Chapter 16

“He calls for fisticuffs!” Oleg realized. He started to dismount reluctantly, groaning.

“May I do it?” Thomas suggested, with a quaver in his voice.

“You need half a day to take your steel off.” Oleg dropped the reins on the saddle, spat loudly on his palms, took his stand against the fighter. While high in the saddle, he had spotted something strange about the whole line of shavepates. Now that he dismounted, he grasped that the sinewy monk’s head, with his face of a skillful and ruthless fist fighter, was on a level with his breast. The monk’s thin arms with tiny fists looked like switches.

With a terrible shriek, the monk dashed forward. Oleg stepped back involuntarily under the hail of his blows, shielded with arms in fright: it was like being attacked by a furious she-cat in a dark barn, as he once was when he’d bothered her kittens. He heard guttural cries of monks, then Thomas yelling. Oleg waved away once and again, each time hitting the thin air. The yellow robe flickered before his eyes, then he felt a hard blow on lips, pain and salty taste in the mouth. He roared with fury, his fists began to move faster, but he missed every time, punching the air, while the monk wriggled around like a loach, showering him with swift frequent blows from all sides. Oleg stopped backing, stood in place for a while, his fists darted forward menacingly, as he targeted the monk’s concentrated face that glistened with big beads of sweat.

Suddenly the monk flew up, gave out such a terrible shriek as if he got under a loaded oxcart, and hit Oleg’s breast with both feet. Oleg lurched, made a step back to keep his balance, waved his hand and gripped the falling monk by ankle. The adversary had bent, ready to somersault, but now, being caught by leg, he struck against the ground forcefully with his face, choked with nasty fine dust.

Oleg still held the foe’s ankle, guessing what to do now, when the monk thrashed in his arms, hit his breast with the other heel and squeaked with pain, then hit lower but the wonderer’s belly was not much softer, so the monk squeaked again, arched his back like a cat, gripped Oleg’s hand with both of his, digging his nails deep into flesh. Oleg’s fingers unclenched hurriedly, jerked his hand away. The monk fell down but jumped up at once, as if his bottom were pierced with an awl. Standing with his back to Oleg, he started raising his leg for a sider, but Oleg got cross and kicked him forcefully below his back.

The monk was sent flying. He collapsed into the dust in several steps and remained there, sprawled like a frog squashed by a wheel. “He shouldn’t have scratched me!” Oleg said loudly, as an excuse for himself. “He could bite me either… Though I’d have knocked all his teeth out then!”

Thomas looked at Oleg with goggled eyes. The senior monk came out of stupor and whispered – not bellowed! – a few words. Two monks dashed to their fallen comrade. Oleg watched, with compassion and concern, the injured man to be turned on his back. His arms were pulled apart, the air was blown into his mouth. At last, one of the monks cried something in a high-pitched, bird-like voice, the senior monk cast a sharp glance at Oleg, and the defeated fighter was carried at a run into the open gate.

Two monks, whose solemn faces seemed to be carved of dark stone, stepped forward. One winced malevolently, shot a fierce glance at Oleg. Another gave a terrible scream and shivered, as if in some dashing dance, his face contorted, sinews in his neck bulged like a spinal comb of a big lizard. The senior monk looked them over approvingly. “Which would you like?” he asked Oleg harshly.

“To fight, you mean?”

“To combat.”

“Well, to make it fair… Both.”

The senior monk’s eyebrows jerked up. “The two of them?” he repeated slowly, unable to believe his ears. “At the same time?”

“What’s wrong?” Oleg wondered in turn. “If no mortal combat, why not to have some fun? When I was young, we fought face-offs in groups…”

The monks started coming to him from both sides. Oleg stepped away from one, but missed the stroke of another who flew up like a hellish bat, bared his teeth, raised his hand but struck with foot: so high that the bare heel hit Oleg’s head. Oleg spat with vexation for being tricked like that. He moved to grip his ankle, as he did with the previous combatant, but failed. Meanwhile, the first monk took a running jump from the left. The violent kick of both his feet on the neck almost knocked Oleg down. He turned, raising his fist for a mighty blow, but both monks whisked under his arms and began to pound his back with fists, elbows, feet, even heads. Once Oleg wheeled round, like angered bear, both warrior monks slipped to behind him again, knocked on his back like on a wall of logs, screaming in high-pitched voices, hitting with their heads. They neither bite nor scratch at least. Good.

