A hungry sun displeased the sky
And kissed the earth with rain.
A howling wind picked up a lie
And filled my heart with pain.

A howling wind picked up the dust
And dressed the wounds in grey.
The cards are played, the dice are cast,
The death is on its way.

The dead are walking drunk on rot,
Their flesh abuzz with flies.
The living cry, the dead do not,
The skulls give queer smiles.

The fall had come and swept away
The blood of fallen leaves.
The words that I forgot to say
The smoke curled up in whiffs.

I beg forgiveness for my love
And bid you farewell.
Enchanted leaf, a cooing dove,
Has drowned in the well.

I drowned too, in grey and blue,
A breath of frost and night.
The bitterness I came to rue
The moment of my flight.

Холодным пеплом сыпят облака,
Деревья упиваются ветрами,
Блестит, как сталь, замёрзшая река,
И искры снега гаснут под ногами.

Из жажды чувств не выкроить зарю,
В колодце тьмы не утолить похмелье…
Я образ твой из света сотворю
И опущусь Орфеем в подземелье.

Пусть грусть моя сплетается в печаль –
Тоска меня купила с потрохами…
И кандалов удушливая сталь
Терзает плоть голодными клыками.

Да, чувства – это кандалы!
Мы носим, кто – наручники, кто – гири,
Держа баланс на кончике иглы,
Мы бесконечно одиноки в мире.

Из тел кровавым лезвием торчат
Клинки, что мы точили друг для друга…
Слова, что нас кромсали, всё звучат,
Кружит упрёков стонущая вьюга.

Гиены слов назойливо скулят,
В узлы стянулись размышлений жилы,
И каждый на кресте своём распят,
И каждый скинуть этот крест не в силах…

Уйди, прошу, тоска моя и грусть!
Довольно мне мучения Голгофы.
Мне больно, одиноко – но и пусть.
Друзья мои – безжалостные строфы.

Бур Атино сидел за столом, откинувшись на спинку высокого кресла. Выражение его лица было мрачным и озабоченным. Перед столом напротив Атино стоял пожилой крокодил, старый и битый жизнью, в рваном пиджаке и одном ботинке. Глаза его были опущены, пасть закрыта. Передние лапы крокодил держал за спиной, будто они были у него связаны. По настоящему связывать крокодила не было никакого смысла, так как справа и слева от Атино стояли два исключительно крупных и довольно злых мордоворота, которые мгновенно бы порвали несчастного в клочья, попробуй он только дёрнуться.

— Так! — сказал Атино, почёсывая указательным пальцем обрубок носа. Нос ему сломали давным-давно, еще когда он жил в Бергамо, а на безымянном пальце у него не хватало одной фаланги. — Так! — Атино повторил, на этот раз громче, пытаясь привлечь внимание стоящего перед ним крокодила, словно тот дремал. — Мы будем говорить? Или мне позвать Шапокляк?

При упоминании о старухе крокодил тотчас пришёл в себя и нервно задёргался.

— Не-е-ет, — медленно и тихо, словно нехотя простонал он, — Нет, не нужно Шапокляк… — и про себя подумал, — “Только не хватает этой живодёрки!” — Крокодил хорошо знал, из чьей кожи сделана её сумочка. А-а-а крыса! Мерзкая грязная крыса! Крокодил очень боялся крыс, очень, — Я всё скажу, — ответил они еще ниже опустил морду.

— Ну вот и хорошо! — Атино засиял и подал знак своим телохранителям, чтобы те придвинули крокодилу стул, ибо разговор предстоял долгий, а лапы у бедняги и без того были все в синяках и ссадинах.

— Рассказывай, зелёный, кто обнёс театр Карабаса за день до нас, ну! — Атино придал лицу гневное выражение, да так что сосновая голова его затрещала, — Говори, скотина!

Крокодил немного помялся и, по капле выдавливая из себя слова, произнёс: — Урашка. Театр взял Урашка.

— Урашка! Раздолбай меня дятел! Урашка?? — Атино аж вскочил с кресла, лицо его побагровело от злости. Громилы из его охраны тупо уставились на него, не зная, что делать. — Чёрт подери этого плюшевого вора! Ну ничего, он ещё пожалеет, что перешёл мне дорогу! Мне — Атино! — Он ударил себя в грудь деревянной рукой и сел обратно в кресло. Атино, как и все буры, не славился умом, но зато имел недюжинные организаторские способности. Как говорится, он мог потянуть за правильные ниточки, чтобы хорошо расставленные им на свои места люди воплотили в жизнь его грязный замысел. Вот и в этот раз он всё превосходно рассчитал и спланировал, как взять театр Карабаса, главное, как добыть заветный золотой ключ от его персонального хранилища в Цюрихе. Но этот проходимец Урашка его опередил! Ну ничего! Он ему еще покажет!

Атино заёрзал в кресле и приказал громиле справа от себя:

— А ну-ка, голубчик, позови-ка сюда Алису.

Атино не любил связываться с Алисой, но ситуация того требовала. Он прибегал к её услугам в исключительных ситуациях. Алиса была всегда себе на уме и, несомненно, была намного сообразительнее Атино. Честно говоря, он её побаивался. Атино с нетерпением и некоторым волнением ждал появления рыжей плутовки, навалившись грудью на стол, чтобы скрыть свою неуверенность.

Громила скрылся за дверью. Через некоторое время в коридоре послышалась возня и тихое, мелодичное хихиканье. “Алиса!” — подумал Атино, — “Как всегда в своем репертуаре…” Тут дверь отворилась, и в комнату ввалился помятый и растрёпанный охранник, а за ним вошла, нет, скорее грациозно вплыла Алиса и облизнулась. Охранник, судорожно застегивая ширинку, занял своё место рядом с боссом. Он стоял, потупивши глаза, не рискуя встретиться взглядом с недоумевающим хозяином.

— Алиса! Душечка! — начал Атино приторно-добродушным голосом.

Плутовка подошла ближе и, не отрывая глаз от Атино, сказала приятным певучим голосом: — Здравствуй, Атино. Мой болванчик! — Она засмеялась и села на стол, высоко вскинув одну ногу, видимо, собираясь положить ее на плечо Атино, но, увидев крокодила, передумала, элегантно положила ногу на ногу и откинулась назад, оперевшись на стол тонкими рыжими руками.

— Крокодил? — ласково произнесла она, оценив взглядом несчастного, сидевшего на стуле перед столом крокодила, затем посмотрела на Атино и продолжила: — А я, кажется, знаю, зачем ты меня позвал, дурашка! — засияла она и щелкнула Атино по носу. Атино поморщился. Только Алисе позволялась подобная фамильярность. Она провела рукой по круглой полированной голове Атино, и он сомлел. — Ты хочешь, чтобы я… — она повертела пальцем в воздухе, — ты хочешь, чтобы я принесла тебе Урашку! — Алиса широко и неприятно улыбнулась. — Тёплого и на блюдечке! — Она притянула к себе Атино, — Не так ли, дурашка? — И засмеялась.

Атино поёжился. Крокодил не издал ни звука. Громилы дружно пускали слюни. Ещё чуть-чуть и будет совсем интересно!

Атино, наконец, пришёл в себя, — Да, это так… Мне действительно нужен Урашка. Ты можешь?

— В чем вопрос, Атино! Ты знаешь мою ставку, — и она снова провела по его лицу пальцем, но только теперь другой руки и притянула Атино к себе за бумажный воротничок, затем нагнулась к нему и сладко прошептала на ухо тихим голосом, чтобы её больше никто не услышал, — Мне нужно пять золотых, Атино, плюс половина содержимого сейфа Карабаса!

— Половина! — Атино не выдержал и закричал, едва не взвизгнув: — Да ты с ума сошла, шалава рыжая! — Его начинало трясти от ярости.

Громила справа принял угрожающее выражение лица и взялся за волыну. Громила слева по-прежнему пребывал в растерянности. Видя его замешательство, Атино про себя отметил, что надо бы уволить этого мерзавца, так как Алиса, похоже, его уже оприходовала в коридоре.

— Какую половину, папик? — Алиса улыбнулась, отыгрывая назад. — Я имела ввиду одну треть…

— Обойдешься и четвертью! — перебил её Атино, отталкивая от себя. — А ну, пошла вон отсюда! — сказал он и попытался спихнуть её со стола, но Алиса опередила его и грациозно соскочила сама, а Атино с сухим стуком брякнулся на стол лицом вниз. Громила, который был слева, загоготал.

— Заткни свою пасть, петушина! — закричал Атино и больно ткнул непутёвого охранника в ребро локтем. “Может, стоит скормить эту свинью крокодилу прямо сейчас?” — подумал Атино и посмотрел на крокодила по-прежнему сидящего на стуле с опущенной вниз мордой . “Нет, свои домашние дела надо решать без свидетелей. Надо сначала выпроводить вон эту плутовку.”

Готовая к выходу Алиса уже стояла перед ним.

— Разрешите откланяться! — деланно произнеслаона и, повернувшись к нему задом, медленно поклонилась, обнажив свои бесстыжие прелести так, чтобы их было видно всем, кроме крокодила. Охранник справа судорожно сглотнул. Атино обалдел и откинулся назад на стуле. “Как этой сучке это удаётся? Ну как это вообще возможно?”— судорожно соображал он, пытаясь собрать мысли воедино.

Пока он боролся с похотью, Алиса воспользовалась паузой и вышла за дверь. 

— Передавай привет Карло! – послышалось уже из-за двери. 

Карло! Ах да, Карло. Атино следовало бы проведать старика, который всё ещё жил в Бергамо и никак не хотел переезжать из своей каморки. “Надо бы лучше приглядывать за этим чудаком,” — подумал Атино. —” Хорошо бы его навестить! Семья — дело святое”. — Кроме Карло, у Атино никого больше не было. Ну разве что Мальвина, да и то это осталось в далёком прошлом…

Урашка

Урашка, как и Атино, тоже сидел за столом. Свисая с потолка, уныло светила одинокая лампочка. Будучи небольшого роста, Урашка, как и все чебы, отличался особой свирепостью и вспыльчивостью нрава. Одно ухо у него было порвано, а поперёк левой щеки тянулся большой неровный шрам. Этот шрам Урашка получил от Атино во время их последней встречи, но и сам не остался в долгу, оставив Атино лишь обрубок от его некогда длинного носа. С Атино у него были давние счёты…

На столе перед Урашкой лежал золотой ключик. Тот самый золотой ключик, который Атино намеревался вынести из театра Карабаса, но Урашка опередил его. Вдоль стены валялись в беспорядке связанные театральные куклы. Заложники. Наверняка этот сосновый дурак захочет их обменять, ибо буры всегда отличались странной привязанностью к своим. “И что ему за дело до этих бедолаг?” — подумал Урашка. — “Ну да ладно, какой-никакой, но козырь у меня всё-таки есть.” — С минуты на минуту он ждал Алису.

Вскоре за дверью послышалась знакомая возня, и в комнату вплыла Алиса.

— Здравствуй, мой плюшевый… — она недоговорила, так как Урашка перебил её.

— Оставь этот театр, Алиса! Умоляю тебя, мы знакомы не первый день!

Она подошла ближе и потянулась к нему, чтобы прижать к себе. Урашка ловко увернулся, схватил её за руку, и выкрутил ей локоть. Алиса вскрикнула, Урашка засмеялся.

— Я тоже рад тебя видеть, сука ты рыжая! — Он весело загоготал и сел обратно в кресло, закинув ноги на стол, — Ну, рассказывай, что видела.

Алиса потёрла вывернутую руку, которая теперь досадно ныла.

— Зачем ты так, любимый мой, я для тебя на всё готова, ты же меня знаешь… — Она пыталась вернуть себе утраченное доверие.

— Да оставим уже эту лирику, Алиса! Говори, или я прикажу вышвырнуть тебя отсюда. — Кому он собирался отдать этот приказ Алисе было решительно непонятно, так как комната была совершенно пуста, если не считать сидящего перед ней чеба Урашку. Из узкого окна над столом сочился тусклый лунный свет, еще тусклее, чем унылое свечение одинокой лампочки под потолком. Но Алиса решила не испытывать судьбу: у неё на хвосте и так не хватало шерсти, и ей вовсе не хотелось, чтобы её хвост совсем облысел и стал, как у крысы. Потоптавшись на месте, она нехотя оставила попытки околдовать своими чарами Урашку, или, на худой конец, расположить к себе и перешла к делу.

— Я видела крокодила.

— Как! Где? — Урашка на мгновение потерял самообладание.

— У Атино, — добавила она, прежде чем Урашка успел измениться в лице и вскочить в запальчивости на стол. — Он в порядке, немного синяков и царапин, но в целом он в порядке, любимый мой.

Урашка сидел в растерянности, лихорадочно вращая глазами. Как это возможно? Буквально вчера он навещал своего приемного отца в зоопарке, а теперь он у Атино? Как это возможно? И что случилось с жирафом и обезьяной, которых он нанял, чтобы приглядывали за стариком? Видимо, пора обтянуть свою софу чьей-то пятнистой шкурой…

Но тут Алиса прервала ход его мыслей.

— Атино нужен ключ. Вот этот самый ключик. — Ее рука потянулась к ключу, лежащему на столе перед Урашкой, — Но Урашка опередил ее и хлопнул по столу мохнатой лапой, подгребая под неё ключ. Как ни странно, у него получилось это весьма угрожающе.

— Руки! Руки, голубушка! Убери свои лапы, иначе унесёшь их отсюда под мышкой.

Лиса отпрянула. Немногие могли донести такие плохие новости до Урашки,сохранив при этом свою шкуру. Алисе в этом смысле повезло.

— Ну ничего! — Урашка встал и нервно зашагал по комнате, ростом он был Алисе по пояс. Томно пожирая его глазами, она осторожно подбиралась к нему поближе.

— А ну-ка, приведите сюда Карло! — обратился Урашка непонятно к кому.

Теперь настала очередь Алисы удивляться. Она, несомненно, знала, на что способен Урашка и что-то такое подозревала, но увидеть Карло воочию стало для неё настоящим сюрпризом.

Дверь комнаты отворилась, и старая вульгарно накрашенная хромая кукла ввела в комнату седого и тощего старика, в бороде которого всё ещё оставалась застрявшая стружка. Бедолагу схватили прямо в его столярной мастерской в Бергамо, накинули на голову грязный засаленный мешок и притащили в сюда, в конуру к Урашке.

Старик огляделся. Он явно не понимал, где находится, что происходит, и не знал, чего от него хотят.

