Methodius Buslaev. Third Horseman Of Gloom

It seemed to Irka that she was delirious. The body of the dead wolf changed. The matted fur with spots of blood more resembled feathers. The snout with bared fangs changed into a white bird’s head with a beak. And here in the middle of the kitchen, a swan was flapping a broken wing, making an effort to take off. The kitchen was tight for the huge bird. The healthy wing touched the table. Finally, exhausted, the swan stopped flapping and, stretching out its neck, issued a throaty, sorrowful sound. This again resembled speech.

“I don’t understand!” Irka said helplessly.

She no longer crawled closer – and froze about a metre or two from the swan, sensing that this was still not the end of the transformation. And she was not mistaken. Suddenly the body of the swan quivered, losing its outlines. Silvery sparks scorched Irka’s face. To save her eyes, she covered them with her hands. When, squinting, she dared to peek, she saw a young woman in a long white robe, half-sitting on the floor. Her collar bone had been fragmented by a terrible blow. The woman was bleeding.

Addressing Irka, she uttered something hoarsely. Irka shook her head, showing that she did not understand. Mild annoyance distorted the truly classically beautiful face of the woman.

“Don’t be afraid of me! I’m a swan maiden,” she repeated in Russian. Her voice sounded throaty and aloof. There was in it something of the howl of the wolf and of the trumpeting of the swan.

“A swan maiden?” Irka asked.

“At times, they call us valkyries.[6] Soon I’ll be completely gone. He caught me off guard. I thought he was weak, and I was mistaken. I turned out as weak. The sword had inflicted me a wound, from which I’ll never recover. Two of my essences – the swan and the wolf – have already perished. Now death is getting closer to the last…”

Irka crawled up to the valkyrie. She hardly believed in the reality of the situation and continually glanced down to where her bitten nails were scratching the linoleum. This was the logic: the fingernails were real, the linoleum with onion skin was also more than real. The onion skin and Granny’s eyeglass case lying under the table were too detailed for a dream. But the special liberty and creative fluency, skipping insignificant details, that most daring fluency which always accompanies dreams, did not disappear, confusing Irka.

“Who wounded you?” she asked, putting aside, for the time being, the thought of whether what she was seeing was real or a hallucination caused by the new prescription from the day before.

The valkyrie looked at her sternly. In her tired eyes, continually changing colours, was something poignant, otherworldly. A strange power, authority, and wisdom. On the wall behind the swan maiden, it vaguely seemed to Irka, was a shadow of enormous heft. The worlds opened wide. The worlds were created from dust. Fates intertwined and untwined just like golden hair in a braid.

Finally, the valkyrie looked away. The shadow of heft disappeared. The wall of patterned tiles appeared before Irka in all its dreary banality, flickering beet, carrot, and other idiotic greens.

“Don’t try to find out. Until you’re ready. Your time will yet come!” The maiden coughed. Blood came out of the corners of her lips. “In the pattern of runes of the Sinister Gates there was a single error. One of the runes was not finished, and he knew how, after completing it, to convert it into its own opposite… It was impossible to flee, but he sent his breath out. I stood outside, but saw nothing. It was my fault, since I was his guardian in this century. His breath moved into the messenger’s body, and he wounded me with a sword, which strikes even an immortal. Once this was a sword of Light, and even now, after passing through many rebirths, it has retained its power over us, its creations. I didn’t have time to parry the blow. It was too unexpected to receive it from the one who inflicted it.”

“Whose body did he move into?” Irka quickly asked. For some reason, this seemed important to her, though she did not even know who he was.

“You have asked good questions. Your mind is inquisitive and restless. You’re not one of those living dead, whose heads are empty and whose eyes fade before death. I think I did the right thing choosing you…”

The valkyrie’s voice weakened. Her pupils were losing colour, becoming almost transparent. Irka suddenly realized that the swan maiden’s life was departing together with the colour of her pupils.

“What if we bandage you? Granny has a first-aid kit there…” she said helplessly.

