by El Rickman
"And all the gold of the world
Shall be in your hands"
Chapter 1. The Salt Lake of Miramar
Gebreyesus watched the nimble river water slip through his fingers, leaving on his swarthy palms but a few grains of golden sand. From the Navajo people he had learned a fortunate skill — to remain invisible until his time comes. And until then, he enjoyed freedom from the prying eyes. He had a lot of work to do. Grain by grain, in every corner of the earth, he was gathering the gold he had scattered once upon a time.
The dawn was clambering up the hunchbacked spine of the Cordilleras, awakening butterflies and lulling the night wolves to sleep. In the last dying breath of the night their voices woven into a strange, forest unison. Early in the morning, despite a fog, thick and sticky like a web, Gebreyesus left his father's castle. His father — the master of the most ancient people — had hewn his "temple" from the rock on the highest plateau, surrounded by obedient vines and rebellious condors. The monks living in mountain caves said these monsters, whose powerful wings could cleave a rockface in two, were descendants of flying dinosaurs. Another aged hermit — the drying waterfall — left a white limestone trail instead of itself and cherished in memory those bygone times, when people loved to build more than to destroy.
Down the mossy, barely discernible steps, overnight growing rampantly with emerald grass, Gebreyesus descended to the River of Oblivion with the large bone sieve. This ritual had repeated every morning since he turned thirteen and accepted the heavy burden of succession. He remembered that day when Albino Servant with eyes red from insomnia, woke him up before the sunrise - like never did earlier - and instead of the usual bows, whispered almost inaudibly: "The time has come." It had sounded solemn and sad. Since then, Gebreyesus had risen before the sun and even managed to catch the last, vanishing stars. And it often seemed to him that time had indeed begun its count exactly from that very second when those mysterious words were spoken. But even in his boldest fantasies, he could not have imagined that one day the time might stop again — vanish as if nothing had happened, and take him along with it.
And time was arranged quite strangely. Evening was followed not by night, but by a second evening, then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. Gebreyesus spent each of them on a different continents where gold had been discovered by man — apart from the virginally pure Antarctica, whose magnificent ices were something far more precious, yet could interest none of the people. As for Gebreyesus, he would have rather spent his life gazing upon the endless expanses without east and west, which sparkled in the sun like a diamond dust, and splitting large, prehistoric ice floes.
He yearned for coolness with all his soul, especially by midday, when wearied by his monotonous work he began to hate the sun. His blood turned to a boiling lava, and his skin steamed like a poisonous tropical swamps. By this time, the bone sieve would be filled to the brim with golden sand that had settled overnight on the bottom of the serene river. Its waters flowed from the Salt Lake of Miramar, and therefore its gold was mixed with the salt. Because of the constant work in such water, Gebreyesus's hands had become so rough and calloused that he could polish stones with them.
Thus, taming stone blocks, he built a city atop a mountain ridge. On either side of it, endless valleys lay like green wings. The one — laying east — stretched beyond the horizon, and the other, far, far to the west, met the sea. And so, as a child, watching the thin strip of coveted azure, he wanted to see the sea in its entirety and conceived of a tower — the first and tallest structure in the city. It happened after the Earthquake, when the mountains had generously scattered their stones. He collected them - heavy boulders half his own height - and hauled them, straining, to the western slope, falling exhausted by evening — as the sun fell into the sea.
When the stones were collected beyond count, Gebreyesus grew up and grew strong. Now he could easily hold a boulder on his palm. And despite all his courage, he undertook the tower's construction not with youthful zeal, but with a kind of sick childhood desperation - as if the fate of the entire world, unseen and unknown, depended on his whimsical fancy. After the diligent polishing the stones became white and so smooth they shone no less than the Antarctic ices of his imagination. And yet, as he set one block upon another, Gebreyesus hewed and ground every surface, every corner, so that not a single crevice would remain in the tower's walls, and neither wind, nor time, nor the blade of a knife could destroy it. It was his fortress and his sanctuary.
Gebreyesus labored without distinguishing day from night, season from season, having even lost his sense of height. When the work was finally finished, he reached the top, breathing shallowly and barely dragging his feet from exhaustion and anticipation. The stone ¹5752 — the only number he remembered, because he had carved a wide trapezoidal window within. And now, peering through it, the heir realized with horror that the snowy peaks of the Cordilleras and his father's castle remained so far below that it was impossible to locate them. In the valley unfolding before him, he could not discern his cherished sea either. Instead, he saw hundreds of seas and endless oceans, thousands of watery arteries, and the vibrant, multifaceted body of the Earth, gazing back at him with cheerful bewilderment. Instantly, Gebreyesus was ignited by a new dream. Now he wanted to fly.
His father was not angered that the overgrown tower surpassed his castle. "It is the law of nature," he would say. "Each new generation strives further. But as long as I live, this colossus shall also belong to me — to prevent dual power. And a city will arise around it. Where has it been seen for a tower to stand in a wasteland? People are drawn to tall buildings, even if they cannot climb them." Within two days frightened Gebreyesus had launched a great construction site around the tower. When the forest encroached too close, he wielded an axe and a pick. From the leftover hewn stone he built a couple of hundred storehouses — for prophetic dreams and kind memories. With their massive, circular walls, they resembled ancient fortifications. He laid out the streets so that each of them led to the river — the very one, where the golden sand from the bottom of Lake Miramar gathered. No future resident would have any use for such wealth, Gebreyesus knew, but without the healing river water in these parts one could die - and not just once.
Besides neat little houses plastered with clay, a square with a solemn obelisk appeared in the city, along with many structures "with a twist," for which he had yet to think of a name and a purpose. Not least among them was a giant stepped pyramid, flat-topped and hollow inside. One could place anything within it — from a temple and a mausoleum to a laboratory — and observe the stars and the movement of celestial bodies from its summit. His favorite brainchild — a sundial — Gebreyesus had carved from rock out of scientific interest. But, truth be told, it held little practical use. Here the time, though symbolically counted, could at its own whim move both forward and backward, washing over itself in waves and creating bizarre optical illusions. The inquisitive prince had read this term in a dusty, heavy book that once fell on his head and made him sneeze nonstop for several days. And then he saw it with his own eyes when, in the sky above him, an airplane and a pterodactyl nearly collided, unaware of each other. The concepts of "the past" and "the future" lost all meaning entirely. The endless "now" was laughing at the cheerful toy called a "clock."
Lest he doom the city to endless sorrow, Gebreyesus sowed the llanos on the eastern side of the ridge with seeds of Evergreen Hope. When the first sprouts appeared, everything was ready to receive residents. And so it happened that on that very day and hour, the restless chieftain of the Mohos tribe heard tales of the wondrous riches of the Atalan tribe. His vanguard of sailors overcame hundreds of nautical miles, cutting storms across the wave, storming mountain passes, burning impenetrable jungles, and draining swamps, until at last the land without end or edge, full of gold and precious stones, finally opened before them. Emeralds lay underfoot there, and children kicked them around the yard, finding no better use, while the very poorest of the poor covered their house walls with solar plates of the highest grade. By this brilliance the sailors were blinded forever and had to make their way back by touch. Returning they went utterly mad and babbled incessantly about the distant country that had robbed them of their sight but taught them to see with the heart.
The chieftain of the Mohos lost his sleep and taste for life. In the evenings, having swallowed bitter healing roots, he beat his head against the pillow in vain and call out to the heavens. Not a minute of coveted rest did they grant his tormented soul. On the seventh day of insomnia, he realized he was losing his mind. His eyes dried and inflamed, his lips muttered disjointed phrases incessantly. At night, armed with a map, pencil, ruler, and compass, he drank a tincture of "bear" berries from the madrono tree — so his hands wouldn't shake — and set about geographical research. Measuring, calculating, constructing hypotheses and deducing axioms, weighing all the pros and all the cons, guessing and anticipating, proving and doubting, he finally declared: "Eureka! I have found the shortest path to the golden country! Now we shall have everything!" — and on these words fell into a sound sleep. When they finally managed to wake him up a week later, the chieftain demanded his family sword to be brought. It had lain unused for centuries, passed from father to son as a promise of numerous wars. "Well, then," he said with genuine joy, "Now Mohos will become a real country, not a wretched haven for chickens and pigs, some backwater cornfield. Mohos will go to war!" He proudly presented his sword to the newly appointed "head of the army," while he himself returned to his maps and locked the door, awaiting the best of news from his soldiers.
The soldiers, all of them sighted, had never seen the golden country and tried in vain to learn of it from the blind. But the latter insisted, as if enchanted, that this path could be walked but once, and they were worthless guides now. So the army of former carpenters and farmers was left to the whims of fate. From the chieftain's long, disjointed tales, one of them gathered that Paete — the golden city — lay beyond the sea, and proposed building a ship of greater capacity, at least as long as two cachalots, and, to avoid blindness, to fit every helmet with blinkers, like those on racehorses. Scenting the smell of imminent victory, the team took the bit between their teeth and set to work with fervor. Soon, on the shore of their only sea rose a white skeleton, resembling the gnawed bones of a leviathan, whose greedy belly was gaped with compartments for plunder. And only when it came time to set the sails did they remember they did not know any direction. "Let us go always north, that way we shall never lose our course!" said one. "Let us go always with the wind, it's easy as pie," said another. "Let us sail by the grace of the saints! - exclaimed a third. - Fortune favors idiots!" He was immediately made captain, and they hung on his every word.
Fortune rewarded them when a carefree shore with caps of eternal snow loomed in the distance. "Well, what do you know, they have mountains too. What if there are people there equal to us?" came a reasonable question. "Fortune doesn't just favor idiots. It favors arrogant idiots. So don't bother your head with thoughts and grip your sword tighter," replied the chosen captain. "We won't last long that way. The others went blind, you know. Arrogance, it seems, doesn't save one from blindness." "Do you really think we've found that country? Those poor wretches just went mad from fear and horror, and now they'll die in poverty, consoling themselves with their fairytales. Let's not repeat their sorry fate. Haven't you figured it out yet? The chieftain doesn't need a country where they learn to see with the heart. He wants money, and we'll get it for him at any cost. After all, killing isn't much harder than forging iron or plowing the land."
These covenants sounded so loud that they were heard in the farthest corners of the earth, which Gebreyesus could only behold from his tower window. And soon his city, built so spontaneously, began to fill with residents. Those who had nowhere else to seek salvation fled there from the cruel persecution of brave idiots, blinded by their own greed. And each time, he heard the same complaint: "Gold. They are looking for gold. Why, great dreamer, did you invent this cursed metal? You should have turned these people into animals devouring each other right away. From bronze they made the path of war, from gold — the goal of war, from man — the waste of war." And Gebreyesus understood with a pain in his heart that as long as the gold lay scattered chaotically across the world, the wars would never end.
Finally, having admitted his helplessness, he came to pay homage to his father. The latter, overgrown and focused, sat in his study, piled high with papers, canvases and raw clay blanks. He rarely went out — except to meet an important guest — and was constantly writing something down. The "study" — a secret room in the clouded dome of the castle — was striking for its huge, almost wall-sized spherical window. Rays of light danced on the thin glass in all shades of the rainbow, and one could see far more through it than from Gebreyesus's observation tower. When rotated around its axis, the marvelous window revealed an unthinkable perspective, allowing to discern the planets surrounding the earth, and then suddenly compressed space to the size of a "glass" Greta Oto butterfly — making every vein of its transparent wings visible. Is it any wonder that anyone entering here felt slightly dizzy? Father did not welcome idle guests, especially drones, loafers, and fops, but he adored natural light, fresh air and birdsong. And also — when impudent parrots peeked in through the slightly opened casement. By their coloring and mood he judged the days to come.
Unlike the parrots, Gebreyesus entered silently, concealing his agitation and trying to ignore the sensation of a whole sewing factory working with needles in his chest and palms. Father kept on writing, not lifting his eyes. Only the left corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, like a smile.
"Out with it," he uttered in passing."Something important? Lately, there's been no peace from complaints about gold. I hope you haven't remained deaf to these unfortunates either? Responsiveness is in your blood. Though so is absent-mindedness — but that's from your mother."
"Father, there is no need to repeat what you know well enough without me. All complaints come to you directly. I see these countless legions of letters that have already filled all the castle corridors, for which we will soon have to build a second tower. If this continues, all our rivers will be stained with blood, because it will have nowhere else to flow. We know what the matter is. But tell me, for heaven's sake, where did so much of the wretched metal come from in the world? And why is it so hard to gather now?"
"As regrettable as it is, it was scattered by you, when you were just a young boy who had barely learned to walk. Can it be you remember nothing? Strange is the river of human memory! It carries everything away, except for the golden sand. And even that, try and hold onto it!"
"So, it's all my fault? Are you joking with me?"
"This is no time for jokes at all. From time immemorial, all gold was kept under my lock in a secure place, and when you were born, I wanted to entrust it to you for safekeeping. But you were a lively little fellow, quick-witted and curious. You somehow found the key to the vault — wheedled it out of the gatekeeper, captivating his attention, and began hauling pieces away from there. Day after day, while I saw nothing. And so, playfully, you scattered it all over the world. Some you buried, some you sank in rivers. You had strength to spare. But your memory is utterly useless."
"Does this mean that I am the one to gather it? People have come to love gold so much that they would rather exterminate each other, than cope with this task."
"Not one of them will gather it all at once. Only miserable crumbs, even if they seem large to them. And separately it all means nothing. I prepared you for the one important mission. You were to teach them to gather gold properly. So that the wealth of one would not make another poor. You were to appear to them and reveal this secret. But blood has been shed, and everything changed. Remember the blood — it changes everything. And now, until the lost treasures are returned to their place, it is useless to say anything. I am silent — and you keep silent too. In their pursuit of plunder, they simply will not hear you."
"What should I do then?"
"Gather the gold, remaining invisible. And when you succeed, the time will come to reveal yourself to the world."
"How will it come, if it moves neither forward nor back?"
"Oh, it will be a completely different time — unlike what you are used to. But you, nor anyone else, will be able to miss it."
And Gebreyesus understood: his father had only allowed him to build such a high tower because it was necessary.
***
The rain over the mountain lake Miramar never ceased, even in the most dry and favorable weather around it. That's why it was called the Lake of Tears. The water was indeed extremely salty and even bitter — whether because of the great number of minerals washed down from the mountains, or for some other unknown reason. And so it happened that from this lake came the first inhabitant of Gebreyesus's city. At that time, his inquisitive mind was struggling to solve a vital riddle — the origin of the golden sand. He knew that the River of Oblivion began in Lake Miramar and rushed downward, toward the valley, via long, gentle slopes. Every morning, leaving the river with a full sieve of sand, Gebreyesus bend under the weight, despite his titanic strength. And his father would only chuckle at him when he poured his "catch" onto the scales. "Today, 137 kilograms and 46 grams. Not much. Didn't you decide to take a nap again in the middle of the workday? It's far too early to relax," he would say and sit down at the potter's wheel. And Gebreyesus, dead on his feet from fatigue, would hand him prepared lumps of clay, carefully kneading the solution. Work in the castle never stopped for a minute, merely taking different forms.
At first, he believed he would conquer the river and one day its waters would run scarce, but to his great surprise, the golden sand only increased with each day. So he had to take not only the sieve but also clay vessels to pour the excess into, and return for them several times when the work was finished. In his moment of deepest despair, he realized the sand was entering the river from the lake, and he firmly resolved to study its water and even the soil from its bottom, to find the answer to his question. The duration of his torment depended on it.
The day was clear and long, the evening promised to be late, and Gebreyesus undertook a foray into the mountains. The path led through an impenetrable blue-black forest where sounds and smells were more trustworthy than sight. He sank ankle-deep into the quivering, slippery mud, and to keep from falling, grabbed at the heavy branches of monsteras and the aerial roots of banyans that whipped his face. One of them slipped under his feet with a menacing hiss, flashed like a russet lightning bolt, and vanished into the gloom. Gradually, the smell of damp and decay soaked through him, and his bones seemed covered in mold and grown soft as fresh clay, but then he heard the saving echo of rain and understood he was nearing his goal. The forest gates parted, revealing a perfectly round funnel, like the crater of an extinct volcano — utterly black from a distance. Above it, rain fell in a solid wall, and a phosphorescent glow danced with flares. The salt fumes burned his throat and made his nose itch, and tears streamed from his eyes. Trying not to breathe deeply and covering his face with his sleeve, Gebreyesus took out a couple of transparent vials, filling one with rainwater and scooping lake water with the other. Then he took off all his clothes and did something completely insane — holding his breath, he dove headfirst with the firm intention of finding the bottom. His skin burned as if surrounded by boiling oil, but Gebreyesus endured and fell, probably for an eternity, until the burning finally ceased. After another couple of minutes, he risked opening his eyes and saw a blood-red earth before him. To the touch, it was soft and warm, like fresh meat. Gebreyesus filled a third vial and looked around. He was surrounded by the skeletons of giant fish. One of them — a whale's — stared point-blank and seemed a dwarf next to its fellows, whose biological species was hard to determine by eye. He was the size of their narrow muzzles, armed with powerful jaws. Underfoot were smaller bones, like those of dolphins or sharks, and quite tiny shells, fins and fragments shimmering with mother-of-pearl. "Seems someone was cooking fish broth and forgot to throw out the bones. And overdid it with the salt," thought Gebreyesus, feeling his skin grow tough and turn either into tree bark or, more likely, fish scales. Before closing his eyes and rushing upward, he managed to notice in the distance something resembling the hull of a sunken ship, but dismissed it as a trick of the mind caused by lack of oxygen.
Having obtained the coveted material, he set about his research. He boiled, froze, shook, settled, filtered, mixed in different proportions in different environments — acidic, alkaline, and neutral, tested under the influence of metals, magnets, and all kinds of radiation. The result plunged him ever deeper into an abyss of despair. The rainwater could not possibly be the source of the golden sand. Nothing could be detected in it except salt and a strange substance that, when exposed to light, emitted a thin, piercing squeak. Meanwhile, the blood-red soil proved to be literally saturated with gold, which meant Gebreyesus had work enough until the end of time. One last chance remained — to extract the fish bones and subject them to thorough analysis, even if it meant diving once again into the extinct crater of sorrow. So Gebreyesus found himself on the shore of Lake Miramar with a traveler's research kit and underwater viewing goggles. He had fashioned them from monitor lizard skin and two transparent plates — a mixture of alumina, lime, and soda. The substance obtained experimentally turned out so successful that he even considered installing it in the windows — as wide, extremely thin sheets that could protect from wind, rain, and sandstorms. But before he could properly enjoy this idea, he remembered he had already seen something similar in his father's study. Pride in his own discovery immediately faded, and his thoughts were interrupted by a strange sound. Gebreyesus, accustomed to solitude, started in surprise.
"Friend, I am somewhat a loss. A spear has pierced my left side and came out somewhere between my stomach and spleen. You wouldn't happen to have a couple of bandages and some magnolia vine leaves to stop the bleeding and tuck my insides back? A handful of maggots wouldn't go amiss either — they're splendid for removing pus — but I fear the only rotting piece of meat here is me."
A tall, long-haired man in trousers soaked through had obviously just emerged from the water. The specifics of the area were inexorable: the stranger could only have come from the bottom of Lake Miramar. And against all odds, one had to believe that was indeed what happened. The guest awaited an answer with the most delicate patience, as if his strange journey raised no questions for him. Sturdy, lean, tightly muscled and clad in bronze skin, he towered over a puddle of his own blood and was stoically serene, despite his mangled abdomen.