— Я, это… — начал было старик, — я это… Я собирался в конце месяца погасить всю задолженность за каморку, — пробормотал он.

Урашка тупо уставился на старика. Какую к черту задолженность? Старик, вероятно, думал, что его похитил хозяин каморки, чтобы пытать сверчками и луком из-за просроченной на полгода квартплаты. Урашка звонко расхохотался , схватившись за живот.

— Посмотрите на него! Задолженность у него за каморку! У него квартира не оплачена! Ха-ха-ха, старый балда не может оплатить себе каморку, когда его сын не знает уже, какой лак положить на свою сухую сосновую задницу!

Урашка продолжал смеяться, и, наконец, успокоившись, обратился к Алисе. Лицо его посерьезнело. 

— Ты можешь устроить нам с Атино встречу? — спросил Урашка, не мигая глядя Алисе прямо в глаза.

— Да… конечно! — охотно ответила Алиса, ей уж очень хотелось оказать услугу Урашке, — Конечно, мой плюшевый! — добавила она улыбаясь.

— Только без сюрпризов! Знаю я тебя…

Урашка вернулся за стол и не без труда взобрался в своё кресло.

— Уведи его, — обратился он к кукле. — А ты, — перевел он взгляд на Алису, подавшись вперёд. Она подошла ближе, — А ты возьми вот это, — и он сунул ей в руки какой-то пакет.

Алиса улыбнулась, поклонилась и повернулась, чтобы идти. Улучив момент, Урашка ловко хлопнул ее по заднице. Лиса взвизгнула. “Может, мы еще и поваляемся!” — подумал он провожая взглядом ее изящные формы, быстро растворяющиеся в полумраке коридора его конуры.

Встреча

Сходка с Атино была назначена на следующий день. Встречу решено было провести в “Трёх Пескарях”, главном ресторане города, выдержанном в испанском стиле с просторным внутренним двориком, многочисленными колоннами и фонтаном.

Урашка пришёл на стрелку первым. Его команда заняла стратегически важный второй этаж, Атино подъехал в своей коляске к главному входу харчевни. Громила, тот который был справа, открыл ему дверь и помог выбраться из коляски. Громилы же, который прежде стоял слева, не было. Вместо него объявился какой-то новый неприятный заросший тип с огромными маховиками и несоразмерной пушкой на боку.

Атино и его люди проследовали в харчевню. Перед собой Атино толкал крокодила, передние лапы которого на этот раз были связаны, и на голову надет мешок.

Как только Атино вошёл во внутренний двор харчевни, второй этаже пришел в движение. Звери и куклы Урашки поспешно достали оружие и нацелили его на Атино и его сопровождающих.

— Урашка! Друг мой! — притворно-дружеским голосом обратился к буру Атино, — Я тоже страшно рад тебя видеть. К чему такие формальности? Скажи своему зверинцу, чтобы убрали волыны, ты же не хочешь сделать больно своему папане?

С этими словами Атино сдернул с головы крокодила мешок, стиснул его связанные на спине лапы и спрятался за спиной крокодила, чтобы его не было видно сверху. По второму этажу прокатила волна суеты, и звери Урашки подняли оружие стволами вверх. Кто-то даже положил свое орудие убийства на пол.

— Идиот! — прошипел Урашка, и пнул бестолкового зайца ногой, — Подними волыну, кретин, — сердито приказал он. Заяц неуверенно поднял пистолет, но не знал, что с ним делать и куда целиться.

— Атино, мальчик мой! — так же притворно-доброжелательно ответил Урашка, выходя вперед на балкон. — Я тоже страшно рад тебя видеть. Сейчас мы к тебе спустимся. — Он подчеркнул слово “мы”.

Атино нервно заёрзал, о чём свидетельствовали покачивание крокодила и то и дело показывающийся из-за спины крокодила обрубок деревянного носа.

Урашка спустился на первый этаж, ведя под руку старика Карло. Со стороны могло показаться, что он идет со своим отцом, так как никто не видел, что в другой руке Урашка держал длинный тонкий стилет, нацеленный старику точно промеж ребер. Старик, казалось, ничего этого не замечал, или не понимал, где находится и что происходит. Он с любопытством разглядывал двор харчевни и фонтан.

Урашка вместе с Карло остановился перед крокодилом. Атино не выдержал и вышел из-за спины крокодила.

— К чему нам такие формальности, Атино, мальчик мой? — продолжил Урашка, по-прежнему крепко держа старика под руку. — Я пригласил тебя на день рожденья, а ты привёл своих головорезов… Ай-яй-яй, нехорошо. — Урашка покачал головой, поднял руку вверх и щёлкнул пальцами. Люди Атино вздрогнули и схватились за оружие, но Атино подал им знак, чтобы успокоились. Набежали официанты в белых фартуках и бросились накрывать большой стол, стоявший подле фонтана.

— Думаю, пора положить конец нашей вражде, Атино, — сказал Урашка и посмотрел на Карло. — Вот, кстати, и отец твой приехал. Он слегка подтолкнул Карло вперед, всё ещё держа стилет за его спиной, — Вот и мой отец, как я вижу, тоже пришёл. — Урашка широко улыбнулся, обнажив большой некрасивый рот с отсутствующими зубами.

Чебы умели очень хорошо скрывать свои чувства, чего нельзя было сказать о бурах. Бур Атино, переминался с ноги на ногу, поскрипывая сосновыми суставами.

— Да, действительно, — после паузы согласился Атино, — Вот и крокодил тоже здесь, – буркнул он ещё что-то бессвязное, потом подал жест своим людям, и они развязали крокодилу лапы.

Атино подтолкнул крокодила вперёд. Урашка, в свою очередь, подтолкнул вперёд Карло.

Крокодил направился к Урашке, а Карло – к Атино. Как только они поравнялись, Урашка воскликнул: — Ну чего же это мы стоим? Прошу всех к столу! — И, первым последовав своему призыву, занял большущий стул в середине стола. Крокодил сел рядом с ним. Атино и Карло заняли места напротив. Их люди, куклы и звери тоже уселись по обе стороны стола.

— Забудем прошлое, Атино, мальчик мой! — неожиданно, неподдельно искренне и весело сказал Урашка, наливая вино и подавая стакан Атино. Атино недоверчиво понюхал бокал, поднеся его к обрубку носа. Урашка засмеялся, — Ну полно тебе, сосновая твоя голова! – И налил себе второй бокал из той же бутылки. — Давай-ка лучше выпьем. За будущее! — провозгласил Урашка, встал и поднял бокал, вопросительно глядя на бура.

Атино посмотрел на Урашку, тоже встал, поднял бокал и повторил: — За будущее! — И опрокинул бокал себе в рот. Чеб сделал то же самое.

— Ну вот и славно! — обрадовался Урашка и наклонился вперёд к Атино так, чтобы его не слышали, — Есть тут у меня одно дело, касающееся апельсинов… — В его плюшевом голосе послышались заговорчески-загадочные нотки. Глаза Атино загорелись, — Да-да, тех самых апельсинов, мальчик мой! — Чеб, засмеялся, — Мне нужен помощник. Апельсинов хватит на всех. — Урашка откинулся на спинку кресла, достал сигару и закурил, пуская кольца дыма. Братва гуляла. Он снова широко и неприятно улыбнулся и пустил дым прямо в лицо Атино, — Ну что, согласен?

Атино ухмыльнулся и протянул полированную сосновую руку с укороченным пальцем к короткой плюшевой лапе чеба.

Хозяйка закатила глаза.

– Так весна скоро наступит, – уколола она меня.

Мне больше ничего не осталось, как взять первый попавшийся мне под руку кулон (кажется, это был коловрат), я спешно натянуть ярко голубые шорты и сунуть ноги в ярко-зелёные кроссовки, на ходу заправляя пёструю рубаху, мы, наконец, вышли на улицу. День обещал быть жарким, поэтому любимая хотела, чтобы мы вышли пораньше. Путь до моря составлял не менее двадцати минут и желательно его было проделать до того, как выглянет солнце.

Несмотря на сильную облачность, солнце каким-то непостижимым образом уже вышло и умудрялось жечь нас сквозь досадную просвет между облаков. Но мы всё-таки надеялись, что это ненадолго, так как дневное солнце здесь злое. В это время года оно печёт с небес, как раскалённый утюг, поставленный вам на спину.

Мы торопливо пересекли оживлённую автотрассу, и вот мы уже идём по прекрасной, хорошо ухоженной аллее, наслаждаясь красотой пейзажа. Когда мы с женой гуляем, мы всегда держимся за руки. Я даже не представляю, как можно гулять по-другому. Иногда от избытка чувств я прижимаю её руку к своей груди. Иногда к губам. А иногда и вовсе творил сущую глупость – лизал её ладонь или пальцы, как собака. Она всегда неизменно смеялась и говорила мне ласково: «Глупый!» Этого было вполне достаточно, чтобы я повторял этот ритуал несколько раз, пока мы приближались к морю.

Последняя часть пути на пляж проходила сквозь мангровые заросли, через которые были проложены отличные деревянные мостки на сваях, по которой ленивых американских туристов возили на пляж электрокары, изготовленные для не менее ленивых американских игроков в гольф. Вот и сейчас, пока мы держали путь к морю через мангры, нас обогнал полный отдыхающих гольфкар. Один из таких гольфкаров почему-то ехал нам на встречу совершенно пустым. Видимо, для ненр не набралось желающих вернуться с пляжа. Водитель, пожилой мужчина, лет семидесяти, неожиданно остановился перед нами и спросил, есть ли у нас лицензия? Пока я лихорадочно соображал, о чём идёт речь, старик добродушно рассмеялся, и сказал, что для хождения держась за руки требуется лицензия. Он уехал, довольный сам своей шуткой.

– А я думал, что он имел ввиду водительские права! – сказал я любимой.

На полпути до моря нам попался енот. Он жил в дупле на дереве, но сейчас вылез и внимательно и со знанием дела обследовал мусорный бак, его горбатая фигурка деловита переваливалась с лапы на лапу. Завидев нас, енот лениво перебрался с дорожки на ближайшее дерево и долго провожал нас взглядам, надеясь, что ему перепадёт от нас какое-нибудь печенье. Но печенья у нас с собой не было. Я часто шутил над женой, пеняя её, что она плохо забоится обо мне: сколько бы мы раз не ходили на пляж, она ни разу не собрала мне в дорогу “тормозок”, или прозрачный пластиковый пакетик «зиплок» с парой виноградинок или колечек «чириос». «Вот у Игоря,» – любил говорить я, «всегда был с собой бутерброд с салом, а также скомканный до неузнаваемости волмартский мешок и старая, многократно использованная салфетка. Мы часто любили вспоминать моего покойного отца, особенно потешаясь над его скрупулёзным отношением к провианту.

Ну вот и пляж. Мы разулись и пошли вдоль берега. Десятки, если не сотни птиц организовали шумный базар вдоль кромки воды. Немногочисленные отдыхающие не мешали им и либо лежали на песке, либо сидели в воде не плавая. Жену всегда интересовало, почему никто не плавает. Точного ответа на этот вопрос я не знал. В такие минуты мне хотелось быть собакой, и чтобы она кидала мне палочку, или теннисный мячик, которой бы я приносил ей обратно неизменно сопливым и слюнявым. Но я не был собакой, поэтому максимум, что мог сделать – это снова лизнуть ей руку. Она улыбнулась.

– Ты мыла руки? – в шутку спросил я.

– Конечно! – серьезно ответила она.

После пляжа, согласно традиции, мы отправились в «Панеру» на ланч, после чего решили зайти в «Волмарт», чтобы пополнить запасы. Аппетит у меня был богатырский, и поэтому ходить в магазин нам теперь приходилось чаще обычного. Зачастую нам обоим казалось, что в магазине мы стали бывать через день, и это несмотря на то, что практически каждый день покупали себе ланч в «Панере». Навряд ли я стал больше есть, это время теперь стало для нас бежать быстрее, и его ускорившийся шаг стал особенно отчётливо ощутим по ускоренно пустеющему холодильнику. Вот и сегодня белый кухонный айсберг был угрожающе пуст, поэтому жена предложила зайти в «Волмарт», который был неподалёку от кафе.

Задача перед нами стояла нехитрая: набрать полтележки самого необходимого, расплатиться и отвезти всё домой. Мы успешно справлялись с этой задачей бессчётное число раз, справимся и сегодня. Но сегодня нас ожидал самый настоящий сюрприз, который сделал сегодняшний визит в супермаркет незабываемым.

Когда мы уже стояли на кассе, Вероника принесла и положила в тележку большой пакет стирального порошка. Пакет был действительно большой и какой-то слишком уж хлипкий. Вероника строго посмотрела на меня и сказала:

– Только не дёргай его! Я знаю, какая ты бешеная псина. «Псина» у неё было словом ласкательным.

– Да когда я что-либо дёргал или портил? – пытался отпираться я, в шутку, конечно, – Я никогда ничего не портил… Ах да… – тут я вспомнил, как недавно продырявил какой-то пакет а багажнике её автомобиля, рассыпав всё его содержимой. Не помню уже, что это было, но было точно, потому что аналогичный случай недавно произошёл с другим мешком в багажнике моей машины. Поэтому спорить с Вероникой было бесполезно, ибо замечание её было подкреплено горьким опытом.

Таким образом получив своевременно предупреждение, я сосредоточил своё внимание на пакете, наблюдая в то же время, как продавщица, молодая чернокожая американка, снимала с конвейера наши продукты, сканировала их и раскладывала по пакетам. Я был настолько поглощён мешком со стиральным порошком, что совершенно забыл о наполненных продавщицей пакетах, поэтом Вероника, вздохнув, начала сама их перекладывать в опустевшую тележку. Наконец продавщица со сосканировала пакет с порошком и положила его поверх турникета, к которому крепились пустые пластиковые пакеты. Вдохновлённый Вероникиными инструкциями, я гордо поднял мешок, пытаясь перенести его в тележку, но тут случилось немыслимое: каким-то непостижимым образом пакет задел за какую-то металлическою скобу и взорвался тысячью белых хлопьев, густо осыпавших кассу, а также уже уложенные Вероникой в тележку пакеты с продуктами. Не веря своим глазам, я продолжал тянуть пакет к себе, постепенно рассыпая его содержимое вокруг. Пол оказался покрытый густым слоем «стирального снега».

