Lend Me Your Body in the Evening

Vovva Skunso was standing on the sports area in the school courtyard and lazily throwing a ball through the basketball hoop. Chubby Pasha Sushkin squatted down a couple of metres from him and was intently jabbing ants with a penknife.

“Darn... No way! Little stinkers! A dozen jabs and only two dead bodies!” He complained.

“You’re simply a squinter. Got a cigarette lighter? Try a lighter! Works like a flamethrower, only you must move it quickly from side to side until it goes out,” advised Skunso.

He wanted to throw the ball through the basket, but suddenly something attracted his attention. The ball hit the hoop.

“Look who’s there! Our confused Methodius Buslaev, the son of a cosmonaut, and some girl together with him! Interesting, why does Glumovich allow him to gad about all day to unknown places?” Skunso said.

From the little area, Methodius and the girl were very visible by the gates explaining something to the guard. Then the gates opened and they passed through onto the school grounds.

“The girl’s not bad... I like her. And where did he hook her? In any event, let him take leave of her. Methodius needs something simpler. The type: dot, dot, comma, turned out a crooked kisser!” Skunso stated.

“You be more careful with him. Don’t run up against him! Have you forgotten yesterday?” Pasha Sushkin cautiously said.

“Well. Those were cheap tricks. And later, if he won’t be with this girl... Let’s approach them!” Skunso decisively made his way to cut off Methodius.

Sushkin hurried after him.

“Hello! I’m Skunso, son of the very Skunso. Very well, simply Vova to you. Don’t feel inferior — I’m great, but modest,” said Skunso, smiling at Daph.

Daphne interrogatively glanced at Methodius, as if asking who this was.

“My roommate,” explained Methodius.

He was astonished how soon Skunso restored self-confidence after the night before. They are correct when they say cheekiness is the second happiness. However, for Skunso cheekiness was clearly not only the second but also the first.

“And you’re not bad! In the sense of the legs and all the rest! The face is also natural! So what’s your name? Forgot your own name?” Skunso continued.

“I’m flattered. Let’s assume I’m Dasha. Anything else?”

“You’re indeed going to study here?” Skunso continued, a little confused by the cold reception.

“How did you guess?”

“Intuition, friend. Otherwise, they wouldn’t let you onto the school grounds. We’re strict with that here. They unscrew strange heads and throw them there. What drum do you have sticking out of the backpack there? A grand piano in the bushes, an upright among the palms?” Skunso motioned to the fence.

“It’s a flute!”

“Oh, the type, even a musical instrument! I envy you! There is a flutist here! Pash, drag yourself over here!” Skunso hailed.

Pasha Sushkin, standing slightly to the side, approached, and gave a respectable little cough.

“Get acquainted! Our culture and gymnastics!” Skunso presented. “Isn’t it true he’s like papa? The same chubby cheeks, curly hair! I would kiss him, but nowhere to wash the lips with soap!”

“Do you know how to play the flute?” Daph asked, turning to Pasha.

Everything about Skunso was already clear to her. He clearly expected that after the first doubtful compliment she would faint from happiness and steam with love. This did not happen and Skunso began to get angry. He loved instantaneous confirmation of his irresistibility.

“I know how to do everything. I’m gifted,” said Sushkin and, raising his head towards the basketball basket, recited plaintively:

In the taverns, in the alleys, in the river bends,

In an electrical dream in reality

I searched for infinite beauty

And undying devotion to volubility...

(Poem of A. Blok)

“What’s this?” Daph asked. “Probably something from the beginning of the twentieth century?”

“Yes, it’s Blok. How do you know?” Pasha Sushkin was astonished.

“Then all poets went insane over light bulbs and airplanes and gave the scent of gasoline as presents to girls!” Daph remarked. She could not say to Sushkin that this was like yesterday to her.

“Give me your flute, eh! I once began to learn!” Sushkin demanded.

“I cannot. I’m not sure that you can manage it,” said Daphne with doubt.

“And why do you ask her? Give it to him!” Skunso unceremoniously went to the side, pulled out the flute from Daph’s knapsack and threw it to Sushkin.

Daph was about to try to get back the flute, but Vovva blocked her path.

“Don’t be bitchy! Give culture and gymnastics something to play! Otherwise he’ll wither!” He said.

Daphne, understanding that without the flute she could use the horn of Minotaur but could not do this anyhow, helplessly looked around. Methodius took a step forward, forming a fist. This time he decided even not to run to magic. Traces from a fist take longer to come off.

“Eh, well...” He began, but now Daphne already stopped him.

“Don’t interfere! He wants to play — the cards are in his hands!” Having suddenly decided, she told Methodius.

Pasha twisted Daph’s flute in his fingers, and then brought it up to his lips and rather competently played a short study melody. Daphne supervised him with secret triumph.

A heavy bin with construction rubbish, located immediately beyond the fence, rose into the air, flew over the fence in a beautiful arc, and crashed directly into a teacher’s window. Pasha Sushkin was stunned and, forgetting to pull the flute away from his lips, stared at a corner of the dumpster sticking out of the window.

“It came out rather well with you. It’s impressive. And now be nice, return the flute! Another couple of the same nightmarish sounds and a crater will appear on the spot of your school,” said Daph, coolly pulling the flute out of his fingers.

Having left Skunso and Sushkin feeling crushed under the basketball hoop, Methodius and Daph made their way to the entrance of the school.

“Why did the magic work? Did the moronoid play?” Methodius asked quietly.

“So? You and I were beside him. Too high a combined concentration of magic,” explained Daph.

“But the maglody?”

“What maglody? He played something similar, that’s all it was. But then, among the composers who wrote for the flute, do you think all were moronoids? Ha, ha and again he! The last talented moronoid fell under a streetcar thirty years before the invention of the wheel!” Daphne stated.

“You’re sure that you’re a real guard of Light? Flying dumpsters ramming whatever, it’s pettiness...” Methodius became silent, searching for words.

“... unusual for a normal guard of Light?” Daph finished with satisfaction and tenderly scratched the neck of her skinny cat with a nail.

“Like that. Dangerous...”

“Well, and you’re an untypical guard of Gloom! Interfered with Ares about beheading me. What’s that from?” Daphne asked mockingly.