"Can it be you feel no pain?" was all Gebreyesus could stammer, paralyzed by the sight of another's suffering. His science-laden bag, of course, contained natural antiseptic and elastic bandages, but he suddenly lost the ability to think logically and became unfit for swift, decisive action. He drifted over the ground like a deathly pale cloud and, to his shame, finally fainted.
He was awakened by the wondrous flute sounds, appearing from nowhere in these parts, and Gebreyesus did not immediately understand it was the voice of the mysterious stranger. He clothed his phrases in music, using no words, which did not hinder the perception of his thoughts in the least. It was harder to keep up with them, however, as with his actions. The guest had already bandaged his wound, having figured out the found items, and now sat — cheerful and brisk — on a flat stone, while notes danced on his tongue. He said he had despaired of ever meeting a kindred spirit, and now it was as if he had gained a new soul. And that loneliness — it seemed — did not exist as long as the music of one's heart could bring someone to their senses. It was funny to watch this young-looking bronze warrior groan like an old man at the end of each musical phrase and raise his finger admonishingly.
The wounded man proved not only cheerful but also very strong. Looking around, Gebreyesus — who moved boulders — found his mortal body on the shore of his well-known River of Oblivion, and noticed nearby a raft, hastily tied from thin, unhewn logs. The flutist had evidently decided to shorten the path from the sorrowful Lake Miramar and float down the river, following the golden sand. Thus they found themselves in the valley where Gebreyesus greeted every morning, and for the first time in his life, he was not alone here, and a wondrous melody sounded in his ears.
"The finest flute in the world I discovered in the Andes, when I was a guest of my good friend named Atahualpa. The wise leader of a glorious tribe died a martyr's death, and I still converse with him in moments of unquenchable sadness. He said that every thought is like a knot that cannot be untied. Everything can be destroyed, except the works of our mind," the guest continued as if nothing had happened, and Gebreyesus was forced to believe in his existence.
"What is your name? Although a name is just a label from the category of words, one must call you something to hold you in memory?"
"I would gladly take the name of poor Atahualpa, whether drowned or strangled by a conquistador, but his tribe believes in the posthumous power of names and so it is unseemly to steal them, even with the best intentions. My own name was invented after my death. Before you stands a chieftain laid down, just like Atahualpa. When people had not yet lost their connection with all existence, with the source of their life, while they still knew how to hear without words and understand without interpretation, when thought was pure, like the stellar crystal in your father's crown, the first books were written thanks to me. I ruled the most ancient and numerous tribe of human thoughts. But when spears appeared, new languages of the Era of Great Wars came to match them. First I was turned inside out, and then forgotten altogether. Only the name remains, and even that is needed by no one but you. I am Ladino, the dead language of your ancestors."
"So that's how you know my father!"
"Of course, for it was he who invented me — to speak with people directly, without any intermediaries. But now, you see, everything is much, much more complicated…"
"I never thought a language could meet such a sorrowful fate."
Gebreyesus wanted to say something more as a sign of sincere sympathy, but then Ladino's thoughts began to chime like a hundred little bells. A girl of about ten with a mischievous look, in a dress embroidered with pearls and Andalusian lace, appeared on the bank. Behind her, limping and panting, hurried a portly matron. She seemed square due to her steep, very broad shoulders and a poncho the color of autumn leaves. Beneath this coverlet, in an evil hour, probably more than one brood of chicks could hide. And despite all her bulk, this mother hen tried to affect a semblance of run, emitting a strange metallic clatter and sighing even more loudly over her hard lot.
"And here is my good old Concepcion, who nursed a dozen children for the cruel hidalgo Palmares. That monster drove even his own wife to her grave and, busy with endless campaigns of conquest, gave the children into the care of a captive princess of the Inca people. They say, having no milk of her own, she nursed them with llama's milk. Once she remained the only one with whom I could still converse, who understood me from a half-tone, who could hear a symphony of beautiful feelings in complete silence. In such moments, it seemed to me she would live forever — like any mother's heart — but apparently, something happened to little Avigal - her favorite. I wouldn't be surprised if her father raised his hand to her again; he couldn't stand even childish mischief. Yes, that's it. Do you see that dreadful crimson mark on her cheek? The poor thing needed only one slap to end up here. And Concepcion, as a faithful nanny, followed. But in all honesty, I am very glad of this meeting. Might there be decent lodgings here? And preferably — with a large dining room and kitchen. Truth be told, I have never met a better housekeeper in all the world than Concepcion. At first, she and Avigal will have to make do with little, but when has it ever been that a mother failed to find food for her child? And now she is much, much more than just a mother."
The colorful mountain named Concepcion continued her descent to the river with a ringing that turned into a clatter. On her immense waistline, strange metal objects dangled, clicking against each other — they were the source of the noise. Peering closer, Gebreyesus understood: she had tied a whole set of copperware to a cord — pots, pans, kettles, spoons, knives, forks, and other kitchen utensils without which - in her opinion — one could not survive anywhere. The black, graying hair of the former Inca princess was disheveled under a small, absurd hat, her high-cheekboned, brown face shone with sweat, but she displayed a warlike determination in her effort to catch the girl and did not slow her pace. Her precious Avigal, hopping from stone to stone with the agility of a mountain goat, had already reached the coveted hollow where the descent to the river was less steep and manageable for her small feet, and slipped down unnoticed. Her cruelty towards the nanny was explained by a simple and inexorable fact: she was desperately thirsty. And poor Concepcion, as it turned out, had long since spotted the two strangers lounging on the bank instead of easing her torment.
"Where? Where has she run off to?" came a frantic cry, which immediately weakened. "The little devil, such a punishment! And she knows about my hip, knows I can barely crawl. Since morning, it's as if demons possessed her, took it into her head to be insolent to her farther! Was it so hard for her to pick up that dirty spoon? Of course, Don Palmares does not tolerate such rudeness. Gave her a smack, and she deserved it. And she didn't cry that time, didn't scream, just "clack!" with the back of her head against the door and fell, went quiet. Then I clutched my heart, Don Palmares turned pale and rushed out like a scalded cat — for a doctor, apparently. And she suddenly gets up as if nothing happened and grabs me by the nose, that's her kind of joke. 'I want to go to the lake,' she says. But we never had any lake. 'Let's go!' and she drags me by the hand. We went behind the house, I see — there really is a lake and everything seems prepared for swimming, even steps laid down to the water. Avigal rushed to these steps carefree and cheerful, but when she reached them, she turned and looked at me with such a heavy, concentrated gaze, the likes of which I never recall in all her life. And then she suddenly spoke, and her voice sounded as if from underground: 'If life were endless, I would never have said these words. I love you. I love you, Mama.' Imagine! She never called me Mama before, and here you go - I've lived to hear it! But inside it wasn't joy, on the contrary — such a painful pang, and she's already already down the stairs, straight into the water. Already wet her feet, then up to her waist, her neck, and then went under with her head — didn't look back. I don't remember running after her, I remember splashing into the water and why it felt like boiling water. Strange — I was afraid it would be cold. And then black as pitch and nowhere to hide from the salt. I don't know how we ended up here, only I spotted your raft right away. So one can get from the lake down the river, but what to do next — good people will advise. Has my little girl run past?"
Ladino was in no hurry to answer, indulging in selfish joy. Today he had gained two friends at once, and he was not embarrassed at all that poor Concepcion was in an unenviable position. Finally, he responded to her metallic clatter with his own rippling, melodious voice, which now had nothing in common with the flute.
"Ah, you old busybody! Leave the disobedient child alone and let her quench her thirst properly. She won't run away from you anymore."
The effect, as he predicted, was staggering. Concepcion shuddered as if pinched on her thick side, let out a loud "Oh!", then her legs gave way and she finally plopped down on her backside along with all her pots.
"It can't be! No, no, even in my old age I couldn't have forgotten such a handsome man. I swear to God, I've never seen your face, but that voice! It seems to me I haven't parted with it for a minute, as with my own. It seems to know all my secrets, all my doubts, all my sorrows, and all my innermost hopes. But tell me, for mercy's sake, can one converse while remaining invisible to each other?"
"You see, I am not a very good conversationalist by myself. But I am an excellent guide, a liaison. A translator, if you will. Yes, you loved nightly conversations and invisible interlocutors, but listening to you was a pleasure. And now I am sincerely glad that we have found ourselves — how to put it — on the same side of the barricades. You are an honored guest in the city of Gebreyesus, as am I. And the word 'guest' means that none of us are here forever."
Avigal reached her matron from behind while the latter was unsuccessfully trying to get to her feet, and buried these attempts by hanging on her neck. From this girl, despite all her childish exuberance, emanated an amazing silence. Whether she was running away or throwing herself into an embrace — it all happened spontaneously, without any conditions. She had not yet learned to separate light and shadow, good and evil, right and wrong, and was drawn to all people without exception. For her, the whole world was a single, divine manifestation, and even between life and death there was no clear boundary. And so, having hugged her nanny, this angel in the flesh, she immediately switched to a more important object that had occupied all her thoughts until the last moment: "Won't father be angry that we've been away from home so long?"
Only now could Gebreyesus get a good look at her delicate, pale face with translucent skin under which every nerve quivered, a painfully sharp nose, and the dreadful crimson bruise left by the hand of a man who still inspired in her both animal fear and unconditional love. But what surprised him most was something else. What he had mistaken from afar for pearls on her dress turned out to be a homemade necklace of small shells — vaguely familiar. Yes, there could be no mistake — now, in the daylight, they shone with mother-of-pearl much brighter than at the bottom of Lake Miramar.
***
Avigal's father was intensely proud of belonging to the tribe of Asturians. In old times, their mountainous region had never been conquered by the Moors, unlike most of the Iberian Peninsula, and bore no Muslim imprint. Therefore, natives of Asturia were considered fine warriors, even if they had never touched a sword. Don Diego began his martial path as a swineherd. His wayward father, a captain of tercios in Italy nicknamed "El Tuerto" (The Cross-Eyed), had seduced a poor orphan girl, a servant in one of the monasteries, and later refused to acknowledge the child. The surname "Palmares" was chosen at random from the parish register while the young mother — who had endured a difficult labor — lay battling fever and peering at the other world through the half-open door. That day, wayward life dragged her back, but only to prolong her torment. The valley of Lagos de Covadonga, where the enemy never reached, was assailed by famine. The war between the Moors and Catholics devastated everything in its path, and while Ferdinand and Isabella were forging a unified kingdom, the villages were left without even rotten potatoes or stale bread. In his first years, Diego ate only fish offal, gathered by his mother from under the market stalls, and when he wasn't vomiting green, swampy slime, he could barely move without fainting in the first steps of his sorrowful life. Finally, his exhausted mother, having listened to the tales of kind-hearted aunts and fearing the child would grow fins and his stomach would fall out from such food, gave him to an orphanage. There, he was forced to herd swine for a bowl of watery gruel and was beaten with sticks for any transgression in the name of the great king. Ultimately Diego grew into a real man and a patriot who knew that food must be earned only through patience and feats of labor, and for respect one had to do a little more — even if it meant being beaten with sticks.
Armor, heavy as the pangs of conscience, he first donned in Calabria — battles still raged on the Italian frontiers. And when Columbus's followers brought news from across the ocean of a country full of gold and precious stones, Diego had already learned to wage war and had become acquainted with strong liquor. Leaving service at seventeen, he found himself on a ship smelling of fresh paint. On the day the crew set the sails, the recruit received his first responsible task: to clean the weapons from old war of rust. It was believed they carried the spirit of victory and were thus many times better than new ones, though, truth be told, no one had money for new arms, and all who knew how to make crossbows and arquebuses had turned pirate. Armed with courage and hunger, they knew the secret of victory better than anyone: to plunder the enemy faster than he could kill you. Furthermore, rumors spread that in the new lands called "the Indies," the people were so foolish and careless that it occurred to no one to guard their treasures. These oddballs believed the gold belonged to them by birthright and no one could take it away. They called themselves "the golden people," and the pirates would tell jokes about it during their drinking bouts. For instance, about how the mad savages would cover themselves in golden sand to become like God. But not a grain of sober truth could be discerned in all this drunken frenzy.
When the ship, as long as two cachalots, washed him onto a foreign shore, Diego was hopelessly drunk. As in his native land, only enemies and fights awaited him here, seasoned merely by the sweet thought of easy gain. Barely standing, he clad himself in the costume of an iron knight and stepped toward the bracing unknown. He was already past twenty and still had not known a woman, despite all their port-side variety. Possessing a character tempered to the point of despotism, Diego knew he could have any girl and do with her as he pleased, feeling no remorse afterward. But that, of course, was the voice of his father's bad genes. Diego did not remember the day he began to be called "Don Palmares," or when his hated helmet, squeezing his head like a crown of thorns, was adorned with a white, proud feather. But he remembered well how, commanding a troop of two hundred men, he cut down a seven-thousand-strong enemy force, having tricked them into laying down their arms. He remembered how the leader of the conquered empire convulsed in his death throes as the rope tightened around his neck, how his face turned blue and his veins burst, how his eyes, outlined in black paint, bulged from their sockets. On the site of his murder, Palmares set up his administration and posted two stern-looking sentries at the entrance. He did not fear for his life, but now one of the rooms in his dwelling was filled to the ceiling with gold — the ransom for the chieftain, whom he had promised to spare. "In war, honesty is the worst ally, as is any kind of nobility," he lectured his soldiers. "Leave these stupidities to the gentlemen who have eaten from golden trays and wiped themselves with silk handkerchiefs since their birth. And let none of you think that money can be begged from fate. The fate of the poor knows no pity. Let us forget about it, too." That same evening, the lion's share of the gold was sent across the ocean — to the royal treasury — while the soldiers divided miserable crumbs among themselves, enough perhaps for a couple of teeth each. The deal proved dishonest —relentless scurvy took many times more from them.
From then on, Diego was called Adelantado — governor of the conquered lands. With a sense of duty fulfilled, he took two daughters of the executed Atahualpa (such was the leader's name) as his wives. The fate of the girls could not have been more lamentable. One of them, in a fit of jealousy, was killed by Don Palmares himself in front of a servant. He was prone to jealousy even of his own shadow and had no habit of restraining his anger. The body of the slain woman bore no less than eight sword wounds, one of which split her beautiful face in half, shattering the bridge of her nose, but the doctor attributed it all to an accident. The second wife — very young and meek — gave her soul to God while giving birth to Avigal. The girl grew up immensely loved, a copy of her father. She was denied nothing and even managed to awaken in him something akin to tender feeling. But one day — cursed be that day — she accidentally dropped a spoon and flatly refused to pick it up.
The mark from the blow had already faded and the blood on the Andalusian lace had dried, but the conquistador's daughter still could not understand what was happening to her. Why was their new, secluded home so unlike the Adelantado's white marble palace with its columns of solid marble and portraits of august personages? Where had the tropical garden gone, with its giant leaves like peacock tails, full of fresh fruit and meek servants? Why did her dear Concepcion no longer obey orders but gave them herself, and why, instead of songs in Quechua — that life-giving memory of her ancestors — had she suddenly come to love the dashing, freedom-loving hymns of Genoese pirates and the gypsy market cante flamenco from the time of the Reconquista? "After all, a person has two homelands," explained the devoted Concepcion. "The first is the homeland of your fathers, the second is the homeland of your children. And good luck figuring out which is more important."
They settled in neighboring houses — the lonely "translator" Ladino with his eternal longing for a worthy interlocutor, and the tireless Concepcion, who always had a reason for conversation. From fish heads — and with her arrival, all the rivers teemed with fish — she cooked a rich, fatty broth, just like on that last day at Don Palmares's. Their small garden soon sang with the voices of cherry and apricot trees, and the city's main street turned into a chestnut alley. Concepcion, an extremely down-to-earth person, said that flowers had meaning and a right to life only if they would become fruits in the future. And she desperately hurried the moment when the last petals would fall and the time would come to make apricot jam and roast chestnuts on hot coals. Thus, in Gebreyesus's city, among all other inventions, the seasons appeared. Their change depended exclusively on Concepcion's trees, and if they suddenly stopped bearing fruit, there would be no summer, and if leaves failed to bud on them, spring would be as unseen as one's own ears. Time had never frightened her, and here she noticed, on top of everything, that she had stopped aging and even seemed to grow younger with each harvest. And, filled with triumph, she tried to accelerate the change of seasons to the speed of a Caribbean hurricane, to preserve as many jars of jam as possible— for the joy of little Avigal.
At the beginning of the so-called autumn, Concepcion's stoves were working at full capacity, and steam from the pots poured through the wide-open windows. The two-story house with a terrace like a stuck-out tongue drowned in an apricot haze. The cloyingly sweet mist settled on the walls, roof, windowpanes, and even on the tree leaves, gleaming like honeyed, golden droplets. Exactly at noon — in addition to the windows — the carved door would swing open and she would appear on the threshold — the warlike Inca princess, armed with a fly swatter. In this proud mistress of the elements, who could incinerate a fly with a glance, it was hard to recognize the wretched, helpless matron who used to collapse under her own weight. Now she had ascended the peak of her vitality and was in no hurry to descend. Her firm, high chest often heaved, not from shortness of breath, but from consciousness of her own importance. And her face — even if flushed and sweaty from the heat of the ovens — burned with unbridled, self-satisfied joy. With her loud, theatrical sigh, the Great Mother marked the sunset and the end of the entire day. "Well now, one could even die," she would announce each time, having finished her daily chores, though no one in the world was further from death than she in those moments. Youth had finally returned to her, along with the garnet earrings. The purple clusters, which stretched her earlobes and lengthened her swarthy neck, had lain at the bottom of her chest all her life — because first they were "aging," and then became "too vulgar." Now Concepcion feared neither and outlined her lips with a red pencil.
She always found something to do that was useful for others. When there was no work at all, she melted colored wax and molded little turtles. These creatures, hung in the garden, attracted rain to the earth and drove away evil spirits — so her ancestors believed, and thus there was no reason to doubt it. The making of amulets — simple and not too responsible —s he reluctantly entrusted to Avigal when she noticed in her the first signs of incurable childhood melancholy. Measuring her with a mother's infallible gaze, she understood — it was a longing for human voices. The city, which by its creator's standards had grown in an instant and filled with inhabitants even faster, had in fact stood empty for an eternity. The hospitable Concepcion herself sometimes grew wistful that she couldn't seem to receive any guests. Her favorite interlocutor, Ladino, had been summoned to the Ruler's Castle on the very first day and returned with new, honorable work. His house, built with windows facing east to rise with the first rays of the sun, was often empty even at night. And if a light did burn in the windows, one could see that Ladino hardly left his writing desk. On orders from above, he was mastering new foreign languages. The need for a translator grew with the city, and not a minute could be lost. An important reception was approaching where he would have to demonstrate all his skills and talents. Avigal, meanwhile, withdrew into herself completely and vowed not to speak a word until she figured out all the changes happening within and around her. And something unfathomable was occurring — she continued to mature and grow more beautiful before their very eyes.