After a fifth or sixth attempt, Oleg managed to snatch one of them blindly. It turned out to be his head, so Oleg took care not to squeeze it, got a better grip on his leg, whirled the monk overhead and rushed after the other one. The adversary ran away from him in circles, screaming desperately. Oleg chased him as if he were a naughty kitten, brandishing the first warrior monk overhead, roaring with joy.

Finally, the fighter stumbled, fell into the dust, shielded his head with both arms in wild fear, then pulled the hem of his robe over. “I see you give up,” Oleg understood. He took his “weapon” with both hands and laid him down on a dusty road near his brother. “Live on, lad!”

The monk whom Oleg intended to use as a club, though landed no blow with him, lay with his eyes goggled as a lobster’s. His face and neck were horrible crimson, filled with bad blood. The veins on his temples bulged in tight branchy knots.

The monks were backing in horror. Their even line broke, their goggle-eyed gazes shifted between their sprawled brothers and the smirking giant barbarian. The senior monk glanced back at his monastery walls in confusion, as if he expected some help from there. “Give me two more of yours!” Oleg suggested. “Or come with them yourself. I’ve only started to warm up. We Slavs are a nation of north, we harness slowly… It’s been ages since I romped in fisticuffs. I see no harm in pleasing myself and our gods with them!”

The senior monk glanced at Oleg and Thomas angrily, spat out few words in a high-pitched voice, like a street fishwife. One of the monks darted into the gate, the sprawled brothers were carried after him. Behind the wall, there were shouts and horse neighs.

Three warriors, in yellow jackets and strange straw hats, which looked like caps of mushrooms, with red tassels, ran out of the gate briskly. Each had a short spear in clenched fist and a thin curved saber on his belt.

“Serious guys,” Oleg admitted. He backed to his horse, where his bow and quiver lay across the saddle and his giant sword hung beside it.

Thomas drove his horse ahead, blocking the way. “Sir wonderer,” he said solemnly, “it’s a shame for me to hide behind a peaceful back of a holy hermit. I’m a noble knight after all, a professional fighter for justice. Please let me warm up now. You need time to take your sword, and I have mine in hand!”

Thomas dismounted heavily, walked ahead slowly, stopped before the three warrior monks. He looked like a glittering tower of metal, his armor gleaming so bright that it was painful to look at. Slowly, Thomas lowered his visor, unsheathed the sword. The sunlight scattered blue sparkles over the double-edged blade of Damask steel.

The senior monk backed, with his head tossed and mouth open. At last, he came to his senses, spoke in a shaky voice, “Which of my warriors will you fight, Frank?”

Thomas had spotted the weakest, in his view, one among them but looked back at Oleg, suppressed a sigh of grief and replied as haughtily as he could, “Would I, Sir Thomas Malton of Gisland, select one when my humble friend, who wouldn’t harm a fly, did fight two? Surely, I’ll fight all three.”

The senior monk wheeled round to the three warriors of his. They breathed fast, their arms quivered with strain. In that silence, one could all but hear the creak of their extremely tensed muscle. The three of them had their eyes fixed on the gleaming knight, the heads of their spears aimed at his breast.

Thomas looked back at his huge warhorse. His giant lance, as thick as a young tree, remained across the saddle, but he only waved his hand. “Dear sirs! I beg you to start with the arms we have. My lance is more fitting for a knightly joust.”

The senior monk uttered a desperate shriek, the three brave fighters rushed forward. Thomas had barely tightened his grip on the sword hilt when three spears hit his chest. He felt a violent push, white wooden chips flew up before his eyes. One of the warrior monks who came running hit the knight’s steel breast with own head. He gasped, fell down to Thomas’s feet. The rest two staggered away, their eyes malevolent and confused. The ground before the knight was strewn by splinters of broken spears. One of the monks was shaking his blooded hand.

Thomas stooped, slapped the unconscious monk sympathetically on the back of his head. “Dear sir! Get up, it’s all over.”