Methodius looked away.

“Well, that... A whim!” He growled.

***

Around midnight, when the moist twilight shrouded Moscow, a short flash lit up the empty alley by house № 13 on Bolshaya Dmitrovka. Ligul the hunchback materialized on the asphalt. This time he was without armour, in an amusing colourful robe. Two of his personal guards, armed, accompanied Ligul. These were not rather stupid gorillas but compact, quick soldiers with cat-like movements and empty eyes of a killer. Both were in black raincoats hiding their armour.

As the first order of business, they sketched a shielding rune around Ligul. The prudent hunchback remained in it, safely protected from any attack magic.

“Make sure everything is clean,” he ordered, nodding to house № 13.

Reaching for short swords, the guards slid towards the entrance into the residence of Gloom. After exchanging glances, the first guard let the second pass in front. Everything happened quickly and well coordinated. Must be, the manoeuvre was agreed upon earlier. With three quick strokes of his sword sparkling in the moonlight, the second guard cut the construction netting and jerked its edge sharply to the side. The dim light of a lamp caught a narrow door with coloured glass — that same one already familiar to Methodius. Now came the turn of the first guard. Keeping his weapon in readiness, he pushed the door and, after bending down, hid behind it. The second waited tensely, listening attentively for the slightest rustle. After a certain time the first guard looked out and gave a sign that everything was in order. Now both had already slid inside the building. The door shut noiselessly.

Ligul patiently waited in the rune, moving from foot to foot. Finally, the door creaked. The hunchback saw the flicker of a black raincoat.

“Shin, is it you? Why so long?” The hunchback shouted from the rune.

“The house is big! Everything checked out so far!” He was answered in a rather muffled voice.

“Did you find him?”

“Yes, sleeping... Everything is in order, boss. He wasn’t even armed.”

“I’m not afraid at all. Still, just in case,” said Ligul and, negligently shaking from the robe a speck invisible to the world, he left the shielding rune.

“At least they held the door. Have to teach them everything!” He muttered and, leaning, took a step under the scaffolding.

After stepping over the threshold, he found himself in pitch dark.

“Where’s the light?” Ligul shouted angrily.

“Here!”

Something cold lightly touched his shoulder and neck. The hunchback froze. A long twisted candle flared up. Ares was standing in front of Ligul and in the raincoat of one of his guards. There was a blade in the Baron’s outstretched hand. The laces with the darx of Ligul’s guards were swinging at the base of the blade. The hunchback’s jaw slowly hung down.

“A-a-ah... where?” He slowly began.

“In my bedroom, on the second floor...” Ares said softly.

“Don’t be foolish! I only wanted them to make you motionless. They were to tie you up so that I would be in no risk talking to you! The discussion didn’t deal with murder,” Ligul began to babble rapidly.

“You’re certain?” Ares asked softly.

“Yes. I entreat you, Ares! You know this. I don’t need your death. Don’t need it for the time being,” said the hunchback firmly, turning pale but not looking away.

The Baron of Gloom, hesitated, nodded, and took away the blade.

“You know why I spare you? Because you have enough smarts to say ‘for the time being’. For this very reason, your guards are alive. However, I’ll take their eide. They’re of no use to the unlucky wretches... Pass, Ligul! Make yourself at home!”

He clicked his fingers, and immediately in the spacious hall flared up hundreds of candles. It became light as day. The fountain murmured, the mirrors shone, the marble shimmered lifelessly.

“And you have settled in not badly!” Ligul approved.

Ares smiled, casting a glance at the pictures hanging on the wall.

“Possible to think you don’t know how I was settling in... Don’t make me laugh!” He said and, with the blade of the sword not yet vanished, sketched some sign in the air.

In the same second, in the end picture, depicting the execution of a sailor on an English royal frigate, the rope broke. The fallen hanged man tumbled from the mast like an overripe pear, and he hurriedly crawled behind the frame. Ligul timidly shuffled his feet.

“It’s not me! Not my spy! These are the mean intrigues of our ancient enemies — white magicians! It would only sow dissension among our harmonious ranks! I swear, the guilty ones will be severely punished! Long live the right-most party of the left-most unity! It will not deprive us of freedom of choice!” He stated, importantly lifting a finger to the ceiling.

Someone sobbed behind the frame. This was the false hanged man crying, grasping that the switchman is always guilty for any distribution and the train of just punishment would sweep precisely over him.

“End the circus, Ligul! There are no moronoids here, and no front row tickets sold. Tell me why you came,” Ares said tiredly.

However, the hunchback did not hurry. He sat down in the soft armchair and crossed his legs. In his colourful garment he very much resembled a ruffled up bright parrot. A parrot, which quickly grew bolder and even seemed as if beginning to despise Ares for allowing him to live.

“Is your secretary here? No one will hear us?” Ligul specified.

“Julitta is in a disco with some genie. They’re so hot that last time they burned... m-m-m... what was it? Either a night club or a casino.”

“Ares, indeed I requested not to draw excessive attention!” Ligul reproachfully said.

“What does my Julitta have to do with it here? This fancy man of hers, by the way, is from your Chancellery. The genies called him a dork and he was offended.”

“Yes, they’re too hot, these southern fellows. But what can I do with insufficient fish? I can do nothing... Ah, Ares, personnel decide all our matters,” sighed Ligul.

“And everything that personnel don’t decide, you do. But ‘closer to the body!’ as my secretary loves to say!” Yawning, the Baron remarked.

Ligul became serious.

“We thought that Methodius must step over the threshold of the black and white labyrinth on his thirteenth birthday. Then the stars will occupy the necessary position — isn’t that so?”

“So,” said Ares.

“But at the same time we have not considered that Middle Earth is in motion by itself.”

“Middle Earth is fixed. Don’t make me laugh, Ligul,” said Ares.

“It was considered so earlier. Perhaps it was so earlier. But now Middle Earth has decided to go into motion, especially as the laws of Light and Gloom don’t work there all the same... An astrologist, whom I prudently left there to control the constellations, delivered this information to me two hours ago. I verified everything. There’s no error.”

“And when must Methodius pass through the labyrinth?” Ares interrupted him.

