The Troll s Flight

The Troll’s Flight

Alexandr Piatkov


He chewed a little more on the cracked spade and buried it in the usual spot.

Nearby lay a battered book, though there was no point in hiding it; nothing but

scraps remained of the once-hefty volume.


Scratching himself, he peeked through the breach. No one was in sight, yet

something felt off. Scanning the surroundings more carefully, he spotted a

telescope aimed right at him from the balcony of the neighboring house. It was

the telepath’s telescope. Occassionally, the telepath would take a break from

spinning objects around some imaginary axis and indulge in contemplating the

world around him. "Well, a telescope isn't a sniper rifle scope," he thought, and

squeezed through the breach.


As usual, an old man sat to the left with a hand-rolled cigarette, while to the

right, a local painter had perched in the front garden with his sketchbox and

pencils. He felt no particular desire to approach either of them. Sneezing, he

still turned toward the old man. The smoke, though rather strange for tobacco—

smelling of burnt garlic scapes—offered some hope of curing his chronic runny

nose.


After taking a few steps, he felt it was time to leave his first post. Digging a

little, purely symbolically, he strained and did what had to be done—and come

what may! Scraping the ground ever so slightly with his hind legs, he moved on.

But what kind of thoughts were haunting him today? Before he could even manage a

couple of paces, he had to leave yet another post. He glanced sideways at the

telescope, but the telepath seemed busy with his axis as usual. A close shave! If

only the Master wouldn't show up; he would surely give him a proper thrashing for

these posts!


But no, all was quiet. Having left six or seven posts, he finally reached the old

man. Seeing the sufferer, the old man immediately offered him a puff. That was

the last straw—he retched! Oh, Heavens, could this be the final post? Yes, time

to head back. Emptyed, barely dragging his legs, he crawled toward the breach.


Yet fate was preparing a decisive blow for him. When he looked out through the

breach, his stomach sank. He lacked the strength in his legs to scrape the ground

even once, and the final post turned out to be even more revealing than the rest.

The horror lay in the fact that the Master's girlfriend had discovered the

battered book and, with Finnish-like pedantry, swept it straight into the trash

bin!


This was a total disaster. The cracked and obscenely gnawed spade remained the

only source of sustenance for our ascetic! How was he to live?


Suddenly, something powerful dragged his almost lifeless little body through the

breach with a firm motion. An unimaginably mighty vortex sucked him into its

funnel, spun him around, and lifted him up. He felt himself flying upward; the

overload popped his ears. Oh, radiant heights, there they were! Here it was—the

reward for his suffering! At last, the higher powers had appreciated him too!

Faith—his faith had saved him! Nothing but faith in the Soliton could have

conjured these majestic forces!


He saw a bright white light at the end of the tunnel. Wait, this was too much; he

wasn't ready for such glory just yet! Bracing all his limbs, he tried to stop the

movement. And indeed, the flight suddenly ceased. The feeling of bliss somehow

dissolved. He came to and found himself lying in the puddle of his own final

post.


Oh, that garlic smoke from the old man’s cigarette! Oh, curse it all!



Publication Details / Сведения о публикации:
;Author: Alexandr Piatkov
;Originally published: proza.ru/2013/09/22/2165 (Certificate of Publication No. 213092202165)
;English Translation: AI-Assisted Translation (2026)
;Copyright: © Alexandr Piatkov, 2013