The Trace A Shamanic Invocation

The Trace

(A Shamanic Invocation)

Part One. The Border

I remember only the smell—a mix of raw bread and animal fur that never airs out. It was not the smell of a body, but the smell of birth itself: when you are pushed out into the light, and the light has not yet decided to call itself day.

My mother rarely spoke. Her language was heavy, as if each word had to be dragged out from under a stone. When she called me "son," the sound would fall and not return. I checked: I would lie on the ground, press my ear to the moss—no echo. It was then I understood: a word can vanish without becoming alien. It goes deep inside and turns into the thing that snarls in the night.

The first thing I saw beyond the hut was a road. It was smooth, but at its edges lay a warm dust—as if someone had already left, and their tracks had not yet cooled. I was told: "Go to where the two ruts meet, and you will become a man." I went. The ruts did meet, but instead of a crossroads, there was a pit—a hollow, overgrown with nettles. In it lay a tooth. Not a human one. Long, curved, with a crack down the middle. It was warm, as if it had just fallen from a stranger's jaw. I hid it in my tunic. From then on, I always had two rows within me: the ones I was given, and the one I had found.

The people in the village smelled of smoke and fear. They said I was "the silent one." In truth, I was just choosing my words like mushrooms: cutting them carefully, leaving the root, so as not to destroy the secret network. But mostly I was silent because I could hear something stirring inside my chest, checking if it was time to come out.

One day, as I was grazing a goat by the ravine, it froze, its ears pricked up, and I felt the same thing: the air grew thinner, as if it had been exhaled twice. He came out of the bushes. Not a beast, not a man. A creature that stood on its legs as if it were drying them from the inside. The skin on it was not its own—a piece of sheepskin, a scrap of sailcloth, tufts of fur. Its eyes were gray, lusterless, as if there were only ash inside. It did not look at me, it looked past me, but I felt it: it was counting. Not steps, not breaths—it was counting borders. How much longer one could remain inside one's skin without tearing the seams.

It passed by without touching the ground. The goat was trembling. I was not. I felt the tooth under my shirt grow heavier, as if absorbing the other's fear. It was then I first thought: being human is not a choice, it is a contract. And a contract can be broken, if you find the point where the signature is made with blood, not ink.

That evening, my mother looked at me for a long time. Then she stood, took a piece of a mirror from her chest—a shard, bound with linen thread. She placed it on the table. In the reflection, I saw not myself, but a trace: four paws, a long back, a head lowered to the ground. I turned away. She didn't ask, just said: "When the time comes, you will understand that silence is not quiet. It is another language. The main thing is not to translate."

Years passed. I grew up, learned to mow, to plow, to build. I learned to smile when something inside was snarling. I learned to kiss girls without opening my mouth. But every night, I returned to the hollow. The tooth became my talisman: I would put it under my pillow, and my dreams were as smooth as a road no one walks on.

The border is thinner than it seems. One day, as I stood by the river, my reflection lagged behind. It stood with its back to the water, looking at me. In its eyes—the same ash as in the wanderer's. I waved my hand—the reflection did not repeat it. Then I knew: the contract had come to an end.

I did not go into the forest. The forest came to me. First, the smell: damp, with an aftertaste of rotting iron. Then, the sound: a footstep, but not on the ground—on the bones of my fingers. I woke in the middle of the night—and could not tell where the bed ended and the path began.

The next thing I remember is warm breath on the back of my neck. Not human. Not animal. The kind of breath that is taken when the contract is torn.

I did not turn around. To turn around is to admit there is a space behind you. And there was no more space. There was only the crossing.

And then I did what I had never done: I said my name aloud. The sound fell out, heavy, as if I had dropped a stone into a well. And I heard a reply—not an echo, but a snarl. A snarl that began in my throat but ended somewhere far away, beyond the borders of language.

I took off my shirt. On my chest—four marks. Not scratches, not tattoos. The marks that time leaves when it passes over a body without asking permission.

I took the tooth, pressed it to my lips. It was no longer warm—it was hot.

And then I took a step. Not forward, not back. Inward.

