Zelkism by S. Shudryk

I don’t have any objects of love or hatred.

Whenever I’m asked to describe myself, I say that I like black metal, and I like Satanism, and I like occultism, and games, especially Dark Souls, and I like many books, but mostly fairy tales. But saying that I like those things would be a lie too. I like black metal because sometimes it is very melodic, it invokes an interesting feeling... I like saying that I’m into Satanism or occultism, because I like seeing people’s response. We’re nearing a queer age of all-tolerance, so I enjoy seeing people’s emotions, revealing whether they are truly that tolerant, even though most likely the only thing under test there is the social skill of hiding true emotions. I try to remember their responses, though usually they react mildly - not particularly interesting samples for the research, don’t you agree? But I also hope this situation helps others to learn something about themselves, for even though their response could be a mild one, it might have arisen a whole whirl of superstitions, prejudices, or that bitter ‘oh no I’m talking with an idiot’ sort of feeling inside them. And if they notice those inner changes, that’s cool. That’s something I could actually like. 

Generally, all the things I declared to be ‘loved’ by me should rather be categorized as the opposite. I simply learnt to enjoy them, because some of them inflicted sadness and suffering which would pile over actual issues and bring temporary oblivion from them. And others – invoked a phantom hope for some magical land, or time, when those feelings would be no more. “I just need to pass these fiery 100-meters-long gates, and I shall be granted those longed lands of wonders that never even heard of irony, for in that land there is no evil to make fun of” – thus reads a long banner of hope that I carry with me. And to be honest, sewing that banner was a terrible mistake. 

- All of this was a mistake, - says Zelk. His hands are trembling because of the insatiable fury and the polar winds that rush all around him like galloping chariots. He wants to pull out his own veins and innards for signing that job contract. Yet, the same while, he cannot really blame himself – the previous day was too hazy and unrealistic. No wonder he screwed himself that deep, all he remembered was some tree on a pedestrian area with some really juicy grass around it. For some reason, out of all possible things, that grass was destined to be the most prominent memory. At this moment someone on the street must have called him. Or maybe he’d been waiting for someone for too long, and then had to leave with no gain because evening started settling in. Whatever happened there, the second memory led him to stairs, most certainly, located at some block of flats. But soon after, it would take him to another place – some Romanian square surrounded by gloomy arcades of columns, and he could not fathom any possibility of such fast transition. He knew there was no Roman architecture anywhere close to his town. To say nothing of being able to walk freely across such a square in complete solitude and quiet. The wind kept spinning among the columns, gathering the smell of bones and yore onto its back.

- Look at those roofs, see those small areas with banisters on top? These must be gnome towers, - whispered the wind. – At night gnomes get out of the attics and stand on top of those towers, sending air kisses to each other and diligently watching over nearby streets to protect any traveller.

- Yes, I see the… - Zelk shook his head, his vision returned to the unbelievable reality that the snowy desert around him was. – I see the cave, actually, - Zelk replied. He hurried on all fours so as not to sink too deep into the snow. But was there any enthusiasm within him? There was a great will to live, which made his heart hop in the ribcage like a bird that just got captured under a blanket. Zelk’s limbs moved vigorously, yet mechanically. After all, the cave itself would be of little help, and he could already feel the frosty chariots robbing him of his own arms, knees and feet.

After passing across the Roman square, Zelk saw a white labrador resting on the cold marble floor by one of the columns. The big beast was panting. As soon as it noticed Zelk, its tail started bumping the floor, and the corners of its mouth seemed to lift ever slightly.

- Ah, welcome! You must be the new servant of our master. Go ahead, you won’t get lost.

Zelk bowed and asked how long it took the guardian to learn English, to which it replied, furrowing its forehead:

- Definitely no longer than for Drory to learn to find good recruits, - and it started hitting the floor with two of its paws, chuckling and panting. – Ah, at least you are a respectful one. Though maybe you’re just being super sarcastic? Well, you better make no bones about it. Oh, that reminds me. You might not even realize who I’m talking about, ‘cos she’s always forgetting to tell her name and position. O-oh, lad.

