The Dragon's Daughter

I offer you the transliteration, more than translation, of another Ukrainian folk story recorded in the book "З живого джерела". I have taken the artistic liberty of changing some elements of the story and elaborating on some others.

Once upon a time, a wealthy man travelled to a distant realm to trade. But water was scarcer than precious stones in that kingdom, so the merchant turned thirsty as death. Desperate, he went to the Tsar, who surely must have water. How could he not? For he was not only lord of all that land, but also a Dragon and a skilled sorcerer.

"Sir. If you give me that which you have at home, I shall let you drink the water of my well," said the Tsar, smirking.

"Except my wife, I will part with anything," replied the man and signed the vow. But he did not know that soon after he set out, his wife bore him a son, and one such that words can't describe! Swift as grass he grew and strong as an oak. When the merchant returned home, a boy ran to embrace him, saying: "I am your son, Ivan."

Hearing this, the man first rejoiced but, remembering the vow, started weeping.

"Why do you cry, papa?" asked the boy.

"Never you mind."

Time passed and the boy quickly became a young man. One day, as father and son were building a cattle shed by the river, Ivan spotted a scrap of paper hidden in the dam. Unfolding the paper he discovered the vow made between the merchant and the Tzar.

"Papa, why did you not tell me that I'm given to the Tsar? Prepare me for the journey, for I will go to the Tzar."

The father and the mother dressed their son in his dearest clothes and their direst tears - as many as they could muster - their liquid sorrow could quench his thirst in that desert land.

When Ivan reached the Dragon's palace, he was greeted by the lord himself and his three daughters. The youngest one loved him at once.

"Ivan," the Dragon spoke. "This night my river must be dammed and my field ploughed, the wheat sown, grown, ripened and reaped, threshed and winnowed, the grain milled and a bun baked for breakfast."

The boy walked away heavy-hearted, but on the way to his quarters encountered the Dragon's daughter again.

"Do not despair, Ivan, all will be well!" she said to him. "Go and rest until the morrow."

As great a mage her father was, his power was still shadowed by hers. When darkness fell, she whistled, and before her loomed two wispy servants. She whistled again and they flew to the field in a flurry. When Ivan woke in the morning, a hot bun lay ready on the table. This he took to the Dragon, who ground his teeth in rage, for he had failed to abase Ivan. Curbing his fury, he spoke:

"Ivan. This night my best horse must be tamed; it stands in my stables, behind twelve doors."

Ivan was a good horseman, and eagerly made for the stables, but his way was barred by the Dragon's daughter, who warned him:

"Ivan, don't be fooled. This task is harder yet than the last! The horse within is Father, and as soon as you approach him, he will trample you to death." Then she thought, and added, "It's too late, I will help you. Go and rest until the morrow."

As soon as all lay to sleep, she whistled and her airy servants appeared. She whistled once more and they soared into the stables, squeezing through the twelve gates and they grasped the horse's mane and rode upon it through the night until it was winded and so wetted with sweat that it seemed it had been drenched in water. The wild horse galloped and galloped, but eventually stood still. The servants took the fatigued horse back to the stables and vanished.

In the morning the Dragon called Ivan and spoke to him, the cold sweat on his brow barely concealing his choler:

"This eve you must come to me!"

As soon as Ivan left the court, the Dragon's daughter appeared to him and urged him:

"Ivan, if you go see Father, he will strangle you! You and I must flee."

Quickly they gathered their things and left the palace.

They walked and walked when suddenly they heard a rumble. The Dragon's daughter pressed her ear to the ground and whispered:

"They are pursuing us. We must hide."

She took a blade of dry grass and ripped it in twain, and at once she became a field of wheat and Ivan its watchman. Soon arrived a horseback host, the Dragon's servants, who asked Ivan the watchman:

"Did you not see a boy and a girl running past?"

"I did see them run past when this field was sown."

Discouraged, the servants returned to the palace, where the Dragon enquired:

"So, did you overtake them?"

"No, we did not."

"Did you not see anyone?"

"No, only a guard keeping ward over a field of wheat."

"That was them! Had you but torn the smallest kernel of wheat, you would have grasped her very head. Go forth once more, and catch them this time!"