The border vanished.



Part Two. The Step Within

The step was longer than my leg. I did not step—I was pulled in, as if the earth had taken a breath.

At first, it was dark. Not just an absence of light, but a darkness that had a taste: damp fur, stale breath, a drop of another's blood on metal. I tried to raise my hand—I could not find the end of my shoulder. There were fingers, but not mine: longer, with joints that bent both ways. I wiggled them—and heard the grass whispering far away.

Then came sight. Not through my eyes. Through my back. The skin on my shoulder blades grew thinner, transparent, and through it I saw: I was standing in the middle of a clearing, but not vertically—inside the horizon. The trees were growing sideways, their roots in the sky. The moon lay on the ground like a thin plate, and shadows walked across it, leaving dents, as if in snow.

I tried to breathe—the breath went down, into my knees. There it got stuck, swelled, became heavier than myself. I fell. But the fall was upward: the earth let go, and I floated up into a space where there is no up or down, only "within" and "without"—and both turned out to be the same.

Then I understood: I had not transformed. I had delaminated.

Above—the one who remembers the name. Below—the one who remembers the trace. They were looking at each other through my own body, as if through broken glass.

And then the tooth began to speak.

Not with sound. It was spinning in my chest, like a small heart, and each rotation was a word. The words were not human. They had no beginning and no end; they had weight. The first word struck my ribs—I felt them spread, making room. The second word descended into my stomach—and began to live there, tapping quietly. The third word I did not hear. I became it.

It came out not through my mouth, but through my back. My vertebrae parted like the leaves of a gate, and from them emerged what I used to call a "snarl." Only now I knew: it was not a sound, it was an address. Someone far away was told: "Come."

And someone started walking.

I saw him from the side. He was not walking on the ground, but on my own reflection in the air. Each of his steps left a dent in me: first on my hip, then on my collarbone, then—in my throat. When he reached my heart, I recognized him. It was me. But not the one born of a woman. The one born of the hollow.

He stopped. Held out his hand. In his palm lay a drop of time—it was warm, like a freshly torn scab. I took it.

And everything turned over.

The clearing vanished. I was in a room. Familiar, but without windows. The floor—made of planks, with something breathing between them. The ceiling pressed down on the crown of my head. In the corner stood a stove, but inside it was not fire, but a pulse: quiet, regular, someone else's.

On the table—a mirror. There was no reflection in it. There was only the trace. Four-legged, with a long back and a head lowered to the ground. I looked at it—and it raised its eyes. There were no pupils in them. There was only that which I had cast out to become human.

Then I understood: this is not a room. This is inside me. And I am inside it. We have become a matryoshka doll with no final doll.

A rustle behind me. I turned. On the threshold stood she. A girl with hair the color of moonlit bark. Only now her eyes were where her teeth should be. She smiled—and I saw my name in her mouth. It lay there, rolled into a tube, like a note no one had dared to read.

"You have come," she said. "Which means the contract is broken."

"What contract?"

"The one where you promised to be one. And we promised to be others. Now everything is real."

She held out her hand. I took it. Her fingers were cold, as if she had been holding them in a river while I slept.

We went out. Not from the room—from myself. The door was between my ribs. Beyond it—not a forest, not a clearing, but the place where tracks do not end, but turn into a road walked only by those who have forgotten who they are.

We walked. Not holding on, but not letting go. Barefoot, but not feeling the earth: we were walking on our own reflection in the air, and it was cracking like thin ice.

Footsteps behind us. I didn't look back. I knew: it was the thing I had left behind, pursuing us. Not an enemy. Not a friend. Just a remnant, still trying to be "I."

The girl stopped. Turned to me.

"There will be a river now."

"What kind?"

"The kind you cannot step into twice. Because it flows inward."

I looked. Ahead—water. Not black, not transparent. It was like a mirror, but it did not reflect. It absorbed.

"Cross it," she said. "But know this: when you come out, you will be neither one nor the other. You will be the third. And your name will be forgotten even by the silence."

I took a step.

The water was warm. Not like a river, but like a hand checking if the skin has been turned inside out.

