2

ACT VI:

An Underwater Adventure

The next day, we needed some time to dig ourselves out from under our sleeping bags. The fire was burning peacefully in the campfire, so I got up and threw more rations into the water, which was left over from yesterday's soups. The buffalo herd was gone. They've probably moved on...

"Soon we won't have anything to eat."

"If we meet humans or other races, we'll ask what's edible here," Owen said, getting dressed.

"Maybe this grass is edible too?

" "It? Well, it's quite possible, if the buffalo eat it...

" Yesterday's race had exhausted the unicorns a bit.

"No wonder we galloped so long..." he sighed, patting the animal's snout. "Today we'll go slowly.

" We packed up the tent and set off. Still following the same road, which had no branches, leading eastward. The day passed very slowly, nothing, absolutely nothing happened. Moreover, we were surrounded by the same landscape, the same grass, the same sky. The utter silence seemed unbearable.

And suddenly... Suddenly, a huge lake stretched out before us. So vast that at first I thought it was a sea. But in reality, it wasn't. We quickly drove to its sandy shore, overgrown with grassy reeds. We ran to the water and greedily began drinking; I had no strength left for anything else. The unicorns drank too, wading into the water up to their knees. Once we had finished, we stretched out on the grassy shore, gazing at the incredible sky above us. I never imagined that if you didn't drink all day, you could drink up an entire pond like that at once... Our unicorns were still standing in the water, drinking greedily. We didn't want to disturb them yet, so we sat down on the ground and began to think. What were we supposed to do now?

"If we circle this entire pond, it will take us several days. I'm sure of that...

" "Have you noticed that the road leads all the way to the water? As if you could travel normally underwater..." I thought aloud.

"That's impossible. Not with our... We have Pegasi!" Owen exclaimed happily.

"Exactly," I rejoiced. "Only very tired Pegasi..." I added sadly.

Suddenly, we were terrified by our unicorns' reaction. They reared up in the water, neighing fiercely, trying to take off, but they couldn't because the water was holding their necks. Without thinking, we both rushed to help them. We had to be faster. I tried with all my might to pull the unicorn out of the water, but it was impossible...

Unfortunately, I, too, got caught in the whirlpool and plunged underwater. Owen dove after me, and then we saw the smiling, friendly faces of... Oceans. I took a shaky breath, and then water gushed into my mouth. However, I didn't suffocate because we were under their protection.

"Nothing will happen to you," we heard. "You're safe." Take the unicorns, let them come with us...

We had some trouble with the mounts; they refused to go underwater quite willingly, but then they glided quite calmly underwater on their enormous wings...

We gazed with great interest at the beautiful plants and corals growing on the bottom of the lake. There were also numerous flat rocks arranged in layers, somewhat reminiscent of cones and pyramids. Far ahead, we saw a castle. It reminded me of a large glass dome, adorned with large corals, and it looked as if the great roots of a tree encompassed the entire hemisphere. We swam in and stood on the dry, marble floor. We were wet, but happy.

"Welcome to the underwater castle of Polguz. We are delighted with your arrival."

A typical girl of this race smiled at us. And a tall young man. As she spoke, an elderly couple joined us. Apparently, they were the rulers here. We bowed to them in the typical Avin-Lion manner, and they nodded graciously.

"We welcome you!

" "We are very pleased to be with you," I said.

"Leave the unicorns here; they will be properly provided for. Our kinsmen will take care of them, and you come with us."

We strolled leisurely through the impressive halls, from whose windows we could see fish swimming by, and it was a very strange feeling. I thought that once I left this palace, I wouldn't have trouble breathing, but I wasn't very accustomed to such feats and preferred to give up. All the amazing walls were painted this beautiful blue, mostly with beautiful dolphins and underwater creatures that I'd never seen before, but were very pretty. Here and there were very soft sofas and cozy armchairs. Flowers with red and pink blooms bloomed here, and large white garlands covered the windows. Huge chandeliers with candles, adorned with seashells, hung from the ceilings. All this made a profound impression on us.

When we sat down in a small room at a round glass table supported by a blue marble dolphin, we were strangely already dry.

"How was your trip?" asked the older man.

"Okay," Owen nodded. "So far, everything's going according to plan."

"We're very happy about that," the young man said, smiling.

"Forgive us for scaring you so much," the girl said. "But we had to put you to the test. Another one, I think, this time you'll get our tattoo, which will help you sense water and also see it...

" "Great!" I exclaimed spontaneously. "And we were already so worried about the animals drinking!"

Everyone smiled solemnly.

"So we'll teach you what it means to be Oceans. We have our history too.

" "Let's go then," the older man rose, and we all went to the room, which had only one large, round pond in the center.

I wondered why they needed a pond here, but I would soon find out. We all sat on the edge and gazed into its blue surface. The water, stirred by the hands of the elderly couple, swayed and then we heard a repeated voice coming to us from what seemed to be the depths of the water.

"In ancient traditions, it is said that all races arose from aquatic beings, because during their long underwater evolution, they came to land to test their mettle. It was we who, with our power, created the races of Avinlion, aided by the magic of water, which is the magic of life. For there are no beings who do not need water; we are all united by the need for water. Water is the element of life, and we have learned to control it... Thanks to this, we have the right to decide the lives of almost all the races of the Land of the Sunsword. Our race has always lived in underwater palaces; as you traverse this lake, you will find even more palaces like these, for among us there are no higher beings; we are all equal... As the first race, we have never demanded any special rights from the rulers of this land, as we need them. Peace is enough for us; we do not want war or bloodshed. We expect you to protect our waters. We want to live in safety, so do not drag us to your cities and villages." We are a powerful race, but we do not wish to live among you... Our Magic is the magic of life, and every Magic has its place in the great Mandala of the Cosmos. All is one; no effect exists without a cause. We, too, have our place in the great history of Avinlion, the only Land still so pure and untainted that the magics of the world can meet here... This is an extraordinary place in every way, and you must respect it, for if you do not, the energies of the Universe will turn against you. This is what you should know about the Oceans, the race of watery high elves...

We exchanged glances. The image disappeared, as it had previously in the sacred Indian grove.

"Now you still need tattoos," the older woman said. "Step into the pool.

" "But..." I looked at her uncertainly, but Owen was already standing inside.

The water wasn't deep, barely reaching my ankles, but I wasn't thrilled. When I stood next to Owen, the Oceanians stood on all four corners of the world, surrounding us in this way. Then they stretched their open hands toward us, and the water enveloped us in a huge column. Stunned by the roar, I fell to my knees as Owen gazed upward, captivated by the incredible spectacle...

And suddenly everything disappeared. There was no more roar of water, no more pool. We were sitting again at that beautiful table with the marble dolphin. From the Beginning, we sat for a moment in comfortable chairs whose backs resembled seashells, and then we lifted our right sleeves to look at another tattoo. This one depicted a seashell and was slightly lower than the Native American tattoo. It was completely black, with many fine details.

"Thank you!" my brother said.

"The suns are up. Time to go.

" "We've been here all night?"

"Yes. Your Pegasi are ready to go. You can use them to cross the lake. Their feathers are wet, so you won't be able to fly.

" "Thank you again." We both rose from the table and said goodbye to the Oceans.

Our Unicorns were waiting for us in that huge cougar, which had walls of water resembling roaring waterfalls. When we mounted them, they were no longer afraid to enter the water; the Oceans must have taught them that.

We glided through the water, almost as if we were in the air. Just beneath the surface. As we looked down, passing over one of the beautiful castles, we saw the Oceans waving in friendship. We waved back. It took us a long time to reach the other side. Our journey must have taken half a day, watching the suns move across the sky...

When the Unicorns felt the sandy ground beneath their hooves, they quickened their pace, and soon we were standing completely soaked on the other side of the large lake. We quickly lit a fire and sent the unicorns out to pasture to dry off. We changed into our spare clothes, drying our wet ones by the fire.

"Show me the map," I said to Owen.

"Exactly, I wonder if we're on the right track." My brother pulled out a map and spread it out on his knee. He stared at it silently for a moment. "We left the Water Gate, crossed the Mogot Plains, were in the city of Clonasia, were in the Corpse Tree Forest among the Indians, rode the Totem Road, and now we've crossed Sea Lake, and when we follow that road, we'll cross the river and reach... the pyramids!

" "WOW!!! I never would have guessed there were pyramids here!

" "Nothing should surprise us here anymore. Don't you think?

" "Hmmm." Sure, but it still seems like such a wonderful dream...

- Oh yes, a dream that never ends...ACT VII

The Conflict of Past and Present

The next, bright day, we set off on our journey, but unfortunately, after a two-hour drive, we came across a mighty river spilling right across the road. Unfortunately, whether we wanted to or not, we had to cross it, but we had no idea how best to do it, because the Unicorns were tired, and we didn't want to tire them out even more. So we rode along the riverbank for a long time, looking for a shallower spot through which we could guide the Unicorns. But we couldn't find anything.

"Owen, that's pointless..." I sighed in resignation. We'd been searching for so long! I no longer felt like such a pointless search.

"Do you have a better idea?" He looked at me reproachfully and turned his Pegasus towards me. "I don't know what else we could come up with!

" "Maybe we should try this flight thing?"

"It's a huge river. There's no point! Sooner or later, they'll fail. I'd rather not risk it.

" "So how are we going to do it?"

Owen shrugged helplessly and looked into the dark depths of the water. We both didn't want to get between them, which is why we couldn't muster the courage to try flying.

"Marron! Remember what they told us, Ocean?" my brother suddenly yelled, so loudly that our mounts threw back their heads in alarm. "Our Magic is the magic of life, and every Magic has its place in the great Mandala of the Cosmos."!!!

"But what does that have to do with anything?" I asked, surprised.

"The magic of life. So if, if..." Owen pondered frantically. "We have these tattoos that give us power over this magic. Do you understand me, Marron?! We can control water!

" "You don't mean we're going to go into the water now!?" I gasped breathlessly.

"I don't think we'll even have to. We'll just ride across it.

" "But Owen! That's stupid.

" "Marron, you have to believe." Owen turned his horse toward the water and closed his eyes.

After a moment, a bluish aura began to envelop his body. Seeing this, I couldn't believe it was happening. My brother a magician?! Is that even possible?! The aura intensified moment by moment, until it enveloped his entire form in glowing blue rays. When Owen opened his eyes, they were blue and glowed with an incredible brilliance, and worst of all, he had no pupils at all! I watched, petrified with fear, and in that same moment, he urged his unicorn on, which ran into the water without protest, but then began to walk across it as if it were a hard road. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hand, but I hadn't dreamed it! My little brother was actually riding a horse through the water!!! Then I lost sight of him, as a milky fog suddenly spread across the river, making it difficult to see anything. I knew I had to follow him, so I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself. Slowly, I let myself be guided by the sound of the water, which surrounded me.

"Magic of life, you are the magic of water!" I thought. "Do what you want, do what you want!"

