Trafika Europe 13 - Russian Ballet

The Last Magog

face, collecting the harvest, and the fear completely evaporated from my heart, the terror from the thought that I would be exterminated along with the entire big city melted under the bright sun. We gathered apples the whole day long — under the bright sun, not that scorching sun that sits in the heavens above the land of Magog like a spiteful overseer, but under the kind, warming, gentle sun of the carefree land of Ogon. And at home, happy, tired, emanating the aroma of apples, we were met by the wild, burning gaze of the shaman. “There,” he croaked, stretching out his long hand in the direction from which we came, “the fruits of the earth are ripening for the animals of the land of Ogon, a land doomed. And who is gathering them? The valiant men of the land of Magog, warriors by birth, are gathering them. How the Great Spirits are overjoyed, how elated are our glorious ancestors! For there is something to rejoice about — gathering the apples for the wretched men of the land of Ogon are the brave clansmen of Magog!” “You would do well to help us,” Topchu said curtly. I noticed that none of the men here ever argued with the shaman. “We live together, under one roof.” “The spirits will not allow it,” the shaman hollered, “that their servants harvested apples in the land of Ogon. This land is condemned to extermination!”

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