Bohdan Said "Come See"

I arrived in Kosiv just after morning had decided to commit to being a proper day. The mountains were clearer than expected. No dramatic fog, no ominous stillness. Just that quiet Carpathian calm that makes you briefly think everything is fine. It wasn’t.

The road narrowed as I turned toward Bohdan’s farm, the kind of road that politely suggests your car reconsider its life choices. Wooden fences appeared, then disappeared. A dog watched me pass with the deep suspicion of something that has already seen too much. By the time I reached the gate, Bohdan was already there. Of course he was. He didn’t wave. He didn’t smile. That told me everything.

“You came,” he said.
“I try not to ignore summons from the mountains,” I replied.

He nodded once, then turned and gestured toward the pasture. “…look.” No explanation. Naturally. I stepped closer to the fence. There were sheep. There were goats. There were cows. And then there were three things that had absolutely no business being in the Carpathians. I exhaled slowly. “…good,” I said. “Not subtle.” “You see them,” Bohdan said. “Yes.” He looked relieved. “I thought maybe… gorylka problem.” “No,” I said. “This is worse. This is real.”

The first one moved slightly, catching the sunlight. At a distance it passed for a sheep. Up close, it was something else entirely. Its “wool” was made of fine, glass-like strands, each one bending light into small, shifting rainbows. Not bright, not flashy. Just enough to make your eyes question what they were seeing. It turned toward me. Its eyes were smooth, silver mirrors. No pupil. No iris. Just reflection. “Ah,” I said quietly. “Luminant grazer.” “It eats grass,” Bohdan said. “It shouldn’t,” I replied. I reached over the fence and touched it. The strands chimed softly, like wind brushing through hanging glass. “It eats light,” I added. Bohdan stared at it. “…we have sun.” “Yes,” I said. “And now it has lunch.”

Something trotted toward us. I didn’t even need to turn fully to know it would be complicated. A goat. Except with six legs. And two heads. One head was chewing calmly. The other was watching me like I had just arrived late to a meeting it was leading. “Good morning,” I said. Both heads bleated, slightly out of sync. “This one broke fence,” Bohdan said. “I am surprised it only broke the fence.” I studied it. “Dual-minded torgat.” “…two brains?” Bohdan asked. “Yes.” “Better?” The two heads paused, both trying to reach the same patch of grass from different angles. “…no,” I said. “Just louder internally.”

I noticed the third one because everything else avoided it. Even Bohdan’s animals kept a respectful distance. It stood near the far side of the pasture. At first glance, a small cow. At second glance, not anything that should exist in a place with wooden fences and normal gravity. Its body looked like black stone, but not fixed. The surface shifted slowly, like something molten that had decided to pretend it was solid. Its eyes were small points of light. Not glowing. Just… present. “That one,” Bohdan said quietly, “I do not like.” “I do,” I said. I climbed over the fence and approached it. It watched me. Calm. Patient. “Hello,” I said. It exhaled. For a brief moment, the grass beneath it turned into smooth, dark glass. Then it returned, as if nothing had happened. “Temporary,” I said over my shoulder. “WHAT was that,” Bohdan replied. “Basalt grazer.” “…of course it is.” “They are usually very polite.” “It looks like it will eat my house.” “It will not,” I said. “Unless your house insults it.” Bohdan did not seem reassured.

Three days. I didn’t ask. I didn’t need to. “Three days ago,” I said. “Yes,” Bohdan answered immediately. “Same night.” “Yes.” Of course. I walked past the barn. There is always something behind the barn. And there it was. Half-hidden in the grass, like it had tried to be discreet and failed. A small metallic disc. I crouched and picked it up. Warm. Still active. “Ah,” I said. Bohdan came closer. “What is it?” “Someone,” I said, turning it in my hand, “tested a pasture-transfer beacon without properly fixing the destination.” “…and my farm?” “…was available.” He looked at the field. “So they are… not from here.” “No.” “…they go back?” “Yes.” He paused. “…they were not causing trouble.” “Yet.”

I tapped the disc lightly. It responded immediately. A low hum, barely audible, more something you feel behind your eyes than hear with your ears. A ripple moved through the pasture. The Luminant Grazer lifted its mirrored gaze. The Torgat stopped arguing, briefly united in confusion. The Basalt Grazer simply… acknowledged. Then, one by one, they folded. Not vanished. Folded. As if space itself had been gently closed around them. And they were gone. The field returned to normal. Grass. Wind. Sheep that made sense.

Bohdan exhaled slowly. “…I started naming them.” “I assumed you did.” “They were not bad.” “No,” I said. “They rarely are.” He looked at the empty space. “…what would come next?” I held the disc, feeling it power down. “Something,” I said, “that does not eat grass.” He did not ask further. Good.

We walked back toward the house. I could already see the table. Of course there was food. There is always food. Banosh. Bryndza. Something fried that will require reflection later. Bohdan glanced at me. “You stay?” I looked back at the quiet pasture. Reality, for the moment, behaving. “Yes,” I said. “But no gorylka before noon.” He smiled for the first time. “That is not how this works.” I sighed. Of course it isn’t.

— Marco