“Tomorrow,” said Ligul quickly. “Everything changes extremely swiftly. Middle Earth has simply gone mad. It warps space as it wants and in countable seconds passed through the path, on which earlier it took centuries to leave. Methodius Buslaev must be there tomorrow evening... The position of the stars will remain the same for twenty-four hours. Everything will already end the day after tomorrow, towards the evening.”

“It’s impossible. The boy is not yet ready. I didn’t have time to teach him anything!” Ares refused.

The hunchback jerked his shoulders.

“There’s no way out. Either tomorrow evening or in a hundred thousand years. So said my astrologist. However, I fear that in a hundred thousand years Methodius Buslaev will already have become dust,” he said severely.

Ares thought for a long time.

“So, tomorrow?” He repeated sullenly.

“Yes. But he’s not to go alone. We have to send someone with him. Even if the boy’s intuition will break through, something else can emerge which he’s not ready for,” said Ligul.

“I’ll go with him myself,” Ares decisively stated.

The hunchback smirked:

“No. You’re not going.”

“Why? Indeed, you’ll forbid me?” Ares threateningly asked.

The face of Ligul instantly became fawning.

“Me? And who am I? Altogether only the pitiful head of the Chancellery, who sits with papers from agents all day... Well, perhaps, now and then gladden myself with a couple of fresh eide. No, the labyrinth won’t let you pass through. Neither you nor your wonderful secretary nor the genies nor me — no one... The devil of a labyrinth loves youth and impudence. Everything else, including wise men and soldiers, is only pitiful ashes to it. Recall the voodoo magicians... Perhaps it didn’t show this?”

“What are you driving at?”

“The Temple of Eternal Skip is woven from Light and Gloom approximately in equal proportions. Here I thought that, in order to pass through the labyrinth, both are needed. Gloom with its resourcefulness, pressure, ambition, and energy — this, it goes without saying, is Methodius. And Light — with its optimism, idealism, good mood, capacity for love and self-sacrifice...”

“You’re talking about Daphne?” Ares asked.

“Yes. About the girl, the fugitive guard of Light... Her coming to us is more than incidental.”

“How do you know about the girl? Tukhlomon made a slip of the tongue? Or again this?” Ares hostilely nodded at the hanged man whimpering behind the frame.

Ligul rubbed his dry palms.

“You will laugh, but neither Tukhlomon, nor the hanged man here, nor anything. You underestimate me, Ares! You’ve always underestimated me... I consider not simply the move ahead, I see the whole game...,” he whispered.

‘What’s this you’re talking about?”

“All about...” giggled the hunchback. “Don’t forget to remind Daph to take the stolen horn with her! It seems to me that it’ll be of use to her! Till we meet again, Ares! When my blockheads come to, tell them that they’re fired! And don’t forget to break their darx! I would handle them exactly the same way myself. Good-bye!”

The hunchback suddenly jerked his long thin arms up and abruptly, like a bird taking off, waved the loose-fitting sleeves of the colourful robe. Ares involuntarily blinked, blinded by an irritating bluish radiance. When objects again assumed clearness, he discovered that the armchair was deserted. The hunchback had disappeared.

“Be that as it may, but he prepared for his disappearance beautifully! Cowards always think through the details!” Ares remarked.

The swordsman approached the black mirror and, crossing his arms at his chest, he examined his reflection for a long time.

“I would like to know why Ligul is so confident that the girl can be trusted. That after turning up in the far room of the Temple, she would not first obtain what Gloom must get and hand it over to Light? A hyena will sooner become a vegetarian than Ligul will do something without an incentive...,” he muttered, looking intently at his own scarred face, which now seemed to him three times uglier.

Ares turned and walked away, but the reflection still remained in the glass, looking at his back. Then it turned and also walked off — no one knows where to, no one knows why.

***

That evening Methodius no longer saw Daph. Glumovich, frightened and broody more than usual, took her away to another wing, where girls lived. Then Glumovich again flickered in the far end of the corridor, but Daphne did not appear. Must be she was settling in at the new place, getting acquainted with her roommate, and generally becoming familiar with the moronoid world. Methodius experienced disappointment.

“But what do I want? That she not take a step away from me? That she sticks around here in the room and admires the striped socks of Vovva Skunso?” He thought, feeling angry with himself. And then he recalled that he had already not been to Irka’s for several days and had not even phoned her, although from time to time he almost felt bursts of offence, uneasiness, and surprise from Irka. “Should phone her!” He told himself and did not phone precisely because he should.

All evening Vovva bothered Methodius with questions about magic. In the end Methodius, understanding very well that sincerity was inappropriate here, both the wrong situation and the wrong person, was even getting angry:

“What magic here? Magic is for lunatics! I’m busy with energy yoga!”

“Yoga? Either you’ll teach me or I’ll stick close to you! All of us will endorse it. Zaplevaev, Andrukha Bortov, Drell...” Skunso began to list them. His eyes assumed a shifty expression like a cockroach.

“Okay,” Methodius sighed. “Then, first lesson! Sit down in the lotus pose, place the index finger of the right hand just below the diaphragm and massage it for four hours clockwise and then four hours counter clockwise. And do so each day for a period of three years.”

“And what, I’ll be like you?”

Methodius flinched with his shoulders:

“Only an insurance company gives guarantees.”

Skunso, after thinking for a bit, touched his stomach with a finger and sighed. He obviously understood that he would never do yoga.

“Hm... And what do you have in the case?”

“In what case?”

“You hid the case under the bed when I walked in. Don’t pretend! All the same, I’ll indeed look when you aren’t here! Or at night!” Skunso squinted.

“Look!” Methodius gave him permission. “Why put it off? We’ll all be there at Mamzelkina’s!”

He was not afraid for the sword. It is not easy to steal magic swords if they do not want to be stolen.

He turned off the light and turned towards the wall. He was finally tired of Skunso. From this point on, he was tired of him till death. For a while, some faces were still flickering before Buslaev’s eyes: Julitta, Tukhlomon, and then all of them were ousted by the smiling face of Daph with merry white tails protruding so softly and unpredictably. At some moment, Methodius experienced sharp anxiety as if someone very bad remembered him and stretched out a claw-shaped paw at him. This was approximately the same time that the leg of the hunchback stepped onto the asphalt by house № 13.

