dramma, horror, mathilde, prose, samarrai

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Three, THE SHAITAN HORSE, part 2, The Old Woman of the Dead

With this chapter, titled “The Shaitan Horse”, I will temporarily pause sharing the material from the book of Mathilde which is currently being translated. I hope that the introductory passages piqued your interest. Mathilde will soon be available on Amazon. You will be notified in due time. Thank you for reading.

PREVIOUS CHAPTERS:

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter One, A TALE OF ORIAN VON AMERONGEN

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Two, THE HÄSSE CASTLE

Sleeping Mathilde, Chapter Three, THE SHAITAN HORSE

***

I looked at him with bloodlust in my eyes, but I did not erase the wolfish smile off my face, quite the contrary, I grinned all the harder.

– You see, Olof… The architecture I am inclined to lately is a strict and monumental one. Vast wall structures are without a single opening. Soon I will wall off all those tiny light windows through which you’re looking.

He gave me a funny look. – By the by, where is thy lady? She was here a moment ago – he took a good long look around him. She was here all along, right next to the two of us, silent like a shadow, peaceful like a sword resting in the sheathe. She seemed as if she were surpressing laughter.

A frightening silence suddenly fell upon the castle.

“Approach, Olaf!”, I yelled for a serf. His shoulders shivered.

“Here I come to my master to obey his command!”, he dared not look at me.

“You see, Olof, how faithful my serf Olaf is to me? If the king would weep, he would weep along with him. If the king died, there Olaf would be howling for him, such is the love of serflings of Hässe to its ruler. Is this not so?”, I embraced my serf. His lips were quivering, and teeth aclatter. “I re-reckon it’s cuh-cold, Guard, let me get the fire going.”

“I want you to take us through the secret door”, I gave off a bloodlust-laden grin and took a good long look at the hump under his tunic. “Look at him, Olof. Is he not like a statue which speaks? Good old Roman Pasquino , a damaged sculpture, of course, but well spoken, because when it hears the vile tongues say ‘Even Amerongen can’t reign forever’ – a prideful look on his face – Olaf would cuss and say ‘Let me find the coward in the shadows! And if I don’t find him, you, master, will blow into him the icy breath of death and the bastard will fall only because he wanted my master to die.’”

Olof raised his eyebrows and said “Incredible.”

“Brave lad” – I patted the serf on the hump under the tunic which stuck out a bit crookedly. “You do not fear the secret door?”

Olaf rose the steel chin to me, grinned and revealed a severe lack of dentures: “I am loyal, milord. My name is Olaf and all live long day I eat and drink profusely and in the name of my prince I would…” He was deep in thought for a while. I waited patiently enjoying the whole thing. Something almost like a thought sparked in his pupil. “I can do this. I can go through the secret door. I will be the guide. I have heard that master Olof is going sightseeing.”

“And if the doors are sealed?”, I laughed.

“I will knock them down with my head.”

“Is he an idiot?” Olof giggled pointing to the wee hunchback. Olaf laughed with him, and his whole face went dark. He clenched his fists. “I will crush the door, here…with these hands!”

“I actually believe you…” – I paid no heed to Olof’s jab – “Peace be upon the kingdom, Olaf.”

”Long live my prince”, Olaf lowered his gaze and knelt before me.

Olof coughed uninterestedly, while strength raged within me.

“Come with me…”, I took a few large steps and stood in front of the secret door

“I don’t see how we can pass.” – Olof wondered. – “Perhaps…”

“Quiet,” I frowned. “I wanted to show you this.”

I stood on a precisely marked spot, which was the Eye of Argus on the mosaic, and used my weight to start up the secret mechanism. The door squeaked creepily, rising upward, while Olof stood in tense expectation – what is on the other side?

His astounded facial expression amused me. He hesitated for a moment or two, and then carefully came after me along the tight pass. He was in the state of complete horror, while we crawled by grotesque gravestones. Soon we arrived at a big room whose stone walls were adorned with a low, narrative relief, similar to Assyrian ones.

