When I became older, the meaning of the legend cleared up for me to the fullest, and I seemed to understand from what my mother protected my hearing and reason, but did not see anything shameful in the narrated story. The old nurse, wishing, it seems, awakened in me, the boy, curiosity, mentioned many of the little things that were close to me, like the very panel with the Askhi symbols - it was with me, they took me to him at the moment of birth, and everywhere I took him with me as a guardian, using only for the purposes of the sacred; so it was accepted in many families of our land. The devotion of the virgin delighted me immeasurably, even more than the power of the great magician, her husband and teacher - therefore, perhaps, that she reminded me of something of my own mother.
Mother…
The terrible news caught me in Nar-Ankara. Stricken with grief, I asked permission of the mentors, I rushed home and managed to burial. The house was filled with sadness, everyone spoke in a whisper, as if afraid to wake the deceased. The living maid burst into tears at my appearance, and for a long time I gathered strength before entering the darkened bedroom.
My mistress lay on her bed, covered with a black cloth with Asha symbols, immovable and wordless.
"Mother..." I called out involuntarily, and my voice broke. I could no longer speak. I knew everything, but only approached the body, I realized that she was no longer alive. I understood it when I touched her face and felt the icy cold instead of the usual warmth. I understood it when I felt the stiffness and stiffness of my pale fingers, until recently so tender, so tender... I understood when I saw flat eyelids above fixed eyelashes. Thanks to the efforts of the embalmers, hastily called by the housekeeper, the lady's face did not change much, but I, having already had a certain experience, caught subtle notes instead of the usual and favorite aroma of mother's hair and clothes, the first signs of a completely different smell - smell of decay.
Mother died. Non-life was not available to her, and I was not there when she felt ill. It was said that she almost immediately fell down without memory, and in a few minutes everything was over.
I realized that I could do nothing against Asha's will. Performing before the burial the washing of the face and hands, for some reason I took out of the road bag the same protective towel - the same as the boy from the legend. Life is death, and death is a new life, and it is not for nothing that the same symbols are weaved or embroidered on the cloth for the newborn and on the veil for the dead man's bed - I thought so and tried to reconcile myself to the loss, I prayed the great goddess to give me strength... I held on .
I held on and then, when my mother was taken out of the house when the ritual of farewell was being held - in another cemetery, distant, not on where I used to be from childhood and where it might have been easier for me; When I kissed the last time a cold, dead, bloodless face; When the clods of damp earth rattled on the wooden lid of the coffin. Thanking the servants and their attendants, I asked everyone to retire, and until then he stood over a fresh grave, biting his lip and praying that no one would see my face.
Finally, I was left alone. And in the world, I was now alone, the last of my family, from a kind. Without a father who died in the war and whom I almost did not remember, I did not even know his name-they avoided talking about him and now without my mother. Asha is almighty, how can I live ?! I was already overwhelmed by a grievous loss, but at that moment my mind seemed to revolt. In front of my inner gaze with terrible speed, the pictures rang: years and years of loneliness; training at the mentors - and every time a return to the house where no one will ever wait for me, where my mother will never come from, will not embrace me and press me to her, as in my childhood ... And so it will endlessly until I myself I'll die. So from now on, it will always be.
This thought struck me like lightning. In her simplicity, she was so terrible that horror and despair made me dizzy. I was breathing heavily, seeing nothing in front of me, and in the last blind, infantile, stupid hope of help, I sat down on my mother's grave. For a moment it seemed to me that it was a bad dream that everything would end, I would finally wake up and immediately go to see the lady, I'll find out how she slept... But no. No. My mother died, and I am on my knees on the damp earth, I was left alone and forever will be alone... I fell face down and cried with my voice.
How long did I lie on the grave, shaking with the terrible sobbing that tore my chest? How many minutes, maybe hours, flew? I did not know. Completely exhausted, frozen and wet, I could barely get up. It was all over. It was necessary to return to the house, change clothes, do business... For a start, it was pretty much the first one. I could not imagine how I looked and with what face I appeared before the servants. I do not know why - perhaps my mind was desperately looking for salvation from insanity and clinging to trifles - I suddenly saw with anger and anguish how closely the grave of the mother adjoins another, much older. Could not the servant of her own merciful lady, in her own estate, allocate a little more than her own land for the last orphanage?!
I looked at the neighboring gravestone with hostility, trying to read the inscription, and was stupefied. On the old stone, the name was knocked out. The name, too well known in our region - it was known to everyone truly. The name of the great magician, the hero who defeated the enemy in a duel and who saved our lands from invasion...
I understood everything. I understood that someone knew the truth. Someone else, besides the nurse, who had been deceased long ago, knew that the legend does not lie. He who placed the faithful disciple next to his beloved mentor, who knew her only once and forever connected her with her, along with the great sage and hero, the father of her son. My father. The unified in life and be one in the posthumous...
The discovery made at the cemetery turned my whole world around, encouraged and clarified much, as if the pieces of the mosaic had finally laid down properly, creating the right pattern. And yet I could not stay at home. I did not want to enter the room where there was no more mother. I did not want to see how the servants, according to custom, would burn her things: bedspreads from her bed, her outfits, combs for her hair... I could not bear it. I had to leave, at least for a little while. Having given orders for the first time - I'm afraid, very confused - I, having captured only the essentials, hastily left for the north.
Fortunately, on the way I was accompanied by rain - it would be strange to see rare travelers on the way to seeing a fully mature husband pouring bitter tears on the way. However, something else, sweeter than tears, something solemn, some presentiment, high and mournful at the same time, squeezed my heart, pushed me forward, not allowing me to put my hands on me or go crazy with grief. Now I knew who my father was. I knew who I was myself. Perhaps the old legend also spoke the truth about me?
I hurried to Illuma-Nadine.
To be continued
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