The valkyrie looked at her fragmented collarbone and smiled weakly. “The wounds inflicted by this sword don’t close. Even if it scratched my finger, I would be doomed. Remember the main thing about whom you must stop! You have to come in contact not even with him, but only with his breath. However, there’s also enough force in it to put an end to you. He doesn’t have his own flesh, since it has long become dust, and the wind has scattered it. His spirit is capable of moving into any of the few suitable bodies, crowding its owner. However, while he is in a stranger’s body, his potentials won’t be greater than those of that body. In order to attack in earnest, in full force, he will leave it, and only then will you be able to battle with him. But if he doesn’t leave the body, you’re powerless. Your spear will pierce only the human flesh and its true owner, but not affect the one hiding inside. However, the sin of murdering the guiltless will make you weak, and you no longer will know how to do anything.”

“And how do I recognize him?”

“Don’t worry. It’s impossible not to recognize him. When his breath leaves a body, it’ll become visible even at noon. It’s a spectre of a rider on a red horse. Fight him like you would fight a normal rider. The spectre will be vulnerable to your weapon. But fear his magic: it presents a threat to you, just as the sword that struck me.”

“And if he doesn’t want to leave the body?” Irka asked reasonably.

“Antigonus will help you if he accepts you as his mistress,” the valkyrie replied. A shadow of sadness passed over her pale face. “Perhaps the sword’s blow wouldn’t have caught me unawares had Antigonus been nearby. He’s endowed with the gifts of foresight, expulsion, insight into true essence, and many other abilities.”

“Who’s this Antigonus?” asked Irka. The valkyrie unexpectedly smiled, warmed by some quiet, pleasant thought.

“It’s a most delicate topic. Better not to touch it again. Once a house-spirit fell in love with a kikimora! Love, love! Only whom don’t you catch in your net! True, this wasn’t an entirely pure kikimora! Her maternal grandpa was a vampire, her paternal grandma a mermaid, and paternal grandpa a wood-goblin! Besides, there was even talk of dwarves and Snow White, but that’s doubtful…” she said.

“And?” Irka prompted cautiously.

“Antigonus will become your servant, ally, and adviser. In a favourable situation. True, it’s difficult with Antigonus. Sometimes it’s much simpler without him than with him,” the valkyrie admitted. Cheerfulness went out of her together with life. Her eyes already saw eternity.

“Will I be able to summon him?” Irka asked.

“It’s unnecessary to summon Antigonus. In any case, doing it aloud. At times, it’s sufficient to think of him properly,” the valkyrie replied.

“And how do I think of Antigonus properly?”

The valkyrie shook her head. “I can’t tell you. You must find out by yourself. Otherwise, you’ll never find a common language with Antigonus. Indeed, he’s a terribly strange creature… Now let’s talk about the enemy. About how you’ll find the body which he has moved into…”

The valkyrie’s voice was barely audible. The pauses between the words were increasing. Irka had to keep crawling nearer, straining her ears.

“Not all bodies suit him. There are only four bodies in this world that can accept his essence. One of the four he doesn’t dare touch for the time being… But only for the time being… So, must search among the remaining three…” the valkyrie said. Blood was now barely flowing from the wound. Her face was becoming grey.

“She’s dying!” Irka realized with sudden clarity.

“Don’t be alarmed! Demigods don’t depart without a trace. They can’t leave this world without passing on immortality and gift,” the valkyrie said, after reading her thoughts. “Take my winged helmet!”

“Helmet?” Irka repeated, looking around. She did not see a helmet.

The swan maiden coughed. The blood, which earlier bubbled in the corners of her lips, ran down her cheek. Irka crawled up to the valkyrie. The swan maiden, quite weakened, carefully lay down on her back, helping herself with her good hand. Her long bright hair sprawled over the linoleum. Irka involuntarily thought how strange they both looked. Two half-beings – one dying and one crippled – in the kitchen of the most ordinary home, on the floor flooded with blood, were discussing the fate of the world and the escape of an unknown essence from the Sinister Gates.

“When you need to, you’ll see it and take my place! Stop the messenger, before he acquires power… Don’t let him catch you unawares. Don’t repeat my mistake!” The valkyrie spoke each new word with difficulty; blood pushed out of her throat together with the sounds. “There is little time… Swear on your eidos to Light that you’ll assume my gift and carry it to eternity, until your breath disappears. Without this the helmet won’t become yours.”

“But what’s this eidos?” Irka asked carefully. To swear on something she did not know existed seemed to her unreasonable. Something stirred imperceptibly in her chest, prompting the answer. “I swear!” Irka said, obeying the prompt, but immediately added dubiously, “But how can I stop someone… In this idiotic wheelchair I can’t even go down the steps without Granny’s help.”

