Two (hearts) in one! Leila’s Black Mirror in Serbia(n)


English translation: Boris K. and the destiny of Mary Shelly (in original: Boris K. the Empath), “The Adventures Of Boris K.”, Leila Samarrai, editor: Pamela Sinicrope, published in 2013
Boris K. used to kill his hours of boredom by reading biographies of the controversial female writers. Somewhere in the middle of the book, he started crying.

“What happened, Boris K.?” asked the seller by whose bookstall Boris K. used to read the classic novels.

“I am lamenting over the destiny of Mary Shelley.” “What has happened to her?”

“What hasn’t…”

Recovering Empath of Narcissistic Abuse – The Core of Evil


“They are pure demons from hell sent on assignment to destroy human mankind or turn beautiful souls into apathetic monsters like themselves”

When you come to the core of evil you will find nothing – paraphrasing Thomas Aquinas

Tia Collins, RN, Psych, Recovering Empath of Narcissistic Abuse

BIG BIG MISTAKE. You are voluntarily and intentionally throwing yourself to a den of one huge hungry lion.

To expose a narcissist is like forcefully snatching the “security blanket” from a baby. For the Narcissist this security blanket Is called “The Mask”..This can frighten the Narc to the core, bc they DON’T want you to see who they really are..While you may feel justified in frightening a Narc, it’s not wise, because they are very dangerous..They can be unpredictable and won’t hesitate to do the unthinkable.

The Narc may see this exposure as a threat or perceive it as a “Narcissistic Injury”..This May cause the Narc to begin to rage(Narcissistic rage)…If this happens RUNNNNN AND DONT LOOK BACK. The Narc can go to the extreme of abusing you physically, verbally, and emotionally. Like a hungry lion, he would attempt to tear you apart without hesitation.

 

Memento Mori, Sleeping Mathilde, Poetry written for novel’s sake


These are poems I wrote for the book “Sleeping Mathilde”, under the pen name Lothair The Dark, with a wish to conjure up a medieval mood and to create the dark atmosphere in the book.

https://leilasamarrai.wordpress.com/2019/01/01/the-poems-i-wrote-for-the-book-sleeping-mathilde-under-the-pen-name-lothair-the-dark-soon-to-be-published/

CHAPTER TEN, From the Quill of Chaplain Larsen, TOMBS AND CONFESSIONS, Mathilde’s confession, soon to be published, Serbian original included


 

***

Mathilde confided in me often (which I hid from Amerongen like a Jew hides his gold) while alone or while we walked together along the garden tile path

‘Why are you so unhappy, mistress Mathilde? The master is trying…’, I coughed, ‘He seems to indulge you in everything, and yet…’
‘And yet…’
‘Confide in me, oh Mistress.’
‘There is no need for formalities, Larsen.’
‘Okay’, I nodded. ‘Do you suffer too much?’
‘It upsets me, it gets on my nerves.’
‘Break the silence and open your heart to me’, I said, fatherly.
‘This morning I recollected the life in Denmark… And my mother. Make a note, Larsen, and let the world see it! If the prison door ever open up for me and Hässe burns to the ground, I swear that…for something like that, I will rise from my grave!’
‘I will make a note, but I do not know what happened… Tell me the tale> is it the truth that Johana the Monster, as the locals called your mother…’
‘And the noblemen,’ the Mathilde declared fiercely.
‘…Yes…patience for the old man, young lady.’
Mathilde shot a smile back to him.
‘…she lived, as they say, in utter poverty?’
‘No,’ she stated simply.
‘Amerongen…’, I turned around and saw him fumbling around the stables – he was etching something into the ground with his knife and chanted… The guards were lazing around in front of the castle. A portion of the army, being bored on the roof of the castle and leaning onto the towers, under the Hässe sun, was taking a nap.
‘You could run away right now. I am reading your mind.’
‘And where would I go?’ I felt rage engulf her, a cold, suppressed rage, thus I fell silent in discomfort and decided to return to the topic at hand.
‘You know I always treated you like you were my own daughter.’
‘You are my solace in this home of the mad’, she responded gently, moving to caress me on the cheek but stopping midway through.
We entered the great Hall and sat on a bench one next to the other, tracked by the vile gaze of Orian von Amerongen.
‘Dearest Mathilde, the introduction is the most problematic to me. I can never seem to pin it down…Your words are sung with a lion’s strength, but I cannot discern whether you’ve written a novel of your mother and your real father,’ I started while looking at the scroll, ‘a made up story, or are these facts?’
She smiled somewhat tensely.
‘Tell me how you married Amerongen’, I prepped my quill and a parchment under my cassock.

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Mathilde tensed up her body. Her countenance became brutally firm.
‘It was in Denmark. On that day, and what a dim day it was, Father, the Regenstein door opened with a bang. Seeing Amerongen, I thought the entire castle shivered and squealed, as if dying from a horrible disease.
‘The castle was founded in the second half of the ninth century on a steep cliff, from which I felt like ending my life in the endless abyss numerous times. It was a dark, aristocratic dwelling. Since I was a tyke I likened it to a monster. Toothy towers reminiscent of fangs, and dark windowpanes reminding of the eyes of Erebus.[1] Regenstein had spread venom around itself since those days.
‘Amerongen got his eye on me, tall and threatening. I stood in the middle of the hallway frozen by his gaze. I pressed the parchments I was carrying to the library against my chest. He looked at me like a bloodthirsty animal. He looked like a rustler.
‘ ‘Is this ever a beauty!’, he shouted and touched Johanna’s heart to tears, while joy glistened in Otto’s wrinkly eyes.
He suddenly averted his eyes, and his face calmed, as if the monstrous strength waned in him.
‘ ‘In the name of Yambe-Akka’, he yelled. ‘Did someone die in here? Give ale to horses first, then the serfs!’
‘ ‘Mathilde, you should be honored that this charming nobleman chose you for his bride’, the moment she said this the parchments dropped from my hands, and Amerongen looked at me curiously. I replied with a smile which surprised him and he told me: ‘Do you perchance like me? Truly it cannot be so!’, he pouted like a child and winked at me, which made me feel sick to my stomach. I assume he just wanted to make me feel better.’
[1] Greek god of eternal darkness.

52118934b3fa23356b69b70715446ff6--dark-castle-gothic-castle

He came very close to me and all but glued himself to my body.

‘The cold armor of Denmark had burned your body and mind with frost. In my home you will be warm.’

Fire was blazing in his eyes. He turned to the vase laden with red flowers drowned in the crystal clear water. He pulled a dagger from his belt.

‘Careful, sven! Mathilde is expensive!’, I’ve heard an apathetic voice of Otto Regenstein. Johana was licking her lips. Her hand lay on her hanging breasts.

Amerongen turned to them, smiled and carved my initials into the palm of his hand. Blood sprayed his gold-woven clothing. He put his hand in water.

‘Now the color is like that of flowers’, he said brightly.

His boot drummed on the straw-covered floor for a while, he was looking at me from all sides and was thinking.

‘Will you take our daughter?’, Johana asked with hope in her voice.

‘Her being silent is agreeable to me. As far as I’m concerned, with a body like this, she can be deaf-mute for all I care. I have decided, I will spend the night here’, he approached me again. His breath was heavy. He stank of blood. ‘I might come visit you tonight.’

‘The goods must always be tested, do you not agree, husband dear?, the cheerful voice of Johana uttered.

‘Are these goods spoiled?’, Amerongen shot her a shrewd look.

She looked at the crackling fire in the hearth.

‘A fresh, unpicked flower. A good deal’, Johana said.

Mathilde stopped talking. I lifted my head away from the parchment. My expression must have given away dumbfoundedness and unease.

‘Did you find out who your real father was?’

‘I’ve learned of this too – my real father was a French count of Bouyon, from an old house of de Melot. He was Otto’s best friend as a young man. Johana was incurably in love with him. Insatiable desire assailed her, and the decisions were never something she left up to God. She gave herself to him with love and joy. When he left her, she cut her veins, but Otto saved her.’

‘What was his name?’

‘Alberik, but Johana called him Surtr.[1] That’s the name of my real father, but of Amerongen as well. The two, I believe, had for her at the very least certain similarities. I also believe that the two spent an intriguing night together, but I have…’, Mathilde stopped. ‘I don’t want to go on, Larsen.’

I thought that her confession would end there. Upset, she looked at his eyes.

‘There is a shortage of words for some reminiscences. Nature makes it so that the deepest feelings are wrapped in a cloak of secrecy, with a dagger interwoven to torture us. That’s the gist of it… All of my memories are dyed in blood… Why all of this, Larsen, when it happened so long ago? Time devours all!’

‘My curiosity is a cruel one, Mathilde.’, I outstretched my arms and begged her to continue. ‘Your tale nested deep into my bones. I want to chisel it into eternity, as masons do.’

‘Rock is ruinous, and statues fall apart’, her eyes widened as her shoulders shivered unbeknownst to her. ‘If I confess all of it, I will still say nothing for it is a copy…a badly reproduced painting. A farce of the lived. A heavy rock pressing on the mind.’

Her story became too hard for her. She had not even reached the important bit, and already she cracked. Oh how she shivered, like wheat in a breeze. I sighed and decided to let it go.

But, at that moment, Mathilde’s cheeks went crimson, her eyes glistened, and her face was overtaken by an expression of pride. Amerongen stood at the Hall’s entrance and observed her mockingly. She whipped him with a look of anger. Her hands clenched into fists and Mathilde continued with such fire, as if a spirit had possessed her all of a sudden. With the corner of my eye I spotted Amerongen, in the moment Mathilde continued her tale, leaving the room.

‘I was so bored in Regenstein. It seemed to me that I had spent more time painting and writing than I did breathing or thinking. Still, I managed to end the boredom with fancy.’

At times Johana’s screeching voice would pulled me from my darling daydreams where my spirit lazed on. ‘Mathilde, dear daughter! Keep an eye on Agnes, for she will sneak out with the doubloons and leave! Who will cook for me then?!’ The servant girl would then cry her eyes out, and I would console her. In secret, we’ve endlessly made love with our eyes.

‘Go scrub the  floor!’, she would often scold her when she was bored of torturing me. ‘And I will return to Mathilde’s novel.’ She would place the scroll on the cold stone of the table and start spelling out with enjoyment: ‘She felt frail, for she knew she would never see him again. She remembered their nights together under the starry sky, his warm kisses…”Oh, darling, why did you leave me, I cannot live without you,” she sighed and cut her own veins.’Johana would tut pleased reading these lines. ‘Mathilde my daughter, if I didn’t have your novels, I don’t know what I’d do in life.’

Other times she would, pondering for a while over a dramatically important sentence, comment excitedly ‘Oh how exciting…let\s see what happens next…’ Writing these sweetish lines, I not only saved my skin, but also the serf girl’s.

 

 

images:

Crazy? – Painting, 40×30 cm ©2018 by Dominique Dève – Figurative Art,

La Folle (1822-1828). Peinture à l’huile de Théodore Géricault. (Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lyon.)

Mathilde’s parents

[1] A flame giant in Norse mythology.

***

863af7e9ccdad06c6a207836aaa350ce

imag

‘That day, when Amerongen first set foot in Regenstein, after the sven retreated to quarters assigned to him, I called Agnes over and ordered her to bathe me.

‘They always spoke of my beauty, but I guarantee that Agnes was fairer.’Mathilde said simplemindedly. ‘She had eyes colored in the hue of a stormy sky. As I saw her at my solar door, my cheeks went red in an instant. Her face had a rhythm, a meaning and a hue. She herself was a poem of harmony. I had been wounded by her perfection.’

‘I think we should finally do it.’

‘It?’ Agnes said with a quiver in her voice.

‘Or…the other thing, if you prefer.’

‘This or that?’

‘The thing we were daydreaming of all these years. What’s with you?’ I was smiling.

