Part 3: Templo de la Metáfora

It's a cold winter's night, but inside, the air feels warm and inviting.
Hunting walks in, carrying an old glass pot filled with deep red liquid.
Editor Hunting: Lemon slices, apples, oranges, cinnamon sticks ... Using Malbec for mulled wine is a bit of a waste, but it does have a satisfying richness to it.
Recoleta: Oh. That actually sounds quite sophisticated. Maybe I can use that in my writing.
Editor Hunting: Go ahead. I have to say, I do like to indulge in it from time to time. Oh, and sorry for the mess. I hope you don't mind.
Recoleta: Not at all. In fact, it looks pretty tidy to me.
This place is like a palace compared to the cluttered mass of books, notes, and clothing that fills her own cramped apartment.
Editor Hunting: Sit wherever you like—the couch, a cushion, a chair; you can even take the floor if you want.
Hunting perches on the edge of the bed, setting the glass pot down on the book-stacked nightstand.
Editor Hunting: Right, there's something I need to talk to you about.
Editor Hunting: You know why I suggested you learn screenwriting, don't you?
Recoleta: To improve my narrative structure, right? Like how Hemingway, Wolfe, and Fitzgerald all shared the same editor—Maxwell Perkins?
Editor Hunting: No, no, you're giving me far too much credit, Recoleta. I'm nowhere near that level.
Editor Hunting: At first, I didn't understand why young writers like you were so obsessed with literature.
Editor Hunting: I want you to see for yourself why cinema has conquered the '90s, while literature is slowly losing traction.
Editor Hunting: I want you to hit a wall and see with your own eyes the decline of the literary world.
Recoleta: How could that be? The world of literature may falter for a time, but it'll never fade away, Ms. Hunting. It's like the trees in winter. Yes, they'll look barren for a moment, but then the spring comes.
Recoleta: That's exactly why I write.
Recoleta: The writers I admire are explorers, rebels, defiers. They never stopped to wonder which way the tides of the times were turning.
Recoleta: That defiant spirit sustained a generation of writers, and in turn, those writers rebuilt that very spirit. Now that's a cause with real meaning behind it!
Editor Hunting: Alright. I'll admit there's merit in sticking to your guns.
Editor Hunting: But tell me this: Do you think you truly understand today's literary world, Recoleta?
Recoleta: Even the great Walt Whitman said, "Even I myself often think I know little or nothing of my real life." How could we possibly claim to understand the state of literature today?
Recoleta: To me, writing is just as exhilarating as traveling around the world or slipping into a blissful dream.
Editor Hunting: Hah, I've heard that before. Writers love saying things like that. If that's how you see it, then ...
She recalls Recoleta's reckless determination in the Templo de la Metáfora.
Something distant stirs inside her, like she's being wrapped by an old knitted sweater left unworn for years.
Editor Hunting: Never mind. It's nothing.
Noticing Recoleta's eager expression, Hunting realizes that it's time to get down to business.
Editor Hunting: Alright, let's get to work before I finish this whole bottle. What happens in the second half of the story?
Recoleta: Yes! As titillating as this conversation is, I'd like to get down to getting the ending right. Oh, and I listened to what you said. I studied some books on film and incorporated more screenplay-style dialogue!
Recoleta jumps up from the floor, handing over the freshly marked-up pages.
Editor Hunting: Oh? Let's see. Last time, the protagonists escaped the fog-filled maze using their wit. Now, they're heading toward the temple's hidden chamber.
Editor Hunting: "The whistling stopped. The cowboy and the coachman made their way toward the light beyond the fog. But, as the fog thickened, the sounds around them faded. With every step, the world grew more and more unfamiliar."
Editor Hunting: "At last, they found the entrance. Inside, the temple was covered in ancient runes, its walls etched with unreadable symbols and paintings. An old man and a cowhand with his cow stood in the distance, as if waiting for them."
Editor Hunting: "The wind carried a whisper like an ancient poem through the fog."
Hunting tilts her head, listening to the faint whisper carried on the wind like an ancient poem.
It is clear. They have left behind the warmth and comfort of her home.
Recoleta: (Excited) Ms. Hunting, we're back in the story again!
Editor Hunting: (Resigned) So we are ... At least this time I was expecting it.
Editor Hunting: What's with the parentheses? Are we directing every emotion in the dialogue now?
The "secret core" is obvious. It's perched atop the massive stone platform.
Editor Hunting: (Satisfied) The most important information should always be embedded in the most critical lines. Looks like you actually took my advice, Recoleta.
Recoleta: (Eager) Yes! We're so close to the core of the Templo de la Metáfora. I can feel it!
Editor Hunting: (Focused) Alright. How do we reach it?
Recoleta: (Mumbling) "See those two crows? When they meet strangers, they turn into ghosts."
The weary-looking crow becomes an old man. He slumps in the shadows.
The fledgling crow becomes a young cowhand, swinging his legs on the stone platform.
Just as the story describes.
Old Man: (Deliberate) Hello, travelers. Your arrival was foretold, but passing through this fog will be no easy feat.
