Chapter 2. «Riadag»
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It was painful. Not bad, but just "pulling," like after a good (or even immoderate) workout, when muscles and ligaments are well loaded so that they are sure to remind you of themselves the next day. Or, as in the course of the flu, when the pain settles in the joints, and you try not to cough because the unpleasant wave of pain spreads throughout the body.
"Oh," Elena said.
Or rather, she wanted to say that because all that came out of her throat was a hoarse hiss. She was thirsty. Very thirsty.
She was lying flat on her back, something soft under her back, but not like a mattress. And it was wet, enough to make her jacket wet. The sun was shining in her right eye, but her left one was blind. Lena blinked. She cried out louder because her parched throat stubbornly refused to let any sound pass through it. A belated cramp went through her body, her head bobbed, and her left eye was clear. It was just covered by a leaf that had flown away from the jolt.
"Uh-oh..." the girl exhaled, sitting up. It was surprisingly easy, but the sudden movement made her head fuzzy, her eyes blacken, and Lena tumbled back down. Soft and damp smacked the back of her head. A thought flashed, natural and stupid at the same time my God, what will happen to her hair now... The second time the girl sat down more carefully so the movement from horizontal to partially vertical position went smoothly. Well ... relatively calm. Because, reasoning sensibly, everything was wrong and abnormal.
First of all, Elena made sure she wasn't a ghost. She got to her unsteady feet, staggering and looking around with a frantic look. It was as if an invisible counter was clicking in her head, flipping her knuckles, counting out wild, incongruous things.
Day. Not night, as it should have been. The sun... the wrong sun. It was high enough, almost at the zenith, but the light was like before sunset. And there was not a single cloud in the sky, dull and unexpressive, as when photographing with a neutral gray filter.
Fall...? Fall?!
Lena was thrown into a hollow whose high edges blocked the view, but even a cursory glance was enough to see that the thick layer of decayed leaves and the withered grass, twisting in long hard coils like barbed wire, did not correspond to the end of May. It definitely fell here. Wherever this "here" was located.
"God..." muttered Lena, just to do something.
The simplest explanation was that some force had taken her and transported her... somewhere. In a fantastic or magical way. So "here" is fall, the sun is inhuman, and the sky is abnormal.
Only there are no miracles. And people don't transport themselves to God knows where.
It doesn't just happen that way.
It doesn't happen...
Tears welled up in her eyes, and a sour lump came to her throat. Lena felt a wave of hot trembling come over her heart, and panic overwhelmed her already slightly clouded mind. Her fingers trembled uncontrollably, clutching together like a bird's paws. But the far corner of her mind remained calm, cold, calculating. Like a staff officer, the only one who keeps his composure in the chaos of defeat. And that corner whispered in the voice of the late Grandfather:
It's hysterical. It's going to kill you.
Lena sank to her knees, or rather collapsed, bumping painfully even through the stale carpet. On a hunch, she grasped the sleeve with her teeth, stifling the howl that burst from her chest, so much so that she clamped her skin even through the tight denim. The howl of animal terror was howling through the fabric, burning her hand, and it seemed endless. But finally, the air supply in her chest ran out, and the girl inhaled deeply, sobbing and dropping tears.
She felt better. Just a little, but better. Everything hurt now, including her bruised knees, her bitten forearm, and her eyes, which felt like they were being pumped from inside by a bicycle pump. But at least the desire to howl in deathly hopeless longing, smashing her head to the ground, was slowly creeping away, coiling up like the rings of a deadly snake.
Strangely enough, the screaming went on, pounding in her ears and the painful vibration in her eardrums. Lena shook her head. She ran her fingers over her temples, still trembling, but the scream was still in her head. And then the girl realized it wasn't her voice. Quite nearby, someone was being beaten. Or, more likely, being brutally murdered.
Lena had never seen a man die. Even Grandfather passed away quietly in his sleep. But her heightened senses, her ancient instincts, told her that only someone who sees his death with his own eyes could scream so terribly, so desperately. The scream was cut short. It faded quickly, dissolving into the heavy air, saturated with fear and uncertainty. Now Elena could distinguish other sounds, which multiplied like an avalanche. Either it wasn't just the sun that was wrong here, or ... someone had just stopped being careful. Or some other miracle had happened.
There was a thud, a muffled, chugging sound, but with a solid note at the same time. Her memory told her at once. In the movies, horses stepped over like that. Not on the move but shuffling from foot to foot or hoof to hoof. The crackling of wood, as if something was being broken, rather diligently. A cry, soft and monotone, as if a hungry and battered puppy. It sounded more like a child's sobbing than anything else.
