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  Copyright © 2021 Valeri Stanoevich

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador®

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  ISBN 9781800466494

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Contents

  PREFACE

  TIME OF EVIL

  FANCY SHOP

  BEHIND

  ANABEL, KATHLEEN, GALLO

  THE HAND

  TREATMENT

  EQUILIBRIUM

  CHOICE

  ANGEL IN THE LIBRARY

  THE INCONVENIENCE OF BEING ALIVE

  THE PROPHET

  AN ENDLESS DAY

  МЕ

  THE LAST DAY

  AWAKENING

  THE GREASY RAIN

  THE INSIGHT

  DE PROFUNDIS

  RETURN OF PARSIFAL

  ONCE AGAIN FOR THE PRINCESS

  NOTES

  PREFACE

  This slim book is for the reader who asks questions and seeks answers. Does a life follow a predictable path or is it part of existential chaos? What makes an individual go against fate? Is it really worth making the effort? The characters you will find here face these questions.

  The short stories presented here take place at different times (past, present, future) with different fantasy levels – from stories that are nearly real to phantasmagorias and new Gothic. The characters are also different: knights, anonymous people, dreamers, outsiders, crazy ones, technocrats, cockroaches, holders of secret knowledge.

  What unites them is the urge (gradual or sudden) to leave the orderly system of their lives, attracted by the alluring hope that they can find or create another world of dreams come true, inexpressible truths and oases of redemption of past guilt.

  On the way to their new identities, they move freely between reality and fantasy. They are in constant conflict with themselves, and the front line is the line dividing the two hemispheres of their brains. The stories are very short but each has a complex plot, provocative suggestions and a surprising end. Without in any way denying the traditional concepts of good-evil, simple-profound, they lead the reader into worlds in which paradox is a synonym of universal meaning.

  TIME OF EVIL

  I start writing this chronicle with a sense of unease, for few people will believe testimony consisting of fibs and superstition. But the roar of that time is still echoing, and yet more centuries will pass before its last rumbles fade away. Despite my efforts, I have discovered too little, as if somebody’s mighty hand had long ago destroyed the written record of those events, leaving only fragments. It is no wonder that in treatises on medieval history there is no mention of them, or of the strange person whose will weighs heavily upon what has taken place. I have copied the existing fragments faithfully, although I have ventured to title them according to the impressions they made on me.

  From the Monk’s Writings

  It must have been winter. Probably the last of the long line of carts was arriving. Probably they had walked past them through the mud, accompanied by drunkards’ curses and clinking metal. Probably the guard at the entrance had stopped them and they had waited for a long time under the sleet. Then the door opened and they would have passed along the narrow corridors and stairs surrounded by soldiers until they reached the hall.

  He was sitting wrapped in his cloak, his hair falling over his face. They went down on their knees and waited. The crackle of blazing torches was all they could hear. After a long silence he asked: ‘Why are you disturbing my peace?’

  Then the mayor stepped forward and prostrated himself before his feet, whispering, ‘Great Waste, the prince of our dreams! Forgive us our preposterous audacity! We go down on our knees and beg you most humbly to have mercy upon us. Restrain your soldiers, as they are already raping our women. Take all our possessions but protect our honour, as you’ve promised.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I did promise that, but only on the condition that you would surrender the town without fighting, and you accepted it, thus proving your lack of honour. So, go away and be grateful that you are still alive.’

  ... That night a village was visited by robbers. The villagers caught them and hanged them at dawn. Towards noon the soldiers from the advance guard entered the village and recognized those hanged as Waste’s grooms. Shaking with fear they lay down at his feet, but he calmed them saying, ‘I was about to hang those scoundrels anyway.’ He waited for the cries of gratitude to subside and then continued, ‘However, they were my slaves. What will happen if word gets round that it’s possible to hang my servants and yet stay alive?’

  And the villagers were hanged on the trees next to the robbers.

  It is known that he was a bastard and started his life in humiliation. Perhaps he had borne his spite since then ...

  One of his men followed him like a dog, constantly vowing, ‘I’ll be your servant till I go to my grave.’

  It came to pass that the man died, and they were already digging his grave when Waste stopped them.

  ‘Let him stay unburied!’

  They went away and left him. On the fortieth day the man came back. Only his waxy face betrayed the fact that he was dead ...

  ... The Elder held an entertainment to get into his favour. He kissed his feet and whispered, ‘Great Waste, we are going to stone this lewd woman to death in your honour.’

  ‘He is going to carry out the sentence,’ said Waste, pointing to the dead man, who approached the Elder, grasped his neck with sallow fingers and squeezed until he had strangled him.

  ‘That harlot has been punished. So let the other fornicate now!’ concluded Waste.

  Then he asked the dead man, ‘Do you want a reward?’