The long-awaited guest arrived in the city in spring, when the chestnuts lit their white candles. His stooped, dark silhouette appeared at the end of the alley late in the evening and moved very slowly, as if he wanted to dissolve into the gloom of the night and remain unrecognized. But even in pitch darkness, he would have been betrayed by the dull rumble of wheels on the cobblestones and the piercing creak, capable of not only waking but deafening the entire neighborhood. And if the city had been as densely populated as in its heyday, sharp-eyed residents would have instantly discerned the reason for his slowness. This trembling, ash-gray old man with the face of a lizard that had died under the sun was pulling a huge wagon, covered with tarpaulin, all by himself. He managed with his left hand alone; his right arm hung lifelessly along his body and was of little use — a mere semblance. And his decrepit bones probably creaked no less than the wagon wheels that was falling apart as it moved.
The old man was looking for Concepcion's house and only found it by morning. Out of a dozen empty houses, he chose the correct, inhabited one, because by the end of his life he had finally learned to see with his heart. Abandoning the cursed wagon behind the fence, he headed for the door without a second thought, to shamelessly wake the inhabitants. But a surprise awaited him. The garden path bore the trace of apricot jam, and soon the uninvited guest realized he could not lift his feet from the ground. Cursing vile old age, which had stopped him two steps from his coveted goal, he didn't notice the door open and a sleepy girl with a surprised face peer out into the street. Now, with a reason presented, she broke her voluntary vow of silence. After all, no principle in the world could defeat female curiosity.
"Who are you?" asked Avigal, not recognizing her own voice, so much had it changed in this time. The old man, too, could recognize neither the voice nor the face of this now fully grown woman, and only felt a tickling in his chest and sudden tears clutching his throat. He couldn't speak, and instead of an answer, he merely rolled up his right sleeve — it was empty as a pipe.
"Enough of this foolishness! It rained here long ago, the water was drawn to earth by the little turtles. And you, of course, can walk these paths as well as anyone else. Come on!"
The girl was impassive and unyielding, as if the one-armed old man hadn't touched her heart at all and was no more surprising than the most ordinary old man with two hands. But his immobility was clearly perceived as an insult, and the guest never understood what force tore his feet in worn-out boots from the ground and carried them toward this voice — distant and infinitely kin. A moment later, he was sinking into an oversized armchair, wrapped in a blanket. His feet rested on a soft footstool, his heels surveying the fireplace.
The mistresses of the house — curious and triumphant — bustled about the lavishly laid table, talking in hushed tones among themselves. The guest pretended to succumb to senile drowsiness, but in truth, he heard every word.
"Well, what did I tell you! The parrots were unusually cheerful today, especially our favorites — the ones with crests and rosy cheeks. I've never heard such ringing songs from them. I knew right away — someone is coming, yet another has managed to escape from the tenacious Lake Miramar! Ladino told me in secret — soon there will be so many people here that not a single house will stand empty, not a single soul will be lonely anymore. Long live human voices!"
"This old man seems very strange to me. Did you see, he has no arm? Perhaps it's someone from our past, but how can one remember now? The merciful River of Oblivion has robbed us of our memory completely. To this day, it still seems to me I was born seven years old on the shore of Lake Miramar. But can that be true?"
"Truth is what you believe, my dear. If you want, go to him and try to look into the past. But whatever you hear — alas, it won't stay in your memory for long. That's how the city by the free River is arranged. Sooner or later, it will take its due and turn it into golden sand. And everything will return to the Ruler, long may he reign."
The logs in the fireplace crackled obediently, turning into fire. The old man listened through this sound and understood that something similar was happening to him. Something heavy and dry was dying inside him and kindling into selfless flame. This was not how he had imagined meeting his daughter. He had recklessly believed that a sincere "forgive me" would be enough to be loved again. To regain his lost peace and former greatness. But it turned out not to be so simple. The long journey he had made with such difficulty shattered against one delicate circumstance: he had been consigned to oblivion. And resurrecting himself in their memory was scarcely better than repeating the crime he had committed. When they finally addressed him, he had already decided everything. Understanding that his name alone would mean nothing to either Avigal or Concepcion, the old man introduced himself dryly and briefly, with that metallic inflexibility with which he had once cut down the enemy:
"My name is Diego, son of a castellan's maid and father of a girl killed by a cruel bastard. Out there, beyond the fence, stands a wagon covered with tarpaulin. I need to bury its contents somewhere."
"But you haven't touched your supper," Concepcion reminded.
"First, look at what I've brought, and then decide if I am worthy of your supper."
Seeing the guest's stubbornness, Concepcion grew genuinely alarmed for the temperature of the freshly prepared food. This threat did not fit her plans, or the plans of the fat goose that was already roasted to a golden brown and enthroned in the middle of the table, surrounded by pears, boiled plums, and manioca.
"Then let's have a quick look at your wagon and return to the table," she said and, winking at Avigal, grabbed the armchair in which the old man sat. The girl wordlessly took the other side. Together, they dragged the stubborn man outside and stood him next to the cart.
"Well? What have you got there?"
"Take off the tarpaulin," he commanded.
When the dirty canvas was in Concepcion's hands, a truly unprecedented sight opened before them. A pile of black, twisted metal with traces of dried blood and rust represented, perhaps, the greatest inheritance of war ever to fall to a conquistador. Here were arquebuses broken in half with scorched barrels, crossbows with torn strings, bent arrows, armor that had seen hundreds of lead bullets and sword blows. Helmets, chainmail, and brigandines were piled in disorder atop sacks of gunpowder, some torn or gnawed by rats. Their black insides spilled out from under the tarpaulin, defiling the chestnut alley with the echo of distant wars.
"In this huge cart, I have brought my paltry repentance," the stubborn old man summarized. "And now I ask, where can I bury it?"
"I don't understand," said Concepcion. "Why bury what you've dragged with you for so long? Was it worth the effort?"
"If only we always dragged only necessary, only pleasant things with us! Once I thought I couldn't live a day without all these valuable inventions, and in the end, they became the highest value to me. And now it turns out they are of no use whatsoever. Just like me."
A terrible scream interrupted his ruminations. Avigal had approached the cart to study its contents, but something small and faded fell from it onto her. Seeing the object, she shrieked, rushed away, then burst into tears and buried her face in Concepcion's shoulder. The latter grew alarmed, expecting to see a snake. But it turned out to be a hand, severed at the elbow.
"This is my most terrible weapon," continued the guest named Diego. "With it, I killed what I loved most. And then, in despair, I cut off my own hand so that nothing would remind me of the crime. But for some reason, it only got worse with each passing day."
Concepcion was furious and ready to drive away the man who, after so many years, had become the first cause of Avigal's tears, but then her anger gave way to pity, and she firmly resolved to find a home for him, but on one condition.
"Never, never will weapons lie where my trees grow. Do with it what you will. And the street should be cleared of gunpowder. We are expecting many more honored guests, and I assure you, they do not plan to war with each other."
"Don't worry, by tomorrow there will be nothing left of me but the traces of my most sincere devotion."
It took great effort to persuade Diego to return to the house, taste the supper, and stay at least for the night. He had brought his small repentance — that eternal and unchanging analogue of male love — and then indeed disappeared without a trace. No one ever understood where he settled and never noticed his presence. They only saw his deeds and were not surprised even many years later if a broken water pump worked by morning like a new one, or if old, dried-up trees, spared only out of pity, suddenly began to bear fruit and bloom more luxuriantly than all the others.
Avigal, still without remembering her father, felt only one change within herself. With each day, her need to love grew, and soon she felt cramped in the small house. For lack of other men, she concentrated all her feelings on the mysterious and incomprehensible Ladino living nearby. He, with his inherent centuries-old wisdom, understood immediately that something was amiss when the girl began to stroll, as if by chance, under his windows with a basket full of multi-colored violets. Realizing the hopelessness of this feeling, he decided to distract Avigal from thoughts of a dead language and awaken her interest in studying other dialects. To have a chance to return one day, she needed to speak earthly languages. Ladino chose for this purpose that very pyramid for which Gebreyesus had found no use. Here would be the Temple of a Thousand Languages, he decreed, though he understood that their number actually would be endless.
And so one day, noticing Avigal under his window with a confused and hungry look full of hope, Ladino, who called himself a liaison, went out to meet her. By that time, the pyramid was filled from top to bottom with bookshelves, countless rows of folios and scrolls, the most ancient — forgotten by all — and the newest, unseen by any human. All the wisdom of the ages was stored there in tedious anticipation. The secrets of medicine and astronomy, archaeological finds and laws of evolution, disputes of philosophers and scientists, revelations of writers and poets, Egyptian papyri and ancient Sumerian cuneiform — he wanted to give it all to her on the condition that she refuse him. But at the decisive moment, Ladino, created for eloquence, fell silent, looking at this small, stubborn creature who, breathing heavily and blushing, looked up at him. "I have a gift for you," he stammered helplessly. "I have one for you, too," hissed Avigal, and somehow unexpectedly matured. With her icy, tenacious little hand, she grabbed his hand and with an uncompromising movement placed it on her breast. In her blue eyes lay a sad, cruel doom — the sure sign of deep feeling. Her whole nature did not ask but demanded, as if refusal meant only a long and tormenting death for him. And Ladino, first reluctantly, then with the greatest bliss, dissolved in this astonishing young woman, as if they had always been one whole.
Thus, according to the legends, the first inhabitants came to the city, thus they arranged their lives. But there were, of course, the others — noticed not immediately due to the special properties of the local time and because of their exceptional modesty. When the city grew to the size of a country, and its population - to the scale of a people, they urgently needed a name. Since no one had yet managed to be born here, the locals preferred to call themselves "Indios" — those who came from other lands. Their place of habitation was named "Indeamos" — a distant, unknown realm, not fated for everyone to get there. And even less so to get out.
Chapter 2. The Place Where Wounds Heal
The albino servant with eyes red from insomnia once said that Indeamos would be the "Land of kings." Then he coughed and, after a respectful pause, added with the trepidation of a tightrope walker, that the kings must be met in the most proper manner. It was impossible to get any details from this eccentric old man. He appeared and vanished at his own whim and spoke entirely in riddles. In his opinion, this was far more convenient than accidentally blurting out something hidden. And so Gebreyesus, without ceasing to collect gold, began to prepare for this reception. The translator Ladino came to his aid, having by then studied a multitude of the most intricate dialects.
On the shore of Lake Miramar, they built a bathhouse where every future guest could wash away the bitterness and salt of the past. Kings must have an especially large amount of that, Gebreyesus told himself, and directed all his mental efforts to creating a desalination system. Rainwater flowed down metal pipes into underground containers with barium and silver. There, all the salt settled as sediment in the form of large crystals and could no longer pass through the dozens of the finest filters awaiting it on the path to the bathhouse. This unpretentious structure had to be finished with great polish — to suit kings — and Gebreyesus, a stranger to excess, without any regret plundered his collection of semi-precious stones gathered from all corners of the world.
The floor, ceiling, and walls of the bathhouse were colored in the hues of malachite and jasper, amethyst and carnelian, turquoise and river pearl. Here and there, "cat's eye" winked with gray sparks, and "moonstone" smiled shyly. Each gem took a unique place in one of the ten mosaic panels narrating the golden days of humanity. On the western wall Solomon built the Temple; on the eastern, Moses received the Tablets; the south and the north formed a diptych — great prophets facing humble saints. The scene on the bathhouse floor reminded of how Hippocrates created medicine and healed ancient sufferers, while the seven steps of the staircase bore the images of less compassionate but no less creative sciences — chemistry, physics, astronomy, geometry, algebra, linguistics, and oratory. The entrance door — as a particularly symbolic object — was decided to be adorned on both sides. On the outside, a black serpent made of the rare stone carbonado greeted visitors, with burning eyes of solid emeralds, while on the inside, a mirror in a precious frame saw them off. One was supposed to look into it only after bathing, which granted — no more, no less — a new soul. Finally, the ceiling with its main mosaic presented a laconic and profound view of humanity from the perspective of gold. Amid this multifaceted, motley picture, a convex yellow ingot stood out, as if suspended in air. Around it, in a solid dark funnel, in numbers greater than the eye can perceive, people of all ages, ethnicities, and faiths crowded in a kind of tumultuous ecstasy. Some covered their eyes to avoid blindness, some respectfully doffed their hats, some shouted for joy, their mouths open wide like children, some jumped, waving their legs and clapping their hands, but most — selflessly and almost synchronously, in a single impulse rarely seen in a motley crowd — stretched their hands toward the ingot. An inexplicable rapture made them strive with their last strength for what was unattainable and phantom, and what they could barely even imagine. But the picture was so skillfully made that understanding them was not difficult. In this one strange ingot, one sensed more life than in all its surroundings combined, and certainly more than in each individually. Invisible magnetic currents emanated from it; it seemed to vibrate and glow, electrified like a thundercloud and imperturbable like a calm.
Gebreyesus had no doubt that this was a different gold, a "living" one. He believed — this mysterious and omnipotent metal could indeed be different. It all depended on who was reaching for it and for what purpose. In its primordial state, gold was difficult to comprehend, and happy was he who received it from the first hands. Since Gebreyesus had opened the vault, the monolith had been shattered and lost its original meaning. It was forgotten, as one forgets the first book read in deep old age. "Well, if kings are coming here, this will surely be a useful reminder," thought this absent-minded but highly inventive master.
Among other things, the laconic albino servant did not say from which countries the kings would come or in which language one should address them as "Your Majesty." Should one bow, and how low? Perhaps they have court rituals for every meeting, strange rites and marks of honor? How should one dress to avoid falling into disgrace from the very first seconds of communication? Of course, all this was ridiculous, and in his own land, Gebreyesus could behave as he liked, but something troubled him deep in his soul. Instinct whispered that he was missing something important, seeing everything in a false light, mistaken in the very essence, and that a great shock awaited him. And it was useless to ask around the albino servant — he never said anything ahead of time.
The thought of the mysterious kings became his obsession. In the mornings, standing ankle-deep in the salty river with a full sieve of golden sand, he no longer noticed the heat that turned his brains into molasses. In the thick, heat-shimmering air, portraits of proud old men in ermine mantles swirled. And then — they vanished, yielding place to a million-strong army led by a dashing horseman. His horse reared from the deafening cries of "Glory!" His thoughts tangled, sticking to each other like flies in syrup, and among them, from nowhere, hideous satyrs with drunken, greasy, and depraved little eyes surfaced — wearing crowns askew. Surrounded by bottles of some multicolored brew, they sat on a throne, clutching cheerful and compliant maidens with the faces of angels. The heavenly creatures didn't flinch even when pinched on the thighs.
In the afternoon, when the heat subsided, his fantasies paled compared to what he saw with his own eyes on other continents — while collecting golden fragments. The peoples of Europe, maddened by hunger, exhausted by wars, said that kings were insatiable for blood, that, hiding behind the cross and the sword, they were leading them to certain death. And all to fill their own bellies and tighten their pockets. On both sides of the American River, among Irish prospectors, one only heard how viciously they had been deceived — first by English kings, then by the American president. And in Australia, if one could believe the convicts' tales, no criminal had yet been born who respected the power of kings. Need one even speak of the tribes of South America? These fragments of ancient civilizations, languishing under the yoke of Spanish and Portuguese enslavers? They dreamed only of freedom and bygone glory. It seemed, then, that nothing good could be expected from earthly kings, and Gebreyesus thought with anxiety about the future of Indeamos. But no — hadn't the good old Concepcion said that this place was not made for war? And who could argue with a mother's intuition? The further it went, the more his impatience grew.
And then one day, the albino servant found him exactly at noon on the bank of the River of Oblivion. Fighting for breath and tangling in his long robes, he ran straight from the Castle, helplessly gaping his mouth like a fish on the shore. When he finally managed to produce sounds, it was, as always, brief but surprisingly loud. "They are coming, hurry up!" — he did not shout, but rather barked, hoarsely and with a whistle. So might an old guard dog bark in its death throes. But the albino was far from death. With unexpected agility, he grabbed Gebreyesus by the hand — that was mind-boggling — and dragged him up the river, through the forest, not letting him finish his work.
When they arrived — exhausted and barely breathing — the rain over the lake had already ceased, and the phosphorescent glow had taken the form of one hundred and twenty even pillars around the black crater, meeting at the top in a spherical dome like a pavilion. "We almost missed it," the albino said with self-reproach and withdrew toward the bathhouse, not ceasing to bow and offering a thousand apologies. It turned out that the translator Ladino was already there by special order from above, laying out stacks of philological cards neatly on the wooden platform. Since marrying Avigal, he had been home more often, though with great difficulty — the volume of work grew every day. Well, now they only had to wait, and apparently, not for long. They settled near the watermill. Gebreyesus had built it where the River of Oblivion began, to grind memories and turn them into precious seconds. But if time needed to be stopped or slowed, the wheel could be turned backward — though with inhuman effort.
"Look carefully, it seems to begin," whispered Ladino, catching the sound of splashing water, and the heir grew alert. He prepared to see something completely unexpected, but he was looking, as always, too far ahead. And if not for a tiny poison dart frog — a terribly poisonous orange frog that jumped onto his knee —Gebreyesus would never have looked down at his feet. He wouldn't have torn his gaze from the serene surface and wouldn't have noticed how, right by the shore, very close to the wooden platform, a light ripple ran, and how, in the shadow of the two stooped figures occupied with their observation, a bony human limb emerged and clutched a damp, mossy tussock. Glory to the black-eyed frog! He lowered his gaze and noticed this limb before seeing something even more dreadful. Before a head and other body parts of one of the first arriving "kings" emerged from the water. Oh yes, there could be no mistake. A minute later, having survived the first shock, he understood how monstrously mistaken he had been, what undeserved trust he had placed in words, and what a great honor had befallen his young country. This is what had begun then, at the dawn of ages, and was doomed to repeat again and again.
With chunks of flesh torn out, gnawed to the bone in places, they rose from the black marble, from the salty abyss of the Lake Miramar — those who had long been tortured but never utterly destroyed. The albino servant — the watch-dog of time — met the guests on the shore, wiped their feet, and handed them bright, shining garments. The weightless fabric covered the wounded bodies and healed deep ulcers, creating new flesh from the particles of primordial harmony. This was meant to ease the torment, but it was still impossible to recognize all these sufferers. Their names were announced by the phosphorescent glow. Flash by flash, intricate script ignited on the black marble of the lake — sometimes right to left, sometimes left to right — and immediately vanished. All this required lightning-fast work and a strong memory. The translator Ladino lay on his stomach with a huge, wide-eyed binocular, aiming at the center of the watery crater, recording the signs. Then, using an interpreter's guide of fifty thousand pages, he tried to decipher them.
"The letter dalet, Judean language, but the angle of inclination suggests origin from Eastern Europe or South Africa… At the very end, illegible — killed either with a pickaxe or the flat side of a shovel, skull fractured. Upon death, particles of golden sand found in the brain… The name! Hold time, I didn't manage to read the name!"
Gebreyesus, with great effort, turned the mill wheel backward. It groaned, gave way, and the letters sparkled again — for just a few seconds. This time, Ladino managed to record the symbols. The name was surprisingly short but told a long, heart-rending story. The guest, whose face retained only the eyes and half of the right cheek, had endured and forgiven endlessly. His heart was soft and tender, like a featherbed after a sleepless night, and boundless like the folly of a woman in love. Thousands of others' wounds could find shelter on it, then heal and make way for new ones. This mercy heart had suffered much and thereby grown larger, because it suffered not for itself.
