CHAPTER SEVEN (FULL TEXT TRANSLATION)
MIKHAIL KHARITONOV
THE GOLDEN CLUE OR THE ADVENTURES OF BURATINO
VOLUME ONE
THE ITINERANCY OF BASILIO
CHAPTER SEVEN WHEREIN WE, RECURRING TO ELAPSED DEVELOPMENTS AND AS THOUGH RETROSPECTING, WHICH FROM THENCEFORWARD WE SHALL PRACTICE NOT INFREQUENTLY, WITNESS THE COLLOQUY BETWEEN THE TEMERARIOUS PEREGRINATOR AND THE SAINT-LIKE RIGHTEOUS CREATURE
October 5, 312 H. E. well into the evening segueing into nighttime.
Land of Fools, Inter-Domain Territory
FOR INFORMATION ONLY
“… arguably, it is plausible to admit as a firmly established fact that the cult of Goddaughter-Foremother-Genetrix in the most salient features thereof crystallized long before the revelation of the Dead Man's Chest, and independently of this phenomenon. Fundamentally, it was based upon the idolatry of motherhood in terms of a sublimated transcendental idea ubiquitous predominantly amongst incubated entities, and also the anthropolatry (Homo Sapiens Sapiens) and its genome veneration mainstreamed amongst anthropoid authorities. Thus, the quintessential principle of the entire paradigm: “Maternity is saint-like” had been documented by informants as early as half a century before the disinterment of the Chest. The discrimination of entities whose physiognomies vary discernibly from the romanticized anthropoid one likewise epitomizes the integral element of the traditional cultural milieu of the Land of Fools (see my oeuvre “Anthropomorphism as a Quasi-Aristocratic Ideology: Incunabula and Parallelisms”, KHLF, Issue 11, hereon). Indisputably, however, is that it is precisely the Chest with its audio and video content (in contrast with the textual component which exerted virtually no influence upon the Land of Fools, which fact merits a particular examination) that marked the messianic milestone. Idolized yet ethereal abstruseness acquired the palpably perceptible incarnation whilst ill-defined pagan practices expeditiously metamorphosed into the full-fledged religious system boasting its own cultic textual canon and icons, well-elaborated ceremonies and rituals and, last but not least, the caste of consecrated ecclesiastics, the priesthood who enforced orthodoxy”.
N. E. Znayko. More on the Genesis of the Goddaughter-Matrolatry. See in “Cultural Heritage of the Land of Fools: Collection of Multi-Disciplinary Essays”, Issue # 14. Torah Borah University Publishing House. Torah Borah, 108672 daytimes from the Apocalypse.
Bas descried the small wooden cabin at the distance of around five hundred meters, synchronously in three wavelengths. In the grayness of the realm of high-frequency bandwidths it phosphoresced in incarnadine: some electrical appliances were being operated therein. In ebony-verdant infrared it silhouetted the glaringly lettuce-green rectangle: it was emitting surgeless warmth. In the x-ray spectrum it was particularly inconspicuous although the underground cable tail wired thereto was discernible. Presumably, a communications node or a transformer vault was situated therein formerly.
The hitherto lurking moon abruptly protruded and gushed forth with its larcenous moonlight from behind the transient cloud bisecting the sky with the narrow wedge with opaque pinnacles above, as though wolves mounted it, squatted down thereon and rode along, as it were, routinely, to shit. The cat synchronized bandwidths superposing the wireless one upon radiation, and wolves segued into evanescent oblong clusters, the moon instead being haloed with a fluctuant aura. Similarly, the wooden cabin luxuriated in the tremulous, verdantly grayish halo. Echoes of sacramental eulogies, anthems and scarcely audible strumming of balalaika wafted from thence.
Basilio mused. The small structure seemed ostensibly non-hazardous. Anyway, it oozed no observable threat whatsoever. On the other part, the fact that the dweller thereof was not concealing himself itself portended that no easy prey should be reckoned upon equally. And then again, it was absolutely enigmatically who dared to overtly colonize the neutral territory, and why dwarfish ponies as well as woollies tolerate this.