Мне стало страшно неловко за себя, стыдно перед женой и продавщицей. Какой кошмар я умудрился создать на её рабочем месте. Я потупил глаза и сказал «I’m sorry…», но было поздно. Вероника, несомненно, обладала пророческим даром и предвидела, что именно это и произойдёт. Но и она не могла поверить своим глазам, видя, как её пророчество неожиданно быстро сбылось. Рот её быстро шевелился и издавал презрительные упрёки, вроде «Ну, я же говорила!», или «ну почему ты всё дергаешь?», или «ну, как это можно!?» И так далее по кругу. Слова её не складывались в моей голове в предложения и мне очень хотелось поскорее уйти. Я снова повторил «I’m sorry…», глядя на продавщицу, и постарался поскорее двинуть тележку к выходу. Но продавщица неожиданно преградила мне путь и взялась рукой за тележку. Что это? Я был озадачен. Вероятно, она хочтела, чтобы я убрал этот «mess», я посмотрел по сторонам, но метлы не увидел. Вмешалась жена, она тоже поскорее хотела уйти из магазина, чтобы не видеть этот позор. Я снова толкнул тележку, но продавщица снова остановила её рукой. «Wait!» – сказала она и сделала жесть кому-то рукой. Рот Вероники не переставал двигаться, колкие упрёки чередовались по кругу. Мне было стыдно, как нашкодившему псу. Права она, я – псина, старая, бешенная псина…

Непонятно откуда пришёл другой работник магазина, и продавщица отдала ему порванный мешок и что-то сказала. Он бегом ринулся куда-то вместе с мешком и, прежде чем я понял, что происходит, вернулся со вторым точно таким же, но только целым. Продавщица достала наши засыпанные хлопьями стирального порошка вещи и, как могла, очистила их и тележку, сложив всё назад. Вероника и я удивлённо смотрели на всё это, ибо всё увиденное было для нас полной неожиданностью. Вероятно, от стыда, а может и от удивления, Вероника не переставала бубнить, посыпая меня упрёками уже в третий или в четвертый раз: «Говорила я тебе, не дёргай!». Но тут неожиданно вмешалась продавщица и сказала, обращаясь к ней:

– He is not your child!

Тележка, наконец, была свободна, и мы вышли вон из супермаркета. По дороге через парковочную площадку до автомашины мы шли молча. Затем я нарушил тишину:

– А ты знаешь, что было сейчас самого удивительного? – спросил я Веронику, не скрывая лукавства в голосе.

– Что? – с лёгкой иронией поинтересовалась она?

– По ходу, мы впервые за тридцать лет получили настоящий пятизвёздочный сервис в «Волмарте», не могу припомнить ничего подобного…

Не помню, что она ответила. Подумав, с минуту, выгружая мешки в багажник – в этот раз Вероника сама предусмотрительно взяла пакет со стиральным порошком, что, несомненно, было благоразумно с её стороны, я добавил:

– Похоже, что я понял секрет. Я уже достиг того возраста, когда мне всё может сходить с рук, как старому деду. Но, чтобы это работало, наверняка нужна ещё яркая одежда и лёгкий налёт неадеквата. Без моей цветной рубашки и моих бирюлек вряд ли бы это сработало.

Вероника рассмеялась.

With only a waning candle keeping him company, Thoth moved from one papyrus to the next. Thin bands of winding scribbles made a tangled mess at his feet. Lost in his ruminations, Thoth did not pay any attention to his light, which grew precariously weak and fluttered before dying completely, leaving Thoth in total and complete darkness. The darkness stuck to his skin as a thick wet cloth that would not peel off. With no wind and no breeze, the air was completely still, swallowing Thoth in vast hollow emptiness. Behind him, Thoth felt the restless trembling of a granite sarcophagus he was leaning against. The stone box was empty.

Thoth waited for his eyes to acclimate to darkness. Damn gods! Why do I listen to them? Thoth cursed quietly, trying to make out his surroundings, struggling to remember who else besides his mother and Seth had talked him into building the Great Mountain. When push comes to shove, how many would gather to leave? There was a lot that Thoth loathed in the affairs of the gods, yet he continued to do their bidding. Must he obey them? He wondered. Why did he obey them? He was not sure. Thoth was their equal, and yet the other gods never asked Thoth to do anything, they commanded him instead, as if he was a mere lu and their servant. Perhaps he’d spent too much time with lu for now the other goods doubtless mistook him for one. How did it come to that? Thoth could not remember, but he was used to it by now.

There was no way of telling if minutes or hours had passed before the darkness finally receded from Thoth’s eyes and he could see a faint shimmer of a cool violet glow emanating from the granite box. This balmy radiance was not the scorching fire he’d expected. Thoth wasn’t sure why. The taste of failure was new to him, and he loathed the feeling. Why couldn’t he see the problem? It was a question without an answer.

Thoth’s mind was rambling through previous designs. Every new pyramid he’d built worked better than the one before, and small wonder in that. With each new mountain of limestone blocks, Thoth gained new knowledge, corrected his mistakes, and went on to build a better mound. The Great Mountain was meant to be the pinnacle, his crowning achievement, and yet the pyramid stood silent, its stones fast asleep.

Thoth got up and walked around the chamber, his steps echoed brightly in the silence. The faint glow of the sarcophagus grew dimmer when he stepped away from it but brightened back up when he drew closer. Puzzled, Thoth leaned over the box and put his arm inside it, swinging it from side to side, scooping the air. The glow brightened, pulsating in synchrony with the motion of his arm. Thoth lowered both of his arms inside the box, and the glow intensified as if it was feeding on the fire of his blood.

That’s it! That’s it!!! The revelation startled Thoth, making the scales of his body prickle and stirring a colony of butterflies in his stomach. How could he be so blind? Of course, it is the fire in my blood that the mountain needs! Thoth raised his leg and stepped over the edge of the sarcophagus. The box shone brighter now, lit by a glow coming from within the rock. He set another foot inside the sarcophagus and heard the room fill up with a low hum, soft and growing in volume. Thoth climbed out of the box, bewildered, happy, and relieved. The low hum and eerie glow receded quickly as he did. It is the fire in my blood. He thought, remembering how he cradled in a litter floating on firestone when he was a baby. His brother thought it was a bad idea, to paint firestone on the bottom of his litter, but Thoth liked it so much when his cradle floated by itself with nobody around it, rocking him gently to sleep. Thoth cherished his solitude from the day he was born, and he was happy in it. Alone in the rocking floating cradle, Thoth could feel like… a god, and the god he was.

His elder brother warned him, that he was too young to play with such things, that his skin was too thin and gentle, and that if he was not careful he would poison his blood, and the firestone would weep through his skin creating painful ulcers and bleeding sores, turning his budding scales blue with blood. Thoth, however, did not listen, yet nothing horrible of what his brother promised came to pass. When Thoth grew to be of age he had no reason to fear the firestone anymore as his skin had become thick with scales. He often helped lu to paint skyboats with firestone to make them float. The lu had much thinner and much fairer skin and no scales, so some did get ulcers, but only those who were careless when working with it. But not Thoth, he was deft at handling the firestone, and although some of it did get into his blood over time, he suffered no ill effects from it. Sometimes Thoth thought that he had seen a faint glow around himself when he was in complete darkness, but he attributed it to his imagination. Now he knew that it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him, for in the total darkness of the pyramid’s chamber, he could vividly see a soft radiance emanating from his body, and the granite box amplified it.

Too bad Thoth used up the last remaining firestone to build his limestone mountains. There was none of it left for skyboats and none to move or cut any more blocks. He knew that with firestone gone gods had little choice but to return home during the next crossing. What else was there left for them to do? Gods were ill-suited for this world, and Thoth did all he could to make their life bearable. Yet if the Great Mountain won’t breathe the gods would be trapped on Earth forever, condemned to slow death. What would he tell them?

Using the faint glow of his body for illumination, Thoth stumbled about the chamber trying to find his way out of the pyramid. With his hands outstretched he felt the walls in front of him, looking for the low opening leading away from the chamber. He made his way through the portcullis and down the descending passage of the grand gallery. His heart drummed wildly as he navigated in near-total darkness the bowels of the Great Mountain he’d built. Still at a loss of what to tell the gods, he wondered if the firestone in his blood would be enough to make the mountain stir. How would he extract it? He found it unlikely that the gods would care to hear his concerns. Some were preparing to leave already if he was to believe the rumors. Such minutiae were nothing but a nuisance to them. Perhaps it would be best to keep all doubt to himself. Thoth never failed the gods, why would he fail them now?

Soon Thoth could see a faint shimmer of light illuminating the far end of the dark corridor he was climbing through. He was approaching the exit from the pyramid, his mind preoccupied with the firestone. What would happen to him if he were to stay inside the pyramid to help it breathe? If he started the fire with his blood, the radiance and heat of it would doubtless destroy him. Surely the other gods did not expect him to do that? How could they? If only he could get the firestone out, if only he could find a way… Yet he could not think of it right now as he was walking along the causeway towards the temple of Nut. Is his life theirs now? Thoth wandered as he approached.

His mother Nut sat on a dais in her temple overlooking the causeway. A myriad of granite columns supported the roof above the palace, each covered top to bottom in elegant carvings, some done by Thoth’s hand. A soft breeze flowed through the collonade, carrying the sweet incense smoke that veiled the inner sanctum of the temple in dense fog. Nut was old and frail, and she needed the haze of the incense burners to protect her flailing body from the angry southern sun. Without the haze, her skin would fester with boils and cracks. She was dressed in a white gown adorned with feathers and ornate inlaid gold plates on her chest, neck, and cuffs of her sleeves. This was for good health, Thoth told her as this was one of his inventions.

Nut was expecting him, her aloof look did fool him.

“I waited for you,” she said as he approached, looking past him, her gaze fixated on the causeway. Nut’s eyes were clouded from old age but not completely blind. He saw her wrinkles shift, her face changed expression as he climbed upon the dais steps towards her.

“I am surprised you visited your mother,” Nut noted accusingly, “You have been busy with the mountains of yours, or so I am told”. Thoth was standing directly in front of her, yet she did not offer him a seat. He settled on a step at her feet.

“You know why I built them, Mother”, he replied quietly trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, “You know why I do it, to take you and Seth home. To take all of us home.” He leaned closer and placed his hand on hers. Mother’s hand was dry and wrinkly. “The gods command it, and I am the only equal to the task.”

She pulled her hand away. “So the gods make you forget your mother?” She said indignantly, her gaze still firmly locked on the causeway. “Seth visits me every day,” she gestured to one of her handmaidens, the girl ran to a hidden door and muttered something to a servant on the other side.

Abruptly Nut stood up and walked down from the dais, Thoth followed her. She stretched out her hands: “Seth, darling!” She exclaimed, greeting a litter carried by four dark-skinned lu up the steps of the temple. Sitting inside was Seth, hidden behind a waterfall of fine silk curtains. When they reached Nut, his lu had lowered the litter to the floor and lifted the drapes. Nut’s servants helped Seth climb out. He smelled of perfume and wine. Inside his litter, an incense burner seethed with delirious intensity. Dressed in everything white and richly adorned in gold and fine jewelry, Seth looked like a true god in all his glory, standing in stark contrast to Thoth who wore a brown dirty old garb and was head to toe covered in dust. Light-colored clothing stained too fast, Thoth learned. He did not want to disappoint his mother,  who reprimanded him coldly when he visited her last time during a construction break, his white overalls muddy and soiled.

Seth was different. Younger, taller, and slender he was an image of perfection that Mother loved so much. She took his hands in hers and pulled him closer.

“Seth, dear!” she said, kissing him on both of his cheeks, smiling. Thoth was not amused by this. He knew that Seth visited Mother every day, he could afford the time as he had nothing better to do. Like all the other gods he spent his days choking on the gourmet dishes of his cooks and sauntered through the edifices of the other gods who lived up and down the Nile (his uncles, aunts, and cousins). If anything, Seth looked a bit worn out by endless parties, ceaseless celebrations, and sumptuous offerings. Yes, Seth demanded rich and luxuriant offerings from his followers. Those who disappointed him he beat with his long scepter.

Thoth had a temple too, although his ‘palace’ was little more than a ramshackle barn where Thoth had kept his raggle-taggle papyri, countless clay tablets, odd tools, and old blueprints. Thoth had a priest, a librarian in truth, to guard and organize his knowledge. The only offering Thoth took was that of papyrus, parchment, ink, and bronze, and he employed a scribe or two when he needed to make copies to pass instructions to his workers. Unlike the other gods, lu could not read his mind; Thoth was in a bad need of scribes to communicate his thoughts.

Thoth thought that he’d feel happier when the gods were all gone, returned to their home world safely, leaving him alone to his devices. Thoth was never bored, he had his lu and took exalted joy in teaching them new things and seeing them learn. Take this Great Mountain he had them built, he hardly had to direct them this time. The plans were his, but lu did all the work. He only oversaw and intervened occasionally. The poro he appointed had learned enough to organize all the work required to carry out Thoth’s plans. Yet Thoth liked the labor and often assisted in rubbing firestone on heavy granite blocks to make them float. Too little of the precious gift of the heavens remained and they had to use it sparingly, painting the stones as thinly as they could until the lu could pull and lift the blocks with ropes. Although the floating blocks did not have weight they still had the inertia, and often it took dozens of lu to wrestle an unusually stubborn block in place. Three times the height of an average lu, Thoth could move and set many of the blocks entirely by himself, and he sometimes did so, especially when the blocks were particularly large and required fine positioning.

Thoth also liked to shape the blocks. By dipping huge bronze knives in firestone water, he’d make them cut through stone like through butter, the firestone softening the rock. This feeling of hard stone parting at the edge of his blade was strangely satisfying. This work was art, no less, and Seth often added ornaments and decorations to pillars and boxes that he fashioned, as he could never be satisfied with a plain look. Early on Thoth gifted flasks of firestone to stone workers, instructing them to carve the likenesses of their poro and whatever else they pleased, and they surprised him with dainty sphinxes and tall stelae stamped with inscriptions.

Thoth sighed, remembering how one of the carvers had spilled the precious firestone on the stairs of his aunt’s temple, ruining and melting the stone steps. He knew he had to replace the steps, but with so little firestone left he had to save whatever little of it was left for the pyramid. So maybe later he will get around to it. The other gods had tasked him with too much, such small things would have to wait. The Great Mountain was rising rapidly from the bedrock of the plateau by the Nile, and as it is Thoth barely had time to visit Mother.