"Friend, until your face heals, you'll have to wear this. Nothing to be done. Women live in our city; their pity must be spent sparingly." Ladino handed the guest a wooden mask — the convex, sharp-nosed visage of a white dove. Speech had not yet returned to him, but with his whole being — through gestures and expression — he demonstrated the most sincere gratitude. And he readily agreed that henceforth he would be called simply and briefly — Hor, for simple and modest was his essence. Up close, face to face, he was a remarkably quiet, inconspicuous being. The closer one got, the harder he was to discern. He was one of those who stood out by their absence. Without him and his kind, everything instantly turned upside down and went to hell. And now a barely noticeable tremor ran through the underworld, disturbing the deep waters. And all who could hear it, heard.
"Something more terrible than an earthquake is coming," said Gebreyesus, loosening his grip and watching the wheel's correct motion. "And it will happen when my country is filled with inhabitants."
Since Ladino had arrived here with his belly turned inside out, he had grown unaccustomed to the sight of human innards. And now he cowardly averted his gaze when the next guest bowed to him with skin torn like an old rag, with hematomas covering half his face, or with no face at all — with absurdly protruding skull bones around bulging, mobile eyes. These textbooks on human cruelty somehow remained on their feet, politely gave way, and even supported each other, preventing a fall back into the lake. Only one whose both arms were torn off at the shoulder, or even at the elbow, with sticks wrapped in rags dangling instead of hands, could refuse to help his neighbor.
One young man from a distance looked suspiciously unharmed. His white, naked silhouette bore not a single injury, not even a tiny abrasion, and only when the servant met him and brought him to pay his respects did it turn out the poor fellow had no eyes at all, and a red ribbon had been respectfully tied around his head. Gebreyesus asked a question, and without waiting for an answer, discovered another circumstance — someone had also torn out his tongue. This time the story was short, and Ladino managed to read it from beginning to end. As the phosphorescent indicator said this guest — or king, preferably, — had paid for always being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and eventually became so inconvenient that they decided to "neutralize" him, depriving him of his main weapons — sight and voice. But as long as he could still hear, he could not be considered completely dead. He possessed the finest hearing in the world — the purest and absolute, and when he heard falsehood, he would moan and signal with his hands. He knew not everyone would understand him correctly and would likely take him for an eccentric, but he could not hide — lies and injustice caused him too much suffering.
"No one will take you for a madman anymore," Gebreyesus told him. "Soon you will be able to speak easily and freely. Though, I can't promise you'll find much work here. This is not a battlefield but rather a field hospital — a place where wounds heal… And where everyone whose soul has grown hoarse from screaming in a cruel crowd will be heard. And since we've started the custom of naming kings, as if they were born anew — you, my tormented guest, we shall name Verito. And I promise— you will surely speak again and surely regain your sight."
"Verity is almost like a vanity," Ladino smirked, bent over his notes. The naming endeavor seemed ridiculous to him, and he saw no need to hide it. The tragic pathos brought to Indeamos by all these "kings" was alien to him. He knew from his own experience that one could live even with a shattered belly. And not just live, but live happily. Why make a tragedy out of flayed skin or a couple of shattered bones? It was not a kingly business to appeal for pity and beg for mercy. Kings heal like dogs. They should rather think of those left behind — down there — who, through their own stupidity, lost their care and protection. Perhaps not immediately, but very soon, they would notice that something in their lives was amiss — feel the first tremor before the earthquake. Who would tell them that stones would soon fall? And, much worse, that they themselves would become like stones? And then, flay their skin, break their bones, turn them inside out — they would not resist. Pain! Rejoice, sing of pain, until death parts you. There is no wound on a living body that cannot be healed. Just as a living soul, though unarmored and open to storms, is still stronger than stone.
"Forgive me, Verito, your presence makes me talkative, though I am known to despise verbosity. Seems I'm trying to speak for both of us, feeling you need it. And anyway, if you need anything, just think, friend, and I'll be right here. I can, in a way, read thoughts, listen to them like music. Yours remind me of Bach's early works — where there's one harpsichord, no organ. I don't like pompous, solemn constructions that must be listened to exclusively in a tuxedo. With you, everything sounds much, much more simple and clear. I would consider it an honor to listen to you anytime."
Verito, deprived of tongue and eyes, was stunned. The stranger, whom he could not see but only hear, had expressed all his thoughts word for word. In his speech, coherent and melodious, there was nothing of his own, nothing superfluous, only a crystal clear, impeccably accurate reflection. Joy and confusion seized his soul. In one instant, he was saved from loneliness and yet exposed in his most sincere and uncompromising thoughts. Verito fussily looked around until the unseen friend approached, put a hand on his shoulder, then took him by the elbow and escorted him to the bathhouse, where the albino servant had already prepared everything necessary.
"When will his sight return?" asked Ladino, returning to the lake. Gebreyesus pensively watched the line of skeletons and half-destroyed bodies crowding the shore awaiting help.
"Do I look like a man who understands anything of what's happening?" he uttered wearily and despondently. "And why, of all our guests, did his fate particularly move you?"
"I'll answer with a line from a lady's novel — a genre I know, eternal as female youth. It seems to me our fates are connected by an invisible thread. As if one could not exist without the other. Therefore, his recovery is, in a way, the pledge of my own freedom. For however good a hospital may be, no one wants to stay here forever. That is not what we were created for, in the end."
"Your question seems to me not only premature but also cowardly," said Gebreyesus, as another "king" with a twisted neck prostrated himself at his feet. This circumstance did not prevent the guest from speaking — volubly and hurriedly. And Ladino, caught in selfishness, was forced to fall silent and return to work.
And the guest lay on the ground, not daring to rise, and chattered something under his breath. His shaggy, disheveled head had probably gathered all the road dust mixed with fallen leaves, but he cared not a whit for his appearance. Why bother? His neck was so brutally twisted that when he stood, it dangled like a sack on a stick and beat against his chest. Lying down was the only way he could control it, though he always looked sideways and slightly upward — past Gebreyesus — while the cervical vertebrae stuck out from the back like a crooked cogwheel. His words came out slurred, apparently due to his constricted throat, and he compensated for the poor sound quality with volume and forcefulness.
"Oh, how mistaken they were, thinking me proud! I swear to you, there is not a drop of pride in me. I merely wanted to remind them to treat me with due respect, without demeaning my dignity. That's all! Simply, I always suspected deep down that a man stripped of dignity is not a man at all. I wouldn't want to be categorical, but if you clip a bird's wings, it will almost certainly cease to be a bird. It will cease to fly — volar… To fly in thoughts and feelings — isn't that what the Creator wants from us? Tell me, isn't it? Am I right or wrong? For one cannot fly without free will — I am almost sure of it!"
"A man can be deprived of freedom by clipping his wings, locking him in a cage, but his will remains with him forever — as the pledge of his personal choice. All earthly rulers dream of suppressing, subduing it — such inconvenient and dangerous thing it is. You see, had your neck twisted, yet you still direct your gaze where you must. The only thing one can reproach you for is asking too many foolish questions. Who gave you cause for doubt? Was it not the one who twisted your neck? Admit that had doubt not settled in your heart, you would not have allowed them to treat you so. You would not have allowed yourself to be destroyed, and along with you…"
For the first time, Gebreyesus seemed irritated. He could no longer sit on his "throne," piled on the lakeshore from rough stones, amid bloody rags and towels. He paced back and forth, nervously clenching his hands and gritting his teeth, lecturing the prostrated sufferer. There was no pity in him, only anger — burning and unrestrained. Finally, he approached the "king" lying at his feet — the man had fallen silent and was weeping soundlessly, his face pressed to the ground, only his shoulders shaking. Gebreyesus, without ceremony, grabbed this wretched piece of a human and, with a sharp movement, set him on his feet. The dirty head still lolled like a Chinese fool. Gebreyesus seized this stupid head and twisted it as if he wanted to tear it off and throw it back into Lake Miramar. But something else happened. The head, ceasing to spin on its axis, suddenly settled into place, straight and unharmed, and the cervical vertebrae obediently fell into line. The guest's eyes widened, but he could not utter a word. Not waiting for speech to return to this chatterbox, Gebreyesus turned him to face the forest and gave him such a kick that the poor wretch, who never received a name, ran without stopping or looking back until he disappeared into the wilds of Indeamos.
"Why didn't you let him bathe in the fresh water? The salt has dried on him like an eggshell and cracked like earth under the merciless desert sun."
"You see, he is not yet ready to wash away the salt of his conscience, for he was an enemy to himself. And is there a sin heavier than that?"
"You deemed him unworthy?"
"He is convinced of it himself. And until he runs away from himself, no one will convince him otherwise. What can you do — if you don't befriend your own head, one day it will declare war on you, and then, don't complain — it's unlikely anyone will remain on your side. But these two, it seems to me, will yet manage to get along."
The heir watched the fugitive impassively. In the semi-darkness, lit only by the phosphorescent flame, he resembled a cold marble statue. Night was approaching, which meant the irreparable had happened. For the first time since Gebreyesus had accepted the heavy burden of succession, he had missed the Hour of the Golden Harvest. Neither the raising of the tower, nor the building of the city, nor the troubles for the first inhabitants, nor the decoration of the freshwater bathhouse could distract him from his primary duties. As soon as the First Evening fell over the Asian steppes (and there were five of them for all continents), he would sling a backpack the color of swamp tine over his shoulders and leave Indeamos by a short route on the back of a pterodactyl. This ancient bird could deliver him to any point in the world in one leap, because in its era, neither time nor distance was known. Gebreyesus could not afford the long, measured journeys he so loved. He had to hurry. In the uncharted lands of America, where Spaniards felled sequoias side by side with Indians and Englishmen, some sharp operator had discovered a major gold deposit, and the news spread like the plague. The heir remembered well how much gold he had buried in the American River. With that money, one could build a city, even a whole country — if there were a need. But his task was different, for he had already built his city. Not that Gebreyesus feared his father's wrath; he sincerely wanted to outpace all those prospectors. And what happened? This dreadful and simultaneously absurd "royal" reception, announced by the albino servant, had spoiled all his plans.
"How is your wife?" he suddenly asked Ladino, who, carried away by the sight of others' suffering, seemed to have also forgotten everything in the world.
"Ah, Avigal… She asks every day when we can leave. Hopes that there, among living people, everything will be different. Different, certainly, but not necessarily better. Truth be told, sometimes I catch myself thinking I would gladly stay here forever. I've never felt more needed."
"And what will your wife say if you don't return home today? Kings are kings, but we've completely forgotten about the gold of the American River. When this 'new El Dorado' is plundered by the scoundrels from Dublin and Birmingham, we'll be in real trouble. Try finding a needle in a haystack when there are a million needles and the hay has been eaten by hungry Irish cows. The Third Evening has already come. I can hear Sonora singing."
"Who?"
"Sonora — the most beautiful of women. I saw her for the first time in a small town called Ponta Cruz — three hundred years after the conquistadors returned there with their loot. This fearless girl danced in the main square, in plain sight — as if the square in this God-forsaken hole had been invented just for her. Men looked at her with lust, women with envy, and only children clapped joyfully to the beat of her tambourine. This eccentric danced on what one simply could not dance on - broken glass, hot coals, the thin ice of a barely frozen river, and even — it was terrifying to think, it was whispered about, shamefacedly covering the mouth — on the bones of her ancestors. More than once, in the midst of the most sorrowful mourning, when the city, dressed in black, plunged into silence and drew its curtains, she would rush out onto the square and begin to dance, plunging everyone into shameful, God-fearing horror. And the most dreadful thing — she would draw all the young and healthy townspeople into her round dance. Looking at Sonora, they could not sit still. 'Let the invalids, the old, and the insane cover themselves with the dust of sorrow and the mold of regrets, bury themselves alive, kiss corpses on the mouth, and bow to death, while we rejoice and make merry. We will celebrate life,' they said in unison. The elders could not bear such insolence. Sonora was declared insane and expelled from the city. And what was everyone's surprise when the valiant Areljaho — a descendant of conquistadors, as distant from dancing as the moon from the sun — declared loudly and inflexibly that he would leave with her and go wherever she fancied. It was incomprehensible to the grey-haired sages — the angry Areljaho and the joyful Sonora would now always be together? Like eternal and invincible wanderers? Confirmation was not long in coming, and while the old men were occupied with complex reflections, joy left the city, and anger did the same. At first, this quiet peace suited everyone. Petty quarrels and major scandals, bloody fights and public swearing disappeared. No house was shaken anymore by women's shrill cries and the clatter of broken dishes. It got to the point where people stopped haggling over fighting cocks at the markets! The townsfolk became smiling, polite, and indifferent. Not even the end of the world promised by the local oracle could disturb them. Had it been known for sure, each would have replied: 'Well, so let it be. Why make a fuss over a mundane trifle?' Since then, Sonora has wandered the world with the devoted Areljaho, who, like all men, is obsessed with gold and worldly power. But he cannot tear himself away from her — for he is her most faithful protector."
"You don't want to take his place, do you?" asked Ladino when Gebreyesus finished his speech in a fallen voice. "Eh, friend, your words sound too much like the confession of a heart in love, and your eyes say there's not a drop of hope in that heart. I see such a confused, childishly helpless face on you for the first time."
"They live in a tent, right on the bank of the American River. At sunset, Sonora takes her yarn and sits barefoot by the river, singing Mexican songs. Her feet are slender, white, and her fingers long and nimble. She should play the harp, but she sells multicolored blankets. In the prospectors' camp, they are valued above gold. Areljaho comes home late, angry and taciturn. Shedding his clothes, soaked in the acrid smell of sweat, he dips into the river a couple of times, then hides his powerful body in their wretched tent, from which thunderous snoring soon emanates. Sonora packs the yarn and blankets into a chest and disappears too, and both are sure there's not a soul around."
"Wouldn't it be an awkward situation if you were discovered."
"Impossible. Father forbade me to appear before people. Until I gather this damned gold, they will not see me, no matter how much I wish it. And most importantly — she won't see."
"Let me ask, to what extent... Well, to what extent do you abuse your position?"
"I keep a most respectful distance," Gebreyesus grumbled and turned away offendedly, staring at one point. "But if I don't see her today, I won't live to see tomorrow."
"Yes, little heir, you certainly know how to collect gold! Are you saying all these poor wretches, and I among them, risk remaining in this ambiguous state? Gebreyesus, this is shameless and selfish! It will never end if you stray from the path! And for whom? For some dancing girl?! You, of all people, have no right to weaknesses, you must follow the higher purpose! Think what your father will say, he has no other hope but you. And in the end, one must correct mistakes someday — your own mistakes!"
"Yes, if I am late, it will be an unforgivable mistake."
"Stubborn fool, are you abandoning me in this field hospital? Among the maimed and wounded, among the bloody bandages and festering dressings?"
"Why? I want you to look upon Sonora too. We'll leave the hospital to the albino servant. After all, this is all his doing."
And so, without a word to anyone, the wise son of the ruler and the scholar of all the world's languages left the mountain country to know joy and draw closer to people. They were not late — dusk was only just breaking over the American River. Its red reflections danced merrily and carelessly on the bent backs of the gold prospectors.
Chapter 3. Sonora, the Most Beautiful of Women
The valiant Areljaho remembered neither his parents nor his earliest years. Everything he knew for sure and certain, everything he saw as his foundation and highest value, was connected to war. Battles stoked his inner fire, battles made him feel alive. They said the Creator had hewn his face from rock during the most terrible storm, one that swept cities from the face of the earth and shifted tectonic plates — a storm that, setting the earthly masses in motion, united two oceans and was nearly mistaken for the promised end of the world. Those who managed to survive the lava flows and ash whirlwinds, who did not drown in subterranean waters, who hid in the mountains in time and were not lost, awoke as from a fever and, having buried their dead, sighed with relief and set about rebuilding their cities — methodically and businesslike. Millions of dead do not signify the end of the world if you are not among them, they said. The world had not ended; it had been renewed, and the survivors were sure that heavenly judgment had absolved them for their numerous merits and undeniable virtues. They prayed day and night for ten days, and then — seeing the water had receded and the movement of the underground plates had ceased—returned to their everyday squabbles and gossip, not doubting that the dead had fully atoned for their guilt, and the earth was cleansed of filth, like an infant after its first communion.
Soon, Areljaho, born of the storm, remained the only memory of the Cataclysm. People trembled before him, worshipped him, but deep down considered him the ultimate evil and, in moments of happiness, banished all thoughts of him. Areljaho had the ill repute of a great destroyer. Possessing unheard-of strength, he would split tombstones on a bet, fell century-old trees with one hand, defeated wild animals — distant ancestors of man — in combat, and no man had yet been born who would engage him in a fight — unless he wished to part with his life. Areljaho knew neither fear nor pity. Consumed by inner fervor, he became blind to everything in the world. Yet he felt that this all-consuming flame was, by some miracle, cleansing him from within, just as the Great Cataclysm had once cleansed the Earth, transforming him into a perfect weapon for a Sacred War. Areljaho had no doubt that such a war would inevitably come, and his life was one continuous wait for that day.
On the day Areljaho, driven by spiritual thirst, came to Ponta Cruz, the watchmen on the guard towers started and, simultaneously obeying some primal instinct, bared their swords. This lone and unarmed traveler frightened them half to death the moment he appeared on the horizon. What struck them most was the ticklish circumstance that he wore no hat, which meant this scoundrel doffed it to no one. Areljaho was tall and held his head so high, confident in his strength, as if anyone he met — armed or not — should fall to their knees before him and beg for salvation for their sinful soul.
"Holy Virgin, are we all now to depend on this rogue?" uttered one of the watchmen, lowering his sword. He understood that his sharpened piece of iron was now, and would be, of no use. "It seems Areljaho himself, exiled from everywhere, has come to visit us. Run, tell all the elders. And warn the women — let them close their windows. The last thing we need is for this scourge to touch them," he told his partner, finally making out the traveler's face. Black, wavy locks were tangled on his head like a knot of snakes and hung disorderly over his marble cheekbones. In his dark, angry eyes, with a serpentine glint, lurked madness — an echo of a long-forgotten storm.
By the time Areljaho, with his long-striding, unhurried gait, approached the city gates, a whole crowd of poorly dressed peasants and barely distinguishable dignitaries had gathered there. The council of elders, twelve in number — gaunt figures with suspiciously sullen faces, and the alcalde himself — a short, squat talker in a white hat. He bustled back and forth, clasping his hands behind his back, and occasionally rose on his toes, peering over the gates, but his view, of course, did not improve from these maneuvers, and the long-awaited traveler showed no intention of quickening his pace.
"What makes you think it's that very Areljaho?" asked the alcalde, laughing nervously, "To me, he looks like a common rogue, a highway vagabond who's begging for the gallows. Just look at his greasy hair and torn shoes! And judging by his walk, he's dead drunk too. How does the brute even stay on his feet?"
"No, Lord Prefect, there can be no mistake. Last night, not a single child in the city slept a wink, and this morning all the roosters fell mute — didn't make a sound. The poor inhabitants couldn't even tell if dawn had broken. Not to mention that all the food, even the drink, suddenly turned salty without salt, and when he appeared on the horizon, the dishes in the houses shook and rattled so much the town turned into one big belfry. Don Baltasar — your advisor — was holding a glass of boiling water, and what do you think? The glass literally jumped from his hand and scalded his... leg just above the knee. That's why he isn't with us now."
"So what now? Shall we believe legends and place them above the law? Or where is all this nonsense written down?"
"It's the folk epic, the sagas, Lord Alcalde. To be honest, they don't even have an author we can hold strictly accountable, but if you wish, Lord Alcalde, we will destroy all the books in our small town so they never again confuse the people."
