Читать книгу Methodius Buslaev. The Scroll of Desires - Дмитрий Емец - Страница 3

Methodius kicked the chair in irritation. For a solid half-hour, he had been trying with mental magic push to light the candle standing on the chair some a metre away from him. However, in spite of so small a distance, the candle persistently ignored him. Then when Methodius got mad and attempted to put everything connected with this failure out of his head, the candle fell and in a flash became a puddle of wax. Moreover – what Buslaev discovered almost immediately – the metallic candlestick also melted together with the candle.

“I don’t know how to do anything. I’m a complete zero in magic. I have it either too weak or too strong. And I’m this future sovereign of Gloom? All of them are delirious! Better if Ares would teach me something besides slashing with swords!” Methodius grumbled, rewarding the chair with one more kick. The chair went off along the parquet for half a metre, wobbled several times in pensiveness, and changed its mind about falling.

Despite the fact that July was no longer simply looming on the horizon but literally dancing a lezginka on the very tip of the nose, Methodius, as before, was living in the Well of Wisdom high school, where annual exams had not yet ended. Vovva Skunso, having grown quiet, did not allow himself to play any tricks and was as polite as at a funeral.

The director Glumovich greeted Methodius every time he saw him in the hallway, even if they had met seven times in the day. At the same time, Buslaev constantly felt his sad, devoted, almost canine look. On rare occasions, Glumovich would approach Methodius and attempt to joke. The joke was always the same, “Well now, young man! Tell me your confusion of the day!” Glumovich said in a cheerful voice, but his lips trembled, and his forehead was porous and sweaty, like a wet orange. Every time Methodius had to exert himself in order not to absorb his fuzzy dirty raspberry-coloured aura accidentally. Nevertheless, Glumovich did not ignore exams, and it was difficult for Methodius, frequently letting his studies slide in previous grades. For the most part, it helped that even without him there were enough meatheads among Well’s noble students. Nature, having succumbed to a hernia in the parents, was making merry to the maximum in their children.

After throwing the damaged candlestick – it had not yet cooled and still burned the fingers – into the wastebasket, Methodius left the room and set off aimlessly wandering around the high school. The soft carpeting muffled his steps. Artificial palms were languidly basking in the rays of a florescent light. There were practically no students in the hallways. In the evenings, the parents dropped by to pick up the majority of them, and then on the other side of the gates by the entrance would line up a full exhibition of Lexus, Mercedes, Audi, and BMW. The Wisdom Wellers were usually more or less lacking in imagination. Waiting for their young, the padres of well-known last names winked slyly at each other by flashing signal lights and honking horns, greeting acquaintances.

Methodius slowly made his way along the empty high school corridors and, for something to do, studied photographs of earlier graduates, read the ads, the timetables, and in general everything in succession. He had long ago discovered in himself a special, almost pathological attachment to the printed word. In the subway, the children’s clinic, a store – everywhere boring for him, he fixed his eye on any letter and any text, even if it was a piece of yellowed newspaper once stuck under the wallpaper.

Here and now, he was interested in the amusing poster by the first aid station. On the poster was depicted a red-cheeked and red-nosed youth lying in bed with a thermometer, either projecting from under his armpit or like a stiletto piercing his heart. A white cloudlet with the following text was placed over the head of the youth, “Your health is our wealth. At the first sign of a head cold, which can be a symptom of the flu, immediately lie down in bed and stick to bed rest. Only this way will you be able to avoid complications.” Instead of an exclamation mark, the inscription was crowned with one additional thermometer, brother of the first, with the temperature standing still at 37.2.

Methodius instantly assessed the originality of the idea. He practically could always simulate a head cold. However, in half of the cases even a simulation was not necessary. “Eh, pity I didn’t know earlier! Must say I’ve ruined my health! How many school days spent in vain… But it won’t work with Ares, I fear! Can’t dodge the guards of Gloom with a head cold!” he thought and began to go down the stairs.

Soon Methodius was already on Bolshaya Dmitrovka. House № 13, surrounded by scaffolding as before, did not even evoke the curiosity of passers-by. A normal house, no more remarkable than other houses in the region. Methodius dived under the grid, looked sideways at the guarding runes flaring up with his approach, and, after pushing open the door, entered. The majority of agents and succubae had already given their reports and taken off. Only a vague smell of perfume, the stifling air, the floor spattered with spit, and heaps of parchments on the tables showed that there had been a crowd here recently.

Julitta looked irritated. The marble ashtray, which she had used the whole day to knock some sense into agents’ heads curing them of postscripts, was entirely covered in plasticine. Aspiring to cajole the witch who was losing her temper or at least to redirect the arrows, the agents told tales about each other. “Mistress, mistress! Tukhlomon is playing the fool again,” one started to whisper in a disgusting voice, covering his mouth with his hand. “Where?” “Hanging over there.” Julitta turned and made certain that the mocked Tukhlomon was in fact hanging on the entrance doors, with the handle of a dagger sticking out of his chest. His head was hanging like that of a chicken. Ink was dripping from his half-open mouth. This nightmarish spectacle would impress many, only not Julitta. “Hey you, clown! Quickly put the tool back where you took it from and come up to me! I counted to three, it’s already four!!!” she began to yell.

Tukhlomon, squinting like a cat about to be punished with a sneaker for bad habits, sadly opened his eyes, freed himself from the dagger, and on bent knees approached Julitta. The witch pitilessly and accurately knocked him on the nose with the heavy press of the Gloom office. The agent made a face feigning fatal and eternal offence, wiped his watering eyes, and after a minute was already twisting like a grass snake around Buslaev.

