Читать книгу Not fairy tales - Nadyn Bagout - Страница 6

The monumental bulk of the Tengwang Pavilion stands out clearly against the background of the river at this sunset time.

The lanterns circling the tower are about to flash, echoing the color of the brick-red walls and the emerald-green roofs. Actually, the pavilion could be called a pagoda, but it lacks the usual elegance of these traditional structures. However, it makes a remarkable impression: yes, it is new, but something so ancient, some spirit of place, no doubt, lives in these stones. And surrounded by dozens, hundreds of skyscrapers, each year more and more squeezing their arms – both on this coast and on the opposite one – scratching the clouds with their claws, the Tengwang can seem like a pillar, piercing and linking the past and the present.

The rain that had fallen since this morning had washed everything away, making the colors more vivid. The wide stone staircase leading up to the pavilion now looked more like a rock than a human creation.

Two young men – obviously out-of-towners, tourists – stop right at the Yin-Yang symbol – the Great Limit sign – take their eyes off their smartphone screens, and look up.

«Hmm, there it is. Well, not bad, huh? We didn’t go here for nothing.»

«Impressive. It’s not a small thing,» the guy sips his iced tea from his cup, smacks his lips. «You know, it’s not bad. I don’t really like herbs, but it’s nice and refreshing.»

His buddy sips his drink too, nods.

«Yeah, it is good. Well, shall we go?» he waves his hand in the direction of the rise.

«Soon, give me a couple of minutes. Let me catch my breath: you’ve been dragging me around all day… didn’t even take a taxi.

«Taxi… You’re such a sissy. We never even left the neighborhood. And dragging… like I made you do it.»

«All right, all right, it’s about work, I agree. But it’s time to rest now, isn’t it? So, what’s the hurry? This tower isn’t going anywhere,» he looks at the Tengwang again. «Look, what’s that up there?»

At the corner of the curved roof, remotely resembling a dragon’s spine, stood a strange figure. It wasn’t easy to make out the silhouette in the twilight: not human, but certainly someone alive.

«Wait a minute, I think that’s one of them. He’s going to jump, look! Oh, that’ll be a sight to see! Come on! Jump!»

***

He is standing on the very edge.

In general, the weather today is windless, but not here, not up there. However, the wind is a friend, one of the few: violent, uncontrollable, necessary.

Now any gust threatens to rip him off the roof. Rip him off, throw, spin… no, not now… a little more later…

Down below, behind him, a dark ribbon of river winds, lazily rolling its still-cool waters into the distance: a few weeks, and the heat will take over. A heat from which he must get away. Is it worth it?

For what now?

Why should he go back to his homeland now? Alone… without her…

What’s driving him back?!

Spring…it’s all her, part of the eternal cycle of this world. The law of the universe, if you will. A law demanding and inexorable, embedded in the very depths of the subconscious. To go back…

He thought they would go home together. Together from this seemingly benevolent place to which they were strangers.

Aliens. Incomers.

Scarlet faces, scarlet feet, white covers.

They are different.

No, they haven’t been harassed here for a long time. They’re even protected. People take care of them, you could say. But people care more about themselves and their well-being.

What about them? They’re not from around here. Valuable, but different.

They will never understand each other. And people are stronger. Stronger, more insolent, more demanding.

And they take the water. They limit themselves, but still inexorably take away space for life. Not here, but there, just to the north – here he came by chance, circling and circling, and here – but the city will soon approach there as well. It would come and take new lives, as it had taken his beloved. Would kill others as it had killed her.

No, no one hunts them on purpose: the local governments have long forbidden such things. But man stains everything around him with his presence: everything he has created can bring death. Many things are not her weapons at all, but almost every grain can suddenly summon this cold, empty-eyed lady.

Simple fuel for people’s boats is poison for the likes of him.

Dirty death. Accidental death.

They were found too late.

He called out to people, calling desperately, trying to lead them to her, dying in that muddy puddle, but people didn’t understand. They shouted in admiration, pointed their fingers at him, smiled, wished each other happiness. As if he had come to them to show off. As if they couldn’t hear the hopelessness and grief in his cry.

People sat in their cells scattered over the ground, stacked one on another, formed the tall ant towers like the ones across the river. People sat there thinking only of themselves.

Sometimes they remembered creatures like him, too.

Not everyone: only the most understanding or those who could benefit most from it.

Then they decided to surround the strangers with care.

For now, all care is the bracelet draped around his leg. Yes, they had put a tag on him – trying not to hurt him, but still against his will – a tag that could be used to track his life.

But what does it matter to him?