Soon again they were on the heels of Ivan and the girl. Hearing their hoofs hitting the ground, she took a pebble from the road's side and broke it in half, whereupon she became a church and Ivan a priest upon the porch. The horsemen, having reached the church, asked the priest:

"Did you not see a boy and a girl running past?"

"I did see them run past when this church was built."

The irresolute riders returned to the palace, where the Dragon scolded them once more:

"It was them once more! Had you but clutched the knocker, you would have held her very neck." With this, he rose from his throne, climbed to his highest tower and called to his servants, "fetch me my pitchforks!"

He propped each of his eyelids with A fork and, as he watched the horizon he caught a glimpse of his daughter and Ivan. He spread his wings and dashed after them. Hearing the whistling of the wings, the daughter gasped:

"We are lost, Father is after us! But there's still one chance. Do not let him drink of me."

She then took a tear from her eye and tore it in two, turning herself into a well, and Ivan into a Cossack, a sabre at his waist. Soon, the Dragon reached the well and asked the Cossack if ever he saw run past a girl and a boy.

"Never did I see" replied Ivan.

But the Dragon glanced in his eye and realised the truth at once, so he said to the Cossack:

"Let me satiate my thirst!"

"You may not. From this well only the Ataman¹ may drink."

But the Dragon did not take heed, and instead stooped over the well. As he took the bucket to his mouth, Ivan, in one swift stroke severed his head. The well turned back into a girl, and the Cossack into a boy, who together walked back home and idled in wedding feasts.

^{1 Cossack chief.}

The Sabre-nosed Hag

This is the artistic translation of an archetypal Ukrainian folk story written in the book "З живого джерела" edited by Упоряд. Л. Дунаєвська, and illustrated by Олександра Міхнушова. The black humoured ending of this tale is, again, typically Eastern...

Once there was, or perhaps not, a place beyond dark forests and deep seas; seventy seven kingdoms away and further yet - by ten sparrow steps and twenty flea jumps. There lived one man, who had as many children as holes in a sieve and one more.

The man grieved, thinking what to do with his babes, since he was poorer than a church mouse. Looking at the children, his heart tore: pale, hungry and so weak that the wind toppled them. Long he thought how to remedy his plight , but was incapable of inventing anything. When his wife still lived, they had somehow managed from day to day, but when she died, all troubles tumbled upon his poor shoulders. He turned and twisted his mind this way and that, but the more he tried, the worse it all seemed.

"I can’t endure this any longer," he told himself. "I will go to the world, and find fortune, for if I stay sat still, we shall all perish.”

Having fed his children with whatever was left, he threw an axe upon his shoulder and went into the wide world. He went, walked and wandered until he got lost in a deep forest. Night caught him unawares: so dark it was that an axe could cleave it. Though he was nigh too weak to walk, he was too fearful to rest, lest a wild beast tore him apart; so he marched on.

Suddenly, something shone in the distance. The man darted after the light, which poured out of a small hut amid the forest. He looked into the window and saw a lit lamp and a burning blaze in the oven, sparks wildly flying, as if some invisible force were clawing the flames.

"It would be good to warm and dry myself by the fire," the man thought; for rain poured on his soaked clothes and thunder began drumming so furiously that the man’s soul nearly leaped out of his body. "Whatever happens, I must enter this hut. Surely, they won’t kill me, and if they start hitting me, I have my axe!"

He knocked once and again: nobody, nothing.

He pressed the door open and crossed the threshold, welcomed by warmth and a pleasant smell. But the home was empty, for wherever he walked, wherever he scoured, not a live soul was to be found.

He dried his clothes by the fire and sat on a bench to warm himself. His belly grumbled to the ever-present smell, and glancing on the table he saw all sorts of food and drink: baked meat, Borscht, chicken, scones and Kvass – everything one could wish for!

He jumped onto the table and started gorging himself, one plate after another, sipping as he chewed right until he was more than stuffed. Then he filled a pipe, fired it up and smoked it like a chimney.

Suddenly he noticed a shaggy black cat staring at him, eyes wide. As he was about to shoo her off, she disappeared.

