Kitabı oku: «Sand»

Each person has his own path, but at some point it will come to an end. And therefore it is necessary to turn to something else, to begin a new path.

Paulo Coelho

Love is not a condition of the spirit but a sign of the zodiac.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez

There is no easier death, than to say “Farewell”.

John Donne

Sleep seized him in an instant, blazing up scarlet over the gray curtain of fog. Once again he saw the old house.

A white salt wind stretched towards the edge of the horizon. Above it, a procession of triangular white clouds passed in the shimmering haze of the setting sun. Mirages crowded all around, like plunderers. The sand, red in the light of the setting sun, was dragged in waves along the bottom of the dried-up riverbed. The enormous old house on the hill seemed like an apparition too, now appearing, now disappearing in wafts of scorching hot air. Not a single trace was left in the sand.

The hot bronze of the hammer burned his palm. He slowed a little, listening intently. Rustling of sand, silence of wind…

“Wake up, Ghost! It’s your turn to keep watch. You can wake me up in the morning. It looks as if they’re dog-tired too. We’ve lost them, but the devil only knows with these mercenaries. We need to make our way to the marshes; they won’t get us there.”

“What time is it? I’m not such an important bird that they should be chasing me day and night. It’s you they’re after.” muttered Ghost, who felt as though he had barely managed to close his eyes. The house still trembled in the slanting cuts of the sun’s rays. “In fog like this you couldn’t even find hell.”

His grumbling was interrupted by the steady breathing of Nort, who had fallen asleep at the word “What”. Ghost yawned and shivered. The damp dusk could barely contain its tears, and rain threatened to break out at any moment. The gray trunks of enormous trees, overgrown with dripping wet moss, resembled gloomy columns propping up the damp sky. His legs grew numb, and his stomach twisted with hunger. Ghost rummaged in the canvas bag. It was the only valuable item that remained to him after his encounter with the mercenaries and his imprisonment in the dungeon, where he had spent only a short time, having latched onto Nort. The map, drawn on thin but sturdy tracing paper, was barely detectable in the secret compartment. Fortunately, the coarse fingers of people accustomed to killing without a second thought, had not felt the light stretching of the cloth. The food situation was not so good. In the bottom of the bag there were a few stray, pale crumbs, which Ghost popped neatly into his mouth, after painstakingly collecting them with his stiff fingers.

“How I will know an hour has gone by, I wonder? What are we going to eat in the marshes, and why did Nort agree to free me, a total stranger, and take me along with him?” Frozen, Ghost continued to question the fog. “It takes all sorts, of course, but…”

The rain now began to fall rapidly and noisily, filling the thicket with a whispering, sobbing, and gurgling of bursting bubbles. Nort sat up, shaking his head.

“We’d better go further on, before we freeze completely” he proposed, rubbing his eyes. “They say that the Bony Madman, a kindly old hermit, lives in the marshes.”

“I’ve heard of him too, but to be honest, I didn’t really believe the story. It sounds strange: “a kindly madman”. A character like that might smother you in your sleep without a by-your-leave.”

“All the same, we don’t have a choice. Go back to the dungeon if you want, it’s dry there at least, and maybe they’ll even feed you.”

“Thanks a lot! They hadn’t yet got around to interrogating me, but all those contraptions on the walls… Let’s go and find the old man.”

A foul swill squelched disgustingly under their feet, icy rain poured down their collars, and their teeth chattered uncontrollably. The marshes met them like a black mouth filled with gnarled tree trunks resembling loose teeth. It smelled damp and moldy. Darkness crept in from the east.

“It’s dangerous to walk at night when you don’t know the road. We’ll get lost,” muttered Ghost, his teeth chattering.

“The road?” Nort was genuinely surprised. “Do you actually think there’s a road here?” He too was soaked and tired. Wet hair clung to his pale face. His eyes looked black and huge.

“Listen, what did you expect, when you broke out of your cell? You don’t know the terrain; you have no food, or warm clothing! It’s madness!” Ghost exclaimed. “Are you looking to die? And you freed me too! You don’t even know me; what if I were suddenly to cut you up and eat you!

Nort lowered his head, as if considering Ghost’s words. Then he stood up straight, glancing at Ghost with his cold hazel eyes.

“Eat me.”

