Methodius Buslaev. Third Horseman Of Gloom. Дмитрий ЕмецЧитать онлайн книгу.
should have time for everything. Si fata sinant [If fate would have it (Lat.)]. Don’t fret about the disability. I’m taking on your pain! The scars on your back, your lifeless legs… I accept them as a gift in return. Will you agree to transfer them to me?” the valkyrie said.
“Yes,” Irka quickly said, sharply feeling all the nastiness of this answer.
The swan maiden chanted something droningly. It was impossible to repeat this chant. It was anything but human speech. Like a tiger’s growl, a wolf’s howl, a falcon’s screech…
The last sound had barely stopped and the valkyrie turned heavily on her side. Irka saw that her white robe was stained with blood on the back. Two long bloody strips went precisely where Irka’s scars were. Irka cried out.
With a gesture, the valkyrie forbade her to approach. “Redemption! Punishment for evil I committed long ago!” the valkyrie uttered hoarsely. “The load of grief and happiness is measured out to each in advance. Nothing can simply disappear. The pain, having disappeared in one, will arise in another. I took your load, nothing more.”
“But why?” Irka shouted, with involuntary happiness feeling her legs warming up. It was a new feeling, vague, joyful. As if spring sap was running through a dead dry tree.
“Don’t thank me! I won’t carry another’s burden for long. My sun is setting, yours is at dawn,” the valkyrie smiled. “When one valkyrie leaves, another must arrive. Soon your body will renew, the wounds will heal… Lean over! Closer… Still… You’ll receive my last breath! With it I’ll transfer my power to you! I don’t think that you’ll get the entire gift at once, but gradually it’ll come to you… And most important: at this moment, don’t think about anything else! Your mind must be as empty and beautiful as crystal glass. This is necessary so that the regeneration will begin…”
Irka wanted to state that she had no idea how to receive a breath, but the valkyrie did not hear her. “Si ferrum non sanat, ignis sanat [If iron does not heal, fire heals (Lat.)]. Sic vos non vobis vellera fertis, oves. Sic vos non vobis mellificatis, apes. Sic vos non vobis fertis aratra, boves [So not for yourselves bear fleeces, you sheep. So not for yourselves make honey, you bees. So you not for yourselves draw ploughs, you oxen (Lat.)],”[7] she muttered.
The valkyrie’s voice was barely audible, fading. Irka concentrated. She did not know how to accept the last breath and feared doing something wrong. Suddenly she saw a hazy pink radiance shrouding the valkyrie’s head. An indistinct bright spectre detached itself from her lips. After looking intently, Irka discerned the miniature figure of a woman in a helmet and a shining breastplate with a spear in her hand. Turning into a sweetish smoke, it slid towards the girl’s face.
“Here it is now…” Irka thought. “What must I do? Aha, not to think about anything else. Just imagine a crystal glass?”
She began to honestly visualize a glass, but, as always happens with imagination, it was obstinate and, instead of a glass, produced a glass with tomato juice stains. The spectre of the woman in a helmet approached her lips and froze, and shook its head reproachfully, as if in doubt. Then, already beginning to dissipate, it moved forward. Against her will, Irka inhaled deeply, sensing something unfamiliar merging with her and becoming a part of her.
Irka was suddenly seized by rapture, which she did not deem necessary to hide. For a brief moment she felt enormous, absorbing all the secrets of the earth, the underground, and the ocean floor. The interlaced tangle of parallel worlds and the taut, rigid spirals of time, like the springs of a clock, everything had become as natural to her as the arrangement of rooms in the apartment.
Irka laughed, and her laughter swept over Moscow in July like a sudden peal of thunder. An instant hurricane roughed up lawns, tossed dust on the embankment, rattled signs, broke several windows, overturned tables in a summer cafe, and swept and whirled old newspapers. Moronoids stopped and squinted at the clear sky with alarm. Some routinely checked the umbrellas in their bags to see whether they were buried in the things and whether they would open quickly. Their movements were mechanical and precise, like a soldier checking whether his sword is stuck in the scabbard.