“How is the future majesty? Hands are not sweating?” he spitefully asked, squatting down. “And how are you? Don’t sneeze continuously at night, the conscience isn’t itching?” Methodius answered courtesy with courtesy. “Nothing. Thanks… It’s only you who sleep at night… We work at night as in the daytime! Please be good enough to see for yourself!” the agent answered. “Don’t kill yourself!” “I won’t. Be kind enough not to worry. For your sake I’ll look after myself,” Tukhlomon answered mysteriously. He giggled and took off, politely shuffling alternately with both feet.

Ares, as usual, was staying in his office. One could only go to him by invitation. The chief of the Russian division of Tartarus was there almost without budging – day and night. Only recently, warning no one, he disappeared somewhere for almost three days and then re-appeared suddenly, giving no one any explanation.

Next to Julitta Aida Plakhovna Mamzelkina found room for her own body. Aida Plakhovna’s cheeks were rosy and her eyes bright. She likely already had time to dip into the honey wine. Judging by the contented look of both, Julitta and Aida Plakhovna were busy with the most pleasant matter on Earth – slander. After putting her bony feet up on a chair, Mamzelkina looked through the far wall of house № 13, which was no obstacle for her all-seeing eyes. It was that brisk evening hour, when all kinds of two-legged upright-walking essences were hurrying somewhere or returning from somewhere. Moronoids were scurrying about along sidewalks, lanes, pedestrian crossings, and bridges of the megalopolis of ten million.

“Julitta, my dove not yet dead, look over there!” Mamzelkina cackled. “What a serious, dignified man! What kingly carriage! How he carries his portly body, how solidly and peacefully he looks in front of himself! See how everyone yields to his path! They must think that this is the prefect of the region going around his domain in search of something else to knock down! In fact, this is merely Wolf Cactusov, untalented writer and quiet hen-pecked husband, whom the wife has sent out for dumplings at the corner store. Isn’t it true how deceptive the first impression is? Interesting, how would this turkey sing if I remove the covers off my tool now?” “Perhaps we can check?” Julitta innocently proposed. Aida Plakhovna threatened her with a finger comprised, it seemed, of only some joints and bones. “Not supposed to. There was no order for the time being… My doe not yet shot, I don’t do unauthorized activity! I have an establishment! That’s that, my cemetery treasure!” Aida Plakhovna edifyingly said.

Julitta sighed so sadly that all around for one-and-a-half kilometres all gas burners went out, and leaned back against the chair. “Why so sad, dear? Feeling miserable?” Mamzelkina asked sympathetically. “Oh, Aida Plakhovna! I’m miserable,” complained the secretary. “Why?” “Miserable that no one loves me. In the evenings I get so tired of humanity that I want to nail someone.” “You, girl, drop this! Don’t lose control of yourself! There now, I see all your agents are walking around crippled! Don’t be heavy-handed and muddle-headed!” Mamzelkina said sternly.

She turned around and saw Methodius standing still by the doors, looking at her with curiosity. “Oh, and this, the little chick not yet slaughtered, is hanging around here! Everyone wanders around! I walk around the city, look along the sides. I have no strength! Agents prowl, golden-wings prowl – and everybody needs something! And now even this, young and green, was roaming! Well, why do you wander, dear, why do you stroll?” the old woman began to moan. Methodius muttered something unhappily. He had his own opinion regarding who was hanging around and who was quaffing honey wine.

Aida Plakhovna threw up her hands. “I dare say you’ve grown bolder, to talk to me so! I’ve heard much about your feats, heard much! Passed the Labyrinth, seized the magic of the ancients, but so far haven’t found the key to the force… Don’t grieve, big-eyes, everything will come together. What won’t come together will be hidden. What won’t be hidden will lie as dust. Gloom also wasn’t built in a day.” Methodius nodded impatiently. He did not like it when they hinted to him that sooner or later he would become the sovereign of Gloom. This was as intolerable as the flattery of agents and sweet giggling succubae.

Mamzelkina quizzically inclined her head to one side and started to move with such speed on a chair towards Methodius, as if the chair was mincing along on bent legs. “Why so sullen, huh? Is your spiritual pain troubling you? How’s your eidos, kinfolk? No grabby hands have reached it for the present? Watch, many such hands here, oh, many!” she moaned.

“Don’t you try to scare me with empty threats! I’m not so easily deceived!” Methodius snapped carelessly. Lately he had gotten so used to being rude to agents that now it was not easy to break the habit. He would be rude and at once felt like he sweated from his own bravery. The encased scythe, standing in the corner, tinkled nastily. Its shadow, falling onto the wall and mysteriously crushed, formed into the words, “Mors sola fatetur, quantula sint hominum corpuscula.” (Death alone reveals how small are men’s bodies (Latin) Juvenal, Satires, X)

However, Aida Plakhovna either was in a good mood or had decided to turn a blind eye this time. “And, dear, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. What jests… We don’t need to deceive others. We’re working people, we’re mowers… Except eide, we require nothing from others… We’re not chemists, not carpenters, we’re grave workers! So, my diamond, you’re my unfilled hole!”

Meanwhile Julitta reached for a large piece of chocolate slipped to her by one enterprising succubus and rustled the foil. With her usual thoughtlessness, she did not treat Methodius, and Mamzelkina, besides honey wine, abused nothing. “Now yesterday I thought of something…” said Julitta with a mouth full of chocolate. “Thought of you! You have a strange last name for the sovereign of Gloom. Buslaev! It’s kind of suspicious in our difficult time. That is, I understand, of course, Vaska Buslaev, Novgorod hero, swung a shaft, this and that… Likely good and reliable all the time… Only not quite for a leader nevertheless. You would be better as Petrov or Smirnov.”

Mamzelkina did not agree with her. “Ne-a, my dear, no use talking nonsense. He shouldn’t be a Smirnov. Many Smirnovs are wanted. Indeed, I know. And if the initials also coincide – now that’s a real misfortune. Once I drag one into Tartarus, but it turns out: namesake! ‘You made a mistake,’ they tell me, ‘old woman! Do you just snatch anyone?’ But what mistake did I make? Here’s the order: Smirnov P.A., 1964. Here you are: Smirnov PA, 1964! Receive the goods!” Aida Plakhovna said and rubbed her hands.