The valkyrie’s lips trembled, attempting to form into a smile. With a weak motion of her hand she ordered Irka to keep silent. “It… doesn’t… matter… Don’t get distracted by trifles. We should have time for everything. Si fata sinant [If fate would have it (Lat.)]. Don’t fret about the disability. I’m taking on your pain! The scars on your back, your lifeless legs… I accept them as a gift in return. Will you agree to transfer them to me?” the valkyrie said.

“Yes,” Irka quickly said, sharply feeling all the nastiness of this answer.

The swan maiden chanted something droningly. It was impossible to repeat this chant. It was anything but human speech. Like a tiger’s growl, a wolf’s howl, a falcon’s screech…

The last sound had barely stopped and the valkyrie turned heavily on her side. Irka saw that her white robe was stained with blood on the back. Two long bloody strips went precisely where Irka’s scars were. Irka cried out.

With a gesture, the valkyrie forbade her to approach. “Redemption! Punishment for evil I committed long ago!” the valkyrie uttered hoarsely. “The load of grief and happiness is measured out to each in advance. Nothing can simply disappear. The pain, having disappeared in one, will arise in another. I took your load, nothing more.”

“But why?” Irka shouted, with involuntary happiness feeling her legs warming up. It was a new feeling, vague, joyful. As if spring sap was running through a dead dry tree.

“Don’t thank me! I won’t carry another’s burden for long. My sun is setting, yours is at dawn,” the valkyrie smiled. “When one valkyrie leaves, another must arrive. Soon your body will renew, the wounds will heal… Lean over! Closer… Still… You’ll receive my last breath! With it I’ll transfer my power to you! I don’t think that you’ll get the entire gift at once, but gradually it’ll come to you… And most important: at this moment, don’t think about anything else! Your mind must be as empty and beautiful as crystal glass. This is necessary so that the regeneration will begin…”

Irka wanted to state that she had no idea how to receive a breath, but the valkyrie did not hear her. “Si ferrum non sanat, ignis sanat [If iron does not heal, fire heals (Lat.)]. Sic vos non vobis vellera fertis, oves. Sic vos non vobis mellificatis, apes. Sic vos non vobis fertis aratra, boves [So not for yourselves bear fleeces, you sheep. So not for yourselves make honey, you bees. So you not for yourselves draw ploughs, you oxen (Lat.)],”[7] she muttered.

The valkyrie’s voice was barely audible, fading. Irka concentrated. She did not know how to accept the last breath and feared doing something wrong. Suddenly she saw a hazy pink radiance shrouding the valkyrie’s head. An indistinct bright spectre detached itself from her lips. After looking intently, Irka discerned the miniature figure of a woman in a helmet and a shining breastplate with a spear in her hand. Turning into a sweetish smoke, it slid towards the girl’s face.

“Here it is now…” Irka thought. “What must I do? Aha, not to think about anything else. Just imagine a crystal glass?”

She began to honestly visualize a glass, but, as always happens with imagination, it was obstinate and, instead of a glass, produced a glass with tomato juice stains. The spectre of the woman in a helmet approached her lips and froze, and shook its head reproachfully, as if in doubt. Then, already beginning to dissipate, it moved forward. Against her will, Irka inhaled deeply, sensing something unfamiliar merging with her and becoming a part of her.

Irka was suddenly seized by rapture, which she did not deem necessary to hide. For a brief moment she felt enormous, absorbing all the secrets of the earth, the underground, and the ocean floor. The interlaced tangle of parallel worlds and the taut, rigid spirals of time, like the springs of a clock, everything had become as natural to her as the arrangement of rooms in the apartment.

Irka laughed, and her laughter swept over Moscow in July like a sudden peal of thunder. An instant hurricane roughed up lawns, tossed dust on the embankment, rattled signs, broke several windows, overturned tables in a summer cafe, and swept and whirled old newspapers. Moronoids stopped and squinted at the clear sky with alarm. Some routinely checked the umbrellas in their bags to see whether they were buried in the things and whether they would open quickly. Their movements were mechanical and precise, like a soldier checking whether his sword is stuck in the scabbard.

“Greetings, new valkyrie! Hush, quieter! Not so frisky! Reserve the magic!” Irka heard the barely audible sad voice. Coming to her senses, Irka stopped laughing. The sensation of omnipotence disappeared. Irka understood that she had needlessly wasted power, which should only be resorted to out of necessity.

