книга

саввас дж. у. матиатос рассказы об аляске

SAVVAS J. W. MATIATOS THE ALASKAN CONNECTION

4 Приветствую всех! Спасибо, что нашли время, которое у всех нас есть на Земле, чтобы взглянуть на эти три истории. В детстве, когда я рос на Аляске, мне всегда хотелось, чтобы штат был представлен в целом. Не в смысле лысеющего белого мужчины, пишущего о выживании в дикой природе в очевидной, плагиатной версии “Робинзона Крузо”, или сотен версий “Балто”, а просто опыта. Разумеется, я не могу полностью описать, что значит быть жителем Аляски, но я могу поделиться со всеми вами небольшой историей. Русские колонизаторы Аляски - это тема, о которой, как я заметил, подробно говорят только на самой Аляске. И даже тогда многие жители Аляски просто видят разрушающиеся православные храмы и ничего об этом не думают. Когда я рос, одним из многих мест в штате, где я жил, была деревня под названием Педро-Бей. В лесном массиве перед моим домом стояла одна разрушающаяся православная церковь, возможно, самая старая в штате. Смутные образы, которые я до сих пор храню в своем пятилетнем мозгу, вызывают жуткую ностальгию, поэтому я должен был написать об этом, и так родились “Птицы”. Еще одним местом, где я жил, был город на юго-востоке Аляски, Ситка. Золотую лихорадку на Аляске часто упускают из виду, поскольку гораздо более популярная Калифорния пережила ее примерно за 50 лет до этого.

5 И снова Аляска кажется единственным местом, где об этом даже говорят, хотябольшая часть событий золотой лихорадки происходила в Канаде (которая на данный момент должна быть просто Аляской). Корабли привозили массы людей, надеющихся сорвать куш, и в итоге оседали в штате. Пиритские слёзы - это скорее самоосознанная версия таких событий, которая посыпается другими забавными фактами об Аляске, если вы найдете время посмотреть. Когда я был ребенком, мне казалось, что я нашел золото, и я был этому несказанно рад. Когда я показал его маме, она объяснила мне, что такое пирит, или “золото дурака”. Это было огромное потрясение, и теперь я думаю, что я был не единственным беднягой, совершившим подобную ошибку. И наконец, “Король Коряг”, который изначально должен был стать отличным аляскинским пересказом “Повелителя мух”. Как и во многих других произведениях об Аляске, я планировал просто взять другую идею и добавить в нее Аляску, что делает ее абсолютно оригинальной. Ситка, Аляска - это сумасшедший поезд “Раньше мы были Россией!”. Каждый кусочек истории, самобытности, завышенных цен на туристические ловушки имеет какой-то русский оттенок. В 80-х годах антропологи наткнулись на затонувшее судно “Нева” в нескольких милях от бывшей колониальной столицы (Ситка когда-то называлась Новоархангельск) и отправили водолазов за забыты-

6 ми сокровищами. В результате исследований они выяснили, что большая часть экипажа выжила, а погибли лишь важные пассажиры и несколько придурков на верху. Король Коряг рассказывает историю одного из возможных пассажиров и их путешествие на обреченном корабле. Хотя эти истории и не источают атмосферу Аляски, я думаю, что они, по крайней мере, открывают возможности для дальнейшего изучения уникальной истории штата. Надеюсь, что со временем вы все сможете назвать себя историками-любителями Аляски. Помните, никогда не прекращайте учиться, развиваться и делать то, что вам нравится. Жизнь слишком коротка, чтобы замерзнуть насмерть, упасть со скалы, утонуть или быть растерзанным мифическим лесным существом, поэтому найдите время, чтобы привнести в свою жизнь радость, как я делаю это с писательством. Эта книга возродила мою любовь к искусству, и хотя она, возможно, не является самым академичным или нетронутым произведением литературы, это был проект страсти. Еще раз большое спасибо всем вам, и счастливой жизни, или чего вы там хотите. Саввас Дж. У. Матиатос

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9 THE BIRDS

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11 Университет отправляет молодого ученного на поиски уникальной исторической информации, в церковь начала 1800 столетия и, пусть даже с неохотой, молодой человек отправляется в забытое человечеством место. Церковь навевает на ученного скуку и недоумение «кому вообще взбрело в голову что-либо искать здесь», но он находит дневник русского священника, который скучал так же, как и он летом 1810 года. Записи рассказывают о православном священнике, несущем службу в маленьком поселении на Аляске. Будучи единственным служителем церкви, жизнь священника была тихая и размеренная, но вдруг до священника начали доходить слухи, что из поселения пропадают дети. Местные обернулись было войной на служителя, обвинив его в пропаже отпры-