‘I do not understand, mistress Mathilde,’ the serf girl lowered her gaze. My lips crafted a wide bitter smile.

‘Do you realize…’, I said slowly, ‘that they can kill us…both of us…and that nobody would notice? There is no difference between us, we are both the prey of satyrs. But, if we could escape…’, my tone was resolute. ‘We will sneak out like thieves!’ She stared at me mutely. Her body quivered. ‘We will take off! Today! Only if you wish to! Say yes,’ I grabbed her hand.

‘Yes, mistress Mathilde.’

‘That’s it…’ I said, studying her with satisfaction. ‘We will ring a few necessary things, some money too and head for the South, wearing chainmail and riding horses.  The Almogavar[1] Will be happy to see us’, I mumbled excitedly.

‘How can we travel to Almo…’she paused, ‘should I leave my duties in the castle?’

‘In the castle, shielded by dreadful thick walls inside of which you walk around like a ghost? Only my wit saves you from the Regenstein advances or the beasts of Amerongen. This is a wolves’ den, rich within a wasteland. We will both die here. They are marrying me off to a monster. And what will be of you then?’

‘I do not know, mistress Mathilde.’ I took notice of the serf girl’s heavy breathing. ‘Save me, only you can!’ Agnes, riddled with pain and fear, fell to her knees in front of me.

‘Alright’, I replied quickly. ‘You know what I want. I want to conquer you. Do you like that?’ I smiled to her with a smile of a harlot. The serf girl bowed her head and started disrobing. Her face went crimson.

Physical perfection emerged from the peasant tunic, perfection Agnes hid effortlessly, because beauty constantly hides itself, as does ugliness. I saw her harmonious body, no longer as part of fantasy or disturbing dreams, no longer as if looking through water, glass or fog. We danced a passionate game of love. The sound of flute was heard in the distance followed by the song of birds from the nearby forest.

‘I love music’, we lay there, legs intertwined, like Nephthys and Isis. I admired our bodies. We were so alike one to another, in body and looks. ‘I love the tug of wires on a harp…tugs like this one…’ I put my hand between Agnes’ thighs, moving towards the flower pulsing under my fingers. ‘I played the lute at the same time. It can keep up with the pain of a minstrel. My lute teacher was a minstrel. He would always cry over tones that offered pure beauty. And I am in love with beauty.’ I kissed her breasts. This way, like embracing nymphs, we remained until dawn.

 

2

 

I opened my dreamy eyes, noticing that Agnes was no longer in bed with me. I stretched like a cat, dressed myself and sneaked out of the castle towards Russvatnet lake, my favorite, most romantic place in the castle. I thought Agnes might be there. The cold burned my body, but I paid no heed to this. I dreamed on the lake coast, while my linen hair waved in the wind.

I observed the frozen lake, akin to an ice-scorched earth, thinking of the sweet wonder which happened last night. My awakened passion was visible on the icy surface. I took in my expression, where a trace of experienced gentleness was also admiring itself.

I stood there like that for a few moments, next to the lake shore, gazing in the distance. Then I jerked back and returned to the castle.

Windows of the great Hall were wide open. Over them were flippantly placed animal hides. Johana and Otto were like two statues upon which a bloodless window light shone. The moment they spotted me silence filled the room. Amerongen’s heavy hands, like claws, were benevolently placed on Johana’s shoulders. He looked at me with piercing green eyes of a hungry wolf.

He had a pale, monstrous beautiful face, like a Satyr, which gave off tiredness after a sleepless night, perhaps even boredom. He had coal-black hair, atypical of the people from the North. I wanted to paint it.

He approached me slowly and grabbed my hand.

 

 

[1] The Almogavar were mercenaries in the Aragon-Catalonian kings’ service who fought in the borderline areas against the Muslims in the XIII century. Thievery was their livelihood.

 

***

 

‘Do you know how long I’ve waited?’, he smiled mysteriously and the blood froze in my veins. I gave a bitter smile and tore my hand out of his. He turned nonchalantly, poured some mead in the pitcher and drank it up.

‘You might be wondering where Agnes is?’ the tone of his voice was cold. I sensed dread.

‘Sven, if you like our daughter, she’s yours,’ Johanna interrupted.

‘Out!’Amerongen growled. Johana and Otto obediently moved away, exchanging glances of unease.

Amerongen continued, catching his breath:

‘Life consists of an unending battle not to let ourselves go to frailty, of holding back, my dear Mathilde. You are not weak, but, from what I realized after last night, you do not hold back…’

‘I would like to go out for some fresh air, sven.’

‘Of course,’ he said graciously. ‘This is what I wanted to suggest, for I have something important to show you at the bottom of the lake.’ He still grinned vilely.

We were on our way to the lake.

‘I love your passion, your defiance, your noble yearning which you have in ample abundance, your unrest, your bravery, all of this awakens the hawk in me, I want to eat your soul, I wager it tastes well… I love that you resist… I love you. And you? Could you love me?’ He was talking non-stop while we descended down the steep path towards the lake. I was listening to him, not hearing him.

‘Do you understand my question or should I talk slower?’ he growled at her.

‘My curse is precisely the fact that I understand all.’

‘Blessed be we who gave up regular yearnings,’ he sighed turning his gaze towards the distant, ruthless vistas. ‘And I… I embraced the curse with passion. I was knee-deep into it… Flesh, blood, bones and all…’

I looked at him disgusted, but said nothing.

He grined:

‘You’ve enjoyed the embrace of that idiot Agnes, while I stalked you from the dark. You kissed her fingers, slid along her body, like it was all a pilgrimage of sorts. But I guarantee you, this is not a pilgrimage, it is a road leading to the abyss. Road of death. Pure Eros,’ he growled and tried to touch me. I quickly pulled away.

‘What more do you want? Take me away, it’s already been decided after all,’ I shivered under my pelerine, but not out of fear, but out of cold and I held myself with both arms.

He snatched me. I resisted, but he overpowered me and took me to the frozen lake. He placed me right next to the shore.

‘Move!’ He howled and took my hand. I did not resist. He pulled me along the uneven surface of Russvatnet. It was colder than usual. ‘Walk!’ He howled. ‘I will now show you a Danish spring.’

‘Russvatnet has its secrets as well,’ he said. ‘But a few surprises too…’ I could barely hear him, for his voice was suddenly overpowered by the howl of the wind. ‘Now observe what gifts the Russvatnet whirlpools have given you! Beautiful, is it not? It must be, for I have created it.’ With a sudden hand motion he tossed me to the icy surface of the lake. ‘Look! Look into your mirror!’ He yelled and stabbed his sword into the Russvatnet’s icy depths. Disturbed, fully awakened from its slumber, the calm lake water guggled in front of my face. Something emerged from the ice. Someone’s bruised face, misshapen by powerful punches, was what the restless Russvatnet waters cast out. It must have floated on the water for hours. ‘Look at her, Mathilde. Look how beautiful!’ He growled, pushing my head to the opening. My beautiful Agnes’ face, her eyes plucked out, was staring at me from the Russvatnet deeps.

‘I slaughtered your lamb! Now kiss it!’, he laughed demonically.

I screamed, which had been lying within me for years and I overpowered the wind. I wanted to join Agnes, to die next to her, so I tried to pull myself away from Amerongen’s squeeze and delve into the cold waters of Russvatnet.

Amerongen, overtaken by disbelief, realized that I pulled out from his claws. ‘Stop!’ He threw himself at me and managed to cover me with his body. I was struggling. ‘Let go of me!’ I screamed. ‘Let me die!’ He tore my clothes off with the feistiness of a madman. He took me with an animalistic urge. The silence befallen on the lake shore was torn asunder by my shrieks. The horror came down on me. I twisted my body, in a futile attempt to shake the beast away. He delved harder into me, and his caution waned for a brief moment. I managed to drive my nails into the scar plastered across his cheek, to which he screamed. He grabbed my face with one hand, still pinning me to the icy surface of the lake with another. ‘You damned whore!’ Agnes’ eyeless gaze was observing this whole scene.

All the foul language known to me came out from beneath my tongue, jerks of rage made my face crooked, while I was scratching at him, pulling away, screaming and hitting, but he kept beating me. My fight kept kindling his rage, so, to my fortune, he finished faster than he wanted to.

When he did, he sat before me, wiped my face and genitals with the torn-off dress and tossed it into my face. I held my belly, but did not weep. For a moment my future life flew in front of my eyes and made me feel sick. From the mere cognition I felt nauseous and I vomited all over the ice, to which Amerongen smiled. I could not have cared less about what was to follow.

‘Oh how you’ll love me, you can’t even fathom it,’ he told me gently…

bloody-lake-katerina-pejsova

***

‘There, Larsen. This is how I got married’, Mathilde finished her tale flatly. She offered me mead from the table, taking note of the offended look of my face. I could not look at her eyes, flabbergasted with all that was said.

ОРИГИНАЛ:

Из пера капелана Ларсена, Гробови и Исповести, Матилдина исповест
Матилде ми се неретко поверавала (што сам крио од Амеронгена као змија ноге) насамо или док смо шетали заједно поплочаном стазом кроз врт.
„Зашто си толико несрећна, господарице Матилде? Господар се труди…“, закашљао сам се, „Чини све да ти удовољи, па ипак…“
„Па ипак…“
„Повери ми се, господарице.“
„Ларсене, нема потребе за формалностима.“
„У реду“, климнуо сам главом. „Мучиш ли се превише?“
„Узрујава ме, иде ми на живце.“
„Сломи тишину и откриј ми срце“, рекох очински.
„Јутрос сам се присетила живота у Данској… И мајке. Начини запис Ларсене и дај га на увид свету! Ако се икада затворска врата за мене отворе и Хасе буде спаљен до темеља, ја се кунем да… за тако нешто, из гроба ћу устати!“
„Начинићу запис, али не знам шта се збило… Исприповедај ми: је ли истина да је Јохана Монструм, како су мештани звали твоју мајку…“
„И племићи“, жестоко ће Матилде.
„… Да… стрпљења за старца, млада дамо.“
Матилде му узврати осмех.
„… живела, како се прича, у великом сиромаштву?“
„Не“, једноставно је рекла.
„Амероген…“, обазрех се око себе и угледах га како се забавља испред коњушница –исписивао је нешто ножем по земљи и мантрао… Гардисти су се излежавали испред замка. Део војске је, досађујући се на крову замка, наслоњен на торњеве, под сунцем Хасеа, задремао.
„Сад би могла побећи. Читам ти мисли.“
„А куда да одем?“ Осетих да је обузима бес, хладан, затомљен бес, те заћутах у нелагоди и реших да се вратим на тему разговора.
„Знаш да сам одувек на тебе гледао као рођену кћер.“
„Утеха си ми у дому лудака“, нежно је одговорила, кренула да ме помази по образу али се зауставила на пола покрета.
Уђосмо у велики Хол и седоше на клупу једно до другог, испраћени злокобним погледом Орјана Вон Амеронгена.
„Драга Матилде, увод ми највише проблема ствара. Никако да га савладам… Твоје речи су испеване лавовском снагом, али не могу да раздвојим да ли си написала роман о мајци и свом правом оцу“, започео сам загледан у свитак, „измишњену причу или су ово чињенице?“
Осмехнула се некако напето.
„Испричај ми како си се удала за Амеронгена“, извадих перо и пергамент испод мантије.
Матилде напе тело. Лик јој поприми бруталну чврстину.
„Било је то у Данској. Тог дана, а беше то тмуран дан, Оче, врата Регенштајна треском се отворише. Угледавши Амеронгена, учини ми се да је читав замак задрхтао и зацвилео, као да умире од тешке болести.
Замак је подигнут половином ХI века на оштрој литици, са које ми је безброј пута дошло да се бацим у стрмоглави бездан. Била је то мрачна, аристократска грађевина. Још од малих ногу доживљавала сам је као чудовиште. Назубљене куле наликовале су на очњаке, а мрачни прозорски отвори подсећали су на очи Ереба.[1] Регенштајн је још тад ширио отров око себе.
Амеронген се загледао у мене, висок и претећи. Стала сам на сред ходника слеђена његовим погледом. Притисла сам на груди пергаменте које сам носила у библиотеку. Гледао ме је као острвљена животиња. Личио ми је на коњокрадицу.
„Ала је ово лепота!“, узвикну и до суза дирну Јохану, док је радост блистала у смежураним Отовим очима.“
Нагло је скренуо поглед, а лице му се умирило, као да чудовишна снага малаксава у њему.
„Јабме ми Аке!“, дрекнуо је. „ Је л’ овде неко умро?! Напојте најпре коње, потом слуге!“
„Матилде, треба да ти служи на част што те је овај шармантни племић изабрао за жену“ како је то рекла пергаменти ми испадоше из руку, а Амеронген ме радознало погледа. Узвратих му осмехом од ког се зачуди и рече ми: „Не свиђам ти се можда? Па неће бити да је тако!“, надурио се као дете и намигнуо ми, на шта ми гађење натопи желудац. Претпостављам да је само желео да ме одобровољи.
Пришао ми је сасвим близу и готово се припио уз моје тело.
„Хладан оклоп Данске ледом ти је спалио ум и тело. У мом дому ћеш се угрејати.“
У очима му је пламсала ватра. Окрете се ка вази препуној црвених цветова удављених у кристалночистој води. Извадио је нож из појаса.
„Пажљиво, свене! Матилде је скупа!“, зачух равнодушни глас Отоа Регенштајна. Јохана је облизивала усне. Рука јој је почивала на отромбољеним грудима.
Амеронген им се окренуо, насмешио се и урезао моје иницијале у свој длан. Крв му пошкропи одећу извезену златом. Ставио је руку у воду.
„Сад боја одговара цветовима“, ведро је рекао.
Добовао је чизмом по поду посутим сламом неко време, загледао ме са свих страна и размишљао.
„Хоћеш ли узети нашу кћер?“, упита Јохана с надом у гласу.
„Одговара ми што је ћутљива. Што се мене тиче, с оваквим телом, може да буде и глувонема. Одлучио сам: преноћићу овде“, пришао ми је поново. Његов дах био је тежак. Баздио је на крв. „Можда те посетим вечерас.“
„ Роба увек треба да се испроба, зар не мужу?“, развесели се Јохана.
„Да ли је ово покварена роба?“, лукаво је погледа Амеронген.
Загледала сам се у распламсалу ватру у камину.
„Свеж, неубран цвет. Повољно“, рекла је Јохана.“
Матилде стаде са приповедањем. Подигао сам главу од пергамента. Мој израз лица мора да је одавао запрепашћење и нелагоду.
„Да ли си сазнала ко је био твој прави отац?“
„Сазнала сам и то – мој прави отац био је француски гроф од Бујона, из старе породичне куће де Мело. У младости је био Отоов најбољи пријатељ. Јохана је била неизлечиво заљубљена у њега. Морила ју је неутажива чежња, а одлуке није увек остављала Богу. Предала му се с љубављу и радошћу. Кад ју је оставио, пресекла је себи вене, али ју је Ото спасао.“
„Како му је било име?“
илустрације:
Crazy? – Painting, 40×30 cm ©2018 by Dominique Dève – Figurative Art,
La Folle (1822-1828). Peinture à l’huile de Théodore Géricault. (Musée des Beaux-Arts, Lyon.)
Матилдини родитељи
„Алберик, али га је Јохана звала Сурт.[2] Тако је мог правог оца, али и Амеронгена. Њих двојица, верујем, имали су, барем за њу, неке сличности. Исто тако верујем да су њих двоје провели занимљиву ноћ, али и ја сам…“, Матилде застаде. „Не бих даље, Ларсене.“
Помислих да ће се њена исповест ту завршити. Узнемирено га је гледала у очи.
„За нека осећања постоји мањак речи. Природа удешава да најдубље осећаје завије плашт тајни, с бодежом у постави да нас мучи. У томе лежи суштина… Сва моја сећања обојена су крвљу… Чему све ово, Ларсене, кад је било давно? Време све прождире!“
„Окрутна је моја радозналост, Матилде“, раширио сам руке и преклињао је да настави. „Увукла ми се у кости твоја прича. Исклесао бих је у вечности, као што клесари чине.“
„Камен је трошан, а кипови се распадају“, очи су јој биле раширене, док су јој рамена незнатно подрхтавала. „Ако се поверим до краја, опет нећу рећи ништа, јер је то копија… лоше пресликана слика. Фарса доживљеног. Тежак камен што ум притиска.“
Прича јој је постала претешка. Није ни дошла до оног битног, а већ се сломила. Како само дрхти, као прут. Уздахнух и реших да попустим.
Али, у том трену, Матилди се образи зајапурише, очи јој засветлеше, а лицем јој се разли поносит израз. Амеронген је стајао на улазу у Хол и подругљиво је посматрао. Она га ошину гневним погледом. Руке јој се стегоше у песнице и Матилде настави са таквим жаром, као да је у њу ушао какав дух и запосео је. Крајичком ока приметих како, у тренутку кад је Матилде наставила са причом, Амеронген напушта просторију.
„Толико сам се досађивала у Регенштајну. Чинило ми се да сам више времена провела сликајући и пишући, него што сам дисала или мислила. Ипак, успела сам да досаду прекратим маштом.
Каткад би ме Јоханин глас, крештањем, извлачио из дражесних сањарија у којима ми се башкарио дух: „Матилде, кћери! Држи Агнес на оку, јер ће се искрасти с дукатима и отићи! Ко ће тад да ми кува?!“ Служавка би тад неутешно плакала, а ја бих је тешила. Тајно смо, бесконачно водиле љубав очима.
„Иди рибај под!“, често ју је грдила, кад би јој досадило мене да мучи. „А ја ћу се вратити Матилдином роману.“ Наслонила би свитак на хладан камен стола и с уживањем би почела да сриче: Осећала је слабост, јер је знала да га више никада неће видети. Сећала се њихових заједничких вечери под ведрим небом, његових топлих пољубаца… „Драги, зашто си ме оставио, не могу да живим без тебе“, уздахнула је и пресекла себи вене, Јохана би задовољно цокнула језиком, читајући овакве редове. „Матилде кћери, да ми није твојих романа, не знам шта бих у животу радила.“
Другом би приликом, замисливши се над драматичном реченицом, узбуђено прокоментарисала: „Како је ово узбудљиво… да видимо шта је даље било…“ Пишући овакве сладуњаве редове, спашавала сам не само своју, већ и служавкину главу.
Тог дана, када је Амеронген први пут крочио у Регенштајн, након што се свен повукао у њему додељене одаје, позвала сам Агнес и наредила јој да ме окупа.
За мене су одувек говорили да сам лепа, али јемчим да је Агнес, била лепша“, простодушно ће Матилде. „Имала је очи боје олујног неба. Како је угледах на вратима мог солара, крв ми јурну у образе. Њено лице имало је ритам, значење и боју. Она је цела била хармонична песма. Бејах рањена њеним савршенством.
„Мислим да коначно треба то да урадимо.“
„То?“, рече Агнес дрхтавим гласом.
„Или… оно, ако ти је драже.“
„То или оно?“
„Оно о чему смо маштале све ове године. Шта је с тобом?“, смешила сам се.
„Не разумем, госпођице Матилде”, служавка обори поглед. Усне ми се раширише у горки осмех.
„Схваташ ли..“, изговорила сам лагано, „да могу да нас убију… обе… а да то нико не би приметио? Међу нама нема разлике, обе смо плен сатира. Али, ако бисмо могле да побегнемо…“, глас ми је био одлучан. „Искрашћемо се као лопови!“, немо ме је посматрала. Тело јој је подрхтавало. „Отпутоваћемо! Данас! Само ако желиш! Реци да“, зграбила сам је за руку.
„Да, господарице Матилде.“
„Тако је…“, рекох, задовољно је проучавајући. „Понећемо неколико стварчица, нешто новца и право на југ, у верижњачама и на коњима. Алмогавери[3] ће бити срећни да нас виде“, бунцала сам, узбуђено.
„Како да путујемо к Алмо…“, застала је, „зар да оставим посао у замку?“
„У замку, заштићена одвратним дебелим зидовима међу којима се као дух шеташ? Само те моја довитљивост чува од насртаја Регенштајна или звери Амеронгена. Ово је вучја јазбина, богата у пустоши. Обе ћемо умрети овде. Удају ме за монструма. А шта ће с тобом бити тад?“
„Не знам, господарице Матилде.“ Ослушкивала сам служавкино тешко дисање. „Спаси ме, само ме ти можеш спасти!”, испуњена болом и страхом Агнес паде преда мном на колена.
„Добро“, рекох кратко. „Знаш шта желим. Желим да те покорим. Да ли ти се то допада?“, насмеших јој се осмехом блуднице. Служавка климну главом и стаде да се разодева. Лице јој се обли руменилом.
Из сељачке тунике изрони физичко савршенство, које је Агнес тако вешто крила, јер лепота се вазда крије, као и наказност. Видим јој складнолепо тело, не више у фантазији или узнемиреним сновима, не више као кроз воду, маглу или стакло. Заплесале смо страствену љубавну игру. У даљини се чуо звук свирале праћен појем птица из околне шуме.
„Волим музику“, лежале смо, испреплетаних ногу, налик на Нефтис и Исис. Дивила сам се нашим телима. Биле смо толико сличне једна другој, ликом и телом. „Волим трзање жица на харфи… Трзање попут овог…“, ставила сам руку међ’ Агнесине бутине, крећући се ка цвету који је пулсирао под мојим прстима. „Својевремено сам свирала лауту. Она уме да испрати бол минстрела. Мој учитељ лауте био је минстрел. Увек би заплакао над тоновима који нуде чисту лепоту. А ја сам заљубљена у лепоту“, пољубих јој груди. Тако смо, попут загрљених нимфи, дочекале зору.
Илустрација: Couple, available on Amazon
2
Сањиво отворивши очи, видела сам да Агнес више није била са мном у кревету. Протегла сам се попут мачке, обукла се и ишуњала из замка у правцу језера Руствон, моје најомиљеније, најромантичније место у замку. Помислила сам да би Агнес могла да буде тамо. Хладноћа ми је пржила тело, али се нисам обазирала на то. Сањарила сам на обали језера, док ми се ланена коса вијорила на ветру.
Посматрала сам залеђено језеро, налик на ледом рањену земљу, мислећи на слатко чудо претходне ноћи. Моја пробуђена страст огледала се на леденој површини. Упијала сам свој одраз, у којем се огледао траг проживљене нежности.
Неколико сам тренутака тако стајала, крај обале језера, погледа упереног у даљину. Потом сам се нагло окренула и вратила у замак.
Прозори велике дворане беху широм отворени. Преко њих беху немарно пребачена животињска крзна. Јохана и Ото наликовали су двема статуама објасјаним бескрвном светлошћу са прозора. Чим су ме спазили у дворани је завладала ледена тишина. Амеронгенове тешке руке, малик на канџе, беху благонаклоно пребачене преко Јоханиних рамена. Посматрао ме је продорним зеленим очима попут изгладнелог вука.
Имао је бледо, чудовишно лепо лице, попут Сатира, које је одавало умор након непроспаване ноћи, можда досаду. Имао је косу црну као угаљ, нетипичну за људе са Севера. Пожелела сам да га насликам.
Полако ми је пришао и чврсто ме ухватио за руку.
„Знаш ли колико те чекам?“, загонетно се насмешио и следио ми крв у жилама. Осмехнух се горко и истргох руку из његове. Окренуо се равнодушно, сипао медовину у крчаг и испио.
„Можда се питаш где је Агнес?“, изговорио је хладним тоном. Предосетила сам несрећу.
„Свене, ако ти се свиђа наша кћер, твоја је“, прекиде га Јохана.
„Напоље!“, заурла Амеронген. Јохана и Ото се покорно удаљише, разменивши неспокојне погледе…
Амеронген настави, долазећи до даха:
„Живот се састоји из непрекидне борбе да се не препустимо слабостима, од уздржавања, драга моја Матилде. Ти ниси слаба, али, колико сам синоћ схватио, ти се не уздржаваш…“
„Изашла бих да удахнем мало свежег ваздуха, свене.“
„Наравно“, великодушно ће. „То сам и хтео да ти предложим, јер имам нешто важно да вам покажем доле на језеру“, и даље се опако смешио.
Упутили смо се у правцу језера.
„Волим твоју страст, пркос, племениту жудњу којом обилујеш, твоје неспокојство, храброст, све ме то мами као јастреба, појео бих ти душу, јамчим да је укусна… Волим што се опиреш… волим те. А ти? Можеш ли ме волети?“, причао је незаустављиво док смо силазили стрмом стазом ка језеру. Слушала сам га, не чујући га.
„Разумеш ли питање или треба да говорим спорије?“, зарежао је на њу.
„Моје је проклетство управо у томе што све разумем.“
„Благослов нас који смо се одрекли обичних тежњи“, уздахнуо је окренувши очи ка далеким, суровим пределима. „А ја.. Проклетство сам пригрлио са заносом. Заглибио сам се у њега.. своје месо, крв и кости…“
Погледала сам га са гађењем на лицу, али нисам рекла ништа.
Накезио се:
„Уживала си у наручју глупе Агнес, док сам те вребао из мрака. Љубила си јој прсте, клизила по њеном телу, као да је у питању ходочашће. Али, јамчим ти, то није ходочашће, већ пут који води у бездан. Пут смрти. Чист Ерос“, зарежао је и покушао је да ме додирне. Брзо се сам се измакла:
„Шта више хоћеш? Води ме, ионако је све унапред одлучено“, дрхтала сам огрнута пелерином, не од страха, већ од хладноће и обрглила се обема рукама.
Нагло ме је зграбио. Отимала сам се, али ме је савладао и понео ме према залеђеном језеру. Спустио ме је крај саме обале.
„Полази!“, заурлао је и повео ме за руку. Нисам се опирала. Вукао ме је по неравној површини Руствона. Било је хладније него иначе. „Корачај!“, урлао је. „Показаћу ти сад како изгледа данско пролеће!“
И Руствон има своју тајну“, рече. „Али и по које изненађење…“, једва сам га чула, јер је његов глас наједном надјачао урлик ветра. „А сад гледај какав поклон су ти послали вирови Руствона! Прекрасан је, зар не? Мора да буде, јер ја сам га створио.“ Наглим покретом руке баци ме на ледену површину језера. „Погледај! Погледај у своје огледало!“, дрекну и зари мач у ледену дубину Руствона. Узнемирена, из дубоког сна разбуђена, мирна језерска вода заклокота пред мојим лицем. Нешто изрони из леда. Нечије модро лице, изобличено снажним ударцима, избацише немирне воде Руствона. Мора да је сатима плутало у води. „Погледај је, Матилде. Погледај како је лепа!“, зарежа Амеронген, гурајући ми главу ка отвору. Лице моје прелепе Агнес, ископаних очију, посматрало ме је из дубине Руствона.
ilustracija: Катерина Пејсова, Bloody Lake
„Заклао сам ти јагње! Сад га пољуби!“, демонски се смејао.
Испустих врисак, који је у мени лежао затомњен годинама, и надјачах урлик ветра. Хтела сам да се придружим Агнес, да умрем поред ње, те покушах да се отргнем из Амеронгеновог стиска и уроним у хладне воде Руствена.
Амеронген, у неверици, схвати да сам се искобељала из његових канџи. „Стани!“, бацио се на мене и успео да ме прекрије телом. Отимала сам се. „Пусти ме!“, вриштала сам, „пусти ме да умрем!“ Покидао ми је одећу жестином острвљеног лудака. Узео ме је са животињском жудњом. Тишину палу на обалу језера, раздирали су моји крици. Ужас се обрушио на мене. Извих тело, у јаловом покушају да стресем звер са себе. Он се јаче зари у мене, и опрез му на трен попусти. Успех да му закопам нокте у ожиљак који му је браздао образ, на шта Амеронген дрекну. Ухвати се за лице једном руком, другом ме и даље држећи прикованом за ледену површину Руствона: „Курво проклета!“ Агнесине слепе очи су мирно посматрале целу сцену.
Из мене излетеше све знане ми псовке, тразаји беса ми искривише лице, док сам га гребала, отимала се, вриштала и ударала, али ме је и даље побеђивао. Моја борба је распалила Амеронгенов бес, тако да је, на моју срећу, завршио брже него што је желео.
Кад је завршио, сео је спрам мене, обрисао мојом подераном хаљином лице и гениталије и грубо ми бацио хаљину у лице. Држала сам се за стомак, али нисам ридала. У трену ми будући живот пролете пред очима и згрози ме. Од саме спознаје, смучи ми се и ја се исповраћах по леду, на шта се Амеронген осмехнуо. Било ми је сасвим свеједно шта ће се даље догодити.
„Како ћеш ме волети, ниси тога ни свесна“, нежно ми је рекао…
„Ето, Ларсене, тако сам се удала“, Матилде заврши своје излагање равним гласом. Понудила ме је медовином са стола, спазивши мој саблазнут израз лица. Нисам могао да је погледам у очи, запрепашћен свим изреченим.
„М-матилде, кћери, да ли желиш да пођеш са мном у замак Енгсо у Вастерасу, на обали језера Меларен? Амеронген не зна да су ми понудили место капелана у тамошњој катедрали. Спремам се на пут следећег месеца. А за после ћемо видети. Можемо да стигнемо и до Тулуза, ако желиш“, освртао сам се око себе. Нервозно сам погледао лево-десно, у страху да ме Амеронген не чује. Матилде ме је чудно погледала.
„Зар нећеш да саставиш спис, Ларсене?“
„Да-да, свакако“, замуцкивао сам. „Али, зар нечујеш шта ти говорим? Могли бисмо да се склонимо у Енгсо. Не намеравам да се вратим у Норботен, а ни ти не смеш ни трен више у њему да останеш. Нисмо смели оволико дуго да се задржимо у Хасеу. Можемо да живимо ван Амеронгеновог домашаја.“
„Зар се може побећи од њега? Да ли то може бити?“
Загрлио сам је. Био сам потпуно уверен у то што говорим. Осетио сам нагло олакшање пред чињеницом да могу да је спасим.
„Почни да се пакујеш у тајности, овде више нема ничега, ни за мене ни за тебе. Покушај да делујеш као и обично, како свен не би наслутио шта се спрема.“
„А шта бих радила, Ларсене?“
„Управо ми је то питање задавало мука све ове године. Посветио сам му сво своје слободно време. Можда да се издајеш за моју рођаку или удовицу, или… да се угледаш на Ивету Хај, да проведеш живот у колонији са лепрознима? Све је боље је од овога овде“, рекао сам узбуђеним гласом. „Самостани женама нуде многе могућности, не само за образовање, него и за креативно изражавање. Подсећам те на случај саксонске игуманије којој је било дозвољено да кује новце са својим ликом… Немачке монахиње из богатих и важних кућа једнаке су духовним господарима Царстава, да не говорим о предностима које би имала као игуманија или можда жена – мистик. Подсећам те и на случај Кристине Маркјет, жене која је одбијала је да се уда… и напокон постала светица“, заврших своје излагање завереничким тоном.
„Али, ја нисам светица, Ларсене. Чак нисам нити побожна…“
„Нисам ни ја“, насмешио сам се.
Уместо одговора, Матилде је неутешно почела да плаче у мом наручју.
(Рукопис се овде прекида…)
[1] Грчки бог вечне таме (прим. аут.)
[2] Ватрени џин у нордијској митологији (прим. аут.)
[3] Алмогавери, Алмогавари или Алмугавери, били су плаћеници у служби арагонско-каталонских краљева, који су се борили у пограничним пределима против муслимана у XIII веку. Живели су од пљачке (прим. аут.)
Крај првог дела поглавља…