  As if he had been waiting for that, he begged, ‘Bury me!’

  He granted his prayer, albeit reluctantly. They dug a pit; the dead man descended into it, lay on the bottom and turned into dust and ashes ...

  ... I saw him only once. I remember that the others lowered their eyes but I met his gaze concealed under the hood. I saw more anguish than malice. Later I heard the blind man in the square say, ‘I saw the man ready to strive with evil.’ And I decided to pray ...

  I’ve heard men of God say there was another army of evil, led by a certain Dast, and it was no better than this one.

  From the Madman’s Writings

  … Thus I found myself facing him. I felt his gaze heavy on me. That’s why I knelt. Then he touched my
shoulder with a sword. Thereby I became a knight ...

  ... The knights could hardly hold the enraged horses. Blood glimmers were blazing on their breastplates. The crackle of burning beams mingled with clanging iron and victims crying. The town, smug and humdrum until yesterday, on fire this night, was enchantingly beautiful. The labour of centuries was turning into a transient monument to our power.

  How sweet it is to rush alone along the fields after the battle! To wave your shirt soaked in another’s blood. In the morning ... along the desolate fields where the wind is blowing away the seeds and the sower is hanging on a tree ... grinning widely, with a face pecked by the birds. Or in the evening, when the west is ablaze and the town, which has seen off the army of evil, is going down ...

  An Unknown Man

  ... How long have we been here? Fog sleeps on the grass, oozing along the breastplates. A horse is neighing. Distant shouting. Why is everybody whispering? Are they afraid? They are waiting for my decision. Shall we leave the valley? Our position is not good. And that fog … How many of them will follow me tomorrow if we avoid battle today? What if they have broken through elsewhere? It is impossible. We are blocking their only way to the pass. We must stay here under the weight of our armour. Everything causes me pain. Where is my power? I dream of ashes and the faces of the dead. Where are those monsters? We are going to destroy them to the last man. There will be no mercy! Where is Waste?

  For a moment the rays of the sun penetrate the dampness. Outlines of men and horses emerge from the fog before us. Panic sweeps through the lines. Instead of order, a mob. Is this the end? It is getting dark. The outlines disappear. They were only our reflections in the fog. Will the prediction come true? The blind man said he had seen a man facing evil. Forsaken, he is going to win after his own death ... Am I the chosen one? Oh, God, let me die here if such might be your will, but I beseech you to lift that fog ...

  The Lost Soul

  So sad is your soul, Mother. Can’t it find relief? Do you still feel hunger or will the cold inside your bones never leave you? When will you find peace? You say that I am cursed to sow only death, but who then had mercy on you? Whose hand stopped its stone? Did they curb their dogs? Did any bloody muzzle withdraw its teeth from your flesh? Didn’t they incite them more?

  You heard their contented laughter. The wretched villagers had their sacrifice at last, and thus, despised by everyone, they found one who dealt with his lot. Increasingly quiet becomes your voice, Mother, so at night when everything sleeps I listen in the silence. I know voices don’t come from there, but in defiance of reason I hear you. This is my only hope, so don’t stop talking. Even if it’s hard, don’t stop. I know I didn’t deserve to be forgiven. I left you and ran away like a wretch. I could have saved you… Why did you push me away? Why did I have to stay alive? Was it then that you told me that I was a bastard, and you were not my mother? No! You shouldn’t have said that. What did it matter if you hadn’t borne me? You were not a beggar or a thief. You became my mother when you lifted me up from the earth on which, numb with cold, I would have died. You gave me the warmth of your breath. You dragged me along behind you, even though I was your burden. I know you stole that chicken for me, and that is why they killed you, but I could have saved you. No matter you chased me away with curses. No matter I was so small. I had to stay. We would be together. Our blood would be as one on the mud for the dogs to lick. So hard it is to bear such guilt, Mother.

  Now I may look mighty, but I am like a moth-eaten garment. I go down despite my power. Only the thought that I’ll soon be with you keeps me sane ... What else must I hear? So faint becomes your voice. Quieter than a whisper. Please tell me … Can I bring you peace? Can I reach out to help you? Is it possible? How can I do it? To do for someone else what I should have done for you? If it would save your soul, I would give him everything. I would seek him until the end of my days and beyond, but who is he? Who?

  From the Soldier’s Writings

  ... They were hanging on the carts and it was very difficult to prise them off, even with whips and clubs. Those who fell under the wheels forgot the famine for eternity. Only one of the children was standing apart. His face was distorted with malice.

  ‘Poor idiot!’ said a pitying soldier. ‘I’ll kill him.’

  But Waste stopped him.

  ‘Let him grow older before his death!’...

  The plot was maturing. The plotters were getting more and more daring. They gathered in broad daylight. Talked or threatened the hesitant ones into joining in. Rumours were spreading. He was the only one who wasn’t aware of it. He stood alone for hours, as if trying to recall something.