And then... then Methodius simply fell asleep, knocked out by fatigue, already without nightmares or visions. But before dawn, the cell phone near Skunso suddenly began to ring. Skunso groped for it with difficulty and brought it to his ear.

“Who’s there? Gone completely nuts?” He asked. Half awake, his “gone nuts” turned out as “goon nods.”

They answered him. Judging by everything, for about three consecutive times. Skunso listened for several seconds and then, clicking his teeth in fear, stared at Methodius.

“This, it s-seems, is f-for y-you.” He said.

Julitta was on the phone. As soon as the sound flying out of the dynamic chord cut into his eardrums, Met immediately grasped that this was precisely Julitta.

“Hello, Met! How do you hear me, the reception?”

“Already poorly... I urgently need to go to the ear-throat-nose doctor,” said Methodius, with difficulty controlling himself not to advise her to hang up and simply yell so, after opening a window. You would think, no problem for them to drown out such a voice in some half a kilometre.

“Don’t make things up! Lively get your legs in line and run into the office!” She bellowed to him in answer.

Methodius carefully shifted the phone to the other ear.

“And for what?” He asked.

“You get here — you’ll find out!”

“Oh, indeed these are our secrets!” Buslaev thought with melancholy and asked:

“Julitta, and can’t over the phone?”

“If it were ‘can’, I would have said so. End connection!”

“But it was not possible to call? And from where did you find out the number of Vo... me!” Methodius added the last, after glancing at the owner of the cell phone.

Julitta ignored the question of where she found the number. Evidently, for a serious guard of Gloom it sounded idiotic.

“I indeed wanted to teleport to you, even only to burn the dress into scrap! But then, I have little interest for your hormonally-running Skunso... How long ago did you glance at the book? You forget the instructions, ya-ung feller! Sha-ame!” Softening, Julitta said wickedly.

Methodius stared at the night table, where the Book of Chameleons showed red and flared up. It was so agitated, blazing so, that Methodius was not too astonished to discover that it was now Two Hundred Pea Dishes by the author Mr. Urukin, who was well known in a narrow grassroots circle.

“And Da... take Dasha with me?” Methodius asked, remembering Skunso, who, even yawning, was all ears.

Julitta smiled:

“I already summoned her! Indeed, she gurgles in magic only slightly higher than the water line! Are you still there? Told you, hop to it!”

Methodius quickly got dressed and, after throwing the cell phone to the wonder-struck Vovva, began to get out through the window. Then he returned and took with him the case with the sword. It was not high to jump — from the second floor onto the lilac. He felt that it was not worthwhile to go now through the school.

“And if someone asks?” Skunso asked wickedly.

Looking around, Buslaev with significance ran his thumb along his own throat. He did not understand what indeed appeared there in his eyes, but Vovva hurriedly moved aside.

“Understood! Anyone who asks!” He said briskly.

Methodius jumped, and the lilac accepted him in an elastic embrace, in indignation lashing his cheek with a branch. Rubbing his cheek, he got out of the bushes. Skunso above slammed the window shut, Methodius involuntarily appreciated, without particular noise. Methodius slid along the school to the girls’ wing, not knowing to where Daphne had disappeared. Everything was quiet — the night was splashing at all the windows.

“Where did she disappear to? Should I shout?” Methodius thought.

Suddenly one of the windows on the third floor opened, and from there someone deftly and noiselessly slipped down headfirst. Methodius yelled, certain that falling this way could break a neck. However, close to the ground, something splashed over the shoulder of the figure, and Daph calmly came down on the asphalt beside him. She had time to change into a turtleneck instead of the jean jacket. The flute, as before, stuck out of her knapsack.

“Why are we standing? Whom are we waiting for? Going?” She proposed, negligently touching her bronze adornment on the lace. The large white wings, which recently rose over her shoulders, had disappeared.

“What was that? Methodius asked.

“Really visible?” Daphne unwillingly said. “Tell no one that I flew. Okay? Likely, I’m not supposed to. Indeed you saw that I literally materialized them for a second? Hardly anyone found out about them.”

“They’re yours?”

“Clear as pepper, mine. From where would I have dragged them? The poultry processing facility?” Daph assured him.

Methodius went around Daphne. From behind, the turtleneck appeared ordinary. Nothing protruded, cuts were absent. And even the back was like a back. No hint of the wings.

“Listen... this, of course, is foolish to ask... but how is all this arranged there?” He asked.

“Not so bad a question, I’m frankly embarrassed! I have a normal back, if only about this. Not like Depressiac, its wings are the continuation of the shoulder blades... When necessary, I materialize them, and they appear. I remember, earlier they were quite small, I even could not take off, later I could only glide, but when the wings became firmly established, I began to get used to them little by little. But it’s a long story! Do you know what Ares wants from us?”

“Don’t know,” said Methodius.

He already several times attempted to link up his intuitive sight to see the near future clearly, but saw exactly nothing. Probably, Ares was skilfully blocking his gift as a seer.

When Daph and Methodius approached house № 13 on Bolshaya Dmitrovka, a little old woman with an encased long object in her hands sneaked out towards them.

“Methodius, laddie! The little heart, perhaps, goes cheep-cheep-cheep? Ah, you are my one and only love!” She sang, patting Methodius on the cheek. “And who is there with you? Oh, indeed not Daphne! Wonderful! Where is your cat-fool? Oh, sly face, craftiness is your name! Slipped away from grandma to two... hic... crafty geese!”

“I do not know you! Who are you that...” Daphne was about to start, but Methodius pulled her sleeve in warning.

“Don’t be impertinent, my dove!” Aida Plakhovna frowned. “Not at your age to dare to be rude so swiftly! Oh, what am I! My talent simply drenches, simply steamrolls! If not for the cursed work, I, perhaps, would write poetry for a newspaper! I... would go somewhere still... Get married, to some insufferable, maybe, maybe not, blockhead!”

Aida Plakhovna giggled. Methodius noticed that the old woman was not entirely sober.