“A well-nursed child utters no scream!” Oleg cried out. “Don’t hit on head! You have your gauntlet on, and his head is as large as mine… er… fist.”

“I didn’t hit,” Thomas muttered in fright and took his hand away hastily. “I patted him, for Christ wanted us to love even our foes… And this one’s no foe indeed. Dear sir herald! Please call new fighters. These ones got tired, I see.”

The senior monk screeched in despair, tore his hat off, trampled on it fiercely, as if it were a jumping viper. His goggled eyes looked like owl’s, then they got bloodshot. His thin lips dropped foam. He kept glancing back at the gate impatiently. His face lit up when three more warriors ran out.

With spears at the ready and such terrible screams as if some parts of them were pinched in the door, they dashed on Thomas, their legs moved swiftly. The knight gripped his sword – and was late again. A spear hit him straight in the face, hooked his visor, two others broke on his chest. The triple blow was so crushing that Thomas couldn’t help reeling back. He even made a small step back but, as his frightened glance fell on the wonderer who watched the fight very closely, Thomas stepped forward with haste.

Two monks were staggering back, their hands pressed to their smashed, bleeding faces. The third one lay at Thomas’s feet: his arms spread out wide, his squashed nose and slashed eyebrow bleeding heavily.

Groaning with vexation, Thomas pulled out the spearhead stuck in the visor, twisted it about in his steel fingers, with disgust for the low quality of iron, and flung away. “These tired too,” he spoke loudly to no one in particular. “Can’t fight but fall asleep, like fish ashore.”

“Too nimble they are, like mice!” Oleg said with concern. “And you only gape your jaws, scratch yourself, and keep harnessing… Are you a Slav?[13] Fight, or they’ll smash their heads before you get ready, stuffed iron dummy!”

“Before I get ready?” Thomas got surprised. He looked around nervously. “I am ready! I’m shaking in my shoes as I wait for them to start using their martial arts… And all I get is their pre-fight rites!”

“Which rites?” Oleg didn’t get it.

“Pre-fight,” Thomas said again. “The ones before a fight. Breaking their twigs, hitting their foreheads… I’m tired of trembling and waiting for their famous fighters to show up!”

The men with small wounds were taken by arms and led away, the motionless one carried after them. A new score of warrior monks ran out, armed with poles, spears, and sabers. Some even had strange flails: the likes of those were used in Russian villages to thresh the sheaves of wheat. The monks stopped at the gate, talking to each other in shrill chirping voices. Like a big flock of small forest birds, Oleg thought. One was sent by senior monk back to the monastery. Seems he was told to deliver a message and be back in a flash.

Oleg came to his horse, pulled the sword out, turned his face to the monks. Thomas stood in two steps, casting jealous glances, as he compared the length of their weapons. The wonderer’s sword did not look shorter, though Thomas’s one was the longest in all the crusader army. Moreover, Oleg’s sword was obviously heavier, as its blade was half as broad again as Thomas’s. The senior monk, as the knight had spotted, couldn’t take his eyes off the wonderer’s blade sparkling with bluish lights. However, he gazed at Thomas’s huge sword, as long as any of monkish spears, in the same way. Like a rabbit enchanted by a cobra.

That time no one came running out of the gate, screaming, jumping, and swaying a thin rite spear in complicated ways. They heard a bass gong in the monastery. A very old monk appeared in the gate, clad in a sumptuous oriental robe embroidered with gold and a multistoried hat with little bells and ribbons. The staff in his hand was decorated with silver, its knob was shaped as a head of furious dragon.

“That must be a senior sorcerer,” Thomas said quietly.

“An abbot,” Oleg objected in whisper. “Or even a bishop!”

Thomas snuffled indignantly but, out of respect, said nothing. The local sorcerer (or bishop) looked the battlefield over from beneath his senile swollen eyelids, advanced his trembling hands. Monks came running from both sides to support his stretched arms respectfully.

“Who are you, strangers?” the dressed-up sorcerer or bishop (or maybe an abbot) asked.

