Where the Wall Ends

1. The great wall

But beyond it, the wall guarded what people search for most.

Some walls keep people away. This one held dreams close. It was a cool day. The air smelled of earth, mist, and a hint of cherries carried over by the wind. The grass of the meadow shone, wet with dew. On this grass sat a girl whom no one called a princess – although she was one. No crown, no court – only a heart that, despite everything, could open itself and dream – even if no one noticed. When she placed her hand on her chest, she felt a warm, small beating: still. She crouched with her legs drawn up, marvelled at an earthworm gnawing at a cherry, and kept looking over to the wall at the edge of the meadow. Grey, strangely smooth, not porous, as one would expect of ancient stone – higher than anything she had ever seen. So long no one knew where it began or where it ended. It did not only block paths; it also held words captive: laughter that could not find its way out, and questions that echoed back. This wall was greater than the one people claim can be seen from the sky. The adults said, “There is nothing beyond it. Whoever wants to know will never return.” On the outside, wild words twined like thorns; rumours – hardly anything spreads faster. But beyond it, the wall guarded what people search for most. The voices of the adults sounded like damp matches – all friction, no light. The girl did not believe them. She shook her head almost imperceptibly and remained defiantly silent. Near the wall stood an ancient cherry tree. Its branches reached almost across. The time of blossom had passed. But a trace of its quiet beauty still seemed to dwell in the tree. The first fruits hung red and plump in the foliage. And greater than her hunger was her curiosity: about everything that could begin beyond the wall. She jumped up at the trunk, trying to cling to it. Once. Twice. In vain. Then she climbed onto a stone, but that too was not enough. The bark scraped her hands; each attempt left a red mark. “You need a lifting aid – me,” said a voice. She spun around and looked up. On a branch sat a black tomcat. Not a kitten, a very large black tomcat. His fur gleamed as if in moonlight shadow, but at the tip of his tail glowed a tiny, snow-white tuft. He regarded her half sleepily, as if he had always been there. And yet it was his moon-blue eyes that caught her attention. “You can speak?” the child asked. “Of course. Three sentences, most of the time. That’s why my name is Dreisatz. Some believe it has to do with the words. But actually …” — he clicked his tongue — “… it has to do with my jumps. And sometimes with cherries as well.” He yawned. “Take my paw — I’ll help you. Don’t be afraid.” She hesitated, then took his paw. It felt surprisingly heavy, dry. With unexpected strength he pulled her up. Panting, but laughing, she landed among leaves and cherries. “You are strong,” said the Princess. “Stronger than is good for my stomach.” Dreisatz purred dryly. They laughed — and that was where their friendship began.

