style="font-size:15px;"> Suddenly, one of the old women praying quietly to the side, short, hunched over and, it seemed, barely moving, started up and pulled away from me with an expression of horror and at the same time determination on her wrinkled face.
– Get lost, you filthy one! she exclaimed, and began to furiously draw circles with her finger. First on her forehead, which would have been fine, but then she reached for mine.
The circle, the perfect form, was considered the symbol of the Prince of Light. By itself, the sign did not bother me, but the introduction into my personal space – very much so. It’s good that we were in a dark corner, the temple was generally rather poorly lit: the effect of narrow windows with colored stained-glass windows.
– What’s the matter with you, auntie? – I asked irritably, deviating and at the same time trying to unravel the reason for such a peculiar reaction.
She has no way of knowing who I am, so why…
And then my eyes fell on another element of the church interior, a rectangular mirror, divided into four equal multi-colored squares – green, yellow, red and blue. This combination also contained some kind of symbolism, but since colors are an illusory concept and exist exclusively in the perception of individual living organisms, I understood this issue poorly. Another thing is important: even if colored, the glasses have not lost their usual properties. And I, here’s the trouble, I’m not reflected in the mirrors.
Of course, when I went to earth, the master and I took care of this: thanks to my physical shell, I could be seen in an ordinary mirror. But in the church, in the house of the Prince of Light, our tricks did not work. And what kind of angel drew me to come here?! And, most importantly, how observant the old woman got!
– Get lost, dirty, get lost! – she did not let up at all.
I looked around warily, not wanting to attract everyone’s attention.
– Which of us is cleaner is still unknown, – I muttered in response.
– Get out! Scatter!
The old woman drew circles so desperately that I wondered how her finger hadn’t fallen off yet. It seems to be much stronger than it seems at first glance. Suddenly, she seemed to have a brilliant idea. Digging into her purse, she pulled out nothing less than a pre-peeled head of garlic.
– Wonderful! Do you have rye bread in there too? I asked, but the woman did not even think to listen.
Instead, she shoved a whole clove into her mouth – and did not even wince! – the rest began to wave in front of my very nose.
– Garlic will drive out all the evil spirits from the holy temple! she hissed with conviction.
– You will expel everyone from the temple with such a smell, including the priest, – I retorted with no less conviction.
I got tired of all these dancing and waving in order, so, unable to stand it, I grabbed the old hag by the scruff of the neck and dragged me to the exit. She did not weigh too much, and I have plenty of strength, if I do not deliberately restrain myself within the limits of human capabilities. Once on the street and briefly looking around, I considered that the square was too close to the temple, and, therefore, it would be more correct to transport the ardent zealot of the faith somewhere far away so that she probably would not dash back.
Suddenly, someone grabbed my shoulder.
– Hey, Arafel, what are you doing?!
– What you need! I said through my teeth. – I’m moving the old woman to the other side of the street. It seems that you consider it a good deed!
– But not when she’s holding back! – Eitan was outraged.
– Yes? OK. Maybe you’re right somewhere, – I admitted, thoughtfully watching how the released old woman fled with all her might. She doesn’t seem to need help. Runs good! I think she looks ten years younger.
– What’s wrong with her?
My companion, frowning, looked after the receding supplicant.
I shrugged vaguely.
– Looks like I’m a good influence on people. Well, did you finish your communication with the prince? Can we keep going?
– Yes. Of course.
Eitan threw a last glance in the direction where the old woman had already disappeared from sight, and followed me to the waiting rashtang.
The monastery walls – stone, massive, in places overgrown with moss, obviously built a long time ago and ready to be tortured not only by a siege, but also by time – met us surprisingly friendly. The sun was setting, there were no other places to sleep in the area, and we decided to knock here. It was generally accepted that in such places they are always happy to feed the traveler and provide him with an overnight stay.
The gate was indeed opened quickly. The nun, a woman of forty or forty-five years old, in a traditional black dress with white inserts and a matching black and white apostle, greeted us very kindly, invited us inside and promised peace and shelter. We didn’t ask for the first one, but the second one came in handy, so in general I was satisfied.
In the monastery, unlike the church, I felt comfortable. The temple is the home of the Prince of Light, while the monastery, for all its importance for religion, is the home of the people. Monasteries are different (female or male – only the smallest of differences): bright, giving human souls a sense of peace, or harsh, instilling fear of the afterlife; islands of true piety or a cover for a world of intrigue and violent power struggles. The people who lived in the monasteries were also very different, as well as the reasons that brought them there. It was this aspect that aroused my liveliest interest at the moment.
Inside we had to split up. Male travelers were allowed outside the gates, but they were not allowed to enter the living quarters, so Eitan had to eat and spend the night in some kind of military tent, spread out for such purposes in a wide courtyard. Either a local watchman or a woodworker was called in to help him, I didn’t really figure it out. I was taken along the stairs to the second floor located on the street. First, I ended up on a terrace covered from the rain by a wide canopy, and then in a room of an incomprehensible purpose: it was too large for a cell, too small for a refectory. Judging by the wooden table, it was still meant for eating, perhaps in cases where several nuns happened to have breakfast or dinner separately from the rest.
There were six of us in the room: four novices, one nun and myself. The menu consisted of a cup of water, a slice of black bread and… several heads of garlic. Either this vegetable became a favorite dish on earth, or it was used with might and main as a means of detecting demons. If the goal of the hospitable hostesses was the latter, we can say that it was achieved: I did not touch the garlic. I can’t stand his smell, and it has nothing to do with my, without a doubt, demonic essence.
