Marina Dyachenko: The Scar

We are grateful to all who contributed to our book publication in the United States.

Special thanks to Robert Gottlieb, chairman of Trident Media Group in New York. He discovered us in the midst of an unlimited pool of Russian literature.

Special thanks to Elinor Huntington for her great translation and to Patrick LoBrutto for his smart editing and belief in our book success.

Sincere compliments to Zamir Gotta, Trident Media Group associate, who has been and still is the advocate for this project.

—Marina and Sergey Dyachenko

Where did he come from and where is he going? He wanders the world like the constellations wander the sky. He roams along the dust-laden roads and only his shadow dares to follow in his footsteps.

It is said that he possesses great powers, but they are not of this world.

Even the mages avoid him, for he is not subject to them. Whoever stands in his way, either through the whim of fate or through his own folly, curses the day of that encounter.

His intentions are unknown. The roads serve him like dogs.

The mountain heights and the pebbles of the far sea; the hills, ravines, and fields; the forests and foothills; the plains and shores; the lanes and highways: all hide his secrets.

It is said that he will roam and wander eternally. Take care not to meet him, either in a crowded fair or in a hermit’s den—for he is everywhere.

And if one day you should hear the footsteps of the Wanderer at your door …

The walls of the crowded tavern were shaken from the boom of drunken voices. After solemn mutual toasts, after good-natured but pointed jests, after cheerful scuffles, it was now time to dance on the table. They were dancing with a pair of maidservants who, although as sober as their work required, were flushed and giddy from the glitter of epaulets; from all the gleaming buttons, scabbards, and ribbons; from the passionate glances directed at them; and from their efforts to please the gentlemen of the guards. Glasses and jugs tumbled to the floor. Silver forks twisted into fanciful arabesques, crushed by nimble heels. The maidservants’ full skirts fanned through the air like decks of cards in the hands of a gambler, and their happy squeals rang in the ears of the onlookers. The landlady of the tavern, a wise, gaunt old woman who only occasionally stuck her nose out from her refuge in the kitchen, knew that there was nothing to worry about: the guards were rich and generous, and the damages would be recouped with interest, and more important, the popularity of the establishment would increase a thousandfold after this evening.

After dancing, the revelers calmed down, the din of voices quieted just a bit, and the maidservants, panting and adjusting their clothing, refilled the jugs that had escaped being smashed and brought new glasses from the kitchen. Now, having returned to their senses, both girls bashfully lowered their eyelashes, ashamed at how freely they had behaved. At the same time, an ardent, chimerical hope for something vague, something entirely unfeasible smoldered within the soul of each girl, and whenever a dusty boot brushed against one of their tiny feet as if by accident, that hope flared up and imbued their youthful faces and tender necks with color.

The girls were named Ita and Feta, so it was only natural that the befuddled carousers kept confusing their names; moreover, many of the guards could no longer manage their tongues and thus were scarcely able to compliment the girls further. The impassioned glances were fading, and together with them the girlish hopes for something unrealizable were slowly diminishing, when a heavy battle dagger suddenly slammed into the doorjamb right above Ita’s head.

The room became quiet immediately, so quiet that the landlady stuck her inflamed purple nose out of her kitchen. The revelers looked around in mute amazement, as if they expected to see the menacing Spirit Lash on the smoke-fouled ceiling. Bewildered, at first Ita just opened her mouth, but then, finally realizing what had happened, she dropped an empty jug on the floor.

In the tense silence, a heavy chair scraped back from one of the tables. Trampling the fragments of the broken jug under his boots, a man unhurriedly approached the girl. The knife sheath on his belt was empty, but soon the sinister weapon was extracted from the doorjamb and slid back into its place. The man took a piece of gold from a fat purse.

“Take it, girl. Would you like to earn more?”

The tavern exploded with shouts and laughter. The gentlemen guards—those who were still in any condition to move—joyfully clapped one another on the shoulders and backs, rejoicing at the bold and fortunate amusement thought up by their comrade.

“That’s Egert! Bravo, Egert! A daring brute, upon my word! Well, do it again!”

The owner of the dagger smiled. When he smiled, a dimple appeared on his right cheek near the corner of his mouth.

Ita helplessly clenched her fists, unable to take her eyes off that dimple. “But, Lord Egert, you can’t just … Lord Egert!”

“What, are you afraid?” Egert, a lieutenant of the regiment, asked smoothly, and Ita broke out in a sweat before the gaze of his clear gray blue eyes.

“But!”

“Stand with your back to the door.”

“But, Master Egert, you’ve all been drinking so heavily!”

“What! Don’t you trust me?”

Ita’s feathery eyelashes fluttered repeatedly. The spectators crawled onto the tables in order to see better: even the truly drunk ones sobered up for the sake of such a spectacle. The landlady, more than a bit agitated now, stood frozen in the kitchen doorway with a mop held motionless at her side.

Egert turned to the guards. “Knives! Daggers! Whatever you have!”

Within a minute, he was bristling like a porcupine.

“You’re drunk, Egert,” Dron, another lieutenant, let the words drop as if by accident.

A swarthy young man peeled himself from the crowd of guards. “Really? He hasn’t drunk all that much. Why, it’d barely wet a bedbug’s knees, the amount he’s drunk! How can he be drunk?”

Egert burst out laughing. “True! Feta, wine!”

Feta obeyed: not immediately, but slowly and mechanically, and simply because she would not dare to disobey the request of a customer.

“But, but,” stammered Ita, watching as a gurgling waterfall of wine tumbled down Egert’s throat.

“Not a word,” he spat, wiping his lips. “Stand back, everyone.”

“Oh, he is drunk!” The shout came from among the gathering of spectators. “He’s going to kill the girl, the idiot!”

A small brawl ensued, but it was soon quieted. Apparently, the heckler had been dealt with.

“I’ll give you a coin for each throw,” explained a teetering Egert to Ita. “One coin per shot. Stay where you are!”

The girl, who had been slowly trying to withdraw from the oak door, fearfully staggered back to her previous position.

“One, two…” Egert took the first throwing knife that came to hand from the mass of weapons. “No, this is so boring. Karver!”

The swarthy youth appeared next to him as if he had been awaiting this summons.

“Candles. Put candles in her hands and one on her head.”

“No!” Ita burst into tears. For a moment, the silence was broken only by her distressed sobs.

“How about this?” An extraordinary thought, it seemed, had dawned on Egert. “For each throw, I’ll give you a kiss.”

Ita slowly raised her tearstained eyes, but the few seconds of procrastination were enough.