A Shaman’s Curse, (Serbian original included), an excerpt


At it’s core, this story is about an altered perception during any creative endeavor. (author’s note)

Posted on the website Ljubitelji i autori sf/f/h umjetnosti u BiH

Dediicated to Plato

In medias res

#horror #satire #parody #psychedelic

Why murder? Because of vanity? – an unimaginative mind would say. Your shoes are salted with it and you walk around bloodied like that. You! The author, under the veil of suspicion! There is something fascinating, I speak while I shake and hit a pole, then another, dazed, probably under influence of the spell from that diabolical fiend and his Halverson – I laughed wildly, then growled – something obscenely fascinating in falsifying the work of another. Within the success of an average mind, without cleverness, that which is adorned by incompleteness, that which loans all it has from the Complete one. He is a voyeur, this plagiarist and falsifier. He peeps through the keyhole of your overflowing imagination. He uses voodoo magic! He walks behind you with a smile while your statement, your bleeding, your desperation flows…Or is this a simulacrum, an exaggeration, an illusion, tension caused by a simple fact that Lucius and Ignatius have similar, if not the same surnames. Fact that in the Zerynthia novel one of us was a literary character, and that the other one wrote it. (This secret, dear reader, I’ve kept from you until the very end)And that the literary character dies in a puddle of blood, just like this, with a knife. So who was I? What soul? The one of Zerynthia? And who here is an Earthling, and who an extraterrestrial? TURBAN! – that was my final mad IDEA after which I passed out…

While he’s dreaming…

“Two mad loves”, hahaha, Ignatius. Oriental poetry is not the current trend with us Scandinavian folk.

“Not true. The influx of Arabs in Sweden is growing on a global scale. They have houses, are covered socially…”

“But you’re saying that Zerynthia is east of the Moon.”

“I say that her hair is, which is how he sees it, like the treetop of the Canadian rhododendron. The Moon has nothing to do with it. East – that’s just a direction. From hell, from heaven, was it not already written… But, then the oriental directions have enlightened the people, now hell and heaven and east and west, even the rhododendron and the Moon just confuse them.”

“Who is he, Ignatius, who is he, and who am I”, the publisher with a turban on his head asked.

“Lucius. He gets into different situations where his behavior turns abnormal. If he is even capable of love, that love is damaging, mister publisher man. Still, his work is finally gaining traction. Words are becoming more picky amongst themselves, they defy each other, they even defy publishers and the public, as blind as Homer the topic of reading a good book, the provincial taste over which Lucius reigns inviolably. Margarita agrees with him and once, at a Georgian terrace where they were at in the Bedford Park villa, she confesses to him that not only will he become the new Aki the Pig, but an enlightening reformer in the age when Zerynthia alongside China will be the sovereign ruler of the world – she confesses to him and speaks…ah, speaks and this is one of the most powerful parts where her role shifts from a supporting to a main one, at least in his head, where she speaks to him on a personal, intimate level. The novel becomes novelist-ish, so to speak…”

When he heard this, he, the publisher, a man of quite noticeable facial features covered in yellow feathers and with a flat head in the shape of a hammer, jumped on me and rode me, starting to grind me…down to dust. His body was that of King Kong. In his hand he had a baseball bat and he whack whack whacked into powder, whack into one nothing nothing. YOU ARE AWFUL, IGNATIUS HALVERSON! AND NOW YOU ARE OFFICIALLY NOTHING!