And then I felt warmth. My heart felt so serene, as if I'd felt the warmth of a stream within. The water and its roar began to fill me, until I felt as if I could be part of that terrifying river. I slowly opened my eyes, and if I'd seen myself at that same moment, I'm sure I would have been as terrified to see my own eyes as I had been to see Owen's. Without a second thought, I spurred my horse straight toward the river and soon began trotting across the churning waves of the immense water. Suddenly, I noticed my brother standing on the other bank; his eyes were closed, and he was no longer enveloped in that beautiful blue glow. I breathed slowly and deeply. It was enough for my Unicorn to step onto dry ground, and I suddenly felt strangely weak. I wanted to sleep, just sleep, but I had to pull myself together, so I followed my brother's example and closed my eyes, concentrating on my feelings. At that moment, I felt my bond with the river fading, that we were no longer one as before, but two different Magics. I thanked the river for a safe journey and straightened in the saddle.

"And how?" my brother asked. "Amazing, isn't it?"

I only nodded, unable to utter a word. Only after a moment did I whisper: "It's so foggy here, I can't see my hand in front of my eyes! How are we going to go any further?

" "I think we'll wait until it clears up a bit," I heard my brother's voice, but I couldn't see him anymore.

"Terrifying how quickly it appeared..." I didn't finish, interrupted by the roar of a cannon and the shouts of hundreds of people. I could distinguish the shouts of soldiers and the distinct, battle cry of Indians! In that same instant, the fog dispersed, and we were standing in the middle of a field where Indians and soldiers, living in those days in the Wild West, were fighting. Our unicorns, frightened by the roar of cannons and gunfire, carried us towards the forest, where we only managed to stop them from galloping any further. Miraculously, no one was hurt.

"What...?!" I whispered. "What the hell?"

"Oh my god, where are we!? I feel like I'm in some American western." Owen looked in the direction of the battle. "What are we going to do now?"

"We can't leave this like this, Owen! They're our countrymen, we have to help them."

"But how!? Damn, I think it's pointless to even attempt something like this!"

"But remember what the Indians told us!? We have to help them so they can regain their peace! We can't leave it like this!

" "I know..." he scratched his head, jumping off the unicorn, and at that moment we heard a child's scream. It was a terrifying, fearful scream, a little boy who jumped out of the bushes and started running into the forest.

"I'll catch up with him!" I shouted to Owen, galloping after the little Indian.

I chased him for quite a while, until at one point I leaned forward in the saddle and grabbed him around the hips, quickly lifting him into the saddle. The boy screamed and struggled wildly, even biting me, which wasn't pleasant at all, but I held him tight and turned the horse around, still galloping, and returned to Owen. The little one hadn't stopped screaming and struggling for a moment the entire ride back, but when I lowered him to the ground right next to Owen, he was speechless with fear. Yes, Owen had always possessed unparalleled authority, but to this extent?! I never expected this! I jumped down beside the crying child nestled among the rocks and bushes, crouched down beside him, and began to observe him closely. Then I looked at Owen.

"We have to help him.

" "But he probably doesn't understand us..." my brother sighed.

"Perhaps our tattoo will help us this time too?" I asked uncertainly.

I closed my eyes, just as I had before, and my brother and I began to concentrate on Native American Magic. I felt power within me, but it was different. Completely different from water Magic. I felt a healing power within me, concentrated primarily in my hands. Trees with skeletons hanging from their branches rustled in my ears. An orange aura slowly enveloped our bodies, growing with each passing moment, until finally, we both opened our eyes simultaneously. They were the color of earth, and as before, there were no pupils in them. The little boy took a deep breath and pressed himself even tighter between the stones.

"Don't be afraid," I smiled at him reassuringly. "We won't hurt you."

Owen realized we could now speak the Native American language, and this surprised him greatly.

"Don't be afraid of us, we've come to help you. For the Queen of Avinlion, Mitra, has sent us. Tell us, what's your name?

" "White..." the boy whispered. "White Buffalo."

"How beautiful!" I smiled. "So tell us now what's going on there! What kind of war is this? "

The boy grew sad, looking uncertainly toward the battlefield.

"They're our enemies. Our enemies, they want to kill us. They've always wanted it! We don't stand a chance, but we must defend our sacred groves, for we have nothing but them, and it's our sacred duty, entrusted to us by the gods! Our spirits would be angry if we allowed these soldiers to desecrate them. We won't let that happen, we don't want that..."

I looked at the eleven-year-old boy and couldn't believe I was hearing those words coming from his mouth! I closed my eyes for a moment, as immense anger at all of them welled up inside me. So many victims, so many innocent victims! For what did they all die!? For whom?!..." I jumped to my feet and looked down at the boy.

"Stay here! We'll be back soon!"

My brother must have been thinking the same thing, because he followed me straight onto the battlefield, and we entered it almost as soon as both sides began to rush towards each other, ready to clash in deadly combat. We stopped in the middle of a vast clearing, feeling the earth tremble beneath us and the terrible roar of war cries shaking the air. I took a deep breath and screamed as loudly as I could.

"Stop, in the name of Mithra and Henry, I command you to stop!"

Suddenly, my voice was amplified and reverberated with a powerful echo that startled both sides. The Indians and soldiers stopped, looking at us in surprise. But soon they were attacking again. My brother frowned ominously, and in that same moment, I realized he was about to use Water Magic, for a blue glow of power enveloped him. Owen quickly knelt on the ground and touched the grass with his open hand.

"...Owen...?!" I whispered softly.

But he wasn't looking at me. He was concentrating entirely on what he wanted to do, and suddenly I felt the ground beneath me crack, water gushing out, and suddenly that same water rising in mighty walls toward the sky. It was such a stunning sight that I stepped back, staring in amazement at the incredible spectacle! And suddenly everything stopped... the silence was broken only by the mournful wailing of the Indians, as the soldiers stood calmly in military formation, watching us with malevolent smiles on their faces. I turned toward them and froze... Why were the Indians so severely wounded when the soldiers were completely unharmed? They didn't have a single scratch on their bodies! They stood as if nothing had happened... What had happened? Who could they possibly be?

I looked uncertainly at my exhausted brother and clenched my fists tightly, feeling utterly powerless at that moment. I frantically wondered if I, too, could transition from Healing Magic to Water Magic so quickly?! Was it that easy?! But my fears were unfounded. I only had to think about it, and Magic transformed within me! I closed my blue eyes and listened to my brother's rapid, shallow breathing. He was very tired.

"Why didn't anything happen to them?! Who are they?!..." I asked quietly. "Who could they be?"

As if in answer to my question, a White Buffalo ran out of the forest. I turned my head toward him sharply.

"They're not people! They don't exist!!!" he shouted, waving his arms at us. "They're just illusions! Nightmares of Indians who haven't forgotten our past lives! Destroy them! They..."

He didn't finish, as an invisible force suddenly struck him, throwing him against a nearby tree.

“Shut up, you red dog!” hissed the captain of the regiment that was attacking the Indians.

I looked at him, and in that moment I felt the power surging within me; I felt as if I was about to explode because I couldn't contain it. Anger and despair took over. I clenched my fists, wanting to scream with rage. It was too much. In a magical gesture, I closed both hands in front of me as if in prayer and concentrated all my strength on them.

"Water Magic! Water Magic!" I whispered sharply. "Water Magic!"

I still unclasped my hands, but kept them facing me. I saw a large ball of water within them. It was beautiful, but I didn't have time to look closely. So I raised my hands above my head and then, in one fluid motion, threw the ball of water in front of me. The ball hung in the air for a moment, spinning faster and faster, shifting into ever-new forms. Then, in a single instant, the ball transformed into a mighty water dragon, which roared down upon the disoriented army, engulfing them all.

As it did, the soldiers, with a desperate cry, vanished into the black mist. From the exertion that would have been mine moments earlier, I fell to my knees next to my brother, who was already recovering.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly.

"Just a little faint..."

At that moment, all the Indians who had participated in the fight approached us. They stood for a moment, watching us, then fell to their knees before us, striking their spears against their leather shields, shouting as only they can. We listened in stunned silence, then rose to our feet, and they did the same.

"You wield the magic of water and the magic of healing." "Welcome, descendants of the great Henry!" said the chief in his impressive plume. "Would you please stay with us for a while?

" "White Buffalo..." I whispered breathlessly and completely irrelevantly, running in the direction where the boy was most likely.

I spotted him under a tree, blood flowing from his torn head, but the little one was still breathing. I knelt beside him and began calling out to him, but he didn't respond. I grew increasingly desperate, until finally I remembered that perhaps the Magic I wielded could help here now... I closed my orange, gleaming eyes and placed my hands over his chest.

"Magic..." I whispered softly. "Indian magic, healing magic! Help him, help him, I implore you!"

Lightning bolts shot from my hands, piercing his body, but the little one didn't even flinch. I held my hands over his chest for a long time, then moved them above his head, until finally I placed both hands on his forehead, where I concentrated my power for a long moment.

"You have to live! You can't die, do you hear me?" I thought fearfully, afraid he would stop breathing at any moment.

"Ugh..." I suddenly heard him waking up.

"White Buffalo!" I moaned with tears in my eyes. "White Buffalo, you're alive!"

I embraced him with joy and began to cry with joy. At that moment, I felt only incredible relief that everything had turned out well. At first, the frightened little Indian didn't know how to react to my spontaneous behavior, but then he confidently embraced me with his thin arms and smiled brightly at me. Then I lifted him onto my shoulders, as he was still very weak, and we walked out into the clearing where everyone was still standing, just as I had left them. They watched us for a long time, until I heard the cry of my tearful mother, calling for White Buffalo, running toward us. When I placed him in her arms, safe and sound, I was so happy I could have screamed with joy.

The Indian village... It was a picture of misery and despair. All their cattle and chickens had been slaughtered by the soldiers, but despite this, their wigwams stood, and that was very important, as it provided a sense of security unlike anything else. White Buffalo's mother took us straight to her wigwam and, together with her young daughter, who was about twelve or thirteen years old, served us Indian food.

It was mostly meat, but it was very good, because the spices used to prepare it were fantastic! After a wonderful dinner, during which no one spoke, we were invited outside. It was already dark, so a large bonfire was lit, and all the villagers gathered around it. There were about two or three hundred of us in all. No more.

Some were still painted with war symbols, others wore deer antlers, and still others wore wolf skins. It was a truly astonishing sight. We sat around the fire in circles that widened outward.

Then we heard cheerful singing and the pounding of drums, and young warriors began dancing over and around the fire, brandishing spears and axes. We felt wonderful, because the atmosphere was incredible. At one point, as I was amusedly watching the Indians perform, a white buffalo ran up to me and sat on my lap."Hi, little one!" I laughed cheerfully. "How are you feeling? Better, I hope..."

The little one nodded and handed me something tightly wrapped in deerskin.

"Is this for me?" I was surprised as I took the package.

"Thank you! Thank you..." he whispered in my ear and ran off. When he sat down next to his mother, who hugged him tenderly, he waved happily at me, and then, along with the other children from the village, he began playing.

"Look what he gave you!" Owen urged me. When I opened the small package, I saw a carefully crafted wooden totem pole.

Painted, too! On top, with spread wings, stood an eagle, beneath it a deer with beautiful antlers, beneath it again a wolf, and even lower still a huge bear. I really liked this totem pole and decided to take special care of it, so that every time I looked at it, I would be reminded of the people who had treated us so kindly.

Only when the three suns began to rise in the sky did everyone calm down, and the entire village fell into complete silence, as if the Indians were waiting for something, and we were right in our suspicion. Owen and I watched as sparks suddenly began to fly from a large, blazing bonfire, and then colorful flames in all the colors of the rainbow began to rise higher and higher.

