The Scar

by Marina Dyachenko

  The heavy bugs crawled on the ceiling, flew out the open window, and returned. Toria had been sitting in a corner for a long time, her disheveled hair hiding her face.

  “Contrition is beneficial,” noted the dean with a sigh, letting the next insect up onto the ceiling, “but only to a certain degree. Even the deepest lake must have a bottom. Otherwise, where would the crabs go to mate?”

  Toria remained silent.

  “When you were ten years old”—the dean scratched the tip of his nose—“you got into a fight with the village boys. The mother of one of them then came to me to complain: You had knocked out two of his teeth. Or was it three? Do you recall?”

  Toria did not even lift up her head.

  “And then”—the dean raised an instructive finger—“he ran to our house every day, asking you to go first on a fishing trip, then to the forest, then wherever. Do you remember?”

  His daughter whispered through the curtain of her hair, “It is very easy for you to talk, but Dinar…” She fell silent to keep herself from crying again. The old book and the forgotten drawing had aroused her dulled grief, and now Toria was once again revisiting her loss.

  A massive June bug crashed into a shelf, fell to the floor, lay there senseless for a second, and then took the air once more with a methodical buzz.

  “You know very well, my dear, how much regard I had for Dinar,” said the dean quietly. “I had become accustomed to considering him my son, and in many ways he was. I bitterly regret the life you will not have with him, the books he will not write, the children you two will not have. He was a wonderful boy, kind and talented, and his death was an absurd injustice. But now imagine Soll, if you will. I know that even the name is unpleasant to you, but just think: Soll could have concealed that book. He could have thrown it out or given it to the scullery maid for kindling. He could have sold it, after all. But he decided to return it to me, and through me, to you. Do you understand what kind of courage this decision of his required?”

  “Courage?” Toria’s voice was no longer shaking from tears, but from contempt. “That is ridiculous, like…”

  “Like the dancing of a jellyfish on a drum,” coldly completed the dean.

  Toria fell silent, perplexed.

  The dean pensively followed the reeling of the insects along the ceiling with his eyes, muttering the words to an old children’s song under his breath.

  “Jellyfish dances for us on a drum, but Mole gets shellfish for dinner.…” His hand came down sharply on the desktop, as if he were swatting a fly. “Yes, you are correct; it is absurd. But we are now remembering Dinar, and I for one do not think that he would revel in his hatred so, were he in a similar situation. I just can’t imagine it. Can you?”

  Toria nearly leapt at him. “That’s a dirty trick, Father!”

  The dean sighed again and shook his head, as if wishing to say to his daughter: And how else can I convince you? Toria sprang up, tossed her hair behind her back, and met the tranquil eyes of the dean with her own tearstained eyes.

  “A dirty trick! Dinar is dead, laid out in the ground. And no one, except for me, has the right to judge if he would have behaved one way or another. Dinar is mine, and the memory of him is also mine. And this … Soll … he dared … He is a murderer. How you can allow him to … I cannot see him. I cannot think about him. I do not wish to know anything about him. How could he dare to touch Dinar’s things? How dare he even look at them? But you…” Toria sobbed and fell silent.

  The June bugs circled the ceiling in a strict order; the dean sighed and wearily raised himself from behind the desk.

  Toria seemed too small in his arms, trembling and soaked like a lost kitten. He hugged her hesitantly, wary of offending her: after all, she had not been a child for a long time. Toria froze for a second and then burst into tears, shedding her tears directly into the dean’s black chlamys.

  A few minutes passed by; having cried herself out, Toria quieted and began to feel a bit ashamed. Backing away, she spoke to the floor. “You are a good man, Father, and it is obvious to me that you pity Soll, and that you are interested in his situation. But he was a courageous villain, and now he is a cowardly villain. That is in no way better: it is worse, Father. He does not belong here. He’d be far better off among the acolytes of Lash!”

  The dean winced. Just yesterday the rector expelled some unlucky boy, the son of a copyist, who’d spied on the university and had even fallen to theft. They said he went right to Lash’s tower. The dean pitied the boy, but he could not forgive him.