There was little to no furniture in the room. Two chairs and an oaken table colored red took up the middle of the room. The table was covered in a pile of parchments and unusual object, one of which was my fancy – shaped by the hands of Mathilde – a miniature replica of the Kraken. The rest of the furniture was colored green, with a figure of a three-headed dragon Buné engraved onto it, as were many other pagan symbols. A fresco was on the wall above the fireplace, a fresco which, according to my instructions, was made by Mathilde. It was an all-black monstrosity, a smirk on her face gnawed to the bone, my protector Yambe-Akka[1], the angel of death.

Not paying attention to an astonished and terrified Olof, in a knightly stance I knelt before her horrific visage.

jambe

Heed my prayer, Yambe-Akka

Habituate my eyes to the blade of vengeance

Let me hold it in my hand

Let my hand not quiver when vengeance recognizes the cause!

Let the bowels howl in fear, bowels of all those

Who wanted you unmade from your way!

 

I got up unladen, breaking the silence reinforced by Olof being quiet.

“Impressive, no?”, I said self-lovingly.

Olof shook from unease, and his face wrinkled.

“I come here to enjoy myself… The room is full of objects which bring me peace” – I paused – “There are all sorts of things here, from Iram, Ubar[2]…”- as I was saying this, I picked up a crooked J-shaped sword from the table, “a cursed Arabian knife”, a gift from Ubar. “Whomsoever has it in his hand, he must…”, I looked at Olof, and his eyes were aflame bloody-red.

“My friend, I see that my dark humor upsets your soul. I’m afraid that I must stop doing that. You’ll lose your appetite,” I mercifully added and pointed to the direction of the spiral staircase.

“They lead all the way to the balcony, and from there on…you’ll see…”

“You surprise me in a horrific way, Orian…Let’s go…”, Olof added nervously. And so, over the balcony, we found ourselves in a hallway, adorned with numerous columns. The end of the hallway was crowned by an arch, made in an Arabic style.

“Down the hallway, keep going straight, you will reach Mathilde’s solar”, I said wickedly.

“Let’s go back”, Olof felt uncomfortable.

“My solar is on the opposite side. We can visit it as well?”

Our conversation was suddenly cut off by a female voice. “Hässe, including the secret passageways, has at least fifty-two rooms. It is a monumental complex, master Olof…”

 

[1] Yambe-Akka or Jabme-akka is a Sami Goddess of the Underworld. Her name means ‘The Old Woman of the Dead’.

[2] Historical lost cities

 

 

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Uncategorized

Calderon said: life is a dream

Calderon said: life is a dream
A deceptive escort between two awakenings
Neither life nor death
Nor something third
Neither life after death
Nor death before life
And it dies among hour hands
Before it spends the night in our bodies

Segismundo chained by precarious stars in vain
Announces a great illusion
And circles of mute dreams

After one thousand and two hundred nights
I see my bones peering in the gardens
If eternity would rule before the dawn
Perhaps it would cure the loneliness

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poetry

Grandfather’s coat

in me there is nothing out of the ordinary.
(maybe I was a writer by accident?)
the tiny veins of my mind in my head made a Gordi’s knot.
all of it is delirium.
all of it is to be buried in the depth, silence and darkness,
into the dreamy eternity of death.

In the evening, around eight o’clock,
I rushed towards the trench shotgun with the desire to end my misery.
I ate two slices of pizza from the local bakery
and like a condemned woman, I prepared for my queer – death.

I wore my grandfathers war vest,
my great-grandfather’s dandy coat and my great-grandfather’s father’s shoes laced with camel hair.

Without any discomfort (except nausea)
in a suitcase I packed the cut out mask.
underneath it indulgences, with instructions to be read at daybreak:
„I do not fear death, until the mortician.
They scheme around
the coffin. Stopple the tragedy like a sea-shell.”

