Читать книгу The Chronicles of the Elders Malefisterium. Volume 1. The Ordeal of Freya - Andrew Ognev - Страница 4

At the very beginning of the twentieth century, a mysterious explosion thundered in the heart of Siberia.

It all started when a glowing comet appeared high in the sky. As soon as it went out of sight, a flash of light lit up the horizon, and, at the same instant, everyone around was dazzled by it. The ground was shaking, and an earthquake (something that had never occurred here before) rolled underfoot, causing commotion and panic among all the living things for thousands of kilometers around. In no time the air became dry and hot. It was difficult to breathe, like in a hot sauna.

What was in the epicenter?

Three circles were formed in the boundless taiga. The first circle, the inner one, had trees lying with their tops toward the center, as if they had been carefully arranged by someone in strict compliance with the laws of geometry; in the second circle there were naked pointed tree trunks without boughs, branches and leaves; the third circle was a windthrow area extending for hundreds of kilometers from the explosion epicenter. However, there were no craters and no huge clamps of soil.

On a cool June morning, shortly after the explosion, there were observed some unusual natural phenomena. There was a strange, truly dead silence. Birds chirping, rustling leaves in the wind and other sounds of the taiga were gone. The clear sky grew dark, and everything around, including the leaves and grass, turned yellow, then orange, red and finally burgundy-colored.

There was something unusual about this explosion: Despite the tremendous explosive force, no significant damage was done to the nature or people.

Thousands of people around the world wondered what it was.

“A meteorite,” scientists said.

“A manufactured object sent by mysterious aliens!” idealistic dreamers insisted.

If it was a meteorite, why did it explode before it reached the ground? And where is the impact crater, or at least the place of its landing?

Those who believed that it was an alien spaceship-wreck that crash landed in the area were disappointed, since not a single piece, not a single part of the alien spacecraft was found.

There were also those who believed that it was a shot from a much-talked-about, huge Tesla cannon. But no plausible evidence was found.

The strange consequences of the collision between the Earth and an unidentified space object did not end there. A day after the catastrophe, the Earth’s atmosphere and night clouds were glowing eerily. The noctilucent clouds reflected the rays of the sunlight, thereby creating the effect of polar nights even in the areas where they had never occurred before.

The strange phenomena continued for a few days; then, they vanished as suddenly as they appeared. And immediately people stopped feeling the impact of the event.

A month later, no one was talking about the mysterious event. Occasionally, a new theory would spring in scientific circles to trigger a low-key discussion.

It took the nature half a century to heal its wounds. A new forest grew around. The only evidence of the alien object was the ball of fire, which was seen by many people in a radius of several thousand kilometers, along with burned and fallen trees.

The event was soon erased from the human memory. And only smoldering remains of once magnificent cedars and pines exposed the site where the alarming event had taken place.

Scientists declared this phenomenon an unfathomable mystery and gave it a name, the Tunguska Event. The humanity accepted the explanation.

However, there were those who knew everything ahead of time, waited patiently and never lost hope. Down the ages, down the millennia, the elves passed on an ancient prophecy. Their hearts and minds were able to see much more both in the future and in the past. They divined the true meaning of the Sign and were genuinely delighted at the arrival of the messenger.

There was also someone on the Earth who waited for this in the same way the elves did, but he cherished his own selfish plans.

So who will get Him first?

Almost a hundred years later, Molyobka village, the house of the village priest

Father Konstantin, the senior priest of the local church, and Mark, both a cleric and a bell-ringer, were sitting at a big round table and drinking tea from a pot-bellied samovar. A spicy fragrance of forest herbs was coming from the steaming hot cups of tea.

“God has not forsaken this place,” Father Konstantin chuckled happily after taking another sip of tea and lifted up his eyes to the sky. “To my great joy, more and more children are being born here. Five children have already been christened this summer.”

“There are many of those who come to the parish, answering the call of the heart. Which gives just as much joy,” the bell-ringer chimed in. “They not only work hard in the land of God, but also turn their thoughts toward him, toward our Father.”

“Fair enough,” the priest agreed.

