FLOWER

By: Anton Pashku

When he had begun to climb that slope – the story tells of him, the story of him and all that unusual love of his – darkness had fallen. At first, somewhere there, near a lonely oak tree, near which he had stopped to gaze curiously at the field, it had seemed to him that the darkness seemed to be slowly pouring down, as if it were pouring down finely from somewhere high up in the field, where it was less and less visible to him. The denser that pouring became, the more the space before him shrank, while the fields, meadows and trees scattered here and there, at first lost their shape and then, gradually, dissolved in the darkness and were no longer visible, but by that time dusk had passed and now he was only a good two hours away from that oak tree. Now the darkness had reached everywhere and from it he could see, so to speak, almost nothing around him. Not even the moon was visible anywhere. Not even the stars. He walked as if through soot, which had coated every object and filled the entire space.

He felt only his steps, his own light steps, which he alternated very carefully, because the darkness was so dense that his foot could slip on a slate and then roll down that steep slope. In fact, he had the impression that apart from the slates and the stones there was nothing else in that miserable wilderness – perhaps, here and there, there were blades of grass, perhaps just a handful of blades of grass squeezed between the stones and nothing else.

The air was not moving either; there was no breath to be felt, but, he thought, the air would not move and there would be no breath for only a few moments, because in the distance murmurs could be heard and from time to time, like short rays, lightning could be seen flashing. And this was led by the rainy road to where murmurs could be heard and lightning could be seen, the fairy tale says, the difficult road, on which he had never taken a single step before and on which, describing himself through that accursed darkness, he sometimes even stumbled, as now when, after a great effort, he barely managed to stay on his feet without falling. He had sweated and, wiping it off with the sleeve of his coat, he had also felt the long, very long roll of a stone, which had left behind it a certain noise that echoed sharply and, at times, even mournfully in that silence of that black night like the feathers of a raven. He had stopped. He had thought a little about the length of the rolling of the stone, which he had caught in his claw, about the length of the noise of that stone, which was caused by its collision from one slab or rock to another slab or rock. In the end, the end of that noise had been accompanied by the chirping of some night bird, who knows what night bird, which he had not liked, because that chirping had seemed very ominous to him, a chirping that had made all that darkness and that silence around him even heavier, even more unbearable; it had not remained alone: ​​after a while it had increased to two, then to three, and once it had multiplied to who knows how many other chirpings. All together they created a terrible echo. And, in an instant, that sound seemed to him like laughter, the laughter of death, laughter that called, called, called...

He was pale when, involuntarily, he had taken a couple of steps back – the fairy tales tell. After he had stepped back, he had continued to hear that laughter again, that whole wave of sad groans, all those laughter like death, which, suddenly, had been drowned out by another voice. It did not come from where that laughter had come from. It was heard from the left. He had turned his head, as if shyly: he had seen, somewhere towards the ridge of the mountain he had seen a flame, a handful of light. It always stayed in one place. That voice, which, now, he could hear nothing else, came from there. It had seemed to him that he knew that voice. It had seemed similar to the voice he had heard two nights ago in his dream, in that sweet dream where Floçka had shown him. Ah, it was, that voice was just like the voice of Floçka, whom he had searched for so much in wells and by the rivers; just like her voice that called him in his dream to go to her. How magnificent she had appeared to him in his dream! Never had his eye seen a more beautiful girl! She had long and thick hair, the strands of which were like thousands of golden threads that shone even in the deepest darkness, and in the rays of the sun, that's how he saw them in his dream, on her head they looked like a crown of burning pine trees that could set six or seven villages on fire all around and melt the snow and ice even up there, even on the mountain ridges! He had seen her in his dream. And in his dream he showed him the place where he lives. He told him that he lives in the clear waters of a lake, which is about seven days and seven nights' walk away from his house. He also told her that the lake was hidden in the middle of a forest, that it appeared before the eyes of a person after having crossed seven mountains. He told her in a dream that seven days and seven nights of travel were only like seven minutes, and that she would reach the lake alive or dead even if she were at the farthest end of the world, and not there – behind the seven mountains… When she had heard these words, she had gently caressed him and even given him a strand of golden hair and had said something to him in that voice, which now seemed to him to be Flocka's voice and no one else's. What she had said to him at the end, he could not remember now, but he could clearly imagine that radiance of Flocka, when it had appeared to him in a dream; he could not notice anything that would distinguish that radiance from the radiance that had once appeared there at the ridge of the mountain.

For a long time he had looked across, towards that place, from where that voice came, towards that side, where he saw that handful of light, which so proudly blazed in the veil of darkness. He was convinced that that glow there was the glow of his Floçka's long, thick hair.

This voice, which he could hear, was calling him. So, he didn't think any longer: he decided to head in that direction.

