mischievous heart, a pale countenance and a lisping tongue was walking right up behind him. Under the wave, hundreds of hollows and thousands of depths had entered it and were increasing with passion; that’s why its heart was mischievous. Within the wave, hundreds of sables had joined hands with thousands of shadows; that’s why its countenance was pale. On top of the wave, hundreds of voices and thousands of echoes were screaming to the point of choking; that’s why it lisped. The wave was washing gently over his toes, sweetly tickling whatever it touched.
Timofei Ankidinov was aware that his friend was about to freeze. Because freezing was that kind of thing. A death that didn’t end. Not the kind whose progress is punctuated, nor the kind that one can come to prepared; neither an end to life nor the beginning of another time…only, but only a flowing away into the distance, from here into the distance…because freezing was that kind of thing; that is, to flow, that is not to stop while flowing, that is to flow as far as being unable to stop. Without threshold, without stages, without inconvenience. And because it was fluid in this way, it was the only death that drew a person’s blood without injuring them. It would spread a warm feeling of consolation concerning life’s final puzzle with its icy palms. On top of this, it believed what was believed about it. Freezing was a death that was fundamentally denial, and rebelled against its own existence. It whispered softly into its victim’s ear. With delight it would tell stories that were woven from lies. Then, it would suddenly fall quiet, and try to leave with its story only half told. The victim would hurriedly embrace the warm consolation spread by the icy palms; he would not give it permission to leave. Freezing was the only death that asked its victim’s consent.
Freezing was the only death that made one smile as it killed.
The sailor was smiling peacefully.
Timofei Ankidinov was watching him anxiously.
While this was happening on the shore, a little further away, in an overturned basket, a beardless youth was facing the most difficult test of his life.
The beardless youth was attached to a native tribe, and had been waiting in the basket for all of three days. For all of three days he had been combing this blind darkness. He would not have said that he missed the light. Just as a person would not want to eat something new in order not to lose the taste of something he had eaten, he didn’t want to see anything new in order that his eyes not lose the image of the last thing he’d seen.
The last image his eyes had seen was that of his elder sister’s lifeless body. It was stretched full-length on the ground. Her very long, jet-black hair waved in the wind that rose from the frozen ground. The whole tribe was in mourning. They didn’t even have a single shaman. The elders thought that the migrating soul of the shaman might take its place in her brother. The look in the boy’s eyes was like that of a sable familiar with death. They were as black as a sable’s eyes. Looking deeply into his pupils, it was clear that he could be the new shaman. But no one knew yet if he was the right person. In order to know it was necessary to test him.
Once the boy learned that he was to be tested, he would run away from people and avoided asking questions. At night, before leaving the village with the others, he cut off a lock of his sister’s hair, and ate a slice of her flesh. This was the last thing that had entered his stomach, which was now gathering together like an empty sack, becoming smaller as it did so, and, as it grew smaller, gnawing at the emptiness within him.
Drums were played along the entire route. Later, when they reached the shore, they lit a huge fire and arranged themselves around it; women on one side and men on the other. The boy, next to the fire, dove into the body of his mother, who was beside herself, and whose body was as tense as a
Timofei Ankidinov was aware that his friend was about to freeze. Because freezing was that kind of thing. A death that didn’t end. Not the kind whose progress is punctuated, nor the kind that one can come to prepared; neither an end to life nor the beginning of another time…only, but only a flowing away into the distance, from here into the distance…because freezing was that kind of thing; that is, to flow, that is not to stop while flowing, that is to flow as far as being unable to stop. Without threshold, without stages, without inconvenience. And because it was fluid in this way, it was the only death that drew a person’s blood without injuring them. It would spread a warm feeling of consolation concerning life’s final puzzle with its icy palms. On top of this, it believed what was believed about it. Freezing was a death that was fundamentally denial, and rebelled against its own existence. It whispered softly into its victim’s ear. With delight it would tell stories that were woven from lies. Then, it would suddenly fall quiet, and try to leave with its story only half told. The victim would hurriedly embrace the warm consolation spread by the icy palms; he would not give it permission to leave. Freezing was the only death that asked its victim’s consent.
Freezing was the only death that made one smile as it killed.
The sailor was smiling peacefully.
Timofei Ankidinov was watching him anxiously.
While this was happening on the shore, a little further away, in an overturned basket, a beardless youth was facing the most difficult test of his life.
The beardless youth was attached to a native tribe, and had been waiting in the basket for all of three days. For all of three days he had been combing this blind darkness. He would not have said that he missed the light. Just as a person would not want to eat something new in order not to lose the taste of something he had eaten, he didn’t want to see anything new in order that his eyes not lose the image of the last thing he’d seen.
The last image his eyes had seen was that of his elder sister’s lifeless body. It was stretched full-length on the ground. Her very long, jet-black hair waved in the wind that rose from the frozen ground. The whole tribe was in mourning. They didn’t even have a single shaman. The elders thought that the migrating soul of the shaman might take its place in her brother. The look in the boy’s eyes was like that of a sable familiar with death. They were as black as a sable’s eyes. Looking deeply into his pupils, it was clear that he could be the new shaman. But no one knew yet if he was the right person. In order to know it was necessary to test him.
Once the boy learned that he was to be tested, he would run away from people and avoided asking questions. At night, before leaving the village with the others, he cut off a lock of his sister’s hair, and ate a slice of her flesh. This was the last thing that had entered his stomach, which was now gathering together like an empty sack, becoming smaller as it did so, and, as it grew smaller, gnawing at the emptiness within him.
Drums were played along the entire route. Later, when they reached the shore, they lit a huge fire and arranged themselves around it; women on one side and men on the other. The boy, next to the fire, dove into the body of his mother, who was beside herself, and whose body was as tense as a
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