12 сков, но к их удивлению похититель оказался гораздо хуже. Сдоналаясна. Люди стали покидать поселение, священник остается один со своими мыслями и страхами. Пение птиц – теперь единственный сосед служителя, но он не верит в местные небылицы, продолжая свой пост одинокого праведника. Дни идут, птицы поют, кажется будто смеются над несчастным. Только Бог собеседник бедолаги, хотя кажется и Он покинул его. Священника терзают страхи – страшные тени, звуки и птицы не прекращающие свою песнь, манящую и завлекающую в глубь леса. Священник не перестает писать и клянется, что видел чудище и оно вбежало к нему было в парадную обрушив все на своем пути порывом ветра. Ученный сочувствует проповеднику, видно одиночество вскружило ему голову, играет злые шутки притворяясь тенями в углу комнаты. Хотя, может здесь не так уж и плохо? Людей здесь живут сезонно, так что народу немного, природа – необыкновенная, многообразие растений и пения птиц

13 уж больно сладки по утрам. Может прикупить здесь небольшой домик, когда захочется уже уйти на покой? Проповедник не сдается. Он гонится за ним по лесу, взбираясь по валунам и отбиваясь от веток. Бродя по лесу, уже теряя надежду, священник натыкается на детский сапог, будто бы у норы или небольшой пещеры, заглядывает внутрь – темнота, смрад, и будто бы что-то дергается в глубине. Это он … Оно, существо, будто бы человек, сидит на съёжившись на корточках. Есть и кожа, и ноги, и руки, но обтянутый кожей череп, переходит будто бы в птичий клюв, а в глазницах отсутствуют глаза. Детей искать больше не придётся.

14 A dilapidated relic recently lost to time, moss covering wood like morning dew to flowers, a statement of gross intent upon an uncaring population. Forcibly grasping at what little western human resource they deem valuable… or some shit like that. Honestly, I have not the faintest idea why the university sent me here, anyone with a disposable paycheck and a decent grasp of the human language could easily travel here in the middle of nowhere, and just as easily do my own job, saving me from the nagging boredom that I now call a hobby. If not for this moldy journal I found under even moldier rubble, I would’ve lost my mind days ago. The sun never sets, the wind never howls, and asleep feet never tread on these paths once walked. Luckily for me there’s a single metaphorical light, the old church I have the pleasure of staring at for multiple waking hours. Years ago, and in better days for the church, the walls would have been littered with icons, candles would have lit the halls, and scripture would have been read in leu of entertainment, I guess it would be more of an acquired entertainment for some. The only relics left are an assortment of documents, some important at one point, some doodles drawn from a bored man’s fleeting mind. 1810, they’re all dated to a single summer “What, then, shall we say in response to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us?... Who will bring any charge against those whom God has Chosen?... who then is the one who condemns?” -Romans 8: 31 - 38

15 in 1810, and while it will take a while to translate, at least I have something to look forward to on the horizon. Maybe I’ll even steal a few stories to tell to my friends when I get back, living vicariously through a pope long dead. My pre-revolutionary Russian is a bit rusty, but for the most part it’s the same language through and through, though it’s all moot if the legibility is deemed unacceptable by the powers that be. At least, for my sake, and sanity, I can read at my own leisure, with the comforting sound of chirping birds ringing in my eardrums all the while. Tenth of July, 1810 Once again, the halls rang quiet today. None of the locals arrived, or even attempted to come for that matter. For the past few days, weeks even, none have stepped on the paths worn smooth by generations of walking. Occasionally I see the locals moving about in the brushes out of view, and all seemed quite hurried, fearful even. Many hushed conversations of leaving are heard throughout the village center, fleeing a place they called home for generations before, before my people had an inkling of this land existing. When I try to ask questions as to why they want to leave, their eyes dart away, quickly coming up with a fictitious response to hurry my presence away. For the sake of all, I never impose further, but the mysterious reasoning for their supposed flight never ceases to elude me. At the very least, the solace gives me a much fulfilling sense of solitude. Many mornings I spend drinking