“So, did you take him back?” Methodius asked. Julitta began to laugh, looking sideways at the confused old woman, who, out of surprise, even dropped the ladle with honey wine. “My dear, who would kindly take him back from Tartarus? We’re not a government office for little fellows to run here and there. Already brought in – such a slim lie is customary and you drag along another load. Okay, my sweets, I’ve chatted too long with you already… I have people who have exceeded their allotted span in white light!” Aida Plakhovna started to mumble in a hurry.

Obviously steering clear of the slippery theme, she took down the dirty knapsack from her shoulder and poured out for Julitta a whole pile of soiled parchments onto the table. The witch made a face when the parchments rolled out onto the table. Many of them had brown dried spots and fresh mucus covered the others. “Now here, my aspen coffins, are invoices for suicides, and here are those who mortgaged their eide in life, meaning they miscalculated a little with the terms… And atheists, desecraters, and those philosophizing… as they negotiated a separate invoice with Ligul … Will you sort it out, dear? If you can’t, here’s the complete list. One grave to another!” Mamzelkina talked at a great speed.

Checking whether anything remained in her knapsack, Aida Plakhovna decisively shook it. A trapped parchment fell out onto the table. “And who’s this?” Julitta asked. “And this is… a suicide. The wretch swallowed sleeping pills. She decided to frighten her husband a little. Twice she did it and they pumped them out. Did it the third time and here her husband was detained at work… Someone brought him a game disk! As if all these aren’t attached to our Chancellery,” willingly explained Mamzelkina. “Careful with the parchment, Juliatta, my little birch not yet sawn! Here the eidos is glued underneath, so as not to be mislaid. Take some pains with the receipt! Eide without a receipt will cost you dearly. Later you can’t render an account!”

Julitta unwillingly wrote a receipt, took the stamp pad out of the box, and began to stamp with loathing where needed. She had hardly finished as bloody letters oozed on Mamzelkina’s copy.

Delivered: Mamzelkina A.P.

Senior Manager of the Necro-department

Accepted: witch Julitta,

Russian Division of the Chancellery of Gloom

Secretary and Laboratory Assistant

Witness: Buslaev M.I.

Student of Gloom

Mamzelkina had not yet read the parchment when the letters suddenly became milky and that part of the record, which concerned the witness Buslaev M.I., vanished into thin air. Methodius began to blink dumbfounded. The old woman sternly threatened him, “Oh, I know whose trick this is! It’s all your unsold eidos making a row! Doesn’t matter, I implicated a witness for the pile. And it’s okay without him,” muttered the old woman.

Aida Plakhovna carelessly put the receipt into the knapsack and, staggering, picked up the scythe. “I’m going, kids, I’ll mow a wee bit. Already the legs don’t walk but the hands toil over everything. Well, if I take to my bed for good, how will people on Earth die, my hearts? Take care, Juliatta, take care, little orphan! Look after Ares, it’s hard for him. Ares suffers, indeed I feel for him. It’s all the cursed memory! And you, Methy, be healthy! Here, I know, trouble will come with such speed that you’ll be in a terrible mess!”

“What trouble?” Methodius asked. “A-a-and, my dear, one immediately sees how green you are! Who asks Death about the future! If I answer you, then I’ll have to cut you down! So, interested?” Mamzelkina glanced at Met so pointedly that he even stepped back. A hot and empty abyss blazed in Aida Plakhovna’s small eyes. “No, don’t!” he said in a hurry. “As you wish! Suit yourself, paradise saved! Ciao, clear-eyes, and you know to watch over your eidos. Perhaps your eidos isn’t better than others’. I’ve transferred many of them, I know the price of each… But indeed awfully powerful forces stand behind it, your eidos, they do, they do… Here’s like in the casino: now and then, the seven is so bound to the eight that even an ace can’t butt in! Clear?” “Clear.”

The old woman smirked. “I love intelligence. Are you indeed intelligent?” “Yes.” “That’s nice. And look after your Daphne! Indeed a painfully bright girlie – lest something doesn’t work out. Because of her. And… with her… Understand me?” It seemed to Methodius there was a hint – a very clear hint – in the old woman’s words. But to what extent her prophecy had to do with the near future – this he did not know. Buslaev felt that everything was not so simple here. Oh, how complex!

Aida Plakhovna left, dragging her legs. Her dry, efficient cough reached them from the outside, and almost immediately somewhere on an adjacent street the siren of an ambulance howled heartrendingly. Whether these events were connected, Methodius did not know. Although he would not be surprised to find out that the old woman started her work while she was still here. True pros of the necro-department never stop working for a moment. Their scythe shoots up and falls down ten times a minute.

After the departure of the industrious old woman, Methodius and Julitta remained in reception together. Julitta, on whom Mamzelkina dumped a pile of parchments requiring sorting, was again in a bad mood. After the succubae and agents, she, according to her own expression, took a long time restoring the acid-alkaline balance in her soul. Moreover, she had the usual date in the evening and had to scrape on the walls and gather together at least a bit of good emotion. Not wanting to be like a sponge taking in her dark mood, Methodius, for something to do, set off for the room adjacent to reception.

This was a tight and gloomy nook by the stairs; the furniture there was only a sofa so decrepit that Methodius would not be surprised to find out that Noah himself slept on it in his ark. Something was gnashing in the dark, exactly a key turning in a lock, and a hoarse voice said, “The old sinner Protagor said, ‘Man is the measure of all things: of things which are, that they are, and of things which are not, that they are not.’ With these words he wanted to say, ‘If a man believes in the gods, then they exist, if he doesn’t, then they don’t.’”

