Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

The Last Magog

some things— they called the light of day “khryrgyn,” with derision, that is how they felt about it — they detested it. The hair on my head stood up, and I was seized with shivering as I stood in the scorching sun. Derision, derision — spewed from the black innards of the mound. The white light, and everything in its path, I, standing in the hot sun by the entrance to the black hole — khryrgyn. Later, I would often come to the mound – to listen to them. They spoke of strange things. They whispered of the Tengers, of the spirits, intending to lodge a complaint about something. They were discussing how to compose such a prayer that would force the spirits to bring nearer the end of the world, to free the shamans of their responsibility. May death come, a fiery end, the end of everything — they wanted, they ardently desired, they awaited it. But gradually, the whispering subsided, often in mid-word, as though they collapsed into a sudden sleep, the pitiless sleep of an animal, and I carefully attended so as not to miss the end of the phrase. At times, the mound was silent for several days, and then it would again begin to whisper. That is how I learned to distinguish their language. And now the shaman was calling Sbegu an idiot, an irresponsible idiot, a cursed schismatic, an unbeliever. This is what the shaman was saying, knowing that no one in the room would understand. These were incomprehensible words, and no one understood what it is that the shaman was implying. I alone understood,

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