  He tenderly traced his finger along the book spines, scratching at one that was covered in fur. He asked in a low voice, not turning around, “All the same, I think … Why did the Wanderer treat him so? What for? Why should he care if there is one more vagrant and one less bully?”

  Toria drew a faltering breath. “You know very well that there is no way for us to determine why the Wanderer behaved one way and not another, but I think he acted justly. If I were to meet him, I would clasp his hand and bow to him.”

  “By all means”—the dean nodded—“you can clasp his hand for whatever reason. Just don’t argue with him.”

  Toria smiled sourly.

  “Yes, well,” continued the dean without much pause. “At one point I greatly desired to meet the Wanderer, but I am now happy that meeting never occurred. Who knows what might have happened, had he decided to receive me.”

  Slumping her shoulders, Toria walked wearily to the door. At the threshold she turned slightly, as if she wanted to say something, but she remained silent.

  Luayan raised his eyes in pensive thought. The June bugs collapsed from the ceiling as beads and bounced across the stone floor.

  * * *

  Several days passed, and Egert could not for a minute free his mind from strained, complicated thoughts. Fox had gone home to visit his parents for a little while, and Egert became the sole proprietor of the room. At times he delighted in his solitude, and at others he suffered from it.

  The new sense that had opened up within him, the agonizing ability to feel violence with his skin, had dulled for the time being; it had gone into hiding like a stinger retracts into a bee’s abdomen. Egert was thankful for the respite, but he was quite sure that the onerous ability had not left him and would show itself once more.

  The hours devoted to thoughts of Toria were especially painful. Egert tried to chase them away, but the thoughts returned, as sticky as wet clay, and just as shapeless. Wearied by the struggle, he took the book of curses in his hand and sat by the window.

  … and that well was cursed, and the water in it became rank. It is said that a brave man can distinguish groans and laments in the screech of its pulley.…

  … and a curse fell on the castle, and from that time forward the steps of its precipitous stairways opened onto an abyss, and a monster settled on its towers. And should a man look out from its walls, all he will see, for miles around, is stinking swamp. And should a man walk its halls, nevermore will he find his way out into the world of men.…

  One day Egert’s solitude was so unbearable that it overwhelmed his terror. Not having the strength to see the dean and not wishing to keep company with his fellow students, bedeviled by his thoughts and persecuted by grief, Egert decided to walk around the city.

  He shuffled along, his head retracted into his shoulders, warily hearkening to his senses. Minute after minute passed, and the city leisurely traded, worked, and played, but the waves of its passions rarely wafted to Egert, and when they did they were vague. It is possible that these distant echoes were the fruit of Egert’s imagination; whether or not that was the case, he calmed down slightly, bought himself a cream pastry on a stick, and ate it with voracious appetite.

  Mechanically licking the long empty stick, Egert stood on the curved bridge, leaning against the railing. From his earliest childhood he had loved looking at water; now, following the progress of a slowly sinking rag with his eyes, he remembered the bridge beyond th
e city gates of Kavarren, the turbulent vernal Kava, and the stranger with light, perfectly clear eyes who had undoubtedly already resolved upon Egert’s doom well before they ever fought.

  He tossed his head, trying to get rid of the recollection. Reluctantly, he stepped away from the railing and started off back toward the university.

  A beggar sat in a small, deserted alley. The ground around him was obscured by the folds of his ample yet almost completely decayed cloak, and his extended palm, dry and black as a dead tree limb, motionlessly grew out of his wide, tattered sleeve. The beggar sat without moving, like a deformed statue, and only the wind tousled the gray hair that entirely covered his face.

  It was not quite clear from whom or when the beggar thought he would receive alms: there was not a soul about, the blank walls were devoid of windows, and the upturned palm was extended toward nothing but a pair of homeless dogs, shamelessly abandoning themselves to coition in the very middle of the alley. The beggar’s efforts were no doubt in vain from the very start, but he sat there all the same, without moving, as if he were hewn from stone.