Suddenly, I saw human figures in the flames! I held my breath and strained my eyes to see who it could be... However, I could only make out the outlines of figures: three very tall and broad-shouldered, and one shorter and decidedly more delicate. Of course, I immediately thought of our mysterious companions who had graciously shown us the way to the Indian village when we were just getting to know them, but I didn't yet know who they really were...

It wasn't until one of the many very old Shamans gathered around the fire threw something directly into the flames that I saw the vision shared by everyone gathered there. At first, the figures blurred in the fire, followed by a huge Bear, silhouetted sharply against the flames. He stood on his hind legs, roaring menacingly, while waving his forepaws. Immediately after him appeared a Salmon, which seemed to swim in the fire's flames.

When it disappeared, a beautiful Deer appeared, seemingly traversing a vast forest of burning trees in a majestic run. Then we saw a Hawk in flight, and it was perhaps the most incredible sight I'd ever seen; I'd rarely seen anything so stunning! Unfortunately, this vision lasted only a blink of an eye... Then the fire diminished considerably, and all the Indians began to talk again, though not so loudly.

"Owen, are you thinking the same thing I am?" I asked him, looking into the fire.

"These figures who led us to the sacred grove are the highest spirits of the Indians!" he said, surprised by his discovery. "So we have had the honor of meeting them after all!

" "Exactly," I laughed happily. "How kind of them!"

White Buffalo was already asleep in his mother's arms when we slowly began to disperse to our lodges. We, too, were given a lodge of our own in which to sleep...

The forest rustled around us, a small stream, and all this was further emphasized by the silence of many, many years spent in solitude by the Indians beset by modernity... to be

BOOK OF THE DRAGON II

ACT V

Sacred Groves

Sometime in the early morning, I was awakened by the sound of a fire extinguishing. I opened my eyes and rubbed them with the back of my hand. Through the half-open tent entrance, I saw Owen leaning over the smoldering remains of last night's fire. When he noticed I was awake, he smiled broadly at me.

"Shall we continue?"

I nodded, shrugging off my sweatshirt and quickly putting on a dress. My brother soon followed suit. For breakfast, we ate sandwiches and drank some water, then packed up the tent and continued on our way. Both Owen and I slept soundly; we had no trouble falling asleep...

The day had already begun. For three suns stood high on the horizon. We weren't hot, however, because heat simply didn't exist in this Land. The only place like that was the desert; that's where the suns were most intense. We resumed our mysterious journey, heading straight for the mysterious trees silhouetted on the horizon. For now, all we could see were straight, black branches. But they were very similar to our Earthly plants...

"Do you think there's something there?

" "I have no idea. But I don't like it," he replied, pondering something. "See that? There's not a single leaf on the branches of those trees. They're completely dry and dead, and there's no grass around them either. As if something had killed everything.

" "Let's avoid that grove.

" "I doubt we'll make it..."

And Owen was right. When we crested a small hill, we saw that the trees stretched on for a very long time and that it wasn't just a small forest as we had initially thought. Owen hesitated for a moment, but ultimately, we had no choice but to enter the forest. Our unicorns descended and trotted into the trees. A dozen or so meters ahead, we reared our mounts. We stared in horror at the massive trees, their enormous branches adorned with long... long hair...! They were already faded and dull, fluttering in the light breeze just above the road leading through the forest, where even the ubiquitous grass was absent. Then, from the darkness of the trees, animal skeletons emerged, suspended from the branches, just like the hair.

"Is that hair...?" I asked in a choking voice. "...And skeletons...?

" "It looks like it," Owen replied, a little intimidated. "Those tufts of hair, they seem to remind me of something... Like some... Sure! That's how the Indians marked burial grounds." Otherwise known as sacred groves...

- Burial grounds? - I groaned, wincing. - Not that...

- Hmm... I wonder where it came from... I thought it only had to do with the Celts...

- Or maybe it's something more than Sid?

- If that were the case... If that were the case, we'd have a hard time reaching our destination.

"Don't say that..."

I followed Owen, whose Unicorn wasn't exactly pleased that we wanted to enter this terrifying forest. My Pegasus wasn't thrilled either, but he didn't put up much resistance.

"Owen..." I looked around rather uneasily.

In some places, the forest was very sparse, with only occasional large, black trees, and then we'd come across extremely densely overgrown areas.

"I don't like it here..."

The wind rustled, moving the skeletons hanging in the trees.

"Me too..." he whispered, as neither of us dared to speak aloud.

Unfortunately, we soon realized something was wrong. Instead of weakening, the wind grew stronger with each passing moment. We stopped the agitated horses, which began to snort and spin around.

"Easy..." I whispered to calm them down. "Easy!"

And suddenly, the wind stopped. In a single moment, there was complete silence and stillness. As if nothing like this had ever happened. When the dust clouds subsided, we saw four mysterious figures standing in the center before us. Three tall, powerful men and a woman. They all had long hair, woven with white feathers somewhat resembling eagle feathers. They were dressed in black leather vestments that flowed to the ground. They were adorned with both bird feathers and animal claws. The woman had strange black tattoos on her face, depicting mandalas and earthly zodiac signs. The men, on the other hand, had only a tattoo on their foreheads, a kind of headband, supposedly representing the signs of all the planets in the solar system. We dismounted from our mounts and made the same gesture of greeting as Peorth had when he greeted Mitra. The strangers responded in kind.

"Forgive us," Owen spoke first. "We had no intention of disturbing the peace of this place. We only wish to pass through." We are going to Jyxabor.

"Welcome, strangers. It is our honor to welcome you to the sacred Indian grove," said a woman standing between three enormous men. "The wind has brought us news of you, descendants of the great Henry! Welcome."

A heavy burden lifted from my heart, so I smiled with relief when it turned out we were safe.

"Surely you wish to meet us. We will welcome you for the night. For you cannot remain here any longer," said one of the men.

"Lead the way."

We followed four mysterious figures who moved silently, seemingly without even touching the ground. We were dazzled by their radiating authority and solemnity. Soon we left the main road and set off through a forest where the only things that existed were trees...

Soon, a bright, milky fog enveloped us, something that hadn't been there a moment ago. When it subsided again, as suddenly as it had appeared, we saw Indian totems. They depicted bears, eagles, foxes, and other animals typically depicted by Indians. Native American wigwams were also set up all around us, and in the center, most likely a village, a large bonfire burned with green flames, around which some Indians sat. They looked Indian, in fact; they had white, or rather gray, hair, with feathers tangled in it. Their leather garments were decorated with strange designs and utterly distinctive faces, like those we'd seen in movies before...

When they spotted us, they bowed to us and invited us to the bonfire. We sat down eagerly, surprised to find our distinguished companions gone...

"Welcome, newcomers," the chief announced, as he wore a large plume and sat in the center of a semicircle formed by people we didn't know. Indians.

"It is an honor," I said quietly.

"So you come to study the behavior of the inhabitants of Avinlion. And at the same time, you are the great descendants of our lord and king, Henry. Therefore, only you have this right. This is what we have to tell you..."

The chief gently tossed a handful of something into the fire, which rose with a crackling sound and told us the history of the Indians... Simultaneously, we heard the pounding of drums, the sound of which seemed to reach us from a great distance, never ceasing its steady rhythm. At one point, we were handed some herbs to slowly toss. Then we heard a man's voice, distant...

We were a tribe living peacefully on the plains of Earth, the blue planet of the solar system. We never waged war, we lived happily and peacefully. Our totems were sacred to us. We worshipped the gods of nature and never felt bad about it, for the spirits of the Earth protected us... One fateful day, the white men came to us. With all their wisdom and civilization, they oppressed us for so long, they persuaded us for so long, that we changed our faith. Everything we believed in, all our power and the Magic we wielded, was forgotten. As true Indians, we ceased to exist. True Indians we were never again. Everything our mothers had so lovingly taught us was only a small fraction of what we had once been capable of... There was no future before us... And yet... Yet we still dreamed of a land where we could peacefully pursue our abilities, relearn them. We longed to return to the grace of the gods of nature, we needed it... For we began to lose ourselves. There was no longer harmony between us; we were destroying ourselves. We died like Indians amid the roar of machinery, amidst the immensity of skyscrapers and the roar of traffic... We needed all our powers to call upon our nature deities. We begged them to forgive us for such a shameful betrayal and to accept us back into their midst. Seeing our plight, our benevolent deities decided to help us. However, we knew that returning to our former lands was impossible, for cities had long since sprung up there, and trees had been cut down to prevent them from obstructing and cluttering the asphalt roads... The deities had abducted us, at our own request, to Avinlion, and that is why we are here now. Only here did we find peace and rebuild our traditions and culture. Our warriors hunt in the grassy meadows of this land, our women wash clothes in the clear rivers, and our children shoot archery and ride horses. We had no chance on Earth, only Avinlion gave us a sense of security and fulfillment; without it, we would have perished, destroyed by the present. We are home, Avinlion is our home. On your journey, you will undoubtedly encounter many more earthly tribes who, to escape the present, have found their haven here. There is no other land that will help us as much as Avinlion, the Land of nature deities, the Land of Magic and energy. There is nothing more powerful than the Sun Sword; it will save Avinlion from destruction, it will protect us from the present... Our Magic has never been based on anything other than the fundamental energies flowing through the earth. We believe that only nature influences our lives; it is the most important deity; it nourishes us, shelters us, clothes us, and allows us to live. Without nature, there would be no future. Thanks to our deities, we have learned to defeat our enemies with a poisoned bow and arrow. Our powers have been revived again, not on Earth, but on Avinlion... This is our history, the history of the new Indians...

At that moment, all the drums struck in one great beat, and everything vanished. We were sitting by the campfire again, not soaring among warriors hunting buffalo, among children playing, and the other images we'd seen earlier.

"It must have been hard for you," I sighed.

"Yes, but we don't have all those problems anymore. They're over.

" "Nature deities..." Owen thought aloud. "What do you call them?

" "They are the Burning Bear, the guardian spirit of fire. The Forest Deer, the guardian spirit of all vegetation. The Swimming Salmon, the guardian spirit of water. The Cloudhawk, the guardian spirit of air.

" "These are our most important gods; they are sacred to us, and every evening we offer them sacrifices so they won't bring us misfortune.

" "What are you hunting?" I asked, surprised. "There's no game here."

"Of course there is. However, you must have a sign.

" "A sign?" we asked simultaneously.

"Yes. Wherever you stop, you will receive a sign that will help you learn more and more about Avinlion. For now, your eyes are closed to many things, but the day will come when you will know everything. Just like your grandfather. "

We exchanged surprised glances.

"The suns are setting, the warriors are returning from the hunt."

And as if he had foretold the future. Soon, warriors emerged from the mist. Dressed in traditional clothing, with long hair, painted faces and bodies, they carried bows and arrows, as well as slaughtered buffalo.

We watched for a moment as the chief and the warriors greeted each other. Then the tiny women arrived, took the bows and arrows from the warriors, and began to prepare the meat, while the men sat around the fire we were sitting by and began talking. Some went to their tents, others went back to the children. I couldn't believe we were participating in all this. I watched them and watched, but I couldn't take it all in. When a large red moon appeared in the sky, everyone suddenly stood up, and we, too, rose from our buffalo hides.

"Let's go," said the chief.

