The Scar

by Sergey Dyachenko

  And the old curse broke free and, without discernment and without mercy, descended upon the youth, regardless of the tears his mother wept. She lost her wits and tore out her eyes, the eyes that had killed her son with a mere glance.

  The grass in the university’s interior court was shining under the sun, concealing within its velvety green a horde of vociferous grasshoppers. The invisible insects were in a state of bliss, singing hymns to life. It was just past the lazy midday hour, and a warm wind carried the smells of earth and flowers, but the book, indifferent as a bystander, still lay before Egert on the battered old table.

  A rich and eminent lady had a beautiful daughter who fell in love with an itinerant troubadour. The daughter wanted to run away from home and elope with the vagrant. But their plans went amiss; having discovered the purpose of the enamored couple, the old mother was angered beyond all measure, and being experienced in magic, she spoke a curse, “The man who deflowers my daughter will not know happiness, he will never see the light again, and he will not even remember his own name!”

  The girl wept bitterly for a long time. The minstrel left for the far reaches of the earth, and there was no longer anyone who dared to covet the hand of the beautiful and wealthy bride. But then one day an arrogant, albeit impoverished, lord announced his intention to take her as his wife. The wedding was performed in a hurry, and on their wedding night the young husband brought to his wife a coarse, lascivious young hostler.

  And so it happened that the very next day the hostler was struck blind and thus could no longer see the light. He also went mad and forgot his own name, and he shriveled up and thus nevermore did he know happiness. And the young husband began to live with his wife, and he received an abundant dowry. However, his matrimony did not last long because …

  A bumblebee, a striped, fluffy ball, flew into the room. It buzzed under the gray arch of the ceiling, bumped into a beam, and fell onto a page that was yellowed with time; then it buzzed aggrievedly and flew back out the window. Egert rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his fists.

  Why did Dean Luayan think it was necessary that he read all of this?

  In all the centuries sometimes incorrigible evildoers suffered from curses, but at other times they befell people who were not guilty of anything. Egert felt a particular sympathy toward the latter. He too was a victim of a curse; all these people were entwined with him in a common misfortune. The Wanderer happened upon his path, and in passing, with a single slash of his sword, he unrecognizably mutilated Egert’s life.

  Egert had never before had to sit for so long behind a book. His back was aching, and his tired eyes were watering and smarting from the unfamiliar employment. Pushing aside the thought of rest, Egert sighed and once again pulled the open book toward him.

  A fugitive tramp had taken refuge in the home of a lonely widow. The guards, who served the prince of that realm, were persecuting him, but the woman took pity on him and concealed him in her basement. But when the pursuers, ferocious and well armed, turned up at her house, the widow was frightened. She fainted and thus betrayed the whereabouts of the fugitive. The guards hanged him immediately, but with the noose already around his neck he said to the woman, “What have you done? You are false: let no one trust you until the day of your death!”

  The tramp died, and the guards buried him right under the widow’s window. Ever after, people shunned the miserable woman, for they did not trust her: they did not trust her words, or her eyes, or her voice, or her actions. They did not trust in her kindness and honesty, and she gained a reputation as a wicked, malicious witch throughout the district.

  But as chance would have it, one day an old man, white-haired as the moon, road through the village on a horse. He visited the house of the despondent woman and told her, “I know why this misfortune has seized you. I know that you have already atoned for your unwitting guilt. Listen to me, and I will tell you how to remove the curse!”

  She listened well, and waiting until midnight, she went out to the grave under her window, which was overgrown with nettles and thistles. In one hand she carried a jug of water, and in the other she carried a sharp dagger, left behind by the old man. She stood before the grave, raised her face to the moon, and said to the dead man in the ground, “Here is water, and here is sharp steel. Let your thirst be quenched! Take your sorcery from me!”

  With these words she planted the dagger right in the grave mound; she thrust it deep, right up to its hilt. Then she poured the water out of the jug over the ground and went back into her house. The next morning she looked outside, and saw that a tree was growing on the grave, a young alder. And then the woman understood that the curse was broken, and she rejoiced, and from then onward she began to live peacefully and happily, and she cared for the tree on the grave as for a son.

  With difficulty, Egert tore his eyes away from the even, disinterested lines. The curse was broken, the curse was broken repeated over and over in the rustle of the wind, in the warbles of an unseen bird, in someone’s distant steps along the echoing corridor of the annex. The curse was broken.

  Glorious Heaven! It was worth all the days and nights he had spent stooped over this dreadful book to so fortuitously come upon a story with a happy ending. Wise, a hundred times wise, was Dean Luayan. The curse was broken. The curse could be broken.

  With an inane smile plastered to his face, he looked out the window. He watched as a shaggy, homeless mutt trampled the grass, scampered after a butterfly. In front of him lay cold nights under bridges and the malicious kicks of a thousand feet, but right now he was frolicking like a puppy, forgetful of everything else under the sun. He was happy.

  Happy, thought Egert. Lurching as if he were drunk, he stood up from the table and climbed up onto the windowsill.