  Egert had passed by beggars a thousand times without looking or delaying in the slightest; however, the old man, forgotten in the empty street with his hand stretched out into space, somehow touched his heart: perhaps because of his humble patience or perhaps because of Egert’s own weary resignation. Egert’s hands reached into his purse. All he had to his name were two gold pieces, ten silvers, and ten coppers. Egert took out a coin and, overcoming his timidity, stepped toward the old man, intending to lower the money into his blackened, wizened palm.

  The beggar shifted. His eyes flared up in the thicket of his silver gray hair, and the unexpectedly loud, piercing cry that burst from his mouth spread along the street. “Many thanks!” In that instant, the withered hand seized Egert by the wrist with such strength that he involuntarily shrieked.

  A beefy young ruffian emerged from one of the recessed alleys like a phantom: a young man with the red, businesslike face of a butcher. The beggar ran his free hand through Egert’s clothing with uncommon dexterity, caught hold of his purse, and ripped it from his belt. It seemed the old man was not that old after all. The purse flew through the air to his accomplice and fell with a clink, and only then did Egert, struck dumb from fear, try to escape.

  “Shhh…” A broad, rusty knife appeared in the hand of the young rogue. “Quiet, now. Shhh…”

  Egert could not even scream. His throat dried up instantly, and his chest, compressed by a spasm, could not take in air. The ruffian adroitly flung a lariat around his neck, almost simultaneously tying his hands behind him: obviously, it was far better in this city to choke the robbed, rather than risk the chance that they might identify their robber. Egert struggled, but feebly, far too feebly, for he was paralyzed by fear.

  The rope around his neck gave a jerk. From somewhere beyond came the tramp of feet and a sharp “Stop!” Egert’s head was bent toward the ground, but then all at once he sensed his freedom: he lunged away, straightening himself up as he escaped his captor. The beggar, his frayed cloak whipping out behind him, and his collaborator fled down the alleyway, and the stomp of their steel boots echoed against the blank walls. They disappeared around a corner, and the stomp became fainter until it finally quieted altogether.

  The rope and Egert’s paltry purse had tumbled two steps away onto the pavement. Egert stood, unable to take even a step.

  A hand picked up the purse from the stones and held it out to its owner. “This is yours, is it not?”

  A fairly young man of medium height, wearing a gray hooded cloak, stood in front of Egert, who flinched involuntarily, immediately recognizing the habit of the Brotherhood of Lash. Smiling slightly, the acolyte of the Sacred Spirit flicked the hood back off his forehead.

  Now that the face of the stranger was completely revealed, nothing ominous or frightening remained in his appearance. He was simply a passerby, and his eyes, gray blue like Egert’s, beheld him compassionately.

  “That was very dangerous. You should not wander into deserted alleyways with a full purse. You young people are so incautious.”

  The stranger said “you young people,” even though he himself was older than Egert by no more than a few years.

  “They … Did they leave?” asked Egert, as if he could not trust his own eyes.

  The stranger grinned. “I frightened them off. The city’s robbers are a cunning and cowardly lot, and I, as you can see—” He touched his hood. “—possess a certain amount of authority.”

  Having lived in the city for a few months, Egert knew quite well that the sight of a gray habit really was capable of routing a pair of robbers, if not an entire gang. He nodded hastily, unable to find the words to express his thanks. With an encouraging smile, the acolyte of Lash again held out his clanking purse.

  “That really is all I have. Thank you,” mumbled Egert, as if trying to excuse himself.

  The stranger nodded, accepting the gratitude. “Money is not the most important thing. You could have been killed.”

  “Thank you,” Egert repeated fervently, not knowing what he should do or say beyond this. “You saved me. I truly don’t know how to thank you.”

  The acolyte of Lash broke into infectious laughter. “Please don’t mention it again. Honest people should help each other, or else the swindlers and villains will wipe us from the face of earth. My name is Fagirra, Brother Fagirra. And you, are you a townsman?”

  Following the customs of politeness, Egert introduced himself.

  Hearing mention of the university, Fagirra gave voice to his satisfaction. “Oh yes, a worthy place for honorable young men. Which subjects do you prefer?”

  Egert felt ashamed that he was not a better student, but he finally spat out that he was most interested in history.