Beside absurd begins the strategy.
the wheels of the little machine drill,
she! Grinds the finger rolled in gunpowder with the trigger
like in the dough,
illuminates the brain with destructive noise.
may they fire, the clerk murderer should fire and all those others
who will after the shot carry me out in pieces.

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poetry, proza

a thousand ways in which my father died

Some say that my father died …
beside the Tigris, mighty, silent, mysterious.
Witnesses say that his body protruded
from the liquid hot sand,
his face was a mask, a misleadingly golden hue
in the never setting sun.
Others say that my father resurrected.
One can see him stumbling down the deserted streets
wearing the dark sunglasses
escorted by combat Hummers from machine-gun turrets,
escorted by easy -on -the -trigger -boys

(What a lie! BANG BANG! BUM BUM!)

Legend tells my father died
when the huge Erbas E300 Air France crashed into the Atlantic ocean, the most modern aircraft and the pride of the French company.
The ocean whispers he never flew by plane.
Somewhere in the background I can hear their booming voices: He died dressed in a camouflage uniform of the Iraqi Revolutionary Guard with a glint of the sun on the epaulettes.
He still had a desire to live; at least until the moment he pounces his plane on a selected target and joins the virgins in Paradise.
But the witnesses do swear that he, a martyr – suicide, casually pulled the plug to open the cabin, once, twice, three …
“Damn bastard” – he thought at the time – “Again, there is no electricity! It must be that the fuse under the dash burnt out
once again. The last one we had.“

(Can you imagine that?)

An aircraft runway in front of him has become heated,Bsand around it shimmers with a bluish light.  Across the sky dark clouds began to spring.
There are rumors he went mad before his death.
He saw the figure of an old woman dressed in mourning dress at the site of the automatic pilot, a contrast to her unreal pale face, as if she were immersed in water for days.
He froze in horror while she was silently watching him with empty eye sockets.
“Open the box.” – She said, this time it was a deep voice without emotion. “There’s a picture inside.“
A few seconds later,
scorched dismembered parts of human bodies were scattered miles around. Tormented by madness he died in hysteria, alternately he laughing and shaking with fear

(This is catchy, I give them that!)

In unison voices, they baptized their Gentleman testifying before the global audience:
there was a body of a child, it sailed to the surface,
there was an intact body of a wrinkled old woman with eyes closed, as if asleep, her face pale almost white, her hands turned blue from the water. Beside the corpses swam a black box.
There was a picture inside.
The old lady was me.
The picture was mine.
(I do not know even what to say..
What an imagination!)
They say my father blew himself up with a bomb somewhere, beside the Tigris, mighty, mighty, silent, silent–
mysterious–
Oh so mysterious,
witnesses say that his body protruded from the liquid hot sand, his face was a mask a misleadingly golden hue.
After all, who cares if the bastard died?
You see..
I believe none these stories, do you Father?
You Father, you murderer, you Father, you murderer.
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poetry, proza

The Unnamed Song, Leila Samarrai

AR: This is not the poem you are going to love

 

 I’m one of the few who have the urge
Death makes me want to live
For the sweetest death.
Someone planted a voice inside me. Aggravated.
Or is it someone else?

Life awakens in me a desire for the sweetest death. Again.
Death makes me want to live. Death and hatred.
And the dreams?
Dreams can only be learned. Then you learn to give them to others.

There is the throaty voice in the womb.
Fresh flowers on the larynx grow in the weeds.
There are the dark glands in the throat.
Someone planted a voice in me, Aggravated
Or is it someone else? .

Wonder is keeping it’s pace.
The dead are always coming back
They always have unpleasant names.
The Nameless Ones
Fill up their chests with plates of porridge

I am The Unnamed One
On the road waiting for me
Only the dead can understand
Behind the dead gate where they sleep
There exists no ringing bell

The days go by
The same, one after the other
You become the monk of silence.
The past is frozen on the other side of the eye
Wake me up and let me be, because …
Having me is unsuitable..