"No need. Our authority has given me everything to protect the people from rogues. But first, let's hear what he wants."
The watchman didn't answer further; he was making frightened grimaces which the alcalde — a man not particularly sensitive — desperately failed to understand. Finally, someone quick-witted nudged him in the side, and the alcalde turned around, coming face to face with Areljaho's mighty chest. The latter was looking indifferently over the crowd, peering intently at the outlines of the city. Among the dozens of uniform houses, he needed to find single one. No one dared speak to him and break his reverent silence. So the alcalde, taking a step back, seemed at a loss — for the first time in his predictable life. Taking the silence as a universal question, which was quite logical, Areljaho spoke, still examining the colorful roofs:
"Yesterday, a girl named Sonora was born in one of these houses. I want to know which one."
"And why, kind sir, do you need to know that?" the alcalde perked up.
"I have come to protect her," said Areljaho.
"Protect her from whom?!"
"From you."
Without waiting for an answer, Areljaho headed into the city, where the women had already closed and curtained all the windows by order of the elders, and were trembling in the semi-darkness over the flames of their candles. People made way for him, and even the alcalde leapt aside with the agility of a mountain goat, lest the blind machine, moving toward its goal, accidentally crush him. Onlookers followed at his heels but did not dare interfere as he knocked on one door, then another, and, receiving no answer, moved on. Soon it grew dark, and without the light from the windows, the houses were almost indistinguishable, yet Areljaho pressed on by touch, stumbling over stones and steps, banging his head on unlit lanterns, scratching himself bloody on thickets of shrubs, and catching every sound from behind the walls of the sleeping houses. When the darkness became impenetrable, the alcalde ordered the crowd to disperse.
"Let him wander; he'll find nothing here but a few scratches and bruises. And by morning there'll be no trace of him, you'll see. Don't let him into the houses on pain of execution! Don't light the lanterns! Keep the windows closed until further notice!"
"I must warn you, Lord Alcalde," the old watchman finally caught up with him, risking leaving his post, "the legend of Arellano isn't so simple..."
"Simple or not, it's still the ravings of a madman. And if by morning this rogue is still here, he'll be thrown in jail and then shot. And the same will happen to anyone who tries to ask for 'special treatment' for him."
"Lord Alcalde, but this concerns — nothing more, nothing less — your own life!"
"What are you babbling, you son of a bitch! Trying to frighten me? Throw him in the dungeon for leaving his post. And at dawn, we will decide his fate as the law prescribes, not based on some tall tales for the feeble-minded."
But at dawn, the alcalde could not carry out his threat. During the night, he had begun to vomit blood, and he was found dead on a wet, utterly crimson pillow with stiffened edges, sharp as an axe. According to the legends of Areljaho, such a gruesome fate awaited anyone who insulted his dignity.
***
On the same morning the alcalde died, Sonora was carried out onto the main square in a blanket with golden trim and presented to Areljaho to the solemn sounds of an orchestra. The girl's terrified parents could be understood, and in the whole city, not a soul was found who would dare condemn them. After the horror they had endured, they prepared for the worst and had mentally said goodbye to their daughter, seeing in her a sacred sacrifice for the sake of universal prosperity. How great was their surprise when Areljaho, barely touching the bundle containing the newborn, fell to his knees before her and remained there for two hours, muttering something under his breath that resembled incantations. Sonora's parents were afraid to move all this time and only exchanged timid, questioning glances — wasn't it time, they thought, to feed the child. Finally, the dozing Sonora opened her sleepy eyes and loudly announced that it was time. In this cry, there was not a hint of pain — only the impatience of a child's heart, so contagious that it stirred the birds on the bare trees into song. Areljaho grew embarrassed, got to his feet, and hurriedly took his leave, without brushing the road dust from his old, two-hundred-times-patched trousers.
"I will live in your city for some time. And you, please, inform me of everything that happens in Sonora's life, and especially of any instances when she requires protection and patronage. I swear I will not trouble you over trifles."
After the mysterious and therefore more terrifying death of the alcalde, Areljaho became a welcome guest in every home and the unofficial ruler of the city. Refusing a house of his own, he took great pleasure in staying here and there, partaking of the most exquisite dishes and wine, sleeping in the softest beds, making the most beautiful women fall in love with him, yet he himself remained cold — and broke more than one trembling heart. Since finding Sonora, everything else had lost all meaning for him.
His instinct had not failed him. Sonora needed help and patronage much sooner than her God-fearing parents could have assumed. The girl was born in September and brought with her an exhaustingly hot, long autumn. The windows steamed up from the daytime scorching heat and the pre-sunset humidity. They were thrown wide open, as were the doors, in the hope of letting in some wind, but the air was motionless and even the leaves fell silently, as if of their own will. Everything was frozen in a kind of agonizing expectation of an unknown miracle, and the people, not even locking their houses at night, seemed to have completely lost their fear. "What do we have to fear with a protector like Areljaho?" they said and went to sleep without any anxiety. And indeed — neither the night wolves nor the bands of Arab robber-"Saracens," so named for their cruelty, appeared in those parts.
They began to rise early, not waiting for the rooster's crow, and leaving their doors wide open, they went to the square to dance barefoot on the cobblestones cooled by the night. One eccentric with an elongated face and a pipe in his mouth let fly, along with the smoke, a rumor that this ritual could somehow hasten the arrival of winter. But the last trees were now bare, and the heat showed no sign of relenting. And then the same eccentric spawned a new initiative: "Why don't we turn to Areljaho for help? If he is as strong as you say, surely the weather will yield to him too." Not a single nerve twitched on his long, tortoise-like face, and his voice sounded nauseatingly monotonous. Afflicto — that was his name — was the only one who did not dance, who did not tear off his shirt, obeying a common impulse, who did not join the round dance of people exhausted by the heat and insomnia yet full of life. He watched enviously as they obediently carried out his patently false fantasies and was sure he could inspire them with any foolishness, remaining on the sidelines with his intoxicating pipe. He himself had long since lost his taste for life and, dissolving in a cloud of smoke, would say to one of his rare interlocutors:
"Are you familiar with this disgusting phenomenon? When something inside destroys you so completely that you literally cease to feel your body? First one part of the torso falls away, then another, first the right side of the face, then the left, your mouth spreads in a soundless scream, and you turn into a formless mass. And then you are caught by a nasal, vile wind of someone else's life, carried somewhere like a pile of rotting garbage, and finally, wiped from the face of the earth?"
Afflicto spoke barely audibly and blew smoke into his companion's face. And so it happened that one day, Sonora's father found himself in that role. They were sitting in a tavern with green walls and an open terrace, under an awning of canvas that blocked the sun, and Afflicto was scraping the stone floor with the metal leg of his chair. His yellow, fish-like eyes were watering, as if all the alcohol he'd drunk that evening threatened to overflow. He knocked one of the emptied bottles off the table. It shattered, but didn't attract his attention. Sonora's father knew Afflicto's quirks but tolerated them — he was an excellent drinking buddy, even if he sometimes knew no measure.
"Jose, I saw you yesterday, you were dancing with everyone. Tell me, do you really believe all this nonsense? I made it all up, just out of boredom, out of sheer dislike for everyone... What kind of dancing on stones, how can that possibly be connected to the cold? Idiots, what idiots, they've definitely overheated in the sun..." He clutched his head, heavy from drink, and swayed from side to side like the pendulum of a broken clock.
Jose just chuckled at him, though deep down he pitied the lost wretch.
"You know, since Areljaho arrived, everyone has become too superstitious. You can make people believe anything now. Seeing something they don't understand, they start believing in the impossible."
"Ah, that Neanderthal... Of course... I haven't heard about him for a whole eternity — at least two hours. It's good, friend, that you're always ready to remind me of the cause of all my troubles. No, no. He's not a man, he's a catastrophe, a devil in the flesh! And the women flock to all that devilry like whores to honey. Sorry, flies. Yes, what do those fools need. Broad shoulders, a determined gaze, and what's in his pants... He hasn't spent more than one night with any of them! For him, it's entertainment, an attraction, a traveling circus! And me, with my suffering, eternally sick soul, who needs me? No one, no one in my entire life has gifted me even a friendly look, a warm smile, a touch! And all because those cheap creatures don't value anything decent and real, they just want to satisfy their lust, and they don't care with whom — even with a bear! Ha-ha!"
"You just smoke too much, friend," Jose replied, sprawling on his chair. "You're always surrounded by such a cloud of smoke! No girl can get through it. Not to mention getting a look at your, in all respects, beautiful self. And where did this strange prejudice come from? As if all women became whores long before Areljaho appeared."
"One might think it isn't so."
"Of course it isn't. There are plenty of worthy women in our town. Areljaho chooses those who suit him and, credit where it's due, is perfectly honest with them. All his companions know immediately what they're getting into, and so they don't hold a grudge."
"And your wife?"
"What do you mean, you son of a bitch?"
"I'd bet I saw her with Areljaho recently. They were hugging and cooing like doves behind Joaquin Perena's stable. It was towards morning, just when you felt the urge to go to the square. I thought — what an idiot, he really believes in everything: both my ravings and his wife's fidelity."
Jose jumped up sharply, overturning the table with a crash, and grabbed his drinking buddy by the collar.
"Listen, you narrow-minded nonentity, I could shove this broken bottle in your neck right now, so you'd choke on your blood and never say another word about my wife. But I'll give you a chance to apologize when the alcohol leaves your rotten head."
With these words, Jose shoved him against the wall and headed home with the firm intention of questioning his wife about how she had spent the morning. Of course, not a word of this vile slander could be believed. His wife hadn't left their newborn daughter's side and fed her on schedule, but still: why was Areljaho, who had suddenly appeared in town, so concerned with Sonora's fate? Had the town found an explanation in legends too quickly, and was there something more prosaic behind it? The thought of his wife's infidelity, absurd at first glance, poisoned Jose's thoughts, and without noticing it, he began to look for confirmation in the past, in those very days when Sonora was conceived. He recalled how often he had been away from home, and how long his wife had been left alone, and his heart skipped a beat anxiously when he found dark spots in his memory, which his heightened jealousy immediately colored. And how, how could he have known about Sonora's birth? Who could have informed him?!
Returning home, Jose found the door open and, for some reason, without realizing it, locked it firmly behind him. His wife was fast asleep, but he couldn't sleep and didn't even try, didn't close his eyes or move, didn't notice the stifling heat he'd grown to hate. He fell into a cold, death-like stupor, couldn't feel his arms or legs, as if his body had turned into a formless mass, and a nasal wind had picked it up and was carrying it somewhere like a pile of rotting garbage.
He didn't notice how his shirt became soaked and stuck to his heated body, how his forehead broke out in sweat and one drop rolled down his temple, and a second one rolled next to it — from the corner of his eye. It wasn't the infidelity that frightened him. He was afraid he would never hear the truth from his beloved again, and because of this, he began to hate with the same fierce force with which he had once loved. The very breath of this woman, who lay beside him suspecting nothing, filled him with disgust, an overwhelming nausea, sounded like mockery and insult.
"I don't want to hear excuses," Jose decided. "It's all pointless. One person knows today, tomorrow the whole town will know. They'll say: 'Jose shares his wife with just anyone and raises other men's children. What shall we call a man of such rare kindness? We must urgently invent a worthy name for him and nail a sign to his door. We can't really call him a man.' Well, no, I won't give them that pleasure. I'll sort this out before morning — before Afflicto sobers up and blabs to the whole neighborhood. God knows who else he's already told."
Jose still couldn't feel his body, but some external force sat him up on the bed, shoved his feet into house moccasins, pulled him up by the head, and dragged him like a puppet towards the storeroom. There, in a dark corner, he felt for a sack tightly stuffed with merino wool, and another — empty, larger one. He threw them over his shoulder and, taking a rope, went back to the bedroom. Obeying the invisible force, he managed to do everything very quietly and thus woke neither his wife nor his daughter, who slept in the same room — under a royal canopy with many frills and heavy tassels along the edges.
Jose sat on the very edge of the marital bed and looked at the face of his sleeping wife — thin, pale, and serene. Her thin lips were twisted in her sleep into something like a smile, in which Jose saw only contempt. In reality, it was Sonora who had given her mother cause for joy — having eaten heartily after several days of stomach cramps and fallen asleep earlier than usual. Jose didn't bother with these insignificant details that made up the bulk of his wife's life, and coming home late after his usual drinking bouts, he was sure she had had a fine time without him. Well, now he was clutching a tightly stuffed, dusty sack and preparing to save himself from disgrace. Finally, having looked his fill, he placed the sack over his wife's face and leaned on top of it. Leticia — that was the name of this girl, who suffered from anemia and had been married off at fifteen — had never been physically strong. And now she just jerked a couple of times — as if for propriety's sake — and grew still. Jose realized it was all over and collapsed beside her. He lay there almost until dawn: not moving, not thinking, not existing, and still not sobering up. But the child cried — Sonora, who had slept disgracefully long for her age and now needed feeding. Trying to ignore the sound, Jose forced himself to get up and felt for the sack, then slowly unfolded it and tried to place his wife's cold body inside. It didn't work right away because his hands were shaking, and he was chattering uncontrollably from an inexplicable cold. Finally, he tied his burden with twine, dragged it off the bed onto the floor, and pulled it towards the exit, hoping none of the neighbors would see him so early. But the moment he opened the door, prudently locked upon his return, he found himself staring into the eyes of a jaguar. The beast looked him straight in the eye and was ready to tear him apart. And the strangest circumstance was that the jaguar had a human form and vaguely resembled Areljaho. Stunned by the surprise, Jose stood petrified, unable to move forward or back. He couldn't tear himself away from Areljaho's piercing eyes, which always had a magnetic force and were now, to boot, bloodshot and bulging from their sockets. His veins swelled and pulsed on his forehead and neck, his nostrils flared and burned with breath, as if a volcanic vent were boiling deep within, and suddenly it exploded — this volcano — let out a wild, deafening roar that shattered the glass in the closed windows and woke the entire town in an instant. Woke up Jose himself, who, finally sobering up, at last understood what he had done. And confirming that it was not a beast before him but the real Areljaho, which was much, much more terrifying, he hurried to slam the door in his face, but was thrown back by a sharp jerk that nearly tore the door from its hinges. Stunned by a blow to the jaw, Jose writhed on the floor, groaning soundlessly as his mouth filled with blood from knocked-out teeth.
"Where is your wife?" Areljaho asked quietly, looming over him.
"Bastard, you knocked my teeth out..." Pain made Jose bold.
"Where is your wife? I'm asking for the last time, and if you don't answer, you will die long and painfully."
"So it's all true? You waited for her in the morning and didn't find her, you stinking dog? If you want to see her again, follow her to the devil."
Jose suddenly contorted, feigning a pain spasm, and pulled a short dagger from his belt, which he immediately threw at Areljaho. The latter dodged miraculously, and the knife embedded itself in the wall.
"What's in the sack?" he continued, restraining his anger and growing paler.
"See for yourself. You'll like it."
But Arellano didn't look. He walked to the wall where the dagger was stuck, pulled it out, and approached Jose.
"What? What are you going to do? Help!!"
None of the neighbors were asleep at that moment, but it occurred to no one to respond to this piercing scream and come to the poor wretch's aid. Firstly, everyone knew Areljaho was at work in the house, and no sane person wanted to get in his way. And secondly, during the night, another wretch — Afflicto — had been found hanged in an abandoned plum orchard on the outskirts of town. The old gossip had long wanted to end his life, but he also had many enemies. His foul tongue had destroyed so many pious families and slandered so many honest people that this time no one doubted it was murder. Moreover, lying at the hanged man's feet was his favorite pipe, which he had apparently dropped at the very last moment. Around the same time, Areljaho had been seen not far from the orchard, carrying a long piece of canvas rope wound around his arm. And now he wanted something from Jose, one of Afflicto's few friends. But the townspeople preferred to learn the details of this mysterious story from the newspapers — even a month later — rather than participate in it.
They didn't have to wait long — the plot of the bloody drama spread through the town that same day, and any passerby was ready to tell how Jose — a drinking, nervous, and therefore even more suspicious man — had killed his own wife out of jealousy. And he had been jealous of none other than Areljaho, whom they considered — nothing more, nothing less — the guardian of their family. This eccentric had believed Afflicto's slander, despite his, to put it mildly, dubious reputation as a dirty gossip with a sick imagination. They said Arelljaho had somehow learned of this conversation but had been unable to prevent the tragedy. Or rather, he had only been half successful. For after killing his wife, Jose would almost certainly not have spared little Sonora either, who in his shattered, drunken mind had become the fruit of marital infidelity. Arriving at his house in the morning, Areljaho realized he was too late and tried to get a confession, but he himself was nearly killed. Defending himself, he stabbed Jose — five times in the stomach — and then hanged him on the same tree where Afflicto had hung. When everything became known, he strictly forbade anyone to touch these two and bury them according to Christian rites. Sonora's mother, on the contrary, was granted the greatest honors and buried with great pomp within the main city church, and every Sunday a service was held in her honor, attended by the entire town.
The most noble families expressed a desire to take Sonora in, but Areljaho — as her guardian and protector — chose the family of Bishop Caudillo. His wife was childless, and so Sonora brought genuine human joy into their home, not some dubious honor — a very dangerous thing, as had become clear after Jose's death. With the bishop, Sonora lived a serene fifteen years until, finally, that very passion for dancing, found in embryo in her spineless father, manifested in her. Unlike him, Sonora proved steadfast in her passion, which promised her many troubles.
***
A strange turmoil seized Sonora for the first time during Sunday prayer, when the scent of blooming jasmine and almonds rushed through the half-open doors of the church. First, she caught herself not listening to the hymns nor trying to make out the words, as she usually did, and then her legs were gripped by an unbearable cramp. To cope with the pain, she had to stand up, drawing everyone's attention. Hisses and waving hands came from all sides, and the confused Sonora, bowing, ran out of the church — flushed with shame. In the town, no one even remembered that her mother was buried in this church, no one remembered the terrible, bloody story that had happened there fifteen years ago, no one even remembered the formidable Areljaho, who had since lived a quiet and inconspicuous life.
Only two skeletons in the abandoned plum orchard reminded of the old times. They said they were robbers, condemned by the people's court for a terrible crime and cursed until the end of time. Even Sonora did not know their names, considering Bishop Caudillo — a benevolent man, but overly zealous in his service — her real father. From his wife and daughter, he demanded modesty and meek obedience. In his eyes, this was the highest virtue. And if Sonora laughed too loudly or ran too briskly, she would invariably get a scolding for it. But to Bishop Caudillo's misfortune, his adopted daughter suffered from a severe, incurable illness — youthful sclerosis — and instantly forgot everything she did not wish to remember. This included imposed convictions, old dogmas, strict rules, and the feeling of shame — this last one she forgot with the greatest pleasure.
And so now, turning her face to the sun and inhaling the scent of jasmine, she felt her freedom-loving child's heart tremble with joy. How her legs hummed at that moment — from knees to the tips of toes! How she wanted to take a running start, fill her lungs with air, and, pushing off with all her might, jump high and, helping herself with her hands, tear away from the ground and stride through the thick air above the scorching roofs. Skipping, her legs carried her out of town — to where there were even more blooming trees, to where the old plum orchard lay, forgotten by all. But no, those were not trees — they were lush pink clouds, scattering into thousands of petals at the slightest breath of wind, and everything around was covered with these petals like lace, and not even the grass was visible. Sonora looked at this wonder through a crack in the old fence and was afraid to breathe, lest she wake up. How dare they consign this place to oblivion, board it up like an old cemetery? It was sinful and shameless — to give up on what could be a source of joy. Sonora did not wish to remember the town's superstitions or that villains had once dwelled here. Forgotten meant it had never been at all.