16 my tea in my much neglected garden and listen to the sounds of God’s creations. However, every time my mind seems to wander, I am quickly torn back to reality by a sour note. The birds usually sing such wonderous melodies, ones that could make even the most stoic of men weep, but in all of God’s wisdom, created and known, has there ever been a mistake, or at least one so obvious to us. It is as if one was impersonating a bird, but without the knowledge of what a bird its, or without the soul a bird possesses. I have never been able to figure out what it was that was making such hideous sounds from the canopy. All I can find are the corpses of birds who once had the probable talent to create the sounds my ears so desperately desire. If the corpses are any indication for the future, maybe the locals are right to be afraid. Fifteenth of July, 1810 The birds. Their songs have become almost torturous to me. Their accomplished choir has turned in to a chorus of malice. Each note drains me of what little joy I can muster as of recent. The corpses of those once winged songstresses have now caused more questions than answers. For what corpse still breathes? What corpse still has life in their unblinking eyes? Longing for a death that they are unable to achieve. 16 my mind seems to wander, I am quickly torn back to reality by a sour note. The birds usually sing such wonderous melodies, ones that could make even the most stoic of men weep, but in all of God’s wisdom, created and known, has there ever been a mistake, or at least one so obvious to us. It is as if one was impersonating a bird, but without the knowledge of what a bird its, or without the soul a bird possesses. I have never been able to figure out what it was that was making such hideous sounds from the canopy. All I can find are the corpses of birds who once had the probable talent to create the sounds my ears so desperately desire. If the corpses are any indication for the future, maybe the locals are right to be afraid. Fifteenth of July, 1810 The birds. Their songs have become almost torturous to me. Their accomplished choir has turned in to a chorus of malice. Each note drains me of what little joy I can muster as of recent. The corpses of those once winged songstresses have now caused more questions than answers. For what corpse still breathes? What corpse still has life in their unblinking eyes? Longing for a death that they are unable to achieve.

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18 One of the past regular attendees came to the church’s doors today, but not for the usual spiritual recourse we had become accustomed to. Their children have disappeared, seemingly in the dead of night. They brought nothing with them, their clothes left strewn across the floors, reminiscent of the Protestant rapture. Through all of the pleading tears, I learned none of the other villagers could have been responsible for this heinous crime, for they too have had their children whisked away in the night, leaving the same scene before the distraught parents. There is now reasoning for the fear that was making ripples throughout the village, their children have vanished, leaving not a single trace, not a single sign, and most horrifyingly, leaving no reason. What type of monster would commit such an act? What type of devil has cursed this place? Even now, as I write, the birds sing their demonic song in the back of my head. Even now, my mind still wanders, but I fear it does not tread to the most holy or joyous of places. I fear for all, and more selfishly, myself. Seventeenth of July, 1810 I can find words no better than that of using the Lord’s name in vain. My mind swirls about angrily, and it has since the moment I awoke to savages bashing down the door to God’s bastion in the early hours. A place more holy than a layman could comprehend, and for them it would be a level of understanding below such a median! At least in these times of turmoil, I can find some sense of catharsis in these black pages of a journal that

was sorely in need of writing in. The villagers arrived in the small hours, all with accusatory looks upon their languished faces. Apparently, in an emergency meeting, they all collectively decided that I was in fact the culprit of these recent kidnappings, and also apparent was that my flower bed was an accomplice of this supposed crime, and was dealt with swiftly and mercilessly. Before I could even utter a singles sound, they pushed me to the floor and started ransacking these hallowed halls. Tearing everything that wasn’t nailed to the walls or floors down, in a futile effort to find their lost children. I guess in hindsight, their focused verbal abuse and raged-filled destruction, could be justified in their actions. Weeks without any semblance of answers, a whole village’s generation gone, leaving heartbreak in its wake, the longest week of the summer. I can also understand why I could be considered a prime suspect for their worries. As a man well versed on the history of God and Christianity, I could take up the role of flagellant, though I wish it was with more of a freedom of choice, and at least before they turned their knives upon each other. After long bouts of shouting and arguing with one and other, one of the more elderly residents breathed an incantation in their language, which froze all in attendance with fear. While not unusual, as I am far too accustomed to being left out of the more in-depth conversations with the locals, even I felt the chilling wind leave this man’s lips. As if the Earth stood still for seconds, as if all the sounds in the universe vanished, this moniker instilled pure terror. Hushed whispers scurried about the church in rapid succession.

20 Sdonalyasna Sdonalyasna I know I am a man of God, one who must lead and protect all of his creations, but once again I feel selfish at the notion of such a monster. I wish that I had never been sent to this land which God has long since forsaken, one where demons of the old world still wander and wreak havok. I fear for my own safety, and my own safety above all others. I guess it is just human nature to worry about one’s self-preservation, but now I can’t help but put that at the forefront of my mind. A creature? Usually I’d find that hard to believe, but, in all honesty, in this forgotten section of the world I could believe in one such being wandering the undocumented woods sprawling out around me. Though, a more scientific mind would find that the miasma of boredom that is washed around this place could drive even the most holy and devoted of men insane. I guess at that point hallucinations are just par for the course. I don’t want to discredit anyone’s beliefs, but a monster that roams around, making birds comatose and stealing children doesn’t make a single bit of sense. Here? In tundra like conditions. Where two months of the year are habitable, at best. What would this creature eat? Damned. Those damned villagers brought sorrow to my door. Those damned birds are laughing at me. Maybe I am damned.