…

On the huge estate, dozens of servants were lighting the lamps. Their snow white gloves fluttered like butterflies along dimly lit halls. From the garden it seemed as though slowly, one by one, the yellow eyes of the windows were opening. Evening drained the excess colors of sunset from the petals and leaves, leaving behind their natural tone. In the central courtyard a fountain throbbed with cheerful, shining streams of water, soaking the wings of the chubby angel, whose plump cheeks severely restricted his field of vision. This was probably why his arrows had not yet found their mark.

Time was frozen, like a mosquito trapped for all eternity in the amber eyes of the tom-cat. He was grumbling disdainfully on the knees of his owner, who tenderly pulled on his ear with her bony fingers. All the bustling about the house meant one thing only: yet another dull evening. An hour from now the guests would begin to arrive. In three, they would depart, as soon as the gossip and champagne had run dry. The cat yawned demonstratively, extending his sharp claws.

“You’re right, Momo, I’m bored with this whole routine. I will not go down to the guests today. I had another restless night. I could not sleep. My sins lie like a heavy burden on my soul. I feel dreadful. I confessed to the Holy Father, and he commanded me to pray. He looked at me with condemnation. Soon I will come before the judge… The old woman’s voice was muffled and agitated. “I will confess everything, and hope they will understand and forgive me. The future holds nothing for me but suffering.”

The tom-cat snorted and jumped down from her knees, shook his ginger mane and headed for the kitchen. He still had eight lives ahead of him, as well as white chicken meat and fresh raw egg yolk.

A young servant girl patiently awaited her orders. Her blonde hair was pulled back neatly into a ponytail; her small round face retained an expression of childlike trust. Her large grey eyes shone with good sense. She pulled awkwardly at the edge of her lace apron.

“Marta, see me to my chamber, my dear,” the old woman requested, “and send Khikumo to me.”

“Very well, Madam. Only he asked not to be called that, Madam, it offends him. And at breakfast, when you said that the walls of his office are covered with the glazed eyes of corpses… I so took fright that I almost dropped the tray…”

“Enough, dear girl, that is his job, after all. He sends people from the world of the living to the world of the dead. Do you know what it means to sentence a person to death? Probably he too is troubled by insomnia.”

“He always looks as if he is seizing hold of somebody’s soul. I will go down for him now; he’s in the hall with the other guests.

…

All that remained of the castle was its tower, like a bare stump of bone. A staircase had once risen up the tower, but it had collapsed under the weight of time. The semicircular foundation had become overgrown with grass and the roots of ancient trees, and now revealed the bared grin of a grating in what had been a dark dungeon. A little round courtyard, strewn with fragments of yellow sandstone, had been rebuilt as a guardhouse: a wooden awning served as its roof and in the middle a large table made of wood darkened by age and a pair of plain benches were dug into the ground. From time to time, inquisitive, quick-moving squirrels came down to eat crumbs left on the table.

“How did they manage to escape? Do you know why our jail is here? The dungeons in the castle ruins are in excellent condition. On one side there’s an incline, a steep rock wall. After about a hundred meters it leads into a ravine. On the other side are the marshes, bogs with little lights, like in horror stories. And in the middle, the forest, a thicket where not a single ray of light can penetrate. In the night you can hear howling. So, if one of the prisoners is dissatisfied, I have only to say: go, my dear, in whichever direction you please and, especially if it’s nighttime, he will get down on his knees and beg to be allowed to stay here. Right away everything is just fine with him. But now, they’ve run off! Two of them! You must be kidding; where’s the prisoner from the cell eight? I need to question him.” The fat prison warden glanced in irritation at the big lackey with the broken nose. His short fingers played nervously with a pile of papers on the table, moving it from one place to another.

“We’ve chased after them all day, combed the forest,” the mercenary drawled lazily, cleaning his nail with a sharp, broad knife. “The lads almost died. Such a fog, you couldn’t see your own hand stretched out in front of you. And then it started pouring with rain. If they don’t kick the bucket, they’ll be back by morning, crawling. They’ll be asking for food. They’re snivelers, the pair of them.

“That’s all very well if they do crawl back, but One-Eye doesn’t like to joke around.

At the sound of this nickname the mercenary flinched and drew himself up to his full height. He carefully put the knife back in its case.

“What? Was he a messenger?” He asked with interest, suspicious now. “Did he ask for one of the prisoners?”

“Why the name Ghost in particular?” inquired the fat man, taking a sudden interest and finally leaving alone the pile of papers, which was about to knock over the ink pot. “Who is he, according to his documents, to the investigation?”