  Fagirra nodded in understanding. “History is, I suppose, the most interesting of all subjects. Ancient tales, books full of wars, heroes, rulers, mages … Speaking of mages, the thought occurs to me that it was the venerable Dean Luayan who inculcated you with a love for his own subject matter, yes?”

  Egert brightened: what, did Master Fagirra know the dean?

  The acolyte of Lash gently corrected Egert: First of all, he should be called Brother Fagirra, and secondly, he himself did not have the honor of being acquainted with the dean. However, whispers of Master Luayan’s wisdom had long ago passed beyond the walls of the university.

  They had been conversing amiably for some time now, strolling through the side streets. It seemed strange to Egert that he was talking with a man in a gray robe so informally. Up until now the Host of Lash had seemed like a horrifyingly mysterious assemblage beyond the comprehension of lesser mortals; hesitating at first, he finally confessed this perception to his new friend, which aroused yet another assault of Fagirra’s mirth.

  Chortling, the acolyte of Lash clapped Egert on the shoulder. “Egert, Egert. I won’t deny it: The name and deeds of our brotherhood are enshrouded in a secret, to which not all people can dedicate themselves. A secret and a sacrament are similar words, and we are the acolytes of Lash, the acolytes of the Sacrament.”

  “I asked,” Egert mumbled timidly, “I asked many people and no one could explain to me what exactly the Brotherhood of Lash is.”

  Fagirra became more serious. “Much that is gossiped about us is superfluous and untrue. There are always many wild conjectures surrounding the Brotherhood of Lash, as there are around anything unknown. But you, Egert, would you really like to learn more?”

  Egert was not entirely sure he wanted to know more, but he did not dare confess his own indecision. “Yes. Of course.”

  Fagirra nodded thoughtfully. “The thing is, Egert, the Host of Lash does not place its confidence in just anyone, but your face seemed to me, from the very first glance, the face of a worthy man. Tomorrow, friend Egert, you will have a rare chance to visit the Tower of the Host of Lash. Would you really like to come?”

  Egert inwardly cri
nged away from the steady gaze coming from beneath the hood, and tormented by fear, he did not have the courage to refuse. “Oh yes.”

  Fagirra nodded encouragingly. “You’re a bit scared; I understand. But, believe me, only carefully selected people are favored with such an honor. I will await you at seven o’clock in the evening on the corner of Violet Street. Do you know where that is?”

  Then, having already taken his leave, Fagirra suddenly turned back.

  “Oh yes, that reminds me: I must ask you to keep this in the strictest confidence. Lash is a secret, a sacrament. Are we agreed? Now if you’ll excuse me.”

  Egert nodded and then watched for a long time as the man in the spacious gray robe walked away.

  * * *

  Fox was still visiting his relatives, so there was no one to ask Egert why he was so irritable. Egert mastered the desire to go to the dean for advice; both his sleepless night and his long, lingering day were full of hesitations.

  Friendly students, meeting Egert at the exit, wished him a good night out and a successful rendezvous. Egert answered them vaguely, not understanding their meaning.

  On the way to the place where he would meet Fagirra, he managed to convince himself that a visit to the Tower of Lash was an entirely ordinary, even trivial occurrence for a townsman, then he comforted himself with the thought that this inconceivable event offered the prospect of a beneficial change in his fortune, and he finally assured himself that the visit to the Tower would not take place at all, because Fagirra would fail to appear at the designated place.

  Fagirra, however, was waiting; Egert flinched when the silent figure, his face hidden by the hood, appeared out of the shadows as if from nowhere.

  The route they took through winding alleyways was so tortuous that there was no way Egert could have remembered it, even if he had wished to. The hem of Fagirra’s gray habit slid along the pavement before him, and two uniformly strong emotions battled in his soul: fear of going to the Tower and fear of refusing the invitation. Contrary to Egert’s expectations, Fagirra did not lead him through the main gates. The alley gave way to a small courtyard, which was so dark that Egert could hardly make out the man who appeared from out of the gloom with a bunch of rattling keys and a blindfold.