Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

The Last Magog

Tenger and I asked her to introduce me to him. She waved her head. “He won’t agree to it. He is my Tenger.” “You don’t have to ask him,” I instructed. “Just tell me the next time you go there and I will follow quietly and observe.” “You don’t want to speak with him?” she said, surprised. Of course I wanted to speak with him. But how is one to have a conversation, if he doesn’t want to speak. If he is so sad and immersed in himself? And, if he is, to boot, Nishkni’s Tenger? I can’t imagine how it is possible to converse with such a Tenger. It is better to observe such a Tenger quietly from the bushes. If only he doesn’t see you. Surprisingly, she acquiesced. We agreed that I would wait for her at the foot of the Red Mound. Dusk was falling, and soon it would be entirely dark. The afterglow of the sunset. Soon, it did become dark, and only the top of the mound with its silent temple silhouetted against the fading light of the sky was visible. Somewhere nearby resounded voices, and I recognized the voice of Nishkni. But who was she with? Is the Tenger with her? There, from where the voices came, suddenly a bright light flared up. I raised myself up so as to see it better, and that’s when nearby, a rustle sounded. I turned my head. Beside me stood a huge dark shaman. He was covered


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