“Well, that’s it, I would fly on the wings of love and work! And you, my lad, don’t fail! Smash all the labyrinths there so that it would know our brother the Varangian! To teach Middle Earth, that is, to construct any kind of hell!” Mamzelkina stated.

She had started to disappear, but, recalling something, beckoned Methodius to her.

“With a pencil, my dear, a pencil! They said to me alone that it will be only for them. Whether you want to or not — do it! And I would do it with a pencil! Not a feather but a pencil! Not to help a good person... I’ll be a snake! Century not to see a corpse!”

“What?” Methodius did not understand.

“So long, my dove! Take care of yourself, grey-wings!” Mamzelkina mysteriously shouted and was off, on farewell clanking the scythe slightly more forcefully than necessary. From somewhere above a dead crow fell down onto the bridge.

“It was indeed death?” Daph was interested.

“Something like that. Only she doesn’t like being called such. She’s Mamzelkina, senior manager of the necro-department. Did you understand what she was talking about? With what pencil here?” Methodius asked perturbed.

***

Ares was in his office. He, as Methodius already noticed, was always in the office and came out from it extremely unwillingly like a mollusc from the shell. Julitta was sitting in reception. Only not at the desk but on the sofa, dressed in a black dress with glitters, very low-cut: she was at the disco in the evening. Having thrown one very plump white leg over the other, Julitta was writing on it with a lipstick:

Cannotlookatcrookedfaceswithoutdistastecannotlookatcrookedfaceswithoutdistastecannotlookatrottenmugswithoutdistaste...

She was in a very poor mood. Methodius, recently speaking with her on the phone, even wondered. Julitta’s mood changed like the weather in the Urals: instantly.

“Be gone! I’m depressed!” Julitta said instead of the greeting.

“What would this be from?”

“I broke up with Ali... No, with Omar... Or was it Yusuf? I eternally get them confused!”

“And how did this happen?”

“Stupid story! I danced twice with Abdullah. Such a greasy moronoid, very young. Non-stop bragging! Either his uncle controls the market or he himself controls the uncle — something incoherent there. My Ali began to be jealous. A fight broke out. They tore off one of my heels, a top rate heel, not magical, I got mad and smashed the entire bar with it... Ali, Abdullah, and also the uncle were responsible. Then we took off, and already on the street, Ali stated that supposedly I’m not the answer to his concept of the ideal girl! Here’s a bastard, eh? I’m not this ideal!”

“Julitta! Have Daph and Methodius arrived? I requested to send them to me immediately!” An imperious voice reached them from the office.

“Immediately-y? But then whom will I complain to?” The secretary was annoyed.

Leaving Julitta to suffer more, they went to the call. Stretching his hand out to the door, Methodius froze on the threshold. Ares was in a simple soldier breastplate dented in several places, Roman in look but clearly not forged in Rome. A helmet was lying on the table together with the blade.

“I hope you have nothing against Middle Earth? We leave for there after noon. Toward the evening, we’ll be in the Temple of Eternal Skip. I’m also going with you. True, I’ll be able to lead only to a specific line. Further road lies already only for you,” said Ares instead of greeting.

“When after noon? So soon already?” Methodius was astonished. He experienced neither fear nor happiness... Although he nevertheless felt something. Something quick and elusive. Some such thing that flickered and immediately faded.

“Yes.”

“But you said that this will be on my thirteenth birthday?”

Ares insinuatingly nodded at the sky:

“Upper sharashka changed the plans. Everything will happen in the next twenty-four hours. As a result, if you live, you’ll meet your thirteenth birthday in a pleasant and friendly atmosphere.”

“Aha!” Julitta added, it seemed, she had already stopped suffering and overheard. “Agents will sing: ‘Our dearly beloved Met Buslaev came to us!’ And the succubae — those will swell up altogether with champagne and will jump onto his knees and climb to kiss him, after changing... and for example even to Daph!”

Daph folded her arms.

“Not funny!” She said.

Julitta shrugged her shoulders:

“I know that it’s not funny. But all corporate bashes go like that. And sometimes even Vii and Nagianka Pripyatskaya drag themselves along, it goes without saying, without invitation, and then, my dear mama! Tukhlomon dances on the table, Nagianka and the succubae present little swans! Simply don’t touch the uncle’s nose and in general go away from the coffin! My evening flings pale in comparison! And you, Met, cheer up! If something doesn’t work out, be comforted by the words of the classicist that each person must blow up the home, fell the tree, and beat the son!”

Ares looked displeased at his secretary:

“Julitta, where is your pause button? Press it and hold it with both hands! Daph, are you ready? The labyrinth of the Temple of Eternal Skip doesn’t frighten you?”

Daphne sighed:

“Naturally it frightens me. I would prefer an excursion to some quiet and calm place. For example, to jump from Niagara Falls and fly in its jet streams.”

“I thought so too. If someone wants to, someone will get rid of you, smash the currents,” gallantly proposed Julitta.

Ares furiously turned to her. The deep scar on his face turned crimson.

“I asked: be quiet!”

“I’m already silent! I’ve hit ‘Backspace’ and erased the entire last phrase!” The secretary hastily said and slipped out of the office to avoid more sin.

“I’m not too worried about you. You indeed are able to handle with the flute? They teach you this almost from birth!” Ares continued, turning to Daph.

“I can slightly,” modestly said Daph, stroking her flute. After all, in the Garden of Eden there were specialists and those a little better.

“But here I’m worried about Methodius. I didn’t have time to train him seriously to handle the blade. He knows neither parry nor retreat — nothing. Not even the basics. One hope: that the matter doesn’t get to a sword fight at all, although no one knows what awaits you in the labyrinth. In a real battle it’s possible to kill Signor Tomato with a toothpick.”

“Well indeed with a toothpick,” grumbled Methodius.

“Trust me that it’s so. For the several hours we have left, you’ll not become a good soldier, and this is extremely essential.”

“And how will we get out of it?” Methodius asked.

Ares pensively looked at his own palm, big as if cut out of a tree, and almost deprived of lines. Only one deep lifeline furrowed it from the wrist to the index finger.

“It’s necessary to go to extreme measures. If not a soldier — must let him in. To install a good soldier into your consciousness...”

“Who? You?”