“How is that mountain of yours coming, brother?” Seth asked smirking, his face basking in the rays of the setting sun, his golden crown gleaming. “When are you going to take us home?” Seth kneeled beside Nut and took her hand in his, his finely sculpted big marbled hand easily covering hers. Thoth shifted uncomfortably. Does Seth truly love Mother this much? He was annoyed at something yet could not quite put his finger on it.

“Look at our poor mother, Thoth! She can’t stay here for much longer. This world is just too harsh, the Nile does not agree with her, I fear.” He let go of his mother’s hand and stood up. Seth fixed his stare at Thoth’s uncouth dusty outfit, then his gaze shifted to his brother’s face. Mischievous lights flickered in Seth’s eyes, his mouth curling in a curt smile as he continued.

“Even my skin feels dry and prickly now. I do not feel the same as I had been just a hundred years ago.” He signed turning back to Mother. He crouched next to her again, scooping up both of her hands this time. ”Don’t make us wait any longer, brother. It pains me greatly to see our mother like that. I fear she can’t bear this for much longer.” Nut did not seem to listen, drowned in the awe of Seth’s divine presence.

Thoth wanted to tell them about the problem with the pyramid but changed his mind. What good would it do to upset Mother and to give Seth another chance to gloat? “It is ready… the mountain I mean…” Thoth lied, “We will be home soon. You and Seth, and Horus, and everybody else. Tell them… tell them to prepare the ark. I will have my lu carry it to the top of the Great Mountain as soon as you are ready. Then we will go home, you’ll see.” He turned towards Seth. “Tell the others the mountain is ready. Go, have your celebration, Seth.”

It was time for Thoth to go. “Goodbye Mother, I will see you on the ark.” He kissed her on the cheek and stepped down from the dais walking towards the causeway.

“Why is your brother always in such a rush?” Mother asked Seth. “He never had your manners, darling,” she said clutching his smooth marbled hand, stroking it gently.

The next morning Thoth found the ark already at the base of the pyramid, and hurrying lu were busy loading it with the belongings the gods wished to take home. For the most part, these were gold things, small and large, for the gods were not interested in much of anything, but gold.

When the ark was loaded Thoth sent his servants to fetch his mother and brother. They arrived together, each riding in a splendid gilded litter carried by four strong dark-skinned lu.

“Aren’t you coming, brother?” Seth asked exiting his ride and taking unsteady steps towards the ark. His breath reeked of wine, but not any wine. Seth did not drink just any wine. By the bouquet of smells, Thoth could tell that this potion was something special for it smelled of herbs and spices he’d never tasted before. Even Seth’s drunkenness was excessively refined. Thoth sighed observing lu ushering his mother to the ark.

“I will join you later,” Thoth replied, forcing a smile on his face. When Seth and Nut boarded the ark, Thoth closed the hatch and instructed his lu to start turning a giant winch wheel to haul the ark up the polished limestone slope of the pyramid all the way up to its summit. Thoth eyes filled up with tears when he realized that this was the last time he’d seen his mother and brother. It would be if the Great Mountain worked. Thoth felt uneasy and confused: his smart brother jeered at him subtly, while his mother barely acknowledged him, always disappointed with something that he’d done. Yet as he stood by the entrance to the pyramid watching the winch haul the ark towards the summit, he felt lost, a hungry void growing inside him swallowing his heart. He loved them, and curiously one does not have a choice at love.

One of his lu approached Thoth, kneeled, and reported, “The ark is in position, your lordship”. Thoth nodded and proceeded towards the pyramid’s entrance. The opening was dark and seemed to suck light right out of the air. Thoth looked up – the ark was at the top now, secured perfectly in place – and disappeared in the descending corridor.

Thoth made his descent into the darkness. The corridor was narrow, roughly hewn from the bedrock beneath the Mountain. He had to command a granite plug to be inserted into the ascending gallery and therefore had to follow a different route toward the sarcophagus, a route hastily cut by lu with pick axes and hammers through the beautiful limestone blocks of the pyramid. He was happy that he could not see this butchery, not well anyhow as his eyes were still acclimating to the darkness. Thoth hated compromises and disliked cutting corners when it came to correcting his mistakes. Yet Mother was old, and Thoth did not have the time to do it properly, not now. And he certainly had neither time nor firestone to build another mountain. The crooked passage would have to do if this is what it takes to send Mother and Seth home. They both needed the Fruit of Life, she far more than he, however.

Thoth squeezed his body through twists and turns of the ascending passage cut through blocks, which were barely wide enough to accommodate him, hoping that he wouldn’t get stuck, and soon he emerged by the entrance to the ascending gallery. The climb was steep as the floor was slippery. Breathing heavily, he managed to reach the portcullis and crawled into the main chamber. He knew what he had to do now. Stripping naked from his shapeless robe, he approached the granite box, it was warm. The mountain was breathing but just barely, its breath too shallow and too feeble to return his mother, brother, and few other gods home. Thoth took a deep breath and crawled into the box, stretching himself straight on its finely polished bottom. Thoth saw the air swirl around him and fill with tiny shining motes. Thoth was trying to keep calm as he watched the glow around him growing brighter and the air warmer. The low growling hum soon filled his ears, overpowering his senses. The top of the granite box was vibrating visibly, the granite was a string, and Thoth’s body a bow. Quick blue flames grew from the top of the box, fluttering and lashing violently at the walls of the chamber. Then abruptly it all stopped and Thoth felt a sudden onrush of cool air and… relief. His heart pounded like a drum no more. His mind was at peace giving Thoth a feeling of all-consuming contentment and transcendent happiness. The entire top of the box was glowing red hot now with Thoth inside it, his body blistering white. He knew that Mother and Seth were on their way now, they would be home soon, and nothing else mattered.

Вечно страдающий от недосыпа красный глаз будильника острыми цифрами оповестил меня о том, что пора вставать. Сгустившийся, как из воздуха серый дым, кот лёгким мохнатым облаком повис на краю кровати. Его любопытные, изумрудно-зелёные глаза внимательно смотрели на меня. «Хозяин, вставай!» беззвучно, одними взглядом, приказал он.

Осторожно, пытаясь не задеть кота, я свесил с кровати ноги, сонные и непослушные. Кот спрыгнул на пол, и его загнутый крючком, мелко трясущийся от возбуждения, хвост указал мне путь на кухню. Хватаясь за остатки сна, как заядлый курильщик за последнюю затяжку, я, медленно переставляя ноги, последовал за ним. Кот усердно и пунктуально отмечал каждый мой шаг своими усами и носом, подставляя свою взволнованную морду под большие пальцы моих ступней. Неуклюже маневрируя, как шахматный конь, между котом и остальными препятствиями, я достиг кухни. «7:30 утра. Прибыл на форпост», мне следовало бы записать в бортовом журнале, которого не было.

Не мешкая, я приступил к своим обязанностям. Сначала – свежая вода в поилку коту. Смена воды, несомненно, на какое-то время отвлечёт его, что позволит мне вымыть его заскорузлую тарелку и достать из холодильника приготовленную с вечера банку.

Дверь холодильника открылась с тяжёлым стоном, и меня обдало полярным холодом. Кот тут-же оторвался от поилки и рванул к холодильнику. Он внимательно и педантично инспектировал его содержимое, не давая мне закрыть дверь.

Я вывалил остатки паштета в тарелку и обильно посыпал их слабительным. Кот был стар, и без слабительного ему в буквальном смысле приходилось туго. Всё время, пока я разминал замёрзший паштет, кот вертелся у меня под ногами, не переставая часто и мелко трясти хвостом. В такие минуты мне кажется, что он теряет больше калорий от несуразного возбуждения, чем ему в состоянии возместить корм.

Забыв, что у него есть зубы, кот спешно лизал холодную кашу, то и дело разбрызгивая по сторонам её коричневые куски. Я набрал в кувшин холодную воду, перелил в чайник и включил его. Чайник отозвался привычным ворчанием и заиграл гирляндой ярких голубых огней. На дне его надувались и лопались большие белые пузыри. Я открыл кофейную банку и поднёс её к лицу. Чудотворный аромат кофе окончательно пробудил меня к жизни, сорвав с меня остатки сна. Я отмерил одну чайную с громадной горой ложку и высыпал её в кофейник. Залил кипятком. Размешал. Жду.

Я не просто ждал, когда заварится кофе, я ждал нечто иного и куда более значительного для меня. Я ждал… колокольчика. «Какого такого колокольчика?», спросите вы. Я вам отвечаю: однажды жена разбирала вещи у себя в клозете и неожиданно нашла в них забытую безделушку – серебряный колокольчик, который в незапамятные времена (практически в прошлой жизни), подарил нашему сыну её отец. Сын давным-давно вырос и уехал, забыв про колокольчик. Теперь, когда любимая нашла его, она не знала, что с ним делать. Думала отправить сыну в Колорадо. Я посоветовал оставить колокольчик, чтобы она могла звонить по утрам, когда проснулась и хочет кофе. Звонить в колокольчик ведь лучше, чем кричать через весь дом, пытаясь привлечь моё внимание сквозь шум и суету моей лаборатории. А колокольчик слышно хорошо. Вот и сейчас я стоял и ждал его звонка, и звон действительно вскоре последовал. Поначалу это был вялый и робкий звук, едва слышный. Но если не поспешить, то звон станет требовательным и нетерпеливым. Так что лучше не мешкать.

Кот уже поел и вскочил на кухонный стол. Он внимательно изучил распечатанный мною сыр и теперь путался у меня под руками, прохаживаясь взад-вперёд по столу между мной и кофейным набором. Осторожно, пытаясь не обварить ни кота, ни себя, я разлил кофе по чашкам: большую – жене, а чашку поменьше – себе. Осталось только поджарить тосты, и можно нести кофе.

Слава богу, кот набегался по столу и помчался в ванную освобождать в себе место для новой порции паштета. Поэтому дорога назад в спальню не представляла для меня особой опасности. Неспеша, стараясь не расплескать кофе, я приближался к колокольчику. Колокольчик больше не звонил, он одиноко стоял на краю тумбочки среди множества странных и непонятных мне женских вещей. Хозяйка колокольчика лежала лицом вниз, делая вид, что спит. Освободив на тумбочке место под чашку, я аккуратно поставил этот фарфоровый ковчег рядом с ней. Хозяйка открыла глаза. Медленно, словно нехотя, перевернулась, собираясь сесть. Но я опередил ее, улучив момент момент, стащил с неё одеяло и прижал к себе. Было приятно ощутить её мягкие тёплые груди на своей коже. Она гладила меня по спине, а я молча сопел ей в шею. «Теперь я понимаю, как себя чувствует кот», – подумал я, и спросил: «Как спалось?». Не помню, что она ответила. Надеюсь, что «Хорошо». Мне очень не хотелось выпускать её из своих объятий, но кофе остывал, в то время, как я изо всех сил старался не сорваться ненароком в сон, вызванный этой вселенской умиротворённостью.

Найдя точку опоры, я оторвался от любимой, встал и пошёл обратно на кухню. Кот отсутствовал, и я без труда набрал новый кувшин воды и заварил вторую порцию кофе. За окном оркестром света играло солнце, шумели заметно выросшие за пять лет пальмы. Как летит время! Сколько раз я заваривал этот утренний кофе и приносил его любимой? Сколько раз накладывал свежие консервы истеричному, трясущемуся от возбуждения коту? И сколько ещё раз мне посчастливится проделывать всё это заново?

Опустошив свою чашку кофе и зажевав его бутербродом с сыром, я понёс вторую порцию кофе хозяйке колокольчика. Мне не хотелось, чтобы колокольчик звенел снова. Повторно колокольчик всегда звенел, с упрёком, пеняя меня за нерасторопность. Но не сегодня. Я принёс жене вторую чашку и забрал из её рук пустую. Любимая сидела на кровати. Она неизменно встречала утро своей ослепительной наготой, прикоснуться к которой было самым настоящим счастьем.

Я взял ноутбук и уселся рядом на кровати. Как по велению волшебной палочки, на краю кровати снова материализовался кот и стал пробираться ко мне, не уверенно расставляя лапы между буграми одеяла. С важным и умным видом кот принялся лапами мять мне живот. Помяв и повертевшись, он распластался на мне поперёк груди в ожидании, что я притяну его поближе, надев на свою руку, как муфту. И вот он уже растянулся у меня на шее большим меховым воротником и мурлычет.

Одной рукой я пытаюсь открыть ноут, но он не поддаётся. Жена «кликает» в телефоне, полуобнажённая, как Амазонка. Кот одобрительно вытягивает переднюю лапу вверх. «Ну здравствуй, утро!» – подумал я.

Still, there were too many of them, and it was only a matter of time before they overwhelmed the keep. Leo watched the slaughter on the battlements, enthralled, as scores of knights in bright red armor mauled the last remaining defenders of the castle walls. The scene reminded Leo of the fire ant colony reaving a hill of the common wood ants. Perched on a large rotting tree stump nearby, Leo observed for hours how big red soldier with massive jaws bit the heads of the feeble wood ant workers before they breached the inner passages of the formicary, emerging moments later with an endless stream of small black wood ants following the red soldiers obediently.

Now Leo looked at the same scene playing out at the base of the keep within the walls of the castle he lived in. He saw a big and fierce-looking knight in a glistening bronze-colored silk cloak riding in through the smashed gate, hacking at the few remaining defenders with his longsword. On foot and dressed in all black the few reeling survivors reminded Leo of the wood ants whose hill he watched being ransacked by the fire ants, except that to Leo the rampaging bronze knight looked more like a giant tree beetle rather than a fire ant. Leo noticed how the beetle dismounted, his bronze cloak stretching out behind him like elytra. With the sword in his hand, the giant strode towards a thin line of the remaining defenders, no doubt bearing ill intentions for them. Whichever few were still standing hastily threw their weapons on the ground as he approached, some even dropped on their knees so there would be no mistaking them for the unyielding. The bronze beetle approached the first kneeling man and raised his sword. Ravens! Leo thought he had called them ravens as the first kneeling man lost his head. Then another. The third one was trying to say something and lifted his gloved hands to his face, but he lost them too along with his helmed head.

The bronze savage was about to move to the next person and give him a trim as well when another knight rode through the gate. Mounted on a white Friesian he wore a red cloak, his armor gleaming scarlet in the setting sun. The Sol seemed to have grown weary of the carnage and spilled its last oily rays on the survivors, claiming them for prisoners.

The red knight dismounted, approaching the bronze beetle just in time to catch his arm with which he was preparing to shorten a large pot-bellied black man a height of his head.