They crossed themselves and praised the Lord. For a few minutes one could only hear the gurgle of water poured from the samovar and loud slurping of boiling-hot tea from the saucers.

“Just imagine, Father,” the bell-ringer said dreamily, with his mouth wide open and his eyes glued to the ceiling, “what if there were not four hundred, but four thousand people in our parish!”

“You don’t say so, Mark!” Father Konstantin cooled his enthusiasm. “We would not even have enough land for them all. And no jobs for such a horde. Otherwise, how would they earn their living?”

“God created our Earth for living creatures, and it can support them, regardless of their number,” the bell-ringer waved his finger.

“And that is exactly why they live where there is place for them to live.”

“But what if…!” the bell-ringer kept persisting.

“What a dreamer you are!” Father Konstantin smiled. “Don’t let dreams and idle talk make your tea cold.”

“Then I will have another cup of tea!” the cleric replied ardently, patting the round copper belly of the samovar.

“Watch out! You can burn your hand!” the priest grabbed the bell-ringer’s arm.

The restless bell-ringer gave Father Konstantin a reverent look, nodded twice and instantly changed the subject.

“Do you know what Fedotya Andreevna did the other day?”

“What?” the priest moved his cup aside.

“She had a celebration!” Mark threw up his hands.

“How’s that? On a weekday?”

“That’s right! She made pies and invited so many people that there was hardly any room for them,” the bell-ringer was bubbling with excitement. “So she had to set the table in the yard.”

“And was there any reason for such a celebration?” the priest asked.

“She does not need one,” Mark drawled meaningfully and narrowed his eyes slyly.

“It’s hardly surprising,” Father Konstantin smiled. “However, there must be a reason… What does she say?”

“She says she received some good news,” the bell-ringer vouchsafed an explanation, “some welcome news, as she says. The news that affects many people! That is that!”

“Well, her celebration makes us happy!” the priest crossed himself. “She brought an onion-and-egg pie for us. This is the second evening we have been eating it.”

They sipped the tea noisily from their saucers and got lost in their thoughts.

“Don’t you find our old Fedotya… a bit strange?” the bell-ringer asked, scratching the back of his head.

“No, why? Did she do anything wrong?” Every sip of tea and every piece of the pie infused the priest with good humor. “She is an ordinary old woman of faith, wearing a headscarf on her head and a warm shawl on her shoulders. She is always at home, doing chores around the house. And she never misses important events in our church.”

“It may very well be true,” the bell-ringer explored his thought. “But I say, she is somewhat funny. Take this celebration of hers. She declared a random day a red-letter date out of the blue, according to the calendar existing in her imagination, and threw a feast.”

“Well, what is wrong with that?” Nothing was going to put Father Konstantin out of his humor. “A person feels good and wants to share their joy with others. The way I see it, it is a charitable deed.”

“Of course, it is,” the bell-ringer nodded. “It is for sure willed by God…”

His face clouded with concern, and it did not escape the priest’s notice.

“You seem to have something against the old lady. Do you?” he asked, searching the bell-ringer’s face.

“For pity’s sake, Father!” the bell-ringer crossed himself. “I have nothing against her! How can I? Her food tastes so good.”

“She is good at filling your belly with delicious food,” Father Konstantin said, “and she is also good at filling your head with nonsense.”

“How’s that?”

“She is spinning yarns without stopping.”

“You are right about it, Father,” Mark perked up. “She is doing it so well that I wish I could write her stories down!”

“So why don’t you?”

“Yeah, right, as soon as I learn writing!”

They both laughed.

Suddenly, the church bell rang loudly and violently from the bell tower.

The men stopped laughing and gave each other a puzzled look.

“Who is playing pranks there?” Father Konstantin asked, frowning.

“Well, the door is locked! Here is the key!” the bell-ringer apologetically pulled a big copper key out of his pocket and showed it to the senior priest as a proof of his non-involvement in the discipline violation.

“Maybe these are boys who sneaked in there?” Father Konstantin assumed.

“Those boys, they could!” Mark agreed quickly, putting his cup under the samovar faucet.

“Won’t you… well…”

“What?” the bell-ringer looked at the priest blankly, but then caught his demanding gaze and began to hurry. “Sure, sure… I will go and have a look!”