With every step, it grew heavier. Not my body. My memory. It was peeling off, like old paint: pieces of days, pieces of names, pieces of faces.

The last thing I let go of was fear. It floated ahead, a white patch, and dissolved.

Then—a light. Not bright. The kind that comes when you close your eyes and someone else opens them.

I came out.

Onto the same bank. But the bank was different. Not sand, not grass. But a trace. A single one. Four-legged. With a claw broken in the middle.

I bent down. Touched it. It was warm.

And then I understood: I had not crossed. I had become.

The trace.



Part Three. Living the Trace

The trace did not end. It stretched into the distance, curving as if someone had been walking and looking back, losing their direction each time. I followed it. Not because I wanted to. Because there was no other path. A road is what remains when you forget who you are. A trace is what remains when you forget that you are.

At first, it was difficult. My feet would not lift—they grew into the earth. I felt roots sprouting from my heels, and each step was not a movement, but an uprooting. But then I got used to it. The roots broke off, leaving scars—two on each foot, as if someone had long ago sewn paws onto me, and now had taken them off, but the threads remained.

Day did not come. Not because it was night—because time had rolled itself into a tube and gone inside the trace. There was light, but it did not fall from above; it rose from below: from the earth, from the print, from the emptiness between the toes. It was the color of old tallow—yellow, but not joyful; the kind that lingers on the lips after a long hunger.

I walked. I did not count my steps. I counted the smells.

The first—tar. Someone had passed here long ago with burning resin, to seal their shadow. The second—blood, but not fresh. Congealed, cracked, like clay. The third—milk. Sour, but not yet curdled. The fourth—my own. I did not recognize it at first. It was like the smell of that very hut where my mother used to hold me by the wrists. Only stronger. As if someone had taken this smell out of me, multiplied it, and hung it along the path, like traps.

Crows appeared. They sat on the roots that stuck out of the ground like broken ribs. They did not caw. They watched. Their eyes were not black, but empty—in them, you could see what I had left behind. I walked past, and they turned their heads, as if I were a compass needle, but pointing not north, but "inward."

One crow descended. It landed right on the trace. Covered it with its body. I stopped. It raised a wing—and under it was a hole. Not deep. Exactly my height. I leaned over. Inside—nothing. Not blackness. Not emptiness. But precisely "nothing," the kind you can touch. It was warm, like a tongue, and it stirred, as if it were breathing.

"This is you," said the crow. "Only not yet born."

I reached out my hand. The "nothing" licked my finger. It didn't hurt. It just tasted good. I pulled back. The crow took flight. The hole vanished. The trace continued.

I walked on. But now I knew: I was not following a trace. I was following myself. That which had not yet happened.

Then came the people. Not at once. First, their things. A felt boot, standing in the middle of the path. Then, a shirt, hanging on a holly bush, its sleeves tied in a knot, as if the tree had wanted to become a man but had changed its mind. Then, a cooking pot, with teeth marks inside. Not human. Not animal. But the kind that have not yet decided whose they are.

The people appeared at a bend. They were standing with their backs to me. All of them. As if someone had placed them there, to look at what I was supposed to see. I approached. No one turned around. I walked around to the front—there were no faces. Only backs. On both sides.

I touched one. It fell. Inside—empty. My old words were left there. They lay like fallen leaves. I picked one up. It crumbled. Literally. The letters fell to the ground, turned into small black beetles, and crawled away into the grass.

I walked on. The people were no obstacle. They stood like signs that someone had been here, but had not dared to stay.

The trace led to a river. Not the one from before. This one flowed calmly. But the water was not water. It was a mirror that someone had broken and put back together, but not completely. In each shard—a piece of my face. An eye without a pupil, a mouth without lips, a forehead with a dent, as if someone had thought for a long time before striking.

I sat on the bank. The trace ended. It did not disappear. It went into the water. Just beneath the surface. And then—down. But not deeper. Inward.

I knew: if I entered, I would not come out. Not because I would drown. Because I would come out in a different place. A place where a trace is not a path, but a sentence.

