I came here after crimes, tortures and executions. These green like Blakstonia hills immediately became odious to me as it had been with playing the flutes of a hollow reed. I even thought if I should have made a terrorist attack somewhere hereabouts. But some speckled drizzle started, so I put my package closer to my breast, but the drops had been dissatisfied women in their past lives and being inspired by their forgotten dreams decided to hide under my clothes all together. Therefore the dynamite dampened and was not of use anymore. Then I collapsed and for a few minutes my core was eating blood gobbets of my resentment. Soon I calmed and got inner silence like a dumb ghost of Ivan The Great belfry had done.

 

Then I decided to break someone’s neck. I turned around, revealed myself to be alone and clutched between two sharp-topped hills. Having narrowly looked I felt small mohair forest on the top of the hill-nipple and decided to hunt there for prey. Therefore I turned to the path that was leading to the surf. On the stripe of ebb’s slime I revealed heaps of the burnt meat mixed up with crude golden adornments and the quiver with the image of raven being braided of some wild ornaments. It was filled with excellent pointed arrows.

 

I brought the quiver to make murders according to the traditions of this country. I respect the customs. I’m a man of high moral values.

 

I was standing for while. The rain didn’t stop its ritual and with sluggish disgust was scattering its tears on the pile of blacken insides and even the dull shining of the gold couldn’t please him.

 

I heard the noise behind my back.  At last! Not turning around I got an arrow from disfigured by silly raven quiver, stretched the bow-string. “El Macho” – I decided to myself. I guessed I was ready, let out a bellicose cry and turned out harshly having made my back crunched. I saw them. They were walking -  their hands joined bodies wrapped into the light tissues of butter color, red-gold wreaths on the black-curled heads.

 

There were about twenty matured men and women. The worst of the worst lied in the fact that having freed an arrow I hit the heart of one of them. Hit the muscled bag of the most beautiful man I had ever seen. As I could have noticed in fractions of a second the volcanic lava was rolling in his eyes and it also seemed to me that they had been dead before the moment I pulled the string.

 

To destroy such a perfect creation and to pain tremendously the Heaven Master – it would have become a triumph! But reaction of others turned into a curse … They slowly approached me, united group of semi-gods, and when I remembered that it was time to bolt and when I understood it was too late these messieurs suddenly started to babble in their barbaric language sticking tenderly pupils of their divine eyes into my face. One woman stepped forward of the crowd, tall, athletic, dead eyes blazing like all the suns of the Universe. She came close to me, kissed my mouth with her cold lips, took an arrow and directed it to her naked bosom.  I was startled: the goddess had tired of being immortal. Irritated by unnatural stupidity of these creatures I emptied the quiver in seconds. Then I bunched the bodies and set out for the hulk of the first murdered hero.

 

I took his leg too covered with wool, as it would have suited to the god, and dragged him to others.

 

On my halfway I was horrified. Another band of living corpses appeared in the distance.

 

I threw the god on the sand. He continued to bleed violently and having moved my toes I got to know that my “grinders” were wet and I had stuck in the sand to my ankles. With a difficulty I escaped my captivity and went running to the mountains shuddering from the thought that in these minutes another group was coming down the hill, shuddering because I didn’t know what they – the dead - would be making without me – love or funerals.

 

I had lied doggo behind the large grey stone that looked like a petrified egg. The blood shook my head when they indifferently passed the jumble of decaying bodies.  Suddenly women opened their mouths and their huge beautiful throats started producing unheard-of, fascinating sounds in unison.

 

It was the song that wept for life, the song that yearned to give the crumbs of consciousness to the birds, the song of the return to the saving box of Spirit. I cried sweetly and painfully because I couldn’t have been with them and may be because of  that in these hours I had seen myself again as a primitive instrument of his projects. One more time I was convinced that I would never be able to touch the sky with my dirty hands.

 

Then they began slowly descend to the water plunging there deeper and deeper. The sea was watchfully accepting them in its lap but wasn’t murmuring and stayed still. Soon the cutting, shrilling wind sprung up and took from the waving surface breath bubbles of the last men from the country of Hyperboreya.

 

I certainly penned this story when it occurred to me to place my world of the Three World War soldier into the great epoch of antiquity.

 

Tough luck. I got to Hyperboreans, to this fabricated by Greeks mythological country in inappropriate moment when the Great ancient eschatology had already exploded and even had been moving to its end, when sky had been already torn by heart-breaking “Pan is dead!” and Vergilius had predicted the birth of Baby Jesus.