  Evening was drawing near, a warm, spring evening; a square of dark blue, predusk sky hung over the interior courtyard of the university, and doves were slowly whirling through it, as if showing off. Suffused with oblique rays of the setting sun, the white birds seemed rose colored, like candied fruit. Egert wanted to weep and shout at the top of his lungs: he felt as if the weight of the curse had already been lifted and the shameful scar had already been scoured from his face, like a crust of sticky mud. Not daring to sing, he restricted himself to grinning expansively and joyfully at the homeless mutt on the grass.

  “Hey, Egert!” He heard the astonishment behind him.

  Still smiling, Egert turned toward the door. On the threshold stood Fox, his eyes round, amazed, and then he too grinned from ear to ear.

  * * *

  “This gold locket is known as the Amulet of the Prophet. It possesses tremendous magical power; this is none other than the door between the worlds.…”

  A white hand with clean nails and a tattoo on the wrist turned the page over. On the yellow sheet there was a rough sketch of the locket on the chain. The hand of the artist must have been shaking when it was drawn—the amulet resembled a deformed flower or an exotic fruit.

  “It may well be that the Doors of Creation are just a shadow of this amulet.… No one knows. For the inexperienced person it is mortally dangerous.…”

  Fagirra sighed. Magicians always surrounded their craft with dark secrets. Secrets and fear: people must fear magicians and must feel inferior to them. The Order of Lash used the same methods. Why, why did the old mage refuse to collaborate? Everything would be simpler.

  He sighed again and looked up—the sunlight was glowing from the only window.

  It is known that our world is an island of life among the black spaces of death. It is known that there is a monster, called the Third Power, outside. It comes and stops on the threshold, and it cannot enter, until someone unlocks the door for it.… Then the end will come to our world: it will burn, it will rot, it will be turned inside out … inside out. Only the Doorkeeper—the one who admits the Third Power to us—will acquire authority, might, and the delicious happiness of vengeance.… It is known that when the Third Power is on the threshold,
the amulet rusts.

  These words, rewritten in rough handwriting, gave him a strange feeling. The university was a strange place: even the most thoroughly kept secret sooner or later ended up in someone’s notes.…

  Fagirra reclined in the armchair and smiled.

  * * *

  It was not possible to conceal the special attention that Dean Luayan paid to Egert Soll from the son of the apothecary. It declared itself in the generous permission to avail himself of one of the dean’s private books. Fox had already been dying of curiosity for several days, but he was accustomed to regarding the dean with respect and caution, so he refrained from peeking inside the book without permission or from asking Egert a direct question about it. Watching as Egert spent night and day over the yellowed pages, surely replete with magic, Fox was pierced by a certain respect for Egert; therefore, and moreover because he was simply a nice boy, Gaetan rejoiced at the change in Egert’s mood and his consent, finally, to go out into the city.

  Fox paused at the grand entrance to the university, unable to deny himself the pleasure of patting the wooden monkey on its rump. Buffed smooth by hundreds of hands, the monkey’s bottom gleamed as though it were varnished. Egert plucked up his courage and followed Gaetan’s example.

  This unceremonious gesture gave Egert a bit more self-assurance. The night was warm, soft, and full of smells and sounds: not sharp, like during the day, but muted, diffused in the velvety-smooth haze of the approaching darkness. The sky had faded, but the arrival of night was still far away. Egert walked with his head thrown back, feeling the wind in his hair and the unfamiliar, almost completely forgotten sensation of joyful calm running through his entire body.

  Meeting a loud group of students, Egert saw some familiar faces; Fox wasted nearly half an hour shaking their hands. They went on together. Egert tried to keep close to Fox while carefully observing his protective rituals. He squeezed his right hand into a fist, and in his left he clutched a button.

  For starters they went to a tavern: a tiny place with a single, high table in the center, and with a cage hung from the ceiling that housed a fleshy, phlegmatic rabbit. For some reason the establishment was called At the Rabbit Hole, and the merry students drained their glasses of wine: a sour wine, in the opinion of the former gourmand Lord Soll, but the swill brought Egert greater pleasure than all the elegant wines he had previously drunk.

  They streamed out into the street in a cheerful group. Slightly the worse for drink, Egert relaxed so much that he forgot about his defensive rituals. Fox paraded in front as leader and guide. Two nimble wenches were fished out of some alley, and the group continued on its way, accompanied by their constant yelps and rowdy giggles.

  The next tavern on their journey was simply called Quench, and they stayed there even longer than at the last. Egert’s wine slopped out of his glass, dripping all over his collar, and the two girls, unerringly homing in on the tallest and most handsome lad in the crowd of students, swam around Egert like a pair of nimble fingerlings around a worm skewered on a hook.

  Irrepressible, the mass of students set out for another establishment. Noticing a light in the first-story window of a house, Fox grabbed the nearest girl with unexpected strength for his puny body and dexterously lifted her up; piling her full skirt onto her back, he pressed her exposed backside to the glass of the window. The wild scream that was immediately emitted from the other side of the window caused the students to laugh so hard that their eyes were watering and they were clutching their stomachs. Gathering the girl up under his arm, Fox led his company onward, not waiting for the enraged inhabitant of the insulted house to leap out into the street.