“Who’s here? I ask: who’s here?” Methodius nervously asked. He did not receive an answer, but wings started to flap, and Buslaev realized that Ares’ ancient prophetic raven was talking to him. The raven was so old that its feathers had come off in some places and dull pink skin peeped out. Now and then Methodius was surprised that the raven was still alive. Neither Ares nor Julitta ever fed it and generally, they extremely rarely recalled its existence. However, Methodius knew precisely that the raven was with them even in the lighthouse.

His eyes gradually grew accustomed to the semidarkness. Methodius saw that the door of the cage was wide open. The raven was sitting on the back of the sofa and looking about askance. “Pour some water for you perhaps?” Buslaev proposed. The raven ruffled up indifferently. Methodius did not know whether the bird understood human speech or thoughtlessly repeated phrases heard sometime long ago. He sat in the semidarkness, listening as the large bird stirred in the dusk, sat for nearly half an hour, thinking about something vague. At first in his thoughts was Irka, whom he had treated rather poorly, not visiting her for a long time, and then finally Daph with her enormous white wings supplanted her.

When Methodius was going to return to reception, the raven suddenly pecked the back of the sofa and said, “Into the cloth of centuries is interweaved this parable. She was a guard, and she threw onto his neck the lace with the wings, not knowing that she has to fall in love with him and share immortality with him. She did not know that the moronoid world would begin to draw her in, so that at some point in infinity hearts and fates will unite. So let the flute play!”

Methodius quickly took a step towards the raven. “What are you talking about? Daph? What does it mean?” he nervously asked. However, the bird had already become silent again and was only indifferently walking along the back of the sofa. Whether this parable was from the past or the future, whose cloth was not yet woven, it was impossible to understand. After struggling with the raven for about ten minutes, Methodius nevertheless secured from it the next phrase, “He said: Dhul-Qarnayn! Gog and Magog are doing harm to this land; shall we pay tribute to you so that you would set up a barrier between us and them?” the bird said hoarsely, finally baffling Methodius. Buslaev angrily turned and left.

He expected Julitta alone in reception, but during his absence there appeared Daphne and Tukhlomon, having already had time to forget that he had gotten it on the nose with the press, returned for some reason. “Strange that I did not hear them come in,” thought Methodius, turning around to look at the closet. “Interesting, did Daph hear how I tried to find out about her from the raven? Although, perhaps not.”

Daph removed the overalls from the cat, leaving only the collar, and now the naked and terrible Depressiac, after stretching its wings, flew around reception. Occasionally it hung onto the heavy velvety drapes or with furious mewing ripped with its razor-sharp claws into one of the spying pictures. Julitta, in her leisure fond of shooting with the pistol at the pictures or practising throwing a dagger at them, treated this vandalism with moderate benevolence.

Tukhlomon was hanging around Daph and whining monotonously, entreating her to let him have her wings. The agent’s face was twisting every which way and changing hundreds of sugary expressions per minute. The rather bald top of his head gleamed. The trimmed sideburns looked very appropriate. Over all he was so annoying, like he had been put together by sweaty hands. “I don’t need the wings forever! I’ll just keep them for a while! Pretty please! My cherub! How much does it cost you to gladden a sick old man? I implore you! Clearly a noble lady! Please be so kind! I thirst for Light! I’m tired of Gloom, the poor old man! I’ll kiss the hem of your dress! Smooch-smooch-smooch! Darn, a thread got stuck in my teeth! Don’t let the old soul perish!” he repeated, crawling around on his knees. Daph shook her head. She could very well imagine what happened with those guards of Light, who out of good will loaned their wings to agents. “I want to go to Eden! To sing in the paradise choir, to gobble apples of knowledge and spit out the seeds! At least let me understand, what Light is, huh? I yearn for Light!!! Pretty, pretty please!”

“Stop! Stop taunting!” Daph got mad. “Listen, Light! He never stops! Use your knee and give it to him in the nose!” Julitta, tired of listening to Tukhlomon whining, advised her. On hearing the advice, the agent helpfully started to move his nose up to Daph. “I beg you, light of my soul, please don’t trouble yourself! With a knee, or a leg, may even pull my hair out, or trample on my fingers! And if you desire to shoot me with a machine gun, I’ll even bring one! Everything for the fine noble lady! Only give me the wings, huh? Uncle Tukhlomon is so wretched, so unlucky! A sin to refuse him, big sin! To refuse Tukhlomon is the same as smacking an orphan with a crowbar!” he started to sweet-talk, touchingly puffing up his cheeks.

Realizing that there was no other way of shaking him off, Daphne decisively reached for the flute. On noticing this, the agent began to crawl away quickly. He did not fear a crushed nose or other damages, but here it was a bad joke with the flute of a guard of Light. A single unique maglody could convert him into a puddle of malodorous plasticine. “Okay, okay, Uncle Tukhlomon is leaving! Only, I beg you, no need for music! I have weak eardrums! I’m not dancing today!” he whimpered, on all fours running behind Methodius and using him as a cover.

Methodius greeted Daph. She answered him dryly, looking to the side. It seemed to Buslaev that Daphne had been diligently avoiding him for a couple of weeks already. And if she nevertheless addressed him, then she would quickly get worked up and begin to argue trifles. Methodius could not find any explanation for this. He was sure that he had not offended Daph. Although, on the other hand, he could also have blurted out something careless. It is always so with these girls. They are eternally offended by some phrase, which you yourself do not remember. “Did I say that?” “You did.” “When?”

“Depressiac!” Daphne said, with alarm looking at the cat, which, swinging on the drapes, was thoughtfully examining Methodius. “I warn you! If you, like last time, allow Mr. Buslaev to pet you and at the same time don’t scratch his face, I’ll have to wash you with bleach. Moreover, both inside and out.” Tukhlomon, inflating his cheeks and, simultaneously slapping them with both hands – a sound “puff!” came out – guffawed fawningly, appraising the scope of the fantasy of the guard of Light. “I don’t need your cat!” Methodius said, offended. “Wonderful. Because I was serious about the bleach. I don’t want your microbes on my cat,” said Daph.