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22 75% of the berries are poisonous, the only meat slow enough or small enough to be caught are foxes, rabbits, and bears. I know it’s a monster, but the idea of something above a bear on the food chain is not something I could believe. Also, a bird singing poorly? What the fuck was this guy one about? A lot of birds have shitty noises they make at any hour of the day, but it’s not for our ears, it’s for bird ears, or bird auditory receptors, or whatever the fuck they have. At the very least, it’s an entertaining story to read, and here that could be considered something equal to gold. I haven’t stumbled upon any birds in comas, so at least I can sleep soundly at night. As far as villagers go, they seem a nice enough sort. Understandably skeptical at my presence here, and not big on small talk or conversations regarding former colonization, and none of them have gathered to break in to my tent and cave my face in, so like I said, a nice enough place. I guess if I want to risk those steps breaking under me and causing multiple hairline fractures at best, I could have a peek, but I’d much rather sit here with my thumb up my ass waiting for a discovery I am not going to find, what a time to be alive. Some of the trees that are invading upon the church grounds are covered in scratch marks. My pilot said that this is the peak of bear seasons, so that’s great. Mauled to death while translating documents, it truly is the best way to go. I’ll probably just keep translating documents before my mind wants to wander me in to a deathly encounter that I could’ve

23 easily avoided. At least I can take up the mantle of drinking tea in the neglected garden. Listening to the birds sing their songs. “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” -Isiah 41: 10 Twenty-Fifth of July, 1810 Fear? Why would I not be afraid. God has shown me no recourse, no hand of righteousness, no relief from the fear that clouds my mind. If the birds were not already enough of an ill omen, there is a new sound which they have added to their orchestra. Every night, every single night, the trees are peeled of their skin, snapping and shrieking, splintering and tearing. It is as if whatever is out there is fiendishly laughing at me, mocking my inaction. They stare at me, they always stare at me. They silence their cacophony every time I step outside, watching me, like a predator waiting to jump upon their prey. The villagers stare too. They stand at the forest’s edge watching me with eyes full of both pity and indifference, afraid that whatever misfortune has fallen upon me will curse them as well, eyes blaming me for polluting their land with my presence. There is no longer peace in this nature, there is no longer saving in the scripture, there is only Them. Them Them Them Them Them Them Them Them Them

24 To an onlooker, it seems as though I have lost my mind, given in to the insanity that falls before me. In truth, it may be so, but these pages hold my unfiltered thoughts and feelings. If not for this journal I might truly have gone insane. If not for this recourse, I might have sinned. It is not sin to take action. It is not sin to defend one’s self. The pews hold no use in their current state. The candles only light my own hollow soul, casting the shadow of a broken man in an empty church. These icons, encased in metals, waste away and rust without eyes shining upon them. I could craft my defense. I could conduct my own orchestra of survival. I could defeat these demons that roam the woods, ones that force their clouding spells upon my mind. Lord, forgive my transgressions, but your most holy son must do what he can, if not for himself, but for the legacy of your words. Forgiveness will be acted upon and history will be written by the victor. I am the one who will hand out forgiveness and protect the forgiven. I am the victor, oh Lord. I WILL SURVIVE. Sin?

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26 Thirty-First of July, 1810 It has been done my Lord. The sinners have been vacated, cleansed from this new holy land of ours. … I must confess Father, for it was not I who vacated these heathens. I performed last rights through the cleansed ruins of the village. The smell of incense cleaning what little dirt was left behind. I do fear, however, that I was too hasty in my needed destruction of those much holy symbols that used to paint the walls in their radiance. I needed not weapons of destruction, only my strength in your words and spirit oh Lord. Though it was your most holy mission for me to become the new caretaker of our founded lands, I cannot help but worry for the children who were left behind. I hope with every fiber of my being that I am wrong in my thoughts, that maybe before the villagers left behind their past they were reunited with their future. I assume it is the holy man inside me to care for all of your creations, even those deaf to your teachings and protection. Tonight I shall sing your victory over the forces of Hell. We have vanquished our enemies! We have vanquished our fears!

27 “For the Lord himself will come down from heaven, with a loud command, with the voice of the Archangel and with the trumpet call of God… After that we who are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. And so we will be with the Lord forever…” -Thessalonians 4: 16 - 17 So many voices. Too much wrath. I saw it! Second of August, 1810 Voices trying to drown out the one voice I yearn so much for. The celebrations were cut short. I realize how gaudy I was. Instead of being humble, being modest, I displayed too much hubris. God showed me how wrong I was in my celebrations. I saw what has been torturing me so. The church doors lie broken open, the first attack on holy grounds by the unwashed hordes of sinners. In my haste to create a defense for myself, and for the Lord, I left it wide open, wide open to future attacks of those that stalk the nights. I reveled in the fact that my celebrations could be heard throughout the forest, that all with ears could hear my joyous songs. And that’s when It reared its grotesque face. Eyes as dark as the night sky. No pupils, but a stare that could pierce through the thickest of armors. There was no reasoning behind those eyes. Too much passion. He sent It.

