Наталья Соколова – LIMBO (страница 7)

"Oh, there he comes," Jake elbowed me in the side, "John Doe. Our rector. It's about to begin."

Stroking a wrought copper key hanging on his chest over his jacket, a middle-aged man was solemnly approaching the stage. For several moments I examined him, alternately averting my eyes and focusing again – and each time I experienced a strange feeling that I initially couldn't describe.

What is wrong with this man? He seems quite ordinary: a simple fellow, of average height, neither thin nor fat, soft unremarkable facial features, stylish but inconspicuous suit, confident gait… ah, got it! He's somehow too ordinary. Probably, if you needed to draw a portrait of an absolutely typical, average man, it would be him. Not a single memorable characteristic – no matter how much you look, nothing remains in memory. Except maybe for that strange key…

Meanwhile, Mr. Doe stepped up to the podium and clicked his finger on the microphone several times, checking the sound:

"Kids! May I have your attention. I'm glad to welcome all of you within the walls of our institute! And especially the freshmen. This year we have a very interesting and promising intake. All the newcomers are exceptionally capable children. I'm sure that here they will receive everything needed to reveal their talents, and in the future will please us many times with their successes," the rector made a small pause, scanning the hall with colorless eyes. "So, I wish you a productive academic year. You will succeed. And now I am pleased to give the floor to our esteemed colleague, who from today will be, so to speak, bringing the light of reason to your unformed minds. Let's welcome him! Latecomers, please don't make noise, come in quickly, take your seats! Professor Bartholomew Wordsworth really doesn't like it when students are late!"

"Wordsworth… who?!" I whispered.

"Bartholomew," Jake whispered back, pointing furtively at that very nice old man who had immediately appealed to me. "Our Philosophy professor. The strangest of them all. I don't know why he's giving us guidance this year…"

Mr. Doe left the stage and headed somewhere to the back rows, while the silver-haired grandpa, barely noticeably bowing in response to our ragged applause, was slowly climbing up the stairs. Mr. Wordsworth stepped softly and unhurriedly, measuring each step like a stalking cat. Halfway up he even stopped, as if tired. Smiled. Cast an absent gaze over the hall – and that's when I understood why he was walking so slowly and strangely. And why he had listened to his colleague with his eyelids lowered, not looking at him at all. The professor's light gray eyes were covered with a cloudy white film in which the pupils were lost, as if in snow. The old philosopher turned out to be blind.

Just think, he's climbing onto the stage alone, without an assistant, feeling for each new step with the toe of his shoe!

I jumped up from my seat and flew to him:

"There are three more steps here. Take my arm!"

"Students from group 'P' can be spotted right away!" the old man smiled again, placing his shriveled wrinkled palm on my shoulder. "But don't trouble yourself, girl. Sit down. I'm quite independent."

Something in my chest tightened and ached with sadness. I immediately felt even twice as sorry for him.

Approaching the podium, the old man turned off the microphone. His slightly lisping voice carried quite distinctly through the hall without any speakers:

"As you know, I'm a philosopher. And I could philosophize to you for a long time about the dualism of this world, about light and darkness, about immortal angels and demons… but I won't. I won't. I'm too lazy. And you wouldn't believe me anyway. It's easier to just show…"

He unbuttoned his jacket and reached into the inner pocket. There's a projector hanging from the ceiling, and a large white screen behind the stage. Maybe grandpa is looking for a flash drive with a presentation? Or has he forgotten his speech, and there's a cheat sheet written in Braille? But what is he going to show then?

The gun in his hands appeared unexpectedly for everyone. The muzzle, aimed at us, flashed in the air with a tiny black hole. The bolt clicked nimbly, the trigger clanged, and a loud shot echoed off the walls of the assembly hall.

He could have missed, of course. That's what I was hoping for, as I opened my eyes, squeezed shut with fear – he's blind, after all, so he couldn't have aimed. And yet he did not miss. Jake jerked and grabbed his chest with a hand cramped with pain. A bright scarlet stain flared up and began to spread on my new friend's white shirt. The guy quietly wheezed, curled up and fell forward, hitting his head on the next row of seats.