“He doesn’t have any documents. He’s some kind of a rascal. Our Hugh is a collector of myths. There’s no way to knock the nonsense out of him. He likes to read, you see. He found a couple of books in the ruined library here that made him grunt for joy. The lads make fun of him, but they’re wary of him. He could bring a bull to its knees with a single blow of his fist. You’d think he was a regular fellow, but you see, he reads in the toilet – enlightening himself. Well, there I go, getting carried away. So anyway, that’s how he learned of a local legend about this, what do you call it, on… ostronotus, no, astrolug. An old man, that is. He watched the stars, and in such darkness, mind you! Only, the castle had already begun to collapse. Everyone went away after the fire. The old chap was the only one left. He climbed up to the tower with a candle, but the staircase went and collapsed. He cried out, you see, cried out, but then started to laugh and dropped dead. That’s how it was. Ever since then, there’s been a light shining on the tower at nighttime, and the sound of laughter…”

“My lads laughed, and lay down to sleep. But during the night the guard began to act strangely: “light on the tower!” he shouts, “Ghost!” So then everyone leapt up, and, sure enough, there was a light, and a shadow creeping along the wall.

“But what did he have to laugh about, if he was about to die?” The chief asked agitatedly, wiping the sweat from his shiny head with a greasy handkerchief. “Had he gone crazy?”

“To hell with him, only, out of the blue he started sniggering in a vile way, seeing how agitated we were. And he poked at us with his fingers, to show us, you see. Yanin, now, he couldn’t stand it. He likes to drink, like a bear pulling its eye. And now here’s this puny ghost character. He tossed the climbing iron, crawled up and, lo and behold, the sniveler on the tower takes aim at him – Ghost, that is. How on earth he didn’t flatten him right away, the devil only knows. His laughter was so piercing; we thought he’d kick the bucket. But the spineless creature didn’t lose his head; he went down ahead of him and took refuge in the cell, asked them to lock him in. They locked him up out of pity. And that’s how they came to christen him Ghost.

The fat man had cheered up and was laughing into his sleeve.

“I can imagine, such a weakling… And here’s Yanin! Probably wet himself! Put himself in the cell!” His bald patch was turning red, and tears were squeezing out of his eyes.

“Let’s get down to business,” interrupted the mercenary, pulling on the hilt of his knife. “Who was One-Eye after?”

…

“Well now, what if there is only one dish on the menu,” muttered Ghost slowly, pulling his knife from his sleeve. “After all, they weren’t very smart about searching me; they only looked through the bag, shook out the food, the matches.” He moved toward Nort through the sticky mud. Nort stood, motionless; he was following the edge of the knife blade with eyes the colour of green duckweed. The hand holding the knife rose up, gathering itself into an arching swing, when the sharp edge lit up with a lively, trembling fire. Ghost froze too, not daring to believe his eyes. On the edge of the blade danced a flame. They turned around in unison, bewitched by the cheerful specks on the black surface of the marsh. Hundreds of tiny fires, obeying a single rhythm, danced around them. They beckoned, promising solid, dry ground, they called, promising satiety and safety, they bewitched, promising sleep and nothingness. The fugitives walked forward blindly, the black mud quickly stealing up to their throats, sucking out their remaining strength. The knife slid out of Ghost’s weakened hands. And now all the little fires suddenly went out, as if someone had blown out the candles on a birthday cake. The enchantment was broken. Their legs sank deeper into the mire. The cold froze their bodies.

“Forgive me, I didn’t want to eat you, I was only testing you…” The mud had reached his mouth.

“I understood; you forgive me too… The heavy rain was flooding over their thrown-back faces. Ghost was the first to go down to the bottom, when a powerful hand seized him, carrying him into a darkness that he was able to breathe.

“This is the night of my second birth,” thought Ghost limply, before sinking into a deep, dark place.

The scorching air quivered, stratifying the white clouds above the horizon. The sun poured out its blood, staining the sand. The scarlet birds of sunset stretched away towards midnight. The hammer glowed with heat, burning the palm. The youth lingered. The sunset pierced the air with the sharp blades of its rays. The hand dropped the hammer, unable to withstand the heat. It knocked silently at the door. A little cloud of dust rose up above the cracked door.

Warmth spread all over his body, reverberating blissfully in every cell. It was soft and dry lying there. Someone’s enormous hand lifted his head, and poured into his half-open mouth a thick aromatic infusion. Ghost opened his eyes slightly. A huge fat creature smiled happily at him. The childlike pink face looked at him with concern and love. He wore a frilly apron that was only large enough to cover half of his stomach. In a roughly assembled fireplace a fire was singing. On uneven shelves along the wall there stood dusty books of all colors. Their belongings, including the canvas bag, had been washed out and were drying over the fire. Ghost started up nervously.

