Methodius Buslaev. The Midnight Wizard. Дмитрий ЕмецЧитать онлайн книгу.
brought both hands to her neck, grabbed herself by the throat, and began to squeeze it. Moreover, she was clearly doing this carelessly, although with the exaggerated grimace of a man hanging. Methodius started wheezing. Spots spread before his eyes. He was suffocating himself and could do nothing about it. Moreover, in contrast to the insidious Julitta, who was barely squeezing her throat, Methodius’ own hands were suffocating him extremely responsibly.
Only when he, almost choking, fell onto his knees, Julitta, taking pity, let go of her own throat. “Well, that’s it. Enough with you. Get your arms and legs back,” she said. The witch smiled, shook her ashen hair, and Methodius again gained control over his own body. Coughing, he got up and, looking at his hands with distrust, began to massage his throat. “Why did you do it?” he asked.
“Ah, why! I only wanted to show you that if I wish, I could deliver you to this meeting even without your consent. And the most disgusting – I’m being nasty sometimes! To play such a trick on Methodius Buslaev himself!” Julitta languidly said.
“But not this time! You couldn’t!” Methodius announced simply from obstinacy.
Julitta yawned, “Yes, my dear, yes… Although you’re monstrously strong in the magic sense, nevertheless I have more experience. I could force you to do everything I want. Say, to get up to the roof and take a leap down like a swallow. And not simply to leap but to laugh aloud in flight and sing a song about brave pilots…”
“Stop. What fly of humanism has bitten you today?” Methodius asked glumly.
“None. Just that I want tomorrow’s meeting with the one who sent me to be voluntary for you. No one forces you to go anywhere. And generally, the meeting is necessary not so much to me as to you. Do you finally want to find out who you are? Do you want to learn to manage your own gift? Trust me; you’re several times more brilliant than me in the magic sense! After the appropriate development and faceting, it goes without saying, it’s possible to cut out from your magic dozens of witches such as me… Although, of course, they wouldn’t be so charming. Charm is not a dead person, you won’t dig it out of a cemetery,” thinking for a bit, Julitta said more precisely.
Methodius related with distrust to the girl’s assertion that he had many magic abilities. “She’s mixed up something! To make a magician of me is like turning a live elephant into a stopper for the bathtub!” he thought not without regret. “And who sent you? Who must I meet?” he asked.
Julitta interrogatively looked up suddenly, accurately trying to examine something in the air. In Methodius sprung up a sensation that they were not alone here – that right beside them in the void of the courtyard there was still someone else – terrible and invisible. “No. I can’t tell you this for the time being. He… He himself will tell you everything. You will come?”
Methodius swiftly glanced at her. The glow around Julitta was a pale pink. Such a normal, calm glow. Usually a lie from an outsider is like a black hole. The person locks his outlines, instinctively tries not to give off any energy and possibly give himself away, even if he behaves calmly on the outside like a professional poker player. Likely it was possible to trust Julitta. Or, at least to trust her to some degree. “Her energy glow is indeed somewhat very at ease. It’s possible she understood that I know something about this and took measures,” thought Methodius, not devoid of reasonable suspicion. “I’ll think for a bit. He – well this person, to whom I am necessary – indeed can’t show himself to me?” he asked.
“He can do everything. You even cannot imagine how much he can do!” Julitta said with conviction and even with enthusiasm. “But, alas, the mountain doesn’t go to the wise man for a cup of tea. It’s necessary for the same wise man to catch a taxi and go to the mountain. And now some details. We’ll call them bitter prose of life. Do you know Moscow well?”
“Well…” Methodius began.
“It goes without saying, poorly,” Julitta interrupted him. “The majority of Muscovites hardly know their city. Taxi drivers are exceptions. So, tomorrow we’ll wait for you at the old Skomoroshya Cemetery. I didn’t pick the place; therefore don’t be hard on me if it sounds rather dismal.”
Methodius shivered. “Somehow he’s not dragging me to a cemetery!” he said.
“Don’t be disturbed! Graves won’t open up and corpses with scythes won’t interrupt their sleep. Everything there will be all neat and proper. We’re not in a bad movie. And there hasn’t even been a cemetery for a long time. A normal house stands there… Almost a normal house, to be frank. Our office, our residence, our home – call it what you want. Even then I doubt that besides a couple of skulls, there remained anything of Skomoroshya Cemetery under the foundation,” Julitta calmed him.
“Where’s this?” Methodius asked with quite a bit of doubt.
“In the centre of the city. And at the same time monstrously far from Moscow. You see, when the fifth dimension joins the game, the picture of the world changes sharply. A distant object frequently becomes close-by, and the near-by steps aside. For example, Kamchatka and Kremlin turn out to be almost at the same point, and from your nostril, it’s necessary to go on a train for a week to your eyes… In vain you laugh. I, of course, exaggerate, but not so much as it seems to you.”
“Strange… I thought magic buildings are constructed somewhere far away on islands in the ocean, in towns, in the forest, but not here right in the centre of the city!” Methodius said.
“You see, it’s out of necessity. Good for white and black magicians. Their magic in no way depends on moronoids. But we are guards! Some day – and even very soon! – you yourself will understand everything, and then – he-he! – the aimlessly squandered years will kick you like a flock of ostriches. So, tomorrow at one in the morning we’ll wait for you!” Julitta repeated.
“And it can’t be earlier? I doubt that Mother will let me go! She has other plans for me at one in the morning. I should be lying under the blanket and finding out in dreams how to improve my grades,” said Methodius.
Julitta looked at him with compassion. “You’re a strange person…” she said. “You have so much magic power that if you exert yourself a little, there will be smoking ruins on the spot of your building block. I have much less power, but then you yourself saw what I could do! You wish to go out – no mother can stop you. And with one look you’ll chain her to a cliff like Prometheus!”
“But if I don’t want to chain Mother? Did this not occur to you?” Methodius asked unhappily. He could not stand a raid that would affect relatives.
Julitta thought for a second, thrust a hand into the pocket of her jacket and took out a small box. “Take it!” she said and thrust it at Methodius.
Methodius took it. The box turned out to be strangely heavy for its size. On the cover, there was an ambiguous and frightening figure. At first glance, it seemed inoffensive – grape leaves of different sizes and a couple of clusters. But the longer he looked, the more distinctly he realized that these were no grape leaves but someone’s malicious face with swollen eyes.
“Don’t be afraid, it’s… an ancient Icelandic spirit, which kills thieves and the curious. It’s not terrible for you if you’re actually Met Buslaev and not some namesake. You will find a stone inside, and you will see a rune on the bottom of the box. Try to trace exactly the same on the floor of your room… With what? With the stone! Only see you don’t make mistakes, or it’ll be no end to nothing good. When the rune is ready, its outlines will flame up. All it remains is for you to take a step inside and you’ll turn up at our place in an instant. Grasped the essence? Do this tomorrow night after midnight. But not till midnight…”
“And that’s all?” Methodius asked.
“What, too little for you? Trust me: if you draw the rune poorly, it won’t seem little,” Julitta smiled.
“And what’ll happen?”
“Nothing will happen. There’ll be neither flash nor crash. Everything’s quiet and peaceful. But then what’s left of you, it’s necessary to rake into a coffin with a scoop. And where’s the laughter