“Enough, Gregor, there is no honor in killing prisoners,” Leo heard him say, as he was pulling the bronze beetle away from the remaining survivors, what few were still standing, most already on their knees, covered in mud, sweat, and blood.

“There is even less honor in letting them live!” spat Gregor, “You and your honor, Cecil! One day it will do you in, my lord, mark my words!” The bronze beetle sheathed his sword angrily, glaring.

“Where is the duke?” The red knight spoke to the bronze beetle again. “Bring me the duke and his son.”

The bronze beetle looked up and made a broad gesture towards the keep, glancing exactly at the window where Leo stood. Leo felt cold sweat trickling down his spine.  “Still in the keep, m’lord,” said the bronze knight shifting his mass from one leg onto the other restlessly, “Still workin’ on routing those cravens out of the keep, but the damn sackers keep falling off their bloody ladders! Must I do everything myself?” He ran off to join a small group of siege soldiers swaying a battering ram at the keep’s massive studded oak door.

The red knight nodded approvingly and too marched to join the battering crew, yet there was no place for him at the ram, so he watched how the brown ants led by the assiduous bronze beetle hammered at the door. Soon the iron bars bracing the beams together bent inwards, the bolts split and the entire door slab fell inward catching a few black ants under its solid mass. Lead by the bronze beetle, the brown ants poured in, followed by the red knight who strode almost leisurely, the longsword in hand, stepping around the dead and the dying, fending off an occasional feeble attempt at an assault.

A thin shaking arm reached for Leo, pulling him back from the window. A terrified woman crouched next to him, her face next to his. She was speaking to him in an uneven trembling voice, all the time shaking him. Leo was calm and did not quite understand the words her colorless lips were spouting. The next moment Leo heard a dull thud on the other side of the door to the chamber he and his mother were sheltering in. Another dull thud was followed by a groan and the sound of clanking armor falling down the steps. Leo thought he recognized the voice. It belonged to Sir Eddington, one of the guards by his door, yet the familiar voice sounded strange to him now, it was hoarse and wheezing. Another groan, another thud, another cacophony of clanking metal obeying gravity on the way down the curving stairs, then silence. The silence seemed deafening and prickled ears. For a while there was nothing and Leo thought that they were gone, until a hurried sound of a key opening the lock returned the boy to reality, startling him. His mother was still holding him by the arm, dagger in hand, when the door swung open and a huge body of the bronze beetle filled the room. With him, the bronze monster brought in a gust of fresh cold air, and a sharp smell of blood, mud, horse shit, and urine. The smell almost made Leo vomit, but he managed to stay still. His mother rushed towards the intruder, her dagger raised, yet his sword caught her in the chest before she could approach. She dropped the dagger and slowly slid down to the floor without making a sound. Red rose bloomed on her back through her icy-white gown, its iron stem gleaming wetly.

Soon she was on the floor, her eyes still open when the bronze monster stepped over her body and grabbed Leo by the arm, jerking him violently towards himself and then towards the door. It was painful. Leo’s feet stepped into something sticky and wet, it was his mother’s blood he tracked on his way out of the room as the bronze giant dragged him down the narrow winding stairs. They passed Sir Eddington, his helm slid awkwardly to a side of his face, his skull cracked open, brains spilled. Then they passed Sir Robert, the other guard. Leo recognized him by his family’s sigil on his breastplate as his head was nowhere to be found.

When they reached the hall, Gregor thrust the boy forward, and Leo tumbled to the floor. When he lifted his eyes, he recognized the red knight seated on a tall chair by the hearth. Somehow his glistening red armor was free of dirt and blood, as if the bronze beetle had claimed those spoils chiefly to himself. Looking up, Leo recognized his father, Duke Ashwood standing next to the red knight, his hands shackled behind his back.

“Sit, my lord,” the red knight gallantly offered a smaller chair to the duke.

The bronze beetle spat, “This scum is not worth your courtesy. Cecil, my lord, let me cut his head and put an end to this mummery!” He demanded stepping forward towards the duke and unsheathing his sword.

“There will be no more head-cutting today,” The red knight replied calmly. He removed his helm revealing a fountain of matted blond hair. Turning to the Duke, the red knight announced, “You are defeated, Lord Ashwood, your keep is sacked, we hold you prisoner and we also have your son,” he gestured towards Leo, still crouched on the floor, “But fear not. No harm will come to either of you, I stake my honor on that.” The red knight stood up and walked toward the Duke; the man was too proud and refused the chair offered to him shaking defiantly.

“I spit on you and your honor, Lord Cecil!” The duke growled seething with resentment, “You harm my boy and I will feed your entrails to my curs,” he attempted to launch at Cecil, yet Gregor punched him in the gut, laughing.

“That do you will! Brawling now, are you, dawg?” Gregor raised his fist again, but Cecil stopped him.

“No harm will come to your boy as long as you and your knights remain in their seats from now on. No more reaving and raiding, you hear me, Lord Ashwood?” he pulled up the duke’s head to look him in the eyes. The duke breathed heavily, the air knocked out of him by Sir Gregor’s powerful blow, “Your son will be safe, I stake my honor on that. From now on your son Leo shall be a ward of mine… and hostage.” he let go of the duke’s head and paced towards Leo. With a gentle yet strong pull the red knight lifted Leo to his feet, “I promise you that no harm will come to Leo as long as you abide.” he turned back to the duke, “Pledge your allegiance now Lord Ashwood. Pledge it on your honor!”

“And on the life of your son and heir!” added the bronze beetle, smiling crookedly, revealing missing teeth.

Blood was dripping from the duke’s open mouth as he spoke, “I… I pledge my allegiance to Lord Cecil, the Castellan of the Shivering Rock…” he had to squeeze words out of his lungs like drops of blood from a puncture wound.

“Louder, dawg!” the bronze beetle commanded. Had it not been for Cecil’s watchful eye he would have kicked the half-crouching man with his heavy iron-clad boot, shattering his ribs for good measure.

“I pledge my allegiance to Lord Cecil, the Castellan of the Shivering Rock”, Lord Ashwood repeated louder, the spittle of blood froth revealing a queer smile. The duke looked at his son, “Remember what I taught you, Leo”.

Leo did not hear the rest as he was yanked sharply by a hand as one of the other knights dragged him away from the hall.

Ten Years Later

Armed with a short spear, Leopold, a slender youth of twenty, was standing on the wall flanked by his brother Robert. Robert was not his real brother in truth, for Leopold was a ward to Robert’s father Lord Cecil, and not his true son. Yet they were as close as any two brothers could be, even if they were siblings not by blood but only by upbringing. Robert was wearing the gleaming red armor of his house with a matching red cape, a tall helm with a red plume, and a longsword in his hand. Leopold wore a white tunic underneath his sun-polished plain steel armor and a plain white cape. It felt inappropriate for him to wear his house’s colors for it was his father’s banners he saw beneath the castle’s walls today. His real father’s banners. Wind blew through Leopold’s thick hair bringing the smells of spring, wet fields, blooming fruit trees… and war. Leo saw towering smoke pillars at a distance. Those were the villages of the Shivering Meadows, burning. Farther away he saw a dull orange glare, which might have looked like a sunset, except that the sun was up and the glare was in the north. It was the Rockport Harbor, its ships and storehouses ablaze with hungry flame, some twenty leagues north of the Shivering Rock castle. A ten-year peace had abruptly come to an end when Duke Ashwood rose up unexpectedly, gathering a huge host of his vassals and hired swords to reave and pillage once again the very lands that he had counted for his. Some wounds never heal and some possessions are never truly given up on, thought Leopold.

Leo’s contemplation was interrupted by the sound of heavy steps. It was Sir Gregor, the bronze beetle, climbing up the steep stairs onto the battlement. Leo never liked the man and could not quit thinking of him as the bronze beetle that he was, all but a horn on his head. Sir Gregor has gotten heavier over the years, his breastplate wider than before, and his jet-black hair had a snowy whisp to it now, yet his eyes and beard were as fierce and menacing as ever. Following him closely behind was another man in red armor and red cape, the man Leopold called now father, and had been calling him that for the past ten years much to the disgust and dismay of the bronze beetle, who scoffed every time he heard Leo calling Lord Cecil father and spat. However, Sir Gregor was clever to do so quietly, out of sight of his liege lord.

Leo was short and small for his age, his breastplate was narrow; he was nearly a full head shorter than his brother Robert, who looked even taller with his red plume. Leopold’s helm was plain, even if shiny, with no ornament. To placate the ever-restless bronze beetle Leo decided that it would be best to turn down the offer to wear his captor’s colors on his armor, and it was only wise not to wear the colors of his own house Ashwood, lest he might find Sir Gregor’s dagger in his throat.

“Let me help you, father”, Leo rushed towards the steps past the beetle and offered his hand to Lord Cecil. Lord’s hair was all white now, with hardly a trace of dark blond it once had been, a neatly trimmed mustache and a short beard graced his solemn chiseled face. The beetle quietly spat, eyeing the host beneath the castle’s walls wearily.

“He got a good ten thousand on us,” he pointed out peering off the walls, “We can’t fight them off, not like this, not now, but we can hold the castle, my lord, this I am sure of. We can hold fast here until Lord Greenwood joins us, I’ve sent the riders for him, my lord.”

Lord Cecil accompanied by Leo approached the parapet and gazed at the massing riders and foot soldiers down below. Black ants were busy readying a battering ram. His gaze swept the field and stopped at the orange glow in the distance. “The port…”, his mouth uttered near silently.

“The damn dawgs got the port, my lord”, the beetle spat again, all the time giving Leo an evil look from the corner of his eye, “You should have killed the boy, Cecil. You should have killed him when the old fool struck the port. He is your hostage! You should have killed the boy and sent the dawg his head for a concession”, the beetle was glaring at Leo as if ready to launch at him at any moment to fulfill his wish.

“He was my hostage, Gregor. That is, he was my hostage when we took him from Lord Ashwood”, Lord Cecil replied calmly, “He is my son now, he has been my ward for ten years, Gregor. He is my son now as good as Robert,” Cecil stepped closer and placed his gloved palm on Gregor’s shoulder, “Please try to remember that. There is no honor in killing your own, even if they are not by your blood…”

“You and your damn honor, Cecil!” Gregor looked like he was crying. Leo knew that Gregor could not weep; it was his old age showing now through his graying hair, bulging gut, and even fewer teeth than before. Yet sir Gregor’s eyes were wet as if from smoke, “Your honor might bring about your undoing, my lord”, he said, turning away.

“My honor hasn’t killed me yet, nor it ever will, Gregor”, Lord Cecil looked at Leo, “People like Lord Ashwood have none of it, and look at them!” He gestured at the host making camp in the fields around the castle, “Pillagers! Rapers! Raiders and Murderers!”

Gregor spat from the wall; it was a long way down. They were safe here, and Lord Greenwood will be on his way soon.

“Shall we give them a battle by the gate?” young Robert spoke up, eager to prove himself to his lord father, “Let me lead the sortie, my lord!”

“You will have your battle yet,” Lord Cecil replied, turning to his son, “But not today. Lord Greenwood will be here soon; we will join him in raiding the duke’s host then. Any word from Lord Greenwood?” he asked, turning to one of his squires.

“No word from Greenwood Keep yet, my lord”, was the reply.

Cecil sighed, when he looked back at the field, he noted a procession approaching the gate. They waved a white parley banner, the duke himself riding in front with the two bannermen at his sides. Cecil frowned.

“Looks like the old dawg wants to talk!” the bronze beetle exclaimed excitedly, “Do send me down there, Cecil, I will bring you his head so you can have his tongue closer to your ears!” He reached for his sword, unsheathing it. “What do you want dawg?” the bronze beetle climbed the parapet, waiving his huge longsword, “Did you come here to offer your head? Come closer, we’ll take that offering off you.” Then turning to Cecil, “Let me go down there to collect it for you, my lord!”

“Calm down, Gregor!” Cecil interrupted him, worried, an uneasy look in his eyes. He stepped closer, “What do you want Lord Ashwood? I do not suppose you rode all the way here to wish me well?”

“You suppose right, my Lord, wish you well I do not!” the duke roared back, his destrier wheeling in a circle, “I see you got my son there with you. Hello Leopold!”

Leo was startled and took a step back from the parapet instinctively as if he was caught spying on something that he should not have seen. The beetle who was off the parapet now prodded him briskly to the crenel. “C’mon pup, show your face to your dawg father!” The beetle jerked him forward rather violently. Stumbling, Leo approached the parapet.

“Good day Lord Ashwood,” Leo uttered reluctantly.

“Lord Ashwood, is it what I am to you now, boy?” Duke shouted back, his lips cracked and bleeding from the cold, as his horse kept wheeling about.

“Lord Cecil is my father now, my lord”, Leo replied, stubborn, chewing his lip nervously.

“Is he now? We’ll see about that”, Duke sprung his horse and rode away.

“You should have killed the pup!” Gregor insisted, reaching for his dagger, yet his hand failed to find it. Leo was standing behind Lord Cecil when he heard a muted gasp, watching Cecil slide slowly to the ground in front of him. Leo deftly put his hands under Lord Cecil’s armpits, carefully lowering him to the stone floor of the parapet. Sir Gregor’s dagger was wedged deep in Lord Cecil’s back between the armored plates.

The last thing that Lord Cecil saw was Sir Gregor holding onto a spear protruding from his throat. The spear pinned the beetle to the wall, preventing him from falling, his empty gaze was dull now, deprived of its former fierceness. Young Robert was nowhere to be seen, except for those beneath the castle’s wall, for that is where he could be found now, splattered across the jagged rocks, his arms and legs twisted grotesquely.

Leo was standing on the parapet wall alone now, the squires and servants that came with Lord Cecil huddled back to the stairs, running for their lives, frightened witless. Leo looked over the parapet and saw his lord father circling in front of the gates of the castle, his cape fluttering in the air wildly. Lord Ashwood pulled the reigns and looked up at Leo; the pink froth at his mouth receded revealing a queer smile.

The shaman sat in the shade out of reach of the angry rays, his body leaning against the crag of the ochre mesa that towered high above him. With his eyes closed he breathed in tobacco smoke from a long crooked pipe that he held in his left hand. With his right hand, he scribbled in the sand with a long, dry cornstalk. Strange swirls of shapeless patterns emerged and disappeared in the dust as he drew and erased them without ever opening his eyes to look. Passing eagles soared high in the sky, their silent shadows painting neat streaks across the wasteland beneath.