“Ah, what imagination! Uncle Tukhlomon is having fun from head to toe! If you want to realize your dreams, Light, Tukhlomon will climb with pleasure into a washer so that you could start it! Can pour bleach into my ears! Can even spank with a shoe! Let’s agree on a payment! Besides your wings, I don’t need anything!” the agent started to babble cautiously. Daph looked at him with loathing. Meanwhile, Tukhlomon, having jumped to his feet, was already leaping around Methodius, exactly like a baboon out of the zoo. “My usual compliments to the future sovereign! Have you decided to wipe your feet on me? Or a fist to the forehead? It’s soft, won’t hurt your fist! Or the cheek. I’ll puff up the cheek!”

“Stop!” Methodius said. Tukhlomon was not a bit offended. “Well no, then no. It’s never too late for one good person to hit another. And indeed I, must admit, regard the matter with favour. I recently came from Ligul to Ares and to you all. Literally dashed here in a minute: one leg here, the other already there. Hurried with the speed of light!” “Consider that I’m already fainting from joy! What next?” Julitta muttered. “What do you mean ‘what next’? I came from Ligul!” Opening his eyes wide like a picture of bewilderment, Tukhlomon repeated.

“I already heard this. What does the hunchback want from us?” the witch said. Tukhlomon looked at her with mocking reproach. “What hunchback-eh is he? Yes, his stature is small, stooping a little, but not this. Is it really nice to reproach him for this? Is it really moral-eh? And where’s the heart of kindne-ss, where’s the patien-ce? Tut-tut! I have to tell Ligul how you appreciate him here! Oh, I have to!” “You mean to squeal?” Daph refined in an icy voice. “What bad words you use, girl! Squeal, fie! Not squeal but inform in the name of triumph of law-eh and order-eh!” Quick to take offence, the agent corrected.

“Tukhlomony, my little dead fish, cut the sound! Else, I’ll force a woollen sock down your throat! You know me!” Julitta frowned. “It won’t help. Indeed, I’ve swallowed many socks in my century! Nowadays everyone has rich fantasies! Here even Daph, our darling guard, wants the cat to scratch Methy, the sovereign of Gloom! And fill the cat up to its eyes with bleach! And now a sock! Here a moth eats it and doesn’t choke!” the agent brushed it off. “So, does it mean you’ve eaten socks? And how are they, tasty?” Daph asked with curiosity. “Not tasty, but possible to consume!” the agent willingly answered.

“And now the main thing. The purpose of the visit, so to speak. I have to deliver an invitation! Ligul summons Ares, Methodius, and Julitta to England. To William the Conqueror, head of the British division of Gloom. William gathers his own to an exclusive party on the occasion of the anniversary of the Norman invasion. There will be the most noble bigwigs ever existed!” “When is it?” “Tomorrow.”

“Of course, I’m not summoned?” Daph mockingly asked. Tukhlomon shrugged his shoulders, expressing regret with his whole appearance. “Not supposed to, my beautiful. Gloom assembles there, and though you’re a fugitive, you’re Light nevertheless! No good! Here if you let me have your wings, then no problem, this very second! Will you, huh?” Daphne silently reached for the flute, forcing the agent to end the propaganda instantly.

“Clear. What time?” Julitta asked. “Midnight tomorrow. Will you deliver the invitation to Ares yourself, my sweet, or will you consent to give me a kick to attend to him? Under the fieriest eye-eh?” Tukhlomon asked maliciously. “I’ll do it. Off limits for you there. Stay here and wait.” Julitta disappeared into the office, closing the door behind her.

In a couple of minutes, Ares came out of the office and stopped in the middle of reception – stout and breathing heavily. A deep scar lined his swarthy face, dividing it into two unequal halves. “Since when does Ligul send Tukhlomon to summon us to William? Does William not have messengers?” Ares asked with displeasure. “Indeed it so happened. The two of them summoned together. Communicating. When I turned up, William was Ligul’s guest. They were sitting, steaming in lava. They wanted to send a messenger, but I volunteered. Messengers, I think, are also forced labour! Must feel sorry for them out of the kindness of one’s heart,” answered Tukhlomon, bowing. He spoke humbly and flatteringly; however, his alert blinking eyes were literally frozen on the bridge of Ares’ nose: this way they would catch any indiscretion.

The swordsman stretched out his hand and, taking Tukhlomon by the plasticine ear, pulled him towards himself. If Tukhlomon had not gotten on his toes, his ear would have remained in Ares’ fingers. “So you feel sorry? Oh, don’t lie! Perhaps you’re sniffing around for Ligul? You want to be both here and there – to get on well everywhere?” Ares asked with disgust. “Indeed no!” Tukhlomon was insulted. “I come to you with my whole soul… Sigh! For what?” “Parchments handed in, stamped, prolonging the stay? Swell. Now get out of here! Julitta, my sword!” “Why the sword? No need for a sword! As I understand, it’s such an elegant hint-eh that it’s time for me to depart? Uncle Tukhlomon precisely intended to say that he’s in a great hurry! Anything for Ligul? No? Well, don’t, don’t! I was simply asking…” the agent began to bustle. Looking back in a cowardly manner, Tukhlomon hurriedly dragged himself to the doors, pasting on the slightly torn ear on the way.