"I did not see her appear, nor disappear," thought the man. "On my soul, I must have stumbled upon a demoniacal hut."

"Indeed you have…" a voice answered.

The poor man glanced towards the voice and saw a hag whose mere sight sufficed to incite horror: as many wrinkles as ruffles in a Gypsy skirt, and a nose so long and curved that when she bowed her head, it touched the ground. This nose was pure iron, ringing like a bell whenever it hit something.



"So, man, you’ve stumbled upon the Devil’s hut. I’m his mother. Soon my son will come from Hell and take you in hand. And if I tell him you’ve eaten his lunch, wretched you shall be!" To these words the man felt frost course right through his spine and his teeth chatter . "There’s no helping here, you’re lost forever! In Hell, demons will pierce you with pitchforks, give you smouldering tar to drink and bathe you in sulphur every day. A real treat, eh?"

"Mercy!" the poor man begged. "Dearie, help me. I’ve a heap of children, what will be with them? They will all die without a father, without a mother!"

"Go to Hell! That is your place. I could have helped you, yet will not!" she mumbled.

"Darling, help me! I’ll do whatever you like, just don’t let your son take me to Hell!"

"Oh well. I’ll help you so long as you follow my orders. It’s not a hard task"

"I’ll do anything!"

"Then I’ll save you from Hell, and make you rich and happy... if you take me as your wife." When the man heard this, his knees nearly gave way. Lord! To wed to this sabre-nosed hag! What would people say if they saw the witch he brought home?

"So, my lad!" she went on. "You’re poor and you’ve children, but no wife. Take me and you’ll see how well I will treat you and your children. I will bathe them in butter and milk, and beat their backs with a stick. Agreed?"

"Good, I will take you as my wife, but save me from Hell!"

"That’s a deal! And now we have to set out for your home, so we can be there by the morning."

And all at once she ran out like a young lass. Minutes later she returned with a donkey and some sacks. She then led the man to an underground store filled with golden and silver coins, precious stones of every colour, expensive clothes, food and drink. Everything one could desire lay there.

"Dear husband, this is yours and mine," said the hag. "Pack everything that will fit and we will take it to your house."

They put the bags on a wagon that stood ready by the hut. After the man yoked the donkey, they set out on the path and rode the night entire, nodding on the wagon. When it cleared, they had already reached the border of the forest.

"Don’t hurry, husband. Let’s rest here on the green grass."

The man stopped the donkey, they stepped off the wagon, opened the bags and started feasting.

"Eat, my dear, eat!" the hag insisted, choosing the tastiest bits for him. But she also stuffed herself, drank an entire boot of liquor and another yet, soon rolling into a drunken stupor.

The man needed nothing more. He spat on his palms, took his axe and hit the hag’s iron nose so hard it split in twain. The hag screamed, then curled up like a cat on a lap, convulsed once or twice and died. But the sound of the broken nose resonated throughout the forest and reached Hell.

"Ho-ho!" shouted the Devil as he jumped out of Hell. "Someone has broken my mother’s nose! After him!"

Meanwhile, the man spared not one instant, but sprang on the wagon and started flogging the donkey. The poor animal did not know what the matter was, but galloped so wholeheartedly that the wagon was thrown from one side of the road to the other. They were not far from the village when the Devil left the forest and found his mother coiled beside her broken nose. Looking round he saw the wagon and after it he ran! He caught up with the man at the very moment he was turning into his yard.

"Thief, murderer;" shouted the Devil, “your days are counted!"

"Let me go!" snapped back the man. "Here I’m master!"

But the Devil pulled at the man, who stubbornly clung to a pole. Hearing his shrieks, out of the house ran the children: clothes torn, shabby and covered in dirt.

"Oi, oi!" they shouted. "Dad has brought us the Devil! Let us skin him and make moccasins out of his skin!"

"And we’ll have meat to eat!"

"And from his horns we’ll make flutes to play on!"

The Devil, scared stiff, started asking the man: "Leave me be and I won’t harm you ever again."

But the man, seizing the devil's fur, replied:

"I won’t let you go, lest my children go hungry"

Hearing this, the Devil darted and managed to escape, only turning his eyes back when he reached the forest. He clutched his mother and jumped back into Hell. From that day on the man was so rich that he had no equal in the entire province.