  Everything started with that kid. He was one of those who had died like flies on the road. He had tried to sneak into his place, but the guard spotted him. There was a knife in his bosom. Before he put him to death, Waste asked, ‘Aren’t you afraid?’

  ‘No,’ the kid answered. ‘I am waste.’

  He ordered them to set him free. He seemed perplexed. We’ve been waiting ever since. We are languishing in that wilderness instead of plundering the nearest town. Perhaps the plotters are right. We have been created to live through evil.

  As they didn’t find a leader among themselves they sought the commander of the other army – Dast. He persuaded him of the treaty. Having entered into it, Waste had to die.

  ... The day was clear and quiet. The soldiers escorting the two leaders were scattered into groups, basking in the late afternoon sun.

  ‘Prince, I accept this treaty for your sake,’ Dast said, ‘because you are young and will outlive me. So one day you will lead the two armies.’

  I hadn’t seen him before. He had a broad weather-beaten face covered with greyish bristles. Waste was silent.

  Suddenly our attention was caught by animal cries. Two soldiers were dragging a feeble woman all in rags and tatters. In spite of her piteous appearance the wretch was struggling desperately.

  Having prostrated her in front of him, they asked, ‘What shall we do with her?’

  ‘Make her happy!’ Dast laughed. ‘We must all be happy today.’

  The soldiers got his order awry and tore her clothing. At that moment the kid appeared from nowhere and spat at him. Dast took out his sword. There was dead silence. The woman slipped away and hid the child behind her. The sword swished, but instead of cleaving flesh it clanged and bounced off, since it had hit a sword. Dast growled in amazement and tried to grin but Waste didn’t seem gay. Soon their swords met again. They all surrounded the fighting ones. Now their hatred of him was stronger. To humiliate himself together with the nonentities – who’d have thought it? The grumbling grew more intense. One of the officers dazzled him with his glittering shield and Dast stabbed him. He pressed the wound and lifted the sword with effort. Curses were raining on him as the end drew near. He seemed to be destined to die as he was born – in humiliation. Judging from the bleeding he should have been dead long ago, but he kept on reeling after his sword as if drunk. Horrified, I noticed he was staring with glassy eyes while his chest no longer moved with his breath. Why wasn’t he falling down dead? What was impeding him from accepting death? I glanced at the man beside me and saw his bewilderment. But whatever it was that had kept him standing was obviously leaving him. He made as if to strike but he couldn’t. Dast grinned and raised his sword. But just as a fire bursts into flames one last time before it dies away, so did the stiffened arm rise, and when the two swords met together one of them flew to the sky while a corpse weighed heavily on the other. A crunch was heard and a head covered with greyish bristles rolled onto the grass. The body shivered, bent its knees and slid down.

  The winner stayed on his feet for a while, leaning on his sword. It was deathly silent, so when his lips twitched, a whisper could be heard: ‘Moth…’ The corpse struggled up to lift a hand towards something only visible to his lifeless gaze, but his mouth froze after the last ‘�
�er.’ I turned away because I didn’t want to see the collapse of the man who had fought after his death ...

  ... The sun had gone down and the high branches were swaying in the breeze. Night was drawing in and I couldn’t see the end of the forest. Had I lost my way? Suddenly the bushes in front parted and a short dark figure, stooped with the weight of an armful of dry sticks, appeared.

  ‘Let me help you, Goody,’ I cried out cheerfully, and before she could answer I slung the burden over my shoulder.

  ‘What a miracle!’ the old woman grinned. ‘I have a helper.’

  Something strange was happening with the burden. At first it was as light as a feather, but it was getting heavier and heavier with every step. By the top of the hill I couldn’t stand it any longer. I tried to set it down, but I couldn’t, it was as though it had become part of my shoulders.

  ‘Everyone wants to lay the burden down, but how many of them manage it?’ croaked the old woman.

  It was not until then that I saw her face. It was ugly and evil. My shoulder was frozen hard and now the ice was starting to creep towards my heart. I started to cross myself but my arm was frozen too.

  ‘Your faith seems to be weak, fellow,’ the witch giggled. ‘They pray and pray, but ignorance, greed and fear draw them to the grave. You’ll be petrified here to please the snakes.’

  I averted my eyes in disgust and (oh, wonders!) the outline of a cross loomed through a gap between the trees. The cross on the belfry. The cottages on the slope. My home village. So I had come back, after all. My heart was pounding. Warm blood ran into my veins. I shook my shoulders and the burden fell from my back. I came to my senses. The witch had gone away. An owl flew into the forest. I hurried down the slope, the fallen leaves rustling under my feet: ignorance, greediness, fear ... ignorance, greediness, fear ...