- Honestly, - the labrador’s laughter got somewhat growly, - I cannot wait until the next Silver phase when we get to eat the weak servants of our master. That’s a bone-chilling feast.

It was this tender phrase after which Zelk decided to move on. Seeing that the canine could hardly catch a breath between laughs and that its grin was revealing more of its ravenous fangs, he stepped backwards into an arch. Simultaneously, he realized that it was by this labrador that he should leave any good hopes for his further fate. Either he was insane, or everything around him – in any case, he was really boned.

- Watchastep, kiddo! – someone barked from behind. Zelk twitched and found some old-looking vagabond in the heart of the cave. Meanwhile, a wooden box with intricate ornaments lied right next to the boot of the frost-engulfed wanderer. – You nearly broke it. Take it. Throw. Into firepit.

Zelk obeyed the seemingly absurd order, and his arms, devoid of any sensations, flopped over the sides of the box like dinosaur paws, but couldn’t even grasp it with enough pressure – muscles felt like wet towels all the way up to his shoulders. The wind was still hurling and occasionally whipping his back.

- Just kick it then, - the cave keeper said. His voice lacked dynamics, though it was constantly writhing with rigor, like a whirlpool of alcohol instead of water inside of a laundry machine. It was not on fire, yet it could be set so at any moment. Fortunately for Zelk, there was a real fire too – so he sat by the pit that radiated a sphere of warmth. Soon he felt waves of pain throughout his limbs, sometimes becoming sharp like the crackling of the wooden box sunken in the flames, sometimes – sandy like snow that the winds kept rinsing the entrance of the cave with. The vagabond changed the position of his cramped legs and, by doing so, slightly touched the rag next to him. Something silvery sparked from beneath. But the overall shape of the rag resembled a small puffy human figure.

Zelk took notice of the object and looked around to see more of the cave’s interior. But there was nothing except cutlery, few bowls, and the mentioned rag with a child underneath. The vagabond himself was puffy as a cloud because of all the coats he was wearing, a small sack was on his back. “All the food and fuel must be there”. Zelk waited more until his body got warmer and drank the stew generously handed by the stranger. This also gave him a chance to notice that the vagabond’s fingers had broken nails with dirt underneath and most likely – some blood stains. “Guess the crime happened not long ago”. Zelk kept swallowing the stew, his eyes never ever looked at the vagabond again. He handed back the bowl with his head looking down and then hugged his own chest, pretending to be all shivery. This whole time the stranger had been telling him some nonsense about nearby mountains, his own route and ways of surviving:

- So when you see three boulders…

- My apologies, but all that I see now… And all that I can think of - is that peculiar cloth that you are keeping next to you.

- Oh, so you’ve noticed her. - the vagabond looked at the rag hesitantly. His hand moved towards it, but stopped right above the surface. – I could show her to you. But it might be too early.

- He moved his arm back, but because of the clumsiness of coats, he brushed it against the veil, and a tender hand, so pale that it deflected the vibrancy of fire, revealed itself. Zelk couldn’t fathom the morbid calmness of the cave dweller, his adamant confidence in impunity in such proximity to the reeking amulet of his own wrongdoing.

- You see, if your mind is not stable…

He could no longer command his gaze. With desperate efforts, he tried to tear it away from the pale spider under the rag. He managed to move it from the palm to the index finger. His vision pulsated, the oncoming madness has trusted the catfish gills into his throat, the ones that cause agony at each breath and turn one’s mind into a small den for all kinds of tricks and trout. He moved his sight a little more, onto the middle finger, where a small scar struck Zelk’s vision and left him bereft of any sanity. He sprang through the flames onto the rug and threw it onto the vagabond, sending a juicy kick in addition. He kneeled above her body. How would SHE end up here? “She must have come here herself”, “anything was better than staying with you”. How much fear and pain did she feel? “Less”, “Less than those you gave”. Zelk grabbed her shoulders, desperately shaking the bloodless shell. The idol of all idols. The image of volumes of memories and thoughts, so fragile, so eternal, meaningful beyond death.