Nemaeans. To mention them is to conjure chills that conquer the spine, or play the vertebrae like dulcimer strings, hammered—or the strings of celli: plucked. It is common to think of monsters and bogey-men when the name of Nemaea is evoked. It has not always been like this. They were like us: once. In ways that we have yet to understand, they may be more human than we are. Sssh, sssh: hush now. These words can’t hurt you. Think—if you will—that I speak a confession. Or maybe a dream. A desire. Yes, that’s it. My words, if anything, are sentimental in nature, and how has sentiment ever hurt anyone? I remember my days among them: when I was young and struck with fear at the very mention of Nemaea. I traveled to the Nemaean worlds because that is what the Corporations demanded of me. I went with hesitation, with fear, but I swallowed it all and kept it in tight confinement. And in that way, I endured my first days on a world named for a warrior and a poet. I worked, as I had to, among humans who were not human, among creatures that revealed themselves—after a month—as our own displaced kin: brothers, sisters, and cousins who tore themselves away from the family of humankind, and threw themselves into the expansive, comfortless dark. I remember nights fat with strange and alien stars, or bright with one-too-many moons. On those nights, I saw Nemaeans seek dark places, comfortable places, and places where talk was possible. I saw them drink their liquors; I saw them smoke their strange tobacco, and their herbs. I remember how they embraced the passions of those nights. They laughed, they sang, and on occasion—when a subtle balance was thrown—they brawled. But rarely. Rarely. For all that we say of Nemaea, the people of that realm are ordered and gentle, confident of their place in the universe and content with it. Nemaeans. Say their name to me, and this is what is conjured. It is common to think of inhuman things, and maybe of monsters. But I have lived among them. I have seen them laugh, sing, and on occasion, brawl. Now, I am old and in a place I’ve been told is my home. It is not. The sky is fat with stars I do not recognize, and on occasion, it carries the light of one-too-few moons. I may, in time, return to the Nemaean realm, but for now, I have only my memories and the words I will occasionally share with you…. —Extracted from the unpublished journals of Mario Reyes. *** I found this photograph in the saved copy of an email I’d sent. I took it in Prague, in a bar that has been featured on the early pages of my gallery. Some of you may recognize the dark and industrial interior of Cross Club. Some of you may recognize the strangers in this photo, not as Nemaeans, but as Czechs. Nemaea was born in Prague, and much of what has come to define that fictional interstellar realm draws its very nature from the Czech Republic, from Russia, and from the old mines of Dortmund, Germany. I know very little of who Mario Reyes might be, but he’s been to Nemaea—to a world he hasn’t bothered to call by name. I’m curious about what happened to him there, and I’m curious about his relationship to the aspects of Nemaea that I’ve already explored in my gallery. Does he know familiar characters? Has he played some role in a familiar tale? Time will tell, I suppose. As always, thank you for viewing and reading and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great holiday-season week.