“Don’t worry,” whispered the giant, bending towards his ear. “I took out the map and the stash and hid them.”

At a table made from a door sat a stern-looking old man, dry and thin like a praying mantis. Next to his foot rested a cracked wooden box.

“He fell ashleep for eighteen thouzhand yearsh, becaushe he didn’t know what to do next,” intoned the old man, lifting a bent index finger into the air. “That ish why it ish sho important to know what it ish that you are living for.”

Evidently this was the concluding part of a speech directed at the giant youth. The latter smiled even more broadly, and lifted up Nort’s soften body. He skillfully poured the steaming drink into the lad’s mouth. The latter began to cough. The giant patted him gently on the back.

“Where are we?” asked Nort, gasping for breath.

“Don’t worry, not in the castle dungeon.” Glancing at the old man, the giant added “We’re friends, you are safe here.”

“Don’t be afraid; musht be shtarving, such weaklinghs over there,” mumbled the old man. “Mama, ish our supper ready? I do feel like eating, though. It shmells pretty good. By the way, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to look for Sheiba, feed ush shome of her milk.

At this moment Ghost felt such an onslaught of hunger pangs, that his eyes went dark. Mama left Nort, and rushed toward the stove. Putting on thick oven gloves, he pulled out of the cracked interior a clay pot, which filled the whole cabin with its aroma.

“Everything’s ready, Madman!” He exclaimed happily. “Please come to the table.”

Mama deftly set out plates and utensils, and with a deep ladle served the thick, aromatic soup. He cut the bread neatly, clasping the loaf to his chest. He poured out foaming cider. They passed the next quarter of an hour in silence; only the birds coughed in the forest, and Mama, wiping away a few tears, put a second helping into Ghost’s soup plate. After eating, the two guests went to lie down. A chill seized Nort. Mama gave him a second blanket.

“Having rizhen from the dead, he ish in dishtressh. “What should I do now?” The voice of the old man shook with incomprehensible excitement. Salty wrinkles stretched tightly across his agitated face. “That ish why every pershon should know hish reazhon for living, and do everything in time.” Falling silent for a few moments, he added inopportunely, “I forbade the birdsh to laugh.”

The young one raised his eyebrows in sufferance.

“Yesh, yesh. We have a guesht “with shining eyesh in the houshe”. You undershtand?” Whispering, he added, glancing at the sleeping guests. “You don’t often hear about shomething like thish. We ought to help him, put him on hish guard. He’sh extremely hot.

…

In the morning Mama came back from the marshes with brushwood and some news. Throwing down his armload in a corner of the kitchen, he carefully wiped his reddened hands on his apron. Without becoming distracted from his work, the giant talked, while skillfully starting a fire in the hearth.

“There are mercenaries firing guns at the marsh fires – what for? They’re casting nets… surely they aren’t hoping to catch fish for their supper in the quagmire? Or have they lost their minds?”

The old man, as was his habit, raised his finger in answer to the question. His bushy eyebrows met at the bridge of his nose.

“A sharp vibration of the air, according to shome people, shurvivesh the rizhe of marsh gasshesh and with it alsho the dead bodiesh. But the shun hash carried away the wind.

Nort was convulsed. Ghost smiled.

“They are looking for your body.” He announced cheerfully, winking at Nort. “Well, and mine at the same time.”

“Could they come here?” Enquired the youth uneasily, getting to his feet with difficulty.

“Not posshible. Mama ish the only one who knowsh the paths around here. He hash shurvived sheeing the shlippery corpshesh! You were lucky that he left a bashket on that bank, and went back for it. The bashket dishappeared. Out of the eyesh of the first corpse arozhe the shun.” The Bony Madman ended his speech in his usual absurd way.

Relieved, Nort settled back on the pillow and closed his eyes. Mama put his palm on Nort’s damp forehead.

“He has a fever.” The fat boy complained. “I’ll go and make him a tincture.”

Ghost followed Mama into the small kitchen. He clambered feet first into an old armchair that was placed conveniently near the fire.

“Why is the old man always talking gibberish? He doesn’t seem to be an idiot.”

Mama smiled warmly, taking some little bags of dried herbs out of an overfull, very old sideboard.