Methodius Buslaev. The Scroll of Desires. Дмитрий Емец

my hearts? Take care, Juliatta, take care, little orphan! Look after Ares, it’s hard for him. Ares suffers, indeed I feel for him. It’s all the cursed memory! And you, Methy, be healthy! Here, I know, trouble will come with such speed that you’ll be in a terrible mess!”

      “What trouble?” Methodius asked. “A-a-and, my dear, one immediately sees how green you are! Who asks Death about the future! If I answer you, then I’ll have to cut you down! So, interested?” Mamzelkina glanced at Met so pointedly that he even stepped back. A hot and empty abyss blazed in Aida Plakhovna’s small eyes. “No, don’t!” he said in a hurry. “As you wish! Suit yourself, paradise saved! Ciao, clear-eyes, and you know to watch over your eidos. Perhaps your eidos isn’t better than others’. I’ve transferred many of them, I know the price of each… But indeed awfully powerful forces stand behind it, your eidos, they do, they do… Here’s like in the casino: now and then, the seven is so bound to the eight that even an ace can’t butt in! Clear?” “Clear.”

      The old woman smirked. “I love intelligence. Are you indeed intelligent?” “Yes.” “That’s nice. And look after your Daphne! Indeed a painfully bright girlie – lest something doesn’t work out. Because of her. And… with her… Understand me?” It seemed to Methodius there was a hint – a very clear hint – in the old woman’s words. But to what extent her prophecy had to do with the near future – this he did not know. Buslaev felt that everything was not so simple here. Oh, how complex!

      Aida Plakhovna left, dragging her legs. Her dry, efficient cough reached them from the outside, and almost immediately somewhere on an adjacent street the siren of an ambulance howled heartrendingly. Whether these events were connected, Methodius did not know. Although he would not be surprised to find out that the old woman started her work while she was still here. True pros of the necro-department never stop working for a moment. Their scythe shoots up and falls down ten times a minute.

      After the departure of the industrious old woman, Methodius and Julitta remained in reception together. Julitta, on whom Mamzelkina dumped a pile of parchments requiring sorting, was again in a bad mood. After the succubae and agents, she, according to her own expression, took a long time restoring the acid-alkaline balance in her soul. Moreover, she had the usual date in the evening and had to scrape on the walls and gather together at least a bit of good emotion. Not wanting to be like a sponge taking in her dark mood, Methodius, for something to do, set off for the room adjacent to reception.

      This was a tight and gloomy nook by the stairs; the furniture there was only a sofa so decrepit that Methodius would not be surprised to find out that Noah himself slept on it in his ark. Something was gnashing in the dark, exactly a key turning in a lock, and a hoarse voice said, “The old sinner Protagor said, ‘Man is the measure of all things: of things which are, that they are, and of things which are not, that they are not.’ With these words he wanted to say, ‘If a man believes in the gods, then they exist, if he doesn’t, then they don’t.’”

      “Who’s here? I ask: who’s here?” Methodius nervously asked. He did not receive an answer, but wings started to flap, and Buslaev realized that Ares’ ancient prophetic raven was talking to him. The raven was so old that its feathers had come off in some places and dull pink skin peeped out. Now and then Methodius was surprised that the raven was still alive. Neither Ares nor Julitta ever fed it and generally, they extremely rarely recalled its existence. However, Methodius knew precisely that the raven was with them even in the lighthouse.

      His eyes gradually grew accustomed to the semidarkness. Methodius saw that the door of the cage was wide open. The raven was sitting on the back of the sofa and looking about askance. “Pour some water for you perhaps?” Buslaev proposed. The raven ruffled up indifferently. Methodius did not know whether the bird understood human speech or thoughtlessly repeated phrases heard sometime long ago. He sat in the semidarkness, listening as the large bird stirred in the dusk, sat for nearly half an hour, thinking about something vague. At first in his thoughts was Irka, whom he had treated rather poorly, not visiting her for a long time, and then finally Daph with her enormous white wings supplanted her.