“Stop!” Ares unexpectedly ordered him. The agent stopped, moving slowly in alarm on fragile plasticine legs. “Come back!” Tukhlomon sadly returned. “Agent, recall: did Ligul tell you about the small chests? Only before you start lying now, think, is it worthwhile for this to be your last lie,” Ares said threateningly. Tukhlomon clearly became ill at ease. He unhurriedly reached for a red kerchief covered in polka dots, unfolded it, and blotted his forehead in the same efficient movement with which a hostess sweeps crumb off the kitchen table. “Eh-eh… well… There was something like that. I sorta heard,” the agent mumbled indistinctly. “Clever boy! If you were to lie, you would be leaving for Tartarus. I can make it so that for ten centuries you won’t be able to move into a single most pitiful plasticine body. And no Ligul will stop me.” “This I know-eh. You can-eh,” despondently nodded Tukhlomon.

“Excellent. If you’re so all-knowing, then another question: have they found the chest yet? Who has it?” Tukhlomon opened wide his loyal eyes. “I cannot know-eh! This is the secret, hidden by Gloom-eh!” “Really? How annoying! Julitta, did you bring the sword?” Tukhlomon began to tremble. He already considered that after saying A, he had to say B. Otherwise in a spell it was easily possible to turn up in Tartarus forever. “No need for the sword! I remember-eh. There are all of two chests, in which it can turn out to be. The chests are precisely twins. A moronoid by the name of Anton Ogurtsov has the first. This we already sniffed out.” “Does the moronoid suspect what’s in it?” “How is it possible? Moronoids are complete fools. How would he know about the secret bottom?” Tukhlomon giggled. Ares slightly inclined his head and quietly repeated “Anton Ogurtsov.” Nothing changed on his face. Methodius was ready to swear that, on barely hearing the name, he already knew everything about this moronoid. From the first cry to the last sigh.

“And who has the second?” Ares quickly asked. “With the second one it’s more comple-x. It constantly changes position in the moronoid world. We’re totally knocked off our feet! Better if the hiding-place turns out to be in Ogurtsov’s chest!” the agent stated. Ares looked inquisitively and menacingly at him. “You’re not lying?” “No. That is, in general, it happens, I lie-eh. Can’t do without it. But now – no-eh,” Tukhlomon began to tremble.

The swordsman of Gloom encouragingly slapped him on the cheek. “Smart boy! I hope you won’t forget that you have to bring the contents of the chest not to Ligul but to my hands? Right?” Tukhlomon began to stir in alarm. He was in a panic like a cockroach accidentally hiding in a gun barrel and hearing the dry flick of the lock. Must be, he had other instructions on this score. “Well yes, but, generally, I promised-eh…” he muttered. “I commend you for your consciousness. And consider, if it turns out to be at Ligul’s, as a result of sheer luck, for example, I will be VERY offended. Understood?” Tukhlomon bowed, scared, and promised to deal with everything personally. “I won’t pass it to anyone! Have no doubt!” he said with regret. “Now, well done! Off with you!” Ares ordered with disgust. The agent bounced and teleported, leaving behind a small cloudlet of stink.

“He’ll squeal. In vain you talked to him this way. It seems to me Tukhlomon fears and hates you,” said Daph. Ares looked at her seriously. “He’ll squeal?” “He will. If he hasn’t already gone to do so. You really don’t know?” Daphne was astonished. “I know. He’ll squeal no matter what. On me, you, Met, and Julitta. He would even squeal on himself, if there were any profit in it. To betray anything and anyone is all the same to him, since he has already betrayed all under the sun.” “Then what are we to do?” “Nothing. Never stand on ceremony with this type. There’s only one way to curb those like him: the force that can crush his plasticine head. In the final analysis, even the spectre of Faceless Kvodnon wouldn’t be able to count on his loyalty,” said Ares with contempt.

“Faceless Kvodnon? Who’s this?” Methodius naively asked. This name – Faceless Kvodnon – had barely sounded in the spacious hall when something changed. Glass began to ring. The parchments fell like rain from the table. An unnatural wind touched their faces, after lightly powdering their eyes with dust. Methodius sensed waves of danger and death. They were so tangible that they almost became physical. Julitta faded and shrivelled. Depressiac, swinging on a group portrait of the big shots of Gloom, stopped meowing heartrendingly. Fear, hanging in the air, was so resilient that Methodius blocked the perception, trying not to absorb its energy. Something suggested to him that in this way, it would be easy to be deprived of his essence, his eidos, and in the end, even his life.

“Damn!” Ares said, slamming a wide-open window, beyond which the construction netting was billowing. “This happens because he uttered this name! He, Buslaev!” Julitta croaked. She became white as chalk. Methodius had not seen her like this even when Ligul was raging here, threatening to send the witch into Tartarus.

“Facel…” for some reason Methodius started again. Ares ran up to him and, covering his mouth with a firm hand, began to breathe heavily through his cut nose. “Keep quiet! No more words! I regret that I mentioned him… at all…” “Why?” Met asked, barely after Ares removed his hand. “At some point you’ll sort it out yourself. For the present, remember: any uttered word materializes. One cannot fail to hear his true name, even if it’s spoken in a whisper. Provided, of course, that you have attained revelation. You’ll hear your name everywhere, even if a vampire buried three metres deep in the tundra whispers it. You will hear and you will perceive it as a summons or a request for help. Especially when the one who utters it is endowed with a force, which he doesn’t know how to control. Understand now?” Methodius moved his fingers in an ambiguous manner that it was possible to consider as either yes or no. He wanted very much that Ares would not cover up his mouth again with a firm hand.

“Now on to business… Tomorrow, I think, we’re all visiting William. Must understand that it’s necessary for both him and Ligul. A sin to ignore so amiable an invitation, especially delivered by such a quick messenger as our Tukhlomon… Methodius and Daph, I’ll not detain you! Try and remember any business, if you have any! If not, quick to Glumovich’s nursery to stock up on overdue information from the fields of physics, biology, and other inexact sciences. Julitta, you stay! Must put things in order here and sort out the parchments!” Ares turned and set off waddling to the office.