Jumping up, I recoiled. Stumbled over Lizzy's legs, stepped back and pressed my spine against the wall between two windows. Someone from the freshmen screamed, someone dove down under the chairs in panic, hiding from the crazy professor, someone tried to run out into the corridor, but the hall door turned out to be locked, and they only helplessly pulled the handle, shouting "Help!". Only some of the newcomers remained in their seats and for some reason started laughing. Especially Lizzy, who laughed the loudest of all, to the point of tears. But the senior students weren't affected at all. They neither panicked nor laughed hysterically. It seems one of them even yawned.

A barely noticeable bluish smoke and the smell of gunpowder was floating through the hall. I was shaking. I'd heard about crazy students who shoot up institutes, but for a teacher himself to do such a thing… And why isn't anyone stopping him? Why aren't they taking the weapon away?!

"Ah, damn it!.."

It was Jake who suddenly took a halting breath and groaned in annoyance. Putting his hands on his knees, he rose. The strands of his hair, stained with blood, left long red streaks on the white back of the chair in front of him.

Coughing, he spat out the lead bullet into his hand and clenched it in his fist, hiding it from surprised eyes. Then he exclaimed resentfully:

"Mr. Wordsworth, why is it always me when something happens?! You could have at least warned me!"

"Didn't I warn you, Jacob Brittlegill, that the one who got the lowest score in my subject during the preparatory courses would be severely shot? Did you think I was joking? Philosophy, young man, is a serious science. It doesn't tolerate humor!"

"Why the shirt though!" Jake hissed, poking his fingers into the torn hole. "It is… it was brand new!.."

"Jacob Brittlegill's shirt took the enemy bullet for a reason," the old man said ironically, addressing the hall. He smiled again, but I no longer liked his smile. "The ability of each of you, my dears, is both a gift and a curse. And here I'm not just saying pretty words! Truly, he who heals others from mortal wounds will one day be mortally wounded himself. He who is surrounded by blue orgone inevitably encounters not only miraculous recovery but also incurable injuries. The healer and the sick are intertwined as one between the spirals of his DNA. Do not seek human logic here! It is present in what was said, but your current split, dual mind cannot comprehend it. However, do not worry. Everything will be fine. We will deal with your mind a little later – in my classes."

With these words, the teacher suddenly shifted his clouded gaze to me. His white eyes didn't see me and, at the same time, he saw me:

"And who are you, my dear?"

"My… my surname is Antipova," I squeezed out with difficulty. "Nicole Antipova."

"Remarkable composure, Nicole!" the professor exclaimed. "But why, pray tell, are you looking at me like that?.. Sit down, little bird. Hey, and you, lazybones and truants, have you fallen asleep down there on the floor? Stop lounging around, get out of the trenches. Open your notebooks and write down the schedule for today – today you'll have five classes: Biology, Chemistry, Law, Geography and Art History."

"E-excuse me," a voice came from under the chairs, "what did you mean by all this? That our Jake… is like an angel? That's why he's immortal?"

"If we express it in the generally accepted – I mean, among humans – paradigm," the professor pedantically corrected, "then he's more of a demon than an angel. But these are all conventions, young man. In fact, there are no angels and demons, and never were. But there are phoenixes – winged creatures that command fire and air, and ouroboroses13 – the serpents who rule over water and earth. Yes, yes, these are the two divine creations depicted on your student cards."

I collapsed back into my chair, stunned. I barely made it – my legs gave out.

"Two eternal entities!" the philosopher continued to proclaim pathetically. "Two symbols of infinity, of boundlessness, which we will discuss more than once! The crawling ones were later dubbed demons, and the flying ones angels, but this isn't quite correct. In reality, the two immortal races simply divided the world in half. Without war, without disputes – and from then on each carries out their own service. There is no and should be no confrontation between them. And in our age it is even absolutely normal if a phoenix and a serpent become friends – like these two – and even sit together at the same desk!"