“So small hands,” he thought. An old song came to mind, quiet and gentle like a memory that never fades. They ate cherries until their stomachs hurt. Dreisatz began to tell stories — of dragon flights (obviously made up), of a Japanese friend who proudly called himself Kamikatze, and of his deep, almost philosophical aversion to mice. The Princess laughed, without knowing which of it was less believable. Then she grew quiet. “Why are you alone?” she asked softly. Dreisatz looked at her, longer than was necessary. “Because I learned early on to jump alone,” he murmured. “But sometimes … you find someone who laughs along when you land.” She tilted her head; her voice was an open little bowl that caught this sentence — and kept it. “Well,” sighed the cat, “I’ve been looking for someone for a long time who doesn’t run away when I speak my own truths, for example that black cats bring good luck. But what is truth, anyway? There are so many. Do you know?” Dreisatz leaned forward slightly and sniffed three times in her direction. He had this strange fondness for scents; he liked to claim: truth always smells a little of courage, it needs pressure. The Princess shook her head. “Perhaps truth is what remains when one is no longer afraid. And I won’t run away. Not from you. Perhaps you really do bring good luck.” They climbed higher, higher still. One branch ventured far out over the wall. The Princess leaned forward — and felt her breath catch. Beyond the wall lay a land so colourful she could hardly trust her eyes: green hills, forests full of glowing blossoms, trees of strange shapes, and a golden light that spilled over everything like honey. It was a crescendo of wonder — as if someone had turned up the sky. “Oh, I want to go there,” she breathed, “even if it costs the truth. But I am afraid — a little.” The cat nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve been watching this landscape for a while now and hope they take cats as well — big cats.” Two slow blinks — his answer. But the ground lay far below — much too far to jump, at least for the little one. So they spat their cherry stones down and heard them plop in the grass. “Why are you here? What are you doing here? Why don’t you go home?” the cat asked. “You really are curious,” teased the Princess. “Curious? Me? No, never!” Dreisatz raised his whiskers. “I’m only … a little interested.” After a while, a rustling passed through the grass — no wind, rather a trickling, as if from a thousand tiny feet hurrying not to be seen. Both of them paused. “Do you hear that?” she whispered, placing her hand to her ear as if she wanted to catch the sound. “Sounds like rain that has almost forgotten to fall from the sky. A gathering, in great numbers,” murmured the cat. For a moment, both held their breath — as if the wall itself had gained a heart that beat in the rhythm of a thousand feet. The Princess swayed her upper body back and forth. Then Dreisatz cleared his throat softly. “Enough talking. We’re going. Deeds will tell us more than just words. And I’m sure your courage is greater than your fear right now. So, let’s go.” One could walk on the wall — and so they did, carefully, for a while. But no path led down. The wall remained relentlessly high. Then, in the distance, they discovered something that looked like a castle, on a vast meadow. The closer they came, the more certain they became: yes, it was a fabulous castle — made of wood. And in front of it swarmed thousands, tens of thousands of ants — larger than any they had ever seen. “So many ants at once … If they all sneeze at the same time, the world will wobble. Carcassonne in miniature — unmistakable. That’s it. Maybe they even charge admission.” The cat snorted. “Carcassonne?” the Princess asked, puzzled. “Or a secret military base,” he grumbled. “Caution is better than bravery there.” He brushed her ankle with his tail, as if to hold her back.

The ants noticed the two of them, paused — and began to build in haste. At a breathless speed, ramps, pillars, stairs grew — an entire structure made of bodies. Wonder displaced fear. “Perhaps they’ll invite you,” murmured the cat. “Or they’ll tear you to pieces. Ant food.” And then it happened: everything froze as if on command. A broad clearing opened up, a step revealed itself. Silence. For minutes, nothing moved. The little one looked at the cat. He merely shrugged. “I’m afraid, I don’t want to go down there and I can’t step on ants,” she whispered. “Stay with me.” Dreisatz nodded seriously. Now or never. Hesitantly, she placed her foot on the first step. Wobbly, unsteady, like on a balance cushion. The ants remained motionless. Slowly, carefully, she descended. The vibrantly living staircase held. The cat crept beside her, as cautiously as a shadow. Briefly she touched his ear; he acted as if he had felt nothing. Once they had reached the bottom, the ants bowed — deeply and solemnly. A good sign. An alarmingly large ant stepped forward from a precise formation, her carapace gleaming bronze. At first she spoke in high, clinking tones, then in gestures — until her words became understandable: “I am Mia Minarelle Melipha, queen of this place. Welcome, child. Welcome, cat.” Dreisatz leaned forward and sniffed at her briefly three times, as if he wanted to smell the truth of the welcome. Which the queen acknowledged with a smile. The large guard ants raised their spears. Her voice was warm — and at the same time sounded like many small voices merging into a single tone. “Where am I?” the Princess asked. “With us,” replied the queen. And all the ants called out in chorus, “With us.” A shiver ran down the little one’s back. “We have seen you from afar, smelled you, sensed your steps. You may stay with us,” said the queen. “Why?” — “Because you came. Because we find visitors interesting. You are the first in countless moon phases. You are brave — that impresses us. You are curious — that interests us. And you are mindful — otherwise you would no longer be here; you would already no longer exist.” “And how do you know that I am not … evil? That we are not …” — “You are not, believe me. Your scent revealed it. Every heart has its own scent. One only has to be attentive to recognise it. We do not err — otherwise we would long since no longer exist.” The Princess looked questioningly at the cat, who appeared somewhat uneasy. “Just listen to a story,” said the ant queen, “it will explain it to you.” The tension slowly receded. The three of them sat down lower; the cat settled himself at the Princess’s feet. “Sometimes one of our sisters loses her way. Rain washes away the traces, the sun smells too strongly of hot stone. Then she stops — and no longer knows where We is. Then we set out, not many of us. We place scent into the air, like belonging carried on scent. The elders drum a calm rhythm into the ground. Whoever is close touches her with their antennae — a greeting that says: ‘You belong with us.’ She feels the rhythm all the way into her leg. Then she lifts her head, hears the ground, smells the path, feels us. She sets off — and sometimes we also build a bridge of bodies over a trench that is too deep, filled with water. That is how she finds her way home. Not because she would suddenly be strong — but because we are there.” The queen fell silent. Then she spoke softly: “Among us, this is called: community. That is the scent that shows the way. And you carry almost a trace of this scent.” She repeated: “Scent is path.” “But I want to tell you more, to explain something — after all, you are new here. For many years I have been queen. Not because I give orders, but because I emit that scent which binds us all together. Invisible — and yet as strong as a thread that holds everything. Without it, we would not know where we belong. We ants live because we share. None carries everything, none remains idle. Together we lift loads, build bridges of bodies, even survive floods as a living raft together. Yes, I provide for offspring. But more important still: I watch over the balance. Too many warriors — and we suffocate. Too few — and we are defenceless. Balance — it is our greatest treasure.”

