand or spoken from the tongue, has never seemed so pallid as it does at this moment.
Зима: …
In the strained silence, a faint, blue, icy halo appears beneath his feet.
The howls of beasts and the cries of birds echo from the forest behind him.
Investigator II: Look! The man in the middle.
Investigator I: It's the same arcane fluctuation!
Investigator II: He looks pretty much the same as the others. Is he the arcanist who's been carving things all over the place?
Investigator I: He must be. And now we know why.
Investigator I: He's a poet.