And all the men, along with us, went to a clearing where a large buffalo stood among the dry trees. The warriors circled the clearing twice while we stood, astonished, in the center. Immediately afterward, they sat down, and then we heard the beating of large drums. It terrified me. I gripped my brother's hand tightly, and he himself watched in astonishment as, one by one, every torch hung throughout the forest began to burn with a red flame. The men rose and began to dance, but they didn't enter the center of the circle. They danced around it, a strange dance of victory. At that moment, the chief handed us a large silver knife with a handle made of deer antler. We looked at it in astonishment.

"Kill the buffalo now, and then cover yourselves with its blood."

When I heard such a thing, I couldn't believe they actually expected us to do this. I looked uncertainly at the defenseless buffalo, frightened by all the screaming and the beating of the drums, and took a step back from my brother. He, too, was very surprised.

"It's a sacrificial animal. You can't offend the gods by not killing it.

" "Why?!" I screamed, not recognizing my own voice. "It's unnecessary!

" "Nothing is unnecessary, everything has its purpose. Including killing that animal. I'm warning you! If you don't do this, the nature spirits will be angry with you."

We stared at the buffalo tied up in the middle of the clearing for a long time.

"Owen..." I looked at him uncertainly.

My brother frowned and looked at me, his eyes moving from the animal.

"Come on."

I agreed. I don't know why, because if I had been anywhere else, I certainly wouldn't have done it. But the beating of the drums, the warriors' cries, and the smell of burning torches clearly had a magical meaning.

We both grabbed a knife in both hands and ran it across the animal's throat, which collapsed to the ground with a desperate roar. The screams stopped, and only their echoes reached us. Owen dipped his hand in the animal's blood and ran his hand across my forehead. I did the same, and soon we were back at the fire. There were no warriors, no women at the meat, no one but us and the chiefs, or rather, the Tribal Council. We looked at each other in surprise and felt something dripping from our right arms. I lifted the sleeve of my blouse and saw a strange mark on my arm. It was quite large and reminded me of a flower in a circle. And nothing but blood was dripping down my arm... My brother had an identical mark, in the same place.

"This is the first sign of your power." He will allow you to see all the totems around you that we have erected in honor of our deities. And now you will also see the buffalo and the wolves, and our Deities, though you will not be able to summon them anyway.

"Thank you," I said, moved.

"We have something else for you," said one of the elders on the Council.

He held out a quiver of arrows with red feather fletchings and a beautiful, massive wooden bow.

"These arrows are poisoned, so you should be very careful with them. And the magical power we have endowed this bow and quiver will ensure that you never run out of them. "

With a lump in my throat, I took the bow and arrows from him with great respect.

"The suns are rising. You must go now..."

We looked back, and at that moment four figures emerged from the mist, the same ones who had led us here earlier. The campfire and the entire village vanished in an instant, and we found ourselves enveloped in mist. Slowly, we rose from the ground and followed the mysterious figures. Soon we reached the road and stopped there. Our unicorns stood nearby, just as we had left them.

"Thank you for your guidance," Owen said gracefully.

The four magnificent figures bowed low to us, and each one approached us in turn and touched our tattoo. It turned black as night and no longer hurt as much as before. We thanked them once more, and then they vanished, vanishing before us into thin air.

Once again, we mounted our mounts and set off along the road through the eerie forest, only this time it wasn't as mysterious as before. We now knew that humans lived here too. Completely normal people... Well, no, we probably can't call them that, because they knew Magic better than we did. Certainly better, because we didn't know it at all. They were Indian shamans from the sacred grove, who gifted us with a kind of third eye, thanks to which we were able to see what we had neither seen nor heard before...

Soon we emerged from the forest, and an incredible sight unfolded before us. I gasped in awe, holding it there. We also stopped our unicorns to take a closer look.

Where we were standing, there was a high hill, even though the road wasn't uphill from the other side. It was relatively high, but it rose rather gently. The entire landscape before us was covered in grass as usual, but now, along the road, huge, almost enormous totem poles were placed. And among the tufts of grass, countless black bison grazed. They grazed completely peacefully, while three- or four-meter-tall Indian totem poles towered over them, as they were also placed here and there in the meadows...

"WOW!" I gasped, letting out all the air in my lungs.

"It looks like something out of an incredible movie.

" "This is more beautiful than any movie!" I exclaimed, galloping straight towards the herd of buffalo.

The startled animals formed a semicircle and charged down the slope. And I was among them, finally having the opportunity to feel their power firsthand. When I turned around, I saw Owen galloping right behind me, constantly urging his Pegasus. After a short while, we were galloping through the midst of a herd of thousands of huge buffalo, feeling truly happy. Then the herd veered, avoiding one of the many totem poles, and we galloped straight in the direction the road led us.

"Thank you!" Thank you!!!!- I shouted after the herd, waving my hand in friendship.

It was completely dark by then, or maybe not completely, because the large, red moon gave us plenty of light, but it was already night, and we were exhausted from the chase for freedom and the wind. I was happy to be galloping across the steppe with such magnificent animals... In high spirits, we set up our tent and lit a fire. This time, on the horizon, we saw a huge herd of buffalo grazing peacefully in the grass. We gave our Pegasi what little water they had left, and the next day we decided to get new supplies. There was still some room in our saddlebags, which were slung over the horse's back. We made ourselves dinner and went to bed... We were exhausted from the day's experiences.

Maryśka's Confidences

It was a rainy day when Marysia was sitting in her favorite wicker rocking chair, reading her favorite fairy tale, "Orphan Marysia." She thought to herself, "Oh! I'm just like that orphan!" But as often happens with these thoughts, this one too quickly fled the golden head of the little girl. Or maybe even a girl. Yes! Definitely a girl. You could even say: a young woman. Well, what's so interesting about that? Hmm... Let's think about it. Marysia will soon share her short, but that doesn't mean it's not a great, adventure...

Yes, yes... My story isn't even half as engaging as Orphan Marysia's. But I still think it's worth a close listen. It all started last year during the summer holidays, when I went to my grandmother's for the entire month of July. It was, as you might imagine, very boring. There were only old friends around, and my grandmother just kept shoving better and better treats under my nose. Oh my… I gained so much weight that summer, wow. You're probably wondering what could be so interesting about a simple stay at Grandma's. Well, there it was…

One beautiful day, as I was strolling through Grandma's field, gently lit by the red glow of the setting sun, I spotted a rabbit in the distance. I decided to catch up. I ran after it for about five minutes, but it was still just a few meters ahead of me. I was already out of breath, partly because I'd never been in good shape, and partly because of the fat that had grown all over me. That's when I decided: I have to lose weight! But unfortunately, my resolution had no foundation in reality. And so I gained and gained weight until I was fat. I didn't like it, although now I like my weight. You're probably asking: why? The answer is simple. During winter break, I joined a walrus club. Because I thought, I have some fat, and it will definitely come in handy in cold water. And maybe I'll lose some weight. So I joined. I bathed in icy water, met many people and met the love of my nineteen-year-old life…

His name was Marian, and although he was only twenty, he already had a sizable belly. He smiled and said that his "Maciuś" (which is what he called his little fat boy) came from a combination of alcohol and sweets. At first, I thought he was a disgusting character. Just a fat guy. Stupid, rude, and uncultured. Now I'm even surprised at my own thoughts back then – he was so lovely. My perspective changed the day Marian approached me and resolutely declared that his name came from mine. I really liked that statement, and from then on, I started observing him more closely. From a positive perspective. I found him to have a great sense of humor and to be very kind. And quite handsome, too. I began to gaze at him more and more often; I wanted to be near him always, and when I was, I felt positive vibes coming from him. I noticed that he also looked at me for a long time, even though I was so fat and rather uninteresting. But even though I really, really wanted to meet him, I waited for him to ask me out first. And finally, he did. I remember it like it was yesterday, even though it was two whole months ago. He said exactly this: Marysia, Maciuś is hungry, will you come with me to feed him? At first, I thought: Ugh, what is he talking about? But a moment later, I remembered who this Maciuś of his was and enthusiastically accepted his offer. We went to a bar, and that's how it all began.

Right now, I'm proud to have a soft, plump belly, and now I can't imagine an evening without a can of beer or a huge slice of cake... Girls! There's no point in losing weight! Let's be ourselves, let's not go against nature, and let's eat as much as we can!!!

Suicide District Part II

She'd been standing by the window for two hours. With difficulty, she squeezed another cigarette butt into the middle of a dozen or so previously burned ones, scattered around a tightly packed old ashtray. The entire room was filled with smoke, yet she didn't seem to notice. She was breathing in the smoke.

And you could always swap the "container" for another. The District had plenty of abandoned apartments.

Her legs were already aching. Finally, Caligari pushed an old, dilapidated chair towards her.

"Has he jumped yet?

" "No." She cut the conversation short, placing her shapely, firm buttocks on the antique leather chair. She crossed her bare legs and, lighting another cigarette, watched the scene unfolding on the roof of a building two blocks away. Her eyesight was excellent, but she occasionally held up small binoculars that resembled old theater props. However, they were state-of-the-art military equipment, like everything the group had brought into the apartment.

Anya leaned against the window, resting her elbow on her knee. They couldn't open the windows—the New Ones had too keen a sense of smell. If they smelled them or saw them, half the neighborhood would flock to their stairwell, exposing their best hiding place in months.

She narrowed her eyes as the smoke crept too close to her enormous brown eyes. She didn't take her eyes off the attempted suicide, who was turning into a murderer before her eyes. This place has that effect on everyone, she thought.

She wore only blue panties and a tank top that hugged her smooth, dark skin perfectly. The perfection of her figure was evident in every, even the smallest, slow movement. Her dark, almost black hair was tied in a bun. Only a few stray strands fell enticingly over her bare shoulders. She didn't care that the rest of the squad consisted of three men and a lesbian who was in love with her. They had to get used to her laid-back style. Or go mad. It was their business. As long as they respected her. As long as they listened to her commands and relied on her ever-reliable instincts. And for three years now, they'd been wandering the vast Suicide Quarter, living between two worlds. Between the living world, posing as law and order, drowning in panic and deception, and the wild, cruel reality of the New Ones.

She propped her foot on the windowsill and straightened. The stiffness made her muscles ache. But nothing could tear her eyes away from the boy, who was crossing the boundary between these two worlds with each passing moment, sinking and coming alive again.

He had quite a temper. He wanted to kill himself, but he was fucking the best bitch in town. And he was also destroying three males…

"Want a beer, Little One?"

Magenta. Only she had the right to speak to her that way. A female coalition was a necessity in the male unit. A necessity that, after Caspar's death, had given her leadership of the group. Or maybe in a pack. She wasn't sure anymore.

"Thanks, Maggie."

Without turning her head, she picked up the cold bottle. She placed it against the slowly healing wound on her right shoulder. A chill ripped through her body.

The boy was disappearing deeper into the building, entering through a trapdoor on the roof. She knew something he couldn't. The interior was swarming with corpses. Isolated, useless, yet mortally dangerous. All kinds of deviations, illnesses, mental disorders—all of these were suppressed by the District in Davos, as they called the building on whose roof the attempted suicide had accidentally found itself. The New Ones had such a developed instinct for self-preservation that they could distinguish the sick from the healthy. They dragged the "strange" to Davos, whose main doors opened only from the outside, and only a few were clever enough to do what a seven-year-old child could manage.

