Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

They passed through two floors, climbed the stairs, ran on tiptoe across the hanging galleries where the moon shone bright and terrible through the window bladders. Their black felt boots silently crossed the moonlit floorboards; the tall, ornamented inner doors opened to show the drunken private quarter guards snoring-legs akimbo, caps on their chests. Father-in-law swore quietly: No order in the government at all. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, had ruined everything. Quickly, with a swift poke, they dispatched the guards.

After the entrance there were more corridors and the sweet smell grew nearer. Glancing upward, Benedikt clasped his hands: books! The shelves were packed with books! Lord Almighty! Saints alive! His knees gave way, he trembled and whined softly: you couldn't read them all in a whole lifetime! A forest of pages, an endless, indiscriminate blizzard, uncounted! Ah…! Ah!!! Aaaaa! Maybe… just maybe… somewhere here… maybe the secret book is here somewhere! The book that tells you how to live, where to go, where to guide the heart! Maybe Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, has found it, and is already reading it: he jumps up on the bed quick as a wink, and just reads and reads! He went and found it, the monster, and he's reading it!! The tyrant! Shit!

"Pay attention!" Father-in-law breathed into his face.

The hallways branched off, turned, forked, and disappeared toward the unknown depths of the terem. Father-in-law looked every which way: all that could be seen was books.

"There has to be a simple way in," muttered Father-in-law. "Somewhere there must be an entrance. There has to be… We took a wrong turn somewhere."

"The Northern Herald!!! Issue number eight!!!" Benedikt cried. He rushed at it, pushing Kudeyar Kudeyarich, who tripped and fell against the wall. As he fell, he reached his hand out to break his fall: the wall yielded and turned into a shelf, the shelf collapsed and broke into pieces. Suddenly they were in an enormous hall whose walls were entirely covered with bookcases and shelves; there were countless tables heaped high with books, and at the head table, in a semicircle of a thousand candles, was a high stool, and on that stool sat Fyodor Kuzmich himself, Glorybe, with a writing stick in his mouth: he turned his face to look at them and his mouth opened wide: he was surprised.

"Why are you here unannounced?" he said, frowning.

"Get down, overthrow yourself, you accursed tyrant-bloodsucker," cried Father-in-law with real flourish. "We've come to oust you!"

"Who's come? Why did they let you in?" said Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, in a worried voice.

"Who's come? Who's come? He whose time has come, that's who."

"Tyrants of the world, tremble; but you take courage and hark!" cried Benedikt from behind Father-in-law's shoulder.

"Why tremble?" asked Fyodor Kuzmich, as he realized what was happening. He screwed up his face and began to cry. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Your unjust rule has ended! You tormented the people- and that's enough of that! Now we'll give you a taste of the hook!"

"I don't want the hook, I don't. It huuurts!"

"Next thing you know he'll be telling us his sad story," cried Father-in-law. "Beat him!" he cried, striking a blow in his direction. But Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, rolled off the stool like a pea and ran, so Father-in-law hit a book instead, and split it in two.

"Why, why are you ousting meeee?"

"You're doing a bad job of running the state!" cried Father-in-law in a terrible voice. Hook in hand, he rushed at the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live, but Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, dived under the stool again and scrambled under the table. He ran to the other side of the room.

"I do the best I can!" sobbed Fyodor Kuzmich.

"You destroyed the whole goddamned country! You tear pages out of books! Get him, Benedikt!"

"You stole poems from the pushkin," cried Benedikt, working himself up, "and he's our be all and end all! And you stole from him!"

"I invented the wheel!"

"It was the pushkin who invented the wheel!"

"And the yoke!"

"Pushkin did it!"

"The torch!"

"Jeez! He's still being stubborn."

Benedikt ran after Fyodor Kuzmich from one side of the table, Father-in-law tried to head him off on the other side, but the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live, once again bolted under the books.

"Leave me alone, I'm a good boy!"

"You wily louse!" cried Father-in-law. With one hand leaning on the table, he jumped over it in a single leap. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, squealed, scampered under the bookcase, and took refuge somewhere out of sight.

"Catch him!" croaked Father-in-law, thrusting his hook under the shelves. "He'll get away! Get away! He has tunnels dug everywhere!"

Benedikt ran over to help. Together, getting in each other's way, they poked around with their hooks, huffing and puffing…

"I've got something here. Think I got him… Come on, you're younger, squat down and take a look… I can't quite get the hook in. It's him, right?"

Benedikt got down on his hands and knees and looked under the shelves-it was dark and there were all kinds of wisps and rags.

"I can't see anything… Kudeyar Kudeyarich, if you could just light it up!"

"I'm afraid to let him go… Come on, now, take the hook from me… Dammit… I can't figure out…"

Benedikt grabbed the hook; Father-in-law got on all fours, shone his light under the shelves. His joints creaked.

"There's so much dust… Can't see anything… Huge dust balls under here…"

Something jerked the hook, they heard the sound of clothes ripping. Benedikt jabbed and gave the hook a twist, but too late: tap tap tap-they could hear small steps running along the walls behind the shelves somewhere in the depths of the room.

"You let him get away, dammit!" cried Father-in-law in disappointment. "And I taught you, I taught you!"

"Why is it always me?… You were the one who hooked him by the clothes!"

"We should have squashed him. Where is he now?… Come on now, come out, Fyodor Kuzmich! Come out like a good boy!"

"No fair, no fair!" cried Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, from below.

"There he is! Come on!"

But Fyodor Kuzmich scurried away again.

"Don't try to catch me, I'm just a little guy."

"Stick him… Poke over here, that way!"

"Why are you so insistent?… Go away!" Fyodor Kuzmich squeaked from a third place.

"You're not nice!" he cried from a fourth.

Father-in-law looked all around, Benedikt looked around, his neck craned, his head bent. Something shuffled under the far shelf; he turned his head that way; something rustled under the shelves; with a soft, long leap Benedikt jumped. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the sounds better; so he closed his eyes and turned his head from side to side; if he could only push his ears back a bit more, it would be even better. His nostrils flared-he could find him by smell too, his smell went with him when he ran… There he is!

"There he is!" cried Benedikt, leaping and lunging at the spot. He turned his hook. There was a piercing squeal under the hook. "I've got him!"

Something burst. It was a soft sound, but distinct. Something tensed and then went limp on the hook. Benedikt turned it and pulled the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live, out from under the shelf. So much fuss and bother for such a puny little body. Benedikt pushed back his hood and wiped his nose with his sleeve. He took a closer look. The backbone had broken; the head was twisted to one side, and the eyes had rolled back.

Father-in-law walked over and looked. He shook his head.

"The hook got dirty. It'll have to be boiled."

"Now what?"

"Clean him off it and throw him in a box or something."

"With my hands?"

"Why your hands? God forbid. Use a piece of paper. There's tons of paper around here."