The bell-ringer stood up, leaning on the table. The senior priest rose to his feet too.

“I will go with you!”

They went out to the tall front porch and looked at the bell tower, with their hands shielding their eyes.

The bell kept ringing.

“It is odd,” Father Konstantin broke the silence. “I don’t see anyone there.”

“I don’t see anyone either,” the bell-ringer echoed and in the next breath collected himself and exclaimed: “I’ll be right back, Father!”

He trotted down the stairs and ran to the bell tower. Every here and there onlookers gazed out of their windows at the bell ringing.

“What’s happened?”

Ringing bells at an odd hour heralded a trouble or big news. A handful of children ran out onto the street, but their angry parents brought them back home.

Hardly had the bell-ringer put the key into the lock, the bell stopped ringing. Anyway, the bell-ringer climbed up the steps to find out what was going on.

The northern lights lit up the sky above the bell tower. Shimmering with rainbow colors, they were swirling and glistening. Little by little, they filled out the crevice between the mountains surrounding the village, lit up the tops of the trees and colored the skyline with their dazzling glow.

Father Konstantin gazed at the wonderful scene with admiration.

“There is no one in here, Father!” he heard from the top of the bell tower. “It’s just the wind, blast it! It must have untangled the ropes and caused a mess. I will secure the ropes.”

Out of the corner of his eye, the priest saw something moving on his right. Something was glowing white behind an old rowan shrub. Father Konstantin turned his whole body toward the fence.

Clusters of green berries were swaying as if someone invisible was shaking the shrub.

The priest walked down the porch and cautiously moved towards the rowan shrub. Father Konstantin came closer and walked around to find out that the mysterious light spot had taken the shape of a child, a barefoot fair-haired boy of around three years old. He was wearing loose white clothes and a chain around his neck with a small sacred charm.

“Oh!” the priest gave a cry of surprise and stood motionless. “Who are you?”

“Oh!” the boy echoed in a monotonic robot voice. “Who are you?”

He was neither embarrassed nor afraid of a grown man, and was perfectly calm.

“Where did you come from?” Father Konstantin asked, good-humoredly, and got down on his haunches.

“Where did you come from?” the boy echoed and then, after a pause, he added, this time skipping the interrogative intonation: “Where I came from.”

He seemed to savor the words, tasting, chewing and swallowing them.

“What is your name?” the priest asked and gave him a friendly smile.

“What is your name?” the boy repeated the question, deliberately putting an emphasis on the third word.

“My name,” the priest tapped his finger on his chest and said clearly and distinctly, “is Father Konstantin.” He waited for a minute, giving the boy time to memorize the words. He could see him moving his lips. And then he asked the question again, clearly and making pauses: “And what is your name?”

“And my name…” the boy mirrored the priest’s gesture and tapped his finger on his chest, “is… Vlad!”

“Vlad… It’s a good name,” the priest said approvingly.

“Your name is good too,” the little boy said. “A significant one!”

“Whose are you?” Father Konstantin held out his hand to the boy.

“Yours,” Vlad said, standing up.

Hand in hand, they went home, a grown man and a little boy.

9 years later, Molyobka village

June was slowly coming to an end in the small village of a hundred households. The intense summer sun was shining and its light was refracting and dispersing in raindrops sparkling on emerald green leaves after the morning thunderstorm.

The church was the main attraction of the village. Made of logs, designed as an Old Russian tower house, it was the spiritual center for the congregation of the whole village, filling the surroundings with the silvery clamor of bells.

This time Father Konstantin was conducting the morning service, and the parishioners were praying for their nearest and dearest, begging for forgiveness for the mistakes they made, crossing themselves and bowing. Some of them were standing and reading the prayer in front of the icons, others were silently sitting on the benches along the wall near the door.

Turning his face to the congregation and blessing the people, the father cast a casual glance at the church choir, which was led by a boy of about twelve years old. There was nothing special about the boy: He was lean-bodied, with greyish blue eyes and neatly combed fair hair. His young age seemed to be no problem for the young choirmaster.