“Pilgrims,” Thomas replied respectfully. “We ride in no hurry from the Holy Land, bother and offend no one… You see, the monks of your monastery have greeted us by a strange rite, but even sir wonderer, though a Pagan, knows: when in monastery, do as monks do. In some places a guest must wipe his feet, while in others he must not…”

“I’m a preceptor of this famous monastery,” the old man said in a rasping voice. “Here we study the martial art of mao shui, the best in the world. We revere great heroes, even the wandering ones, and invite you to honor the ancient walls of our wonderful monastery that has the only true rules with your visit.”

“Well… we are not quite great heroes,” Thomas mumbled with a stunned look.

Oleg slapped loudly on the knight’s metal shoulder. “Let’s go, or no seed will remain of these men. They lay themselves out just to show their hospitality!”

On an open porch, there was a table of polished walnut set for them and mats to sit on. Oleg managed to seat himself, with his legs crossed in the way he had learnt from Saracen (though it made his joints crunch as snow), while poor Thomas tried to settle himself this way and that and ended pulling his breastplate off fiercely. His body was warmed, Oleg smelled at once that the noble knight hadn’t washed it for a long time. Thomas sat down on his iron armor, put his glittering helmet on the floor besides. His hair, the color of reap wheat, poured over his shoulders, lighting the walls with golden shine.

Glancing at each other across the table, they snatched quails roasted in dried white breadcrumbs and stuffed with nuts and lard. The birds were so juicy and tender that Thomas gobbled them down with bones. The peacocks, partridges, and starlings cooked skillfully on spits were even more tender, and those baked on griddles were just melting in the mouth. Thomas barely had time to squeeze big walnuts and small hazelnuts in his strong teeth before they were served a new course on huge plates: ham seasoned with Eastern spices, set densely with whole nuts, sprinkled with crumbled nuts and shredded fragrant grass.

A large plate with a pile of smoked sausages was placed in front of Oleg. They were so thin and red that he mistook them for earthworms and moved the plate away with disgust. Thomas seized it at once with both hands, dragged closer. He must have known this course, as he had lived among Saracens, or guessed it.

However, Thomas was the first to get full. He loosened his belt, started to pant, and ended leaning back from the table and looking with envy at the wonderer who, staying perfectly calm, gulped down lots of roast birds, baked fish seasoned with a sour sauce, fine shreds of young venison sinking in big juicy berries, then fruits, berries, and meat again: roast, baked, dried, and smoked… Finally, Thomas couldn’t help saying venomously, “Hermits feed on honey and locusts! And you, valiant sir wonderer, are eating up the second boar!”

“When in monastery, do as monks do. You said it. So eat what you are given, don’t be squeamish.”

“Would you have preferred locusts?”

“With honey,” Oleg reminded modestly. “But now I’m out of small reclusion, did you forget? And in the Great Reclusion, I lead the same life as others. No standing out, no excelling.”

Thomas said nothing but his blue eyes spoke out clearly how non-excelling the wonderer was while setting to the third boar, washing it down with falls of heady drinks and barley beer, eating lots of boiled crabs after, guzzling jugs of red wine dry. Without batting an eyelid, he gobbled fat spotted snakes and frogs and jelly-like oysters, which Thomas was afraid even to look at: his face went green and his body spotty, making him look like those frogs and pythons.

Down in the yard, monks were training tirelessly. Young and old men, all in the same orange robes, jumped, somersaulted, fought with poles and wooden swords. Oleg feasted his eyes upon a separate group who swung wooden flails. He had often seen village boys fighting with flails, but the monks did wonders with those. Their flails are much lighter and shorter, however, but one should mind they are small people. These fellows might fail even to raise a Slavic flail, but brandish easily the lighter ones of theirs, called nunchaku, shift them between hands swiftly, whirl over heads…

In the far corner of the garden, the strongest monks (or the most skillful ones, Oleg and Thomas did not know exactly) had their practice. Anyway, there was a crowd of gapers around: gasping, squeaking, crouching with awe. One of the skillful (or strong) would break two boulders, one topped on another, with the edge of his palm, the second – a thick stick with a terrible blow of his fist, and the third, with his muscle bulging fiercely, would tie an iron rod, as thick as a rake, in a bundle. After he had a rest, he would bend or tie the next one.

“Monks?” Thomas said with disapproval. “They are Pagans who haven’t seen the light of Christ!”