The cat loathed abstruseness: multifarious troubles typically oozed forth from thence, occasionally not instantaneously yet subtly, stealthily. That is why he resolved to invest some time into reconnoitring merely so as not to leave goodness knows what in the rear, behind his back.
As he neared, Basilio discerned what precisely is sung. The bass, hoarse voice karaoked, or rather was karaoking the sacramental chanson from the Cycle of Hymnography by Elena Vaenga.
The small edifice was situated upon the hillock under which the wreckage of the windmill was strewn around. A scarcely visible footpath conducting upwards was discernible in the millimeter-wave range. However, the prudent cat preferred to climb up the hillside slope. He sneaked up almost stealthily, solely at the edge of the summit his claws glissaded off grindingly, and clods of earth collapsed downwards. The cat paralyzed and alerted pre-empting some plausible backlash. However, psalm-singing was not discontinued, not even for a moment.
“I am re-glued to the window. I re-kindle the cigarette, mother, anew”, drawled out the rich, throaty bass voice accentuating sacramental syllables “mother” with the particularly orotund basso so that the cat almost visualized an anonymous stranger thurifying frankincense to Goddaughter. “And tranquility is circumjacent, utilized as a substrate ...” the balalaika strummed for a final time and trailed off.
Although Basilio disbelieved in Goddaughter-Foremother-Genetrix, he instinctively marveled at hugeness of giftedness of ancient bards. To visualize the piece of workmanship whose genetic substrate had been Tranquility: that re-echoed grandiloquently, exaltedly and abstrusely. However, such epithets behooved the icon of the Goddaughter-Foremother-Genetrix.
Anyway, currently the time was not ripe for meditating on loftiest subjects. Having dismissed unrelated ideas, the cat groped for a secure toehold, leapfrogged, somersaulted upwards and found himself by the edge of the rusticated house wall. The acrid odor of the putrescent fish and freshly defecated excrements wafted around: obviously, the house-dweller utilized this side as a junkyard. The aroma of excrements was pungent and unfamiliar: the aggressive ursine component was identifiably scented interspersed with something else, either leporine or vulpine. Anyhow, one thing was certain: a male animal defecated thereat which had been evidenced by the rancid smell of putrescent adrenaline and testosterone acidulousness.
The cat peered through the wall in the X-ray range. The nanometer wave lengths were perceptibly lacking. Nevertheless, some creature with an extremely massive skeleton, around twice the size of Bas himself, was discernible. He executed slow-moving oscillations in the genuflected position in front of the sophisticated piece of metalized artwork.
Basilio ascended gingerly, and stealthily circumvented the angle by the narrow footpath, simultaneously re-synchronizing his perception nearer unto the visible spectrum. The pair of goggles hindered thereat, and he shifted them off to the forehead. Moonlight inundated empty eye orbits, drilled into lenses and impinged incident upon photo-multipliers’ planar surfaces ejecting electronic particles from out of them.
The plank-built gate with the wrought-iron door-knocker attached hereon silhouetted. The psalm sung by Grigoriy Leps echoed from behind it, the soundtrack lesser venerated than the sacramental canon by Elena Vaenga yet likewise the collegially-blessed one.
Having deferentially hearkened unto the anthem through the end thereof, to interrupt the holiest karaoke was considered a grave screw-up, as chance offers, even collegially punishable, the cat energetically pulled at the doorknocker. The gate did not yield. He pulled it more vigorously. Thereupon he deduced that the door might likewise be pushable. He pushed it then, and paralyzed in awe at the threshold.