28 No life hidden behind them. They had malice in its stead. Its body was covered in patches of feathers.It looked as if it were a mangy dog, sickly, diseased, almost pitiful. The feathers seemed to have never been washed, coated in dry fluids, almost like the dreadlocks of human hair, clumped together in a grotesque mass. The skin underneath looked irritated, the color one gets at the first sign of infection upon their flesh. Covered in rashes, pustules, lesions, and all manner of burrowing insects, pulsating unevenly, synchronizing to its labored breaths. Its hands and feet were the most human thing about them, almost identical to ours. The nails upon these appendages were brown and cracked, never washed, never cared for. A beak of those that it mocked, and what a mockery this beak was. Much like this beast’s eyes, there was no life to its face. A lifeless husk whose only purpose was to offend every sense known to man. An antithesis of humanity. The eyes of a doll. Its face. Its demonic face. It had the beak of a bird. Eyes that had no soul. Where there should be a mouth, there was none.

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It fidgeted frequently, squirming and writhing. As if the simple act of existing was far too much of a burden for it. It stared at me for what felt like an eternity. Seizing and heavily breathing arrhythmically. The song that has haunted me. The one it stole from its victims that lie awake, wishing for a release of this spell or their life. The song that endlessly tries to drive me to the brink of insanity. It stared at me after it sang, as if this was their formal introduction to me, making its presence known to me after so long. That’s when it started singing a new song, an even more horrid one. The sounds of muffled crying, futile screams, pleads, all with interjections of its husky breathing, sounds of abuse, and the mimicking of the laughter it stole from its child captives.This devil that has been toying with me was now mocking me in a different way, telling me that in my hastened victory, I still lost. That’s when it started to approach me, slowly, menacingly. That was when the torpor took its grasp upon me. I started to lose control of the functions of my own body, slowly succumbing to the same sleep that had befallen those poor birds left upon the forest floor. As if this creature’s mere presence was causing me to lose consciousness. I tried to fight this foreign feeling as hard as my willpower could muster. In my helplessness, I knocked one of the few remaining material possessions I still harbored, a cross. It started singing. The one that mutilates my eardrums so. It fidgeted frequently, squirming and writhing. As if the simple act of existing was far too much of a burden for it. It stared at me for what felt like an eternity. The one it stole from its victims that lie awake, wishing for a release of this spell or their life. The song that endlessly tries to drive me to the brink of insanity. It stared at me after it sang, as if this was their formal introduction to me, making its presence known to me after so long. That’s when it started singing a new song, an even The sounds of muffled crying, futile screams, pleads, all with interjections of its husky breathing, sounds of abuse, and the mimicking of the laughter it stole from its child captives.This devil that has been toying with me was now mocking me in a different way, telling me that in my hastened victory, I still lost. That’s when it started That was when the torpor took its grasp upon me. I started to lose control of the functions of my own body, slowly succumbing to the same sleep that had befallen those poor birds left upon the forest floor. As if this creature’s mere presence was causing me to lose consciousness. I tried to fight this foreign feeling as hard as my willpower could muster. In my helplessness, I knocked one of the few remaining material possessions I still har-

31 The proximity of this cross to the creature caused it to shriek its true guttural voice, and it started furiously thrashing about, destroying whatever was unfortunate enough to be in its path. That was when I broke free from its grasp, only to see this monster making a hasty retreat from this most holy sanctuary, on all four of its limbs as if it were trying to mock the soul of yet another living being. I tried to follow as best as I could, charging through branches as sharp as spears, impaling my feet with rocks and shrubbery. I blindly trudged forward with as fast a pace as I could manage, for no true reason. I was in no state to confront this monster, maybe I was hopelessly still trying to find answers to the questions that still burned in my mind. That was when I was pulled back to reality, by the frigid water that had suddenly encompassed my entire being. The way the moon’s subtle light reflected upon the water in any other circumstance would have been a beauteous sight. That’s when I caught the glimpse of my fleeing assailant, heading in to a small crack within the rocks, a refuge from all the chaos that it had been sowing across these lands. I know now, oh Lord, I know now what I must do. I ask for your strength and you forgiveness for my sinful display of pride, and for what I must attempt to do. My cleansing was not warranted, at least not in the direction it was pointed in, for I know now what I must truly cleanse. God, give me, your favorite son, your blessings. For now, I fear, I need as much support as I can muster. Now more than ever.

