4.

I lied.

I laughed at the story of the knight-werewolf, who, at the behest of the splendid Madonna Petal, chased down and bit a wolf to see if it would turn human at the full moon.

I laughed at the tale of the maiden and the unicorn. Contrary to popular belief, a virgin's song does not placate an Ifriqiyan unicorn, — it enrages it. These animals are quite dangerous and lively, but, fortunately, they are somewhat blind, and one can escape death simply by stepping aside from their path. But they are also stubborn — they charge again and again, even if the maiden has stopped singing. In appearance, unicorns resemble elephants more than horses. They have thick grey skin and legs like pillars, with three wide hooves. Their ears are small. The horn grows from the nasal bone. Sometimes there are two horns and only in this case does the second, smaller horn, grows from the frontal part of the skull. They are strict herbivores, feeding on leaves and tender shoots of mountain shrubs... The maiden had ample time to observe all this in detail, for a unicorn had chased her up a tree, where she was forced to spend about six hours. After this time, the unicorn's fury subsided, and it retreated.

I have seen Ifriqiyan unicorns — and could easily imagine Wind Petal singing her favourite song right beneath its very nose, or rather, under the scary sharp horn of this immense beast and then dashing off, lifting the hem of her midnight robe. Her soft leather boots flashing, a multitude of snake braids tumbling loose from the knot at her neck. I pictured this — and laughed.

I regretted that I could offer little amusement, or even useful information, to the splendid Madonna Petal. But she asked insistently and persistently about where I was born, how I grew up, what I remembered, and every detail seemed more precious to her than sky-blue Iranian turquoise. I even told her of things I would rather forget.

‘I was born on the island washed by three seas, and spent thirteen years there. They say my father was a king who hated women so deeply, he married a rock. They say my mother was a queen, so ravenous with lust, she mated with a bull. I don't know what's true. I don't want to know.

All I remember is darkness. The smell of damp earth and stone. There were no hours, no days, there was no time — only darkness. I wandered endlessly through the corridors of death, always seeking the gates of hell. The gates out of hell. I knew nothing but darkness, but I knew firmly: I did not belong there.

Occasionally people appeared in the darkness. They screamed. Some attacked me, screaming, others fled screaming. I killed the former, didn't chase the latter. But they always came back, screaming, attacking. There was no other way out of hell, except death. That's what they thought and that's what I thought — but I kept searching.’

‘I don't think it's about cruelty,’ said Petal, calm as ever, with a faint smile. But she put down her pen and squeezed my hand in her ink stained one, ‘I think it's fear. Fear is the soul’s prison. Fear kills compassion, drowns the voice of conscience. Your parents — or those people who locked you away — they were just... afraid.’

I shrugged indifferently:

‘The Grandmaster lasted about a quarter of an hour in a fight with me. Alone. Unarmed. In the dark. I remember the scent of blood cutting through the darkness, so I must have got him once or twice. But he kept talking — to me, who barely understood human speech. His voice was calm, like yours, no tremor of rage, or... fear. He spoke, always evading, always dodging, throwing me onto the rocks. And after a quarter of an hour, I decided not to kill him and followed him. Fifteen minutes against thirteen years. What do you think of that?’

‘Do you still bear a grudge against them?’

‘A grudge? I don't even know them. And I don't want to. I don't know how else I can be of use to you, Madonna. That's all I remember.’

Two swallows swiftly launched from the cliff into the sky — like diving into the sea and slipped under the clouds. In the distance, one could already make out the outlines of Mount Tabor and to the left of the road, endless lavender fields flickered through the foliage, tenderly lilac, as if the morning sky had come to rest on the earth while the world was ruled by the daytime, regally blue. Wind Petal touched my shoulder.

‘Tell me — what do you love? What do you love to eat? I heard you devour the bodies of slain enemies, but that's just a rumour, right? I think, you eat vegetarian food…’

‘I'm not a cow! I eat… regular food. Like everyone else. I'm a soldier and I'm not picky. But I try to avoid beef, for obvious reasons…’

She tilted her head to hide a smile and began to interrogate me again:

‘But what do you love, olzohubuun? Even soldiers love something! So, what is it? Apples? Onion soup? Cinnamon rolls? Sherbet?’

I was at a loss. I had never thought about such things, and I didn't know what to tell her and sadness painfully stung my soul. Why? I did not know myself.

‘You don’t love sleep. Or food,’ said Wind Petal, ‘Then what do you love? Killing, perhaps?’

‘What does olzohubuun mean?’ I asked bitterly, ‘A bloodthirsty monster? A brutal killer? A dangerous creature? Is this how I’ll appear in your scroll? Do you even care what I am? Have you seen worse? You roam the world, studying monsters like me — nothing frightens or surprises you now, does it??’

She shook her head indignantly, like a spirited horse. Her earrings swayed and jingled.

‘It means — a foundling. I found you on the ground, like a flower or a coin, hence I call you that. It's a good thing I found you before all your blood seeped into the ground, isn't it? And I have other records. Not just of... monsters. I write about the cities I've visited.  Dishes I've tasted. The weather. Roads. Crafts and craftsmen. Everything. Whether you were a butterfly, a rare blade, a flower — or a true monster — I would have written just the same. Do not be angry with me, Asterius, child of darkness and stars. I mean you no harm.’

Her eyes shone like stars in the darkness. I liked her gaze, both resolute and tender and the fact that she always looked directly into the eyes of the person she was speaking to. My anger receded, the bitterness subsided, and I said:

‘I do not love killing. I love... winning? I enjoy training with weapons — fighting, running, swimming. I love to feel my strength. And also... I love the sun. I love it more than anything, my fair Madonna Petal. The sun — yes, the sun,’ And I sighed with relief, as if I had escaped the clutches of death once again. Escaped the darkness. Why – I did not know myself.

‘Alright,’ she nodded and picked up her pen again, ‘I'll write it down. He does not like killing and cinnamon buns, but he loves the sun. Deeply. Right?’

Gloria Mu, The Game of Jart, 2022

Illustration by Aleks Klepnev. Craft paper, liners

Translated by YB

Published with authors’ permission