foundation had become overgrown with grass and the roots of ancient trees, and now revealed the bared grin of a grating in what had been a dark dungeon. A little round courtyard, strewn with fragments of yellow sandstone, had been rebuilt as a guardhouse: a wooden awning served as its roof and in the middle a large table made of wood darkened by age and a pair of plain benches were dug into the ground. From time to time, inquisitive, quick-moving squirrels came down to eat crumbs left on the table.
“How did they manage to escape? Do you know why our jail is here? The dungeons in the castle ruins are in excellent condition. On one side there’s an incline, a steep rock wall. After about a hundred meters it leads into a ravine. On the other side are the marshes, bogs with little lights, like in horror stories. And in the middle, the forest, a thicket where not a single ray of light can penetrate. In the night you can hear howling. So, if one of the prisoners is dissatisfied, I have only to say: go, my dear, in whichever direction you please and, especially if it’s nighttime, he will get down on his knees and beg to be allowed to stay here. Right away everything is just fine with him. But now, they’ve run off! Two of them! You must be kidding; where’s the prisoner from the cell eight? I need to question him.” The fat prison warden glanced in irritation at the big lackey with the broken nose. His short fingers played nervously with a pile of papers on the table, moving it from one place to another.
“We’ve chased after them all day, combed the forest,” the mercenary drawled lazily, cleaning his nail with a sharp, broad knife. “The lads almost died. Such a fog, you couldn’t see your own hand stretched out in front of you. And then it started pouring with rain. If they don’t kick the bucket, they’ll be back by morning, crawling. They’ll be asking for food. They’re snivelers, the pair of them.
“That’s all very well if they do crawl back, but One-Eye doesn’t like to joke around.
At the sound of this nickname the mercenary flinched and drew himself up to his full height. He carefully put the knife back in its case.
“What? Was he a messenger?” He asked with interest, suspicious now. “Did he ask for one of the prisoners?”
“Why the name Ghost in particular?” inquired the fat man, taking a sudden interest and finally leaving alone the pile of papers, which was about to knock over the ink pot. “Who is he, according to his documents, to the investigation?”
“He doesn’t have any documents. He’s some kind of a rascal. Our Hugh is a collector of myths. There’s no way to knock the nonsense out of him. He likes to read, you see. He found a couple of books in the ruined library here that made him grunt for joy. The lads make fun of him, but they’re wary of him. He could bring a bull to its knees with a single blow of his fist. You’d think he was a regular fellow, but you see, he reads in the toilet – enlightening himself. Well, there I go, getting carried away. So anyway, that’s how he learned of a local legend about this, what do you call it, on… ostronotus, no, astrolug. An old man, that is. He watched the stars, and in such darkness, mind you! Only, the castle had already begun to collapse. Everyone went away after the fire. The old chap was the only one left. He climbed up to the tower with a candle, but the staircase went and collapsed. He cried out, you see, cried out, but then started to laugh and dropped dead. That’s how it was. Ever since then, there’s been a light shining on the tower at nighttime, and the sound of laughter…”
“My lads laughed, and lay down to sleep. But during the night the guard began to act strangely: “light on the tower!” he shouts, “Ghost!” So then everyone leapt up, and, sure enough, there was a light, and a shadow creeping along the wall.
“But what did he have to laugh about, if he was about to die?” The chief asked agitatedly, wiping the sweat from his shiny head with a greasy handkerchief. “Had he gone crazy?”
“To hell with him, only, out of the blue he started sniggering in a vile way, seeing how agitated we were. And he poked at us with his fingers, to show us, you see. Yanin, now, he couldn’t stand it. He likes to drink, like a bear pulling its eye. And now here’s this puny ghost character. He tossed the climbing iron, crawled up and, lo and behold, the sniveler on the tower takes aim at him – Ghost, that is. How on earth he didn’t flatten him right away, the devil only knows. His laughter was so piercing; we thought he’d kick the bucket. But the spineless creature didn’t lose his head; he went down ahead of him and took refuge in the cell, asked them to lock him in. They locked him up out of pity. And that’s how they came to christen him Ghost.
The fat man had cheered up and was laughing into his sleeve.
“I can imagine, such a weakling… And here’s Yanin! Probably wet himself! Put himself in the cell!” His bald patch was turning red, and tears were squeezing out of his eyes.
“Let’s get down to business,” interrupted the mercenary, pulling on the hilt of his knife. “Who was One-Eye after?”
…
“Well now, what if there is only one dish on the menu,” muttered Ghost slowly, pulling his knife from his sleeve. “After all, they weren’t very smart about searching me; they only looked through the bag, shook out the food, the matches.” He moved toward Nort through the sticky mud. Nort stood, motionless; he was following the edge of the knife blade with eyes the colour of green duckweed. The hand holding the knife rose up, gathering itself into an arching swing, when the sharp edge lit up with a lively, trembling fire. Ghost froze too, not daring to believe his eyes. On the edge of the blade danced a flame. They turned around in unison, bewitched by the cheerful specks on the black surface of the marsh. Hundreds of tiny fires, obeying a single rhythm, danced around them. They beckoned, promising solid, dry ground, they called, promising satiety and safety, they bewitched, promising sleep and nothingness. The fugitives walked forward blindly, the black mud quickly stealing up to their throats, sucking out their remaining strength. The knife slid out of Ghost’s weakened hands. And now all the little fires suddenly went out, as if someone had blown out the candles on a birthday cake. The enchantment was broken. Their legs sank deeper into the mire. The cold froze their bodies.
“Forgive me, I didn’t want to eat you, I was only testing you…” The mud had reached his mouth.
“I understood; you forgive me too… The heavy rain was flooding over their thrown-back faces. Ghost was the first to go down to the bottom, when a powerful hand seized him, carrying him into a darkness that he was able to breathe.
“This is the night of my second birth,” thought Ghost limply, before sinking into a deep, dark place.
The scorching air quivered, stratifying the white clouds above the horizon. The sun poured out its blood, staining the sand. The scarlet birds of sunset stretched away towards midnight. The hammer glowed with heat, burning the palm. The youth lingered. The sunset pierced the air with the sharp blades of its rays. The hand dropped the hammer, unable to withstand the heat. It knocked silently at the door. A little cloud of dust rose up above the cracked door.
Warmth spread all over his body, reverberating blissfully in every cell. It was soft and dry lying there. Someone’s enormous hand lifted his head, and poured into his half-open mouth a thick aromatic infusion. Ghost opened his eyes slightly. A huge fat creature smiled happily at him. The childlike pink face looked at him with concern and love. He wore a frilly apron that was only large enough to cover half of his stomach. In a roughly assembled fireplace a fire was singing. On uneven shelves along the wall there stood dusty books of all colors. Their belongings, including the canvas bag, had been washed out and were drying over the fire. Ghost started up nervously.
“Don’t worry,” whispered the giant, bending towards his ear. “I took out the map and the stash and hid them.”
At a table made from a door sat a stern-looking old man, dry and thin like a praying mantis.
