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

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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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poezija

THE ROAD, Leila Samarrai

1.

My distant seas
Flooded the land
In the night.
My bright fires
Smell burned nostrils.
Pain.
Distorted are
The kisses.
My warm dreams
Frosted by
Extinct stars
And oaths
Which only the constellations
understand.
There they are
Like curses.
The thief took away the peace
Kept in a vortex ‘till then.
Frozen reflections sleep
Vanished flowers
Through irony
Heal hell.

2.
The wounds elicited hopes
To
Exhausted
stranded
onto the rocks of ancient seas
bring peace to the castaway.
They prolonged the eternal day
To one more wrathful hour.

3.
Have you not been brought by the departed
into dark regions
by the narrowness of heart?
Eat your own heart.
Let snow cover it.
The sight and breath return
After the strike of the matured essence.
Let Truth become essence to you
The quest
Pretty fresco carved
By the eye of the stern
Iced
Sun.

4.
Look how they drink wine
And make merry with thorns
They feed the fish
On the river Jordan.
They gather them with a hat
Quickly serve them
Even faster gnawed
They throw them back to the water
And croak to the moon
Into the mum day.
They followed the tail of the star
To see her head
Embryos of the entirety
To remove.
In hands they carry gold,
Hear where they say:
From spirit the emerald was born.

5.
Mystics listen to her
Cynics vomit her
Midwives truth-birth her
And since always
Welcome her on hands
That insidious trash
To fill their pitchers
With her feces.
Born from the spirit of pride
From the spleen of law
From the blood of forefathers
From the womb of lies
From seventy seven
Forgiveness
The fools loved her
Saints like a knick – knack
Showed her on the fair
Liars about her
Sexually fantasized
Ecce veritas
Spends her life next to Dionysius ,
Bloodless turkey cocks and donkeys
Smell her sacred beak.
Crowned with laurels
Permeated with boredom
In the tasteful asylum
And she sings in blood
To dampened strings
While watching her reflection
In the lavatory of Hades
Remembers
Progenitrix
Now already an aging whore
Arose from the dream
To maintain the dream.

6.
From the cold
in the bones
in the cold
to the bones
where have you
banished
Your brother Cain
And them?
Will they die?
From the ice
Under bones
Will they drop dead?
By sheet
Of winter
In the bones
All those who
On Good Friday
Got some kind of
Shoes
To walk the earth;
The dream extracted from my eye.

7.
Mister,
In the polished macrocosm
Cleansed from the dirty
The poor and the ugly
May my prayer
Rip your moment of peace.

8.
I live in peregrine flesh
I think in a peregrine head
I don’t want to be stultified!
(Apparition!
Why you write so loud?)
I have been cured
To perversity

9.

I believe in craziness
In the seed of furore
Like Chateaubriand
Which confides into the power
Of Borodin sun
I believe in scum
Sideway spheres
Cuckoo eggs
Saint Ignatius cantinier
I am
The snack of lions
Holy Trinity
And drunken senate-crown
In poison-(mis)ery
I swear
To senex
Which catches up with youth
Princeps of principibus
Thrown into the arena
Sown with sandals
Of devoured magistrates
The fruit of time lowers by the sky
My bones beside the son
The second son
Of Urbin
It is a cowardly
graveyard
Since then I circle
With white dogs
Through haze
Upon shores.

10.
Pierced by sound
Wave the forks
With the mute ear
Hunt the landloper
Broken by a blackguard
The tempest rushes towards wrath
Silence and bones
Of some ancient springhead
Springhead through bodies.

11.
He dies in words
The man who writes.
Drowned fish slide
Down bloodied carousel
Unconscious eyes
The man writes
Dives like a bird
For a sonata
Drowned in the fountain
The passerby in water
With unmoving feet
And he and her
And us and you
Head to the clouds
The harvest sown
In the iris
They quest for a vision
She shapes in a poem
The bloody thirst
Bitterness mocks her
They pass dipped
In icy bathrooms
Through peaceful centuries
You know well
Who writes
About the luster of infinity
Or nothingness
It is equal
In vain.

12.

Hunchbacks
With a cloud on their back
Butcher clowns
Villains
Regana’s daughters
Who hate my day
And all my mornings
Born from the wound
Of glistening narcissuses
Litter of Lucrecia
You exchanged venoms
Compressed into pitchers
In grinds sweetly
To stain the knife
With ancient cause
It is the artist osculating
He butchered the night
Of silence
And hush
But I will further hear
The eternal echo of my death.

13.
In the hour of celebrated departure
The warriors slumbered.
They breathe out under banners
And bloom in the hollow.
Flowers separate them.
Or are those
Intersected roads ,
Nemesis,
Time fell asleep
In ambiguities.

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