The Dance of the Seven Seals

"Повторяется всё?.. Но на каждом шагу всё - иное.
Время кажется кругом, но всё-таки это - спираль.
Наши жизни как нити (а можеть быть, волосы?) Мойры,
Вплетены в плат узорный, растянутый в звёздную даль."
by Victor Rivas-Vicente


A half-moon precise scratches the night sky, the white of an eye in orbit, almost watching the shadowless streets beneath. In this silence of light, a Vixen raps her susurrant milonga on mossy grounds, the ivory of her tail alone resonating with the spy above. But even now, Luna sinks, ever closer to her cunning sister, ruddling to match her fur.

A Cricket drums out sonatas to his caged lovers in Firefly Street, recalling unforgettable moments that were forgotten, and more than that... remembering embraces never given, steps never taken together, warmth nor breath exchanged. His beating wings, trembling, stuttering as unsure lips, forming nonetheless their question to the faint stars: "are you vain enough to think you'll ever occupy my oblivion?"

Meanwhile, a Toad waits. A fair follower, tarrying the tango, his next stride a faithful leap, a flight of fancy into the moist heart of Nox. His presence, unseen yet sensed, directs the dance of petals, whose fall comes with spring. The tanda finished, he hides under a curtain, veiled from sight and feeling, only half-listening to the cadenced footfalls passing nigh his abode.

Further on, a Deer darts, frightened by the melodies of darkness. Confused by the layers upon layers of umbrae, swirling round one another, enveloping her tender feet, guiding them though murky waters. But her pace shreds the sound of night, leaving behind but cinder and ash, scintillating as the levanter rattles them. The southern wind whispers into her ears, pleading with each gentle kiss for her return, for one more dance.

A Swan dreams in the gelid night. Drenched feathers suspended her living weight upon the shroud of water, each vane a frivolous oar, flowing through countless beads of river, endless tears that dropped from the Cygnet's closed eyes. Joyful waters moved through the tips of her wings, sapped into the very essence of the bird. There, as yet another salty drop pried her lid open, she beheld two strangers stand, curious eyes trying to prize her nightly reveries from inky pupils.

Upon a blossom of spring snow, a Nightingale unwraps his voice, brow withered by fervour. His sharp song stabs the crepuscular sky, letting out shapeless cirri from its bloated belly. Their soft tendrils clasp and experience darkens their bods, until heaven's a stage where strati are merely players in a shadow theatre, their original selves hidden 'neath soggy masks. But the Nightingale knows it merely takes some tears to return to our true nature; that, and one drop of dew...

Within a high chamber awaits the seventh beast, Salomé, body veiled but passions borne sharp as claws, cleaving skin and carving flesh just as he embraces her. One step leads the next, curtains fall and the seals are broken, the threads that weave their tapestries unbind and flail about, searching for lifelines, their struggle drowned in her breath. The purls burn one by one within his neck, as her air ignites them, and soon he cannot but lose his head...

Not my fate!

This brief tale I wrote for the AbeBooks 1001-Word Short Story Competition:


Snowy grass cracked under bare feet. Frostbite was the least of his worries as he approached, one step after another, the stream and the verge of death. His right hand held a clot of blood, from which poured onto the snow steaming drops, bright and thick as rubies. In his left, he carried an even heavier weight: a black sack from which came foreign, muffled sounds of agony and anger. The keen pain in his gut grew clearer and his steps slower, but no more were needed. Exhaling a last rasping breath, he turned to gather momentum and threw the sack into the water. The expanding waves echoed the last beats of his heart, as he lay on the frozen shore...

“Not my fate!” gasped Tristan as he awoke from the dream that had haunted him since he returned from his voyage to Persia. During his travels, he had brought back a number of curious artifacts, but none stranger than the sculpture he chanced upon in one of the archaeological sites under his supervision. The statue depicted the head of an Arab, bearded and noble in countenance. The style was unlike any he had seen before, and most certainly unlike the Eastern art with which he'd become familiar. The sculptor had taken pains to etch every single wrinkle on the man’s face and to carve out an intricate web of hair within the man’s beard. The hardness of the stone made the artist’s skill and patience even more extraordinary, since Tristan had been unable even to scratch away a layer of dust to analyse the adamant material.