He was ushered into the pedobears' preaching house. The multi-level iconostasis occupied the entire mural space of the opposite wall. Printed hardcopies of ancient imagery of the Goddaughter-Foremother-Genetrix reposed in tabernacles illuminated by icon lamps. Icons were etched out painstakingly, meticulously and scrupulously, as it were, pixelized. That was a certain lesser-known collection, not the mainstream one amongst the authorities of the Land of Fools “The Petite Mary’s Privy Parts” or “Cherubic Buttocks of the Petite Veronika the Morsel”, but rather computer files retrieved from some remotest labyrinths of the Chest. The ebony-haired anthropoid female infant, precisely these terms recurred to the contemplator, was meditating intently recumbent on the sofa sprawling out her disproportionately slender legs. The dwarfish perforated defloration of her Divine Womb was virginally plugged with a certain prayerful object, either with the cordless massager or with some other sacramental item from amongst those usable by the ancients on such occasions. Uncharacteristically exquisite lineaments of her countenance mirrored such a voluptuous, super-terrestrial ecstatic ravishment that even Basilio, who dubbed the Collegiate Cult a heresy, instinctively thrilled.
“May Foremother bless you and may Goddaughter salute you, the holiest Deputy of the State Duma Vikentiy Vilenovich Parkhachik, who perpetuated these saint icons for us”, the cat deferentially enunciated the unabridged ritual formulae and salaamed.
“Let her verily bless and salute”, re-echoed the pedved’s bass voice. He groveled prostrating in front of the iconostasis in a mass of red bearskin. The vintage balalaika, the antediluvian one, lathed from yellowish ivory, lay beside him.
“Do you yearn to worship Goddaughter-Foremother, pilgrim?” enquired the master of the household. “If so, genuflect in front of the Womb of Goddaughter, and we shall eulogize her in a sacramental karaoke”.
“I profess an alternative religion”, responded the cat urbanely. “However, I have never blasphemed against Goddaughter-Foremother: neither verbally, nor mentally, nor through my acts. And you can take my word for it collegially. Merely, I am a passer-by. I came around to warm myself. If I hindered your ascesis, please, excuse me, I shall go away”.
“Goddaughter-Foremother-Genetrix dotes on all of her fathers and children”, replied the pedobear rearing his head, “even prodigal and erring ones. I am Father Onuphrius Neurotic. This is my last name. And the aforesaid is spelled solid and unhyphenated”, he added obviously anticipating to hear a vulgar joke from the cat.
“May your ilk be glorified, exalted and superlatively fecund”, similarly ceremoniously and grandiloquently said Basilio. The pedobear was discernibly delighted to hearken unto that.
“Please, relax in the next room, pilgrim. You are travel-weary”, he said blandly. “I must finalize the liturgy. I have not yet recited vespers”.
He genuflected once again, grasped the prayer beads with his claws and, fixing his eyes on sacred images began to whisper the holy praying: “your spread beaver makes me quiver”.
In the meanwhile the cat furtively pussyfooted in the next room whereto the lowly aisle, curtained off with the hopsack cloth, was ushering through the wall.
It was opaquely and smoky thereat. The smoldered wicker lamp protruded from off the rush-light holder, below, underneath it, dispersed airy white cinders floated in the water tub. The cat detected another lamp nearby, inserted it in the rush-light holder, and kindled it with his sinistrocular laser device. The flickering flame sparks somehow elbowed the opaqueness away. The latter, however, withdrew a short way off, if only to make corrugated and obfuscated walls visible. The massive coffer with the nigrescent with age lid locked away with the large-size rust-eaten padlock occupied the left-hand side off the door almost completely. The icon from the series “Goddaughter-Foremother-Genetrix with Petite Nipples” suspended above the coffer. The feline quizzically ogled at the small icon: as far as he was informed, the majority of pedobears referred to such iconography as too old. Evidently, the house-owner epitomized the exotic ecumenical orthodox ramification of the Collegial Cult which venerated all the computer files retrieved from the Dead Man’s Chest as equally vivifying and solely varyingly elucidating the capacities of the Eternal Figure’s Godhead.
On the right-hand side adjacent to the wall there stood the couch with a bundle of rags heaped thereon which reeked of an unwashed body. The malodor was neutralized by the aroma of pickled custard squashes: the pressurized barrel blackened in the corner. The tinned plateful with orts of the feed concentrate lay on the slovenly hammered together tabletop. The saucer of sturgeon roe buttered with oleomargarine, and the damasked hemisphere with the exquisitely arched twig-little nozzle from one side thereof, towered thereon. Having scrutinized that, the cat realized that this had been a vintage battery-operated electric tea kettle, the rarest and precious thing. However, it was discharged: the cat acutely intuited such issues.