In Davos, the New Ones ate each other—sometimes there were dozens of them, sometimes three or four of the strongest. Their fate was of no concern to anyone. The natural brutality of this species had always fascinated Anya, ever since their first night in the District.

Magenta crouched down beside her. She rested her head against her leader's long, slender leg. It seemed accidental, but Anya knew that none of this girl's movements were accidental.

"How does this brat give birth?" the girl asked.

"Incredible, I'd say." She tried to keep her voice flat, but she was clearly intrigued. "He's still alive."

Magenta took the smoldering cigarette from Anya's hand and inhaled the remnants of the tobacco before she could only taste the bitter taste of the filter. She stubbed out the pipe on the windowsill and tossed it into the overflowing ashtray.

"Don't tell anyone..." Anya said slowly but firmly. "Three New Ones threw a Rattler off the roof."

Magenta looked at the squad leader in disbelief. But Anya's face was impassive.

"Seriously...?"

The lieutenant wasn't in the habit of answering rhetorical questions. She rarely offered any explanations at all. Therefore, the lack of an answer didn't surprise the girl. Yet she continued to stare at the woman's beautiful profile. She had always admired her. It was no secret. She was also in love with her. That hadn't been a secret until recently. But she knew she had to comply, try to forget her dreams. About Anya's tone of voice, different from the official one, about her touch, different from the patronizing touch of her superior. A group was a group. Especially in these difficult conditions.

But she continued to look. At the slightly parted, full lips, the slightly shorter upper lip, revealing even teeth. At the high cheekbones and those incredible, intelligent eyes.

"Why did they do this to her?" she asked, though the answer slowly formed in her mind. Everyone knew what the Rattle was for. "Was she there with that suicide bomber?"

"Yes." This time, Anya smiled gently. She liked Magenta very much, but she felt she had to keep her distance. For the good of the unit. Her charge, a few years younger than her, was just over eighteen. Yet she killed without batting an eyelid. She hadn't had any hardships, unlike most of her contemporaries. Her parents hadn't been struck down by the plague, and no one, other than a distant relative, had been torn to pieces on the city streets before the corpses were captured and locked away in the District. Quite the opposite. Everyone was perfectly protected. For generations, all members of her family had been members of the army; her family had based their existence on military service. From the age of ten, the girl had been trained by the best instructors, and she knew tricks that were black magic to many members of the regular units. This gave her a stable position in this highly unusual group. The girl's maturity was less satisfactory. But Anya saw Magenta's skin harden with each passing day, her gaze grow more determined, and her psyche, warped like the rest, take on the shape of a steely mass, irregular and battered, yet unwavering. She treated her somewhat like a daughter. However, this only worked one way. From the girl's perspective, the situation was no longer so clear.

When the would-be suicide vanished beneath the surface of the Davos roof, the Lieutenant glanced at the girl, who was now staring sightlessly out the window.

"Pass me your pipe," she said quietly, as if not wanting to break the girl's reverie.

The girl didn't even move her head, but with a deft movement, slipped the cigarette into the leader's parted lips. It was their little ritual, one neither of them could resist. Slipping the cigarette into the leader's mouth was a friendly gesture, reminding both parties of the rather close relationship they shared. Magenta felt a sense of self-worth, and Anyi was reminded of the old days, when she still had friends, people close to her. Then, only acquaintances from the industry remained, and eventually, only the squad remained. The five survivors of the nine who had entered the District over two years ago.

They sat in silence for a moment. The room was dark. Yet none of them needed light to move around the apartment, the so-called "container," with the same agility as during the day. Any light source could attract hordes of angry Newcomers. And the squad's entire advantage lay in their intangibility. They didn't exist. Neither to the Newcomers nor to the world outside.

Muffled laughter drifted from the next room. The boys were telling each other the same jokes they'd heard hundreds of times. There were no new ones. Reality wasn't funny at all. For months, they'd been telling each other the same stories, the laughs each time more artificial, quieter. But there was no other way to maintain a semblance of normalcy.

Morale. This was Anya's biggest problem. The collection of degenerate individuals that was her unit struggled to function in the isolation and general paranoia that gripped the entire city, especially the District. Suicide Land. The name couldn't mean anything good. There was nothing about it that would allow them to live longer. That's why it allowed them to do so much. Perhaps too much. Risky games, complete moral degradation, a lack of values ​​– all of this deepened the confusion of five people who knew only how to kill. On the other hand, they were the closest people to each other, they had only each other, and in their daily lives, they depended on each other more than anyone wanted to depend on another.

"I feel sorry for Rattle..." Magenta finally broke the silence.

"I know, Little..." Anya said slowly, taking a drag on her cigarette. "Me too. On the other hand, remember, she belonged to a different species; she wasn't one of us, despite the boys' approach to her, or rather, her shapely backside. Maybe now there'll be less trouble…

"You're probably right. Just because I feel sorry for her doesn't change the fact that she pissed me off like no other corpse."

Anya leaned back against the creaking arm of the chair, smiling to herself. This brat is finally maturing, she thought with satisfaction. She's growing into a woman with character.

Between puffs of sharp smoke, she said in a cool voice what had been on her mind for an hour:

"If the boy survives tonight and gets out of Davos, we'll consider helping him."

Magenta took a moment to react.

"You want to accept a would-be suicider into our group?"

"He killed pretty well, for a would-be suicider?"

This time, a sly, very feminine smile lit up the younger girl's rather unattractive face.

"You were the one watching him all evening. What else did he do well?"

Anya smiled in the darkness, but her features quickly hardened. Her voice had to be serious and decisive.

"Don't let yourself, Little One," she managed, though with difficulty. The comment might have been accurate, but there was more to it than that. The boy was adapting quickly. He could be useful, bring some freshness.

How beautifully he kills, she thought. But she quickly scolded herself for the statement, too subjective and too skewed for the leader of the group.

"He simply could be useful."

Another moment of silence.

"Okay, you're in charge." Magenta rose, resting her hand on Anya's exposed thigh. As usual, she'd held it a fraction too long.

The lieutenant took a long swig of her cold beer.

Time for bed. Tomorrow was another long day of hunting.

Suicide District Part I

It was almost two in the morning.

He'd been stranded on the edge of a skyscraper for almost an hour, planning to jump down. He couldn't. He was afraid of the fall, of the death-defying panic of falling.

He felt angry with himself. He couldn't even do that well. He smoked cigarette after cigarette until dizziness set in. "Maybe I'll fall at least," he thought. The smoke swirled in his head, making its way through his thoughts.

He had his reasons. The most important of them was boredom and a lack of purpose. He'd tried so many times to convince himself that purpose didn't exist, that he had to learn to live without it, but he couldn't. He constantly felt like he was wasting the time given to him by those around him on his own meaningless, spoiled-child life worries.

He tried to come down. Literally. But he couldn't either. The odd jobs he'd taken and his desperate attempts to finish his studies at the prestigious University of the Besieged City had ended in failure. All he could do was wait. For something. But nothing had arrived.

It had been thirty-four years since the Mutation. His parents had survived it, managed to get back on their feet and achieve something in life. It was natural, then, that he would achieve something too. He felt a pressure he didn't want to bear. He also didn't want to leave, to start over. He wanted to end it. Disappear. Jump.

But he couldn't.

He looked down once more. A crowd of corpses swarmed above him, creatures that, like another species, another, yet backward, stage of evolution, had invaded the happy human civilization, shattering its bright future. In reality, these creatures, symbols of the degradation of the human race, were very much alive. Too alive. Their dead, unintelligent gaze resembled only zombies from old movies. Furthermore, the brain damage caused by the Mutation had led to mental changes and limited physical abilities. They moved rather slowly, less agile than humans. Hence, they were called "the living dead." But reality was far from the movie.

This part of the city belonged to them. Why did he want to die there? He wasn't sure himself. He knew he'd be doing them a favor, practically "falling from the sky," throwing himself at the hungry creatures' feet. They had a hard time too. Winter never favored them, the animals were gone, the birds had flown away. And the living hadn't ventured into the Suicide Quarter for years. Yes, a very apt and fitting name.

There was another reason for his presence. His family would never look for him in this place. The authorities hadn't conducted a search, claiming it was too risky. Rightly so. Those who came here willingly wanted to die anyway. There was no point in endangering those who wanted to live for the sake of corrupt, jaded individuals with no will to live.

The authorities of the Besieged City had sealed off this district years ago, forbidding access to it. It was impossible to enter the District, and the corpses couldn't leave. That was how it was set up. The rest of the city lived at its own pace, convincing itself it was possible. The fortress created a semblance of normal existence, even though civilization seemed to have no future. Outside the city, there was only a forest—a forest of corpses. All attempts at colonization, to expand the city's territory, ended in further massacres of settlers. No one wanted to live on the outskirts. Except for the millions who had no other choice. This was how slums were created. This was how a third breed of evil, lost, destitute people arose. This was how the grapes of wrath grew.

His parents were Dutch. His mother was actually Polish. But that didn't matter now. Everyone spoke a single, universal language, the language of the besieged city-state. There were several such metropolises. Islands in a dead ocean. With a few, they maintained constant radio contact. Others were mere legends, marked on maps with a special color – green. The illusory color of hope.

Personally, he didn't believe anyone still lived there. Basically, it didn't matter to him. It didn't matter to Dorian Sayman.

He gazed thoughtfully into the tangle of "new ones," as they were affectionately called in propaganda films shown in cinemas. In fact, no others were being made. Hope sold best in these difficult times. The term "New Ones" suggested another species, a being to live alongside, with whom one might one day coexist. However, experience and years of research did not bode well for such a solution. A consistently high level of aggression, extremely low intelligence, a lifespan despite their obvious physical disabilities, and a high reproductive rate – all this offered no hope for symbiosis. It was impossible to communicate with them, to domesticate them – the only way to do it was to kill them. They organized themselves into small groups, searching for food, only to kill each other at the first victim they found. It was as if all their attempts to create the foundations of any kind of community had ended in failure. Apparently, they were still a long way from a social contract. Besides, they ate our people. They hunted us, in fact; we were their delicacy. That was what terrified them most. Their animalistic superiority over civilization. Our books and technology against their natural, animalistic will to survive and hunger.

Unfortunately, they reproduced. They fucked and gave birth like rabbits. Statistical data, certainly underestimated, indicated a ten percent increase in their population over twenty-five years. A lot. It seemed that humanity, with all its wisdom, knowledge, and achievements, would be condemned to second-tier status. We are no longer masters of the world, he thought. And that's what hurts us most. Hence the films about power, songs of hope, novels about returning to deserved world domination.

He'd had enough of this very noise. He'd had enough of people, of civilization, of humiliation, of constant illusions.

It didn't matter anyway. His penultimate cigarette was dying in his hand.

We're jumping, he decided, and once again that evening he leaned dangerously over the railing.

A tug on his hair pulled him back. He cried out in pain, the cigarette flying thirty stories down.

He fell to the ground and felt, more than heard, footsteps—all around him.

He whirled around in terror, his gaze sweeping across the square, but the darkness was illuminated only by the distant lights of the quiet, sad neighborhoods.

In the twilight, he could see the vast expanse of the roof. Flat and empty.

He took out his pistol, the latest technological achievement his father had provided him with—"just in case." He aimed it into the darkness, blindly aiming everywhere. He turned nervously to avoid being approached from behind.