  They were all pleased with the joke. Seizing in turns first one girl then the other, Fox repeated it again and again with the help of his comrades. One time they had to flee for safety because the owner took it into his head to set his dogs loose. Those minutes of running were especially unpleasant for Egert: the usual terror called forth a coldness in his belly and a weakness in his legs, but the pursuit soon fell off, and Fox so hilariously mimicked the impotent rage of the townsman that Egert ceased being afraid.

  The tavern Sweet Fancy was not honored with a visit: it seemed to Egert that the gray figures that were sitting in a corner, wallowing in their hooded robes, disconcerted the happy company. In all there were only two or three of the acolytes of Lash, but the students, without discussing it amongst themselves, left the tavern as soon as they saw them. Egert hurried after everyone, a bit regretful, but he had no real cause for regret because the next tavern, the One-Eyed Fly, proved to be above all praise.

  This establishment served as a meeting place for all four generations of students. As if in imitation of the Grand Auditorium, benches and long tables covered the entire room, and in a corner there was a stand that bore a certain resemblance to the rostrum. Squeezing in, as usual, at the end of a bench, Egert listened attentively to the endless stanzas of indecent songs: Fox, and all the others, knew many of them. First blushing like a girl and then roaring with laughter, Egert finally managed to sing along with the chorus, “Oh, oh, oh! Do not speak, my dear, don’t say a word! Oh, my soul is fire, but the door is squeaking: it hasn’t been oiled!”

  They returned home in deep darkness. Egert held Fox’s sleeve so as not to lose his way. They were both respectably drunk; stumbling into their room, first of all Fox demanded that the flame be lit; then he let the clasp of his cloak fall to the floor, sat on his bed, and wearily announced that his life was as dry and rough as a dog’s tongue. Sympathizing with his friend and desiring to do him a service, Egert went down on all fours to search for the missing clasp. Clenching a candle in his teeth and peering under his own bed, he noticed a dusty object looming right by the wall.

  “Hey,” Fox asked drunkenly, “did you decide to sleep under the bed?”

  Egert straightened up, holding a book in his hands.

  “Well, that’s good,” Fox acceded weakly, untying his shoe. “That’s probably the lad’s, the one who lived here before. Did you find the clasp?”

  Egert placed the candle on the table, put his discovery next to it, wiped a coat of dust off it with his palm, and opened it, trying to spread out the pages, some of which were stuck together.

  The book was a history of battles and the commanders who fought them. Turning a few pages, Egert came across a firm paper square. One side of it was empty, with only a single ink spot in the corner, but the other side …

  Egert stared at the drawing for a few seconds, suddenly feeling sober, as if he had been tossed into an ice-cold lake. Toria gazed up at him from the drawing.

  It was a striking likeness; the artist, slightly awkward and inexperienced, but certainly talented, had captured the most important thing: He had managed to impart the expression of her eyes, that tranquil, slightly detached amiability with which Toria had looked at Egert the first time they met. The beauty marks on her neck were drawn with impeccable accuracy, as was the daring curve of her eyelashes. Her soft lips seemed just about to break into a smile.

  Fox hiccuped and dropped his other shoe on the floor. “What’s that?”

  Tearing his gaze away with effort, Egert turned the drawing over, covering it with his palm so that it would be his secret, so that Fox would not know. A disturbing thought came to him, and he turned back to the book. He opened the first page, searching for a sign of the owner.

  There were only two letters: D.D.

  Egert felt suddenly feverish. “Gaetan,” he asked in a whisper, trying to speak calmly, “who lived here before me, Gaetan?”

  Fox was silent for a second. He leisurely stretched himself out on his bed. “As far as I know, only one boy lived here before you. He was a good lad; Dinar was his name. In truth, though, I never really got the chance to know him: he went away somewhere and was killed.”

  “Who killed him?” asked Egert in spite of himself.

  “How would I know?” snorted Fox. “Some asshole killed him, but I don’t know where or how
. Listen; don’t stand there like a pillar, put out the light, yeah?”

  Egert blew out the candle and stood motionless in the dark for a few moments.

  “I tell you,” sleepily muttered Fox, “he must have been a really solid fellow, otherwise Toria—you know, Toria, the dean’s daughter—she wouldn’t have decided to marry him, if he wasn’t. They say she was about to; the wedding was even set. But then—”

  “He lived here?” whispered Egert through unruly lips. “Here, in this room? And he slept in this bed?”

  Fox shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable. “Oh, don’t get all scared. His spirit isn’t going to appear. He wasn’t the kind of man who would terrorize his fellow students at night. I tell you, he was a good guy. Go to sleep.” Fox mumbled something else, but the words were indecipherable, and soon his muttering gave way to measured breathing.

  Egert had to force himself to get undressed and climb into bed, where, as usual, he pulled the blanket up over his head. Thus he spent the whole night, clenching his eyes shut against the dark, and stopping his ears against the utter silence.

  * * *

  Every morning upon waking up, Dinar Darran had looked up and seen this arched ceiling with the two cracks that met in the corner. The pattern made by the cracks looked like a wide-open eye, and every morning this comparison occurred to Egert. But perhaps Dinar saw something else?