He left the place where he had caught his claw on that stone, which had then rolled away, leaving behind that noise that was eventually followed by that chirping of that night bird that had disturbed him. So he left that place – the fairy tale tells us – and headed towards the light.

He walked and walked. The murmurs became more and more powerful, and the lightning became more frequent. The murmurs were heard and the lightning was seen in the sky above him. And, not long after, the entire area through which this traveler was traveling began to be hit by a rain accompanied by a wind. This was a very strong wind and full of terrible whistles, and the raindrops, like needles, pricked his face and hands. But, surprisingly, the light did not go out! Moreover, the more furious that wind became, the more it shone!

The rain was falling steadily, torrentially, and the wind was getting stronger every moment. Now it was very difficult to travel. He had to withstand the continuous series of waves of wind, gusty waves of wind, and, in addition, that mountain slope had become very important. So, once he fell, fell over, because he could not stand on his feet and had slipped. When he had fallen, right there, he had felt almost no pain. Later, in his right arm, he had felt some pricking, at first light and then increasingly strong. At one point, his arm had almost gone numb. From the effort that had overtaken him for a few moments, cold sweat had covered his forehead. However, he did not stop his step. True, now he walked slowly and with difficulty, but he walked, at least he was moving forward.

His eyes were always on the light. He saw it now as if in the dawn, because his vision had also become blurred from the effort; but he saw it and in that place where she was, he had decided to reach it anyway. He went towards it sometimes by boat, sometimes on foot, but he went, and approached that light, which did not move from its place. It stood where he had noticed it the first time, it stood in that place, from where the voice had come, which he could still hear clearly now. That voice called him, continued to call him. However, after he had barely passed a long rock that had appeared in front of him (he had used his left hand well while climbing it, while with the other, with his other arm in thought, he could not do it), the light remained there for a while and then it was seen making a short arc in the sky and fell somewhere beyond the ridge of the mountain. Immediately after this, the rain stopped, but the murmurs continued to be heard, the voice that called him from that place where he had been caught in the truncheon could still be heard. Lightning could also be seen. And not even the wind stopped its rush.

He continued to climb that difficult slope, with numb arms and a limp hand.

When he had reached a certain landmark – he continues to tell tales – the earth had trembled and the air had trembled, a kind of red light had illuminated the whole place and with it a tremendous thunder had been heard, and then, there on the ridge of the mountain, a great plume of smoke had been seen illuminated from below by fire. Four more times that red light had been repeated, that tremendous thunder, and four more times that great plume of smoke had been seen illuminated from below by fire.

He had stopped. He could feel the echo of the thunder, but also the ringing of the familiar voice. He had still continued walking. His aching arm did not weaken, nor did his limp hand. Floçka's voice, calling to him, strengthened his heart.

And when he had finally reached that mountain ridge, he had lay down to rest a little. He determined that there, around him, that familiar voice was not heard. He now heard that voice ringing somewhere further away. And, well, all the time it had seemed to him that that voice had rung rain in that place, where he now lay down to rest, where it seemed to him that he had no arm, that arm that had gone completely numb, rain in that place where he saw that the sky had begun to clear up with two blue islands, small islands, in some of which he could see even a star, and even an eye of light. He had noticed then that the edges of those little blue islands were reddish from the first rays of the sun. Yes, it was about to dawn, the day was about to dawn. And, at that dawn, he had felt a certain heavy wind. It was the wind of fire, the wind of burning things. He had been carried away. At that moment, he had glanced back from where he had come; nothing, he had seen nothing, because the fog had covered that side. Then he turned and reached a rock. There he realized where that wind, that smoke, was coming from. It was the wind, it was the smoke of a burned village. There he saw only ruins. He saw only two or three roofs, but even those were destroyed. He also saw a door, which to his surprise had remained attached to its permanent place. He even saw its threshold. That door was being pushed this way and that by the waves of the furious wind. When they pushed it, it creaked. It creaked as if it were something truly alive. Sad. That creaking stung his heart. That was why he had shed tears seeing that door, hearing its creaking, the creaking of the door of that collapsed, destroyed house.

He didn't have the strength to get any closer to the village. He sat at the foot of the cliff. He was looking at the ruins. As he was looking, he heard the meowing of a cat, then the barking of a dog. His barking was joined by many barks from other dogs. Hearing all those barks, he had a feeling that all the dogs in the world had gathered there. He looked closer: he saw that those dogs had gathered near a pole. And on the pole was a black flag, with a swastika on it. The swastika was black, and the dogs were all kinds of colors. They were a bunch, because among them they had prey, which they were trying to tear apart. They were hungry, they were snarling, they were barking, they were running around - the devil knows what they were doing. Then he saw how one of them grabbed a piece and quickly got out of the bunch. The others were running around, but he was running away, running away. They would chase him for a while and then give up; they would quickly return to the prey, to grab a piece themselves.

