Liberi Reader

The nights of deep autumn are cold in Ursus. Snow falls from the branches as the cold winds blow.

The crowd has already dispersed. There is no light coming from the distant huts.

A tiny flicker of flame still burns on the charred firewood in the middle of the clearing, clinging to its last gasp of life as the north winds tear at it.

A piece of thick firewood is thrown into the pile, and sparks fly in the air.

Dry firewood lies in ash, slowly becoming charred and twisted, before being swallowed by the leaping flames.

The fire shines upon the face of the feeble Infected, but he feels no warmth.

He is in pain, a pain that penetrates his heart like a needle.

He is cold, shivering like he just fell into a frozen lake.

He must make himself warm again.

One piece, two pieces, three pieces.

One bundle, two bundles, three bundles.

The flame that was so faint now pokes its head from the gaps in the wood like a burning demon, threatening to touch its creator with its tongue.

The frail miner picks up a burning firewood and walks toward the silent houses.

Tap, click, tap, click.

The footsteps are rhythmic, one stronger than the other.

The madman carries the torch of fear, but the flame can no longer stem the cold.

The cold pierces his bones. It comes from Oripathy, from the wind, from Ursus.

He needs warmth.

He sees a large pile of hay.

He throws the torch.

The flames awaken all that has withered.

He has never felt so acutely alive.

The ringing continues in his head. In the nightmare, Rankin is clinging to the last vestige of cognition and sanity.

His sensations are returning, but the wailing grown nearer, not more distant.

He forces himself up and staggers towards the door of the tent, seeking a breath of fresh air.

Hot air rushes at him, evaporating the sweat in an instant.

In the blink of an eye, all the feelings return to his body.

This is not a dream. It is real. The stuff of his nightmares has found a foothold in reality.

Everywhere, people are fleeing, as the houses that once offered refuge are devoured by fire.

In the gushing smoke, the scent of charred despair clutches at everyone's throats like a demonic claw. How tiny is man in the presence of terror.

But his commands do not bring order to the crowd. Fear continues to spread unchecked.

Rankin tries to shake off Vetochki's hands, but the girl grabs his arm with all her strength.

The stammering girl gestures furiously, trying to explain what happened, but the terror on her face says it all.

Rankin and Vetochki dart through the fire. The houses on both sides of them are burning, and the slightest misstep could set their clothes on fire.

Rankin wants to yell too, but the feeling of helplessness continues to accumulate in his heart. It is stuck in his throat, preventing him from making a sound, preventing him from breathing.

He knows full well what a fire like this means for an invalid old woman.

At the smoke-filled intersection, Vetochki covers her mouth and points to herself, then at Rankin, and finally towards the fork in the path.

The girl's face is red as tears flow from her eyes. She holds her hands together in a strange gesture of prayer.

She is not praying to the Tsar, nor to the Yurodstvo. She is praying to Rankin.

A shadow flashes across their vision. He is limping, but there is an unusual strength in his steps, as though he is being drawn in by something.

The hunched figure ignores Rankin's cries, walking towards the sea of flames at the end of the path.

Surrounded by the bright light of fire, his figure casts no shadow. He prepares to welcome baptism by fire, like the Yurodstvo walking towards the execution grounds in legend.

He continues to walk as he chants, and pushes open a burning door.