32 Fourth of August, 1810 I must return the courtesy, seeing as I entered its home. One must wonder how I could still write, and for that question, just like the many questions that unfortunately cloud my life, I have no answers for you, whoever you might be. For the lands my people have treaded upon were never meant for our feet. We were not ready for them. These lands have their own rules. Their own governance to their seeming chaos. I saw them. Or, what was the children. Their broken and beaten bodies littered the floors of that monster’s cave, as what ever fun it had with them was used up, and they were discarded with. The smell of rotting meat, decay, and pure hopelessness. The villagers didn’t flee. They were caught. Subjected to a torment one could not wish upon any parent. For their souls, I hope they find peace in heaven, for they have already seen and been through Hell in their Knocking. Waiting. Watching. Patting. Smelling. It’s here. Read from my mistakes. Learn from them. I saw the children.

33 short lives. Eyes sewn shut, no sight. Mouths sew shut, no voice. The hands of mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts covered with the innocent blood of their family, no feeling. Total darkness. It stood there. Watching me as it always had before, with an evil grin behind its soulless eyes. As if it wanted me to see this act. It watched me run out of the cave, it watched me flee back to what I once thought was my sanctuary, the one place I could feel safe. Whatever rest awaits me, I welcome with open arms. The Lord would not sully himself with a place as damned as this. God is not here, for I met the Devil, and he met me. I just wish, just once more, I could hear the birds. I know I will reach heaven, for I know what Hell truly is. . Fucking bears.Every night for the past week these fucking giant rats eat all of my food, leaving only the lifeless bodies of granola bar wrappers in their wake. At this point I pretty much fully moved Of mind, and of soul. I welcome the freedom of silence. The birds. Please sing for me. Please.

34 in to the church, it kind of speaks to me now. I guess I know why this former Pope decided to come out here, pretty spacious, good nature in the backyard, and best of all, not a single person within earshot. I kind of slowed down on translating the pages, all this talking to God crap really isn’t my preferred style of fiction, I’m more of a Sci-Fi guy. Unlike my new Pope friend, the bird’s singing isn’t driving me insane, sure they kind of suck at serenading a human, but I’m sure it works wonders on other birds. I also haven’t seen any sight of any Sdonalyasna, or whatever it is, or should be I guess. The villagers told me they’re leaving for the rest of the summer, seemingly pitying me when I told them that I had to stay. I assume these stories of this Sdonalyasna run pretty rampant through a town of about thirty people, but I was never one to give myth much thought. I saw a cave while I was busy cleaning myself in algae pretending to be water, I think I’ll probably have a look later tonight, could make for a story as interesting as the Pope’s. Maybe I’ll meet this monster and we can share our experiences of the Pope, maybe it’ll think he was as batshit insane I think he is. Now that I mentioned it, the birds really do sing beautifully. The solitude, the silence of the forest is really something I think I can grow accustomed to.Maybe I’ll buy a summer home here, with all of my researcher money that I totally have. Just me and the birds.

35 -From the journal of field researcher Calvin Sparks Clothes let strewn about a mile south of his campsite Body never found 35

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37 PYRITE TEARS

39 пиритские Что бы вы сделали, если бы у вас была слёзы возможность достичь величия? Свернулись бы в клубок и заплакали? Стали бы искать предел своему потенциалу? Оставили бы свою семью в поисках способа запомниться? Барбадос Оклахома выбрал третий вариант и никогда не оглядывался назад. Будучи ребенком богатого бизнесмена, Барбадос Оклахома скучал в своей роскошной жизни, пока не услышал слухи о том, что на Аляске есть золото. Он оставил жену и ребенка (двоюродного племянника) и отправился в свое самое запоминающееся путешествие. Найдет ли он золото? Найдет ли он Бога? Вместо этого он нашел людей, таких же безумных, как и он. Людей, готовых отказаться от прежней жизни в поисках новой. С палубы корабля, плывущего через юго-восток Аляски, в причудливый городок греха в том же регионе, через горный пере-

40 вал, который привел многих к удаче и смерти, и к реке, где Оклахома стремится сделать свое имя, Барбадос Оклахома встретил многих и многого добился. По пути он также ответил на один из предыдущих вопросов: он встретил Бога, помещенного в банку со скумбрией. Барбадос Оклахома принял поклонение, как старатель принимает раннюю могилу, быстро и адекватно. С помощью верного пса и подростка-проповедника, который подливал выпивку, Барбадос Оклахома заложил основу для своей легендарной жизни. Поспорив с женщиной, которая, как мы теперь можем предположить, была настоящей ведьмой, Барбадос Оклахома покинул город проституток и алкоголя Скагуэй и отправился в путешествие через перевал Чилкут. Каждый шаг по камням высасывал из Барбадоса все больше и больше здравого смысла, пока его не осталось совсем. В конце концов он добрался до заявленного русла реки, но уже не как человек, а как шелуха. Безумие окончательно сцепилось с Барбадосом Оклахомой и не желало отпускать его до самого конца. Все, кого он встречал на своем пути, в конце

