A Call from the Hills


I like to work at night and get to bed with the sunrise. To say frankly, I don't get enough sleep, because yardmen, heading to work early morning, wake me up, not giving a chance to fall asleep.

I like to work at night. Or simply sit, pretending that I'm working. This is pleasant when you can relax and drop around the circles of thoughts, not experiencing resistance. When everybody around is asleep and nobody thinks on the same frequency with me, I have plenty of free space. It's like driving car in a night city: streets are empty, no one pushes others around, crosses the road…

It's hard for me to work during the day - I feel the limits of space. Wherever I point my thought to, I find the web of someone else's thoughts, someone else's talks. No, I can work during the day, but it's hard to 'fly', and I like to fly. The swift flight on pointed wings. I don't know why they are pointed. Perhaps, it makes them easier to fly.

A flight cutting the night, cutting moist, cool and rarefied darkness. I feel fresh wind on my face. I see night ground, woods, fields, hills below.

I like to work at night, because everyone is asleep and someone else's thoughts don't interfere.

I like to work at night, because it is the time when I most clearly hear the voices of my people. No, these are not my people where I came here from. But these are voices of those who became my people here, on Earth, those, who lived in the places I call Bistrovodye and Verhovina.

I hear their voices far… It reminds me of calls from one another on night-covered hills. And now we are farther from each other than we were back then. Calling for those who live on the other hemisphere, where there's a day now, is difficult because it's noisy there.

And we… we are here; we have night, me and that young woman on 'the hill'. And we stand and weave our voices in silence, reaching each other to greet.

This is just called so - 'the hill'. We don't stand on hills. This is a way of communication, so that we can hear each other better. It's as if you reach the top of the hill and let out the loud, ringing, soul-pulling call. It is like a string, like a ray, that lies between the two of you, that lies higher than roads, fields or rivers. A call in darkness from one hill to another is heard very well.

To call, it is necessary not to simply let out a sound with your soul. You need to put a Call in it. When you feel that your soul stretches, flies out with that ray or string. When you feel that your soul unwinds with this string. When you feel like a harpoon flies from you, and this harpoon is you yourself.

What will you put in there? Desperation? Then there'll be more of soul and it will be more painful, but it'll be heard louder, and many will catch it if standing on hills at that moment. Will it be an everyday 'Good hunting' wish? Then the call will be quieter.

I hear calls from other 'hills'. I call them with my fingers. I see that near hill is empty - his owner fell asleep and didn't wake up in a man. Now he will sleep long. This is what frightens us - having fallen asleep and not waking up. Deaths in the sleep. Deaths, when conscience is asleep. No more pain can bring anything, but forgetting yourself.

We come here without arrangements. We come here to simply hear each other. We don't talk in words, standing on those 'hills'. We produce a sound with our soul and put what we want to tell in it.

Often we don't even know each other. Sometimes we meet old friends, but it is hard to foretell who will be on other 'hills', when you come to set a link.

Some prefer meeting 'at home'. Then instead of going up hill he comes to 'house' where he can warm his hands at fireplace. But not always the fire is lit. Pretty often it's empty in there, cold, moist; spider's web is weaved in the corners, and then you sit and wait that someone will appear there, will come to make a company with you. And more probable it will be someone of your kin whom you never knew.

This magic is strange. It is thin like a ray, it is piercing, it is changing forms and borders. It is light as walking on the water, not leaving a single trace. It is like a woman with a narrow dagger. I cannot find other words - it stretches soul in a string that you glide on…

It's five a.m. And I hear that city is starting to awake. I know that because I feel interference. The first yardmen had already awakened, and I feel that two doorways away from me someone dreamingly lit the light in the kitchen and put a kettle on a gas stove. I don't understand why so many people wake up so early!

And I go to sleep to be awakened at midday by boys running under my windows…

Good night…


(с) Zau Targiski

translated by Ilaidj Cave