Finding the weakest board in the fence, she grabbed it with her hands and, without much effort, tore it from its single nail. The rest was simple — to crawl through the hole in the hateful fence and dive into the ocean of pink petals. After lying for a while, face buried in it, Sonora began to explore the territory. There were terribly many trees here — each more beautiful than the last. At this time, the plum was already finishing its bloom, and the rain of flowers fell incessantly, covering Sonora's head and shoulders and sending her into rapturous delight. It was then that the memory of her ancestors stirred within her. It was then that the very passion for dancing, once discovered in her father and which promised her so much trouble, manifested in her for the first time. She didn't even notice how her legs picked her up and spun her in a whirlwind amidst the shedding trees of the abandoned orchard, how her hands began to beat the rhythm on an imaginary tambourine, and her lips began to sing the words of an unknown song. Sonora knew that no one would see her, judge her, or consider her frivolous, and for the first time, she was absolutely happy. But suddenly her quiet dance was interrupted by a strange crack, as if someone was trying to crawl through the fence after her. But no — there was not a soul around. Sonora froze and, taking a cautious step to the side, heard the exact same crack. And looking down at her feet — she screamed in horror. There, dusted with flowers, lay human bones.
Sonora trembled, but overcoming fear with curiosity, she decided to examine the find. They were two skeletons, already very weathered and crumbling to dust. In the tall grass, under the blanket of petals, she also felt a heavy, dry branch that had obviously broken under the weight of the years lived. And wonder of wonders — some eccentric had tied two long ropes to this branch. Why? Apparently, he wanted to make a swing. Sonora settled on this version as the most pleasant one and did not seek an explanation for the bones that had so inconveniently ended up under her feet. And if someone had told her at that moment that she was dancing on the bones of her ancestors, she would have considered him insane and immediately consigned to oblivion.
Around the same time, on the other side of town, Bishop Caudillo doubled over from a sharp pain — as if someone had shot him in the side but for some reason hadn't killed him. He understood that his damned liver would soon send him to the grave and cowardly hurried that day along. Life, that vile old hag, was becoming more bilious and foul, especially at night when his sleep was constantly interrupted in the most disgusting way — by an acrid taste of soot or, in the worst case, of burnt metal.
"I am growing rusty, like a useless piece of iron," thought Bishop Caudillo and turned over onto his other side, the one not shot through with cirrhosis.
This night, smelling of the first jasmine flowers, he had another reason for insomnia. His impossible daughter had disappeared again, no one knew where, and no one in town had seen her for a full day now. It wasn't that he was worried about Sonora — with her rebellious spirit, this happened quite often, especially in June, and there had been no street gangs in these parts since her birth. What troubled him to the core and infuriated him so immensely that he even forgot the pain was the final and irrevocable loss of power over the one person who — the only one in this world — should have belonged to him meekly and completely: his child. In his firm conviction, this alone was the meaning of existence for all children in the world — both natural and adopted. That Sonora belonged to the second category, the bishop never forgot for a minute, though he seemed the perfect father from aside. Only once, when the girl, chasing pigeons across the square in front of the church, tripped over the stones and twisted her ankle in front of his parishioners, her skirt riding up to reveal a scraped knee, the bishop turned red to the roots of his thinning hair and muttered through his teeth: "No, this little ragamuffin will never appreciate what I've done for her." Despite all of Sonora's mischief, he had never raised a hand to his adopted daughter, but at what cost, requiring what strength of will!
No, to die now would be a great pity for the bishop. He was so close to completing the main work of his life — the multi-volume encyclopedia "The Great War." He had dedicated it to the ancient and inscrutable science of managing one's own anger. This sin the bishop sincerely considered the most terrible of all mortal sins, sincerely hated in himself and in others, but despite all his mental and physical labors, he had never managed to eradicate it completely. He fought it with humility and asceticism, philosophy and classical music, kept strict vows, even resorted to self-flagellation, but to his surprise, it all had the opposite effect — with each year he hated life more, and the slightest trifle could send him into a rage. And now — the front door creaked, and everything inside him clenched. The sound was the quietest, barely perceptible, but his hearing was sharpened by insomnia and irritation. Instantly, he forgot everything written in his multi-volume encyclopedia and rushed down the stairs — ready to tear his daughter apart, while she hoped to slip unnoticed into her room.
When the bishop loomed in the second-floor landing — with a pale, convulsively twisted face — Sonora did not dare take another step and froze in the doorway. But on her face — calm and joyful — instead of fear, curiosity fluttered.
"Hello, Father," she said in a completely adult, confident voice and smiled. He truly had no power over her. The bishop looked at her silently, approaching like a ghost. Finally, he stopped opposite her, looking down with a heavy, oppressive gaze, clenching his trembling hands behind his back. If he hadn't clenched them, if he had released them even for a fraction of a second, then — one could swear — he would have immediately broken his chief vow and slapped this good-for-nothing girl so hard there'd be nothing left of her. But Sonora smiled, and nothing could be done about it. And what was worse — she suddenly produced from behind her back a branch of blooming plum.
"Father, now I know what I want to dedicate my life to," she said, as if nothing had happened.
Bishop Caudillo was taken aback and found nothing better to ask than: "To what?"
"I want to dance," Sonora replied readily.
"Well, wonders never cease. No one has danced in this town for about fifteen years — since that unbearably hot summer that refused to yield to winter. People hid from the heat by day, and at night — instead of sleeping — they went to the square to enjoy the coolness. That's when it all started... And ended just as quickly. Dancing will not lead you to any good, my child. They distract from far more important things."
"What could be more important?"
"What do you mean, what? Prayer, righteous labor, curbing sinful thoughts. The path to the Lord is never easy, and in life — alas — there is little room for merriment."
"I don't want to be merry. I want to rejoice. When I dance — I rejoice, what is wrong with that?"
"Sonora, my priceless daughter, you are still very, very foolish. You commit many reckless acts, and years later you will bitterly regret them. And although the Lord will most likely not allow me to see it, I would like to warn you now — while we still have the opportunity. Not everyone will be as kind to you as I am." The bishop finally found the strength to unclench his hands without striking Sonora. He was filled with pride, having won yet another grand victory over himself.
As has been said more than once and will be said again, Sonora showed unprecedented firmness in her intention to lead a light and irresponsible way of life. This meant — rejoicing at any trifling bauble, dancing to the rhythm of life's storms, cheering up the gloomy and downcast idlers, and immensely irritating her sin-fighting father. Irritation bred suppressed rage in him; it quietly seethed and putrefied in the well of his soul, emitting foul, poisonous fumes. Man is strong through struggle and overcoming, thought Bishop Caudillo, unaware that he was destroying within himself the very growths of life itself, the best that could ever have sprouted in him. He was too quick to judge and too hasty in his decisions, never asking himself who had even given him the right to stigmatize anger as humanity's principal enemy? The story with Arellano had taught him nothing and was forgotten like a bad dream — for the time being.
***
Those who are brimming with life never have time for sleep, and the light in Sonora's room burned constantly at night. She burned so many candles that she eventually exhausted all the household supplies and, unbeknownst to her father, began stealing candles from the church — just so she wouldn't be left in complete darkness during her hours of spiritual agitation. She connected with the Romani people, who lived in a small enclave on the western edge of the city. Their wooden shacks smelled of fried onions, heavily peppered meat, and good cheer. There were no roads in their settlement — only narrow, winding paths, like water snakes cutting their way through the soft black mud — among the brisk thickets of blackthorn, hawthorn, and wild rose. To reach the nearest house here or get to the green, endless meadows without scratching one's face and hands required incredible agility and an extremely flexible, slender body, which is why the locals were considered the best equilibrists in the world. They truly knew their way around mastering their own bodies, and since the Moorish invasion, they had carefully guarded the secrets of dance mastery. The Romani considered this art the most important of all, for it brought them gold coins. And any girl born in these parts, stepping from the cradle onto the mortal earth, learned to dance first, and to walk - after that. Usually, it was a family affair. The father played all the instruments known there — from the wooden flute to drums covered in tanned leather; the mother sang, having lost her flexibility with age; and the young daughters fed the family, following the Romani camp through all towns and villages. But the one who possessed the science of dance to perfection, who was its master and embodied deity, a living legend and an object of universal worship — that was the 70-year-old Clementina. No, she herself hadn't danced in a long time and didn't even move on her own two feet — she relied on crutches and a homemade wheelchair with squeaky wheels. Once, having jumped awkwardly during a dance, she had twisted her leg so badly she could never recover. She was only thirty then and had firmly decided never to marry, never to become a burden to others, and to pour all her unbridled passion, all her barren love for life, into her students.
The Romani believed that Clementina held the secret knowledge of countless generations, so sacrosanct that even the gods had grown angry with her. For what was this, if not punishment? All the girls in the Romani settlement studied under Clementina, grew up under her wing, and then scattered across the world like butterflies — from town to town, from country to country, from east to west and from south to north, while she remained. Furthermore, Clementina wrote in Arabic script, and for this, she was considered a witch. No one in this country even remembered these mysterious, incomprehensible symbols, flowing from right to left, but Clementina saw in every curlicue a smooth sweep of a leg — an arabesque, a three-quarter turn of the head, a jump with a swirl of a full skirt, or a swift pirouette. The Arabic language was, for her, the language of dance and the keeper of her aged memory. And so, one summer evening, she had just filled another album with quotes from the poet Al-Mutanabbi and was preparing to start a new one — but she didn't have time. Someone knocked on the door, and she had to reach for her hated crutches. Groaning heavily and breaking into a sweat, she dragged her bulky body to the door and opened it a crack. On the threshold stood a skinny, pale-skinned girl with huge, insolent eyes, staring at her.
"Oh, damn! It's because of you I dragged myself across the whole house, shaking the walls with the clatter of my crutches! You're not one of ours, pale as death, and I don't remember your face. What the hell do you want here? Although, wait... Show me your little hands... It can't be! Are you telling me you got here without a single scratch? These narrow paths are overgrown with thorny bushes that no outsider can get through! And do you know that many of them are poisonous? And one scratch could cost you your life? Why is she silent?! Staring wide-eyed and silent! This is unbearable!"
"I'm waiting for you to let me into the house. You are Madame Clementina, aren't you? That means I've come to the right place."
"We have no 'madames' here, we are all free people — have been since the Reconquista. Now then!"
If there was one thing Clementina's hands hadn't lost over the years, it was their strength; on the contrary, they had multiplied it — thanks to the crutches. She grabbed Sonora by the sharp little elbow and, twisting it painfully, dragged her into the room, which reeked of tobacco, urea, and old rags.
"Well, tell me, who are you? What brings you here? I'll only listen to you sitting down. And you stand, stand. You're still young... And here's the thing. Take off your clothes. I need to examine you properly. Our thickets are treacherous — you won't even notice a scratch. Their poison is fast, doesn't waste time, and I'd like to hear you out to the end. Before you start choking."
Sonora obediently took off her dress and thin little shirt, standing as her mother bore her, and instantly broke out in goosebumps from the wide-open windows.
"Look at that, not a single scratch. And your neck? Need to check that too. Turn your back and lift your hair. Yes, white as snow. And how skinny you are, mother, definitely not from around here. You haven't come to beg, have you? Listen here, we don't like that, it's a Romani trade, and don't you dare cross our path."
"I came so you could teach me to dance."
Clementina measured her with a glance and reached for her pipe.
"Don't stand there like a mummy, get dressed. And tell me while you're at it, what idiot spread this rumor about me. Can't you see with your sharp cat's eyes that the old woman sitting before you is more likely to fall apart into a hundred rotten pieces than teach anyone to dance? And I won't let anyone mock my own infirmity. So you'd better get out of here, nice and easy, before I set the dogs on you. I have six of them, and none have eaten since yesterday. They'd be happy with any bones."
"All the Romani only talk about you. In our town, they sell food and colorful beads, and also poisonous frogs and a cure for blindness, but as soon as the sound of a tambourine comes from their tents, the name 'Clementina' sounds in time with it, like a folk song everyone knows from childhood. I wanted to learn to dance, and the Romani pointed to you."
"Are you from that town where no one has danced for fifteen years because last time it ended so badly?"
"Yes, my father often recalls it as an admonition, as if I shouldn't even think about dancing."
Clementina was growing paler and extracting each word with difficulty.
"And what is your father's name, dear?"
"Bishop Caudillo — the most zealous and God-fearing of all bishops in our country, and in our town he is considered the greatest righteous man in history."
"Don't tell me, beautiful moon-faced Sonora, that this is the very town that has been unofficially ruled for many years by the great, terrible Areljaho?!"
Clementina's eyes filled with reverent horror, the reasons for which Sonora could not understand. She was hearing the name Areljaho for the first time in her life, for in all this time she had never once needed protection or patronage.
"I swear to you, venerable Clementina, I know no Arell... Arequillo, and the power in our town is so wisely arranged that it doesn't need any ruler at all, except for the Heavenly Father. All its inhabitants live in peace and harmony — apart from everyday squabbles, petty quarrels, and public swearing... and a couple of drunken fights a day. But for any townsman to dare kill or rob his neighbor — such a thing has never happened, and outsiders don't show their noses in our parts."
"Ha-ha! Then know this, my child, that the reason for this prosperity is Areljaho, the fierce beast and dark angel of immense destructive power! His name lives in legends, and he is millions of years old! And if he is dormant now, it is only because his time has not yet come, oh beautiful Sonora."
"Splendid, wonderful, I love all kinds of legends very much, but that's not why I came to you. I would like..."
"Anything! Joy, my beauty, if you want to dance — just whistle, snap your fingers, and I'll be right here. You will be like a daughter to me. My house is your house. My knowledge is your knowledge. Why am I sitting here, a chatterbox! You must be hungry? You shall have supper of juicy quails and ripe tomatoes, and then we'll drink some cherry liqueur. And tomorrow — with renewed strength — we'll begin our lessons. How does that sound?"
It took great effort for Sonora to explain to her new mentor that she couldn't live with her permanently. They agreed on evening lessons — at dusk, after supper, when Bishop Caudillo went to sleep. Clementina, of course, refused any payment, and pressed upon Sonora a heavy, golden jar of healing cream — in case she did scratch her hands in the thickets of poisonous blackthorn that guarded the Romani settlement from uninvited guests. But she never once scratched herself.
The next evening, sitting by the crackling fireplace, Clementina kept pouring herself tart, thick-as-blood, and cloyingly sweet cherry liqueur and spoke thus to her pupil:
"Why have you come, my dear? Why couldn't you stay put — in serene peace and prosperity? My art holds many secrets and, I swear, can raise a dead man from the grave, but he who masters it will not see an easy fate. Since my people took the tambourine in their hands and subjected their lives to its rhythm, they have been doomed to eternal wanderings. I'll wager that even the thorny branches won't protect us from outsiders' eyes for long. To be a welcome guest everywhere, but never to linger long, to wander from house to house and town to town, to illuminate everything you touch with light and joy, and in the end to be exiled from everywhere... That is the fate awaiting you. No, no, I dare not dissuade you, my beautiful girl, but I am obliged to warn you. The moment your feet start moving to the beat of your heart — all is lost, there will be no way back. If you become known among the people as a dancer, you will instantly feel their true nature upon you — and then... God grant that a worthy protector is by your side. And in all the world, I know only one candidate for that role."
Sonora was sure she needed no protection and hurried to reassure her — to finally move on to more important things.
"Auntie, for heaven's sake! What danger could possibly lie in such an elegant and carefree art? We will amuse people, we will delight them! Illuminate their lives with bright colors, ignite their souls like stars in the boundless firmament! And they will surely be grateful to us, they will love us boundlessly, immensely — as they have never loved anyone before! I'm sure — they don't even suspect they can love so much, that so much tenderness and warmth hides within them! And we will give it free rein, release it from the prison of mental gloom! No, how can one hate the person thanks to whom one's soul blossoms? You are, of course, wiser than all the grey-haired sages, but right now you're talking utter nonsense. You'll see!"
"It's just that I've lived in this world long enough to learn its lessons, and not long enough to forget them. But for you, dear Sonora, fate has prepared special lessons — you must study them yourself, even if they, due to their bitterness, will not remain long in your willful memory."
Solemnity instantly returned to Sonora — Clementina couldn't possibly know about the miraculous properties of her memory. Could the old Romani woman really read her like a book, and a very artless one at that? This was insulting, and Sonora frowned, curling up like a hedgehog. The fireplace reminded her of a toothless dragon's maw, yawning from boredom instead of burning the whole house down with its inhabitants. Merciful, but stupid. What kind of dragon is that, then? Just a guard dog in a fearsome guise — ate a coal and now sits there, crackling, wagging its fiery tail.
"I only remember what I want to remember, and I promise I won't forget your lessons. By the way, when will they begin? I feel my legs are seized by that unbearable cramp again."
"Very well, stubborn Sonora, first choose what suits you more — hot coals, thorny needles, or perhaps broken glass?" With these words, she smashed the huge liqueur bottle against the fireplace corner and ordered Sonora to gather the shards into a large, flat milk pan.
"Now you can bring a heavy stone from the garden and crush these fragments as finely as your strength allows. Try hard — it's in your own interest."
Sonora looked at her in bewilderment, and from the stern, uncompromising tone of her mentor, she understood — her schooling had begun that very second.
The glass, still bearing sweet cherry drops, yielded reluctantly and gratingly to the stone's impact. Sonora's tender hands quickly grew tired and became covered in blisters, without achieving any impressive success. And Clementina just chuckled on the sidelines. Of course, she was being cunning — the broken glass, even ground to dust, retained its bitter nature and was capable of wounding at the slightest touch. This whole treacherous scheme pursued one goal — to test how frivolously the new pupil would treat it. To learn to dance truly well, this willful, proud girl would have to taste all the bitterness and salt of life's truth. And above all, she was destined to regret her frivolity a hundred times over.
"Why have you stopped?" exclaimed Clementina, diligently pretending to doze and wake up from time to time. Sonora sat at her feet, bent over the broken glass, looking at her hands with a dull, detached gaze. They were a bloody mess, burning and bleeding, and it was now absolutely impossible to hold the stone with them.
"Well, nothing to be done, we'll work with what we have."
Clementina sighed understandingly and with a touch of genuine sympathy, but a cunning spark burned even brighter in her aged, murky eyes. The cobblestone with traces of blood remained lying on the pile of shards, each still the size of a large cherry and smelling treacherously sweet. With astonishing agility, the sleepy Clementina grabbed the pan by its edge and overturned it right under Sonora's feet, not giving her time to recover or look away from her bloody hands.
"Well then, let your hands rest now, and let your feet work. I want to see what you can do. That will make it clear what I need to teach you."
"I don't understand, auntie, do you want me to sweep the floor first, and then..."
"No, no, not at all! You want to become a good dancer, don't you? Then you need to learn to dance on what others do not dance on. And for that, no matter how you look at it, you need some aptitude... So I want to see how you manage. You want to dance, so dance! Or get out!" Clementina wearily leaned back and pretended to be falling asleep, almost snoring.