That morning was perhaps the hundredth time that Tristan examined the sculptured head. This time, his nerves betrayed him; his elbow toppled a cup of tea, which poured itself upon the table, the liquid surging under the severed, stone neck. As Tristan rummaged for tissues in his drawers, he missed the most brisk transformation. The stone absorbed the liquid like a sugar cube, turning into a dense white paste, underneath which a living, severed head lay hidden. It was the sound of speech which first alerted Tristan of this unannounced visitor. The head spoke in a strange dialect of Arabic, which Tristan could not even begin to comprehend. And yet, images slowly weaved themselves into existence within his mind as the Arab uttered his tale.

Tristan learned that before him were the scarce remnants of a man who had been ere known as the Sage Duban. His body could be restored with the aid of a mortal man, who would be rewarded with a gift beyond measure. Ink would be made to flow, fill Duban's veins again, congeal into flesh and bone, and the pulse of painted strokes would set his heart in motion. The pasted powder covering the Arab's head was all that was needed to transform ink into a living pigment.

Overcome by fevered curiosity, Tristan carefully scraped off an ounce of the paste from the Arab's hair, and cast it into his inkpot, twirling the mixture until it turned a sickly gray. As he dipped his plume into the thick paint, the image of the Arab, standing proud before an arabesque wall, filled his mind. His sketch started with the Arab's face, whose expression was taut with impatience. His pen followed his mind’s eye, building a solid body and clothing it with long, embroidered robes. As he traced the edged curve of the scimitar suspended from the Arab’s belt, the memory of his portentous dream returned to him: bright wounds bleeding into crimson snow.

If he was about to draw forth his own death, he began to ponder, he would not fall without a fight. As he finished drawing the sabre, he let his pen stray off course, adding a deep crack at the sword’s hilt. After he cast the final stroke, the paper beneath his pen lit ablaze, exuding a sallow smoke that filled the chamber for an instant and then condensed into the living substance of the Arab, standing proudly before him in the room.

Duban smiled as he spoke again in that eerie tongue, producing a curious looking pastille from within his robe, which he extended to Tristan. "Immortality” was the word reverberating in Tristan’s mind as he took the gift and cautiously chewed it.

With a satisfied grin, Duban rested his left hand on the hilt of his scimitar, but his expression was soon transfixed with pain as he felt the sharp trowel plunged into his abdomen by Tristan. He tumbled back, pulling at the hilt of his sword, but this snapped like a feeble twig as he tried to extract the blade from its sheath. Tristan laughed, proud to have outsmarted the cunning Arab and escaped death by his hand.

As Duban convulsed in agony, barely standing on hands and knees, Tristan approached him, bloody trowel still in hand, ready to finish the deed. "Fate is made" he thought as he grasped the Arab’s hair and twisted his head back to expose the neck. But before he could strike, a bright flash flew before Tristan’s face. The next thing he saw was Duban, holding the bare, curved blade in his bloodied right. Then the entire scene turned and twisted about Tristan as his head collapsed upon the floor, looking onto his own deadened body stretched beside him.

The Arab shouted curses as he slowly crawled about the room, but more than furious, his pained groans were confused and incredulous. “Betrayed!” was the dolorous sound resounding in Tristan’s head. To his own surprise, neither death nor darkness followed the excruciating throe of his beheading. He tried to scream, but only a groan left his lips.

The Arab finally disappeared from sight, but his steps returned. Before he knew it, Tristan’s hair was grasped by a moist hand and tossed into darkness. From within the sack, Tristan heard a door opening, followed by the crackling steps of the Arab upon frosted grass as they made for the river.

Duende Gallego

Trace now a curve, round the peak of O Cebreiro, the passageway into Gaelic Spain, as yet near free from the sully of our faithless hearts, the defunctness of folklore. Its spirits troubled and trickster fays know not our harsh morals but squeeze between our laws as light through alabaster, with mellow mood and gentle gait. This domain of thin fleshed sprites is said to be guarded by Cerberus, whose six great eyes wander the hills each eve as ignes fatui. The wind is wrought by his wild breath, exasperated as he shakes us, but fleas to him, rippling the treetops.