Basilio calculated his possessions. Tesla-batteries integrated into his body were replenished at about twenty per cents: the accelerated march on an empty stomach consumed quite some energy. He was likewise coerced to regularly utilize his laser devices whilst all of his endeavors at tapping into the Yoke in any full-fledged way were frustrated: the longest durable contact therewith lasted for as long as approximately five seconds. Nevertheless, the cat felt an urge to somehow reciprocate the hospitable pedobear, well, to recharge his tea kettle at minimum. This is why he unplugged the auxiliary feed-through cord from under his tail, and re-plugged terminals to the battery, whereupon he squatted down on the couch and mused.
Footsteps thudded, the hopsack cloth shuffled being drawn aside. Father Onuphrius ambled into the room, and squatted down on the coffer, having occupied all but half of the room with his carcass.
“You are vainly exhausting yourself, pilgrim”, he said discerning the cord which liaised the tea-kettle to the cat. “I have got electricity. I have got no tea”.
“I am powerless about that” the cat strugglingly retracted the cord, the latter solely swished through the air. “I don't have any tea too. I don't have any victuals whatsoever... and I don't need any”, he added promptly seeing that the pedobear upped and obviously wended to creep somewhere.
“Food is indispensable even for your ilk”, the pedobear demurred sternly. “Anyway, please, taste the custard squash. I pickled it myself. Garlic and cloves are also my own-grown”, he added proudly. “It tastes super cool, appetizing”.
The cat made some lame excuses briefly. Before too long he shared the table with the host, and was disposing of the third custard squash in succession snacking it with the sturgeon roe. In the meanwhile the pedobear finished recharging his tea kettle, the high-performance nickel-cadmium accumulator battery powered from the Tesla-receiver emerged from under his couch, and sipped boiling water through cubes of sugar in full blast comically puffing with his massive muzzle on the miniature porcelain saucer he was clasping in his claws.
They got to talking over the lunch. It transpired that Father Onuphrius had been an erstwhile ex-novitiate by the temple named after the Saint Icon of Goddaughter-Foremother-Genetrix Donning Knee Socks. Subsequently, he withdrew into individual apostleship, ruralized nearby some local lake and immersed into prayerful meditation upon the holiest icons from amongst the collection of “the fully-nude Olga”. However, after the demise of the Grand Yoprst Apostasius Prostatic (who, as it follows from his last name, succumbed to prostatitis obliterans), internecine bickering erupted amongst the orphaned elite whereupon dwarfish ponies infiltrated into the forest and rather promptly sirenized and enthralled all of the dwellers thereof in their routine fashion. Father Onuphrius had been resisting the temptation to the uttermost, however, regretfully, the majority of pedobears, even the most adamant ones from amongst them, succumbed and failed to rise to the challenge of apostleship. When Onuphrius beheld his fellow friar in novitiate osculating the hoof of the incarnadine dwarfish pony, he, incensed, anathematized, cussed out their entire equine ilk and desired to withdraw. Dwarfish ponies adopted a laissez-faire attitude hereto, and even aided him to settle down and acquire household on the neutral territory: the pugnacious pedobear had been the connoisseur of the Cycle of Hymnography sung by Elena Vaenga whereon dwarfish ponies particularly doted.
Eventually, the pedobear remained satisfied: dwelling on the neutral ground proved to be halcyon, tranquil and serene. Despite rareness and volatility of Tesla-enmeshment, energy sufficed him, for he consumed it extremely frugally, predominantly for preheating the tea kettle. By the hermitage he planted a vegetable garden wherefrom he subsisted precisely, compensating the protein shortage through hunting for ferine lowlifes. Feral sturgeons-centipedes, who spawned every nook with their roe, latterly veritably plagued the hillock. The pedobear collected five large jugs of this stuff, pickled it, and currently lunched it with oleomargarine.