The queen stepped closer, her antennae like fine sensors in the air. “Humans see us as small and trample us carelessly. But we are older than their cities, older than their machines. We are quiet gardeners of the earth, invisible guardians of the climate. Without us the soil grows poor — and we know that without you it might breathe easier. That is why I say to you: do not see us as crawling creatures. See us as a mirror — a mirror of order, of community, yes, of the entire universe. No wave swims by itself.” She pointed ahead with an antenna. Within sight, a larger branch lay across a trench. Four ants braced themselves, pushed — in vain. Then one laid herself crosswise over the gap. The others rolled the branch over her back, two pushed from behind. Only together did it succeed. The castle breathed out. “Did you see?” asked the queen. “Had one tried to carry everything, she would have broken. Had some not helped, the work would have failed. Balance holds — always.” The Princess nodded. “I know balance too: when I stand on one leg, I fall without it.” Dreisatz yawned. “I am a specialist in balance — exactly right between sleeping and dozing.” The queen smiled. “That is so. Balance does not apply only to legs. It also holds hearts together. And it holds states. If someone always rules and never listens, his realm tips over. If he only listens and never decides — that too.” “Well then,” grumbled Dreisatz, “balance is when one shares fish. Otherwise someone remains hungry — and that is usually me.” The Princess laughed, then grew quiet. “So balance also in the head? If I am always sad, I forget laughter. And if I only laugh, I do not notice when someone is crying.” “Very wise,” said the queen. “The earth, too, knows balance. If not, forests burn, rivers dry up. Only when humans keep measure does the whole remain intact.” The Princess beamed. “So balance is everywhere — in the body, in the heart, in the earth, in songs. But it is most important where people hold one another.” The queen gently placed her antennae on the girl’s shoulders. Her voice was quiet, like a drumming from the ground: “Exactly. And never forget: balance is the heart of every community. Without it, even the strongest castle breaks. And I am the guardian of the balance of this state. This balance is never standstill, but a living oscillation between opposites.” Dreisatz puffed out his chest, solemnly: “So I am your balance cat, then. I hold you — and you hold me. Deal?” The Princess giggled, pressed her face into his fur — and he felt that she had understood. And the queen spoke the final sentences, like a set of scales settling into balance: “Too much taking destroys, too much giving exhausts — balance holds. Balance is in everything; it is a universal principle. Without balance there would be no world as we know it — without it, everything falls apart into chaos. It is not a gift, but a task. It costs strength — and precisely in that lies its dignity.” “And do ants get married as well?” The queen shook her head and smiled. “No, my little one, we are all connected through tasks.” “Oh, no mothers-in-law?” Dreisatz sighed. Evening settled over the ant kingdom like a glowing blanket. The air was still — too still. Only the humming of the sentries vibrated in the ground. Suddenly, two exceptionally large ants of the honour guard rushed forward. Their antennae trembled. They bowed deeply and whispered something into the queen’s ear. The queen went ashen. Her antennae drooped. A moment of silence. Then a hard light returned to her eyes. “You must excuse me,” she said. “I am needed.” “Why, what has happened?” the Princess asked softly. The queen hesitated, then spoke calmly, though her voice trembled slightly: “Our scouts report an army from the east. Beyond the wall. They have dug a vast underground tunnel system beneath the wall. Unnoticed by us. A hostile colony — about six hundred thousand soldiers. We are only about four hundred thousand. The sun is sinking — and they are marching. In an hour they will be here.”