“Greetings, new valkyrie! Hush, quieter! Not so frisky! Reserve the magic!” Irka heard the barely audible sad voice. Coming to her senses, Irka stopped laughing. The sensation of omnipotence disappeared. Irka understood that she had needlessly wasted power, which should only be resorted to out of necessity.
In front of her on the kitchen floor, a young woman, who had given Irka her own power, was dying from a wound. Now that her magic had left, her helplessness was manifested in everything. Especially pitiful were the thin, weak, absurdly twisted legs. And Irka felt it so sharply that, despite her present might, she would not be able to help. Sensing her dismay, the swan maiden smiled weakly. “And who must encourage whom? She’s stronger than me in spirit even now!" Irka thought with shame.
“Now’s not the time for tears. Be careful turning into a wolf or a swan. This gift is very rare. I alone of all of the valkyries have it. At times it’s convenient, but remember that in doing so, part of your intellect retires and is replaced by that of the bird or the wolf. It’s not dangerous while you predominate, but sometimes, the element can overwhelm you. Always recognize where your will finishes and the desires of the beast and the bird begin. This is monstrously important. You won’t forget?”
“No.”
“Remember something else! None who knew you before should learn the secret of who you are in reality. You won’t be able to reveal it to them either under torture, in times of happiness, or in a moment of anger… From now on, you’re a valkyrie. The previous Irka no longer exists. Your past is known only to you and me.”
“Yes, but if so, then…” Irka began.
“To your grandmother, you’re a cripple as before, chained to the wheelchair. No one is in the state to get to your secret while you guard it,” the valkyrie said impatiently.
“But if I don’t?” Irka asked.
“If you don’t, the one who hears it, even by chance, will lose his mind and die. And it doesn’t matter who this will be: a relative, a casual acquaintance, or a loved one. Death won’t bypass him.”
“I also can never tell Methodius?” Irka asked, unexpectedly for herself. She wanted to say “And Granny?”, but instead Methodius came out for some reason.
The question provoked the swan maiden’s displeasure. And the displeasure, as it seemed to Irka, was connected precisely with the name she heard.
“Especially not him! A valkyrie can only reveal to the one she transfers the gift. And now good-bye! Illi robur et aes triplex [There oak and triple bronze (Lat.)]…”[8] A major shudder passed through the valkyrie’s body and it suddenly disappeared. A merry joyous ringing hung in the air, similar to the sound of a distant bell or spring drops falling sonorously on a sheet of iron.
A silvery helmet with moulded wings and an arrow-shaped protrusion, protecting the centre of the forehead and the top of the bridge of the nose, emerged on the floor. Irka carefully touched the helmet. She heard a soft ringing. The moulded wings swayed and fluttered with feathers coming to life. They became thinner, longer, more airy, losing the previous powerful, slightly taut outlines. Irka understood that the helmet was adjusting to its new owner. She understood that it was waiting for her.
Feeling her fingers shaking, Irka took the helmet and put it on top of a felt liner. Her knowledge of this was sufficient. Those who wear a helmet without a liner are either owners of naturally soft heads or dashing fantasy authors, courageous heroes who pull armour over boxer shorts in the morning and, after fastening a bridle, yawning, lead the war horse, whining from impatience, to walk along the meadow, the horse already having targeted in advance a sprawling bush with its experienced violet eyes.
The arrow-shaped protrusion had barely touched the centre of Irka’s forehead and she again felt the vibrant warming heat, which arose in her at the moment when she discovered the secrets of earth and water. The familiar world cracked, exactly like the shell
Famous verses by Punlius Vergilius Maro (70-19BC), usually called Virgil, one of the greatest Roman poets during the reign of Caesar Augustus (63 BC -14 AD), the first emperor of the Roman Empire.
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