Looking at him from behind, Methodius carelessly thought that it was difficult to believe that the best swordsman of Gloom was in front of him. Now his chief more resembled a champion or boxer grown stout, to whom an armchair and a good mug of beer has long been dearer than the sport of his past. He thought and was immediately sorry, because Ares suddenly turned around, and, in the next moment, Methodius felt that the point of a dagger was tickling his neck.

“First consideration,” Buslaev heard Ares’ voice. “It’s dangerous to look at the back of the head of people and even more so nonhumans. What is taking place behind our back, we often see better than that what is created before our eyes. No stress, no excess thoughts, and all the more no fatal fastidious looks. Leave them to tragedians from a theatre destroyed by fire. Got it, Signor Tomato? Answer only ‘yes’ or ‘no’.” “Y-yes,” Methodius articulated, feeling how a sharp sting pricked his neck.

“Second consideration, indirect result of the first. If you want to hide something from someone, place it in front of his nose. Got this too?” “Yes.”

“And finally, third consideration: don’t think badly of those, for whom you work. This is not only dangerous but also uncomfortable. Even Ligul, who invented it, doesn’t encourage duplicity. Clear?” “Clear,” said Methodius, his eyes following Ares’ wrist.

“That’s a good boy, Signor Tomato,” approved Ares. “I’ve long noticed: moronoids understand much quicker when you threaten them with a blade or simply any heavy object. It clears even the densest brains excellently.” “Nothing of the sort! It only humiliates the person!” Daph, appearing next to them, objected. “One can’t humiliate a person. His own nature humiliates him. Nothing has changed for thousands of years. Humanity was like a tribe of monkeys, and so it has remained,” said Ares sternly.

“Man did not originate from monkeys. And indeed you know this very well. I learned in school that guards of Gloom started this rumour in the moronoid world. Isn’t it so?” Daphne said. Ares frowned, showing that the matter was not common knowledge here. “Very well, I agree, it didn’t happen… I imagine that it’s monkey originating from the best part of humanity. Gorillas – from athletes, baboons – from politicians, and macaques – from the intellectual elite. Need proof? Easy! In the moronoid world, Signor Tomato, there is only one law – the law of the strong. They trample down and kick the weak (them first of all) – morally, and often even literally. Besides the right of strength, for some reason they have not come up with other rights.”

“You forgot one additional human right. The right to pardon and to create good, in spite of everything,” said Daphne obstinately. Methodius looked at her in amazement. He did not suspect such internal strength in his frail guard of Light. Neither did Ares, perhaps. Because he suddenly calmed down, stopped flying into a passion, and said conciliatorily, “Well, well, little one! Curtail your Light propaganda, or I can think of something else! At least, if it’s convenient, don’t continue in the same spirit. Just that sooner or later you’ll find a fork in your neck, a half-eaten sausage with the tracks of your best friend’s teeth will be pinned to your teeth… Philanthropy, alas, is punishable.” There was not a hint of humour in Ares’ voice. He hid the dagger, lightly pushed Methodius away and left. The office door shut.

Julitta approached and, after examining Methodius’ neck, whispered at the shallow cut. “Don’t be mad at him! Now and then Ares gets that way… Frequently in the lighthouse, he would be quiet for whole weeks, and then would suddenly begin to joke spitefully and laugh at Light and Gloom at once. At such times, it was best to keep quiet. Then it would let go of him and he again would be as before…” Julitta said softly.

“Why is he so? Will you explain?” Met asked. If Daph posed this request, the answer would be a decisive no. But here Julitta hesitated. She related well to Methodius. After looking sideways at the office, with a flick of her finger she placed a circular shield to protect against eavesdropping. Ligul the hunchback’s face in the group portrait of the bigwigs of Gloom stretched resentfully. Simultaneously on the adjacent landscape with a view of a humble cemetery in the spirit of Zhukovsky, the outermost gravestones stirred disappointedly. Even Ares from the office – and that one could hardly x-ray the magic barrier, although it was unlikely part of his plan.

“I think it’s all because one can’t half-serve Gloom. Gloom itself punishes its servants, taking away their dearest, with the blood wrung out of them. Take any of us. All of us are either unhappy, without eidos, with a gaping wound in the chest that will never heal, or puffed up narcissistic blockheads (tomorrow, Methodius, you’ll see them), or generally natural freaks like Ligul. Staunch supporters of Gloom are actually few, although there are, certainly…”

“Why then do the rest serve?” Methodius was astonished. “Well, my dear, you’ve got to be kidding! It’s very simple to find oneself on the side of Gloom: only carelessly stumble on the slope once and… you’ll be rolling down indefinitely. Although now and then you’re rolling merrily, in style, you don’t argue with this…” The twenty-year-old witch snorted, remembering something. Possibly, the next date, casino, or bar, which she was going to smash soon. It was not her habit to retain the tension of a thought for long. Julitta was as quick to calm down as to flare up.

“Although, on the other hand, I have difficulty visualizing Ares among the guards of Light. Right, Daph? How is it with your imagination?” Julitta asked. Daph thought for a while and tried to answer honestly, “The stone griffins would not like Ares, and this, and that… Although among us, for example, are complete bores. Tedium and bigotry are the main unpleasant features of Light. Or, more precisely, are our main temptations.”

“Listen, Julitta, who is this F’less? Well, do you understand whom I’m talking about?” Methodius asked in a whisper. “Are you still being obstinate? Okay, I think it’s worthwhile to tell you nevertheless, although Ares would disagree. After all, couldn’t you indeed also find this out from the Book of Chameleons? If you weren’t such a lazy person?” the witch winked at him with a hint. “Uh-huh!” Methodius agreed, surprised that the thought of the book did not come to him earlier.

“Kvodnon – only I beg you, Met, don’t repeat it, you have some black tongue – is the true host of Gloom. Its only sovereign. Faceless Kvodnon is the second and true face of Two-faced Kvodnon. Got it?” Methodius began to shake his head, digesting the information. “Faceless is the true face of Two-faced? Now I’m even more confused.”