A few hundred yards from where the shaman was sitting, a small Hopi village bustled with life on the other end of the mesa. Despite the scorching heat of summer, the Hopi were going about their daily business as usual: women were grinding maize, some cradled babies breastfeeding them; men were busy making arrows, mending bows, sharpening spears, and making clay pottery. The lonely mountain range at the horizon breathed an occasional cool breeze that the village welcomed. The sun was still high when the shaman had set aside his pipe and opened his eyes. His dried, wrinkled face was deep brown with three bright red stripes painted on each of his cheeks. Save for a few silver strands, his hair was jet black with a bright woven band holding it back from his face. The shaman’s gaze seemed to peer beyond the village, his mind focused on something known only to him. Gradually his eyesight came into focus and fixed on a young girl scooping clay from a large mud puddle, a newborn baby huddled in a pouch on her back. The shaman’s gaze searched for other village girls; too few of them had children this year. The winter was drier than usual, yet the summer promised to be as scorching as ever, and the past few moons were red and misty, bearing ill omens. The shaman looked at a field to the left of the village: the maize growing there was too feeble for this time of the year. Will there be enough of it to feed the people through the winter? This is what the Chief wanted to know, and this is what the shaman was thinking of, smoking his third pipe. His body reeked of tobacco and his eyes were already watering from smoke. The shaman did not have the answer yet, the unusual silence of the spirits troubled him. All the past moons the shaman had always had answers for the chief after the second or the third pipe, but this time after the third pipe the spirits were silent still.

The shaman looked at the village huts, smoke was rising through straw roofs in some of them. Not as many huts were puffing the smoke today as he had remembered from the previous years. The village well still held water, but the roped bucket had to go deeper to find it, much deeper than before. Chief Crow had to ration it now, spoiling the hopes of claymakers. Watering maize was more important than making clay; new pots and mud bricks would have to wait. Newborns were few this year, and stillborns were many. Ill omens, thought the shaman, Too many this moon…

Just as the shaman was about to light his fourth pipe – this was something that he had never done before – Chief Crow approached him. His gaunt wiry figure cast a short shadow. The shaman looked at the chief, noting the sun blazing through the chief’s feathered war bonnet, its rays glowing. For a moment it looked to the shaman that the chief’s head was alight with a fiery nimbus. A good sign, thought shaman, striking flint as he attempted to light the fourth pipe.

“I do not remember you puffing your tobacco for this long,” said the chief sitting down across from the shaman, his legs crossed, “Tell me, what did you learn from the spirits?”

The spark was not coming to the shaman’s flint, he set it aside and laid down his pipe. “The spirits do not wish to make themselves known, chief,” he replied looking at Crow, his eyes curdled with worry, “The spirits have been mute for the past two moons, Crow, I fear we have angered them”.

“Angered them how Eagle?” The chief’s exasperation trickled over him like the precipitation of his sweat. “Didn’t we do what the spirits willed us? Didn’t we give them enough maize and plenty of our sweet cool water?” Chief Crow was angry now, the shaman could see it in his eyes, although Crow did his best to keep his composure.

“The spirits can change their minds, chief,” the shaman continued unfazed, “They care little about Hopi. They care little about the world of the living. We must be grateful that they answer us at all. We cannot demand their help, chief.”

The chief had heard all of this before, and in the past, everything always turned out to be alright: the rain always came, the maize grew tall and strong, and the village prospered, its people growing in numbers. But not this year. Somehow this year was different.

The chief glanced at the sun and its blazing rays nearly blinded him. He looked away covering his eyes and peered at the shaman, but all he could see was a giant white blob glowing where the shaman sat. A sunshadow. The chief used the sunshadow to look at the shaman to interpret what the shaman was saying. He could tell by the glow of the sunshadow whether the shaman’s words bore good or bad news, but right now the shaman’s words were plain and few, and he did not need the sunshadow to interpret them. Yet it was a custom that he always followed.

“What do I tell my people, Eagle?” Asked Crow. “If the spirits do not wish to make themselves heard, we must find a way ourselves.” The chief was not prepared to give up easily. If the shaman fails to give him an answer, he is still the chief and he will decide on his own without the help of the spirits. It was not too late for the village to move. The Hopi frequently saw the flashes of lightning and heard the roar of thunder from beyond the range of mountains in the south, yet somehow the dark skies were hesitant to move past the southern range this summer. If the rain does not come to the village, the village must come to the rain, the chief always said. The Hopi had lived at the foot of the Red Mesa for more than fifty years now. Crow grew used to this place, it was pleasant and familiar, and it was their home. Yet if it won’t rain soon, they must move and make another home for themselves on the other side of the range.

Chief Crow was about to announce his decision to the shaman when the shaman spoke: “I want to breathe another pipe, chief. Maybe the spirits would answer us this time. I still have enough tobacco left for one more pipe, Crow. Let me call onto the spirits one more time, perhaps they will make themselves known”. By the gaze in the shaman’s eyes, Crow understood that the shaman was not asking for permission, and Crow knew that he did not owe Eagle an explanation either. Each one of them had their own business in the tribe. If the spirits stay silent and the rain does not come soon, he will command his people to move, and this is what they will do. The shaman could stay if he wanted, for the chief did not command the shaman.

Eagle leaned back to the cliff he was sitting under, his pipe alive with smoke. It seemed like he had forgotten about Crow already as his eyes were tightly shut and his mind was elsewhere. The chief adjusted his war bonnet, stood up, and went back to his hut in the center of the village, passing the clay-scooping girl on his way.

The night brought the long-awaited relief: the spirits must have answered the shaman’s prayers, and it rained. It rained long and hard, and the villagers filled every pot and skin they had with rainwater. The clay puddle became a small pond and overflowed, spilling its blood-red molasses on the dirt road leading up to the maize field.

In the morning the chief was surprised to see the shaman at his hut. Usually, it was Crow who came to Eagle as the shaman seldom called the chief. Eagle lived in a shallow cave just outside the village and relied on the villagers to bring him food and water along with their offerings to the spirits. It took a very special occasion for the shaman to come to the village. Something was wrong.

“What is it, Eagle?” the chief stood up, trying to keep a note of worry out of his voice. The shaman’s gaze was unblinking and his stare seemed to peer beyond Crow’s face, as if the shaman was seeing ghosts. However, this was his usual look and his usual stare, but the chief could sense that something was amiss.

Chief Crow was about to repeat the question when the shaman spoke in a low, coarse voice: “The spirits gave us rain, chief, but this rain is not for maize., This rain is for another crop. Take me to the clay puddle.”

Only now the chief could see what was different about the shaman’s look. His eyes were more clouded than usual as if the tobacco smoke from the fourth pipe still whirled in them. The shaman stared unblinkingly, looking not at but rather through the chief.

“Take me to the mud puddle now, chief”, the shaman repeated, his blind stare searching for the skin covering the entrance to the chief’s hut. Crow realized that Eagle was completely blind now. How did he even find his way to my hut? he thought. He could see the shaman’s eyes grow duller by day, but he was sure that the shaman could still see him, perhaps not as clearly as before, but he could certainly see Eagle squint at the sun when Crow came to visit him, and that is why the chief used his body and his feathers to cast a shadow onto the shaman, shading him from the blistering sun. Perhaps he would not need to do it any longer, for the shaman appeared to him totally blind. I wonder if Eagle can see the spirits with his eyes open, thought Crow. He took the shaman by hand and walked him to the mud puddle.

“Bring me the girl”, instructed the shaman. The chief knew which girl Eagle meant, so he summoned Feather. She came quickly with her baby still huddled onto her back.

“Scoop the water out of the puddle, girl,” ordered the shaman wading into the puddle, his feet sucked air every time he pulled them out of the mud to make a new step, “Scoop the water now!” he repeated, and the girl grabbed a pot and proceeded to drain water from the puddle.

“Wait!” the chief stopped her, “I will have Bent Stalk carry the water to the maize field, we need the water”. Bent Stalk was an old field hand with dry skin that was darker than that of the other Hopi, his back humped and crooked. Bent Stalk brought huge clay pails that Feather filled. It took them a better part of the day to dry up the mud puddle sufficiently. The shaman was walking the puddle all this time gauging the thickness of the mud by the sound his steps made and by the suction of mud on his feet when he pulled his foot out to make a step.

Finally, Eagle was satisfied. “Now leave me,” he commanded. It was getting dark, and both Feather and Bent Stalk left him alone in the mud. The shaman dropped to his knees and started to shove and shape the mud in parallel rows, each row about a step wide. “Tell Crow I need hides, many of them, and I need sticks too”, he said to no one in particular, but Crow was standing nearby, watching the shaman at his unusual labor, and he heard the words.

“What do you need the hides and sticks for, Eagle?” the chief asked.

“Tell the Hag to sew the hides and put holes in each corner for the sticks, the mud needs shade, Crow.” The chief summoned Hag and instructed her to sew all the hides they had together in one huge patchwork of a blanket. There were not enough hides in the village, and the chief offered Hag to take the rags from the door of this hut.

Hag was sewing through the night, the moon was bright enough for her to see the needle. Feather was also helping her, her baby sleeping on her back. By morning the patched blanket was complete, and the shaman stretched it over the mud puddle by driving sticks on each side of the pit. For a blind man, he did surprisingly well, although Feather and Hag helped him stretch this makeshift cover over the mud puddle.

The rest of the day Eagle worked in the shade. It was even hotter under the cover, and the clay was baking, yet the villagers could no longer see what the shaman was doing. He had them place heavy stones on each corner of the cover to completely hide his work from their prying eyes. The blind man did not need light to work on his mud, and the clay headed to his deft hands, moist and pliable.

Feeling his way around the clay patch, like some oversized mole, Eagle formed each row of mud into beds of four or five paces long and one to two paces wide. He had to move on his knees, his hands and fingers working with speed and skill one would not have expected from an old man. When the beds were made, the shaman emerged from under the hides and called out to the chief, “Crow! I need blood and clay pots, and pails of goat milk. I need it now, Crow!” He was impatient. The sun was setting and Eagle was in a hurry.

The chief looked surprised. “What do you mean you need blood? Didn’t we sacrifice enough to the spirits?” Crow demanded an answer, his face dark with worry.

“It is not that, chief,” the shaman reassured him calmly, his hands and knees covered in dried mud, his clouded gaze as elusive and mysterious as ever, “We will be slaying no goats today, Crow. Bring me your best men and women, one of each.

These words made Crow even more uneasy, his body shook, feathers on his bonnet making a ruffle.

“I said it is not that, Crow”, the shaman continued sensing the chief’s anger and confusion. “The spirits do not want your villagers, Crow, but I do need their blood.”

Dumbfounded, Crow called the villagers to the totem in front of his hut and announced that the spirits demanded a blood offering and that he needed a warrior, a farmer, a potter, a hidemaker, a herder, and so on. One of each. He had to choose the best or else the spirits would be offended and would send the great drought on to the Hopi village. He picked his litter and walked them to the mud pit. It was dark already, and Feather lit a fire by the pit. The goat herders had already brought milk and were pouring it into clay pots set up in front of the clay patch. The shaman was waiting with a flint knife in his hand.

“Bring them to me, Crow”, he commanded, and the chief prodded Hoof, a tall and broad-shouldered warrior towards the shaman. The shaman reached out to feel the warrior, his fingers were his eyes now. Satisfied, he grabbed the palm of the warrior’s left hand and drove his flint knife into it. The motion was swift for a man of the shaman’s age and it caught Hoof off guard. The warrior grunted, blood running down the palm of his hand profusely. Eagle picked up the first milk pail and let the blood drip into it. When he had enough, he pushed Hoof aside and gestured to the chief. The warrior stepped aside, clutching his left hand, a deep gush still bleeding. Feather wrapped his wound in cloth as the next person walked towards the shaman, who continued his ritual of feeling the person in front of him to make sure that the chief did not bring someone old or sickly as he needed the best. Then he swiftly punctured their palm with a flint knife, collecting the blood. Before long the shaman had the blood of everyone. “Now you, Crow”, he commanded the chief. Crow approached the shaman. Eagle did not need to feel Crow like he felt the others, he knew the man well enough. Instead, he took Crow’s right hand and punctured it with his flint knife. Then holding the chief’s bleeding hand over the clay pots he squeezed drops of the bloody rain in all of them, Crow fought pain every time Eagle squeezed his hand.

Finally, he let go and said, “Go now! All of you, go!” He waved the chief and the rest of them away and disappeared under the hides. The shaman crawled under the cover from one clay bed to another, clutching a bloodied milk pot in his hand. He molded each clay bed into a person, giving it legs, arms, head, and torso. Setting the milk pot aside, the shaman used both of his hands for this purpose. His hands were quick and unexpectedly artful as human likeness emerged from the warm, soft, and pliable mud. Occasionally Eagle would pour milk over clay as he was shaping it, especially if the clay felt dry, but he would always leave some milk to pour into the mouth and eyes of each clay figure he made. 

The shaman worked all night and made forty clay figures, his hands, legs, body, and face were entirely covered in mud now. The old man was exhausted, sweat ran heavy across his face. He found his way into the middle of the mud patch, sat down in the center, and crossed his legs. He gazed around with a blind stare feeling eerie calm and satisfied. He could not see them but he could feel their presence in the warm clay around him, his nose full of the smell of goat milk and Hopi blood. The shaman fetched his flint knife, held it up, then as quickly as he had pierced the hands of the other villagers he slit his own throat. Gargling hoarsely he fell to the ground, his blood spilled in a steady stream running around the figures that he had made. As the shaman took his last muffled breath his bloody hand rested on the head of a figure nearest to him, painting half of its face deep red.

When the chief and the Hopi came to the mud puddle in the morning they beheld a strange sight: the hide that was there the previous night, stretched over the mud puddle, was coiled in a neat roll with heavy stones holding it to the ground. The mud puddle was completely empty, the surface of the pit smooth and flat. A lone bundle rested in the middle of the patch, tightly wrapped in hides with thick knotted ropes. It looked strangely familiar to the chief, but the biggest surprise awaited Crow and his people at the far side of the mesa, where the Shaman’s dwelling had been. Standing there he counted forty figures, men and women, their skin was the color of bronze. The tallest figure held a spear, and the right side of his face was dark red. The tall warrior raised his spear, greeting the chief silently. Crow raised his hand in return, trying to comprehend the meaning of the strange and unusual sight. The rest of the villages stood silent, huddling behind the chief, scared. The forty bronze figures led by the tall warrior were far enough to where Crow could not make out their faces, but he dared not to approach closer.