Serbian original:

ŠAMANOVA KLETVA ili O IDEJAMA
Posvećeno Platonu
image Shaman ~ Jeff Wood

#horor #satira #parodija #psihodelija

Čemu ubistvo? Zbog sujete? – rekao bi neimaginativni um. Njome su ti posoljene cipele i tako krvav koračaš. Ti! Pisac, pod velom suspicije! Postoji nešto fascinantno, govorim dok se tresem i udaram o jednu banderu, potom o drugu, ošamućen, verovatno pd dejstvom čarolije onog dijabolika i njegovog Halversona – divlje sam se nasmejao, potom zarežao – nešto opsceno fascinantno u krivotvorstvu tuđeg rada. U uspehu prosečnog uma, bez pameti, onog što ga krasi nepotpunost, onoga što od Potpunog sve svoje uzajmljuje. Voajer je to, taj plagijator i krivotvor. Viri kroz ključaonicu vaše nabujale mašte. Koristi vudú magije! Za vama sa osmehom korača dok teče vaše kazivanje, vaše krvarenje, vaš očaj… Ili je ovo privid, preuveličavanje, iluzija, napetost izazvana pukom činjenicom da Lucijus i Ignašijus imaju slična, ako ne ista prezimena. Činjenice da je u romanu o Zerentiji jedan od nas bio književni lik, a drugi ga je napisao. (ovu san tajnu, od tebe čitaoče, čuvao do samog kraja) I da književni lik umire u lokvi krvi, baš ovako, sa bodežom. Ko sam bio ja? Koja duša? Da li ona sa Zerentije? I ko je tu Zemljanin, a ko Vanzemaljac? TURBAN!– bila je moja poslednja mahnita IDEJA nakon čega sam se onesvestio… ,

Dok sanja…

„Dve lude ljubavi“, ha ha ha. Ignašijuse. Istočnjačka poezija nije aktuelna u nas Skandinavaca.
„Nije tačno. Priliv Arapa u Švedskoj raste na globalnom nivou. Imaju kuće, pokriveno socijalno..“
„Ali ti govoriš da je Zerentija istočno od Meseca“.
„Ja govorim da joj je kosa, a on je tako vidi, nalik na krošnju kanadskog rododendrona. Mesec s tim nema nikakve veze. Istočno – to je samo pravac. Od pakla, od raja, zar ne beše napisano.. Ali, tada su istočni pravci prosvećivali narod, sada ga i pakao i raj i istok i zapad, pa i rododendron i mesec samo zbunjuju“.
„Ko je on, Ignašijuse, ko je on, a ko sam ja?“, upita izdavač sa turbanom na glavi.
„Lucijus. Zapada u različite situacije u kojima je njegovo ponašanje abnormalno. Ukoliko i voli, ta ljubav je štetna, gospodine izdavač. No, njegov rad napokon dobija zamah. Reči postaju izbirljivije međusobno, prkose jedna drugoj, pa i izdavaču i publici, slepoj kao Homer kad je u pitanju dobra knjiga, varoškom ukusu nad kojim Lucijus neprikosnoveno vlada. Margarita se sa njim slaže i jednom, na gruzijskoj terasi gde se nađoše u vili Bedford Park, priznaje mu da ne samo da će od njega postati novi Aki Svinja, već prosvetiteljski reformator u doba kada će Zerentija zajedno sa Kinom suvereno vladati svetom – priznaje mu i govori.. ah, govori i to je jedno od najsnažnijih mesta gde iz sporedne uloge prelazi u glavnu, barem u njegovoj glavi, gde mu se obraća lično, intimno. Roman postaje romansijerski, tako reći..“

Kad to ču, on, izdavač, čovek izrazito markantnih crta lica prekrivenog žutim perjem i spljoštene glave oblika čekića, skoči na mene i zajaha me, počevši da me drobi.. do praha. Telo mu je bilo kao u King Konga. U ruci je držao bejzbolku i udri udri u prah, udri u jedno ništa ništa NIŠTA NE VALJAŠ , IGNAŠIJUSE HALVERSONE I SAD SI ZVANIČNO NIŠTA!

Inscriptions in the darkness, Rabisu (“the vagabond”)


Inscriptions in the darkness, a little paragraph
written in Serbian and translated into English, by Leila Samarrai

image: “Le cauchemar”, huile de Henry Fuseli

A vicious being, Rabisu*, takes all kinds of form, he lasts to the bitter end, to the dust, in a lifetime, before waking up, only for some breed of men, claims Rabisu and adds:
“You are the chosen one”

He adds that he is flattered by the expression on my face when I wake up, ““So beautifully lined with fear, a face of the loser, the being bearing her cross with Christian fortitude, the cross built of the entire human experience, Ms. Masters in the art of loneliness. The archetypal example!”, the demon said enthusiastically. “I’m fascinated by your wicked and lucid appetite for your useless life”, Rabisu grabs my meat and bones whenever I I’m ready to jump from the window, after awakening.

“Whoa whoa, okay, easy. Take your time, author. Not that useless. You have a difficult task ahead which must be fulfilled no matter how much you will hate it. Using only your words, you must, in a hilarious way, to put night time monsters in the pillory until it reaches hangman! (I’ll contact you with the exact location of your future ancient tome whereabouts, soon as you’re done with them… Monsters! It’s been years since I’ve seen that kind of monsters, so twisted, it’s… quite disgusting, even by nightmarish standards. Expose those clowns, throw them into mud pits and ensure their eternal destruction. I do not tolerate rivals. There’s only one Rabisu doing what is bad to his neighbor.!, an old demon frowned. : Who do they think they are to compare with my malice, those vicious monsters!. My malice is going for theatrics. Seeing them circling above you in the physical world, I realized our encounter was no accident, right? I received word of you… that say you were.. you, in your own way, my Morrigain demoness of the corpses, my Mora, my queen of the nightmare.. We’re exactly the same. Ah, I cannot tell more But, now I believe.. In intentional encounters! it’s almost like a one-way love affair.”

*In Akkadian mythology Rabisu (“the vagabond”) or possibly Rabasa is an evil vampiric spirit or demon that is always menacing the entrance to the houses and hiding in dark corners, lurking to attack people. The book The Religion of Babylonia and Assyria by Theophilus G. Pinchesdescribes the Rabisu as being “the seizer” which is “regarded as a spirit which lay in wait to pounce upon his prey”.

Chapter 4 of Genesis lines 6 and 7 reads:

So the LORD said to Cain: “Why are you so resentful and crestfallen? If you do well, you can hold up your head; but if not, sin is a demon lurking at the door: his urge is toward you, yet you can be his master.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabisu

 

Now that´s what I call a threat! (the excerpts from my semi-fictional autobiography, Inscriptions in the darkness, Intro…), inspired by true events and characters


I will translate this demonic inscription in all the world’s languages because I want to at least post this to them on the internet, for them to see, a part of the inscriptions in the darkness, for them to see that I am still alive and kicking. Hurry up, I tell myself, hurry, make it tonight, to the first crack of dawn. I have to do something, all of the dinosaurs resting in me, being revived in that final clench of humanity for me to trick them, to expose them to all humans to see.

Before I kill them all.

I will kill them and this shitty cage will be torn down. The cage they put me in.

Fighting them is impossible. Their world survives, their red eyes are aflame with a glow of a killer’s sword. They chop off heads, eat limbs, and all of it together, as per a deal. They are so well organized that they shit and piss on us, they cut us, so-called normal people, us who also shit, puke, get disgusted, moralize, read Plato, shake after what they do to us, fall to pieces – and they do not stop. But we shit, moralize and read Plato like humans. Not like a…

A cult.

***

How many are there? Hold on, let me count them. Five. Maybe more. They network…I don’t know. Let me see… Maybe three. Does it matter? They count. They know the exact number. They know how many of us men remain on this earth. They come for all of us. I…

When they die, maybe there is some hope for humanity.

Tonight, around 1AM, somewhere in Arizona on an online platform Seven Teacups a consultant awaits for me after I told him, a few days ago with a howl nobody could hear, that I would end it all in order for him to convince me that I should live, and I have been preparing to tell him this story and I know that, just like my mother, even with his professional upbringing, he will tell me – Do it… Terrified, stunned.

Nobody would believe me, nobody will believe me. Not even him, because is it really possible to believe it?

Let’s go.

***

They mold us. When they are done, they use us as manufacturing material, they stuff the remains of our mind in canned food. This way they change the genetic structure of the Chosen Ones. Scientists! Scorpions! One living human system upon another – they transfer the universal genetic code, they intertwine hereditary material of pure, living instinct and submit to it friendship, love, affection, and humanity.

Then they group themselves in chains, they synthesize their stinking fluids of ancient origins in human genes. Thus a gene of wickedness is made.

***

Of their method, wherein he helped me, in part, to work it out, that it is about a particular type of implanting self-possession which is dictated by a trigger, like a revolver trigger which tears down every cell of the HUMAN IMMUNE system.

It is a corpse – a scientist said, former gravedigger, long gone. Or maybe even turned. At any rate, one morning all trace of him was lost.

***

WAITING FOR MORE TRANSLATED CHAPTERS!

Sect


hello, Readers. If I am not asking for too much, I see you are all too busy cherishing your own worlds, but I do have problems with some sort of cult… knowing how it does sound, I transformed it into a short story. A comment will mean much to me, and sure you can try to ask someone enough insightful and not too scared of books to comment it too. #praying_for_feedback
***
From a distance, I suppose it’ll seem funny, this butterfly game of THEM I did not want to know and whose goal is to take me to the bottom.
It’s their only role, an awkward, desperate purpose, motivated by nature or nurture.  I’m not the only one. It is their interest, it is their absurd display, in fact, to destroy, not only writers but also artists in general.
Especially in humans.
I’m not sure why they do it – I believe that’s because, when they recognize something and especially someone they badly want to be and cannot, they have the urge to especially assailed a true creative.
They round upon a surprised individual like a pack of wolves devastating them like avalanches devastating the slopes every winter.
“We will seal your fate, you…  Creative!” – it’s in a whisper. So tangible…
In my case, it doesn’t work that way.
I have long ago said goodbye to those thousand tangible whispers a and I  found a place to launch a church, in the eternal vortex of discovered and permanent creation. It houses a stage for me, as for other actors, it’s a theatre in sacred time, with new games
which are destined to be lost and found simultaneously.
Reptiles do not know that.
I have seen through them, therefore we know their ambitions, it’s my comprehension, a responsive chord as the keynote to my success.
What I got is the confidence that makes me laugh at them. Their predicament makes me laugh.
I am laughing at the idea that they would ever get any idea on controlling a clear whisper, they, eyeless spectres of the abomination, hidden among uncomfortable shadows, those… germs. *
Thie hidden plot is the place I crucified and revealed their true nature until they are praying in public gathering places.
My understanding of them, as the pack of germs, makes them weak, until I, as an individual, grow stronger.
I see them twittering on a heating plate, sie zwitschern, zwitschern! they are floundering underneath the dampening pads, thinking they touched me. Admirable is simply how hard they try.
By the way, I know that they hacked me WordPress and email. Why did not I report them to the police? Who says I didn’t …
They are safe now.
*germs, their heart so blackened with depravity, their very existence such a web of violence and crime 

INSCRIPTIONS IN THE DARKNESS, Introduction


 

Introduction, WAITING FOR MORE TRANSLATED CHAPTERS!

 

I will translate this demonic inscription in all the world’s languages, because I want to at least post this to them on the internet, for them to see, a part of the inscriptions in the darkness, for them to see that I am still alive and kicking. Hurry up, I tell myself, hurry, make it tonight, to the first crack of dawn. I have to do something, all of the dinosaurs resting in me, being revived in that final clench of humanity for me to trick them, to expose them to all humans to see.

Before I kill them all.

I will kill them and this shitty cage will be torn down. The cage they put me in.

