Methodius Buslaev. Third Horseman Of Gloom. Дмитрий ЕмецЧитать онлайн книгу.
Consciousness proved not to be able to immediately fill this bulk.
Irka cried out. What she experienced was akin to the feeling of a man who thinks that he is alone in a dark and gloomy room with cobwebs. Everything is bad and cheerless. And suddenly, searchlights flare up and he sees that he is standing in a circus arena full of laughing people. What earlier seemed like a grey reality turned out to be a ridiculous plywood set, which can be toppled with just the push of a hand.
On feeling that hair had fallen onto her forehead, Irka impatiently cast it aside and suddenly realized that the helmet was no longer on her head. Had it come off? Nonsense, it could not be. She did not begin to search for it on the floor with her eyes. The sensation that the valkyrie’s winged helmet had remained, and would not abandon her even if she had to dive like a swallow into a waterfall, did not leave her. There are things which cannot be lost. It is only possible to betray them, after changing their purpose.
There was only one thing Irka had not yet resolved to do: check her legs. She had not tried to move them, although she felt a strange, unfamiliar tingling sensation in her feet.
“And for how long will you be afraid? Get up and walk, fool! If you can’t walk, crawl!” she thought and, after closing her eyes, attempted to twitch her big toe. She twitched and did not know whether it worked or not – so great was her fear of failure. Sweat, as cold as yesterday’s broth, poured down her face.
“Come on! Well! Are we going to lie this way and wait until Granny returns and loads us into the wheelchair? Forward! Move, dead horse!”
Angry at herself and hating the sensation of fear as such, Irka turned around, with familiar distrust stared at her legs and… Instead of being pleased, she frowned, suspecting a dirty trick.
If her legs had earlier resembled skin wrapping around skeletal bones, then these could belong to a model. Strong, smooth, tawny. With perfectly formed knees. The thighs of a runner or a dancer. The calves were muscular, but not excessively. Beautiful feet. Obedient new legs, which would obey any desire. Run, swim, or lift her to at least the ninth floor without rest. They would drive one crazy, attracting attention…
Irka suddenly wanted to cry. Throw a tantrum in the spirit of drama theatre. Throw something at the kitchen window so that it would shatter, sharp as resentment, cutting like disappointment. Something moderately heavy that before hitting the window would have time to draw a beautiful arc in the air.
She felt like a child who had jumped into a toy store without permission, picked up an expensive doll and twirled it around, knowing that now a stern voice would sound and she would have to put it back in place. “Where are you now? Do you want me to search for you everywhere? I’ll have a talk with you on the street!”
However, seconds had passed wearily, but the terrible voice still did not sound. The old dead legs also did not return.
Irka got up, staggering. She got up and was surprised that the skill of this movement was not forgotten or lost. She took a step, then another. The apartment seemed to her small, unfamiliar, and oppressive. Twice she tossed her head in alarm, until she realized what the reason was: she was afraid of hitting the ceiling. She was used to seeing the apartment from the wheelchair or the bed, and the sensation of extent remained in her as before, diminished, from the wheelchair or the bed.
Irka clenched and unclenched her fingers. They remained as before, but in reality had subtly changed. The reserve of strength she felt was not a reserve of mortal strength. Irka suddenly realized that if she should wish, she could push through the wall of the home with her hand, as if through paper. She felt the flow of blood – crimson, intoxicating, like red wine. Fresh spring forces seethed in her and exploded outside.
The memory of past incarnations and dormant magic skills overwhelmed her, but Irka forced the memory to retreat, to lay low. She felt that this knowledge was still dangerous, since it could submerge her own, as yet fragile consciousness.
Irka felt a sharp prick of curiosity. Having walked around the wheelchair, she entered the bathroom and immediately, without allowing herself new hesitation, looked in the mirror.
From the mirror splattered with toothpaste – Granny always brushed her teeth with the zeal of scouring saucepans with burnt food – a beautiful young face looked at her. Irka both recognized and did not recognize herself. Yes, this was her. But simultaneously not her. The difference between her past and present appearance was so great, as if a genius had repaired the picture of a mediocre artist. Everything remained as before – the nose, face, hair – but the girl in the mirror was different.
Irka examined herself for a long, very long time. When each feature had been imprinted in memory, she, obeying an unexpected impulse, squinted and with changed sight saw a swan and a white she-wolf. Not those that had died before her eyes on the kitchen floor, but others, her own, having subtly incorporated the features of Irka herself. And Irka understood that, at any instant on a moment’s notice, she would be able to become a swan or a wolf. However, she still hesitated, knowing that the time had not yet come.
“I’m a valkyrie! A swan maiden. A wolf!” Irka shouted in a full voice. The fear that everything could disappear had vanished. Everything was immutable.
The mirror sprayed into fragments. Some jumped in the drain, others to the floor. Irka looked guiltily at the sagging wooden frame. “Sorry, mirror! I’m simply a nitwit! I forgot that you knew me before!” she said and, after stepping over the fragments, returned to her room. On the computer monitor, which continued to live its life, new lines flared up.
Anika-voin: Hey, Rikka, answer! Did they kill you or not? Who was that bum in the kitchen?
Miu-miu: What are you, sick? How will she answer you if they smashed her for real?
Anika-voin: But I have to know when I should worry! Maybe I’m already mourning. Maybe my fingers are already flying over the keyboard?
Miu-miu: Vaporize, loser!
Anika-voin: Chill!
Irka moved the keyboard and, with only capital letters decisively typed several words and sent them away.
Rikka: I AM, BUT I AM NOT. LIFE HAS CREATED A NEW FILE!
Not waiting until her virtual buddies comprehended what was written and ran their fingers along the keys, Irka turned off the computer, and after that also the laptop. From surprise, the green light of the laptop did not go out for a long time. But, finally, it did. The illusory life had ended.
Chapter 3
THREE IS TWO WITH A SADLY DROOPING DOG’S TAIL
It was a couple of years ago. Vologda. The intoxicating March sun. The endless agony of winter. Resurrection Cathedral. The lower steps had become icy, the ice yellowish and packed, with scars from the blows of a crowbar and with frozen sand. A foolish sparrow was trying to bathe in a puddle, jumping and rolling with its chest on the thin crust.
Victor the holy fool was hanging around the Cathedral. A haggard swollen face, mossy eyebrows, beard up to the eyes, a piercing gaze. The head sitting on a slant on the neck, crooked. The neck pointed from the darned pocket of a woman’s coat to the sky. Whether he was really a holy fool or not, to get to the point, as they say, he saw everything.
Methodius in a circle of a motley gang of local children, passed by, and the holy fool suddenly hit his back with a crutch.
“What, are you nuts? What did you do that for?” Methodius shouted. He was not so much hurt as feeling spooked.
The holy fool swung the crutch again. “You’ll find out what for!” he shot back, and a juicy, puckering profanity.
Met was eleven. He was here on vacation with Zozo. Time was short, and it was necessary to blend into the new company, become one of them. One weakness, one unavenged insult and they would harass and tear him to pieces. Children are little angels only in isolation. Together, they are a flock of wolf cubs with its own laws.
At the laughter of his friends, Methodius grabbed a piece of ice.
“Hit him in the mug!” someone shouted.
But