“For some reason I thought so. It’s always necessary to explain for a long time elementary things to a moronoid. But here genies, let’s say, understand such fine points immediately. You say to them, ‘Listen, friend, there was Two-faced Kvodnon, and now he’s Faceless Kvodnon. So don’t you forget it, friend, when we say simply Kvodnon, we imply the previous Kvodnon in his administrative quality; when we say Two-faced, we imply the collective essence of Kvodnon; when we say Faceless, we’re talking about the present.’”

“Who-oa, come again! I also don’t understand. Didn’t our golden-wings strike down Kvodnon? During the decisive battle? Really not so?” Daph was surprised. “We even have an annual holiday in Eden!” Julitta looked at her with mockery. “Well, you’re our merry fellow here! Why don’t you enjoy yourself? Play your pipe a little? Especially if the occasion exists.” “Jokes, jokes. Nevertheless, I don’t understand: Faceless, Two-faced, simply Kvodnon… How many of them are there?”

“The number of young child prodigies swiftly increases. It goes without saying, in reality there’s only one Kvodnon. Darling, the golden-wings destroyed the body of Kvodnon, thus converting Two-faced Kvodnon to Faceless. Moreover, golden-wings knew how to do it such that Kvodnon will never be able to be personified. Not in one of the existing bodies, not even in an agent. In any case, it’s considered so. Many of us doubt that golden-wings knew how to destroy the immortal essence of Kvodnon. Do you know why? Because they didn’t!”

“But I thought Ligul is now the sovereign of Gloom and they intend me for his place,” said Methodius thoughtfully. Julitta burst out laughing. “Who, who in the place of Ligul? You? So that he would push off to make way for you. No, Ligul is himself, and you’re yourself.” “You’re certain?”

“Who is Ligul, if we look closely? An ordinary manager! A pimple on the body of Gloom! An upstart, the head of the Chancellery, which takes stock of nasty deeds of moronoids and their eide. Some eide go into our darc but a small portion. Maximum one third. Where do you think the rest goes? At least, let’s say, that eidos of the unlucky suicide, which Mamzelkina recently brought over? Do you think it’ll reach Ligul? Only crumbs from the lordly table fall to his lot!”

“To whom will it go then?” “Now here again Faceless Kvodnon surfaces, his spirit, his true shady side, about which no one knows anything… This eidos together with many others will be dropped into a dark vessel, which stands in the centre of Tartarus, on a three-legged support with lion feet.”

“Why?” “Oh, there are many versions. Even Ares hardly knows them all. The most widespread: Kvodnon, who by the very fact of his existence makes up Gloom, needs this. The vessel on lion feet is special. Not even an artefact but the first artefact. Hundreds of eide and parchments covered in writing about the acts of mortals have already been deposited into it daily for many centuries. And, until now, take note: the vessel has not been filled. Moreover, to steal anything from the vessel is impossible by definition. It recognizes only one owner, whom no one has seen for a long time already.”

“Kvo…” “Shh!” Julitta looked at Buslaev with the long-suffering patience of a mother explaining to a year-old child that he should not poke papa’s eye with a fork. “Oh-oh-oh! Papa will get boo-boo!” “Possibly. Whether Kvodnon exists or not, don’t let this paradox trouble you. A moronoid always learns about the existence of Kvodnon at the very last moment, when Mamzelkina’s scythe has already dropped. Someone, after all, composes the lists… hmm…of harvest for our manager. And, indeed you can trust me, it’s not Ligul. Otherwise, I would have been in them long ago.”

Methodius suddenly perceived how his hair started to throb, ache, and hurt. It was a strange sensation, almost a warning, emerging exactly at the moment when he wanted to pose a question to Julitta. But he did, nevertheless. Simply because he was Methodius Buslaev. Stubborn as the log, on which Eddy Khavron sat. “Listen, if K exists… then why did Ares either in jest or in earnest call me the sovereign of Gloom? Or does K… intend to hand over his authority to me?”

Julitta blew on her long bangs. “Puff… Well, you, pardon me, pose some questions! I myself don’t know how the rest goes here, but, I think the authority of Kvodnon is now of another kind. Kvodnon is now a spirit, and the authority of a spirit is always more ideological than real. The sovereign of Gloom in his present understanding – it’s…to compare it to something…well, like a king. Only I immediately warn you: don’t be flattered. Yes, a king has authority and power. He can execute or show mercy. He can declare war or make peace. Everything, it would seem, is tiptop. But you see: a king can be overthrown, poisoned, executed, struck down in battle, or in the end, he can die by himself. And furthermore, the usual story is: ‘The king is dead… Long live the king!’ Isn’t there such a thing?” Methodius unwillingly nodded.

Julitta looked at him sympathetically and continued, “Here Kvodnon – the old, solid Kvodnon, not the current, Faceless – once keeled over in battle with Light, and now they carefully cultivate you to fit on his throne in order again with your help to try to even the score with Light. If not you, sooner or later another Buslaev will be born. However, no one can become Two-faced Kvodnon and the more so Faceless. He’s unique. He existed primordially. He’s more ancient than this world.” “This Gloom of yours is a muddled organization,” said Daphne, shaking her head. “Don’t say it, Light. A simple horror, so muddled. On the other hand, it’s more understandable to me than that Eden,” agreed Julitta.

Behind the door, Ares gave a resounding cough and struck the table with his fist. Julitta hurried. “Well, that’s it, party’s over! Chief’s in a bad mood! Daph, Met, take your infernal kitty away – it had gnawed a corner off the marble table over there! – and march to Glumovich’s school to lead the poor fellow to a heart attack! Methodius, you will be needed tomorrow at midnight. Make a note of it!” she stated.