Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

The Last Magog

knew. And so their own appearance corresponded to those familiars of black smoke – dressed in black sheep skins, wild and wooly, on his head a pointy kalpak, the shaman would, uninvited, barge into a house and, sweeping all aside, take his place by the hearth and, greedily stretching out his hands toward the meat, eat it with loud sounds issuing from his mouth. Around him, all stood still in fearful silence, watching him eat. And he, having eaten his fill, would suddenly be filled with a spirit of benevolence, and in this enthusiasm would look over the house’s inhabitants and say: It’s OK, do not be afraid. Do you not want to know, when? As they approached him, their eyes would light up with a glimmer of hope: “Tell us, oh holly man, we have indeed grown weary! Tell us, if thou knoweth!” “I know, I know,” the shaman would nod self-importantly, the lids of his eyes grown heavy after a full meal, and, head nodding, he’d peck at the air with his nose. When he would be grasped gently around the shoulders, the shaman would shake it off and, with an odd expression of merriment, looking over all those gathered around him, continue burping loudly. “Soon — that’s when!” he would announce with great significance, and rising to his feet, walk away.


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