High-pitched and clear children’s voices filled the church with the crystal-clear sound. The harmoniously intertwined voices flowed freely over the church, reaching the ears and passionate hearts of each and every grateful listener. It seemed impossible that a child could lead the choir of regular village boys with such confidence. Smooth, but expressive movements of his hands led the church choir, as if he and the choirboys were a single whole. The melody was flowing, giving a sense of peace to everyone in the church and filling their hearts with light.

When the sermon was over and the congregation left the church, the priest disappeared behind the holy doors. Meanwhile the choirboys came down from the balcony. Most of them immediately changed into their casual clothes and hastened home. The young choirmaster did not leave and settled down to the usual novitiate work: He put away the burnt-out candles, fixed a crooked icon, and added fresh oil to the altar lamp.

Vladislav Viggin

“Vlad!” the priest called him. “Breakfast is on the table! Hurry up, son!”

“Alright, father!” Vlad replied.

He closed the psalter, reverently ran his hand over the artfully embossed leather binding, and went to the refectory at a leisurely pace.

Father Konstantin and Mark, the bell-ringer, were sitting at the table and talking quietly. The cook named Anna was putting the steaming porridge into plates.

The boy took his place and Father Konstantin began saying grace. The cook, standing by the table, and the bell-ringer closed their eyes, folded their arms on the chest and moved their lips while silently praying. Vlad was looking at Father Konstantin and echoing him, saying the prayer he knew by heart.

“Our merciful Lord, bless this food before us so that our souls could soar to you, our Lord, in their universal love! Amen!”

“Amen,” everyone repeated after him.

Mark was eating loudly and hastily. Father Konstantin and Vlad were eating tidily and without any haste. Anna was modestly standing by the table, taking some porridge with the tip of the spoon, and meditatively putting it in her mouth.

“What a singing it was today!” the bell-ringer exclaimed, unable to hold back his emotions. “But wait. It couldn’t be otherwise!”

Vlad gave a shy smile, but did not say a word.

“It used to be different. Many years ago, there weren’t even any choirboys,” Father Konstantin pointed out.

“Except for those two vociferous cockerels,” Mark said with a sniff.

The priest gave him a steady look.

“Don’t get me wrong, Father!” Mark crossed himself. “But you do remember how they used to wheeze, don’t you? I even spared a thought whether it was time to cast out demons from them!”

Father Konstantin only shook his head at this.

“There is no denying the truth, Father,” Anna said in a rather muffled voice. “It wasn’t very long ago that things started looking up, by the grace of God. The church is growing in numbers, and it is clean and tidy. The people seem to be more open-hearted.”

“And all the thanks should go to the boy!” Mark gave Vlad a wink, and the boy blushed all over.

“Uncle Mark, I don’t…”

“No, no, no, I won’t listen to it!” the bell-ringer covered his face with his hand in a dramatic gesture.

“He is right, my dear,” Anna cast him a smile and stroked his hair. “You are doing a lot for all of us. For the church and for the villagers.”

“Yeah, ‘at’s wha’ I’m ‘alking a’ou’! ” the bell-ringer made encouraging noises with his mouth full. “One canno’ coun’ i’ on ‘e fin’ers of one ghan’!”

“They are right,” Father Konstantin gave Vlad a sharp look. “You are humble, and it is very commendable. But people can see you doing your best. We have never had a church choir before. You turned regular village boys into choirboys, whose voices would be duly appreciated even in privileged circles. I lend my ears to the people who come here in my line of work. And guess what they say? They come not so much for the prayer, as for the choir. Your choir, Vlad.”

“But why?” the boy asked.

“You may not notice it, but when I stay there, downstairs, I marvel at the incredible concord of voices. These voices make people happier and kinder.”

Though they spoke highly of him, Vlad was sitting with his head low, as if they were chastising him.

“Not to mention this clear head full of knowledge. Father Konstantin, do you know many teachers who could teach reading and writing, the Bible, mathematics and other sciences at a parish school at this age?” Mark kept harping on the same old theme.

Vlad shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment. He genuinely struggled to understand what he had done to deserve such praise. He had been doing all of this without effort; moreover, he felt he was wasting time.