From the castle came a dull rumbling, as if the ground itself were growing afraid. Metallic sounds, shouted commands, the crackling of readied acid cannons. The Princess clasped her hands together. “But … this is war!” “Yes,” said the queen curtly. “And we only just survived the last one.” Her voice took on the sound of memory: “Three weeks. One hundred and fifty thousand dead. Since then we have improved many things — tunnel defence, larval bunkers, spore defence — and even …” She paused. “… a kind of slingshot unit.” “With what do you hurl?” Dreisatz asked with interest. “With ourselves,” said a soldier seriously. The Princess swallowed. Dreisatz jumped onto a small stone and looked to the west. His ears twitched nervously. The sun burned low, an orange-red eye. “Your Majesty,” he began, placing a paw on his chest, “perhaps you do not need slingshots. Perhaps you need me … and theatre. I have an idea — it is just coming to me ….” The queen looked at him, puzzled. “In my youth I saw many battles — on the stage. And in real life I fought many battles. I will, if you permit, play a giant.” He began to stretch, shook out his fur, checked the position of the sun. “Do you see? If I place myself here, with the sun at my back, my shadow will dance across the field. I need only a pinch of theatricality.” “Theatricality? A giant?” the queen asked suspiciously. “What is this supposed to be? All our lives are at stake.” “Yes, exactly, theatricality,” said Dreisatz. “That’s what one calls the courage of an actor before he knows whether the audience will applaud or eat him. Perhaps it will work — or we will all be eaten.” He was already fully in his role, flailing his arms. The queen shook her head in disbelief, thought for a long time, consulted with two ants — obviously important figures — then nodded. “Very well. I don’t know, but you have my permission. Try it. First you, then us. We will come to help. I hope you survive this. At your risk.” The Princess stepped up to him. “You’re crazy — that might work on stage. I don’t want you to be eaten.” He purred, a rough war-purr. “If everything goes well, only boredom will be eaten. My truth reveals itself only in the storm.” In the distance the earth vibrated; dust clouds rose. From the east came the thunder of countless legs — a vast, black surge that swallowed the horizon. Dreisatz positioned himself in front of the castle, his back to the sun. The sky burned golden. He took a deep breath, stretched himself — a black shadow grew, grew, grew. He hissed, leapt, punched the air, his tail lashed. On the field, the enemy suddenly saw a dragon — enormous, flame-black, with eyes of fire. The roaring echoed through the hills. “HE IS COMING!” cried the front ranks. “A GIANT! A DRAGON, A GOD-BEAST!” Panic broke out. The ants tried to flee, trampled one another. Weapons fell, shields splintered, acid sprayed uselessly into the sand. It stank. Everything was full of dust and shouting. Dreisatz leapt higher, shouted “GET OUT OF MY SUN,” struck the air in wild ecstasy. For a moment he himself was very impressed by his reflection in the light, his philosophical flash of insight — in any case: himself, a monument of terror. Then he saw the army break apart, turn — and flee. “Ha!” he gasped. “I knew it — theatre is my passion. Tur Tur, you old master, greetings to you!” He sank into the dust, exhausted — mute, hoarse, yet with a grin that seemed to have no end. When night fell, the ant kingdom was saved. Torches burned. The queen stepped up to Dreisatz, deeply moved, and touched his paw. “Incredible — you saved us without bloodshed. No loss, no wound. You are … our hero.” “But heroes are hungry too,” he whispered.