Only the vivid paints of the landscape brand the permeant lust. Immortal green, vehement violet and ardent cerulean, the passions pressed, egressing from these ethereal channels saturate our carnate world with what the gitanos call "duende", goblin or ghost. This force manifests too in contours we too can comprehend, but rarely see. Bearded gnomes buried in forest bulwarks shouldering your path, their rooted beards palpating the air, seeking your sudor. Dead, crusted trolls amidst the countless broken trees and crumpled leaves idling about, but his right arm reared, its hand vacant, more than empty, hollow, a porthole through his palm voiding our vision. Rustling, restless hobgoblins hiding in the bushes revert to the verd guise of great lizards, which as quickly turn to air. Smell it now. You'll catch the scent of burning hair, the self-styled torches of minute elves, baits for the giant moths they gallop, the flame a carrot, the shaft a cane. Listen to yours as it hits the ground, its echoes tell of tunnels running deep beneath, harbouring impish armies feeding on sulphur and lime, but field mice too and pilgrim rods when these abound.

Each year they grow extinct, as their ambient is divested. Just as we fall as flies without our oxygen, they cannot breathe an air that has no silence, absence of speech for its own sake. We're used to give quiet to the dead, but we should give it also to the living. Indeed, it is their gift to us, for without stillness we've no soul.

Enanos de viña

Take a map of the Iberian peninsula and trace a line between Pamplona and Burgos. Along that trace you shall find a vinery entrenched upon a modest hill, flaunting a militant, ruined manse, surrounded by silent troops camouflaging their tanned skins in green garbs, their veins prominent and virid. Hush is all there is to hear.

Legend tells these planted folk were not always rooted thus, though the barky commands of their master kept them nigh and fast in place. It was from the tenebrous eyes of the house that he blustered his vociferations at his then slaves in blood and serfs in law, a rather extended family beaten and pressed into thralldom. These his "children" were each hardened more by the relentless leather of his many belts, each one tardily eroding with their sweat the sturdy hide, than by their crushing labour. It was their yells that fecundated the soil each day and night, concocting the sorely delicious grapes that erupted as bodied fireworks into the clusters hanging from their sinewy gallows.

For three handful years the residence drew wealth from their spirited wines, whose taste was sought out by ecclesiasts and nobility, who sought to drink a grape that matched, severally, their habit and blood in quality and colour both. But as the lord aged, his grasp grew weaker, and thus his seal softened, started melting as did the flesh under his skin. As all tyrants, he was disposed of subtly and shamefully, rather than by much deserved violence, by daily doses of arsenic into his chalice, one stone of it in hefty weight across some years that did not show decay until his demise. Indeed they say the poison restored his strength and shifted his aspect from great proud villain to a crooked dwarf, hardening from the innards out; his tongue turned a plank, insensitive to the ratsbane delivered to him in ever greater portions. Die he did at last, at the dinner table, choking on the clumped solute clotting his throat, but not before he gargled through a curse, as Spaniards do, to each relative thrice removed.

Removed they were that eve, before supper, afore they had even time to take his corpse from the table, though try they did. Yet he was grounded in his place, his feet bound to the floor, his hands clutching the woody legs at the table's head, and his own caput twisted over the back of his oaken throne. Their slaver dead, they fell prey to custom instead - without fail, to work the field until the fall of dusk - and when a storm contorted the sky's brow and pushed forth its million tears, they did not take refuge within their quarters, but laboured on until their knees sank deep in mud, as did their hands. Not one emerged, nor knew the house again. 'Tis said the master now eats alone.

Spark of sight

They pushed me forward again then pulled me back, their hands twisting round my garb and their faces contorted into smirks as we walked slowly down the narrow corridor. It was the last hour of their fun, each guard one paw of that great cat playing a last game with the mouse. Presently, they pressed me onto one side of the corridor, forcing me to grate my skin against the rough, rocky stones making up the indelicately built wall, leaving a trace, perhaps a penultimate message of my existence.