Fighting them is impossible. Their world survives, their red eyes are aflame with a glow of a killer’s sword. They chop off heads, eat limbs, and all of it together, as per a deal. They are so well organized that they shit and piss on us, they cut us, so-called normal people, us who also shit, puke, get disgusted, moralize, read Plato, shake after what they do to us, fall to pieces – and they do not stop. But we shit, moralize and read Plato like humans. Not like a…

A cult.

As I sit here, in my final cage, as the world disappears from my eyes, upon everything that happened, I still yearn for freedom, I laugh and scream, in a fever. I cry, my eyes bulged I tumble like a spirit. I hit my own shadows. They pop out of the walls and slap me. Get out of my head.

Cult, cult, just that word, that shitty word in an unrecognizable square, in a room foreign to it for Lord knows how many times now, in the room number 433 of the landlord number 463, ah the numbers mismatch, everything is mismatched because they have it all.

They are counting.

Today is the last day, after my bloodshot eyes read the final murderous thought, after I set aside the revolver, bought with loan money, which I meant to use to blow my brains out, I sit at the table, and my mother, a living corpse, her hair gray and messy and her mouth slobbering in fear, is merely looking, silently reading this text, this goodbye and does not talk back, does not talk me out of using the gun, the noose, for she knows, she is the only living witness. They took her – for me and with me, and, buried alive, stuffed her like a taxidermy animal! Like those birds forever trapped mid-air, shot with an arrow of the final reaper on earth. Death turns away from us disgusted, does not want to talk to us, the old Gods are dying of laughter, and the devil joins them. Either the asylum or the sword remain.

I will die a hero, but in order for them not to do it to others…for them not to do it to someone else, I will…I will…in the name of humanity, I will get up, grab a sword and like a horseman of death (for I know where they are) I will cut off their heads mid-flight and their heads will be a beautiful flower bouquets that will adorn my dying flowerpot, like that of a philodendron…ah, but you want to know who they are? Is this but a ramble of a lunatic?

How many are there? Hold on, let me count them. Five. Maybe more. They network…I don’t know. Let me see… Maybe three. Does it matter? They count. They know the exact number. They know how many of us men remain on this earth. They come for all of us. I…

When they die, maybe there is some hope for humanity.

Tonight, around 1AM, somewhere in Arizona on an online platform Seven Teacups a consultant awaits for me after I told him, a few days ago with a howl nobody could hear, that I would end it all in order for him to convince me that I should live, and I have been preparing to tell him this story and I know that, just like my mother, even with his professional upbringing, he will tell me – Do it… Terrified, stunned.

Nobody would believe me, nobody will believe me. Not even him, because is it really possible to believe it?

Let’s go.

The first specter was back in school. That’s how they began. They choose the most innocent of faces. Someone you would least suspect. Then you come to a sort of metamorphosis, when a spirit of darkness enters the chosen body, takes control and in the grey matter and its synapses under the owner’s forehead, whether good or evil, crafts a sort of idea, emotional conditioning, they maybe use genetic engineering, Imhotep’s wisdom, Lovecraft’s magic, maybe. I have not uncovered this with certainty. The metamorphosis process lasts for years, without the body noticing, but somehow thinking that the thoughts that were sent by THEM their own.

This is where the separation begins. The tearing to pieces. The introduction of chaos. The whirlwinds in the devil’s plan from whose monstrosity I shiver even now when I don’t give a damn.

Why would a man not accept an offered cup of coffee, a hug, comforting? It was always a group. First the school. They had to choose the most vile, monstrous among them, in a group, to attack me the minute they saw me. It started with silent hatred, despising and revulsion as THE BODY OF THE VICTIM, and I speak for myself, although I’m sure there are more out there, turns towards the ATTACKED BODY AND MIND in the state of metamorphosis.

This becomes the leader of the brood mother. Then the other hornets retreat after they had set the stage. The leader, a turned humanoid, addresses me as ‘dear friend’, he sits in my lap, he even awakens in me if not lust, then the desire for human closeness.

They mold us. When they are done, they use us as manufacturing material, they stuff the remains of our mind in canned food. This way they change the genetic structure of the Chosen ones. Scientists! Scorpions! One living human system upon another – they transfer the universal genetic code, they intertwine hereditary material of pure, living instinct and submit to it friendship, love, affection and humanity.

Then they group themselves in chains, they synthetize their stinking fluids of ancient origins in human genes. Thus a gene of wickedness is made.

The spirit of darkness, it is the world which crystalized the supernatural world of pure unadulterated terror. Subconsciously they work on the victim, and the CHOSEN MIND is chained to its protectors with wickedness.

This way, THEY head the earthly peoples. In time they learned that it’s somewhat more wicked and effective to work on individuals and they invented the method of destruction they used on me.

THE BROOD MOTHER takes info from the virus chain and the virus releases its wrath into the poisoned mind, into the senses, and it slowly creaks open the door of the supersensual world in Man and give him a few glimpses into him being able to sense it all…to be an announcement, a witness, a howl in the desert, only to finally get him in an asylum or make him commit suicide.

I did not believe all of this before, that there was an anti-spiritual leadership, a sacral dragon of darkness, a creation of a sick human mind in a lonely world which suffers for the destruction of the old world and the advancement of the new one which is created, maybe a long time ago, in dark caves of blinded pyramids, somewhere at the dawn of time, caves where select corpses for scientific observation and reanimation tumbled.

They planned this out well, but missed one crucial detail – there are too many writers in the world.

Of their method, wherein he helped me, in part, to work it out, that it is about a particular type of implanting self-possession which is dictated by a trigger, like a revolver trigger which tears down every cell of the HUMAN IMMUNE system.

It is a corpse – a scientist said, former gravedigger, long gone. Or maybe even turned. At any rate, one morning all trace of him was lost.

They use corpses, the most vile, cleverest archetypes of whores and killers…they implant their brains in the human molecule, the dead cell remains dead, but it still multiplies unusually imitating the human immune system, to make it look like human living tissue, but it isn’t. They behave in the early stages of metamorphosis like wise men or somewhat more reasonable beings than the average lot.

It is then that they send the information on a mysterious wave which they insert into the molecule, the brain of THE CHOSEN body, they send the radiation, create a mutation, and it creates a type of hunger, desire to devour an individual it came down on completely, at the beginning of an unconscious process that’s occurring.

This is how a soul starts getting dirty, getting vile and dishonored. The creature, turned, despite looking human on the outside, is but a replica, born in the night, a replica of an ancient corpse stumbling about caves. In order to cover up the deathliness and the enormous wickedness of their plan, the Chosen ones have the fairest faces and words, like hidden knives they were taught to use to pick the victim’s innermost layers of brain cutting their cingulum, with pleasure, a hellish butcher with bloodthirsty pleasure craves blood, reading all of my innermost desires and fears from the deciphered map of the mind. This is when I also go through a metamorphosis. I become a stumbling cave dweller who blindly feels everything up in the darkness and stumbles along the catacombs surrounded by whirlwinds of dread and howls of the killed and the slaughtered and ready for testing. The brain exchange is complete, and the proof of this are the retarded statuses I post on social media and the blood I spit on the screen, upon vomiting – for in the final phase, some try to resist, an unplanned, human, nature-provided ability to shift focus and fear for the bare sense. The optical ability enhances, images of merry demons smiling dance around the iris.

The main phase then ensues, upon the rapid degradation of potential to maintain one’s own I and in this struggle, the eyes expand, bulging in fear, staring at the monster, the shifted human form which has the same countenance, but shaded and bloodied with lack of feelings, whose disgusting, dry mouth open and utter the Kafkian judgment: She is bad, she is selfish and only thinks of herself.

This is where the compilation comes of several entities pretending to be friends, godsisters and neighbors in one singular entity, hostile, radically evil with malicious intent and death in mind.

THE MAN goes through the processes of disbelief and self-accusation, for at the end of the day the question of personal involvement in the clash and the following sudden departure of a loving being comes in, a being that uttered a judgment out of nowhere, using the nature-given freedom of MAN to think, to use a flaw in its mind map, while the CREATURE had for years been accumulating the power to submit the man to its own moral metrics and laws of fidelity.

This is the human propensity for the animalistic. This is his propensity to go in pairs and be bound to a pack, they know it. Even if the pack was, in this case, by way of modern technology, made up of a single person that holds meaning to this man which will take a few more appliances with her to completely destroy, compromise and annihilate the person.

1

I was fleeing the city where the first Creature caught me. After a decade of lying down, my tired eyes opened. I was alone, but I got up,. I knew that the provincial folk of K. are nudging and laughing, maintaining that my experiences were, indeed, unusual, but worthy of psychiatric study. This was how I lay, alone, in black wreckage, while my mother, as well as my aunt who still wasn’t transformed at the time, extended their hands, replaced the pledgets on my head and carefully watched me, always from the same point, mildly creak-opening the decrepit mouse-colored door, peeling and crumbling.

I would stare ardently at them.

– I was stripped of control by that bastard the Lord. I was in church… and I saw the Buddhist from Burma standing on his head.

– Poor kid – my desperate grandma would say. No one could transform her. To her even without the Controller the universal reality consisted of no more than a handful of cigarette buds and other than rage at the useless, impotent God who punishes the good and awards the weak, she made her own, by a strange unnamed force, knowledge of something that cannot be known, but merely believed, but she behaved as if she knew. It was her hiding spot.

I wonder if the reason for her immunity to the cult Lunatics in the disunited country and my resistance to it was in fact the golden vein instead of a regular one, the one in our bodies. In hers Russian white flowed instead of blood. I bet that even her blood was white. Like with the popular White Walkers, two decades later, with their thing being to sow the blood and death, stopped by a hero… while in actuality like any experienced Satanist they sold money and water in order to give the weak-minded, like the Turned, the hope that they will live in peace with their zombified brain until the…well, the end of their days.

In that black wreckage my ass was joined to the bed, the femininity was no cause for hysteria, but rather the end horror of it. The grotesque calls were repeating themselves. Still, back then I still believed that the wicked calls are a secret devotion, an unbending pride, a battle not to disembark the ship of illusions that the friendship between me and the monster, called Ivana, was possible.

It wasn’t a friendship I owed moments of erotic bliss. Whenever she was entering my head, she did it with roots, the wind, the breath of tropical sun. Is there anything more sweet for the Controllers than to make that particular misshapen friend deal a powerful blow, with a knife in the chest, and then to devote insane and grotesque calls which left me mute and in the most horrific of pain

And when the Creature sticks a knife in your back, everything moans in bliss.

No, that swift knife did not come by itself from the hand of my beautiful loving friend. This was my fault, me, Aitia, the cause, I did something horribly wrong, shameful and wrong. What? Does it matter? I snobbishly discarded the cowardly lack of will of the people to stand up against the dictatorship of S. M. and peddled at their flaws.

In other words, I was using my distraught brain seek the cause even in my own guilt and burry myself deeper, not have someone else do it, like Mengele, on one of his ecstatic cult-like performances behind the black curtains, but…ah, this is self-examination! This is how I got their attention.

– She requires a more subtle blow… Resistance is too big…I repeat, Huxley, the resistance is too big. – Where did I hear that before? It sent chills down my spine, it pierced through me like a horn, me at lobotomy class and still nothing. They must have planned to leave me here to lie and die. They were too powerful.

I could say so many things of my lying, which was preceded by an awakening, and in it was born a dream and again an illusion, then pain, memory, repenting. Too human. Maybe they’ll cut my throat during sleep? No, I must do this myself for them to mask their existence, and I would liken an insane person and they would become one more victim the richer, those who know of the human mind more than before my death, then the further development of technology of destruction of Man would ensue, right there near the end of the century, on the threshold of the creation of modern man.

I won’t speak of the particulars of me moving to Belgrade, for that cannot be approached in any other way than the old fashioned one: what does a prisoner feel when the jailor lets him go? A neat little zero that I was, a pathetic dying woman with new adventures before her, I made a step into another dungeon, bigger than the first. And the first one contracted, shrunk and tightened into a cellar that pulsates into the mind where locked up demons scream, the slobbering spirits of darkness, and I am sticking my tongue out through the keyhole and stick the tip of said tongue through an old well-crafted jail lock, so let the bastard lick it off, bite it.

