Читать книгу Tarot and the Medici Patience. Grimoire - Petr Krylov - Страница 6

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Rice Hovering in subspace, swaying in the wind. The East, hammered in place, sways in the wind. Gone without a sign. Gone without a sign. Gone without a sign. A Sign would have done the trick.⁴²

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A jest…

A well-known Anecdote.

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The Arctic Ocean—wind, frost, a sky draped with clouds, hanging a hundred meters above your head. Upon the leaden water, an Eskimo’s kayak bobs to and fro. A hunched Eskimo is casting about in the water for something—or perhaps anything—that hasn’t yet had the good sense to make for Sochi or Turkey, at least according to his compass.

Suddenly, the water begins to roil and bubble furiously, and a rather battered submarine pops up nearby, its hatch swinging open. Out onto the deck climbs a captain swathed in an enormous black cloak. He spends an age flipping through some obscure reference book, then launches into a recital of the various dialects spoken among the peoples of the Far North. He opens the conversation with such gems as, 'Yes, I am Captain Two Wrench, and who are you?' The Chukchi, squinting, makes a desperate attempt to tilt his head upwards—though it never has, nor ever needed to before. Finally, in the grand style of the Russian stage, he ‘casts a sidelong glance and bows his head low,’ for his head stubbornly refuses to tilt upwards; and so, in impeccable English, he poses the classic geologist’s question on the third day of searching for oil amid crates of empty vodka bottles:43

‘So, what do you want, officer?’

To this, he receives a bewildered reply from the captain, who is trying his utmost to speak English as purely as an Eskimo:

‘Might the esteemed Sir Chukchi kindly direct me to the side of the world where our Lord and His Son’s blessed America lies?’

To which the Eskimo replies:

‘South-south-east, 250 miles—just mind the banks near the shore.’

After that, the captain, utterly at a loss, gloomily descends the hatch and disappears. An Eskimo is busy catching something distilled from whatever once overheated in the tropics and now, as horoscopes insist, is chilling nicely by your beer.

Time passes.

The water fizzes and bubbles anew, and up surfaces a Russian submarine, rocking and staggering in the oddest way.

Barely alive, the boatswain hauls himself out on all fours and, bellowing somewhere below: 'Ah, it’s nothing! We’ll sort it out, captain! Who needs that compass anyway—there were two liters of spirits in there! Can’t let good stuff go to waste!'—then, squinting to focus on the Chukchi, he roars in a hoarse bass:

– Hey, Chukchi, which way is Murmansk?

To which he receives the reply:

– Nor'west-west, about three thousand miles, give or take. Just don't tip the boat over, boatswain, please, when you start diving.

To which the boatswain bellows angrily:

– Don't get clever, you rascal, don't get clever! Just point your finger and show me which way to sail…

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So, what is Stalking, in plain terms?

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Rice Hey, you! Yes, you—I'm talking to you! Come over here! We're going to share, brother to brother, as it should be, whatever God has sent your way.⁴⁴

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Evening falls… Yet another young Mage, following in the noblest tradition of fools and failures, has read fantasy novels to the point of utter 'shutdown' and now, with the uncertain gait of a sleepwalker, retreats to his burrow in his beloved five-story tower, there to blissfully enter suspended animation—at least until something pure, good, and luminous comes along: the release of a new remake in which he—cover to cover—is the Great and Powerful.

Meanwhile, the forces of darkness—represented by an up-and-coming petty criminal known as Lisp (three years probation under Article 213) and a pack of a couple more young, talented rascals—had gathered themselves into a pack, loitering in the entryway, sipping drinks, and searching for something soft and yielding on which to train their still-fragile psyches.

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Rice Once I ascend to Magicianhood—then they will know! Their time grows short! In just a year, the new season shall dawn!⁴⁵

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Possible courses of further development:

Option 1: Our hero noticed Shepelyavy only when he had already slithered across the entire screen. Frantic searching for the mouse with his right hand and feverishly clicking the left button, together with the mysterious absence of a Sight on the screen, made discourse with the people of this mighty Mage rather complicated.

The last record left on the hard drive that day—a smeared, 60-hertz, dirty palm. She veiled The World entire, flipped it over, and smothered its light. He didn’t even notice how, right behind him, a young but already promising KMS in 'judo before' and 'judo after' soared up onto the landing. And then, with supreme confidence, began weaving macrame from the young—yet already so talented—ne’er-do-wells.