But he felt the gun trembling in his hand. He slipped out of her, sweaty and cold. His grip wasn't secure. He knew that, he thought. His opponent must have sensed his fear. Uncertainty lurked in the boy's every nervous gesture.

Worse still, the opponent was gone. The square was empty. No sound, no movement. Far below, the animalistic sounds of corpses. They didn't usually go up to the rooftops. But someone had to be there. He grabbed him by the hair and threw him to the ground.

Cigarette smoke still swirled around his head. It distracted him, further sapping his confidence.

I have a gun, damn it... I have a gun!

"Show yourself, scum," he hissed through gritted teeth into the darkness, a sudden surge of questionable courage.

Still nothing.

Maybe it was behind him, hanging somewhere over the railing. He wanted to check. The knowledge that something might be right behind him terrified him. He'd often imagined the situation of facing the "new guy." Several times, he'd seen them from a distance of several meters. In high school, they often went on sadistic hunts – unarmed corpses, armed only with innate aggression, were a perfect way to vent youthful rage. They stopped when one of his friends lost an arm. He shot himself two days later. That was Dorian's last contact with these creatures, and now everything pointed to suicide being impossible.

He entered the District through the sewers. There was no one watching. Then, sneaking past abandoned shops, broken windows, and wrecked cars, he reached a ladder leading to the roof of one of the buildings. He was terrified of heights, but using the elevator was highly inadvisable. He consoled himself that if he fell, suicide would be out of the question. He even considered letting go of the ladder halfway up – it seemed pointless to climb up a tiring slope when it would end in a free fall anyway. But despite everything, he wanted to do it with class.

But this time was different. On the way to death, there would be fear, pain, blood, the torturer's furious growl, and the sound of the victim's veins bursting. But he tried not to think about it.

I'll kill one son of a bitch as a gift to my own fucked-up tribe. And then I'll give them my body. Not before.

Finally, he decided to look over the railing. He slowly started to turn when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw something.

It lay flat on the roof, flat. That's why he hadn't seen it before. He aimed, but the attacker began to rise. He had been exposed, yet he felt confident enough to stand and approach the boy. He could feel Dorian's fear, and that gave him confidence. He didn't know what a weapon was, couldn't know it killed from a distance.

There was something else. When the attacker stood up, the would-be suicider realized with disbelief that it was a woman. A female. Whatever.

"I'll kill you, bitch," he hissed.

But only a soft moan, almost a meow, answered him. The figure crouched and began to crawl across the cold rooftop. He thought he heard a soft chuckle.

Was she toying with me? Or perhaps she didn't really want to kill me.

He doubted it.

She was now less than two meters away. The Department could already see her clearly, in the light of the streetlamp. The city authorities kept the Suicide Quarter lit so that, by patrolling it from helicopters, they could study the habits of the dissidents. Sometimes poisoned meat was dropped, but they quickly learned not to eat it. The population of the Besieged City refused to consent to the bombing. Low effectiveness and heavy losses, and the hope of returning to one of the most beautiful districts, once and still one of the largest in the metropolis, prevented decisive action. There were sporadic gunfires, but they usually hid at the sound of approaching helicopters. There was no effective solution. Pat.

She stood up. Her gaze stunned him. Wild, yet somehow intelligent. Still, impenetrable. Large, blue eyes stared at him, and a smile appeared on her grimy face, the one she'd probably used to seduce dozens, hundreds of men, the wild inhabitants of the City. Her body was very young; he estimated her to be no more than sixteen, yet most girls of his species could envy her shape and firmness. Her animalism, her natural strength, manifested itself in every movement and the slightest gesture.

Yet he knew this was no longer his species. [He had heard stories of people capturing female "newcomers" and raping them. It seemed disgusting to him. Socially condemned, beneath human dignity. A damnable form of bestiality.] He felt the difference. It was hard to tell if it was more mental or physical, yet he was aware of how much separated this corpse from his own. Tens of thousands of years of development and physicality. He was weaker. Inferior. Less agile. Less—animalistic.

She wore ragged, tight shorts. They often wear "human" clothes. It was easier for them. Humanity wore mammoth skins, and they inherited Levi's and Benetton shirts, as it were.

She also wore a tight, torn blouse, caked with some kind of liquid. However, it only added to the charm of her perfect breasts.

She was barefoot. Blisters and calluses were visible on her feet; she'd probably spent her entire life like that. She must have belonged to the second generation, not those who had undergone the mutation, but their children. These were supposedly stronger, natural. Primordial.

What am I doing here? I was about to kill myself, and now I'm getting a hard-on at the sight of an animal.

The white skin of her legs, scabbed, scratched, and dirty, caught his eye. Her hair, matted in locks with months of grime, resembled dreadlocks. Yet her smile revealed the woman within.

If only you were a woman, he thought.

Nails. Long and dirty, yet probably razor-sharp.

He had to control himself. This animal wanted to kill him.

He gripped the gun more securely. He adjusted his finger, slowly pressing the trigger.

He aimed for her head. Between those enormous, wild eyes.

Then he understood.

I know I can't touch her. But she doesn't know I'm a stranger. She wants me to do to her what any member of her species would do to her.

There was no major deviation from normality in the world of the Besieged City. Such cases supposedly occurred, but they were associated with condemnation and harsh sentences from the Human Court, the second-highest authority in the city after the Party of Hope.

She began to snuggle against his legs. She was practiced at it. He thought she must be one of the local public servants.

She nestled between his legs. She rubbed her head against the visible bulge in his pants, slowly, then faster. She began to meow softly again.

No laws applied to him anymore.

It would be a beautiful end to my miserable existence. But could I fall so low?

Then he felt a new, previously unknown realm of existence opening up before him. He wanted to fall even lower, since nothing had meaning or value anymore; climbing was the same as hitting rock bottom. But on the way down, there was more to discover. He wanted to enter that animal, to lose the last vestiges of his humanity. Intercourse with her would be almost like death. A loss of self. Yet far more pleasurable. And then the jump. Another plunge.

The feeling was completely new to him, a little terrifying. Yet he couldn't resist. He liked it.

He bent down and grabbed her by the neck. Slowly, yet not very gently, he pulled her up. Their faces were now only a few centimeters apart. She was about twenty centimeters shorter than him.

He could smell her sweat. The scent of the forbidden city, with all its gutters, basements, and filth.

He'd never felt so immoral before. Yet that was precisely what drew him most, despite the fear he felt. The vision of never looking at his own reflection the same way again. A masochistic desire for humiliation he'd never hid before. Had it lingered within him for so long? No matter. He'd soon be jumping anyway. Maybe he'd even drag her down with him. He felt angry. Like never before. And he had no control over it.

Before, he'd had no value. He'd been on the sidelines. While everyone was building a new world, based on the hope and self-awareness of the species, he felt it was an illusion. He was paying for not trying to escape the humiliation they had all truly experienced. Besides, he simply didn't feel like it.

But now, from his lack of individual worth, a strange, previously nonexistent or unconscious growth was growing. A sore spot of disgusting rebellion. Not noble, not in the name of a higher cause. An element of denial appeared within him; he felt he was crossing a boundary that a normal person couldn't cross. His approaching death had given him a gift. A woman-shaped animal, a creature that would lead him down the path of damnation.

Now the gates of paradise were surely closed to me. But her wild body beckoned with an incredible openness.

Dorian's face twisted into a grimace that resembled a smile. The "girl" hesitated. Instinctively, she sensed the change.

But for him, there was no turning back.

He turned her around and pushed her against the railing. She offered no resistance, only mewed louder than before. He leaned her back against him, dangling her almost over the edge of the building. Below, a dozen figures circled aimlessly, their uneven, cadaverous gaits. Her movements were similar, but that mattered to him now. Everything that could now point to his disadvantage appealed to him, drawing him into the abyss of the forbidden and inhuman. Terrified, he submitted, yet simultaneously wanting it—desiring something anew.

He unbuttoned her shorts. The zipper was undone; she clearly hadn't yet mastered the art of fastening such complex devices.

Her shapely buttocks pressed against him. He sensed she enjoyed what they were both participating in as much as he did. But he possessed a consciousness that this creature, the most despised reflection of humanity, lacked.

He slid her pants down, revealing two round, perfectly firm buttocks. Somewhere beneath was a thick forest of dark, curly hair.

She spread her legs wide and arched her back toward him. He had the impression she had performed this movement hundreds of times. He wanted this, the pain of the fall, the death of his conscience—the guardian of his humanity.

The tension had to escape somewhere. He unzipped his pants, feeling her hot wetness.

He slid inside her slowly....

Just then he heard a terrifying roar behind him.

He turned, his pants down, staring into the darkness. This time, the enemy was visible. Three enormous corpses lunged at him with surprising agility. Despite this, they looked grotesque, trying to get to him as quickly as possible, overcoming their awkward gait and limited mobility. They walked as if limping, but at a quick pace, like something out of a black-and-white comedy.

He didn't even have time to zip up his pants. Meanwhile, the female pulled up hers and let out a terrified squeal.

He tried to ignore her.

The largest of the corpses held a massive axe in his hand. Even in the dim light, a dark, dried liquid could be seen on it. The look of fury on his face almost robbed Dorian of his composure.

He was utterly taken aback. Being attacked while sitting calmly on the roof was one thing, but engaging in forbidden sex was quite another.

The other two were charging at him with their bare hands, furiously slashing the air. All three were wearing work overalls, lopsided, torn, and worn, as if they hadn't taken them off in years. That was probably exactly what they were.

He fired, involuntarily stepping away from the female, wanting to keep everyone in sight, within firing range.

He missed, and the silenced weapon had no effect on the corpses.

He noticed two of them charging at him, while one moved toward the "girl," presumably to defend her from her alleged rapist.

He sensed this wasn't just about the female anymore. They knew. They realized he was a mortal enemy—a member of a species bent on their destruction. Yet it was difficult to detect any sign of intelligence in their gaze. He saw only fury, not human, but animal.

The corpse armed with an axe was closest. Three meters from the backsliding Dorian, he began a mighty swing. He wanted to split his opponent in half. Then, surely, eat him. The boy subconsciously sensed that the giant had eaten human flesh more than once.

At this distance, he couldn't miss.

A faint, short rustle could be heard, but it was drowned out by the animal's furious roar. The bullet shattered his head, tearing a huge, bloody hole in the back of his skull. The blood of the falling corpse drenched Dorian's skin, and the axe missed his temple by only a few centimeters.

The second Newcomer seemed to hesitate. He hesitated, and was a fraction of a second too late with his attack. His huge, filthy hand, equipped with long, sharp nails, missed the boy's shoulder by a good half a meter. He could have fired immediately, but the target was still moving.

He stepped back a few steps, watching the third attacker and the female out of the corner of his eye. He roared something at her and punched her in the stomach.

Meanwhile, his companion had regained his balance and, less than four meters away, faced Dorian, adopting a position seemingly intended to intimidate the man. His leaning posture, his leg muscles tensed beneath his too-small suit, seemed ready for a leap that a corpse couldn't make. He had no chance. He seemed to be stalling for time. His lowered head, his long, matted black hair, and the rage radiating from his wild eyes sent a cold shiver down the boy's spine. However, he kept his sights on the beast.

A growing dark pool of blood began to flood the feet of the still-living animal. He growled loudly.