In front of her on the kitchen floor, a young woman, who had given Irka her own power, was dying from a wound. Now that her magic had left, her helplessness was manifested in everything. Especially pitiful were the thin, weak, absurdly twisted legs. And Irka felt it so sharply that, despite her present might, she would not be able to help. Sensing her dismay, the swan maiden smiled weakly. “And who must encourage whom? She’s stronger than me in spirit even now!" Irka thought with shame.

“Now’s not the time for tears. Be careful turning into a wolf or a swan. This gift is very rare. I alone of all of the valkyries have it. At times it’s convenient, but remember that in doing so, part of your intellect retires and is replaced by that of the bird or the wolf. It’s not dangerous while you predominate, but sometimes, the element can overwhelm you. Always recognize where your will finishes and the desires of the beast and the bird begin. This is monstrously important. You won’t forget?”

“No.”

“Remember something else! None who knew you before should learn the secret of who you are in reality. You won’t be able to reveal it to them either under torture, in times of happiness, or in a moment of anger… From now on, you’re a valkyrie. The previous Irka no longer exists. Your past is known only to you and me.”

“Yes, but if so, then…” Irka began.

“To your grandmother, you’re a cripple as before, chained to the wheelchair. No one is in the state to get to your secret while you guard it,” the valkyrie said impatiently.

“But if I don’t?” Irka asked.

“If you don’t, the one who hears it, even by chance, will lose his mind and die. And it doesn’t matter who this will be: a relative, a casual acquaintance, or a loved one. Death won’t bypass him.”

“I also can never tell Methodius?” Irka asked, unexpectedly for herself. She wanted to say “And Granny?”, but instead Methodius came out for some reason.

The question provoked the swan maiden’s displeasure. And the displeasure, as it seemed to Irka, was connected precisely with the name she heard.

“Especially not him! A valkyrie can only reveal to the one she transfers the gift. And now good-bye! Illi robur et aes triplex [There oak and triple bronze (Lat.)]…”[8] A major shudder passed through the valkyrie’s body and it suddenly disappeared. A merry joyous ringing hung in the air, similar to the sound of a distant bell or spring drops falling sonorously on a sheet of iron.

A silvery helmet with moulded wings and an arrow-shaped protrusion, protecting the centre of the forehead and the top of the bridge of the nose, emerged on the floor. Irka carefully touched the helmet. She heard a soft ringing. The moulded wings swayed and fluttered with feathers coming to life. They became thinner, longer, more airy, losing the previous powerful, slightly taut outlines. Irka understood that the helmet was adjusting to its new owner. She understood that it was waiting for her.

Feeling her fingers shaking, Irka took the helmet and put it on top of a felt liner. Her knowledge of this was sufficient. Those who wear a helmet without a liner are either owners of naturally soft heads or dashing fantasy authors, courageous heroes who pull armour over boxer shorts in the morning and, after fastening a bridle, yawning, lead the war horse, whining from impatience, to walk along the meadow, the horse already having targeted in advance a sprawling bush with its experienced violet eyes.

The arrow-shaped protrusion had barely touched the centre of Irka’s forehead and she again felt the vibrant warming heat, which arose in her at the moment when she discovered the secrets of earth and water. The familiar world cracked, exactly like the shell of an egg, the outside of which turned out to be immeasurably enormous. Consciousness proved not to be able to immediately fill this bulk.

Irka cried out. What she experienced was akin to the feeling of a man who thinks that he is alone in a dark and gloomy room with cobwebs. Everything is bad and cheerless. And suddenly, searchlights flare up and he sees that he is standing in a circus arena full of laughing people. What earlier seemed like a grey reality turned out to be a ridiculous plywood set, which can be toppled with just the push of a hand.

On feeling that hair had fallen onto her forehead, Irka impatiently cast it aside and suddenly realized that the helmet was no longer on her head. Had it come off? Nonsense, it could not be. She did not begin to search for it on the floor with her eyes. The sensation that the valkyrie’s winged helmet had remained, and would not abandon her even if she had to dive like a swallow into a waterfall, did not leave her. There are things which cannot be lost. It is only possible to betray them, after changing their purpose.

There was only one thing Irka had not yet resolved to do: check her legs. She had not tried to move them, although she felt a strange, unfamiliar tingling sensation in her feet.