Now Elena was really scared. Sincerely, to the most hidden corners of her soul. Because children don't cry like that. A child's voice doesn't have that hopeless, wistful doom. And the fact that the girl could not see what was happening, perceiving only in sound, everything seemed even more eerie.
It wasn't just the sound, though. A heavy smell floated on the waves of the light breeze. The hollow was too leeward of the screaming and crying, people. That was good because it made it harder to smell the girl sheltering inside. And it was bad because the smell was unpleasant. It wasn't unpleasant, but... it didn't smell good, it didn't smell good at all. It was the way a kitchen smelled on a hot day when a lot of meat was about to be cooked.
From somewhere, Elena realized it was the smell of blood that spilled abundantly and recently.
Quietly, again the subconscious whispered the voice of the Grandfather.
Lie very quietly.
The old man used to call her Mouse as a child. And like a little mouse, Lena curled up in the rotted leaves, wishing she could just burrow into the ground like a real field rodent.
And outside, it hit hard and heavy, like a cleaver hitting a chopping block. After a brief pause, there was a clang, a creaking sound, as if a knife had been used on a large sharpening stone. Voices began to be heard. Close, very close. Or not so close...
It was only now that Elena noticed how quiet the neighborhood was. There was none of the noise that usually haunts human beings wherever they go. Complete silence, with only the occasional breeze rustling the grasses. And that made every sound resound far away, gliding over the gray earth.
"Far a bheil i?" A deep male voice asked demandingly.
The girl heard no answer, only soft mumbling interspersed with muffled sobs. It was as if someone was answering quickly, hurriedly, trying not to anger the interrogator.
"Riadag," the voice said. Almost calmly. Confident, but with a touch of irritation. As if the man was visibly angry but in control.
"Riadag?!" repeated the invisible man, louder and more demanding.
Now he was being answered in two voices, by another man and another woman, louder and more tearful. And Lena did not understand a word. That's what happens when you listen to a recording of a song in a language you don't know very well - some syllables and even words seem familiar, especially since the phonetics were distinctly Romano-Germanic. But it just didn't add up to comprehensible speech.
"Freagairt villain!" A new member entered the conversation. This one was angry, too, but he wasn't going to hide or restrain himself. The sound of blows rang out over the gray grass. There was another clang, a hard thud, and the woman howled hysterically. Surprisingly, she managed to squeeze out a long enough and almost intelligible phrase:
"Chan eil fios agam, chan eil fhios air rud sam bith!"
The interrogators were silent.
"Tha i 'eil an so. Bha sinn ceàrr," said another invisible man. Judging by his tone, he led with an unpleasant summation. It seems even with a heavy sigh.
"Far a bheil Riadag?" said a deep, strong voice, but without much hope, just fulfilling the convention. Elena understood that, and so did those to whom the man was addressing. They shouted in three or four voices at once. The girl curled into a ball and clamped her ears around her head. It helped; she heard almost nothing. Only the smell became even heavier. Even more intense. And the word that had been repeated most often was pounding in her head.
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Riadag
For some reason, there seemed to be a special meaning hidden in it. It was like looking through a plate of ice - the contours of objects were familiar, but you couldn't see them exactly. You had to wait for the ice to melt for the plate to thin.
Forgetfulness overtook Elena. Something between fainting and trance. A borderline state between sleep and reality, where minutes raced by without counting.
How long she had been like that, the girl could not say. Even if she had put a watch strap on her hand before she walked, she still wouldn't have thought to time it. Long, in a word. Or maybe not. Time loves to deceive. It rushes at a gallop or waddles the old nag. In general, it seemed to the girl that she had been lying curled up for many hours. And the sun seemed, in fact, to have rolled quite far across the gray sky.
She listened. Nothing. Quickly, but trying not to make any noise at all. She checked the pockets of my jacket and old hiking pants. Nothing at all... a wallet, a couple of paper clips, a scattering of coins, a half-empty pack of chewing gum. And that was it, not even a phone. It seemed unnecessary to take it on a quick raid for milk. No penknife, not even a pen. It was all there, including a flashlight, a multi-tool, and a few other very useful things. But in an old, twice darned "Wenger" backpack with the dividers cut out and another jacket for going out on the town. The staple could be bent to make a wire stud, but the thought reeked of such hopelessness that Lena gave it up.