Here I am .. Close to …
Right next to life.
He grabs you to live
Then he pushes you back

Amused he is, looking on proudly
at our downfall

In the prison of my hunger
When I cry, turn away, do not disturb, do not disturb
People agree to nod, to be loved.
To them, it is more important than  respect.
I’m not able to enjoy someone else’s happiness.
So stupid and uninspiring.
It’s a kind of boredom I can not stand.
But I still prefer happiness from annoying people.
It happens less commonly.

Still.. Wondering is keeping it’s pace..

On the road waiting for me
Only the dead can understand
Behind the dead gate where they sleep
There exists no ringing bell

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proza

The Love That Never Dies, Leila Samarrai

Breath in
Breath out
Breath in
A corpse never dies

A wassail around the grave
Of the Russian mystic
Lunacy crucified in his eye

He walks around in a black robe
On a graveyard
That did not cry
On which I listened to yelling and screamed
Sensitively gentle and superior

My blindness,
Merciful death
Put me away into wilted flowers
So I repose there
Already my corpse reeks strongly
The one that never dies
Whose wounds were played in the darkness

Sensual death,
The downfall which with a watchful eye
I saw never again
I am repulsed by the rot that sleazes through my senses
Amid the room given to me like a grave, and the glass
To watch my reflection in it
Or end my life with the smithereens!

I knit a wreath for the vixen
Who was suffocating next to the shaft,
Tearing the grid with her teeth,
Who was breaking the joists,
Eating sonnets,
She rode the Lions gate
In a dress with a décolletage
Cut with her sword and enflamed with her pyre
The heads of the five Mycenaean bulls
Drank the blood of the horse from the silver chalice,
Tasseled in rosettes, with a light sword
I dug two pits
For two rings, of gold and of bronze.

For the beast that leaves the cup of wormwood
At the tip of the hands
For the beast
With a merciful heart of the venomous fungus

Like you (who are a) corpse
Like you, scorpion, who are
While unease ripens in the fog
Lulled inside the years
A bloodied sun comes out in the west

Throw me to the pigs!

Verily
In the circle of graves?
Verily
In the tomb of Atreus?
Verily
In the sea bed of Aegean full of blood.

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poezija

THE LOVE THAT NEVER DIES, Leila Samarrai

Breath in
Breath out
Breath in
A corpse never dies

A wassail around the grave
Of the Russian mystic
Lunacy crucified in his eye

He walks around in a black robe
On a graveyard
That did not cry
On which I listened to yelling and screamed
Sensitively gentle and superior

My blindness,
Merciful death
Put me away into wilted flowers
So I repose there
Already my corpse reeks strongly
The one that never dies
Whose wounds were played in the darkness

Sensual death,
The downfall which with a watchful eye
I saw never again
I am repulsed by the rot that sleazes through my senses
Amid the room given to me like a grave, and the glass
To watch my reflection in it
Or end my life with the smithereens!

I knit a wreath for the vixen
Who was suffocating next to the shaft,
Tearing the grid with her teeth,
Who was breaking the joists,
Eating sonnets,
She rode the Lion’s gate
In a dress with a décolletage
Cut with her sword and enflamed with her pyre
The heads of the five Mycenaean bulls
Drank the blood of the horse from the silver chalice,
Tasseled in rosettes, with a light sword
I dug two pits
For two rings, of gold and of bronze.

For the beast that leaves the cup of wormwood
At the tip of the hands
For the beast
With a merciful heart of the venomous fungus

Like you (who are a) corpse
Like you, scorpion, who are
While unease ripens in the fog
Lulled inside the years
A bloodied sun comes out in the west

Throw me to the pigs!

Verily
In the circle of graves?
Verily
In the tomb of Atreus?
Verily
In the sea bed of Aegean full of blood.

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