“And for how long will you be afraid? Get up and walk, fool! If you can’t walk, crawl!” she thought and, after closing her eyes, attempted to twitch her big toe. She twitched and did not know whether it worked or not – so great was her fear of failure. Sweat, as cold as yesterday’s broth, poured down her face.

“Come on! Well! Are we going to lie this way and wait until Granny returns and loads us into the wheelchair? Forward! Move, dead horse!”

Angry at herself and hating the sensation of fear as such, Irka turned around, with familiar distrust stared at her legs and… Instead of being pleased, she frowned, suspecting a dirty trick.

If her legs had earlier resembled skin wrapping around skeletal bones, then these could belong to a model. Strong, smooth, tawny. With perfectly formed knees. The thighs of a runner or a dancer. The calves were muscular, but not excessively. Beautiful feet. Obedient new legs, which would obey any desire. Run, swim, or lift her to at least the ninth floor without rest. They would drive one crazy, attracting attention…

Irka suddenly wanted to cry. Throw a tantrum in the spirit of drama theatre. Throw something at the kitchen window so that it would shatter, sharp as resentment, cutting like disappointment. Something moderately heavy that before hitting the window would have time to draw a beautiful arc in the air.

She felt like a child who had jumped into a toy store without permission, picked up an expensive doll and twirled it around, knowing that now a stern voice would sound and she would have to put it back in place. “Where are you now? Do you want me to search for you everywhere? I’ll have a talk with you on the street!”

However, seconds had passed wearily, but the terrible voice still did not sound. The old dead legs also did not return.

Irka got up, staggering. She got up and was surprised that the skill of this movement was not forgotten or lost. She took a step, then another. The apartment seemed to her small, unfamiliar, and oppressive. Twice she tossed her head in alarm, until she realized what the reason was: she was afraid of hitting the ceiling. She was used to seeing the apartment from the wheelchair or the bed, and the sensation of extent remained in her as before, diminished, from the wheelchair or the bed.

Irka clenched and unclenched her fingers. They remained as before, but in reality had subtly changed. The reserve of strength she felt was not a reserve of mortal strength. Irka suddenly realized that if she should wish, she could push through the wall of the home with her hand, as if through paper. She felt the flow of blood – crimson, intoxicating, like red wine. Fresh spring forces seethed in her and exploded outside.

The memory of past incarnations and dormant magic skills overwhelmed her, but Irka forced the memory to retreat, to lay low. She felt that this knowledge was still dangerous, since it could submerge her own, as yet fragile consciousness.

Irka felt a sharp prick of curiosity. Having walked around the wheelchair, she entered the bathroom and immediately, without allowing herself new hesitation, looked in the mirror.

From the mirror splattered with toothpaste – Granny always brushed her teeth with the zeal of scouring saucepans with burnt food – a beautiful young face looked at her. Irka both recognized and did not recognize herself. Yes, this was her. But simultaneously not her. The difference between her past and present appearance was so great, as if a genius had repaired the picture of a mediocre artist. Everything remained as before – the nose, face, hair – but the girl in the mirror was different.

Irka examined herself for a long, very long time. When each feature had been imprinted in memory, she, obeying an unexpected impulse, squinted and with changed sight saw a swan and a white she-wolf. Not those that had died before her eyes on the kitchen floor, but others, her own, having subtly incorporated the features of Irka herself. And Irka understood that, at any instant on a moment’s notice, she would be able to become a swan or a wolf. However, she still hesitated, knowing that the time had not yet come.

“I’m a valkyrie! A swan maiden. A wolf!” Irka shouted in a full voice. The fear that everything could disappear had vanished. Everything was immutable.

The mirror sprayed into fragments. Some jumped in the drain, others to the floor. Irka looked guiltily at the sagging wooden frame. “Sorry, mirror! I’m simply a nitwit! I forgot that you knew me before!” she said and, after stepping over the fragments, returned to her room. On the computer monitor, which continued to live its life, new lines flared up.

Anika-voin: Hey, Rikka, answer! Did they kill you or not? Who was that bum in the kitchen?

Miu-miu: What are you, sick? How will she answer you if they smashed her for real?

Anika-voin: But I have to know when I should worry! Maybe I’m already mourning. Maybe my fingers are already flying over the keyboard?