Me, poor and nameless, triumphantly felt the walls of my tomb in Kragujevac, while the other Crag-ujevac folk stared at me squinting a tad, not openly wickedly, but rather like they were holding up their breath and the liturgy words of exceptional power and magical pretending that they care that I’m leaving (to a degree they did, at least the ones that weren’t Converted).

But, there were ones who told me that the ones who remained I was looking at with an eye of mockery, as if they were mages, insane and criminals, as if…as if we were the ones who held you against your will.

And it was no longer important what was said, nor the enchanting passion and force behind the ‘Ah, you will come back to us soon’ wickedness with a wink, but a concept of rhythm and tempo wherein the uttered swung enchanted, rooted in the intuition of this spirit of darkness or whatever was sent to get me to pick completely gray, meaningless and messy faces and plant in their mouths narratives, sentences and judgments which their minds, thinking humanly intuitively and wickedly, could not say it at all, because those judgments were uttered with a dark force which the mind of the provincial person which collapses itself into the nothingness of the subject, i.e. itself, with its icy passions, cannot even hate too much. They especially cannot express themselves in that magically silent way in which the great demons terrify, threaten and curse every person who manages to force them out of his or her body or to fight back.

What a speech it was: rough, brutal, yet silent and dark as if pumped with the presence of the spirits there for eons , the true polyglots, storms of words, yet calming, mildly warning, a style much too stylized for these gargoyles, in no way grounded, but rather tactless and hyperbolic.

This is how it would have been, and I explain this in detail for such situations and masquerades performed by the Evil Spirits will go on in what I can now fairly call well-directed film intervals:

A vast gathering around me, out of nowhere, for I had not seen so many people while I was by myself, as if a pseudo-country was forming, a mass of people, conventional shoulder-patting, well-intentioned advice from good people whose faces I have not seen once in my life. Panel:

Soft, muddy picture, then the image comes into focus and a zoom-in of someone’s eyes. Then the eyes spoke with fiery passion and that would last for ten seconds or so on a movie screen.

From the upper corner an unseen ghostly hand recording what is happening down there, everyone who ever hated me, eating sandwiches and sowing leather jackets that I pay on a loan, then all of the things in leather, I cannot even recall all of it.

They filled my suitcase, set aside my things in it as if they were laying my corpse in a sarcophagus . Who are these men? How come there are so many good intentions in this…

Ah, they are counting.

I did not know back then that it was THEM.

Still, a couple of furies jumped out then, a close-up, then in the background. And out of nowhere and unbeknownst to me, they giggle, and judging by their crooked mouths and vile laughter that adorned their faces the shadows danced. And they said, with me neither living nor dead but watching a scene before me of a fury that controls the others moving among these poor souls that speak more stylized than Hamlet when he is simulating…with a movie rhythm that came from the perfect juxtaposition of all the insane panels:

– This is now your celebration! And we perform our craft packing your suits, consciously, how we were ordered.

They then bowed and disappeared.

As I jerked myself out of that dream, I understood it the way I should have: a volcanic explosion of stress, a creative dream of a wannabe author, a young rising writer who never really started rising, whose first and final stop was the Damned Mire.

And from now on this is what I’ll call Belgrade. And of Belgrade itself and the triumph of bleak oafs whom the hunger for stealing and devouring of souls, those turned as well as the simple ones, regular ones, harmless bandits lead to me I will devote an entire chapter someday. Migrants. All of them migrants, they shouldn’t be judged. All human, like one, always seeking something and striving towards something, all of them vicious, worried about their own hide, they bow to themselves and their carelessness repeatedly.

But neither the bandits, nor the ever-present scum, that crafty thief in the night, sleepwalker, liar with a crippled child in his arms, nor the killer tricked me, nor awaited for me, but indeed the faggots did it first, and then the yurodivi, the church flowers of evil.

And I will devote a special part to the first Ethereal Archbishop of Evil, called Hermangandar, for this schismatic cultist, hieromonk apostate, he was the first to welcome me to Belgrade, he, the Presbyterian of the church embezzled on the schismatic Convocation where his followers were taking Communion. The silver-tongued told me clearly that nothing but self-exile awaits if I do not do what he would do for me had he won me over, me, the detractor of his Divine presence on Earth, this Protosyncellus who became prominent on this cultist website where they got me in a dialogue with those cut off from everything good, clean and honorable, sexually speaking.

And now comes the history of the events of sense provided in advance where I will list them ALL, their names (this is where they get weaker, watch films and listen to myths, there is truth to that…), write them down, through all of their trickery, cheating of existence, metamorphosis of directed betrayal, and even bloodshed. And when I jot them all down, I will await my trial, I the spirit who follows her fate as if it were the fate of an avenger, my head on a stump, the only given possibility.

The spiteful spirit writes it all down as it were, chronologically, for them to walk first along the facts of my handiwork, to read…

Until they tear off all their clothes and fingers.

With claws and spikes.

 

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Three, The Shaitan Horse (complete)


With this chapter, titled “The Shaitan Horse”, I will temporarily pause sharing the material from the book of Mathilde which is currently being translated. I hope that the introductory passages piqued your interest. Mathilde will soon be available on Amazon. You will be notified in due time. Thank you for reading.

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS:

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter One, A TALE OF ORIAN VON AMERONGEN

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE

The Shaitan Horse

“It’s hard to maintain friendships under the steep mountains whose sklents they spread like Icarus spreads his wings towards the icy sun in an attempt to touch the gods. Sun-scorched tops delve deep into the soul of the locals of Norrbotten. It’s hard to maintain friendships, because the abyss is indestructible here. Sven Olof, on the other side of Norrbotten, did not fear the trip. His name was described with a wondrous strength of myth.

“As he was riding on his horse across the slope with no discernible fear of any kind, hoarfrost covered the sven’s eyelashes. Cold shades danced on his cheeks long ago burned by the Norrbotten sun. He got off his horse and observed with his beady eyes the eternal chill of Hornavan.

“When I saw him, I left the solar running, crossed bridges that connected the towers, all the way up to the watchtower where I could see him swing under the swipes of the winds. It appeared as if he were supported by the light piercing through his massive body. He turned his face towards me and gave a wide grin, exuding all of his beauty, to me unbearably all too familiar, a mixture of fear and impending doom. We were looking at each other like two misbehaving boys after a dangerous game which they weren’t caught for, sensing Lindworm’s tongue standing between us like a beast, and the Fjalar hill behind it as well as the abyss whose bottom was paved with the crystals of winter. I was looking at the cracked eternal darkness of ice and felt like Olof was included in my thoughts as well. He removed his gloves and looked at me, mouth agape like with a skinned fox.

“He wore a black silk shirt with a laced collar and sleeves covered in multicolor tapes, a velvet robe and a huge cloak which cast even darker shadows on his already darkened face.

“I had rough wool trousers on. Boots, with rolled up top edge, reached up to my knees. Beneath a fine leather tunic, with corduroy edges and embroidered crosses of silk, peeped a collarless linen shirt. I wore an earring made of darkened silver, and a signet ring with a lion paw engraved on it on my hand.”

Orian lifted his hand and had a good long look into the distance. He memorized every detail. He dipped the quill in the inkwell and continued:

“In the inner yard of the castle we were smitten by a gaze of a female eye. It was my beloved wife Mathilde. Beneath the fine smooth plush dress one could make out the cotton and silk edges embroidered with a silver wire. She had a leather hat adorned with pearls on her head. The see-through organdy scarf floated above her head like a halo, and fell back all the way down to her slim waist. A silver filigree earrings with dark river pearls shaped like tears gave her face a particular beauty.

“Mathilde and Olof’s eyes crossed paths. It was then that I felt all the weight of an unclear feeling smoldering within me like an unspoken suspicion and a secret unrest during every single visit of Olaf to the castle. That force of feelings can only be triggered by an injured self-love. Rage grew within me. A cold, suppressed rage. Why was I being silent? Did Olof rule over me with the shackles of friendship?

horse

“I pushed the servant away and took Olof’s horse to the stables. Sunlight was following me and casting hot flames onto the unlucky face of the one who neither loved nor was loved. I pulled the horse with one hand. The wind was an enemy to me, a fierce companion who scooped up lumps of earth and with its icy breath threw it in my face.

“I pulled on the reins. The horse revved and tried to pull away. I opened the stable door and drove him into the box stall.

“What exactlt did I see?

“A muffled, female laughter in the background. It was Mathilde thinking Olaf’s remark to be humorous.

“No, no doubt that he wants her! I am aware of the fact that this is the last time I’m talking about this, about the misunderstanding, about the kisses that didn’t happen. My gut feels wrinkled up… I heard a murmur and steps of serfs who started genuflecting to Olof. He, as if in his own castle, started walking up the paved trail bounded by oak trees with light steps towards the mistress of the castle, towards Mathilde.

“I made my way to the castle entrance. The vile suspicion burned in my heart threatening to crush me.

“A vast room of magical beauty stretched well into the castle. It had been an enormous chamber magically lighted by thickly arranged torches. Above the entrance there was a richly done façade with a big window shaped like a horseshoe (a gift from an Indian architect whom I had killed for a bad joke at the dinner table, or for the remark that we serve tasteless meals in Hässe, I’m not sure). Down the hall stretched a row of chambers which flowed one into another. The solar could be reached via stairs from each of them or via the porches and terraces built in the Oriental style, right into the lavish garden of Hässe.

“From a gelded, richly adorned throne, set at the bottom end of the hall, I would stare at the pane, resting my nude feet on the stone statue of a prostrate lion with a human head. Befitting my dark being’s tastes, the imposing ceiling, supported by a forest of columns, was adorned with complex, dark frescoes. Gigantic tapestries warmed the cruel stone walls. The castle floor, Greek style, was adorned with black and white pebblestone mosaics, and if the observer would take a good detailed look at the painting, he would notice the many-eyed Argus, the All-seeing, surrounded by wolves with their maws agape. My eye did not miss a single solitary detail. It was the temple of my curse, carved in the living flesh of Hässe. My inner being, my soul, whichever you prefer.

“I chiseled the sweet venom of battle into the walls. I invested a lot into paintings. The fresco above the very entrance of the Hall (this was my pet name for the enormous hall of Hässe, a rare architectural jewel in an eerie wasteland of the surrounding nature) was presenting a head of, one would say, a beautiful woman. Eyes full of fright and tears were chiseled into her visage. Opposite to her, at the very end of the Grand hall, the fresco above the throne was presenting the merciful eyes of a man, who bore a scepter in his hand. The fresco was hiding a secret passageway, and the passage hid – mortuary statues. I would often open the secret door as the nobles were engulfed in merriment during feasts, followed by the merry music of the manor minstrel.

“’Master Olof’– I nervously paced the Hall – ‘I do not recall ever taking you to see the castle. My servants have covered the floors with a new material’ – I grinned like a wolf, nonchalantly toying with the silver earring in my ear. I was tapping on the floor with my boot, giving the terror a beat. – ‘Approach the throne, master Olof’ – the boot tapping increased. Olof’s gaze paused with admiration on the walls which were adorned here and there with gelded carvings and unavoidable arabesques.

“’Come with me and see the castle, my friend. Delve into my soul, and then we feast’ – I approached him and put my arm around his shoulder. I caught Olof’s gaze directed at Mathilde’s cross which hung from the stained glass. – ‘You are impressed by the cameos of the pious Mathilde of Essen? I brought it from Cologne as a gift to my god-fearing lady.’

“’Fascinating…’ – Olof mumbled. – ‘Really… you built a shrine in the castle, master Orian. Your care for the proper upbringing of lady Mathilde is touching almost as the care for her soul. I thought you would corrupt her with your gods.’