The door creaked. The new flag with the black swastika waved in the village. The dogs barked.

And in the sky, once, the croaking of a raven had been heard. It hadn't been long, and immediately after the first croaking, the croaking of many other black ravens had been heard, flying over the village. The barking of dogs had also mixed with those croakings. The creaking of the door could barely be heard.

He could no longer sit there and watch the dogs tearing their prey to pieces, hear the dogs barking near the pole with the new flag that had that broken, black cross, he could no longer sit and hear the door creak, feel the smell, the smell of burning things, the smell and the smell of the burned village. With tears streaming down his face, he left that miserable village, over whose sky even black ravens flew.

He entered the roaring forest, because there the waves of wind and its whistles were even harsher, even harsher, but before he had even taken a few steps, an incredibly large dog appeared in front of him. It had suddenly emerged from a bush, where it had come, probably, to hide a piece of the prey around which he had seen the village dogs gathered. The dog had rushed towards him. At that moment, when he wanted to step aside a little, he felt its teeth on the calf of his leg. Vrik had turned. His limp hand had grabbed the knife in his hand. And he had flown towards the dog's neck. He had pulled his teeth out of the calf of his leg and, with his tail between his saddle, but hastily and barking, had left with a knife in his neck. He had also hurried to leave that place. The leg, bloody from the dog's teeth, could not hold him. He would fall, then try to get up, but he would fall again and roll through the forest. So he could not leave quickly, to escape as quickly as possible from that place, from all that lava of rabid dogs, who, when they had heard the howl of that dog with a knife in his neck, had rushed towards the forest, remembering that he had encountered some new, fatter prey. Their barks were heard closer and closer. And he would fall, get up, fall and roll through the forest that roared with the waves of the wind and its whistles. Along with the waves of the wind and its whistles, he once heard the croaking of the black ravens, who now flew incessantly over the forest. There were so many of them that they looked like a giant, but terrifying, umbrella, which darkened the forest even more.

He could also hear that familiar voice calling him from the place where it had been caught in his claws. It also gave him strength to move. However, his arm hurt a lot, and the leg that that damned dog had bitten hurt a lot too; now it was swollen. He couldn't play with it. It seemed very heavy to him, as if it were a stump. At one point he fell over, and then it turned into a lump on his back. He lay there lying next to a hundred-year-old oak tree. He could hear the barking of the dogs, the cawing of the ravens, the sound of the forest. He didn't feel sorry for the dogs approaching, but he felt so bad that there was no reason why he couldn't walk a little further, why he couldn't go a little further and see Flocka. He felt sorry, after he had gotten so close to her, somewhere very close to Flocka. He knew that he was close to that rare beauty, because he had traveled for seven days and seven nights and had crossed seven mountains. This was the seventh mountain, where Lake Floçka was located, the lake with the purest water in the world.

However, he was also pleased, even somewhat happy, that Flocka had at least shown him in a dream, that he had at least seen in a dream all her beauty. He was, he was truly pleased that Flocka had shown him, that he had seen her magical eyes, their gaze, those gazes of her eyes that with their heat could melt you, turn you into a flame, into basalt rock. He was pleased, and even happy, that he had known Flocka at least through a dream, the beautiful Flocka with long, thick hair, shining like thousands of golden strands, which on her head looked like a burning crown, like a crown of pine trees on fire, that could heat up six or seven villages and melt the snow and ice even up there, even on the mountain ridges.

The dogs were approaching, the ravens were croaking. And that familiar voice to him – it rang out. He heard them all. In his silence. He lay stretched out next to that oak, completely calm and not at all disturbed. And a smile, even, trembled on his lips. It remained there even after he closed his eyes. He seemed to be sleeping, he seemed to be smiling, it seemed as if he was dreaming of his Floçka. At those moments, who knows how many sunbeams were passing through the crown of the century-old oak; they were like hundreds of thousands of golden threads that had been poured over it.

And from the lake of that mountain – the tale goes on – something had sprung up that looked like a fist of light. And it had made a short arc across the sky and had fallen near that century-old oak. In the blink of an eye, that fist of light had flown across the sky again. People had seen something in the depths of that light. They had also seen how it had fallen onto the lake. And, at that moment, a new miracle had begun: the entire lake shone with a light that, the tale says, no words can describe.

A multitude of fiery rays had burst from that lake. A multitude of fiery rays had spread in all four directions.

Those rays had licked the ravens and burned their wings. Most had fled without landing well in the forest. Some others had managed to escape. They were still croaking.

Those rays had also licked the dogs. Most of the dogs had died from the heat. Some others had managed to escape. They are still barking now.

(1963)