His sweetheart also had a tag, a shiny little thing wrapped around her shin.

Did it help when the wearer was convulsing? That’s right.

They also gave him a name. A strange name, similar to their own.

Heng Chun. The Permanent Spring. The Eternal Spring.

Hah!

There is nothing eternal in this world, only the stars that light up in the blackness of the nights.

But they are there, far away, leading with their radiance to home – that’s all.

And there is no spring in his soul.

Her breath is all around… everywhere… everywhere…

Everything is blooming, everything is alive… Only it is as if he died inside on that shore, where she let out her last breath.

One step, one more step, and then crash down.

No, that’s something only they, the humans, can do. And they are horrified by it. And they marvel at it!

See, and now they’re looking up at him with all their eyes.

They’re watching, discussing something, gesticulating wildly. Waiting.

Yeah, it’s like they’re waiting for something…

The wind brings unlocal music. That is, their music, human music, just not typical of this place: jagged, rough, sharp-cutting with the edges of the words.

He doesn’t understand the meaning, but the rhythm is hammered into every bone in him.

…Und der Mob fängt an zu toben

Sie wollen seine Innereien

Und schreien

Spring*

A piercing cold and scalding heat. The blood roars. Painful and… cleansing. As if spring had washed over him with rain.

He shifts from foot to foot, swaying, then freezes again on the ridge of green-painted wood. The bow-curved corner of the roof is designed to prevent demons from sneaking into the house, to make them roll down this arc like a springboard and fly off into the sky, falling apart. Now the words roll down the curve.

Jetzt fängt der Mann zu weinen an

Fragt sich was hab ich getan

Ich wollte nur zur Aussicht gehen

Und in den Abendhimmel sehen

Und sie schreien

Spring**

Down below, people are waving and shouting something. Hundreds of sparks are flashed by the cameras: they are trying to capture him. Why? Or maybe it’s not about him? Maybe it’s the building, burrowed into the ground like a giant tree, that catches their attention. Maybe no one notices him at all.

He looks around, looking at the rugged silhouette of the city, illuminated by the setting sun. It looks like the forest he encountered on his way back home. It is distantly similar, because the forest is much larger, more majestic, because the forest spreads so wide that at times it seems insurmountable.

And now he doesn’t even want to overcome it.

Although… it’s all his own. Maybe he could find solace there.

Many people there almost worship them like gods. They call them sacred. They celebrate approaching happiness if they see them.

There are no cities there that look like a bunch of needles poking into the sky. Everything and everyone are closer to nature there, at least if you get to the right place.

So why did they come here? What called them to this distant land?

They came for warmth and sustenance. They came because they are used to coming. Because they didn’t know how to change, didn’t know how to seize new territory like humans. They came to the only place they knew.

On the shore of a beautiful lake they found their shelter, as they had always found it. The place was still there. Worse was the food.

That’s why the two of them went on their way. That’s why they came here: to the city, to the man.

That’s why she died.

Randomness: life is a chain of accidents.

Regularity: people trying to help in small things do not notice how they hurt in big things.

They cried when they found her. Dead. They cried. But do tears change anything?

Their fault.

Their fault!

Why does this world put up with what they do to it?!

The same song cuts through the crowd’s clamor again.

…tausend Sonnen brennen nur für dich…

Spring

Erlöse dich***

He’ll have to go, even if it’s without her.

Make their usual way for both of them. To worship the flourishing of that land as bequeathed by their nature.

It’s time. It’s time.

He opens towards the wind, clinging to its flow.

The fall… and the rise.

He makes a sharp turn and crosses the river and heads north, away from the city, into the night that engulfs its silhouette.

***

«Will he jump or not? Do you think he will?» the guy tosses the empty cup into the trash. «It should come out beautifully, I think.»

«I guess. They’re rare around here. I mean, in the city. Usually they stick to the park, the lakes. They say it’s good luck to see one. Have you heard of it?»

He nods.

«Yes. It’s full of these symbols: posters, magnets, stamps,» he points the camera phone again at the green and red lights illuminated on the pavilion, the silhouette standing almost motionless on this man-made cliff. «They are weird, really: the proportions, the colors.»

«But beautiful,» objected his buddy. «White always looks great.»

«It’s a pity he’s alone. I think they usually travel in pairs. I’d love to see them dance! Oh! Look, look! He jumped!»

Above their heads, spreading its snowy wings, the Siberian Crane plummets from the roof and, with a long cooing sound that resonates throughout the neighborhood, flies north to catch up with the spring coming to its homeland.

* Here is an approximate translation. With great gratitude and respect: