Translator Natalie Lilienthal
©Natalie Yacobson,2020
©Natalie Lilienthal, translation,2020
ISBN978-5-0051-8265-4
Created with Ridero smart publishing system
THE FAIRY OFTAPESTRIES
All that remained ofmy brother’s dead girlfriend was puzzles– awhole collection nailed tothe walls.
“They look like paintings covered with light cobwebs. And from them…” Anita felt cold, her tongue seemed tobe frozen, and it was impossible tofinish the thought.
“Iknow you’re cold,” whispered avoice inher brain. Probably it was not inreality.
Anita looked at the pieces ofart collected byacaring hand like amuseum mosaic. There are fantasy, landscapes, still lives, morinas, and group scenes. Mostly the emphasis is on magical details that are sometimes difficult tosee inthe most ordinary-looking paintings. All assembled puzzles are carefully glued and inserted inside graceful frames, matched tothe size. It’s hard tobe surprised here. Anyone who at least once inhis life put together ajigsaw puzzle ofathousand or more details, knows what apainstaking work it is. Such toys are intended so that, having collected them once, then not toscatter them, but tonail them tothe walls todecorate the interior. Anita herself never had the patience tocomplete alarge puzzle tothe end, so she respected the skill ofanother. The selection ofpaintings was especially good. My brother’s ex-girlfriend had great taste. All images are bright and iridescent, but darkness gathers inthe house next tothem. Perhaps the whole point is that the house is old and gloomy. It is gloomy here even during theday.
“There’s awhole exhibition here!” Anita walked through the corridors looking at framed puzzles. Inagloomy house, bright pictures were supposed tocreate agood mood. And instead they brought insomething scary. It is strange, looking at them, as if dancing on arainbow, so where does the feeling ofevil come from. The black door tohell cannot suddenly open inside afabulous landscape.
“Do not take them off under any circ*mstances!” warned the brother.
“Good. Although strange…”
“What?”
“They seem tobe alive”.
“This is computer graphics, if you noticed, there is not asingle classic picture. Aspazia loved only contemporary artists who create apicture based on asketch or aphoto processed graphically. And she compared the collection ofpuzzles tothe weaving oftapestries”.
“What kind ofcomparison? Was she arestorer at amuseum?”
But the brother had already left. The pictures ofthe dead girl looked at her with living eyes. Fairies, elves, mermaids and whole companies ofmagical creatures are all around, and they look as if from hell.
Well, the needlewoman was Aspazia. Aspasia! What’s the name? What diligence does it take tocollect all this with your own hands? Anita found one box and tried toput together the puzzle she had already started. It didn’t work. Since it was already started, it means that Aspazia died before she could collect it. Really reminiscent ofpainstaking knitting: loop into loop. All the details are so small. So you can go blind!
Anita threw up awhole pile ofparts and fell asleep among them without collecting anything. Outside, the rain pounded on the window. Singing inan incomprehensible unfamiliar language penetrated into sleep. This is neither English, nor French, nor German, not even exotic Arabic. He seems tobe inhuman at all. Just amixture ofsounds and notes. This is probably the language spoken bythe elves inthe forest.
Inadream, Anita was stirring up the details ofan unassembled puzzle. She dreamed ofabeautiful, golden-haired woman weaving atapestry thread bythread. Her ears ached from her song. The sound echoed like blows inacauldron.
The woman is wearing aluxurious vintage dress ingreen. Behind the back is asparkling cape. Incurly hair, acap with aveil. She herself resembles apicture from amedieval museum. She would rather be queen than work on atapestry. For some reason she winds some ofthe threads from the tapestry on aspindle. Something is wrong here. Spindles were not used inthe production oftapestries.
Anita woke up the next morning. The puzzle has been completed. Gray mice swarmed around on the floor. No, some creatures, not mice! Anita screamed, and they ran tothe corners.
On the dusty floor, there are chains offootprints that resemble miniature human feet rather than mouse feet.
You can go crazy inthis house! What kind ofcreatures did not start inthe basem*nts during the period that the house was not repaired. Probably, it will soon crumble from decay. If not for the urgent need, Anita would never have agreed tospend the holidays here. It was better toleave for the whole summer somewhere tothe sea on asunny and hot coast. Here, inagloomy old mansion, even summer looked like late autumn. The sky above the rooftops is always cloudy, the park behind the fence is almost devoid offoliage, mostly thorny bushes and thorny trees grow init. Even nowhere towalk. The only pleasing tothe eye that there is, these are bright puzzle pictures. But from them for some reason the frost sneaks through the skin. Moreover, the feeling offear infront ofthe images ofelves and fairies has become much stronger than it was on the first day ofarrival.
Inthe gloomy garden, under the thorny branches, there was ablack headstone. It seems tobe no surprise that there are burials on the territory ofthe mansion. Generations ofone aristocratic family have lived here for centuries. Not her family. Anita’s father bought this estate from some ruined aristocrat. He died before he could leave here. He seems tohave been buried here. Surely there is acrypt somewhere nearby.
After awonderful purchase, her father did not live long either. He caught some kind ofinfection, from which all the skin was covered with ulcers, similar tothe marks oftiny hands, and died. Now Anita and her older brother Mark owned the estate. But what’s the use ofsuch ownership? It will take alot more money torenovate amansion than you can get from selling it. And if you don’t repair it, it will soon fall apart. Cracks, like cobwebs, have already begun toappear along the walls and ceiling. They seemed todeliberately repeat the bends ofthe jigsaw puzzle. It feels like the whole house is assembled piece bypiece bysomeone’s skillful hand.
There was nothing toamuse herself with: no TV, no gym, not even alibrary. And the books inthe old mansion certainly had tobe stored somewhere. Naturally shabby. But what about without them? All aristocrats collected their own library. Why is it different inthis house?
Anita walked through the rooms all day, but she never found the library.
At night she dreamed ofawoman again. Her fingers quickly twisted the threads ofthe tapestry, the song flowing tothe beat. Some strange creatures, like fabulous leprechauns, galloped around her hem and machine. And suddenly all the threads are inblood. They reach out for blood. From her blood! The tapestry is woven from Anita’s blood and veins.
She woke up terrified.
The dream was so real. She watched it like afilm on the screen with her own participation, and inthis film she was butchered as inatorture chamber. Asharp spindle stabbed into her chest with aknife, not allowing her tobreathe or move. And the beautiful singing woman pulled the veins out ofher one byone. The pain inthe dream was also real.
Even amurderer with aknife could not have scared her so much if he broke into an empty house, where there was not even atelephone tocall the police. Even ordinary murder does not have the evil that was present inthe dream.
Anita went out tothe park. You need towalk alittle, otherwise she will go crazy from along stay instuffy gloomy rooms. Even the puzzles on the walls were no longer pleasing.
Anita did not have her own car, but it was possible totry toget tothe nearest village on foot. When Mark drove her here, on the way she noticed something like atiny town. There should be abar or pub. Now she needs tosit inacrowded place and talk tosomeone, but as luck would have it, she could not find away out ofthe park. The estate was too large. It’s easy toget lost on paths that diverge inamaze.
Anita almost tripped over the grave under the trees. This is the one she saw from the window. The headstone is black. The piled mound ofearth is quite fresh. It was recently loosened with ashovel. Mark said something about the fact that his girlfriend had tobe buried nearby. This is probably her. There is no one else tobe. Who else has lived and died on the estate inthe last ten years? Only her father, that old aristocrat and brother’s friend. But for some reason the inscription on the stone read Etna, not Aspazia. The brother’s beloved was definitely called Aspazia. He even composed amadrigal inher honor, just like aknight from the old days. The poems were dedicated toAspazia. Anita found them inan album that Mark had forgotten inthe house when he left. Or maybe he just didn’t want totake it with him. And who, then, is Etna? Aspazia’s body is definitely buried somewhere nearby. And the thorny garden is an excellent setting for the burial site.
It’s unpleasant tolive next tothe grave. Anita almost ran away from it. For some reason, something as oppressive with fear emanated from the damp earth as from bright puzzles inthe house. But Anita returned tothe collection ofpuzzles. It was already evening, and she did not want tospend the night inthe openair.
The house was even darker than usual. Anita had tomake an effort toturn on the lamp. The electric light snatched the inscription under the puzzle, hanging inthe frame inthe hallway: Etna. Isn’t that the very name that is inscribed on the tombstone.
The puzzle depicts apretty young blonde who has fallen into the clutches ofsome mythical creature with horns, wings and claws.
It feels like this plot is awarning. Anita turned away quickly. Inmany other paintings, where elves danced under the moon or fairies played pranks, one could also find scenes ofviolence against mortals, which for some reason she had not noticed before. And now she looked at them, and the floor trembled under her feet. Has an earthquake started? Anita was frightened. It seemed that the walls were shaking, and the puzzles were striving tofall out ofthe frames and again crumble into pieces. The living creatures inside them seemed todemand tobe released. The sound ofthe thunderstorm that had begun outside the windows reminded ofahundred voices screaming for vengeance.
What will not seem when you are left alone for along time with the gloomy gray walls ofan abandoned house. It was time togo tobed. And it was scary tofall asleep. Dreams, like adoor, led tosomething that she did not want tosee. Anita wandered around the house for along time, delaying the moment when she had togo tobed. We need toget out ofhere. But where? Where else would she be given afree overnight stay? The hotels are expensive and uncomfortable. And here is an old bed under dusty canopies, as if made for aprincess. But lying on it, Anita stubbornly felt like avictim, not aprincess.
Inthe third dream, she came close tothe woman. Up close, she no longer seemed so beautiful. On the contrary, she hunched over, hunched over, shriveled like an old woman, and the romantic cape behind her turned out tobe two sagging black wings.
“Why are you torturing me?” The question arose byitself, as if Anita’s tortured soul had asked her with her lips.
The woman looked up. Not awoman– afairy. And she had no eyes. Agnarled, strong hand grabbed Anita’s hair and made her bend over the unfinished tapestry.
The fairy’s whisper seemed meaningless.
“Igave my eyes tothem tofollow you humans from the tapestries. And you will give me your eyes for this. You’ve always loved reading fairy tales. Time topay!”
The pain was burning. Blood dripped onto the tapestry, and the fairy looked prettier.
The awakening was painful. The sunlight burned. The eyes ofthe spies looked from the puzzles. Now she knew for sure that they were spies.
“Everything, as inthe case ofEtna,” Mark whispers over her deathbed. “Ishouldn’t have brought people close tome here. There must be some kind ofinfection inthe house”.
–She won’t live long!”
These are the words ofthe doctor. And the sigh ofabrother. The latter smiled maliciously. It seems…
And then there was adark space inthe rainbow picture. You can’t get out ofhere. Either threads are twisting around, or parts ofapuzzle. Is she inside the puzzle? It looks like it! Only here it is not as rosy as it seems from the outside. It’s cramped and cold here, and it hurts the eyes tolook into the outside world. And it is possible tomake out only the house, through which Aspazia is again walking, for some reason wearing her dresses. Inany case, Mark and his few guests call this woman Aspasia. She’s alive again, and no one finds it strange. The brother, as if hypnotized, follows her, and even serves as aknight tohis lady. His mother could not expect such tact from him, but this fragile woman, like amedieval fairy, conquered him. Or maybe she was afairy towhom stupid charmed guys sacrifice their sisters and girlfriends. Aworkshop for either restoration or weaving oftapestries appeared inthe corner room ofthe house. And inthe garden under the thickets ofjuniper now lies atombstone with the name Anita carved on it. It seems that Etna had the same before. Inthe same place. Two graves cannot fit inone place at once. But the inscription can be the same under the tapestry inthe museum, and on the gravestone inthe garden. Anita is also written under one puzzle inthe house. And inside this puzzle is cramped and dark. Anita herself knows that for sure.
Nettle wreath
“I’m going todance with the fairies tonight,” Lida said with aconspiratorial look. After that, she did not return. The pharmacist’s daughter, who went tothe same dances under the moonlight, did not disappear, but she was now sitting inher father’s shop motionless and deaf, like adoll. She was not even able toopen the door tocustomers or serve potion. And what is most surprising, her father was unable tohelp her with any medicine. The girl fell into astupor. Everyone thought that she had been abandoned bythe guy she met at dusk, but Lotte knew for sure that the girls from the village went todance with fairies at night. Not all! Only those who met strange strangers on deserted roads and invited them todance. Lida talked and, apparently, now found herself incaptivity ofthe fairies. Is it worth trying torescue her from there, or upon returning back tothe people, she will become stiff and indifferent tolife, like Mimi, the pharmacist’s daughter. Lotta deliberately went tothe pharmacy tolook at her again, inventing astupid excuse that she needed capsules for insomnia. As the pharmacist looked for them, she stared at Mimi, sitting motionless inthe rocking chair at the entrance. The window beside her was curtained. For some reason the girls were hurting from the sunlight. And now aburn, not red, but black, was burning on her cheek. The skin itself disintegrated likeash.
“Arare skin disease,” the pharmacist explained.
From what disease can the skin become thin like aspider web, acquire adeathly porcelain color and disintegrate as ash from the rays ofthe sun? Having become ill, Mimi miraculously became abeautiful woman, but she could neither move nor speak.
“Her will is incaptivity,” Lotta remembered an expression from an old book offairy tales. “These are all fruits ofthe fairies!” Mimi did have astrange piece offruit inher lap. The birds could have pecked it for along time, but did not dare. The girl herself had not eaten anything for along time, but the juicy slice did not wrinkle. It looked like atongue torn out ofsomeone.
“Eat me!” Didn’t Lotte hear it? When she walked bywith apack ofpills for insomnia, apiece offruit spoke toher? And she jumped on Mimi’s lap straight, as if alive. Yes, and Mimi’s dead eyes for amoment became malicious and meaningful. But Lotte passedby.
The first step is tosave your own sister. We’ll deal with Mimi later. Inan old fairytale book, she read inchildhood avariety oflegends about fairies and their fun with mortals. There was alegend “Magic Fruits” about agirl whose sister was seduced byfairies bypersuasion totry such fruits. They are sweet, but having tasted them, aperson leaves his consciousness captive inthe kingdom offairies, only an empty shell comes home. Or it doesn’t come at all, as is the case with Lida. But acaptured person can be saved. Inthe fairy tale, the victim’s sister went tothe fairies and when they, inturn, offered her harmful fruits, she refused them. The fairies tried toforce feed her, smeared the juice ofthe fruit on her skin and closed lips, but the sister’s savior held out until morning. If you hold out until the morning, then the fairies must let your sister go. Is Lotte missing something? She frowned. She didn’t want toresist the fairies all night because ofthe dubious possibility offreeing her sister. But what if there is no other way out? What if Lida never returns, even unconscious? Everyone will think that she ran away with her lover? Or that amaniac killedher?
But she was definitely captivated bythe fairies. Lotta was sure ofit. On the night Lida left todance, she had adream. Avoice called her. Ghostly figures beckoned her from the meadow. There was awhole round dance ofthem. The moon shone through the winged bodies.
“Let’s dance!” whispered unearthly voices.
Only one voice, rough and old, suddenly said:
“Don’t dance with them without anettle wreath. On such awreath, they will burn and will not be able totouch you”.
It was definitely the voice ofher late grandmother– ahealer, famous for her herbal infusions throughout the village. She would have easily made some kind ofdecoction toremove the poison offairies from Mimi’s body. Unfortunately, she died before passing on her skills toher granddaughters. Perhaps, inrevenge on her, they dragged her granddaughter away. At one time, Lotte’s grandmother saved not asingle captive soul from the net ofevil spirits. Recall at least the terrible wound ofthe lumberjack, who assured that the troll bit off his hand. The stump really began toovergrow with some kind ofthorns, which moved like an independent creature and strove tobite someone. If it were not for the ointment ofthe old healer, the lumberjack would have had tochop off his arm on the shoulder, because she began tomutate.
Now Lotte herself stared inhorror at the thicket ofburning grass. Even inleather and gloves, tearing it will hurt.
“You should go toaround offairies exclusively inawreath ofnettles”, the edifying voice ofthe dead grandmother sounded deep inthe subconscious.
Well, if she commanded so. Lotte had no gloves with her. Inaddition, she recalled that it was necessary topick nettles for awreath only with bare hands, otherwise her power against fairies would not work. And she began totear stem bystem. Unbearable pain immediately burned her fingers, blisters swelled on the delicate skin, but Lotte consoled herself that freeing her sister was worth it. It’s not bad tofeel like abrave heroine from afairy tale, but picking nettles turned out tobe an unbearable torture. And yet she did it. And someone curious watched from the thicket as the beauty, now crying, now cursing, tears up the burning young nettles, and then weaves awreath out ofit with her bare hands.
Oddly enough, the wreath turned out tobe luxurious. Nettle leaves are very beautiful as acrown. Inthis wreath, Lotte herself resembled afairy ofspring. Only now the wreath slightly burned the forehead even through the bangs. Blisters will probably remain.