Cowhand: (Bright) A home isn't a house. It's a memory. A cow will wander when it has lost its pasture, but it will always find its way home.
Old Man: (Overjoyed) Oh dear, it's you! The ones who set everything in motion, finally here. I've waited a full century for this moment to come.
Old Man: (Solemn) Here is the case: If you wish to touch the core of the Templo de la Metáfora, you must first solve a riddle.
Recoleta: Bring it on. I love a challenge.
Old Man: (Mysterious) Dear, I cannot speak the riddle. The cowhand knows it, but even he won't just give it to you directly. It's all part of the metaphor.
Old Man: (Smirking) Please look at him. You'll have to win him over first.
Cowhand: (Giggling) Haha. Yes, yes, yes. You have to make me happy first.
Cowhand: (Sly) No, no. Why should I listen to you, old man?
The boy claps his hands and lets out another long, drawn-out whistle.
From the shadows, a cow emerges, a deep wisdom behind its eyes.
Cowhand: (Wide-eyed) Hello, big sister! This is the riddle. Only my cow can carry you up.
Old Man: (Frustrated) No. You ... you little rascal. That's not how it's supposed to work.
Before the old man can finish, Recoleta nimbly hoists herself onto the cow's back.
And—thud—hits the ground hard.
Cowhand: (Mischievous) Hahaha!
Old Man: (Winded) Heh heh! See? It's not that easy.
Recoleta wipes the dust from her face as she falls into thought.
Editor Hunting: Alright, I can't take this anymore. Why are you putting parentheses in front of every line? I told you to take inspiration from screenplay narrative structures, not copy their formatting!
Recoleta: Fine, fine, I'll fix it. But first, we need to deal with this cow.
Editor Hunting: This cow is clearly tied to the theme of your story, Recoleta. It shouldn't be too hard for you to figure it out.
Recoleta: Let me think.
Her eyes land on a feathered quill.
Recoleta: Cowhand, can you give me a hint?
Cowhand: Of course, but I'll only answer yes or no.
Recoleta: Alright. Your cow—is it a symbol of heavy responsibility?
Cowhand: No.
Recoleta: The passage of time?
Cowhand: No.
Recoleta: Is it something more abstract?
Cowhand: Yes.
Recoleta: Is it what I'm doing right now?
Cowhand: Yes.
Recoleta locks eyes with the cowhand, a triumphant smile beaming on her face.
Recoleta: Ah. Literature doesn't offer answers. Rather, it serves to raise questions and open up unexplored realms. It's about exploration, about possibility, about capturing what can't be defined.
Recoleta: Yes, I remember it from my chat with Dr. Dores. The riddle itself is the answer, isn't it?
Cowhand: ...
Cowhand: Yes.
Old Man: You've solved the riddle. Now, let it take you where you need to go.
The cowhand's playful grin fades, and he gives a nod. The old man waves his hand, and the two of them dissolve into two crow-shaped fog clouds.
The cow carries them upward, slow and steady.
Editor Hunting: So what's the old man's purpose in this story? He doesn't actually give any new information.
Recoleta: I can't really explain it. It's just the way the story goes. We have to speak to the old man before we can talk to the cowhand.
Editor Hunting: I think this section could use some reworking. Wait. Maybe it's not so simple.
Editor Hunting: "People spend their lives asking about the future, about who they'll become, only to realize everything they are was already there during childhood." Recoleta, you buried this line far too late into the story!
Editor Hunting: This section is good, but it needs to be clearer. You have to guide the readers to the meaning.
As she finishes her sentence, the cow arrives at their destination.
Hunting reaches out, her fingers touching the radiant core before her. Light surges through her fingertips, and countless images and words emerge in her mind.
Editor Hunting: So beautiful. How did you write it?
Recoleta: "It is the sum of countless meanings, everything life has to offer. It is sung by someone at the end of their life's journey, yet in truth, it is just a word—a word meaning 'miracle.'"
The light fades, and the two impostor protagonists return to the warm little room.
Editor Hunting: We're back?
Hunting flips through the manuscript again, eyes sharp as they meet Recoleta's.
In the dark light, her calloused fingers trace the collar of an old knitted sweater.
It is a long-forgotten relic from her youth, woven from an impractical love for literature.
Editor Hunting: You can come over whenever I'm free on a Saturday night.
Recoleta: You mean ... besides our usual review sessions, you'll personally help me revise my novel in your free time?
Editor Hunting: But let's be clear. This isn't going to be easy. It'll take time, and there's no guarantee it'll sell well.
Editor Hunting: But I can guarantee this—an exclusive publishing deal.
Recoleta: Oh, thank you! Thank you! What ... What an absolutely wondrous outcome from our pilgrimage to the Templo de la Metáfora!
Editor Hunting: Clearly, this is going to be a long battle.
And Hunting's instincts are rarely wrong.
Recoleta: I know, Ms. Hunting.
Recoleta: But it'll be a glorious one.
In this young writer, she glimpses the lingering embers of a bygone era.