“But why haven’t you withdrawn to nakhnakhs?” queried the cat.
“Goddaughter, fulminate your Foremother!” the pedobear reverentially touched his ear lobes with his forepaws, contriving not to smash the miniature saucer therewith. “I shall preferably devour the gozman's liver. These defective cunts ought to be cremated in a bio-sterilizer. They had never been particularly good-mannered, but they had become lost to any fear whatsoever latterly.
This kindled the cat’s interest, and he requested the pedobear to expatiate thereupon. It transpired that over the past two months, the woollies who had not been emerging for years haunted the small cabin thrice. The previous visit they pilfered the gramophone and two phonograph records with holiest anthems. During their last visit, however, they even broached the subject of the smaller share, although to levy a tribute on worshippers of the Ecumenical One had since Adam been referred to as a collegially excommunicable taboo. The pedobear hearkened unto their arrogant claims, regaled them with little custard squashes, and, for the purpose of purification of the soul from malevolent motivations, put forward the suggestion to chant the sacramental ode dedicated to ebony eyes in front of the Womb of the Goddaughter. They belted out “The Ebony Eyes” haphazardly, then withdrew embittered, and said that, allegedly, “our Tarzan shall espouse the Goddaughter-Foremother-Genetrix herself before too long, wah-wah” instead of the farewell.
“They seem to have utterly gone berserk”, Basilio muttered under his breath. “Basically, such things are collegially excommunicable”.
“It seems to me that this is being done for an ulterior motive”, the pedobear shook his massive head. “Some abstruse hidden agenda lurks behind this corrupted hectic atmosphere. It looks as if they harnessed some energy, or probably, a trump card recently. I suspect that they managed to tap into the Monolith... However, all of this is too old: we have become engrossed in the conversation, pilgrim, whilst you are fatigued. If you prefer, you can stay overnight at mine. I shall spend the night prayerfully eulogizing”.
“Thank you, courteous master”, the cat darted a sidelong scowl at the couch, and upped. “But still, I must be off now. I appreciate Goddaughter's hospitability. Please, excuse my religion’s taboo on extolling Goddaughter-Foremother”.
“Well then, I wish you a safe journey”, the pedobear scrutinized Basilio keenly herewith. “You wend to the Zone, don't you?”
Basilio opted not to prevaricate.
“I do”, he confessed, “But not for the loot” he instantaneously emphasized. “I have got some other errands to do there”.
“I lack adequate motives for any further interrogations, pilgrim”, Father Onuphrius sighed insomuch profoundly that he nearly sucked in the entire air circulating in the small room. “And I shall not catechize you on affairs which do not affect me. This violates the code of the underworld. However, I have been dwelling in the closest proximity to the Zone throughout my lifetime, and I am well-informed about something. Please, accept my advice, certainly, not to prejudice or offend you”.
“I hearken unto thee”, the cat slightly pricked up his ear demonstrating that he is truly hearkening.
“Firstly”, the pedobear scarcely half-rose and scratched his rump against the coffer. The fur stridulated, something jingled inside the coffer. “The Monolith is referred to as the Monolith precisely because it is windowless, all the more so, gateless, as well as eyeless and earless. This is the merest electricity-laden stone. And there is no point in verifying that personally and persuading oneself of that first-hand”.
“I do not intend to near the Monolith”, said the cat unhesitatingly having privately decided to elucidate the details from the Hirudotherapist.
“And secondly”, the pedobear protracted and elevated his claw. “There exists the location wherein the Monolith rests. And there exists yet another location. So, a great many people had been yearning to infiltrate therein within my remembrance. Some of them did. Few people even exited... Now then, reportedly, solely those can exit forth from thence for whom it is veritably indispensable, precisely, veritably, under the situation when no alternative whatsoever exists”.
The cat comprehended it for this once.
“Do you mean the Field of Miracles?” he re-confirmed, and the pedobear nodded. “I am not going to wend thitherward”.
The pedved pensively scratched his muzzle with his obtuse yellowish claw.
“Verily, fewest people know wherefore they itinerate, all the less so, whither”, he uttered.