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Rice. Now, what have we here? Nagual or Tonal? Perhaps, just for fun, he should throw in a smidge?⁴⁶47

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Option two: Our young wizard was so caught up in dreams that he slipped and scattered all his fantasy tales right by the front door. And while he was gathering them, in burst Gavrila—young, but already a fading KMS boxing hopeful—who dashed up the stairs and promptly tripped over Lisping. What followed was a brief but meaningful exchange.

During their short discussion, it was decisively established that a left hook holds a clear advantage over mere bravado, including bravado in street slang. In the process, Gavrila nonchalantly affirmed Lisping’s nickname in the finest traditions of the trade—with a confirming kick to the head.48

The young sorcerer, drenched in cold sweat and gingerly sidestepping bloodied snot and vomit, scampered quickly into his burrow. He then sighed with relief, hurriedly opened his dose—pardon me, his book, of course, his book—and happily lost himself on the second level of the Book about Him! The Great One! Hallelujah!

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Rice. Where to go? Where to seek refuge?⁴⁹

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Variant 3: The little Hobbit, dripping with sticky sweat, scampered home in quick, skittering dashes.

All day long, the signs were screaming at him about the imminent and inescapable approach of a white fluffy beast coming for his soul. With every passing hour, the hints from the World became ever more blatant—the cats screamed louder in his ear, and the passersby, who seemed to be uttering random phrases, started giving him increasingly meaningful looks, bending the Matrix itself so much that any minute now they might pop out of RAM onto this side of the screen.

The final sign was a scrap of newspaper by the front door bearing the headline: 'Final Warning to Ukraine from Gazprom,' although only the first half of the headline was left.

‘…I wonder what Castaneda would have to say about this?’ mused the Hobbit, settling himself, half-crouched, on the bench before the entrance.

The answer arrived, as always—in the form of profanities and the soulful cries of young, yet already remarkably gifted ne’er-do-wells, led by Lisp. To the rhythmic hacking of the young, yet already promising KMS crantez-do Gavrila, who slipped into the entranceway as the Hobbit continued to ponder: ‘To be or not to be—that is the question.’

'But of course, strike him—heel to the nose,' mused Gavrila.

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Rice Nothing betrayed the standard bearer, Dr. Shmir Faces. Even the Long-Range Communication radio was artfully disguised as a worn-out accordion.⁵⁰51

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option 4: (…a deep, rolling voice, off-stage… set against a backdrop of peculiar hissing and crackling.)

…the Dal Reconnaissance resident slumbered… Yet he knew that in… however many minutes, he would awaken in his own bed and recall every detail of his dream. Therefore, today he shall forgo the KMS of something-or-other, Gavryusha, and slip into the stairwell out of turn.

…end of transmission.

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Rice …Three, Seven, Ace… Three, Seven, Ace… Three, Seven, Ace…⁵²53

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Option five: 'Well now, let's let the King of Spades through, let him through,' Yuri lisped with malicious glee after his last meeting with The Lisping One, ever more enveloped in the role of the local madman, as he ushered Gavrila into the stairwell—Gavrila, who had yet to discover the fateful encounter with The Lisping One that would alter Yuri’s destiny, but was already hurrying towards it…

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Rice: How’s it going, bro? Who did you bump into today?⁵⁴

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Option 6: 'Kings of Swords to the front, please…' mused Herman, gazing coolly into Gavrila’s eyes as they traded empty phrases—and Gavrila, businesslike, dashed off to punch Lisping Guy in the face, just as any card in the solitaire is supposed to do.

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Rice: People are cards. Cards are people. Where you lay them out—that's where they'll stay.⁵⁵

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Option 7: 'Nnnooo, I don’t like this spread…' thought the Stalker, and reshuffled the spread where Gavrila, with his trained leg, delivered a finishing kick to Lisping Guy’s head, forever ridding the stairwell of this infuriating, scrappy pest—but earning his first conviction in the process.

And really—what an honor, to lay out a solitaire for Lisping Guy.

Now, Gavrila—that's a fine chap. I'll have a word with him, and he'll give that fellow a proper thrashing anyway. But Svetka from apartment 54—she's a fool, wagging her tail every which way, blind to her own happiness.

They need a solitaire laid out for them with Gavrila. So they might finally get together and live happily ever after. Then, in the building, by the way, in a decade or so, there will be more decent folk around, instead of all these lispers.

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