Danny Osipenko - The mystery of wolf’s cliff

© Danny Osipenko, 2022

ISBN 978-5-0056-1869-6

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Large drops of a rain persistently knocked on colored glass of stained-glass windows and, breaking, slowly rolled down down, leaving indistinct marks. Black thunderclouds faced with each other, is squeezed bubbling. Occasionally the darkness of the evening sky was cut by bright flash of a violet-silvery lightning, and was immediately dissolved among shapeless outlines of the storm clouds blackened everywhere. The booming peal of a thunder for a second muffled rain knock, but, having scattered by hardly audible splinters of an echo, slowly abated, without having left a mark.

The huge empty hall of the temple was lit with the only candle -unquenchable icon lamp located on an altar. A close formation of benches for parishioners cast the long shadows dancing in dim light of an icon lamp. The thunderstorm continued to storm outside of the temple, but in it there was an unusual silence.

Having inclined the head over the turned yellow, old pages of the book and slowly moving lips, the hunched old man in a cassock repeated a prayer in thousand time. The storm amplified. Having timidly looked back to huge glass of a stained-glass window, the Holy Father crossed, having seen the lightning which sparkled suddenly.

The silence was suddenly broken by loud and persistent knock of the door hammer. The Holy Father took an icon lamp and, having gone down to the hall, hasty steps went to doors.

The statues which were located in superficial niches almost under the ceiling as if performed with each reflection of a lightning forward, being painted in whitish-blue shades. Strict, ascetic faces cast them not tranquility, and it is rather an alarm therefore the Holy Father, remaining to spend the night in the temple, tried not to look at them, going deep into a prayer in which only saw a pacification and composure.

The next peal of a thunder which was followed at once by several bright flashes of lightnings was heard. The Holy Father lifted a heavy latch and slightly slightly opened a door.

Outside the temple a solid wall water flew from the sky, washing out the clay road and baring small stones. Heavy water flows rolled down a tile roof of the temple and, being late for several moments in semicircular trenches, with loud murmur flew down down drains.

– The Holy Father, I can confess? – the gruffish, but at the same time thick bassy voice was heard.

In the next flash of a lightning the priest saw the highlighted figure which is wrapped up in a dark long raincoat. Drops of a rain flew down on a hood and shreds of the confused gray hair which were beaten out from under it. The Holy Father stood aside a little, allowing the person into the temple and when the stranger entered, looked around and closed a door, having lowered a latch.

– What brought you into such bad weather? – the priest asked quietly.

– I need to confess … – the entered old man answered, throwing back the wet-through hood one hand back, and still holding another bent on a breast under a raincoat.

The priest specified to the guest towards an altar forward. Having established an icon lamp on the former place, the priest prayed and, having turned an eye on the stranger, nodded meaning that it is ready to listen on what the old man slightly frowned the dense become gray eyebrows and twisted lips in a grin.

The thunderstorm storming around muffled the most part of the words pronounced by the old man who is kneeling to an altar but than further it moved ahead in the confession, especially scared was a look of the priest. Neither it is alive, nor is dead, there was it, squeezing both hands the cross hanging on a neck not in forces to move.

The old man finished with the voice which weakened from a long monologue and, having become straight, turned the embittered eye on the priest who it is per second lit up air signs of the cross. The stranger cast away to a raincoat floor aside, having bared the blood-stained breast and was wrinkled not from disgust, not from pain. Having extended forward a hand which still disappeared under a raincoat, it was slowly inclined forward, being kneeling, and in the next second was pushed to the floor. His fingers were powerlessly unclenched, having released fallen with hardly audible slap to a floor bleeding profusely, still warm heart.

The Holy Father started back back on several steps, with horror looking at the crimson spot spreading from the dead.

Suddenly the huge black clot separated from the dead old man and soared up, rushing about on the temple. It hit in stained-glass windows, was turned, looking for an exit. Having rushed aside, the priest fell and, clinging hands and legs to a floor, spread to an altar from where already managed to depart.

The shadow scurried about on the temple, flying about statues and hitting in stained-glass windows. Here it fell to the floor and, having found a door, began to fight convulsively in it. Suddenly the clot for a second stood absolutely unmoving. The Holy Father leafed through pages of the huge book, squinting in the twilight of the temple and trying to make out uneven letters of the hand-written text. Suddenly joy of a find lit up his face. Quickly moving lips, he began to read. The shadow at a door was developed and slowly went on pass between benches to an altar. The priest began to read quicker. Its shivering voice from hardly audible whisper already almost passed to shout. The shadow came nearer. A second more and it appeared at the altar, but the priest finished and now a broad gesture removed a cross in air.

The doors of the temple were sharply opened. The priest moved back back. The shadow rushed to a door, as if something attracted. The Holy Father took a closer look and in the next reflection of a lightning could distinguish the small casket standing on the doorstep of the temple.

The shadow concerned a casket and in a moment was hidden in it. The small chest cover with loud click slammed, and suddenly everything abated.

Slow steps the priest went to the doors shaken here and there by strong wind gusts. The thunderstorm began to decline. The slanting rain only occasionally threw the ringing drops on a temple threshold, the thunder abated, only lightnings continued to light with violet glow the dark sky.

The Holy Father sat down before a casket and touched it by a hand, but immediately started back back, having burned. The casket slowly rose in air, radiating soft whitish shine and smoothly floated to an altar, having rounded the priest sitting on a floor. Having stood in a small niche, it is unknown for what the provided architect, the casket with a stone gnash was developed by a front part to an exit. Whitish blinking disappeared.

Having crossed once again and having whispered a prayer, the priest rose and immediately again stood on the place. In the strip of light reaching from an entrance for an altar something flew. As if having been delighted, the Holy Father ran out on the street and, madly looking around, looked for in the dark the flown creation…

With a powerful rustle it fell by the earth in several meters ahead. Having shuddered, the priest took several steps forward and gave him a hand…

Chapter 1.

The clay footpath curled between speakers of boulders and powerful roots of trees there and here. Winding among crooked rough trunks, the path slowly flew down downhill. Clinging to the seminude branches covered with the turned yellow foliage on a footpath the young girl slid down. Her hair poured from light brown to fiery red flickered in beams setting the sun. Having reached a shady tree near which the footpath sharply turned on the left, the girl for a second stood and deeply sighed, fascinated by beauty of the surrounding nature. Having embraced hands a thick warm trunk, it slightly bent forward, inspecting the panorama which opened before it.