The tall warrior raised his spear again, and then the bronze tribe vanished into the thick morning fog, leaving behind only a loud gasp of the awestruck and confused Hopi. Crow stared at the base of the Red Mesa where the vision of forty red people just faded in front of his eyes, and it seemed to him that he saw a faint trace of red dust blowing in the direction of the southern mountain range from the top of the mesa. The red dust flowed in a thin ghostly band until it disappeared in the morning light.

The sun was shining, yet a dark cloud gathered over the southern ridge again. Bright splashes of lightning were dancing over the mountains, sudden gusts of wind raising clouds of dust in the air and throwing it into the chief Crow’s face.

“It is going to rain”, he said looking at the distant mountains. The last time it rained twice in a summer was fifty years ago when Hopi settled the Red Mesa. Crow turned back to his people who were still crowded behind him, staring in awe and disbelief at the approaching storm. The chief went to the mud pit, remembering the roped bundle. He opened it carefully. Inside was a newborn child, pink-skinned and helpless, with three bright red stripes painted on each of its rosy cheeks.

Sir Barrow did not remember his past life. The dragon’s mind was meager and shallow, its thoughts terse. The dragon could react only to what was directly in front of it. When it was hungry, it would hunt; if it was threatened, it would set fire to all the intruders who dared to approach it. Anything much more complicated than that the dragon could not muster, and neither could Sir Barrow, not anymore. His past life was but a faint shadow lost between the folds and hollows of the dragon’s vast and heavy skull.

The dragon exhaled loudly and shifted its colossal weight to the other side of its body, continuing its royal rest. Its sharp claws were many. They were dark as onyx and they could crush rocks and knights alike as little straw dolls. Perhaps it was good that the noble Sir Barrow could not remember his past life as a knight now that he was a dragon, the very foe he lived and breathed to defeat. True, Sir Barrow had slain dragons in his past, and it must have been one of the Creator’s jests that he was destined to become one. Life is as cruel as the gods make it, but it is the men who help it. The mind of the dragon was too cinch to ponder and philosophize about it. On a good day, the dragon thought no thoughts at all, his simple brain reacted to all mundane matters of life (to the dragon) and death (to others) instinctively if not mechanically.

A few bats flew into the dragon’s cave looking for a place to perch themselves among the crooked wet stalactites hanging from the cave’s rugged and uneven ceiling. The dragon ignored them. It exhaled a puff of smoke and covered itself with its enormous webbed wing akin to a blanket. Somewhere at a distance water was dripping from stony icicles, sounding a sweet lullaby for the slumbering beast. Yesterday the dragon had a good day’s hunt and managed to tear up an entire herd of milk goats, which a young shepherd boy so carelessly steered towards the mountain where the dragon’s cave was hidden. It was not often that food came calling, walking willingly straight into the dragon’s maw. The goat meat was succulent and tender, but the dragon did not remember what happened to the shepherd boy. Did he devour the boy too, along with his whip and restless reed flute? It was the flute that woke the monster to its dinner…

The dragon was not good at remembering such things. It was heavy from its meal and dozy. It would be another week or two before it would need to hunt again. As such there was no need for the beast to move, worry, or think. If only dragons could think! Then life would be so much different for all. Alas, thinking in this world was reserved for the high lords, but truth be told, a great many of them could not muster much of a thought themselves. The best they could do was to pay the dragon its dues much in the same way the beast paid its. Sir Barrow could not recall if he succeeded at thinking when he was a knight… Perhaps he was a mere simpleton like many others? How did he die and why did he become a dragon in his next life? This was too great of a mystery for the dragon’s mind. The mind of the fiery monster is ill-suited for such thoughts.

Undisturbed by occasional bats, night owls, and grazing herds of wild deer just outside the cave, the dragon kept on slumbering day after day. What do dragons dream of? Can dragons dream at all? Sir Barrow wondered when he was a man. Now that he’d become a dragon, the answer had eluded him still.

One day the dragon’s sleep was broken by loud banging and yelling, mixed with a raw sound of horn and clanking of armor. The noise assailed the dragon like a sudden storm erupting on a hot, sunny summer day. At first, the dragon was surprised at the noise, for who would dare to disturb a dragon? The colossus opened its eyes squinting at the darkness, its ears heavy with the unwanted clamor, its mind still asleep. It took the dragon a good part of the hour to wake up completely, and about as long to get annoyed with the cacophony noises coming from the mouth of the cave. Soon the fervor of the uninvited agitation subsided, and the dragon could see a faint glimmer of torches bouncing off sharp stony pikes covering the floor and the ceiling of the cave. Lit by the torches, the cave’s entrance looked like a prelude to a dragon’s maw. To a bystander, it seemed as if a few madmen decided to give up their lives by marching straight into the dragon’s jaws. This was not far from the truth, it turned out.

The dragon waited for the mad party to come nearer, their torches glowing brighter. Soon the dragon could see the fools quite clearly. If any part of Sir Barrow was still alive inside the dragon’s mind, he would have surely recognized the old Sir Flint, with his hair still dark as onyx and his beard white as snow. Sir Flint was his old master, advanced in age but still strong as a bull. With him he had young Sir Rodrick, knighted only a fortnight ago, his hair was the color of dried straw. Sir Rodrick was Sir Barrow’s young apprentice, back then when Sir Barrow was still a man, but the dragon’s mind was too small to remember.

The beast watched the approaching party wearily, still half-asleep. The dragon no doubt noticed how the torch was unsteady in Sir Flint’s hand, and how his long red cape kept catching on the stony spikes and tearing on sharp spongy rocks protruding from the cave’s floor. The dragon did not miss the way young Sir Rodrik’s longsword swung nervously in his hand, too large and heavy for such a young and skinny lad. There were two squires with them also, trailing far behind, scared out of their wits and trembling, each carrying an oil lantern.

Finally, the knights drew close enough that the dragon could see them as plainly as it could see the bats on the wall in front. The monster shifted its weight silently onto its massive bronze front paws, its giant webbed wings with spiky claws lifted slightly. By now the dragon was no longer amused with being woken so rudely, soft rumbling in his stomach was starting to sound like a small thunder. The rumbling sound of the dragon’s bowels grew louder until the knights heard it too. They froze in place, realizing that the dragon was right in front of them, yet somehow, they could not spot it until they came too close. It was too late. The tall shape of the dragon towered over them like doom, nearly as high as a small keep of some nameless castle that they had sacked only a fortnight before on the orders of their liege lord, Duke Ballon. For a moment the dragon just stood there, his red eyes glowing like molten lava, his breath pulsating with tendrils of smoke intertwined with occasional sparks and small snorts of flame. To the squires that were farther behind, the dragon looked like a giant smoke stack. As if some overzealous blacksmith had fed too much coal into his foundry and made its flue breathe fire.

The dragon, however, was no chimney. The giant’s muscles tensed, the scales moved tighter together, its entire body sprung, and the dragon leaped effortlessly over its offenders, sending them tumbling on the cave’s floor. The dragon’s leap was high enough for knights’ swords and spears not to reach it. He landed right in front of the squires, who promptly dropped their lanterns, preparing to bolt. Poor lads! They bolted not, for dragon instantly inhaled them by drawing in a large gulp of muggy air, sucking the boys inside his cavernous gullet along with their pouches, lanterns, and other things, and catching in a good deal of loose rocks and stray bats for good measure. The squires disappeared inside the dragon in a blink. This happened so quickly, that they did not make a sound. Only the remaining bats dashed for fresh air outside the cave’s mouth along with some dragon roar, which was not a true roar but rather a sound of the dragon’s breath confined to such a small space that it grew louder by countless echoes.

When the dragon turned to face the knights, the first wave of fear had already passed through them, and now, recomposed, they were charging at the dragon, fearless and daring. If Sir Barrow could see his young apprentice now, he’d be dismayed. Perhaps it was good that he could not, for it was the dragon’s unsympathetic eyes that were watching the old Sir Flint and the young Sir Rodrick now. Perhaps the dragon was still savoring the squires when it had pushed Sir Rodrick unceremoniously aside, sending him tumbling with a swift kick of its hind paw. Sir Rodrick lost his longsword, which flashed like a quick lightning bolt, hit a rock, and firmly wedged itself into a crevice.

Sir Flint fared not much better, the dragon caught him with its tail, sending him flying through the cave like a giant bat (although Sir Flint looked more like a vulture than a bat). The knight had landed on his head, his armor clanked loudly, his body convulsing uncontrollably. If Sir Barrow could see his master, for certain he would feel sorry for the old man. His neck appeared to have snapped, blood streaming from under his armor.

In the meantime, the brave Sir Rodrick found his sword and was pulling fervently on its hilt. The sword was stuck too deep and would not yield. It was Sir Rodrick’s turn to yield, but one does not yield to a dragon. The beast was no knight and knew no mercy. Sir Barrow taught him that. Too bad his master was not here to help him.

The dragon turned around lazily, inspecting the cave for more intruders. By now the poor squires must have found their way down to the dragon’s scorching bowels, and the dragon was feeling primed for another bite. The poor Sir Rodrick was hardly worth the effort though. Thin and scrawny he would make for a poor meal; more steel than meat. The dragon knew it, it raised its paw to deliver a final blow to the boy, but suddenly the dragon’s mind came alive with an unexpected memory. The memory was that of Sir Barrow, practicing with young Sir Rodrick, a quick thin boy twelve years of age. Young lordling Rodrick, not a sir yet, brandished a short wooden sword, which he swung feverishly in every direction, trying to hit a paper dragon on a stick held by Sir Barrow. The boy swung relentlessly yet missed when Sir Barrow yanked on the stick and pulled the paper dragon away from the boy’s face. Somehow Sir Barrow was swifter than the boy. The boy’s sword could only reach the long mock flame made out of red paper that Sir Barrow had glued to the paper dragon’s mouth to make it more menacing. The paper flame grew shorter with each whack of the wooden sword, so the noble Sir Barrow was forced to step closer to the boy with each swing. Eventually, Sir Barrow got close enough to catch a blow of the toy sword on his temple, forever giving one of his eyes a strange and wicked appearance by dilating its pupil permanently. Perhaps Sir Barrow got so accustomed to the young Rodrick missing that his thoughts had wandered off as he dreamed of the fair milkmaid that brought them cheese and honey on the morning of their practice. Or perhaps he was thinking of something else, lulled to sleep by the rhythm of the boy’s relentless swinging and missing the intended target. It was that one fatal hit on the temple that forged Sir Barrow’s new look, making him appear strangely fierce and a touch mad with his mismatched eyes.

The dragon that was staring down at Sir Rodrick had the same strange mismatched eyes. Trembling with fear, Sir Rodrick looked at the beast’s muzzle, it seemed oddly familiar to him. Sir Rodrick had mustered all of his remaining strength, preparing to face a certain death. He wanted to meet his end as befit a knight: standing straight up and unwavering. A minute passed, it felt like an eternity, but nothing happened. The dragon peered at the youth apathetically with its huge wicked eyes, then straddled to its lair leaving the young knight shamed and confused. Why did the dragon spare me? Was I not worthy of a noble death? The young knight wondered. A true knight deserves a noble death, his master used to tell him. When the time comes, let death come to you, but do not rush to greet it. His master’s voice repeated in his mind as Sir Rodrick was watching the dragon stomping about in his nest, finding a comfortable spot. Only when the dragon settled back into its den, returning to sleep accompanied by sonorous snores, did the young Sir Rodrick find the courage in himself to move, finally letting go of the stuck sword that he was pulling on impotently all this time. Unable to set free his iron from the death grip of the rock, the young knight had left his sword and stumbled awkwardly towards the entrance of the cave in near complete darkness. Only a faint glow of the dragon’s glowing breath illuminated his way out.

The dragon left him live, so it was time to bid the beast farewell only to return for it another day. Will death come to Sir Rodrick then? Surely the dragon will not spare him next time, but how can you kill someone who had spared you, even if it was a dragon? This was the question Sir Rodrick wished he could ask his late master. Alas, such is the fate of knights: seek glory by slaying dragons. As such, the young knight knew he would be back. He must be back. Next month or next year. He must be back to slay the dragon that spared him.

No more than a week had passed when Sir Rodrick had returned to the cave to avenge his honor. Without his sword he was a knight only in name, the shame of it unbearable. This time Sir Rodrick had come alone, armed with a spear to make up for his lost long sword. The swordless knight planned to sneak up to the dragon quietly without making all the noise and ruckus Sir Flint had him do last time.

Sir Rodrick entered the cave in utter silence. He didn’t light a torch but waited and waited until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Soon in the damp heavy air of the cave, he could see a faint glow of the dragon’s breath and hear its monotone breathing. The knight crawled through the cave like a cat without making a sound. He was wearing light leather garments and soft leather boots, no plates, no armor, no mail, nothing that could betray his presence. The young knight proceeded through the cave until the breathing mountain was upon him. The sound of the dragon snores moved the air back and forth around him like bellows. The shiny dragon scales rose and fell, forming a gently curving wall in front of Sir Rodrick. The knight studied the scales carefully for a few moments, then raised his spear and thrust it with all his might into a bare patch of skin between the scales. The spear went deep inside the beast’s body as if it were butter.

The dragon sprung and roared in agonizing pain, the entire cave shook sending rocks and stalactites raining down to the cave’s floor. The monster raised its clawed wing and slashed at Sir Rodrick, impaling him instantly on its huge onyx talon. Then the dragon fell back on its belly, its wings limp, its eyes half closed. The sides of the beast’s body were rising and falling unevenly, a strange wailing sound coming out of the dragon’s maw. Cradled beside it, under its giant webbed wing was Sir Rodrick, his face frozen and unmoving, eyes wide open. Then the breathing stopped.

…

Sir Rodrick was flying through the darkness for what felt like an eternity. Cool pleasant wind kissed his clean smooth cheeks and fluttered in his hair. At last, the ground set upon him in one ghastly motion, but no harm had come to Sir Rodrick. He landed on his tummy like a cat, his outstretched arms and legs arrested his descent. A dull thud stirred in the damp air with myriads of echos.

Still lying on his tummy, Sir Rodrick stretched and bowed his enormous body, it felt good. He glanced around, the cave felt strangely familiar. It was dark, spacious, and… homey. Somewhere at a distance stalactites were dripping water, and bats were battering their soft webbed wings.

Suddenly, Sir Rodrick felt drowsy, his body heavy and tired. He nestled on the floor, pulling his arms and legs towards his chest. His left arm caught something prickly sticking from between his armored plates, it was a long sharp splinter. He pulled it out carefully, the raw patch of the skin where it had come out stung.