Oleg chopped off a weighty slice of juicy fragrant brisket, salted it, peppered, spiced with mustard, sprinkled nicely with ground roots and shedders of greenery. “But they know good food instead. There are many ways to gods. The way of these robed men is exercise. It’s the same as fast is for you Christians. Fast is the triumph of spirit over base flesh, isn’t it? Here, the same high spirit makes men exercise until they fall like dead. They live in monkhood: no women, no dancing, no wine! They only have exercise instead of praying. And on different ways of serving gods…”

“God,” Thomas corrected with displeasure. “He is one!”

“And angels. archangels, cherubs, seraphs, and so on – aren’t they some smaller gods? Well, I just meant that people on different ways need different food.”

Thomas could not take his eyes off the green garden full of cries, squeals, dry thuds of wooden poles. “Let’s go and have a look?.. I don’t understand many things here.”

“Just many?” Oleg was surprised. “Happy you!” He wiped his mouth with a sleeve, cast a regretful look over the table to which silent monks kept serving food and drinks noiselessly from all around. That befits a hermit who exercised in hunger for years. Thomas was already up his feet, pulling on the breastplate: he made no step without it, neither went to sleep. He also put on the helmet, though visor remained up, and glanced back warily at the huge sword: its polished handle glittered ominously in the corner, together with Oleg’s sword. “We are guests!” the wonderer whispered softly to him. “I don’t think they’ll break the law of hospitality.”

“Laws are different in different lands.”

“This one is common.”

“Even for the guests who broke into?”

Oleg said nothing: he also started to think that fearless monks could not be willing to invite two strangers into their impregnable monastery. His fingers slid reassuringly by the knife hilts on the inner side of his jack.

Thomas saw it. “You shouldn’t have left the bow,” he grumbled.

“It would look strange.”

“You could say that’s a part of your costume. A ritual ornament! Once I’ve rode past a savage tribe whose leader ornamented himself with spoons, tin cups, and pans. Can’t recall the name of that country: it might have been either Rus’ or Ethiopia…”

As they approached the garden, the cracks, thuds, and battle cries grew louder. Down at the last stair, the prior sat on a small bench. A sullen monk, strong in shoulders, stood motionless behind him. Both had beautiful staffs in hands: gilded, gleaming, decorated with elaborate carving, little bells, bright feathers. Both kept their eyes on the excercising monks. Sometimes the standing monk would cry out a command, and the ones in the garden would speed up at once. Both observers glanced back in fright, as they heard the metallic thunder of Thomas’s steps. The monk helped the old man up his feet, both bowed to their guests from the waist.

The knight bowed in return with effort, as Oleg did. The small of Thomas’s back grinded. The monks gave a new, even more polite bow. Thomas and Oleg replied with the same. Oleg heard a squeezed protesting sob in his stomach. “Strange rites can be a burden!” Thomas said through gritted teeth.

“Not for everyone,” Oleg replied, but looked with compassion at the iron plates on the small of knight’s back, as they came over each other, rasping, rubbing the rust away.

“Who knows how much bows remain,” Thomas whispered. “Which is their sacred number?”

“It’s often three,” Oleg replied after thinking for a while. “Three epic heroes, three heads of a dragon, three sons… But, on the other hand, a hut is built with four corners, a horse has four legs… er… to stumble. The Secret Seven vowed to raise their five-pointed star over all the world, to put it even on the towers of our Moscow Kremlin[14]… and David, whose tower you took by storm, had a star of six points. But seven is considered a magic number in all the world, since the times of Chaldean and Urjupin…”

Thomas groaned, straightened up with effort and stopped bowing. The prior and the monk also stiffened in a polite half-bow. “We sent the fastest rider for Libryuk and Chaknor,” the old man said in a rasping voice. “They are the greatest warriors of our land. They’ll come at night, so next morning you’ll have an opportunity to fight them!”

Thomas froze as if he got ice-bound. Oleg gulped down a lump in his throat. “One thing on top…” he said politely. “Why two of them? One would do. The good sire dreams of battles, jousts, and combats. There’s nothing, even your bread and wine, he likes more than fighting!”

“And you, a great hero of Hyperborean?” the monastic elder asked warily.

“I live up to other monastic rules. Good meal and good sleep, that’s all I need.”