From his first day in the house of Father Konstantin, he was very passionate about every book he got hold of. Within a short time, he learnt the art of reading and writing, and read all the books in the local library. He read everything and anything, ecclesiastical writing, theology and philosophy books, geographic atlases, and periodicals. He had an amazing memory and could remember the texts by heart almost word for word. But when he was retelling these books to his peers, he didn’t do it parrot-fashion; he was able to explain the main idea, conveying it in simple words, which could be understood even by a bell-ringer or a cook. No one asked him to do anything, but very soon he was the center of attention of village boys and girls. They did not come to him for fun and play. They came to listen to his never-ending stories. That is how he became their teacher. Father Konstantin was happy to entrust him with the keys from the classroom.

“Talking about the studies! What classes do you have today?” Anna looked at the boy with respect.

“Hmm…” Vlad hurried to swallow a bite. “Astronomy. We are going to learn more about the solar system.”

“I’d be glad to join,” the cook said and dabbed away tears with a handkerchief, “but I will make a sight of myself, uneducated old woman!”

They finished their meal. Father Konstantin addressed his children with words of encouragement:

“You both have things to do. Go in peace. And you, Vlad, should go to your pupils. I want to have a serious talk with you after that.”

Vlad’s heart gave a leap at these words, but he didn’t give himself away.

The small church school was attached to the church building. Vlad told the other children about the composition of the solar system in plain language he got used to. He told them about the huge and hot Sun, explained why it was shining, and what planets revolved around it. He chalked the planets as circles of different sizes and their orbits, and told a fascinating story.

“And where do we live?” the children asked him.

“It’s the third planet from the Sun,” Vlad showed them.

“Why are you saying that Jupiter is the biggest planet which is three hundred times as massive as Earth, if we can’t even see it? The Moon is small, but we can see it.”

Vlad brought the children to a hill behind the church fence.

“Can you see the hen?” he pointed at a crested hen shuffling its legs back and forth in the dust on the road.

“Yes, we can,” the children nodded.

“And can you see the cow there, on the grass beyond the river?” he looked into the distance.

“Where? Where?”

“I can see! It’s like a tiny dot!”

“What is bigger, a cow or a hen?” Vlad asked.

“Of course, a cow!”

“But you see it as a tiny dot. Do you know why?”

“Because it is far away!”

“That’s right! The same goes for Jupiter and the Moon. The Moon is right there, close to us, it goes around the Earth. And as for Jupiter, a lifetime won’t be enough to reach it, even if you go there by car.”

“And we will run out of gasoline,” the children laughed.

They were standing in circle a while longer and talking of this and that. Their classes always ended this way.

Vlad saw the children off and got back to the church. Father Konstantin walked out from the refectory to meet him and greeted him with a smile.

“Are you done?”

“Yes, father.”

“Very well,” Father Konstantin said approvingly. He drew Vlad to him and held him tight.

“There is something you want to talk about, isn’t there?” Vlad looked up.

“I have a task for you, son,” Father Konstantin was hiding his face. “We’ve got a batch of church candles, and I need you to take them to the old Fedotya. I can never understand why she needs so many.”

“She probably prays a lot,” the boy suggested.

“I wish it was true,” the priest smiled. “Vlad…” he brushed the boy aside and looked into his fair face. “When you come back from her, I won’t be here,” there was a touch of sadness in his voice.

“Are you going to the city?”

“No… it’s just something that I need to do for the church… here, in the village,” the Father assured Vlad. “The candles are on the table in the refectory.”

“I got it, father!”

“When you come back from Fedotya…”

“You won’t be here,” Vlad repeated.

“No, it’s not that… there will be a present waiting for you in the refectory.”

“A present?”

Father Konstantin gave him a warm smile.

“Happy birthday, son!”

Vlad couldn’t even say anything in reply. He just gave the priest a hug.

“There, there,” the priest pushed the boy aside somewhat nervously and hid his face again, “hurry up.”

“Alright, father. It won’t take long.”

Father Konstantin left the church without a backward glance. Vlad went to the refectory. There was a bunch of church candles on the table, just like the priest had told him.