41 концов уходили, оставляя его одного, одинокого и безумного. Что стало с Барбадосом Оклахомой? Значило ли его имя что-нибудь в конце концов? Нашел ли он золото? Или он проливал фальшивые слезы ради фальшивого золота? На этот вопрос могут ответить только книги по истории, но наш дорогой рассказчик может посвятить вас во все самые обыденные детали. В конце концов, по крайней мере, Барбадос Оклахома совершил путешествие огромного масштаба.

42 The downward spiral of Barbados Oklahoma’s life began the day he encroached upon a conversation that wasn’t his. His sister, Gloria, was spouting the latest gossip and rumors that circulated the swarms of the rich and elite, because only words could stimulate members of an apathetic people group. ‘‘Did you hear? They found gold in the Alaskan Territory! Now droves of the impoverished are flocking to a frigid wasteland in hopes of striking it rich. It’s rather preposterous if you ask me.’’ she said. … Gloria was always jealous of Barbados Oklahoma. In her eyes he was a deadbeat who did nothing to gain the wealth and fortune that was bestowed upon him. In the reading of their father’s will she cried crocodile tears, in hopes that the present lawyer would at least show a smidgeon of empathy towards her. Lawyers have no empathy, a striking lack of sympathy, blind eyes towards the emotions of their common race, and, most important of all, no legal power to rewrite another’s will. So, Gloria’s façade fell on deaf ears and shut eyes, as well as making things quite awkward for all those in attendance, being just the lawyer and Barbados. In the will itself, Barbados would be given his father’s two properties, along with the family ship-building business. One was a mansion atop the hills of Seattle, and the other a modest townhome used by his father for the numerous affairs he was having while his wife was still alive. 42 Nobody asked her.

43

44 Barbados tore the manor down to sell the various pieces of debris to said ship-building company to finance future oceanic ventures. In the end he paid his own money to give himself his money, all taxed of course, and filed by the end of the working day Their father was not a popular man in the city, disliked by some and reviled by most. He moved his family to Seattle towards the end of the American Civil War, fearing backlash for his support of whatever side eventuallywon. He would always stress the fact to his family that this war was good for business, which was entertaining and groveling to wealthy businessmen for loans to fund fake companies he had made up the previous night. As soon as Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee were shaking hands, he was halfway to Washington with all of his borrowed money clutched under-hand. Barbados told me that his father brought him and his family on a picnic during the war. Surrounded by other families full of sociopaths, they watched the events of the First Battle of Bull Run, seeing it as a spectacle they could discuss with their socialite acquaintances, once again in the swarms of the rich and the elite. Richard Oklahoma, Barbados and Gloria Oklahoma’s father, hung himself in the rafters of his Seattle townhome on the Eleventh of November, 1889. Barbados Oklahoma would become the sole proprietor of his material possessions. While cheering and hopeful pandemonium sounded through the streets, Richard Oklahoma twirled around in a home that was no longer truly his.

45 No one cared, all living and those recently deceased. Everyone was far too joyous in the thought of a new chapter in their lives. The Eleventh of November, 1889, the day Richard Oklahoma died, the day Barbados Oklahoma became a double-time homeowner, and Washington became the 42nd state of the Union. … After the news of his father’s death, Barbados Oklahoma left the icy bike chain rain of Seattle, Washington in search of something greater. He traveled down the Pacific coast, through the deserts of the American Southwest, and then immediately back to Seattle to tear his childhood home down. In Santa Fe he was cooking an egg on the sun-heated railroad tracks, mainly because, as he so verbosely stated, ‘‘The sun helps me make my perfectly cooked egg.’’ A track worker came around and started berating him with asinine questions (as Barbados described it) like, Simple stuff like that, perfectly logical questions to ask a strange unshaven man trespassing on your company’s property. Barbados said he tried to calm the situation down by waxing philosophical with him, but the only thing waxed was his 32nd tooth from the confines of his mouth. Supposedly it was a damn good egg though. ‘‘Why are you here?’’ ‘‘What the fuck are you doing?!’’ Or