Sonora stood up with great difficulty and realized she could barely stay on her feet, but she didn't even glance toward the door. The very first step on the broken glass left a deep cut on her sole, but she didn't show it with a cry or an expression on her face. She tried not to think about the pain or how many days she wouldn't be able to walk. She felt sick, dizzy, and everything swam before her eyes in a kind of drunken haze. How wonderful it would be to have no weight at all and to float above the ground, not touching it! But the ground dug into her feet with dozens of sharp claws, burned with merciless pain, and greedily drank her blood, no matter how she strained upward, no matter how she waved her arms, no matter how she tried to cheat nature — fluttering weightlessly and silently, like a feather. The room spun around her in a mad whirlwind and finally tilted, floating sideways — collapsing the walls and ceiling into a heap along with her clouded consciousness, and someone, meanwhile, put out the light.
Then, in the darkness, a voice sounded — vaguely familiar and enveloping — and Sonora clung to it with all her consciousness to escape the agonizing oblivion.
"When a person born anew takes their first steps in this world, they always fall down, my dear. That's perfectly normal. Now you can say with confidence that you have experienced a second birth — a painful and unpleasant process, but far more important than the first — from your mother's womb. No, no, don't rush to get up, or your head will spin again. I've made a healing compress of pounded, strongly brewed herbs for your wounded little feet, and now it needs time. One piece of glass cut so deep into your sole that it had to be pulled out with heated tongs. Luckily, you were already unconscious and incapable of perceiving pain... But now I can say for sure — you know how to stand your ground, whatever the cost. Here, drink this, it will give you strength."
Sonora lay bundled in a blanket, just as on that very day of her meeting with Areljaho, when her parents had carried her, a newborn, onto the main town square, and her head sank into a pile of pillows. Reluctantly and with great effort, she lifted her head from one of them and touched her lips to the offered mug, which smelled of resin and fresh wood shavings. The dark decoction tasted slimy, viscous, and bitter, and swallowing it required great courage and formidable willpower.
"Now, now, don't frown and don't you dare spill it all over yourself," said Clementina, deftly and just in time snatching the mug from her pupil's weak, trembling hands.
"How much time has passed?"
"Far less than it might seem. Only two days."
"What a nightmare! The whole town must be looking for me!" Sonora jerked upright in bed, but unbearable pain instantly pierced her entire body and forced her to moderate her ardor. "I've never been away from home for so long. Father will never forgive me..."
"Feeling guilty for other people's feelings is a noble but very stupid occupation. Especially when it comes to people who don't love us.... And unfortunately, that's the majority."
"But how can that be... For one's own father..."
"Those who truly love us do not instill in us a sense of guilt, let alone fear — for we need not defend ourselves from them. And you, as I see, are thoroughly frightened."
"I just don't want to cause them all worry, that's all..."
"Those who truly worry about you will be glad if you walk out of here alive and well, whenever that happens. But then again, you can leave right now — but then don't even think of returning. If you want to learn to dance truly well, you will have to postpone all other pursuits for a time."
Sonora was too weak to argue and accepted this cunning ultimatum as her due.
***
The next day, Clementina taught her to dance on hot coals. This was less painful than on broken glass, and therefore much more difficult — for the dance had to continue despite the burns and blisters, and moreover, under public scrutiny.
Late in the evening, the Romani lit bonfires not far from Clementina's house and sat in a circle under the orange trees to watch the new pupil. One of them — a one-eyed, red-headed giant — was scooping red-hot coals from a hissing portable brazier that had been wheeled here like a Trojan horse. Very soon, the entire area prepared for Sonora's dance was covered with coals, and the Romani, with whistles and catcalls, urged her to get on with it before the coals — and the audience — cooled. Each of them looked at Sonora with the impatience and excitement of a hunter who had just tightened his snare — the best an outsider could hope for here. They could have just stoned her, but such was Clementina's authority that her word alone could guarantee the life and freedom of even the most hopeless fool.
But suddenly all sounds died down, the disorderly chatter ceased, even the timid whispers urging others to look at the wonder fell silent. They saw a pale, almost transparent, exhausted girl who had removed the shoes from her slender, long feet and, oblivious to the crowd, moved straight towards the metal platform where the coals still hissed greedily. What did she see at that moment, what was she thinking? It was hard to say. Her resolve had an inexplicable and therefore even more frightening nature, and the universal silence confirmed this fear. The Romani, among whom were seasoned circus performers and hardened bandits, could swear that no one had ever inspired such a feeling in them before, no one had made them fall silent with just their appearance, instantly forget everything and become one single, collective gaze. The flashes of flame reflected in their impenetrably black, frozen eyes, which grew wider with each passing minute.
When Sonora stepped onto the platform, the giant near the brazier threw a fresh portion of coals at her feet. And though he continued to grip the shovel tightly, at that moment his coarse, red palms, which had strangled more than one bull, broke out in a vile sweat, and the heat was not the reason. Finally, Clementina herself appeared before the crowd, carried out under the arms by two strapping young men. Her lavish festive attire and wide-brimmed hat with a white veil spoke of the significance of the moment.
"Dear brothers! Noble thieves, night robbers, and the most devoted children of the Sun! Above all else in this world, we love gold. We slit throats for it, break the necks of our enemies, pick the pockets of the righteous, and hang highway scoundrels. But today, my dear friends, I want to remind you of what we have always valued not only above gold, but above life itself. Freedom, you say? Oh no, if only it were that simple! You sold your freedom long ago for an old, worthless copper, drank it away in stinking pens with animals who wear suits and hats, pretending to be men. Freedom washed its hands of you long ago, gave you to the devil to be torn apart, because, truth be told, one couldn't find such hopeless whores even in the cheapest brothel in Santa Clara... and any noseless sailor could tell you what kind of place is that. I am not speaking of freedom, about which none of us, hand on heart, has the slightest conception. I speak of that which, despite all our baseness, deceit, and vulgarity, all our venality and contemptible servility, all our animal stupidity and the wretchedness of existence, has compelled us to dance since time immemorial. We always thought it was the gold coins — a pitiful appendage to what we managed to obtain through robbery, banditry, and acting. Yes, I confess, in my old age I too lost faith in people. You wake up at night in piss-soaked sheets and think — isn't it time for me to croak? This feast of life has gone on too long. Once I decided firmly — I'd slash my wrist with a broken bottle, and be done with it, but first I must drink it to the dregs. Even death is no reason to refuse good liqueur. Drank half, lay down on the sofa, and I hear: knock-knock. The sheer insolence! Won't even let me die in peace. I open it — and who do you think? This good-for-nothing, a skinny rat-child. 'I want to dance,' she says. 'Auntie, teach me. For you Romani only do this and live happily ever after.' Nothing to be done, had to teach her sense, while she can still walk. And today it is time to present to you my new pupil. And may I never see the Lord as long as I live if this wretched girl does not become the best of them."
The men's gazes burned Sonora more than the hot coals, and it took great effort to overcome her embarrassment, to give her movements their accustomed freedom and lightness. She tried not to look towards the greedy spectators and only by sound determined when someone threw a ringing tambourine in her direction. It landed right at her feet, and bending down for it, the dancer lingered in place a moment longer than usual. The smell of scorched meat immediately filled the air, and she jumped up so clumsily that the crowd exploded with uncontrollable laughter. This worked to Sonora's advantage — she had learned to cope with immediate pain, postponing the suffering for later, and now, when the burdensome attention had finally scattered, nothing prevented her from continuing her dance. She imagined she was dancing amidst blooming plum trees, and under her feet was a blanket of delicate pink petals, only the tambourine was no longer imaginary, but real.
By the time the bonfires were doused with water, Sonora had become native among the Romani, and every respectable family was ready to take her into their home. But she replied politely and firmly that she was here only as a fleeting guest, as, indeed, she was in many other places. And the Romani could only sigh resignedly that the best guests, alas, never stay for a long time.
***
In one hand, Clementina held a candle; with the other, she led Sonora. They descended with great difficulty down a winding staircase — to where decent houses usually have a cellar. Finally, jingling her keys, Clementina unlocked a flimsy door and, letting her pupil go first, said, "Enter." A tiny, absurd little room opened before them, smelling of dampness and lit by a dim, greenish light. The place was furnished extremely oddly — crooked cabinets without a single door, but with a multitude of various shelves, each trying to slide off sideways, crowded the walls, seemingly holding, with their last strength, a whole army of dusty vials. They stood in a row, like recruits — glass chests puffed out — patiently waiting their turn to enter the battle. Shifting her gaze from one jar to another, Sonora would frown and grimace in disgust, then cry out in surprise, then simply want to run for her life — away from her eccentric mentor. Only a small part of what she saw remained in her capricious memory; the rest was so revolting that she forgot it as soon as she looked away. Dried scorpions, cuttlefish, and bird wings, snakeskin and turtle shells, bear paws, crooked yellow claws—hard as elephant tusks, teeth from the maw of an unknown predator, with what looked like dried blood still on them—the trace of a long-forgotten killing. There were skeletons of miniature fish, fins of all shapes and hues, and eyes frozen forever open in a yellow solution — who knows what they had seen in their last moment. At the sight of a jar with a severed, crooked finger, Sonora's memory performed its favorite trick and jumped to a shelf with more humane objects — from the world of botany.
"I gathered this collection all my life — in free time from teaching," said Clementina, who had suddenly appeared very close. "Life, my dear, is full not only of beautiful things but also, frankly, quite disgusting ones. The foul, the nasty, and the unseemly are much, much more abundant in it. It's everywhere — wherever the eye looks. The base is the foundation of existence; from dirt we came and to dirt we shall return. What could be more vile and disgusting, in essence, than the process of a man and a woman coupling? What could be dirtier and more unseemly than the emergence of a human into the world in the throes of birth? And if we break down a living, whole organism into parts, we can hardly look at any of them without nausea, and even the whole, no matter how beautiful a creature it is, instills in us mortal terror — the moment the soul leaves it."
"I feel unwell — sick and there's nothing to breathe, as if someone dragged a corpse here and forced me to kiss it... truly like at my uncle's funeral — cloyingly yellow flowers, a white shirt, unctuously mournful faces and death, death, death all around — arm in arm with life... that's the kind of horror that grips your throat and takes away your hands and feet! Why did you bring me to this terrible room? The art of dance, it seemed to me, is not connected to any of the natural sciences. Quite the opposite — it is precisely in dance that I seek salvation from all that you call base and unseemly."
"That's just it, dear Sonora, that you cannot escape, nor can anyone. And to learn to dance truly well, you will have to come to terms with this. Everything that surrounds you, everything that life is saturated with, from top to bottom, from the core to the very edges, must become fuel for your dance. And only when you learn to see the Highest in the most base, and beauty and light in the most unseemly, then, even on the very last step of despair, you will find the strength for joy. It is not enough to dance, overcoming the pain of loss and disappointment, leaving the roughness and vulgarity of this world somewhere below. All of it must become part of your dance, otherwise it will be dead—like the contents of these vials... It's impossible to know life by surrounding oneself with glass. Break it, and let the shards pierce your feet! However... if you don't like it here, we'll leave. Just take a couple of jars from the bottom shelf. Don't be afraid, they're not hedgehogs."
Sonora picked up a pot-bellied jar stuffed with twisted, thorny branches and immediately recognized the blackthorn — the very shrub that guarded the Romani settlement from uninvited guests and which, according to Clementina, could kill with a single touch. But the Romani woman hurried to reassure her.
"This is very old blackthorn — I dried it in those distant times when we didn't have to defend ourselves from outsiders, and our roads were bright and spacious as in El Dorado. But times have changed, people have coarsened and grown accustomed to narrow, winding paths where the devil would break his leg, and now this is the only blackthorn in our parts that poses no threat to life. But its thorns are a terrible weapon, for over the years they have coarsened no less than human hearts. You won't find thorns sharper and more tenacious in any forge in the world. And soon they will be very useful to you..."
"Auntie, for heaven's sake, I will not dance on these needles! There isn't a spot alive on my feet, I walk slower than you, I live with constant pain, I don't sleep a wink at night, and I hurry the day when my wounds, burns, and blisters finally heal, and you are already preparing a new trial for me? Oh no, I won't allow myself to be mocked anymore! Maybe they consider you the best dancer here, but my feet are worth something too!"
Sonora herself didn't understand this strange metamorphosis, but instead of being embarrassed by her words, she felt light and pleasant because she had finally told the truth. "What happiness, what grace — to be sincere!" she thought, ready to leave the detested house without a backward glance and forget her mad scheme forever.
"Now, now, don't get heated. No matter how you look at it, you must have learned something, haven't you?" Clementina winked at her with a swollen, teary eye and suddenly softened, grew kinder. "The thorny branches are needed for something else. Remember, I told you about the Ever-Cold River that flows so high in the mountains that the ice on it never melts? Essentially, it's not even a river at all, but an extremely narrow, elongated mountain lake surrounded by wild forests and steep, precipitous slopes. They say the water in this lake became salty from human tears — shed long ago by the inhabitants of that mountain country who perished one after another from sudden calamities: wars, famine, and disease. It was exactly like what happened to us three hundred years ago, with the only difference that we survived. So. Do me a favor, visit this river. On its sorrowful banks grows a rare frost-loving flower. My joints have been acting up, and I'm afraid only it can help me now. And this blackthorn is indeed very angry — its thorns have coarsened with age and lost all pity for enemies, but they will not wound their mistress. Take it with you, and if you meet a wild beast or someone worse — throw the thorny branch around its neck and pull with all your might. The main thing is, don't waste a minute, otherwise — trouble."
***
Never before had Sonora had to climb so high into the mountains — it was frightening and captivating at the same time. She pondered the mysterious word "trouble," spoken by Clementina, and tried to understand its meaning. That was something that had definitely never happened in her life, otherwise she would surely remember it! Her wondrous mentor had told her to carefully count all the needles on the blackthorn branches in her travel bag. There had to be no fewer than five hundred — for a sure victory over the invisible enemy. Seeing her pupil off on this distant and, by all accounts, extremely dangerous journey, Clementina had laughed, and her laughter sounded like the cackling of a duck.
She tried not to think about who could be worse than a wild beast, or what, exactly, was so bad about a wild beast itself. Not here, not now, when the sticky, icy fog crept under her skin and hindered her from seeing as clearly as before. Firstly, she saw nothing bad in wild beasts, and secondly, she understood that at this moment, her thoughts were her main enemy. She had to trust her feelings, the instinct of that very wild beast sleeping deep inside, which alone, upon waking, saves one from any, even the most terrible, calamity. She scrambled up a sheer slope the color of clotted blood, and wet, frozen clods of mud fell onto her face. With her numb fingers, Sonora grabbed onto dry, gnarled roots that resembled the crooked fingers of a mad old woman. It was unknown why they clung to the hard, half-dead soil, trying to snatch a meager last handout from life.
The higher she climbed, the colder the earth became and the thicker the fog. When her exhausted hands finally found a gentle ledge to climb onto and catch her breath, her eyes could see nothing, and she had to press on relying on her hearing. In this untouched silence, every step sounded offensively loud. First, it was a dry, coarse rustle, then an indignant, cracking sound. Sonora recognized it immediately. It was ice responding to footsteps — water's faithful companion. So the river Clementina had spoken of was very close — maybe right under her feet. It was a pity the fog — unlike darkness — didn't allow her eyes to adjust to it. The sounds wove into a guiding melody, until a tiny light glimmered in the impenetrable haze. Then another, and another. A dull phosphorescent glow, woven from thousands of tiny flashes, made her path as clear as on the most cloudless noon. At that same moment, the ice beneath her feet trembled—and a barely audible crack, like the echo of a dragonfly's wings, woke the sole inhabitant of these parts.
Mad Mogbi, covered in frost, detached himself from the sentinel stone and moved towards the sound, his inflamed, sightless eyes bulging. A long black-green algae hung from his nose, and a disgusting spot — strangely also greenish, apparently overgrown with moss — spread like a shapeless blot on his neck. Spreading around himself the smell of putrid vapors, Mogbi announced his presence to every passerby, even if they — like him — were blind in both eyes. He had a habit of speaking about his interlocutor in the third person — it helped him maintain the arrogantly contemptuous distance necessary for a short and unpleasant conversation. And he had no other kind. It wasn't that Mogbi didn't experience feelings or harbor passionate desires. On the contrary, he was obsessed. And this obsession, one distant day, had become the cause of his madness. Long ago, being a young, energetic, but not too wealthy man, he had heard of the untold treasures of Indeamos and became inflamed with the idea of finding an inexhaustible source of gold. He believed such a source must exist, for it was mentioned in all the Indian legends. He became certain — whoever was lucky enough to establish power over it would become the omnipotent ruler of the world. Cities, countries, and continents would submit to him; he would subjugate science and the arts, human thought itself, and would dispense truth in stale chunks — so that no one living would decipher his secret or encroach upon his wealth. He craved even power over the word itself, over human speech — so that no one living would ever accidentally blurt out anything superfluous. But Mogbi's madness lay not even in his obsession and immoderate desires. It was much worse. For many years now, he had believed he had found that very source, and that it was located right there — at the bottom of the ever-cold river. A simple illusion, a deception of sight, had misled him — the golden, shimmering lights that swirled over the river at the time when living souls perished there. It seemed to him that gold burst forth from underground every time some poor wretch drew their last breath.
Mogbi did not try to extract the gold — for fear it would be easier to steal on the surface — but swore to do everything to maintain eternal power over the source. He could tear apart anyone who approached the river, but then he grew so tired that he devised a faster method of dispatch. At night, muffled sounds, like suppressed moans, came from under the ice-bound water, but Mogbi had grown accustomed to them and fell asleep peacefully in his stone to this unobtrusive accompaniment. "In the end, it's their own fault. No one invited them here," he told himself at first, but then even this monologue ceased. From the eternal dampness, too much silt had accumulated in his ears — it was already sprouting through his nose, and judging by his clouded consciousness, it covered his aged brains with a solid net.
Awakened by the crack, Mogbi, for good measure, sniffed the air and grinned predatorily, scenting prey. Spotting a stranger, which didn't happen often, he always acted in the same way. He left his immobile post and hurried to the river to activate a simple but proven trap. Mogbi would lift a stone hammer and with one precise blow split the thin layer of ice along the entire river — so that the hapless traveler, no matter how cautious or weightless, would instantly fall into this crevice and go under headfirst. He had no hope of salvation, for the river froze over that very second. "And so it will be with everyone who encroaches upon my gold," Mogbi would say, listening with relish to the nightly wails of the unfortunates that came from under the ice and did not cease even after their death — on the contrary, they grew louder and more pitiful. But this time, Mogbi did not manage to raise the hammer or even touch it. On his bony neck, he felt the unbearable burning of hundreds of blackthorn needles. And if blood still flowed in his veins, it would have stained his frost-covered chest in a thick stream. But no — not a drop of blood flowed from him, only a little yellow-green bile, and his bones grated against each other dryly and viciously. Someone invisible, having lassoed him, was pulling him with such force that it aroused curiosity. Mogbi coughed and choked, as if alive, dragging along the ground until he finally found himself at the feet of a short, skinny creature — astonishingly warm and astonishingly energetic. To his utter surprise, Mogbi caught the distinct scent of a woman and, out of his old habit, spoke to the guest in the third person:
"And what does this agonizingly-strong missy want in my obliviously snowy chambers? He who craves gold shall not leave here, let it be known to all. Perhaps the missy wants to become my eternal prisoner?" he grinned. "Then she ought to be more courteous to the master of these lands, who paid much — oh so much! — for power over the source. The master sees through people as if they had no skin, and let the missy not try to deceive him."