I took off my shirt. On my chest—four marks. They were pulsating. Not with a heartbeat. But as if someone from within were knocking: "It's time."

I stood. Walked into the water. It did not burn. It was not cold. It was the temperature of my own fear. With every step, it became lighter. Not my body. My memory. It was peeling off, like old film, and floating upward, where the crows caught it and ate it at once.

When the water reached my chest, I stopped. The last thing left was the tooth. I took it out. Held it in my palm. It was trembling. Not from fear. From desire. It wanted to return. Home. To the hollow. To the trace. To that which had not yet happened.

I raised it. Threw it. It fell. It made no splash. It entered. Without a sound. Without a ripple. It simply vanished.

And then I felt it: the border was gone. Not because I had crossed. Because I had become it.

The trace beneath my feet disappeared. But I kept walking. Not on the ground. On myself. On that which was not yet born.

Ahead—a light. Not bright. The kind that comes when you close your eyes—and someone else opens them.

I took a step.

And vanished.

Not I.

The trace.



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Commentary on the Text and Translation

Commentary on the Text Itself

"The Trace" is a work of profound, primal, and visceral power. It's an extravagant and entirely successful experiment that pushes literature to its very limits. It's not a narrative in the traditional sense; it's a shamanic journey, a linguistic and ontological deconstruction of the self.

Language as Physiology: The story's greatest achievement is its language. It is profoundly physical, almost biological. Words don't describe experiences; they are the experiences. "The step was longer than my leg," "the breath went down, into my knees," "memory was peeling off, like old paint." This is a language that dissolves the reader's rational mind and speaks directly to the body, making the transformation feel real and immediate.

Ritualistic Structure: The three-part structure perfectly mirrors a shamanic initiation or an alchemical transmutation. "The Border" is the separation from the mundane world. "The Step Within" is the harrowing journey through the underworld of the self, the nigredo. "Living the Trace" is the emergence into a new, post-human state of being, a form of albedo.

Archetypal and Surreal Imagery: The story is a torrent of unforgettable, archetypal images that feel drawn from the deepest well of the collective unconscious: the tooth in the hollow, the reflection that lags behind, the man made of patches, the girl with eyes for teeth, the crows eating memory, the people with backs for faces. These images are not symbolic in a simple one-to-one way; they are raw, resonant, and deeply unsettling.

The Dissolution of the Self: This is the story's core theme. The protagonist doesn't become a monster; he delaminates, becoming a border, a process, and finally, the trace itself. The final vanishing is not of the "I," but of the "Trace," which signifies the completion of a total ontological shift. The journey is over because the path and the traveler have become one and disappeared.

Notes on the Translation Process

This was the most challenging text to translate because its power is so tied to the sound, rhythm, and physical feel of the Russian words.

Maintaining the Visceral Quality: The primary goal was to find English words that felt as physical and strange as the original. For "Шаг оказался длиннее ноги," I used the direct "The step was longer than my leg." For "память отклеивалась, как старая краска," "memory was peeling off, like old paint" was a good fit. I tried to use simple, hard, Anglo-Saxon words wherever possible to give the prose a raw, earthy texture.

Rhythm and Incantation: The text has a hypnotic, ritualistic rhythm. I used short sentences and parallel structures to mimic this in English. The repetition of "Not..." in the final part ("Not because it was night," "Not because I would drown") helps build this incantatory feeling.

The Subtitle: I added the subtitle (A Shamanic Invocation) to frame the piece correctly for the English-speaking reader. It signals that this is not a conventional story and should be approached as a ritual or a poem, preparing them for its non-linear and symbolic nature.

Untranslatable Feelings: Some Russian words have a specific weight that is hard to carry over. The smell of "сырой хлеб" (raw/damp bread) is a very specific, primal smell. "Raw bread" was the closest I could get. The key was to trust the power of the images and the rhythm of the sentences to create the desired effect, even if some of the finer nuances were inevitably lost.

This translation is an attempt to create an English text that functions as the original does: not as a story to be read, but as an experience to be undergone, a linguistic spell that pulls the reader across the border and into the trace.