46 31 TEETH At once Barbados jumped to the conclusion that this was his time. Not in the sense of time like it was for his father, but in the sense that this was his opportunity to have his name recorded in the annals of history. Barbados Oklahoma only feared two things in life: mediocrity and falling in to obscurity. In his eyes, being a man who could find gold would surely save his name. It had been his delusion for years that he was destined to be remembered after his own passing. His wife told him that he would have to do two things, One, he would have to stop drinking (which he never did of his own accord). And two, stop trying to be remembered by the many while you still have the time and power to be cherished by the few. These ultimatums fell upon ears that refused to listen to any noise except that from their own brain. … ‘‘Are you sure?’’ Barbados asked his sister while Why? Are you going to leave your wife a second time? Remember what happened the last time? You came back to a child you never knew existed! A child you have zero recollection of ever having conceived! And what happens when you return? Hmm?! Are you going to tear down dad’s townhome too? Just so you can build a ship that’s less buoyant than a sack of bricks! Think, my dear broththe entitled drunks of this garden party stumbled away. ‘‘I’m not positive of anything!’’ Said Gloria, ‘‘Are you positive that there’s gold in Alaska?’’ ‘‘All I know is that supposedly there’s gold up there.

47 er, think of what your actions accomplish. Think of how you want to be looked upon by your peers, our peers. Think of how you want to be remembered!’’ The next day Barbados Oklahoma left his wife, and his son, who was in actuality his first cousin, once ‘‘I want to die in your eyes.’’ Barbados told his wife on that fateful day,‘‘I will prove I’m larger than myself, and when I die you can look fondly upon the successful corpse in front of your eyes.’’ A few hours later, Barbados Oklahoma was loaded on to a boat, with only gold in his eyes.And that is where I met the man who would be known as Barbados Oklahoma, puking his guts out over the side of the ship. 30 TEETH Most insanity can be easily identified with the bizarre theatrics the afflicted presents. You strap utensils to your body, wear nothing but a shredded-up curtain, and paint whatever is left to the imagination red. Barbados Oklahoma however was rationally insane. A man so driven by his narcissism, one willing to leave his life and wife behind in a pursuit of selfish glory, would be a man that most would consider insane. But, he still had the airs, the bells and whistles only afforded to those of the highest social caliber. He could identify in mere seconds the difference between a spoon and a soup spoon, a fork and a salad fork, an impoverished pauper and the local eccentric millionaire. ‘‘Think of how you want to be remembered.’’ removed. She had just uttered the magic words.

48 Even while puking out one of his own teeth, he still had a calm and collected demeanor to him. ‘‘I never had sea legs.’’ He said to me, ‘‘It’s kind of embarrassing, seeing as I own the company this ship was built upon… or I guessed owned would be a more suitable word considering my own circumstances. At the end of the day though, I’m accepting of my own choices. Life really shouldn’t mean as much as this. A wife and a child. What a laugh!’’ That was when I learned he had left his wife and child, or first cousin once removed. … The boat ride to Skagway was indeed a long one, many days spent wasting away our glory years. Barbados Oklahoma was between the ages of 49 and 51, as he would say, and you could tell from his sluggish movements one of a younger age could easily accomplish. Such as the simple task of waking up in the morning. If that wasn’t the only complication in this man’s truly complicated life, he had two more problems that complimented each other: alcohol and God. From earlier discussions with him, while the boat could still see buildings not made of logs, you would think he wasn’t one for being the spiritual type, blaming all of his past transgressions on himself and his actions. Though you must remember, rationally insane still has one key word in it, insane. And it was that insanity for God (and a greater dependence on booze) that came about in the form of a teenage preacher. In all honesty, I’m not sure God did what this preacher (who went by the name of Goblin) promised him, Even while puking out one of his own teeth, he still ‘‘It’s kind The boat ride to Skagway was indeed a long one,

49 I believe God only made Barbados Oklahoma sicker. I’m not insinuating the answer is God, and I’m not saying that it isn’t, it’s just that in this specific circumstance the four-way relationship was a poisonous one. Because Goblin the teenage preacher was also a booze dealer. 29 TEETH After Barbados Oklahoma ripped out is twenty-ninth tooth from a mix of cheap liquor and home-made hardtack, he proverbially rushed to the feet of Goblin. It is generally not a smart move to trust a person that fresh out of the womb for spiritual and material comfort, but Barbados was not known for his keen decision-making skills. Not just because that in this case alcohol consumption was banned on board this vessel, but, law-breaking aside, with the morality of a middle-aged man hanging around a teenage preacher who went by the name of Goblin! For that reason alone, Barbados was pretty much a marked man for the majority of the boat ride. Anything from snide comments made when he was stumbling by to physical beatings dished out in the name of proper morality, and, to an extent, congregational rivalry. … And of course, before I go any further…

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