Within the hour the celebration began. The meadow of victory shimmered like a living sky of stars. Tens of thousands of ants brought everything edible in no time; there was dancing, laughter; they drummed on seed pods, wore wreaths of leaves. The Princess laughed till she had stitches in her side. Dreisatz sat on a tree stump, his fur bristling, his voice completely hoarse. “And then,” he cried, “I lifted myself up — twice as big as a house! Shadowboxing. Faster than my shadow. And in the end I even jumped over my own shadow. My roaring made even the wind freeze, and the enemy … … fled like a flock of wingless chickens!” Cheers, applause, laughter. “Tell it again!” they shouted. And he told it — again and again. The third time the shadow was as big as a mountain. The fourth time he breathed fire. The fifth time a second tail grew from him — “for balance, you see.” At some point he simply collapsed, purred himself into sleep, and murmured: “Tur Tur would have wept with pride. That is what truth looks like.” The queen looked at him — silent, almost motherly. “You are a great and courageous warrior,” she said. “And today our people know: greatness is not a matter of numbers, but of the soul.” At the edge of the celebration sat the Princess. She looked up at the sky, where the stars flared into life. “What a day,” she whispered. “I only wanted to understand what balance is — and I learned that even fear can dance.” Beside her, Dreisatz purred in his sleep, content like a field after rain. And in the distance, deep beneath the earth, the earth itself carried the echo onward — a story of cunning, courage, trust, and a cat who knew: sometimes theatre saves the world. The next morning, the queen came to the two of them, who were still sleeping peacefully on the meadow. She opened a pouch and drew out a small amber bottle. “This,” she said softly, “is a special essence — the essence of belonging. Our gift to you. Whoever carries it will be met by animals and humans with quiet respect: not because they know who you are, but because they sense that you are present.” She dabbed a trace onto the forehead of the Princess and the cat. The little one closed her eyes. It tingled, as if someone had placed a small sun beneath her skin — warm and mysterious all at once. For a moment, it was as if the world whispered to her: you are not invisible. “Thank you,” she breathed. Dreisatz sat up as straight as a candle, his paws folded like a courtly orator. His voice was drawn out, exaggeratedly solemn: “Very well. From now on, the dust will part reverently wherever I walk, and whoever touches me must first bathe their paws in rose water.” The Princess giggled — and yet the warmth remained within her like a secret glow. The queen smiled. “Do not forget: every gift warms two hearts — the one that gives, and the one that receives.

And what you give from the heart sometimes returns — unexpected, but perhaps also longed for.” And somewhere deep beneath the earth, a tiny spark glimmered on — the beginning of … — we do not yet know. A group of ants waited in metallic, gleaming armour. They clinked softly, like rain on roof tiles. “This is my honour guard,” said the queen. “They will accompany you to — yes, I suggest — to the snail theatre. They are currently performing The Tears of the Orchid. Unforgettable. Give my regards to Señora Salinella.” The Princess smiled — still unaware that the strangest performance of her life awaited her there. Before they set off, the Princess asked once more: “And where am I here?” “Still with us,” replied the queen. “This us,” the little one thought, “feels like home. But what is that?” “That is,” said the queen, “when someone says: you belong with us.” The Princess placed her hand on her heart. “Then today I truly felt something like … home.”

“Keep this seed,” said the queen. “It will remind you.” Dreisatz purred softly. “And perhaps one day you will discover that home is not a place — but a heartbeat you follow. In any case, it was exciting. A great adventure. With you, one experiences things, Princess …” Gently, the small hand found his back. Exactly one hundred ants bowed. A gust of wind smelled of resin and something like pride. “Au revoir,” murmured the cat and winked. “Military precision frightens me. One never knows — revolution or institution.” And as they walked on, a trace of resin and heart remained on their hands — and in their hearts — like a quiet memory that they had truly been there.