Rapture by Iliazd

Author:Iliazd
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC019000, Fiction/Literary, LCO014000, Literary Collections/Russian & Former Soviet Union
Publisher: Columbia University Press
Published: 2017-05-15T23:00:00+00:00

If the city fellow with glasses hadn’t shown up, the resumption of work at the sawmill would have brought on nothing new. They went back to cutting, planing, sawing, drinking away more at the tavern than they earned, and gossiping more than they worked. The hills and slopes were in bloom, even the cemetery was in bloom, and in place of snow, the almond tree now scattered its petals on the graves of the monk and the stonecutter

The little man arrived in a city carriage—God knows how he’d made it through on the local roads—and hired a room from one of the tavern keepers for an unspecified time after declaring to his host that he’d come to collect the butterflies called Apollos, so abundant in this locale, but, supposedly, not sufficiently studied, and after settling in, he actually did head off, armed with an enormous net, to ramble over the surrounding area. But in the evening, while he was dining in the tavern, he would listen attentively to what was being said around him, and when he caught Laurence’s name uttered at one of the tables, approached those conversing and minted the most astounding news: “You’re mistaken, comrades! Laurence hasn’t been lost. He’s just fighting his way slowly through ranks of police and their minions. But he’ll be here, I assure you.” And clasping his hands behind his back, the stranger turned around and exited

The next day, the drinking companions, on gathering together, had not yet managed to get to continuing their exchange of views as to yesterday’s intervention by the butterfly lover when the tavern was rocked once more, and to a greater degree, by the advent of Laurence himself. No one had ever seen or expected to see him like this. He had grown up and into his manhood. His dark beard was not distinct from his face, dusty and sunburned. Of his splendid attire, only rags remained. His boots were torn, and only his rifle looked new. But there was such valor and magnificence in the whole setup that those in the tavern stood up and doffed their hats. Laurence, without replying, looked at them scornfully, passed through to the middle, and demanded food

The ensuing silence would probably have been broken by none present, despite the overwhelming urge each felt to address Laurence, but the new arrival, with his glasses and net, raced into the room, looked around, and when he noticed Laurence, rushed toward him with outstretched hand, jabbering: “Are you Laurence? I recognized you right away, though I’ve never laid eyes on you. Congrats. Glad to meet you. Basilisk. Just call me Basilisk. There is such an imaginary monster, but believe me, I resemble it in name only…You’re golden, young man, and how! Don’t get the idea it’s just the government, we—I—we are also keeping tabs on you day after day as you push your way through, so elusive. And the folks here didn’t have a clue, they thought you were a goner, the simpletons…We’re

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