      When Methodius was going to return to reception, the raven suddenly pecked the back of the sofa and said, “Into the cloth of centuries is interweaved this parable. She was a guard, and she threw onto his neck the lace with the wings, not knowing that she has to fall in love with him and share immortality with him. She did not know that the moronoid world would begin to draw her in, so that at some point in infinity hearts and fates will unite. So let the flute play!”

      Methodius quickly took a step towards the raven. “What are you talking about? Daph? What does it mean?” he nervously asked. However, the bird had already become silent again and was only indifferently walking along the back of the sofa. Whether this parable was from the past or the future, whose cloth was not yet woven, it was impossible to understand. After struggling with the raven for about ten minutes, Methodius nevertheless secured from it the next phrase, “He said: Dhul-Qarnayn! Gog and Magog are doing harm to this land; shall we pay tribute to you so that you would set up a barrier between us and them?” the bird said hoarsely, finally baffling Methodius. Buslaev angrily turned and left.

      He expected Julitta alone in reception, but during his absence there appeared Daphne and Tukhlomon, having already had time to forget that he had gotten it on the nose with the press, returned for some reason. “Strange that I did not hear them come in,” thought Methodius, turning around to look at the closet. “Interesting, did Daph hear how I tried to find out about her from the raven? Although, perhaps not.”

      Daph removed the overalls from the cat, leaving only the collar, and now the naked and terrible Depressiac, after stretching its wings, flew around reception. Occasionally it hung onto the heavy velvety drapes or with furious mewing ripped with its razor-sharp claws into one of the spying pictures. Julitta, in her leisure fond of shooting with the pistol at the pictures or practising throwing a dagger at them, treated this vandalism with moderate benevolence.

      Tukhlomon was hanging around Daph and whining monotonously, entreating her to let him have her wings. The agent’s face was twisting every which way and changing hundreds of sugary expressions per minute. The rather bald top of his head gleamed. The trimmed sideburns looked very appropriate. Over all he was so annoying, like he had been put together by sweaty hands. “I don’t need the wings forever! I’ll just keep them for a while! Pretty please! My cherub! How much does it cost you to gladden a sick old man? I implore you! Clearly a noble lady! Please be so kind! I thirst for Light! I’m tired of Gloom, the poor old man! I’ll kiss the hem of your dress! Smooch-smooch-smooch! Darn, a thread got stuck in my teeth! Don’t let the old soul perish!” he repeated, crawling around on his knees. Daph shook her head. She could very well imagine what happened with those guards of Light, who out of good will loaned their wings to agents. “I want to go to Eden! To sing in the paradise choir, to gobble apples of knowledge and spit out the seeds! At least let me understand, what Light is, huh? I yearn for Light!!! Pretty, pretty please!”

      “Stop! Stop taunting!” Daph got mad. “Listen, Light! He never stops! Use your knee and give it to him in the nose!” Julitta, tired of listening to Tukhlomon whining, advised her. On hearing the advice, the agent helpfully started to move his nose up to Daph. “I beg you, light of my soul, please don’t trouble yourself! With a knee, or a leg, may even pull my hair out, or trample on my fingers! And if you desire to shoot me with a machine gun, I’ll even bring one! Everything for the fine noble lady! Only give me the wings, huh? Uncle Tukhlomon is so wretched, so unlucky! A sin to refuse him, big sin! To refuse Tukhlomon is the same as smacking an orphan with a crowbar!” he started to sweet-talk, touchingly puffing up his cheeks.

      Realizing that there was no other way of shaking him off, Daphne decisively reached for the flute. On noticing this, the agent began to crawl away quickly. He did not fear a crushed nose or other damages, but here it was a bad joke with the flute of a guard of Light. A single unique maglody could convert him into a puddle of malodorous plasticine. “Okay, okay, Uncle Tukhlomon is leaving! Only, I beg you, no need for music! I have weak eardrums! I’m not dancing today!” he whimpered, on all fours running behind Methodius and using him as a cover.

      Methodius greeted Daph. She answered him dryly, looking to the side. It seemed to Buslaev that