However, the howl escaping from his throat abruptly ended as the furious creature's neck and head collapsed into a shapeless mass, falling with an unpleasant crack onto the cold surface of the roof, forming another pool of thick blood.

Dorian found it hard to believe what was happening to him. He fired slowly, deliberately, completely unfazed by the decaying bodies of his opponents. He didn't even feel nauseous. He methodically killed one by one. Now he had to tackle the third. Without lowering his weapon, he was surprised to find his hands trembling, leaving only a cold sweat.

A third male stood by the railings. But the boy was wrong. He had no intention of defending her. He beat her with his fists in a fury not usually seen in New Ones. He didn't want to simply kill her, as animals usually do. He must have instinctively known he was causing pain.

And yet, they have something of humanity in them, Dorian realized in horror, running up to the executioner.

The female's meowing turned into a piercing, pitiful whine as she took each blow. He struck her in the head, neck, and torso, crushing the delicate female with his large fists. The boy could no longer see her face, completely obscured by a dark curtain of blood, flowing down her light blouse and spraying both struggling bodies.

Dorian tried to tear his gaze away from what in his mind was already "the girl" and shift it to the male's target, but it was difficult. The hypnotic image of cruelty overwhelmed him, preventing him from moving.

The male's sweat-damp hair almost obscured his face, contorted with anger and aggression.

The girl fell limply to the ground. The beast, likely her mate, father, or some other kind of lord and master, tried to lift her.

Then Dorian shot. It hit her in the shoulder. The animal shook, but its roar remained unchanged. There was as much fury in it as pain.

It seemed it would charge at the boy. He had already taken the first step; they were moving toward each other. Dorian wanted to be closer. To look into the eyes that belonged to something worse than a predator, something worse than a human.

The young female remained motionless. Only a soft moan and rasping breath could be heard.

Her master stopped and looked at his prey. In the blink of an eye, he lifted her with one hand and pushed her against the railing.

The boy's weapon reacted immediately, but in the ensuing struggle, he struck the spinning animal in the back. The shot was a good one. Under normal circumstances, it would have been enough. But not now.

Dorian knew what his opponent intended. He fired again. A piece of skull vanished into thin air, but it was too late.

A massive hand, in a final impulse of iron determination, pushed the limp, terrified female over the railing.

First he fell, and a few seconds later the dull thud of her falling body could be heard, shattering against the cobblestones.

Dorian approached the railing, shivering. The warm summer night suddenly felt terribly cold.

A body lay on the street, twisted unnaturally. Streams of blood emanated from it in all directions, spreading across the asphalt like a spider's web.

A crowd gathered around the body, howling ominously. The corpses seemed as disoriented as the boy. One by one, they approached the body and carefully touched it. They checked if it was still alive, as if there was any chance of survival after a fall from a height of forty meters.

One got the impression they knew perfectly well who the dead "girl" was. Her young body must have been very popular with the locals. Several began to pull the corpse between them, growling as they did so. Apparently, many considered themselves her "masters." The females seemed to let out cries of satisfaction.

Finally, they dragged her by the arms across the asphalt, face down, just as she had fallen. He didn't know where they were dragging her.

Then some of them began to look up hostilely. They caught a glimpse of his face. From a distance, they couldn't make out who he was, but he knew they were about to climb to the roof, driven by a thirst for revenge.

He felt dizzy, and as his adrenaline levels plummeted, he felt faint. He checked his magazine, but there were only five bullets left in the chamber. Hand-to-hand combat was out of the question.

He couldn't escape the way he'd come. There was a definite possibility they'd never gotten inside the building. They certainly didn't know how to use the elevator. And even if they had, escaping by ladder was impossible.

He knew he had little time. There was no doubt they were coming for him. Yet he stood leaning against the railing, staring out at the distant neighborhoods where normal life went on. He'd never been so far from home and safety.

He was going to jump. That was why he'd come here. But not now. It couldn't end like this. He didn't want to kill himself by running away. But wasn't suicide an escape? Thoughts swirled frantically in his aching head; he could almost feel them crashing together.

He no longer knew if he still had the right to die. She had somehow saved his life, having previously given him a moment of unrequited pleasure. He remembered that animalistic meow. For a moment, he felt that state again, a terrifying liberation, the feeling of being completely alone in his fall and having nothing to lose. Did he still want to die as a free man? A certain dark side of his existence, deeply hidden until now, had surfaced. Darker and more terrifying than anything he had known before. Darker than that July night over the City of the Dead. Yet he felt a part of this night now. For the first time in a long time, he was a part of something. As if in death and fall, he had found himself.

Maybe it simply resides in some. Maybe this is just who I am. If only I could, I would squeeze into her wild body again... If only I could, I would smash those animals again, with the same composure and determination.

But when he remembered her body, blood gushing in all directions like a fountain, tears welled in his eyes.

He could almost feel a transformation taking place within him. Something was being born, wanting to continue killing, to continue to decline, to rediscover himself in the most magnificent corruption he had ever experienced. What was emerging within him now called for another night, a suddenly revealed darkness that yearned to survive and return to the Suicide Quarter, to teeter dangerously on the metaphysical border between death and life. Evil and good mingled in the surrounding scent of blood and the stench of freshly slain enemies.

Simultaneously, the values ​​that had dominated his mind, guided him for over twenty years, were dying within him. His conscience, his sense of shame, his desire for humanity were dying.

He felt all the foundations of his existence vanishing, leaving a void. An abyss. All the warning signs and bars crumbling in his mind, allowing him to live again in cold indifference.

He didn't know what would happen next. He wasn't sure where he would go, where he would return. The tears cooling on his cheeks were tears of regret, a residual sense of guilt over the death of a related species, but they were also tears of fear and uncertainty. He no longer knew which face Dorian had.

He didn't have time for this. He heard dozens of bare feet climbing upward.

He ran to the elevator.

It was a flat hatch in the roof. He opened it with great difficulty, glancing back. They hadn't reached the roof yet. He knew it had been a considerable effort for them; it must have taken a lot for them to reach the very top of the building. They would be exhausted and weak. But they would still be angry, and there would be many of them. He might be able to knock a few down with his bare hands, maybe he could push them off the building on the ladder. But surely there would be more behind them. There was the elevator.

He stepped through the hatch, closing it behind him with a loud bang.

Darkness enveloped him, a complete lack of light. With a trembling hand, he pulled a lighter from his back pocket. A brief crack echoed off the walls of the deserted building, carrying the light with it.

Drops of anamnesis

:

Lifting your two eyelids with the effort of ant-like slits, you are reborn in the land of clocks. By choosing the toys that, in the cruel moment of awakening, find themselves in the slashing field of our pupils, you choose your interpretation of the world. I vote for the faded photograph of Shoavinne, struggling to hold a slipping silver saucepan.

Lips curling in the recesses of a smile, an unstoppable delight in the everyday, even in grasping the pan, creates the illusion that opening your eyes was the proper chimney of roulette alternatives. I sipped the photo across from the bed, amidst swirling glasses smelling of rotten apples, creating my own applied art. Chatting with the private sun is the howling desire of those who adhere to cultural norms. But the privilege is mine. The rest are to gather their belongings and leave immediately.

As I punch my ticket, allowing me to settle into my place on this side of the sink, freeing me from the yoke of plumbing pipes and tainted water, or perhaps binding me, giving me flesh and shoving consciousness into my ear—homosexuals would know this best—as I punch it, I try to form my first dozen or so conclusions while lying down. That morning, the morning I saw those contemplating eyes, I began by remembering Corporal Targabagne, who sentenced novices to coloring national emblems for minor offenses and suspected me for over two months of raping a nurse who worked as a volunteer in our barracks. The tin cup he only put down when he shit, which we scribbled on his face with pink, indelible marker, was a kind of symbol of the loss of authority in our eyes, as the hard, male shell succumbed to irreversible feminization. Furious bayonet pokes at mannequins will not earn respect for the generals who impose spotty martial law.

Morning reflections are a grinding oddity, openly beating the drum of condensed knowledge, spewing forth thoughts whose interconnectedness reminds me of the broken rungs of the monkey bars on the gymnasium walls. I remember my puppy years, when my loins, inspired by pillow plans, spun a spiderweb of dreamlike graces throughout entire lessons.

After noticing that the sounds of the keys are scarring all the skies, and that finding a chariot in a spectacle box seems no more extraordinary than the constant dryness of the mouth, the natural alarm clock of us cursed by the state monopoly industry, after noticing that the clamoring conclusions behave like secretaries of a military commission, sending abused conscripts to other rooms from which they return to their original place, after such an observation I rise from the floor to fill my bitter cup with another day, probably named by the microscopes as the inevitable consequence of my illness.

The decision to go to Belvederre is made on the level below. Gorillas don't consciously befriend humans; it's a long process, still unavailable for statistical analysis. First, they allow a distance of five meters to be reduced, provided they aren't surrounded by a tight group using noisy camera flashes. After a period difficult to count, dependent on many factors, they cautiously approach closer and tentatively study human habits. The process of familiarization is insidious, a cancer whose symptoms become apparent when treatment is too late.

Only when I finally leave the basement, where I've managed to sleep undisturbed for over a decade, do I once again realize it's gone, that it's not today, that I'll be drinking again today and resting tomorrow. On the stairwell, the thought of returning without a visit to the Belvedere (I'm kidding myself that it's just about visiting Madame Monisse) is illogical, like cutting off a bedsheet game on a cool summer evening before the finish line. And then I remember that I know this path, that I've been here more times than I've been to the bathtub, that my entire life boils down to this path, and that I couldn't possibly stray any further, to the pet shop where, many years ago, I used to spend my time passionately observing the habits of spiders and scorpions. Always drunk.

The final steps, freeing me from the stairwell's embrace, trigger a sudden onslaught of sounds and images. Despite winding my watch daily, moving through the neon jungle is an exotic dance along the balustrade of a concrete building. Even the sounds of gunfire, bomb blasts, and the shrieks of terrified greenhorns are more harmonious to me than the dark recesses, tainted by rows of blinding streetlights, furiously barking dogs, and demonic children's laughter. But soon I turn the corner and see the Belvedere.

The bright lights immediately attract attention, shimmering in the distance. Glittering in the distance with the glow of a mirage. I've often wondered if this isn't some hostile maneuver, if it isn't a carefully worked intelligence agency trying to lure me in to torture a confession. A perversion of former servicemen, but no insect caught in a pitcher plant escapes its trap.

There's something terrifying about this place, something like a crow screeching over the body of a hanged man, boring into the beam embedded in my eye. The wailing voices of this shop ignite my unquestionable delight, admiring the lovers' hats falling with joy, but I truly hear a sinister note within them. As if some terrible power lurked behind those warm neon lights and elegant vestibule. Some perceive this in the nocturnal forest, convinced that the forest is a hostile creature, possessed by an evil spirit, intent on slyly sucking the life juice from them.

I like the forest at night; it's quiet then, and you can hear every crack, but I see such a gnashing demon in "Belvederre."

This effect vanishes with the sight of milkmaids in bathrobes contemplating the vacuum cleaners in hotel rooms, embossed on the shop sign. Then an elegant, richly appointed interior appears, and from within comes the strains of an old radio, which the youngest saleswoman, Madame Monisse, always carries with her, tossing wrinkled orange peels behind her. Pleasant cleanliness or pure pleasure?