“A very interesting monastery,” the prior said thoughtfully. “I’d like to go there on pilgrimage.”

Thomas stepped down from the stone stairs, strolled across the garden. He left a trace of deep footprints, like a walking iron statue. The excercising monks started to glance back. A stir spread upon their rows until all of them stopped, stiffened with respectful attention, then started bowing altogether. Thomas sniffed with displeasure, bowed his head with a great effort, his armor gave a rasp. The local strongmen gave an even lower bow eagerly. Thomas grasped there would be no end to that and pretended to see nothing. He turned to the stairs where the prior and his assistant remained. “Is it really difficult?”

The monastic elder got up with the monk’s help, crossed the garden slowly and poignantly. He stopped in two steps from Thomas and ringed out, “Would you break the brick? To do it, one needs to please our gods. Besides, our fighters exercise in it from dawn till dusk! A year after year…”

Thoughtful, Thomas turned to the group of fighters. They stood with their sleeves rolled up to elbows, all sweaty and powdered with the red dust of crushed boulders. A red pile of bricks was seen aside, and one boulder lay prepared on a huge granite block that had sank by a third into the ground under own weight.

Thomas tapped on the boulder with a finger, heard a dry ringing sound. He looked around, as though expecting a catch in it, his eyes full of fear and agonizing hesitation. One of the monks caught his sight, put one more red stone eagerly on the top of the boulder. Thomas bowed his head slowly and bent a finger. The monk raised his eyebrows but added the third boulder obediently. Thomas thought for a while, ordered by gesture to lay one more. The monk hesitated, looked around those present. His eyes were astonished and frightened, but he put a stone on and retreated hastily into the crowd.

Oleg walked around the granite block, examined the pile of stones thoroughly, slid his finger over the red crumbs. “Want to break it?”

“Well, it’s important to them for some reason…”

“Do it,” Oleg approved. “The thing is not ours to take care of.”

Thomas raised his hand, aimed, and struck with force. A terrible crash, a flash of long white sparks, a smell of burning – and he stood in a thick red cloud of brick dust setting down slowly. The boulder had broken in two pieces that lay in front of him, each driven into the ground almost by half. There was a strong smell of burning and something more scary. Everything was yellow around, as if the golden fall came suddenly in the middle of green summer. All the monks, including the elder one, lay on the ground, shielding their heads with arms, covering with a yellow hem of cloak or at least a sleeve.

“Why the slab too?” Oleg grunted.

“Who knew their stones were so fragile…” Thomas muttered, startled.

“No stones here, sir! Just clay. A fired clay! It’s what they call bricks!”

“That’s something,” Thomas drawled with disappointment. “They could make them of sand either… A childish way, I swear on the innocence of Holy Virgin!”

The monks started to stir and rise. Their swarthy faces turned out to be whiter than those of Norwegs, and their narrow eyes opened so wide that the monks gained resemblance to eagle-owls from the woods of Moscow or Gisland. Oleg clapped the knight loudly on his iron back, to take him out of the state of embarrassed rigidity. Both started a walk back to the porch where the table had been changed in their absence, replaced by a broader one. Oleg, with his keen eye, spotted ram side served with porridge, baked turkeys stuffed with garden apples, not to mention various small things, which he decided to sort out immediately.

On the way, they bowed politely to monks who had been hitting, with the edges of their hands, all the day long, a thick log fixed upon heavy boulders. At the moment, the monks were not knocking it with their horny hands but stood stiff, like hamsters near their burrows, goggling at the pilgrims from North.

As Oleg went by, he shook his head, gave a mettlesome hem, struck the log. They heard a terrible crush, wooden splinters flew up and sideways with force. The halves of log thundered down on the ground, only their very ends remained on boulders. The motionless figures of monks had vanished: some fell down, some were thrown away by splinters. Only the strongest ones managed to run aside.

Thomas looked at him with reproach. Oleg shrugged with the air of independence. “It’s rotten. Nibbled by worms.”

“And bark beetles,” Thomas sympathized. “The hot climate drives them mad. They even damage the stone here!”

They looked at each other and smirked, feeling the terrible strain subsiding. They hugged each other by shoulders and went upstairs. In fact, they were dragged on there by the powerful magic of fragrances of the table served.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 609