"If your eyes were sighted, you would have seen long ago that your source is empty and holds no gold. And even if it did, those miserable crumbs would be nothing compared to what the poorest Romani from the settlement of Ponta Cruz can steal in one evening. Heard of it?"
"So the guest is a thief as well?"
"The guest earns her living by another trade, but I shall not explain its meaning to you. I will only say that I pose no threat to your 'gold.'"
"He who has no need for the source's riches would never have ended up here. And my guest is either shamelessly lying, or follows the directions of a person even more cunning and dishonorable than the mad Mogbi. And such are few and far between! Who sent you here with such a strange weaponry?"
"In these parts, as far as I know, grows a rare frost-loving flower. I must bring it to my mentor."
Mogbi diligently rolled his sightless eyes, peering at Sonora, but only a vague silhouette loomed before him. And he very much wanted to get a good look at Sonora. The blackthorn branch stirred memories in him from a past life, in which he could feel pain and was not chained to a sentinel stone like a hungry dog, guarding a frozen source of perished souls.
"What trade does your mentor teach you?"
"She teaches me to dance."
"And does she dance well herself?"
"To be honest, she is not only incapable of dancing, for many years she has had difficulty moving on her own two feet. Youth was not kind to her, and a vexing carelessness forever deprived her of the opportunity to pursue her beloved craft. But possessing all the secrets of the mastery, she could not bury them in the depths of her soul and firmly decided to pass them on to her pupils. One of them stands before you now. So, do you have what I need?"
Mad Mogbi stared into the void, remembering something long forgotten. Of course, no flowers had grown in this frozen ground since time immemorial, but how, after so many years, had this wild, strange question flown here and trembled over the ice? How dare it disturb his madness — triumphant and unshakable? Mogbi, freed from the thorny grip, returned to the crevice, to his sentinel stone, which was his home, his bed, and his only friend, and thrust his bony, trembling hand into a gap invisible to the eye, whose location he kept in his memory even when he forgot his own name. He felt for something and clenched it in his trembling fingers. Then he did something completely unexpected. He brought the find to his face and pressed his lips to it, feeling, for the first time in many years, his own breath and an unfamiliar pounding in his chest. Returning to Sonora, Mogbi seemed embarrassed. Without a word, he stretched out his hand, palm up. On it lay a tiny, almost crumbled flower with blue petals.
***
Clementina never told this story to anyone, but of course, no injury, save a spiritual one, could have made her give up dancing.
"There will be a heavy snowfall today," she said when Sonora, barely on her feet, crossed the threshold of her monastic cell. "I had given up hope of seeing you today."
"Yes, it was quite possible — not to see me today, tomorrow, or perhaps ever again. You knew who I would meet there, didn't you? And that's why you pressed those dried branches on me?"
"Well, don't judge me harshly — it's that kind of day today. The day of the great snowfall. It happens here once in a hundred years. It lasts only one day, but after it, the past is gone forever, and time begins its count anew. Such a snowfall is necessary for human memory — no need to drag along so many useless recollections. One could go mad from them. Not everyone, oh not everyone, my dear Sonora, possesses your amazing gift — to remember things by choice."
"Who is he, that dreadful, mad old man, and who put this heresy in his head — about untold riches at the bottom of the Ever-Cold River?"
Clementina was slow to answer — she was saying goodbye to her memories. Outside her murky window, tightly shut from the cold, the first snowflakes flashed by. It was painful to watch her — she had curled into a ball in her aged rocking chair, wrapped in a vast blanket, but seemed to shiver and shrink in size nonetheless. Her frightened, childishly wide eyes counted the snowflakes and rounded pitifully, noticing that the snowfall was growing heavier, and the wind was strengthening, setting the window frames rattling — and Clementina trembled with them.
"You want to know who he is?" the old woman began, to distract herself from the grievous vision. "Then sit beside me and listen. Who knows — perhaps by some miracle my words will stick in your brain, and even tomorrow, when we all wake up pure and innocent as babies, and live this day as the first, you will resurrect in your capricious memory this sole treasure of my heart. And if you forget, just return to me what you managed to find there, in the mountains... No, not now! All tomorrow... You see — I am already too cold from this wind. My teeth are chattering. So, were you well received up there?"
Sonora settled on the floor, tucking her battered, bruised feet underneath her — she saw no snow at all, noticed no wind, she was hot, and even curiosity couldn't overcome her deadly fatigue.
"That mad savage cannot tell a beast from a man, or a man from a woman. He seems to have long been blind in both eyes and has lost touch with reality. He does not eat or drink, knows no warmth or living flowers. All he lives by are his phantom hallucinations. He imagines himself the omnipotent ruler of the world, and the wretched ditch near his cave — an inexhaustible source of gold and the river Styx where souls perish. And all at once! His form only vaguely resembles a human, and his smell could repel any predator. No wonder the wolves haven't devoured him yet."
The snow was falling thickly now — large, soft flakes — but the wind died down and the house stopped trembling. Something in this simple sight moved Clementina so much that her face became wet with tears, and her eyes swelled and reddened. She now spoke through her nose, not ashamed of her sobs and blowing her nose loudly into a kitchen rag.
"Forty-seven years ago, his name was Baltasar. We were going to be married. But despite all my pleas, he left with a troop of guards to search for Indeamos. By that time, even the most illiterate peasants had figured out that it was all nonsense and the tales of painted natives. But military men are a stubborn lot. He said he would return with money — with an amount of gold I couldn't even imagine, and we would plate the walls of our house with golden sheets. I waited, and the waiting sapped all my strength. I even decided not to dance until he returned — ah, if only I had twisted my ankle! That would have been half the trouble... But you see, it was my brains that got twisted. Years passed, and at first news came from him — sometimes joyful, full of hope, sometimes alarming — which left me bedridden for weeks. And then the news stopped altogether. I began to live on rumors — he was seen at one end of the world, then the other, in America, then in Asia, then on the African continent. He sailed ships, fought pirates, got swallowed by huge whales and battled Indians, plundering their settlements and dodging arrows — but he always, always managed to survive. And then — about eight years ago, I suppose, my neighbor's cousin spotted him at a market in Spain. In this emaciated, bone-soaked ragamuffin, who lay at the feet of the crowd and begged for at least a piece of stale bread, she unmistakably recognized him — the first handsome man of our town, who had shown great promise during his guard service. I gathered myself to go after him, but the journey was long, and when, three or maybe four months later, I found myself at the market of Punta de la Ciedad — confused and agitated as never before — he was already gone. And try to find a beggar and homeless man in a crowd! More years passed, even more burdensome than before; there was no news of him, and I was slowly going mad. But recently, a rumor reached the town about some madman nicknamed Mogbi, who had settled in our mountains and lived on alms that kind people left on a rocky ledge near his cave. From the description, I guessed it was him, but I no longer had the strength to climb the mountains. And that very evening — what a miracle! — an insolent guest showed up at my door and insisted on becoming my pupil. Was that not a sign?"
"Why didn't you tell me about your grief right away? Why didn't you send me with a message to your beloved on the very first day?"
Clementina smiled patronizingly through her tears.
"Because you simply weren't ready for it. Had you not learned to stand so firmly on your feet and soar so lightly above the ground, that madman would surely have drowned you! But now it's all over, and over in time. Soon the great snowfall will draw a line under our absurd and excessively long sufferings. For he remembered, didn't he? He remembered me?"
Hoping to gladden her mentor, Sonora reached into her pocket, where the flower with blue petals should have been, and her heart constricted with horror. All she managed to retrieve, all that remained in her hand after the long and difficult journey, was a handful of dull green, in places bluish, pollen.
"There was a flower here. And he was eager to give it to you," Sonora said guiltily.
"I know," Clementina smiled. "That flower, like me, lived too long a life and saw too much in its time. It was time for it, too, to turn to dust. That is why, dear Sonora, any memory, any — even the strongest heart - absolutely needs rest from all the sufferings it has endured."
When the last snow feather touched the ground near Clementina's house, her eyes were already white and motionless, like the eyes of the mad Mogbi, and their thoughts — agitated by remembrance — stopped at the very same second.
Sonora did not immediately notice the change that had occurred in the room because she was suffering from the stifling heat. It was the most sweltering and sunniest day of her life, and she cowardly cursed the eccentric old woman who had decided to seal all the windows in the middle of summer.
After Clementina's funeral, which resembled a noisy circus performance, came the day Sonora would have preferred to forget before it even began. It was time to return to the town where, for reasons of strict morality, no one was allowed to dance except the Romani — the "devil's messengers."
Chapter 4. The Procession of the Mummers
Sonora was more afraid of the city than ever before. Now that she had learned to dance, she posed too great a threat to its inhabitants, and her appearance was certain to attract notice. And so, one morning, the watchmen on the city towers — the very ones who had announced Areljaho's arrival — felt a long-forgotten excitement. A bright, ragged blotch flared up on the pre-dawn horizon and quickly swelled in size, producing ever-louder sounds. Finally, the noise grew so intense that the watchmen's eardrums nearly burst, and to avoid going deaf, they covered their ears with their hands. Because of this, not one of them could raise a spyglass, and they only got a clear look at the visitors when they were right at the gates. Fortunately, there was no need to summon anyone — this cacophonous racket had roused the entire neighborhood before sunrise, and among the first was the formidable Areljaho himself. He rushed to the gates the moment he heard the beat of the drums. He had been waiting for this day for many months, having lost both sleep and his taste for life. Ever since Sonora disappeared, he had found no purpose for himself, and all his beast-like strength was ebbing away from a sense of his own uselessness. He had taken on the heaviest labor, thrown himself drunkenly into street brawls, and had even nearly gone off to wage war somewhere in Barbary, but he chose instead to remain alone with his torment, feeling that one day she would return, and his harsh life as a warrior and protector would once again find meaning. The noise tore him from the tenacious claws of oblivion. He jumped out of bed after a sleepless night and, barely dressed, rushed to the gates, obeying the same ancient instinct that had once led him to this city. Frightening the townsfolk with his haggard, emaciated look, he ordered the gates to be flung open, towards which a crowd of bedecked gypsies was approaching.
On account of the summer solstice, they had brought a new carnival show, and by their very appearance they made it clear that it was already in full swing. And woe unto anyone who, due to illness, old age, or invincible deafness, had managed to sleep through it.
The spectacle was truly extraordinary. Mummers pranced in a galloping gait, one after another, paying no mind to the passers-by or the insults hurled their way. The insults were part of the performance, a performance that no one wished to cancel. With a militant zest, they struck sparks on the scorching cobblestones, climbed onto each other's shoulders, flirted with the crowd, and thrust wooden poles skyward, atop which placards bore imperative inscriptions: "Bow to the Princess!", "Where are your ovations?!", "Rejoice!", "Heads are not pumpkins."
In crudely carved wooden masks, painted in garish and provocative colors, they grimaced at the spectators, portraying now enraged animals, now mythical creatures who had deigned, by great mercy, to descend here — into the vulgar prose of everyday bourgeois life. They were, for the most part, merry mummers, but sad ones could be found among them too. Some masks were fractured, like despair; others were twisted, like a bitter smirk; their contours resembled human faces more than the faces of some townspeople did. Inside a creaking, dilapidated booth with a faded "Theatre" sign, the circus folk were bringing Sonora into the city, dressed as a Chinese princess.
She sat in the booth, her long, slender feet tucked under her in semi-transparent slippers sewn from some kind of shiny gossamer, her head bowed despondently under the weight of a two-tiered crown with fake gemstones and a pheasant feather. Her face, covered in loud, gaudy makeup, was invisible behind a dense curtain of ornaments hanging in clusters from her crown. This elaborate get-up, besides its sheer theatricality, was meant to serve one main purpose: to leave her unrecognized in the eyes of the embittered, frightened crowd. Her heart was pounding in a drunken, syncopated rhythm, and the sounds reached her as if from underwater. The booth groaned like an old man and rocked from side to side, tossing Sonora up, sideways, and diagonally — tracing invisible hieroglyphs. Clementina, who loved to divine using the Chinese Book of Changes, saw magical meaning in these symbols. No, her own fate had never interested her — through the ancient signs, she tried to discern the fate of all mankind. Sonora recalled one such evening, which always held more questions than answers.
"If some clever fellow has bothered to invent a name for everything in the world, and in hundreds of different forms and sounds at that, then do you really think there is anything left under the Sun that is unknown?" Clementina would say to her, bent over her book. "No, no, for each of us, everything is decided finally and irrevocably, and there can be no mysteries in the future. And if you really get down to it, that vaunted future of yours is nothing more than a forgotten past. Want to know what will happen tomorrow? Look at yesterday. Want to know what awaits your young face? Ask any decrepit old woman, though she herself ought to ask that same question of a newborn—pity, it won't answer, and she wouldn't hear it anyway."
"Then why do you read fortunes from this book if nothing interesting will ever happen again?"
"There is but one event that could surprise me. Our people have waited for it for thousands of years and have not received it, yet they still wait. And no one—not a single prophet or learned man—can determine for certain when it will occur. All we know from the books—books so old their authorship is forgotten—is an endless 'tomorrow.' Can you imagine?"
"An event that will happen tomorrow?"
"Yes, my dear, so near and yet so far. An endless, great, implacable tomorrow! And if it should somehow come to pass that it finally becomes today, could one still believe the prophecy? By coming true, would it not lose its sacred meaning?"
"Such strange things those Chinese concocted — just so outsiders couldn't understand. Can you trust people whose emperor was either the spawn of a dragon or some other serpent-like creature — albeit golden, but no more pleasant for it?"
"The Chinese have nothing to do with it. This myth—the most incredible and the most wonderful of all — was born in another part of the world."
"What is so wonderful about it if it cannot come true?"
"It gives people hope. All things unfulfilled are so well-suited for that."
At that moment, Sonora imagined Clementina vividly and close at hand: her swarthy face the color of dried clay, furrowed with deep ravines—stern as a soldier's, yet soft as a nursing she-bear's. Clementina kissed her on the forehead, and it made her heart ache piercingly—Sonora understood that this, now most certainly, had been their final meeting. The graceful, light silhouette of the world's finest dancer dissolved into the azure sky, leaving far below the rickety wagon with its "Theatre" sign. Bereft of its patron, the booth came to an abrupt halt and, caught by surprise, lurched backward—the crowd had blocked its path.
"What kind of spectacle have you dragged here?" The voice was hollow and metallic, but its source was not a rusty trumpet but an unpleasant brute with a balding, red head, from whose nose hair grew so thickly it could be mistaken for a moustache from a distance. It was hard to imagine a smile on this man's face—and thank God!—he must have been even more repulsive with one, as if someone had sprinkled sugar on a spoiled dish.
To Sonora, it seemed her heart had detached itself from her, that it was now the main thing, living its own life, pounding out hot waves, while she dangled from it like a puppet, like a pinned butterfly. "This is a compass, my new compass," she muttered under her breath, like a madwoman, "It's the only thing I obey now. It will show me the right path."
The booth rocked more violently than before — a hefty clod of dirt flew through its cloth "door," then another, and another. Something fascinating was clearly happening outside, and Sonora listened in on the conversation. The gypsies had surrounded the wagon from all sides, and the head mummer, Manolo, without removing his enormous red mask shaped like a horse's head, spoke to one of the townsmen, whom nature had already endowed with a red muzzle.
"Our show is based on the Book of Changes. A wonderful performance in honor of the summer solstice. Today, anyone can learn their future."
"We don't need any changes. Since no gypsy foot has trodden here, perfect order has been established in the city, and we have fully come to appreciate its virtues. Now, not a single one of your cursed tribe can disturb it. Not a single dog, and, for that matter, not a single horse." The crowd might have erupted in unanimous laughter at these words, had the crowd not forgotten how to laugh, even in the face of a common threat. Manolo, on the contrary, chuckled merrily under his mask.
"Friend, we are but mummers. Nothing ill shall ever proceed from us — not in word, not in thought, not in the social order. If anyone in this world preserves order, it is we — may I lose my head if I lie!" Manolo let out a piercing whoop, and the crowd of barker-mummers immediately responded with a synchronized, deafening roll call. The artists called this the "beastly chorus," and the procession — the "beastly march." The two loudest "beasts" — on stilts — were leading the procession. One was clad from head to toe in a costume of red fur, the other in green, and from their elevated position, their voices sounded even louder and more convincing. From their belt pouches, they scooped out handfuls of grain and dried almonds, showering the crowd generously and gathering flocks of birds around them.
Order had so mastered the townspeople that most of them fell into a stupor from the loud cries. They froze in place, helplessly gaping and with childishly rounded eyes, their gaze unseeing as they followed the crowd. Many stood like that until evening, although neither the booth nor the less timid inhabitants of the city had managed to get very far either. Those who had not lost the ability to move became part of the traveling theater, which — having eliminated the main obstacle of inertia and gloom — set its course for the city square. Areljaho followed them like a shadow, drawing no attention to himself, and fixed his gaze on the booth looming in the distance. He knew that Sonora was near, that he would soon find her, because the time had finally come to protect her. In the end, that was why he had come to Ponta-Cruz, and for that, he was ready to leave it. If only he could be with her—finally and irrevocably.
The gypsies' tents, as motley as poisonous flowers, overran the square faster than the sun rose, and their rowdy songs mingled with the sounds of the Sunday mass. Not a single upstanding citizen could stop them — the stupor induced by those ancient, beastly cries was more frightening than any temporary inconvenience. The city council, for the common good, had decided to wait out these days in prayer, and when the "devil's envoys" deigned to leave the city, to lock the gates behind them and never open them again.
Manolo thrust his horse's head into the booth, and Sonora, who was already more dead than alive, cried out in surprise.
"Now, now, Princess, don't you fret," he said, removing the mask from his sweaty head with its tangled dark hair and grinning with his wide, Indian mouth. "Well, we've arrived. Welcome home!"
"So much has changed here, this place can hardly be my home again."
"Maybe it's you who has changed, eh?" Manolo winked at her and pulled a ripe apple from his pocket. "Here, don't mope. Your entrance is soon. Who knows, maybe you'll be to their taste? Then we can hope they'll accept us, too. Clementina believed in miracles. And you?"
"Clementina believed that everything for each of us is decided in advance, and that the Chinese could read the future like a book. Only one event remained a mystery—lost in time—and yet it's considered the most miraculous of all..."
Manolo settled down beside her and looked at her with a smile, his deep, sparkling eyes—the eyes of the most unprincipled rogue and the most hopeless philosopher. He was desperately craving a smoke, but he dared not do it in Sonora's presence.
"Ah, those old woman's ravings... Her last years were especially hard. I'd have gone off the rails for sure, but she held on—like the last fighter in her squad. You know, you made her old age so much brighter. No joking, it was a real blessing, or whatever they call it in such cases... When joy descends just as you've stopped expecting anything, and touches you with a gentle feather. In such moments, I believe in God."
"And all the other moments?"
"The rest of the time, I am warmed by the memory of those rare glimpses of true faith — and that's enough for me. It's like how in a frail, sickly old age, we sustain ourselves with memories of a sincere, pure, eternally young love."
"Dancing will be especially hard for me today."
"Well, at least there aren't hot coals here."
"And that's the whole trouble."
By noon, a stage had been set and decorated with a hundred Chinese lanterns. The spectators trickled onto the square, wary but with the most genuine curiosity, which fear only made stronger.
The Prospector
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