Here, in the hollow, it was relatively quiet and almost safe. Just lie there until someone walked or drives by. Or until it would somehow end on its own. It had to end, didn't it? Clenching her teeth, Elena looked outside, a tangle of hair falling over her eyes, blocking her view. How many hours without a comb? On the ground and God knows where else before... She had absolutely no recollection of what had happened between the flash of darkness and the minute Lena had "appeared". somewhere.
She brushed away the tangled reddish hair with the palm of her hand. She wished, fleetingly, that she'd cut her hair short. Then at least there would be at least one less problem now because there was no comb in her pockets, either. A random and very "homely" thought paradoxically calmed her down. Lena looked around, huddled on the ground, peering out of the hollow like a soldier out of a trench, feeling the damp and slightly warm carpet of dead leaves and loose earth under her palms.
The Wasteland. A gray wasteland under the dim sun, which was now really sunset, descended across the gray sky. A plain as far as the horizon, covered with patches of low vegetation, like an old man's head with tufts of hair. It resembled savannah more than anything else but with more traditional flora. The air was dry and warm. But the ground was fall damp, though also oddly uneven in patches. Here and there, granite-like stone "tongues" emerged on the surface, rising somewhere up to the knee or even higher. Dolmens? Or what do you call them...
There are trees, but not many, and they are also gray, which, just by their appearance, brings thoughts of a long illness. They are crooked, with long and thin branches that look more like bony fingers. She did not want to stand under such, pardon God, "crone". The species of trees were not immediately identifiable. Not oaks, not poplars, nothing with distinctive leaves that a city person would recognize immediately. They looked like willows but were mutilated by unnatural selection. Such only in the adaptation of "Sleepy Hollow" to be filmed.
In the distance, she could see a strip of dark haze, almost flush with the horizon. Maybe fog or sunset darkness... But maybe distant mountains, too. Good, at least some sort of landmark. With a very large correction for the movement of the sun, having estimated the possible zenith, it was possible to decide that probably the mountains were located on the side of the conditional "south".
Silence... No airplane in the sky, no highway somewhere over the horizon. Nothing at all, just the wind rustling in the grass. Lena gulped, and her throat felt as if it had been pulled through with an emery cloth. Thirst came over her like a bear.
"Is anyone here?" asked Lena quietly. It's unclear why. She doesn't know who. And not even wanting to be heard. Get acquainted with the local inhabitants categorically she did not want to. Rather, just to not be completely alone. Her quiet voice was already company.
"No one," the girl whispered, pulling her jacket tighter.
From edge to edge of "savannosteppe" with elements of forest stretched a road. Or rather, it looked more like a road than anything else. Generally speaking, looking at the short strip of the road immediately brought to mind the old venerable words like "tract," "pole," and other coachmen. It was not even a dirt road, but just a strip in the steppe where there was a little less grass, and in some places, you could still see the old traces of ruts in the ground. Perhaps it would be more correct to say that once there was a real road, which was used to this day, but just enough so that the "tract" had not disappeared altogether.
On the road, there was a sagging carriage and two carts. And there were dead bodies. Not too far away, but not too close. Lena guessed by eye that they were about fifty yards away, maybe farther. No, farther. She remembered from childhood that the height of a five-story house is fifteen meters and used to "overturn" the house on the ground, measuring the distance. Here there were about four houses with plenty of room to spare. And it was not at all clear how she could hear so much in a shallow hole of foliage when she could even hear the individual words of an unknown language.
The bodies were not so much seen as guessed. Six or seven identical elongated mounds were laid in a row by the side of the road. Although, there was no curb.
"Do I have to go there?" the girl asked the wind and the sky.
Don't. And she didn't want to. As her cousin used to say, recalling an unpleasant episode when a drunken company in a Toyota crashed into his truck at a speed of about two hundred kilometers. They knocked out my front axle, and now I was sitting in the truck, but I did not want to look out and see what they had inside. I know it's minced meat in there.
She must.
Once again, the common sense embodied in Grandpa's voice whispered the right things. It was necessary. It was imperative. To understand where she was. What was going on here in the first place? And maybe there would be water. And a knife. With a knife, a confident man is practically invincible even in an unfavorable natural environment, so the old medic said.
"I have to," the girl whispered in time with her inner voice and took the first step. The grass clung unpleasantly to her sneakers like hooks growing out of the ground. She was glad she had time to put on her shoes. It would have been a real adventure to be caught in such a bind, barefoot...