“No, my friend. Don’t be offended, but for the time being I still need my consciousness. You’ll have to be content with... mmm... Khoors. He’s quite good... Khoors was the second soldier of Gloom and perished in a skirmish several centuries ago.”

Methodius turned over in his head what was recently said.

“And what was this skirmish, in which Khoors perished?” He asked.

Ares traced with his index finger along his long scar.

“I expressed myself inaccurately. It was not so much a skirmish as a duel.”

“And who killed the second soldier of Gloom?”

Ares raised his eyes to him. They were calm, but such gravity came out of them that Met felt the almost material pressure of his look.

“I, Ares, Baron, swordsman of Gloom, killed him. Cut off his darx together with the head in combat, this lasted about a half hour... In some ways, he himself got up under the blade. Could not face the humiliation, stripped of his darx. Duels among ourselves by that time were already forbidden. They sent me into exile to the Lighthouse. Some even proposed execution, but I was necessary to Ligul. Now I understand why... there were reasons for the duel, but I have not the slightest desire to share them.”

“And now you want to install Khoors in me?” Methodius asked.

“I want nothing, Signor Tomato! My ‘want’ lies in the cemetery. I only try to make sure you survive if the matter reaches a skirmish. And remember: must not install Khoors in oneself for a long time. Only for brief instants of battle. No more. Believe me, your body will be much calmer when the sword will be in Khoors’ hand...”

“And how do I install him?” Methodius asked with doubt. The idea did not seem brilliant to him. Quite the opposite.

“You see, to admit Khoors is not too complicated. I think, deprived of body, he’ll willingly go for it, and to wield a sword — this for him is as natural as breathing.”

“But then how to expel him?” Daphne asked.

“Well done, girl! You correctly understood the problem. To invite guests — it’s not so serious, but then to hint to them that it’s time to go home... Certainly, to expel Khoors won’t be simple. He’ll want to exist further in your body, having politely asked the owner — i.e. you — to leave it. If he knows how to quell your resistance — the end for you. But if you prove to be stronger morally — he’ll yield and leave.”

“But how will I drive him away?”

“Shame on you, Signor Tomato! Who are you — Methodius Buslaev, the hope of Gloom, or a pitiful rag? If the second — the labyrinth won’t let you through... We begin training right now!”

Methodius nostalgically recalled the one-eyed omelette — the only breakfast Zozo was able to prepare.

“Well now, again without breakfast. Do guards of Gloom feed their colleagues sometimes?” He sadly asked.

“Once in a while... you’ll eat later. Life, in the big picture, is not a battle of muscles, but the collision of your will with the will of others. A body fell, but the will caught it and led it into battle. A weak will — it’s a rotten egg with a weak shell. The shell cracks with any hit on the outside. A strong will — it’s a diamond egg. It cannot crack, even if the whole world around breaks up. And it’s unimportant what body it’s in — adult or child.”

Methodius hesitated with doubt. He never perceived himself as such determined brawn. In the morning, he even dragged himself out of bed with great difficulty, battling for each square centimetre of blanket.

“What’s the spiritless mood for, Mr. Buslaev?” Ares was angry. “It’s not the one with stronger muscles that wins, but the one who does not value himself and his muscles too highly. They will yield the path to the strong, even if he’s on crutches and without a head.”

Daphne giggled, appreciating the double bottom of this phrase.

“And now let’s begin!” Ares pressed. “Close your eyes... so... link up to the inner sight... now imagine to yourself a jug filled with water to the brim. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“This is your consciousness. And now imagine that somewhere inside the jug, in the thickness of the liquid a large air bubble was formed... Well, more definite! A free space! Make the consciousness empty. Not all, only a part! And now imagine that another substance fills this bubble. Let’s say, essential oil... Don’t let it crawl around and be mixed up with your water! Not for a moment! Hold the boundary! Got it?”

“Well... I’m trying to imagine! But it’ll spread!”

“Hold the boundary, I say! Don’t allow it to spread, if you don’t want the strange consciousness to mix with yours! Enclose it with a mental cocoon, well! Ready?”

“More or less,” nodded Methodius, attempting to erect an invisible obstacle between the liquids. The oil strained to blend, but the water pressed on it. Suddenly Methodius grasped why this imaginary battle took away so much of his strength. He originally visualized too large an air bubble — and admitted too much oil. He imagined all anew, but now already decreased the size of the bubble. To retain the oil in the mental boundaries became considerably simpler.

“Excellent!” Ares approved. “Remember the size of the bubble and never admit more strange consciousness than you are able to control! This is your standard! Anything beyond is dangerous! Get accustomed to retaining the boundary! It’s working out?”

“Yes,” nodded Methodius.

“Bravo, Signor Tomato! And now concentrate and say to yourself: I admit into myself the spirit of Khoors, but only for sword fight!”

“And he will hear?”

“All mental essences react to such calls. Space doesn’t exist for them. They’re nowhere and everywhere — the gist of both sides of the same coin... But now admit Khoors! The sooner you do this the better.”

“I admit the spirit of Khoors for sword fight,” thought Methodius and immediately understood that he was not fully ready for this thought. It should not be so limp.

Methodius perceived how SOMETHING DANGEROUS appeared in his consciousness. He felt it but could not steer it, did not have control over it. At first — in some infinitely short moment the something was in confusion. Methodius strained his consciousness, checking it. The something obediently — even too obediently — shrunk and yielded. Methodius stopped sensing it and slackened, thinking that the something had gone away, vanished. Frightened that it had completely disappeared and Ares would be dissatisfied, he removed the internal boundary, that same barrier, which earlier like armour-plate glass separated him from danger. And here the insidious it, biding its time, absolutely exploded... Many long feelers rushed in different directions, filling the consciousness, striving to engulf his entire “I”, to obtain control over the body. And they almost made it, seizing one centre of the brain after another.

Methodius yelled. He put all his strength into a retaliatory attack and... realized that he did not have time. His consciousness was already filled with something confident, mocking, and foreign. It gradually grew. And then Methodius suddenly understood that the body was no longer his. He, as before, was living in it, but only with the rights of a guest. He attempted to raise his right hand but the left rose instead. It clenched and unclenched. Eyes — either his or already the stranger’s — examined it with interest and slight contempt. Khoors, who when killed was obviously not a boy, was clearly amused, finding himself now in the body of an adolescent.