Lotte frowned. Was it not necessary, while she weaved awreath, tohum some kind ofconspiracy that drives away evil forces? It doesn’t matter now. It is done. The nettle wreath is gossip, and you can’t grease the burns until you get your sister out. But where togo tofree her? Where do fairies gather todance? Inabirch grove? Inthe nature reserve? On the bank ofafast river? Inthe woods? There are so many secluded corners around where you can dance away from prying eyes. Country girls, eager for fun, easily found aplace where fairies dance. Only now their problem was that they were invited tothese dances, but she was not. And no adorable strangers with flowers sprouting right inthe skin have yet met on her way. There is no one tocallher.
Lotte followed the path at random. All around there was asmell ofwormwood, oak bark and pine needles. So she went into that part ofthe forest where no one went. The path here was barely trodden, and there was no one around. No people, no animals, not even singing birds. Only an ugly, gnarled tree stands at afork. Lotte moved towards it. Probably, her eyesight became ill because ofsomething, because it was worth reaching the tree, and this is no longer atree, but afunny guy infancy green clothes. The cut is similar toan antique camisole.
“You escaped from the museum window?” Lotte stared at him, discouraged. Usually she never behaved so brazenly with people, but the boy turned out tobe so cute. Iwanted toteasehim.
He gazed at her with no less surprise than hers. And his eyes are so huge, bright green, like two sparkling emeralds. And the freckles on the cheeks for some reason are not brown, but golden. And shoulder-length hair is also millet color. Well, just aprince from afairy tale. Probably an actor from the traveling troupe. Just what is he doing inthe deep forest? Hunt girls? Or looking for trouble?
“How did you get here?” He asked curiously. “Until now, no one has come here”.
Lotte opened her mouth inamazement. What is he saying? As if he imagined himself tobe the master ofthe thicket. She wanted toanswer something harsh, but stopped short, noticing how sharp the tips ofhis ears were. He just pulled alock ofwheat behind his ear. And his fingers have long emerald nails. Is it really an elf? She tried tolook behind him tocheck if the wings were fluttering behind her. All that was visible from the front was an elegant if old-fashioned outfit.
“Your hands are all burned,” the guy whistled suddenly.
How does he know about the burn? She hides her hands behind her back. How did hesee?
The elf, meanwhile, carefully took her hand just above the elbow, so as not totouch the injuries.
“Such delicate skin and blisters,” he drawled sadly, as if he himself had been offended bysomething. “If you want, Iwill heal you. Iknow one source…”
“No thanks!”
He suddenly became even sadder, as if she had hit him. Lotte stared at his sunny eyelashes. It seemed that now atear would flash under them.
“Do you want todance at this intersection. Withme?”
“Not with you!”
“Well, if you don’t want anything from me, then we will have topart. Iwill ask for the last time…”
“You’ll help me insomething,” it occurred toher.
“Yes?” the elf was clearly delighted. Behind him, real wings suddenly fluttered. “Take me tothe dance ofthe local fairies”.
He whistled again insurprise.
“And you are still asurprise. Do you want toburn yourself again? Fairy dancing is adangerous place for someone like you”.
“Never mind!”
“Next time you might get your face burned, not just your hands”.
“Let’s go anyway!”
“But it’s really dangerous. I’m not lying toyou”.
“Aren’t you at the same time with them?”
The elf smiled enigmatically.
“Everybody sometimes has disagreements”.
Is it true that elves are fairies? Some sources did not agree on this. And ingeneral, it seems that the fairies have long quarreled with all their gentlemen, otherwise why would they invite someone from the village todance. So Lotte decided totrust the elf, but still kept her guard. They walked through the thicket, where anarrow path suddenly appeared. The elf walked ahead. Everywhere there was asmell ofnot forest plants at all: honeysuckle, jasmine, even roses. More like garden scents
“Bythe way, your outfit doesn’t fit at all,” the elf turned tocast adisdainful glance at her long, flowered sundress. And suddenly the dress was different. Green as snakeskin, lush, fitted, with long sleeves so wide that they almost swept the ground. It looks like amedieval outfit.
“What for?”
“What do you think? Inacountry dress, no fairy will mistake you for hers”.
“Idon’t needit!”
“Soon you will see what you need! Bythe way, Ilike you”. He tried tohug her. It turned out tobe strangely gratifying. Much nicer than the hugs ofasimple guy. “You are beautiful! But the wreath spoils you”.