First, she looked into the carriage. Although, it was probably more correct to say a covered carriage. A carriage was something more or less luxurious. The four-wheeled structure was carved out of solid wood. More than once it had been repaired by the scraps of planks and other debris. The inside was empty, utterly empty, with only scraps of cloth and scraps of twine scattered around. It was the same with the wagons. It was only now that the girl thought there were no horses. But there were - the ground held numerous hoofprints. More accurately (because Lena had seen horses at most three times in her life) was torn up similarly, as if horses had been trampled here. Apparently, the wagon train had been robbed, taking everything to the bone and taking the animals away. Elena looked around, squinting and looking for a threat. Nothing. The bandits, whoever they were, were gone.
The smell grew heavier and more unpleasant. It smelled of desolation and death. Lena stepped toward the mounds, which she had previously walked around in a wide arc. She kept repeating to herself, knife, I need a knife and water, to dislodge all other thoughts. It didn't work, then the girl imagined herself as Grandpa. A medic who examines bodies at, say, the scene of a disaster. It didn't work either because the nearest body had a severed head, and a shattered vertebra was pink on the slice. The head was carefully placed next to the body, propped up on a rock.
Elena threw up bile all at once. The uncontrollable attack rolled in like a tsunami. The invisible Grandfather in the back of her mind shook his head, noticing the senseless and damaging loss of fluid. But the girl didn't care. Then she continued to look around because the sun was setting, the thirst was getting worse, and in a place where they kill people by chopping their heads off, it was better to have something more useful with her than an unfolded paper clip.
There were eight bodies. The eighth was just behind the biggest dead body and seemed inconspicuous. The girl was about seven, maybe a little older. Maybe less. Her pupils had dilated to the limit before she died and stayed that way. The muscles relaxed in postmortem smoothed her features a little, and her lower jaw was ajar. The child seemed to be crying out in an endless scream, staring into the darkening sky with solid black eyes. Its throat was cut just above the collarbones. Its simple rough wool clothes were drenched with dried blood. The blood had also dripped around his head, enveloping it in a terrible halo.
Lena took a step to the side, leaned down, leaning her hands on her knees, breathing heavily and shallowly. A new bout of nausea was the last thing her already dehydrated body could afford. She managed, mostly because there was nothing left in her stomach, only air mixed with a convulsive wheeze escaping through her clenched teeth. The tears flowed on their own, without sobbing, like water from a spring. They stung her eyes and dried unpleasantly on her heated skin. Lena wiped her face with her sleeve and continued her inspection.
Nothing useful could be found. The bodies were thoroughly stripped, as were the wagons. They were not even wearing belts, only clothes, baggy and oddly tailored, seemingly made of very coarse wool, and without a single pocket. Gartered stockings instead of pants, loose shirts, and poncho-like capes. Judging by the bloody footprints, the men were simply killed one by one, dragged off, and stacked in rows. They had not been shot. Even a cursory glance by an uninitiated eye was enough to know that all had been killed with cold weapons. Not stabbed but chopped up with something big and heavy, leaving terrible wounds to the bone.
The tears did not stop flowing. Lena knelt almost without strength and covered her face with her dirty hands, which, by some miracle, did not get blood on them - she did not turn the dead people over after all. Despair grew stronger, pressing heavier and heavier by the minute, like a tombstone. At the movies, the girl probably should have yelled and searched for a hidden camera crew. Just wait, finally.
But it wasn't a movie. Everything around it seemed real and was real. Real, horrifyingly genuine. Faces distorted with deathly terror and pain were frozen into wax masks. It smelled of death. A lone fly buzzed disgustingly, circling over the dead.
"God, what is it..." whispered Elena, rubbing tears down her dirty face. "Where am I..."
It was getting dark. The sun was already halfway over the horizon, the sky faded even more, and the forest steppe itself faded, casting a gray canopy of twilight shadow. Something had to be done.
Only now, Lena thought about the simple and obvious thing - after all, the killers could come back, whoever they were. And in general, the idea of spending the night in the company of eight dead bodies is rather unhealthy.
She had to take the clothes off the dead men - it was getting colder in the evening. And there was no heated house nearby. But the thought of touching the blood-soaked, sticky wool almost made Lena vomit for the third time. It was unthinkable, utterly impossible. Better to die at once.
There was nothing to be done here. She should have gone further away before the sun disappeared completely. And find some sort of shelter. For some reason, Elena was certain that this place, no matter where they were stationed, could be more dangerous at night than during the day.
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