Taken in by the slumber, Sir Rodrick cradled himself, covering his massive body with a warm soft blanket of a wing. The raw patch of his skin stung no more. Deep sleep descended onto him like a thick soft puff of black smoke, rich with fading memories of knights and castles, filling his shrinking mind with strange dreams.

Sir Lancelot thought of the last tourney he attended. When was it? Has it been five years already? Time flies quickly for one in the saddle, and Sir Lancelot could now feel the passage of time: it ached in his back, squeaked in his knees, and popped in his shoulders. When did the ache start? He could not quite remember, but he was still strong and thanked the gods for that. The last tourney did not disappoint him, for he came fifth and won one hundred gold. He should have been the fourth with one hundred and fifty, but he had tied with noble Sir Barrow. The Lord Duke of High Elm had broken the tie with the help of the crowd, which cheered a bit more for Sir Barrow with his bright blue shield with a golden stag than for Sir Lancelot. Sir Lancelot’s shield was not as fancy, as he wished it was, but he had no money to pay a goldsmith to make his armor and the shield a tad shinier and more ornate.

It is quite fortunate that the good King Arthur has called this tourney, the knight thought, I only have nigh half a gold coin left, this prize money would come in handy. Sir Lancelot ungloved his hand and rummaged through his money sack. Much to his surprise and pleasure, his figures came upon not half but two whole gold coins, his last treasure. His growling stomach had reminded him why he had two gold coins, rather than one half, and his elbows and back were quick to reflect upon this recollection too. For two past fortnights now, the knight had been avoiding the inns with their drunken squalor and mouthwatering hot meals and opted for sleeping in the fields instead. He was too proud to sleep in stables along with common drunkards, smelly horse masters, and dirty stableboys. Instead, he preferred to set camp by the side of the road, far enough from towns and hamlets, such that nobody could see him. A poor knight’s last treasure is his honor, he thought, and so got used to making bed in the fields and the woods, under open air, with his mare tied securely to the nearest tree or a milestone. He always slept with his sword by his side, often with his hand on its hilt.

This past month Sir Lancelot subsided on whatever he could muster to catch along the side of the road: his long sword was ill-fitted for hunting, so he chiefly relied on his dagger, using it to kill a rabbit or a squirrel. But last night he was not so lucky, his improvised hunt had left him empty-handed, his stomach rumbling. The stones he slept on last night were coarse and dusty and had given him a sleepless nightmare his body was remembering all too well now. At least the mare ate good grass and drank cool water, and this was all he needed now to get to the tournament arena only four short miles down the road.

The old custom called for a tournament to begin at high noon, and it was morning still, so even with a leisurely trot he’d get there in time. There was no need to rush the mare, he needed her strength for the tournament, and somehow, he felt that she was grateful to him for his consideration. He knew his horse too well, she was his closest company, his soulmate and best friend, and she’d never failed him before. She won’t fail him now, not if he remains kind to her. And he was.

A whole one hour before noon Sir Lancelot had reached the tourney grounds, they were bustling with people: commoners and knights alike. It’s been a while since Lancelot had seen so much commotion, and his heart had skipped a bit excitedly. The knight coughed pointedly as he approached a registrar. He lifted his helm’s visor and announced himself in a loud coarse voice as befit the knight, “Sir Lancelot of High Castle is here for the tournament!”

The registrar looked at him warily, yawned, and asked: “Where is your squire, sir?”

“I have no squire,” Sir Lancelot replied, trying to hide his annoyance at the obvious question, for he could not afford one, not for the past six months, “I traveled fast, my squire fell behind”, he lied, but dishonorable lie this was not, “I hereby wish to enter myself into the tournament!” he demanded still sitting high on his horse.

“As you wish”, the registrar scribbled something on a piece of parchment, then lifted a small chest from under the oaken table he was seated at, opened it, gold coins gleaming inside lifted his head, and addressed the knight, “That would be one gold, Sir”.

“One gold?!” the knight had nearly fallen off his horse, “One gold??” he repeated the question, he was expecting only a few of silver, maybe half a gold, but one gold sounded too much to him, “What kind of a thievery is this?” he protested.

“It is one gold, Sir”, the registrar insisted, “All the knights must pay their tribute”, he lifted and shook the gold chest, coins clanking inside. He set the chest down and stared at the knight for a moment, then asked “Have you got the money, Sir?”

“Have I got the money? What kind of question is this?” Sir Lancelot replied indignantly, dismounting. It was clear to him that he would have to part with one-half of his treasure now. Thank God he had two coins. He rummaged in his money sack that was tied to his belt and produced a coin. He threw it at the registrar in disdain, “Here, one gold. Now go and write down my name properly, you knave!”

“But of course, my lord”, the registrar replied politely, showing him the parchment, “The stables are that way”, he gestured broadly in the direction from which the wind had brought the smell of horses and manure, “and the Knights’ canteen is there”, he gestured in another direction, from which Sir Lancelot could here laughter of the knights and chatter of the armor.

Sir Lancelot took his horse and brought it to the stables, a stable boy had tied it, gave it oats, and started brushing. At least she gets the oats, thought Lancelot, remembering his last gold coin. He had to win the tournament. You are only as good as your last tourney! He remembered the words of his old master-in-arms, his voice echoing in his head. You are only as good as your last tourney! Repeated the voice.

The knight proceeded to the canteen, his stomach would very much welcome a hot meal by now, and his mouth could use a good mead, too. An old fat lady was cooking and serving, and must have been her husband, also old, fat, and unshaven, with a face dirty from soot, was roasting deer meat. The lady brought Sir Lancelot his meal. He bit into it hungrily, warm juice flowed over his graying mustache and beard. Lancelot looked at the other knights. Seated in packs they were busy eating, drinking, and talking. The pack closest to him was made of noble knights with black hair, and wearing grey tunics. These must have been the knights of the Grey Woods; he recognized their house sigil on their armor. The pack further away had knights with blond hair and white coats, Lancelot saw a mark of the house of White Water on their shields and tunics.

Sir Lancelot was sitting alone at his table, an outsider at this tournament, which was organized for the benefit of the two main houses lording over this principality. Nevertheless, the olden rules were clear: anybody could participate as long as they were a knight, but few would travel this far for a handful of gold coins. But not Sir Lancelot. He needed this tournament, and he needed to win.

There were three categories: the sword fight, the dagger combat, and good ole horseback jousting with a lance. Sir Lancelot was fond of swordplay and confident in his wielding of lance, the dagger fight he despised and found it to be a low art of hand brawl. Alas, the local folk must have enjoyed this form of entertainment that he abhorred.

At last, the trumpets called the knights to the arena, and Sir Lancelot followed them into the tourney yard. Their horses were already there, brought in by stable boys, all brushed up and clean, their harnesses gleaming in the sun. He mounted, and all the other knights had done the same. They circled the arena and saluted the king when their names were called.

The sword fight was first. In the few short minutes before the tourney Sir Lancelot managed a good rest, his stomach was no longer growling and he almost had forgotten about his sore back. Somehow fresh and rested, he did well. His sword still faithful to his grip had clawed and marked the armor of his opponents angrily. The stabs and slashes that he had gotten in return were few and light. Lancelot was sure of it as he ended all his matches pleased with himself. Now that he was moving vibrantly, his knees hurt very little and his elbow did not feel sore anymore. The knights he faced were all young, much younger than he was, perhaps only half his age or less, but where Sir Lancelot could not compete with them on vigor, he could outdo them in the strength of his blow and reach of his sword. Today he had particular luck in luring the inexperienced youth into the fury of his counterattacks. It was a good start, and will be a great tourney, he thought. He was not wrong in his appraisal of himself: the crowd cheered and roared every time his long sword slashed and hacked at the armor of his foe. He’d even downed one, a thin, blond-haired knight in a white tunic, but no crowd roar had reached his ears that time, much to Sir Lancelot’s dismay. The little one was King Arthur’s nephew, forbidden from the tournament on account of his young age. He must have snuck in somehow and was unfortunate to face Sir Lancelot’s full fury. The crowd and the king found no honor in that – like it was Sir Lancelot’s fault – the bout did not count.

Still, Sir Lancelot moved on to the dagger altercation in high spirits. However, the dagger fight, a filthy business of blood, sweat, and close combat, wore down heavily on Sir Lancelot. He was slashed more times than he slashed in return, and many of his dagger swings had failed to find its target. The youth had an advantage over him, for he was not as swift and apt at keeping balance as they were. At one point a dark-haired knight with bad breath and many broken teeth had had his dagger right at Sir Lancelot’s throat, a hair width away from spilling blood; it took the knight all of its remaining strength to wrestle the dagger away from his chin. The crowd booed, and he was hoping they’d booed the other knight…

The final competition was a horseback joust with a lance. By then Sir Lancelot was tired, sweat running down his face and burning his eyes. An acrid smell of a horse’s entrails and manure had hung in the air, an unfortunate accident of a joust just before his, when one inexperienced knight managed to impale a horse with his lance, much to the horror of all. He even overheard the king curse. The poor thing was put to death, but not before it had offended all the ears with its agonizing neighing.

A bad sign, Sir Lancelot thought, preparing for the joust. A stable boy helped him onto his mare and handed him a wooden tourney lance. The lance seemed heavier than Sir Lancelot could remember. He straightened it up, holding fast onto his horse, trying to find balance. The trumpet sounded in icy silence, and the knight on an impossibly large black destrier had charged at him at lightning speed. It struck him as a thunderbolt. Like in a dream, Sir Lancelot observed the earth float away from under him, the horizon turning in front of his eyes slowly, counterclockwise. The seats full of spectators and the distant line of the woods were still turning, twisting, when a large grey mass entered his field of view blocking out his vision. Dust and dirt rushed into his visor filling his mouth, plugging his nose and eyes.

Two squires rushed to the field and lifted Sir Lancelot, his legs were strangely rubbery and would not support him. The squires noticed that and tightening their grip proceeded to drag the knight away from the arena. Sir Lancelot tried moving his legs to mimic walking, but his limbs were too limp and too slow to catch up to the squires. They dragged him all the way and seated him gently under a wooden post under a seating deck. A stable boy had brought his mare and tied it nearby. The mare was limping, although nothing looked broken on her, except for the harness. The saddle tiled to a side, reigns torn and ripped in several places.

At least the mare is alive, thought Lancelot, his mind still in the arena, huge red circles floating in front of his eyes. He tried to stand up but felt the ground spin beneath him and had to lean back to the wooden beam he was sitting under, finding support in its mute obedience. He rested for a few minutes until the circles in front of his eyes grew smaller and all but disappeared, then proceeded to inspect his harness and his mare closely. She was alright. Shocked, maybe, but alright. He straightened the saddle noticing a deep gash left on the mare’s side by his spur. The gush was bleeding, but not profusely. He sighed and proceeded to mend the harness. He managed albeit crudely. The entire right side of his body and especially his neck was burning, but nothing seemed to be broken. He tied the harness here and there. The horse snorted. This was the quickest horseback joust he’d seen, and he’d seen quite a few.

There was no point in waiting for the tourney’s end now. He knew he would not be taking any gold today, for there could be no prize money for the losers of the horseback joust. Sir Lancelot had mustered all his strength and got into his saddle, his back was aching again, everything was aching now, especially the neck, and he’d discovered that his ribs hurt too, for each breath he was taking felt like something sharp inside him was catching on something soft.

Damn ribs! He cursed silently as his white horse limped from under the bleachers like a forgotten ghost, heading towards the exit. Her mane glistened in the sun; the brushwork of the stable boy was magic. The knight did not say ‘goodbye’ to the registrar and did not listen to the voices calling him as he was leaving the arena grounds. He wanted to ride away as far from this wretched place as he could. He wanted to flee from his deafening defeat in the arena, if a such thing was even possible.

Somehow Sir Lancelot never thought once that he might not win, win something that is. Although he never won an entire tournament before, he always came back with gold, but not this time. The mare’s limping got worse. Sir Lancelot dismounted and proceeded on foot, holding the reigns in his left hand. He patted her shining white mane. The sun was setting, and she snorted back at him, grateful that he eased the load on her injured foot. You’ll be fine, my lady, he said to the mare in his mind’s voice. You’ll be fine.

Late at night, he’d reached an inn, which turned out to be a brothel full of drunkards and wenches celebrating the sins of life. The knight was too tired, and the mare needed hay, so he shelved his honor and knocked on the door. The appearance of a noble knight in such a place had broken up the celebration, if for a moment. The owner, a short balding man, unshaven and shrewd, barked orders at a stable boy to take the knight’s horse, then measured the knight’s sorry appearance with a thoughtful glance, noting dried blood on his face and dirty streaks of sweat across his forehead. The owner waved at the two henchmen to take the guest upstairs to their best room (if there was such a thing at this place). “Jane will tend to you, Sir…” he looked at the knight inquisitively. “It is Sir Lancelot,” the knight replied barely standing, still in his full armor. “Jane, come quick! Sir Lancelot is waiting for you. Don’t make the good lord wait!” he heard him slap her on her buttocks, the sound came from somewhere downstairs.

In a minute a puffy wench of uncertain age, questionable cleanliness, and long-faded beauty had showed up with a large tin pail and a rag for a towel. The two henchmen unexpectedly turned valets had brought a large wooden bathtub. They struggled to get it through the door, but finally, they managed. Jane filled the tub with water by pulling on a rope just outside the window. The rope brought in one pail of water at a time, someone on the ground floor must have been filling them.

She helped Sir Lancelot out of his armor and undergarments. She looked surprised to see that the entire right side of his body was one huge bruise, red and brown, and blue. She was gentle with him. Jane helped him into the tub and proceeded to dab him with the rag. Sometimes she used her apron, which was not much cleaner. Her blouse was untied, and her huge breasts swung unceremoniously in Sir Lancelot’s face as she was trying to tend to him. “I beg your pardon, m’lord”, she said blushing. The knight was surprised to see her blush as much as she was surprised at herself. When her breast had slapped the knight into his face again when she bent over the tub to scrub his knees, she blushed again (a second miracle), stood up straight, and asked, her voice was unsteady, shaking: “Would your lordship require any other tending tonight?” she was holding one hand to her chest, her other hand clasping the ties of her greasy gown, thinking whether or not she should bare her top completely.

Sir Lancelot did not answer. He was fast asleep in the tub. You are only as good as your last tournament, the voice of his old master echoed in his dream.