Daph understood nothing. She saw only that Methodius was sitting, clutching his head with his hands, and his hands were shaking as if he was afraid that his head could explode like a balloon.

“You missed the moment! Resist! Either you or him!” Ares shouted.

Methodius — more precisely, already Khoors — slowly raised his head to the sound of the voice. He dully looked at the Baron of Gloom, and suddenly in his eyes flickered something predatory, like that of a jaguar noticing prey. Khoors recognized him. No, this was not fury — absurd, ridiculous, and rapidly fading. Something different, calm, concentrated. Aged secret pain, hatred, which knows neither cooling nor passage of time nor oblivion. For several long seconds Ares and Khoors looked at each other. Neither one nor the other lowered their eyes. Then Khoors got up and looked around Ares’ office. Still a little unsure, as if getting accustomed to the body, he took a step to the table, where Methodius left the case with the sword.

Ares did not interfere with him. He even did not stretch his hand out to his own sword, although that one was lying beside it and Khoors could quietly take it. However, Ares’ sword apparently would only obey him alone and would not go near Khoors. Khoors opened the case and looked at the sword of The Ancient One. Then he touched the handle with his fingers and kept them so for a little, as if waiting for some kind of recall. Methodius sensed the sword’s slight bewilderment. As if the blade was pondering, weighing spirit and body, hand and reason. Its simple reliable essence was determining a choice. Khoors did not hurry it. He was ingratiating, softly and persistently like an experienced trainer. And... the blade yielded. Having sensed this at the same moment, Khoors firmly held the handle and, as before, making no sharp movements, fell back five steps. Then he looked at Ares again and slowly raised the blade to the level of his neck. Now Khoors’ look slid explicitly along the blade and rested on Ares.

Methodius’ consciousness observed everything as if through a thick glass partition. Either Khoors could not obliterate him once and for all, or he had forgotten about him, or this did not enter into his plans at all.

Ares approached the table and leisurely took his own blade. His view, bypassing the eyes of Khoors, seemingly enveloped him from head to toe. Ares and Khoors began to come together slowly. Without any threat, but in the insinuating manner of a cat. The tight office enlarged, grew to the size of a large hall. The table and excess furniture disappeared. Everything as before took place in complete silence. Not a word was said.

Daph — standing in their path — felt a resilient, strong nudge in her chest. She understood that this was a demand to go away and not interfere. Barely keeping herself on her feet, she reached for her flute.

“Don’t think about it! You can no longer help now!” Ares imperiously shouted a warning.

“But Methodius...” Daph started.

“Too late! Move away! And keep further away from my enemy!”

“Why?” Daphne asked.

Khoors quickly glanced at her and smiled evilly, after making a quick motion with the sword in the air, as if chopping off her hand together with the flute. Daph understood everything and, realizing the truth of Ares’ words, took the flute away from her lips but continued to hold it ready.

Moving in a tapered spiral, they got close together to approximately two steps away. And then suddenly, without any warning, Khoors’ sword, like a snake, rushed to Ares’ throat. Ares deflected it with a short motion of the blade and answered with a long chopping stroke. The stroke, should it find its target, would slash Khoors from his shoulder to his waist, but the sword met empty space. Khoors, having slipped away, instantly moved his centre of gravity, turned up behind Ares’ back and again attacked.

Methodius sensed ease and ardour, although he understood that he was not fighting but altogether only his body. But what the body was doing now seemed miraculous. The hand was the sword, the sword had become a hand — the boundary had disappeared. He had even stopped feeling the weight of the blade. The sword had recognized the master in Khoors, and they both — Khoors and the sword — had merged together, forming one entity. There was also something that bound this strange union, a common enemy. The memory of the former sword of The Ancient One and the aged hatred of Khoors united against Ares, and it was impossible to know whether Khoors’ hand or the magic sword’s own will sent the blade forward.

Khoors charged with short sharp attacks, predominantly stabs, after several quick feints. Must be, he understood that in a teenage body there was little power for chopping strokes. Ares, on the contrary, attacked boldly, forcing Khoors to step back and not allowing him to get close to where the light Khoors would clearly have an advantage over the less mobile and heavy enemy.

Daphne perceived in Ares’ motions not so much constraint but a fear of causing Methodius’ body real harm. This prevented him from hitting with full power. However, Khoors had no such reserve. Once having sharply twirled Ares, he quickly but sufficiently deeply scratched his thigh. Another time the tip of his sword almost hooked the darx of the Baron of Gloom.

“Resist! Or I’ll have to hit you!” Ares again shouted to Methodius.

Methodius undertook an attempt at an uprising, but his mutiny was crushed quickly and painfully. In the fever of battle, Khoors pitilessly drove Methodius into the depths of consciousness and attacked Ares with the teasing snake sting of his magic sword.

Now Ares already stepped back before the instantaneous incessant attacks. Suddenly Daph, the whole time still standing in torpor, caught his view sliding to her flute. At the same moment, Methodius, floundering in the quagmire of his own consciousness, heard his order.

“Do it! Begin, Light!” Ares shouted.

Daph brought the flute up to her lips and began to play. Quiet, barely audible sounds, similar to the babble of a mountain stream, poured out, and almost instantly three instantaneous attack trills followed. An outstanding attack combination, devised specially for black magicians. At this moment, Daph was grateful to Sniffka, forcing her to master this maglody to the vibration in the fingers. Even Ares, standing facing her and ready to attack, was thrown back a step. His swarthy face became crimson from the effort, when he nevertheless with difficulty kept himself on his feet. Khoors in Methodius’ light body was tossed forward with the mercilessness of a hurricane.

Khoors swept across the floor. His consciousness almost faded, only a tiny spark glimmered. In several short instants, he came to and roused, but it was already too late. Ares’ heavy boot descended onto his hand, avoiding direct contact with the blade.