My last vestige perchance should be the spurt of blood that'd follow the fall of the long, Roman cavalry sword, severing any insignificant obstacles along its path to the wooden altar, usually but air and neck, but sometimes shoulders and jaws as well. The blood of this sacrifice should placate Mars and the fulfilment of a deserved fate should please Fortuna; in fact, all other gods should be as glad for they are jealous and love to see us grieve. They'd force me to face the gathered crowd, and return their expectant watch with meek expression, and I would do so, but not because of them.

There were those who thought me a saint and would expect me to be a cephalophore, but had I been, I would not have the time or self-indulgence to cradle my head in my arms and take it where I'd have it rest until the last night of sleep. I would rather it stayed here. There were also those who thought, or knew rather, that I was merely a charlatan and would, at most, stand to walk a few paces for the enjoyment of most, and then drop upon the ground, while the last beats of my heart served not my will but bloody spectacle.

A doorway to my left, leading into one of the many living catacombs, gave me respite from the pain and an instant to remember my happy days of fraud. I was an opportunist, having come to the City unknown to any, I used my charm and some well placed gold coins to lead many to believe that I was an instrument of God, one that served men that is, what foolish thought! After they saw me 'cure' a leper, a limp and a blind, they all accepted that I had been taught by Mark the disciple himself. I took to helping those in need, for a small fee to aid my one-man church, by having them believe that their ills were gone, and they felt better for it, I feel no shame for serving such a noble cause. Those whose ills I could not help, I told they had to pray to spare their sins, which had wrought their condition, and took my fee. But worthy works as these can but sustain themselves a week before vile tongues start plaguing them, and not three days had passed before I found a nobler employment.

I learned of a recent Imperial decree that held men from tying bond with their mistresses, because in troubled times the free make better soldiers than those who as Samson are bound to the two pillars of love and passion. I must differ with the Emperor, as what I learned in these the last of my life is that the caged fight better for their freedom. With that thought on my mind, I twisted out of my guards' distracted clutches and thrust at the neck of the elder one, choking his breath. The younger one was lost but a mere moment before he slammed my face against the opposite wall and left me lying on the floor as he turned to attend to his companion. I did not wait to draw breath again, but had my shaky hand draw out from folds of clothing a piece of parchment, the other found a gap that could conceal its sight and both helped slide the one into the other. Moments after I felt several kicks breaking my ribs, and did not mind them, each part of me that broke gave me a moment more to live, and to remember. Besides, it was time for pain to conjure the start of painful memory.

The current law served as manure for good black market, particularly for one with my current reputation, which I soon used to bind kin spirits into married love. The ceremonies were small and modest, as were the temple and wooden altar, which was filled with gashes left by heavy knives, as it must have served as cooking board for the former residents. I knew how to perform my rites well, having seen wedlocks during my varied travels, knew by true heart all the parables and sermons quoted from Mark's and Christ's lips, though they be of my own invention. My merchantry of love was a happy affair, and a faithful one indeed, for though I loved the sound that charitable coins made within my humble purse, I also felt a kind of pride when I saw my patrons leave, cautious but joyous. To my misfortune, my good deeds were not unnoticed by the Law, which eventually knocked at the door of my humble abode in the shape of two good soldiers, whose callous faces glared with contempt. They took me rather unceremoniously from my temple, carrying me off to the prison where I would spend the rest of my short days, holding my arms as we walked just as the prison guards were doing after having forced me to lift my carcass off the floor. My broken nose was filled with blood, barring my ability to breathe, making me feel as I did upon my first rendezvous with my jailer and interrogator.

