Priestess Itfut. Вадим Зеланд

a ring mumbling some kind of mantra.

      Mana-veda, mana-sana, mana-una, mana-mana.

      Mana-oma, ata-mana, mana-okha, mana-dana.

      From time to time they would stop, turn to the center of the circle and shout out.

      “Synthetic maid! Eat heo!” Then they would resume their sinister circle dance.

      “Mana-oga, makha-mana, mana-osha, mana-shana.”

      The ground around the pole was desert-like and stony. Not far from the pillar a large fire burned, and a little further off, Matilda could make out primitive-looking buildings. The sky glowed with a dim, gray light but there was no sun. The overall picture was completely colorless, like a black and white film. Against this background, Matilda’s vivid figure looked like an alien from some distant world. As the reader may recall, Matilda had turquoise hair, and a blue painted face and she was wearing a dark-green jumpsuit, pink platforms and a bow of the same color attached to her lower back.

      The unfortunate diva was in a state of shock. She could not understand where she was or what was happening. Even worldly-wise priestess Itfut would no doubt have paled finding herself in such a situation. What was the poor thing to feel, as one accustomed to pampering, home comforts and universal adoration? In other circumstances, she would have complained in her usual manner: “Everything is horrible, very, very ho-o-rrible!” But this was not the time to be capricious. For some reason there was only one thought going through her mind at that moment and oddly enough that thought was ‘now my bow will get squashed.’ This was very strange indeed taking into account what had happened to her and what awaited her now.

      Meanwhile, the savages, who had spent plenty of time in a circle mumbling began arguing amongst themselves over what to do next with their captive. Some cried, “We’ll f’y heo!“

      Others, “No, b’ew heo!”

      They appeared either not to be able to pronounce the letter ‘r’, or not to want to because it wasn’t just that they spoke with an uvular ‘r’; they swallowed the sound instead. Far from being comical, this created a creepy effect.

      They continued arguing huddled in a group before splitting into two groups which started yelling at each other.

      “F’y!”

      “B’ew!”

      The argument eventually escalated into a messy brawl.

      The savages (or whoever else they were, as their faces were all the same, gray, genderless, lifeless and waxlike), were fighting not for life but for death. They had no weapons, but they made use of the stones lying at their feet. Soon, they were no longer standing but rolling around in the dust tearing their robes to shreds. It turned out that they had no hair.

      Matilda observed the wild medley with horror and understood that even if they all killed each other, bound to the post unable to move her arms or legs, she stood no chance. She wanted to scream but there was a lump in her throat, and anyway, what was the point? There was not anyone else from whom she could expect help. This was not a dream.

      Who knows how long the mindless mayhem would have continued had it not been for a powerful, deep sound like a trumpet. As if waking up, the gray numbskulls picked themselves up reluctantly and still staggering a little managed to arrange themselves in a circle around the pole. Dirty, their clothes in tatters, they once again started stamping their feet in the same circle dance, murmuring what might have been spells or mantras.

      Sometime later, as if on cue, they stopped, turned to the center of the circle and angrily shouted in one voice as if they had come to agreement.

      “B’ew heo!”

      And having spoken these words as one, they began running about. Some threw logs into the flames of the fire. Others dragged a huge cauldron that had appeared as if out of nowhere. A third group leapt closer to Matilda, stuck out their tongues, and stared right at her, shaking their heads and mumbling. They shook and they mumbled and then they shouted.

      “Synthetic maid!” All the others joined in unanimously. “Eat heo! Eat!”

      Then, mumbling, baring their teeth and sticking out their tongues, they untied their victim and dragged her towards with fire.

      It made for a truly surreal scene. Nothing like this could ever happen in reality. A girl with a doll-like appearance and a pink bow… treated with such foul intent… No, it was all too unreal. And yet, it was actually happening.

      In this moment, Matilda, who was scared to death just seconds before, suddenly regained her self-control as sometimes happens to a person who, condemned to death, finally has nothing to lose and realizes that things cannot get any worse. Gathering all her strength, Matilda began to shout.

      “Get lost, you fools! Get your filthy hands off my bow!”

      She cried out instinctively not understanding why she should shout these phrases specifically or why she should be concerned about a thing so trifling, when she was about to breathe her last. All she felt was an intense desire to be left alone. She also noticed that this desire was accompanied by an unusually wearying feeling in the area of her lower back. Whether the sensation arose because of the bow or for some other reason, Matilda was suddenly aware that the feeling was giving her an inexplicable power over the gray breed.

      They stopped dead in their tracks and stared at her in complete amazement. Matilda freed herself from their clutches and even managed to push some of them away. She knew intuitively that she must not run, so she froze in expectation of what might happen next. ‘Anything but run,’ thought the diva, who was ready for whatever might happen next, experiencing the same weary feeling in her back.

      “Get away from me, you freaks!”

      The freaks did in fact start to back off, making sounds of astonishment.

      “Did she say the lette’?”

      “Is she allowed?”

      “Is she mana?”

      “Does she have full?”

      “She can say the lette’!”

      The gray ones huddled together whispering occasionally casting glances at the diva who tried as best she could to assume a posture of pride and dignity. Then, they gathered round Matilda nonetheless keeping a wary distance. One of them took a step forward and asked, “Who are you?”

      Matilda answered more calmly, realizing that the immediate threat had passed, at least for now.

      “I’m a glamorous diva-a-a! And who are you, freaks?”

      Then she stopped short, as if forgetting for a moment where she was, and all about the freaks, who she probably should not be insulting considering that they had almost boiled her alive. ‘Where am I?’ was the huge question that naturally followed. The freaks, meanwhile, paid no attention and began shouting again.

      “The synthetic maid!”

      “She can say the lette’!”

      “Why are you calling me synthetic maid?” asked Matilda.

      They silently exchanged glances. The question clearly confused them.

      “We don’t know.”

      “Ok, and who are you?”

      “We glam’ocks!” The grays clamored and interrupted one another. “We ‘ead gibb’ish! We ain’t allowed to ‘ead the lette’!

      It’s aboo! It’s aboo!”

      “I see,” said Matilda. “You are glamrocks and you read gibberish.”

      “Full! Full!” They shouted noisily. “She can say ou' name! She can!”

      It would appear that the alien stranger’s ability to freely pronounce the letter ‘r’ and experience no terrible consequence as a result had made a huge impression on the savages. The grays discussed it amongst themselves again, after which, one of them stepped forward with a question.

      “A you mana?”

      “I’m Matilda, get it?” said the diva.

      “Mana-tida!