By an effort of will, Methodius tried to chase the alien essence into the boundary outlined for it. The alien SOMETHING rushed and again overcame, restrained him. But this fight was not useless. When Khoors again obtained control over the body, the sword of The Ancient One was already knocked off and thrown far away, his arm was twisted, and the bent blade almost touched his neck. This was the end of the struggle. Daph finally tore the flute away from her lips. It was no longer needed.

“Khoors! You know that you’ve lost! Leave him, I order you!” Ares exclaimed.

“Not yet! This body is mine! I’ve waited so long for this hour! And no one, not a single pitiful dog would let me in! But here... here is even eidos!” A voice unknown to Daph said hoarsely. It belonged to Methodius, since his vocal chords were being used, but something in it had changed, making it almost unrecognizable.

“It’s not your body!”

“Mine. And try to do something! Banish me, if you know how! Well? How will you drag me out of here? Well? I’m waiting! What will you do to a spirit, swordsman?” Khoors mocked.

“I can do this! If I now chop off the boy’s head — you’ll lose this body.”

“Do it! Why do you linger? Surrender to me why the boy is so necessary to you!” Khoors hissed, desperately trying to break loose. However, Methodius’ body was clearly inferior to Ares’ power.

“I will, if I understand that you won’t leave at your own free will,” Ares said calmly, without threat. However, something sounded in his voice that even Daph understood: he would chop off the head without any hesitation. And Khoors understood this too. In his eyes flickered not so much fear as doubt.

“Why do you need this boy, Ares? Let’s do this: I’ll swear that I’ll remain in his body and perform everything for the boy. And later we’ll fight again. And you will no longer spare me like you didn’t feel sorry in our previous encounter. And you’ll not seek the help of the girl with the flute, whose hand I’ll simply chop off next time,” Khoors proposed bloodthirstily.

Ares shook his head:

“Perhaps your experience would prove useful to me. But even you won’t be able to replace the boy.”

Khoors burst out laughing:

“Why? I can do everything! You know me! Where is this scar on your face from? Really, didn’t I leave it? I can replace everyone, even Ligul!”

“But not Methodius Buslaev!” Ares said tonelessly.

Khoors’ head was thrown back as if by a punch.

“What? So this...” he began.

“Yes, it’s him — Methodius. Methodius Buslaev — the boy, whom Gloom called upon.”

Khoors recovered from the surprise.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe and think, why did we summon you? Methodius sets off for the labyrinth of the Temple, and your skill, possibly, will prove useful to him. He’ll let you into himself if he needs the sword.”

“And your skill? What, have you already lost your ability to handle a blade?” Khoors asked in mockery.

“No, as you can see. So far I’m alive.”

“A wise accurate definition! However much sense it holds!” Khoors said with a challenge, but already as if giving in.

His view slid along Ares’ dark blade, along his hand, looked into his eyes — calm, cold eyes under half-closed eyelids — and decided...

“Okay, I’ll leave,” he said with an effort. “But only because I know what Methodius Buslaev means to Gloom. I have a request for you, Ares... A request of an old enemy. Will you grant it?”

“If it’s reasonable.”

“Find my blade... that stinging blade, with which I perished once. It’s not enough for me. I’m bored... I... I remember it there, in the void. Do you know where it is now? Who has it?”

“I’ll try to find out where it is... I promise you, Khoors!” Ares said.

Khoors’ voice, which was trembling, again became haughty.

“Excellent, Ares, I’m leaving. But don’t think that I’ve left forever. Now I know the way here... Till the next meeting!”

Daphne sensed a light puff cooling her warm forehead. Methodius, blocked up somewhere in the rear of the consciousness, suddenly felt that the steel will of Khoors had let go of him.

Ares met his look and, after understanding that Khoors had left, removed the hand with the blade.

“You’re waiting for sympathy, Signor Tomato! There will be no sympathy. There was no need to remove the barrier! I warned you: hold the boundary!” He sternly said to Methodius.

“But I thought...”

“You’ll be smarter next time. Now pick up your nail file and put it in the case. We have another pile of business. And you hide the flute, girl! Must admit, it makes me nervous. Now you see why it’s a weapon?”

“Yes,” said Daph.

“Did you indeed use it for the first time? On guards of Gloom, I mean?”

Daph looked with curiosity at her flute.

“Aha. Earlier I worked on this maglody, especially the final passage, tonnes of times, but never suspected that this piece can strike so powerfully.”

Ares nodded:

“Exactly so, word for word, spoke the eighty-year-old old lady, who decided to scare the drunkard neighbour with a shotgun and accidentally pulled the trigger... But now go! A couple of hours rest here, in the residence, will do you good. We set forth after noon!”

Methodius, still not standing firmly on his feet, and Daphne directed their steps to the door. The boundaries of the office concealed themselves to the eyes, as if shadows licked and ate them. Ares placed a bent leg on the chair and anxiously examined the wound inflicted by Khoors.

Suddenly Daphne turned around:

“I have a question. I just remembered... What’s this about a record with a pencil?”

“With what pencil?”

“With a normal pencil. The record referring to Met and me,” confidently repeated Daph.

Ares’ face remained impassive; however, uneasiness definitely flickered in his eyes.

“What, did you meet Aida?” He was casually interested.

“Yes. Mamzelkina.”

Ares frowned.

“You see...” he answered evasively. “In those lists that they give to Mamzelkina in the Chancellery of Fate, there is the concept of a ‘spare column’. It’s the practice, when clearly someone must perish, that the future would still not be determined once and for all. In this case, they usually enter two or three names with a pencil in this column, and then... On the whole, then they erase the excess names and one remains and becomes apparent finally. Aida, as soon as she receives the lists, will race over here. She’s a loyal old dame, although mercenary... And knows her own duties... But if it will be necessary, indeed she won’t tremble here, don’t doubt... For her any Met, any Julitta, any Daph... is work! True, the ‘free column’ fills up occasionally after many years. So it’s still early to panic for the time being.”

“I know,” said Daphne, recalling the indifferent ringing of the scythe and the dead crow.

“But whose names are in the list? Daph’s and mine, yes?” Methodius asked.

“Unimportant,” Ares quickly said, and it seemed to Methodius that he knew the answer. Or at least he surmised, which in certain cases was almost one and the same.

Chapter 11

Date: 2015-12-24; view: 701