My name means 'valour' yet I professed little of it when I spoke with my detainer, a man of robust frame displaying a slender, bony portrait. Yet weaker than his visage was his patience, which was exhausted after the merest deviation from the stony path of his direct truth, never had I met a man less interested in the landscapes of imagination. As we progressed, the path we took became shaper and sharper on my figurative feet, and most painful of all was that his truth was not mine. It was not only my mind's soles that bled that day, but so did much of the rest of my common body after the fondle of his salted whip. I suffered first for my want to lie, then suffered for my will to speak the truth and only was relieved when I reached his compromise. In the course of but a few hours, he proved to me that I was priest, that I had for my filthy faith broken the law of the true Gods, and that my head would soon adorn the front façade of the Emperor's palace, but not before I was humiliated by twenty more salt-soaked lashes every day, for every single day I had defied the Law. My jailer then called after his daughter, who was to clean me. Salted water. There was as much of that flowing from my eyes as there was blood flowing on the floor, a little more of either would do no harm, I thought.

And then she entered, looking past me as she held a piece of crimson cloth and a decanter of man made tears. The sister of Aquarius. She delayed at the threshold but for a moment and moved closer until she was nearly by my side and stopped again, she looked away and harked. Then she was by me, feeling my arms and legs with her soft hand, the clotted, moist textile followed suit, burning away the reprieve that her warm skin brought, but not completely.

A man loves most when he is in greatest pain, another reason to turn yet again on my faithful guards, but my strength fails me now and they carry me forward, letting me drag my disobedient feet along the ground. Their hiss against the sand reminded me of the sound of her coming to my cell after my daily penance. I never saw her come, but with eyes closed and arms about my knees I heard her move and lapse until she was by me. It was always her first caress that made me open my eyes, that made speak, that softened me within yet hardened me without and made me neglect her latter touch.

'What do you listen to when you wash me?'
'I hear the wind pass through the cracks in the stones. I listen when I cannot touch it with my hands.'
'Do you ever look at them? The cracks.'
'No, never. I pass them without looking, only feeling them, when I come here. I touch them all by chance. They meet my left as I come here. Goodbye.'

The wash had finished and off she went, to go away and explore the other side of the wall, as I watched her trailing along the passage on, where my sight could not reach. It was my turn now to trail, as we neared the exit of the prison, and I could see the outline of the plaza and hear the murmur of the multitude gathered outside. She murmured too, sometimes, in the last days of her sweet visits.

'Who do you speak with?'
'With the Gods.'
'What do you say?'
'I ask them to let me see the wind.'
'And they?'
'They say that you too cannot see it, so there is little hope. But I will ask again.'
'How many times have you asked them this?'
'It's not how many, it is how much. Always. Father says this is why they won't let me see all else. You are finished, goodbye.'

Nearly finished, I counted but three days before today. I set myself to tear away a piece of cloth from my vile garments and washed it three times in the little water I was meant to drink, and rubbed it against a smooth stone that I found in the corner of my cell. It took me a whole day to fashion of it a parchment of sorts, a dirty yellow in colour, but light enough to be inscribed with my ruddy ink. This ink is now dripping slowly onto the ardent sand, and I can hear the clamour of the populace, demanding me to write them something epic and less dragging, and they shall have it soon. The altar's ready to receive all of my words, except the ones that matter.

I see her now in the crowd, staring intently, bluntly blind but keenly hearing all my thoughts, I feel. She will know where to look, to find my last words before the death of love. Mine. And if she finds, I promise she will have my last spark of sight.

'The wind is yours only to see.
From your Valentinus'

Вий

Eyelash... a gentle name for that squat, stout gnome of root-like, twisted limbs clothed in earth and mud. Sinewy and knotty were his hands, as an old man's; pigeon-toed his feet, as an infant's; and heavy his steps, as those of a man who knew life well. His face a sculpted iron mask forged, it seemed, plainly on his very face. His eyes were more than closed, transcended by his long, mighty eyelids reaching the very ground, whose lashes swept the floor before him.
Fear not his restless, squirming metal visage. Fear not the clutch of his death-curled fingers. Fear not even his fiendish retinue of abominations and ghasts. When his weighty lids are lifted, when these leaden curtains are cast aside, the two windows revealed show not the secular threat of death, but dread of a far more exquisite nature, as that envisaged through Erich Zann's garret window. His sight finds, reaches, snuffs out the soul: just as the candlelight dies in the pressure of two fingers, so does the flame of existence disintegrate under the lashes of his eyes.

p.s. These paragraphs are inspired in Gogol's short story 'Viy' and Lovecraft's 'The Music of Erich Zann'