Walking through the doors of my cathedral, I allow the paranoia-violating sense of impending orgasm to grow, piercing through all my fears. And no one looks at me with contempt anymore, no one turns their gaze on the street toward the trash bin; from every shelf, overwhelming treasure chests peer at me, twisting my cynical distance from the world into an empathetic smile. Once again, I grin in an ironic smile whose full meaning only I can guess. The circle is complete.

Gazing at the shelves is relaxing, sometimes far too relaxing, as Madame Monisse asks in a helpful tone if I can get you anything, flexing her feline back behind the counter. Seeing her dignified, almost aristocratic movements, yet devoid of a hint of haughtiness, I form (oh my god!) optimistic conclusions about reality. Children will receive colorful bouquets of dragées from the hands of women whose every twitch of support can drag all thoughts with it, yet who are working for a good cause. Pretending their perceptions ignore the situations in which I was once forced to shamefully steal yeast rolls.

Madame Monisse knows what I mean.

I make my way out onto the street, my steps clattering against the pavement, a liter of rubbing alcohol held in a transparent mesh bag, two days' fuel, not counting mornings. The strangler slides from my chest, interrupting the cruel and slow condemnation of me to torment.

I try not to look back then. Because when I look back, my piano-playing friends are leaving the living room, and I see the same demon again, laughing in my face and boasting about winning the battle with the beggar.

That day, I stopped, as usual, by the rosebushes, the magical gypsy territory where I introduce the first drops of spirit into my bloodstream. The red hue of this place is completely at odds with the surrounding green plants and brings a certain fairytale element to this gray landscape, an element intensified by the organic chemistry transformation that determines my actions. I often wondered if something unusual would happen to me through that bush once I had the cap back on and turned toward the stairwell. But it wasn't until yesterday, when I choked on too much of the burning beverage, that he caught us all observing the oddities in the city's event library.

Next to a tangle of falling leaves by a wooden bench, a young couple was leafleting with a touch of boredom, advertising electronic dictionaries. The boy's misplaced eyes and mischievous haircut reminded me deceptively of a captured deer, whose laughter scoured the area like a spy. In his deerlike villainy, he was out of place on the bench, a frowning watchmaker's error, but the girl, with that peculiar way she held a piece of paper, had a sparkle that immediately drew me toward the old willow tree.

I approached them, pretending to be thrown by a causal accident of choosing a route, a roll of the dice unrelated to my will. Scratching my shaggy boot on the rough ground, I glanced there casually and saw eyes. Contemplative.

I'd seen them before, yes!

I know who had eyes like that, and suddenly I felt Siberian shivers flowing through my country. Cold shivers, every now and then turning into sub-desert waves, drenching everything with beads of sweat. For a dozen or so seconds, my heart pounded the cups with all its might; I felt like a vicious drum under a bad drummer.

They watched with curiosity, pointing at me; they were clearly drawn to attractions like the reflections of a tramp in the middle of the yard. Undersized calves, probably still watching adventure romances with happy endings, gorging on popcorn in movie theater seats and giggling amidst the tickling. But then our eyes met, and I felt I couldn't simply walk away and let her speculate, that I had to fulfill the promise I'd made by looking at her longer than was written in the cave of behavior.

When a successful conversational initiation, unfinished by a disgusting end to the discussion or an awkward silence, seems impossible, you can always ask for a cigarette. The procedure of offering a cigarette and lighting it with someone else's lighter requires an exchange of a few words, which integrates the interlocutors regardless of their will, also presenting many details. Knowledge pays off later.

It was she who handed me the cigarette, her movements faster and more precise. The deer was overconfident, after all, stemming from the fact that he owned her body. He knew he was needed, and it gave him a sense of superiority.

This irritated me almost as much as my mustachioed uncle San Pedro, who, a dozen or so years ago, had told me to take out the empty bottles and get lost. The deer aroused an unquestionable feeling of antipathy, and it wasn't at all a result of envy for the contemplative eyes that still fascinated me with the force of a country gale. But I hid it under the tablecloth; no one would ever read the emotion in that face when the greatest thirst had been quenched.

Lighting my cigarette, she looked at me with solicitous despair, for a split second feeling all the delirium that had plagued my entrails for twenty-six years. Shoavinne rattled off empathy toward the beggars, and whenever she passed stinking mounds of meat, she even restrained her urge to go collecting acorns, raising her eyebrows in pity. Someone's pearls trampled on the floor were unbearable for the banknote-hating dancer.

I grabbed the cigarette and once again couldn't resist that absurd feeling I didn't want to acknowledge yet; it was too impossible; even putting it into words sounded idiotic. But I was already beginning to develop a certain timid premonition, a premonition that with each passing moment strengthened the gripping bands in my chest.

I recounted all those wild events, how Womtebegne drank urine instead of cheap orange soda at the museum, and how I'd killed a spider yesterday with a well-aimed flip-flop throw from two meters. Young people love to absorb nonsense and boast to their friends about their guests' collections. The girl listened with interest, but the stag was slowly growing impatient. He didn't understand anything, but he sensed the situation was spinning out of control.

And I was gathering more and more energy, inspired by my terrifying discovery in the can. And when I'd already told her about Hegomish masturbating while watching a lion copulate (he claimed that the idea of ​​femininity was also present in females of other species), hearing her innocent laughter in my imagination, I decided to reveal my cards and see how much my delirious paranoia held true.

"And what's your name?" I blurted out suddenly, taking the question to a very casual tone.

"Carolinne," the sound of her own voice encouraged her a little, so she added after a moment with a hint of joy, "my parents wanted to name me Shoavinne, but Grandma said it was a name for a whore.

Let all the clocks be silent at a time like this, let the images weave, wailing over the frog's laughter. Weeping, like Aunt Wanda, who sensed that day that something had happened but couldn't get the details from anyone.

Could the girl in the wellies be my Shoavinne?

Breastfed in different diapers, drinking coffee with different people, but the same Shoavinne. With a collector's smile, contemplative eyes, and the same tone of voice. And the same nasty grandma in slippers, always smelling of other people's things.

You know, everything is a gigantic mathematical combination. The world is numbers, so many of them that the mere thought of their potential number makes my dick numb. However, some sequences of numbers repeat themselves, like the color green." A green toaster and a green chameleon, two numbers that share common elements despite their utter diversity. Many relationships can be discerned with the naked eye, but most of the mappings are revealed by chance.

The three cranes that have been jutting out across from my windows for a week now, irritating me with their Christian cross-like appearance, could represent the fate of pagan tribes systematically attacked by church hordes. Two shampoo bottles, one blue and the slightly taller red, represent the fate of Hector and Achilles, vying for the goddess's favor on Trojan soil. Looking at a maturing daughter, one can read the numbers whose traces are found in the belly of her mother, who played this role a few minutes earlier.

And if one knows by heart every gesture of a person who...

I kept my gaze fixed on her gleaming earrings, unable to force a single word from her parched face. The situation must have embarrassed her, because she quickly lowered her face and bit her lips in a sarcastic gesture. For the first time, I sensed the desire for this tramp to leave them alone. Perfectly visible, astonishing, like a patriotic song, sung by her timid, crepe-filled fingers and the quivering corners of her deer's cheeks.

But I couldn't leave, not now, when, a dozen years after Shoavinne's murder, I saw that face again. Now I was certain, and her reaction confirmed my conviction. If a ragged man, reeking of alcohol, had begun to stare at Shoavinne in such a characteristic way, she would have been ashamed of such a set of keys.

Every flick of ash, every contortion of her face looked identical. Shy steps forward and apprehension of reality, simultaneously fascinated by every movement of a neighbor hanging laundry on a nearby balcony.

"I beg your pardon," the stag threw a lifeline, "I beg your pardon, but we'd rather be alone."

He made the face of a nun licking her cunt in a seaside shack.

"We wanted to discuss an important matter," he continued, groveling before me mercilessly.

He lied like a dog; there was no discussion, as his casual pose, which I'd seen at the very beginning, betrayed. Not even a grave digger with an important conversation planned would sit like that. He brazenly tried to get rid of me and made no effort to hide it. I was embarrassing him, a threat to his masculine position of authority. I posed a danger.

I pretended not to hear anything. I smiled at him equally brazenly; he noticed it immediately, then sat down on the bench next to them, feigning a certain weariness. Shoavinne instinctively pushed her breasts aside, increasing the distance by a few centimeters. I'd forgotten that hygiene was a mandatory requirement among others. Or perhaps it was simply a woman's fear of the unknown?

The deer was seething with nerves, but he sat on her other side, helpless for a moment. I felt then that this was the only chance that this would never happen again. It might not have been pleasant, but altruism is an empty concept. Seeing her shocked expression couldn't spoil the pleasure of something I'd dreamed of since that night, when blood trickled down the axe blade. I grabbed her pink jacket with energy and, with the speed of a squirming snake, pressed my lips to hers.

One moment. One touch of the mouth of an individual of the same species triggers a diverse storm of stimuli. I closed my eyes; it felt like I'd entered, like there was nothing else in the world, like only our two tongues leading a vulgar dance in sacred rhythm. She enveloped me in her wetness, writhing inside me in a supple stream, only to burst forth with the whine typical of the raped.

How amusing was the reaction of the antlered deer! What a subtle pleasure was the feeling of obvious superiority at the grotesque rise from the bench! And those nervous movements, betraying the loss of control over the unwritten obligation to react violently, and those pseudo-masculine cries trying to mask utter helplessness.

You know, of course, that he wasn't angry at her wrongdoing; shame and disgrace weren't of any interest to him in themselves. He was terrified only by the lack of authority resulting from the situation; she no longer considered him an impregnable haven of safety. I saw in her contemplative eyes the disappointment she experienced when I received no punishment, save for ridiculous insults that wouldn't have offended even the oldest librarian.

Her face squealed with the psychic deflowering of her lost ideal vision of their relationship. The raspberry emperor had suddenly transformed into a wicked swineherd, incapable of even striking a lewd pig with a stick.

Tearing apart the sacred veil irrevocably destroys the marital monument. I once saw such a couple, a brilliant beauty kissing under the stairwell door with a shaved lantern unworthy even of the taste of milk chocolate. The evening I accosted them in this manner was the last time they sang songs together. Funny how shared shame draws a barrier between homo sapiens with an indelible pencil.

He couldn't hit me, yet his empty head couldn't fathom beating an old man, even if he were a drunken scum attacking a defenseless child like a beast. I was finally perfectly aware of my actions.

They rose shyly. She stood unsteadily on her feet, as if about to fall. He tried to put his arm around her in a comforting manner, but she shook it off; any male touch must have disgusted her. Their muzzles, twisted in a grimace of suffering, bucked in all directions as they moved away from the bench. Steps that separated me from the savors of love. They glanced back, perhaps afraid I would try to pursue them. Utter idiocy.

It was over, but bathing in the spirit of the evening stars, amid the flickering shadows of mosquitoes dancing with hunger above my head, amid the feverish figures playfully jumping on the windowsill to the ticking of the clock, I recalled with pride my brave deed, saving a fawn from a stag's antler.

I can only hope that Shoavinne, another prisoner I've freed from behind phallic bars, will meet me before I start drowning in a pool of alcohol, before the fruit rots and I'm eaten alive by slimy worms. From the inside. But will I know that I'm me?

It's estimated that only one in a hundred turtles reaches adulthood.