“I looked at him with bloodlust in my eyes, but I did not erase the wolfish smile off my face, quite the contrary, I grinned all the harder.

“’You see, Olof… The architecture I am inclined to lately is a strict and monumental one. Vast wall structures are without a single opening. Soon I will wall off all those tiny light windows through which you’re looking.’

“He gave me a funny look. ‘By the by, where is thy lady? She was here a moment ago’ – he took a good long look around him. She was here all along, right next to the two of us, silent like a shadow, peaceful like a sword resting in the sheathe. She seemed as if she were suppressing laughter.

“A frightening silence suddenly fell upon the castle.

“’Approach, Olaf!’, I yelled for a serf. His shoulders shivered.

“’Here I come to my master to obey his command!’, he dared not look at me.

“’You see, Olof, how faithful my serf Olaf is to me? If the king would weep, he would weep along with him. If the king died, there Olaf would be howling for him, such is the love of serflings of Hässe to its ruler. Is this not so?’, I embraced my serf. His lips were quivering, and teeth aclatter. ‘I re-reckon it’s cuh-cold, Guard, let me get the fire going.’

“’I want you to take us through the secret door’, I gave off a bloodlust-laden grin and took a good long look at the hump under his tunic. ‘Look at him, Olof. Is he not like a statue which speaks? Good old Roman Pasquino , a damaged sculpture, of course, but well spoken, because when it hears the vile tongues say ‘Even Amerongen can’t reign forever’ – a prideful look on his face – Olaf would cuss and say ‘Let me find the coward in the shadows! And if I don’t find him, you, master, will blow into him the icy breath of death and the bastard will fall only because he wanted my master to die.’’

“Olof raised his eyebrows and said ‘Incredible.’

“’Brave lad’ – I patted the serf on the hump under the tunic which stuck out a bit crookedly. ‘You do not fear the secret door?’

“Olaf rose the steel chin to me, grinned and revealed a severe lack of dentures: ‘I am loyal, milord. My name is Olaf and all live long day I eat and drink profusely and in the name of my prince I would…’ He was deep in thought for a while. I waited patiently enjoying the whole thing. Something almost like a thought sparked in his pupil. ‘I can do this. I can go through the secret door. I will be the guide. I have heard that master Olof is going sightseeing.’

“’And if the doors are sealed?’, I laughed.

“’I will knock them down with my head.’

“’Is he an idiot?’ Olof giggled pointing to the wee hunchback. Olaf laughed with him, and his whole face went dark. He clenched his fists. ‘I will crush the door, here…with these hands!’

“’I actually believe you…’ – I paid no heed to Olof’s jab – ‘Peace be upon the kingdom, Olaf.’

”’Long live my prince’, Olaf lowered his gaze and knelt before me.

“Olof coughed uninterestedly, while strength raged within me.

“’Come with me…’, I took a few large steps and stood in front of the secret door

“’I don’t see how we can pass.’ – Olof wondered. – ‘Perhaps…’

“’Quiet,’ I frowned. ‘I wanted to show you this.’

“I stood on a precisely marked spot, which was the Eye of Argus on the mosaic, and used my weight to start up the secret mechanism. The door squeaked creepily, rising upward, while Olof stood in tense expectation – what is on the other side?

“His astounded facial expression amused me. He hesitated for a moment or two, and then carefully came after me along the tight pass. He was in the state of complete horror, while we crawled by grotesque gravestones. Soon we arrived at a big room whose stone walls were adorned with a low, narrative relief, similar to Assyrian ones.

“There was little to no furniture in the room. Two chairs and an oaken table colored red took up the middle of the room. The table was covered in a pile of parchments and unusual object, one of which was my fancy – shaped by the hands of Mathilde – a miniature replica of the Kraken. The rest of the furniture was colored green, with a figure of a three-headed dragon Buné engraved onto it, as were many other pagan symbols. A fresco was on the wall above the fireplace, a fresco which, according to my instructions, was made by Mathilde. It was an all-black monstrosity, a smirk on her face gnawed to the bone, my protector Yambe-Akka, the angel of death.

“Not paying attention to an astonished and terrified Olof, in a knightly stance I knelt before her horrific visage.
Heed my prayer, Yambe-Akka

Habituate my eyes to the blade of vengeance

Let me hold it in my hand

Let my hand not quiver when vengeance recognizes the cause!

Let the bowels howl in fear, bowels of all those

Who wanted you unmade from your way!

 

“I got up unladen, breaking the silence reinforced by Olof being quiet.

“’Impressive, no?’, I said self-lovingly.

Olof shook from unease, and his face wrinkled.

“’I come here to enjoy myself… The room is full of objects which bring me peace’ – I paused – ‘There are all sorts of things here, from Iram, Ubar[1]…’- as I was saying this, I picked up a crooked J-shaped sword from the table, “a cursed Arabian knife”, a gift from Ubar. ‘Whomsoever has it in his hand, he must…’, I looked at Olof, and his eyes were aflame bloody-red.

“’My friend, I see that my dark humor upsets your soul. I’m afraid that I must stop doing that. You’ll lose your appetite,’ I mercifully added and pointed to the direction of the spiral staircase.

“’They lead all the way to the balcony, and from there on…you’ll see…’

“’You surprise me in a horrific way, Orian…Let’s go…’, Olof added nervously. And so, over the balcony, we found ourselves in a hallway, adorned with numerous columns. The end of the hallway was crowned by an arch, made in an Arabic style.

“’Down the hallway, keep going straight, you will reach Mathilde’s solar’, I said wickedly.

“’Let’s go back’, Olof felt uncomfortable.

“’My solar is on the opposite side. We can visit it as well?’

“Our conversation was suddenly cut off by a female voice. ‘Hässe, including the secret passageways, has at least fifty-two rooms. It is a monumental complex, master Olof…’

“When he looked at her, light jolted in his eyes. I was looking at him grimly.

entrance

“‘Come along, with the second staircase, Master Olof. Orian has shown you his favorite spot in the wall. And now we dine.’ Olof obediently followed Mathilde.

“We were back in the Main hall. Mathilde moved away from us, decisively walking towards my throne, and sat on it!”

“Orian set aside his quill, stood from his table and walked along the solar, trying to gather his thoughts. – No, that’s not how it happened, it really wasn’t! Mathilde’s throne was right next to mine. The Evesham craftsmen made a throne for the queen… – He roamed around the room like a ghoul, distraught – I must say it all the way it was. I will glue the truth to this parchment like sweat…But – he looked over his shoulder – if I pour my soul into a horrific description, I swear… – Orian returned to the table and wrote this sentence, saying it out loud.

“…I swear that I will pull the rust out of its roots. Mathilde did not sit on my throne, but her own. And I did not managed to show the damned man the corpses behind the secret wall. Actually, those were no longer even corpses, but bones that are swarming in worms in the honor of the gods for a long time…too long. And maybe this is all just make-believe, maybe I killed no man. And if this is too tight of a space to pour my pathetic spirit onto it, may the readers of upcoming centuries forgive me, I am not well versed in the quill, eh, what can you do…“

The story became too hard for Orian for a moment so he took one more stroll around the solar. – I am a walker along the dungeon, tomb, megaron[2] of the pitiful…

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And he wrote:

“I feel like describing Mathilde’s solar. I knew how it looked down to the last detail, thanks to the network of spies which I crafted in secrecy. It was her membrane, her hiding place from the rot which she would shut herself in for months in order to avoid my demonic advances. This pathetic fool Olof could not understand such a concession to a woman.

“The solar ceiling was reinforced with wooden beams, while the floor was made of red polished marble. Stone walls were covered with lavish tapestries adorned with horizontal geometric and herbal ornaments, encircled with a green Viking braid and the warrior woman Atalanta[3] as its central composition. Silk pillows were carelessly tossed all over the floor.

“A fine carved wooden writing table with legs made of minted iron, next to which was the statue of Bastet[4], was placed under the painting with a gelded wooden frame. Next to the inkwell, on the table, were also a short sword, a pile of parchments and a silver candelabra. A simple chair with a green and white back reminded one of the chair in the chapel of chaplain Larsen. In the corner of the solar in a chest reinforced by minted iron wedges she kept her private-most things. Above the chest was a tilted whole length mirror, where she could look at herself from every angle.

“On the wall across the canopy bed Mathilde brought her frescos over from her solar in Regenstein – it was a sea of body, of female flesh where her gaze would most often lose itself. The solar also contained a dining room (with wooden cupboards containing cups, pots and teapots), a wooden chair with a kitchen scale, a turquoise salt shaker and silverware, a fireplace, before which there stood a wooden chair with a skin-sheeted back where she performed her morning dress-up.

“Once while resting from my presence, she would go back to her solar more wonderful and adorable than ever, saying ‘Oh, how good the solitude feels.’ This is how I courted her heart, because my absence made her happy. As a return favor, she would grant me two nights with her as compensation. Those nights would drain her like a serious disease. Still, she would remain with me in the castle, in my solar, until the latest escape.”

– I am not pleased with this. I’m tired, like a dry log, weak. But the fog is slowly sliding away from my mind and the veil parts from my all too tired eyes. I remember every detail, in spite of insanity and oblivion – Orian Amerongen said out loud and continued his tale with in tune, confident swings of the quill.

“We spent the afternoon in light conversation. The hall was bathed in sunrays. A tall table, akin to a stand with legs, covered in linen cloth was packed with food served in dishes of silver. I sat next to Olof, on a wooden bench, while Mathilde cozied herself into the chair sheeted in deer hide, adorned with lion heads on its arms. She was of cold bearing and an icy smile. I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself during the dull prattle of Olof which lasted for several hours of his namesake grandfather’s heroics. He spun the dislocated version of the legend of Jerusalem, of my ancestor Hjalmar the Bloody, which was, simply put due to Hjalmar’s illiteracy, written down by the chaplain Larsen.

“’Chaplain’s fancies’, I waved it off, using the opportunity and said: ‘Impressive, master Olof, but I would rather dash towards the throne in order to have some fun.’

“‘Fun? Are you bored in the company of your lovely lady, my friend? Does the tale of our ancestor’s wars and their unending friendship not make you happy?’, he looked me dully and asked how will I entertain myself to which I mercifully replied: ‘I will stare into the pane.’

“I got up from the table, sat at my throne and…fell asleep on the spot. I have no idea how long I was napping on it, but when I awoke, I jumped from it horrified, staring at the darkness filled with candlelight. They were burning with strength, passion. I slept of the next few hours.

“I lifted the chainmail collar, wanting to cover the redness of my cheeks which pointed to tumultuous feelings, because I had found my wife and my friend in an intimate conversation.

“Icy suffering covered my face.

“’Enjoying yourself, Olof?’, I sat back at the table. Olaf the serf brought the candles, approached the fireplace and reignited the fire. I observed the hump under his tunic.

“’Indeed! Do divulge the secret of this mead’, Olof said, turning to Mathilde, ‘We do not have wine like this on the south!’

“’If I am not mistaken, during your last visit you said that you have land in Toulouse as well, right?’, Mathilde spoke coquettishly.

“’You can come to the south as well…the south of Norland, I mean…’ his words were ringing in my ears. It was a confusing scene. During the conversation he cursorly followed my game. His eyes glistened. He barely took his eyes away from the sword which, had I unsheathed it, would have cast a bright light all around.

“’What do you do when boredom assails you, my lord?’, she continued. I reproachfully looked at her. She did not look back.

“A horse revved in the distance. A howl of wind broke out. I waved my hand off wishing to drive off the howl. Both looked at me in surprise.

“’What is this foolishness you exhibit?’, it was her turn to be reproachful, signaling this with her eyes.”

[1] Historical lost cities

[2] Hallways in Greek temples

[3] A Greek heroine

[4] Bastet, a cat-goddess of Ancient Egypt, solar deity and goddess of war