Thomas spat the bones out on the middle of the table, started to rise, with strong intention to walk on the distant noise… or walking in the opposite direction would do better if the wonderer had gone far?.. when a scary crack ran down the opposite wall. There was a thunder, huge boulders crashed into the hall, rolled about it, and the hunched figure of the wonderer appeared in the breach. With a forty-basket barrel on his back, he looked like Atlas.
The edge of the barrel got stuck in the gap. The wonderer gave an angry roar, kicked out the protruding stones below, elbowed away the boulder that bulged out on a level with his shoulder. A big stone fell down on his foot, and the wonderer spoke ill of Christ, the Virgin and her knight who sat gobbling and snapping his jaws instead of helping his friend in Christian way before he sets to drinking in knightly way — gorging on…
Oleg tried to get through again. Thomas yelled to warn him. “The barrel will break!”
His terrible shout made torches drop from the walls and the helmet of the warrior who stood steadfastly in the doorway fly away. Reluctantly, the wonderer set the barrel down on the scattered stone blocks, went over all the possible pedigree of the Virgin with own insets.
Carefully, Oleg put the barrel down near the table, knocked out the bottom with a spat. The befuddling smell hit their nostrils. Thomas gasped, grabbed the biggest scoop eagerly. Burlan’s face showed despair.
Oleg looked at the lord and nodded. “I don’t like the wine of Cyprus, it can’t be helped. I reached it, tasted… ‘No!’ I thought. I’ve always loved sweet things. The Cahors wine would do! I went to get it but lost my way… I hope you had no urgent need of those paintings stolen from Jerusalem? They were ruined when those marble statues, stolen either in Mesopotamia or Babylon, fell on them… They would not fall, but I slipped on the spilled precious attar of rose when I caught on those barrels by accident — I mistook them blindly for some wall design…”
Thomas drank much and enjoyed it. His head was strangely light and empty. Sounds grew louder, then quietened again. Even the hall seemed to narrow at one moment and broaden at another, torches first went pale, then blazed up so bright that it made his eyes screw up at once. He reached for the meat, but his fingers stretched for scores of feet and the plate turned out to be one the other end of the table. He burst with drunken laughter, snatched a big slice, almost dropped it down but caught in the air, sank his teeth in it with a roar.
Only three warriors remained in the hall. They clustered at the door, ready to rush away at every moment. When Thomas dropped his meat, they exchanged glances, one backed and ran downstairs on the sly. If the two strangers get drunk, they’d smash the castle like a doghouse. Either it had walls made of stone or those two came from Hell for the soul of the master…
Oleg gobbled meat, washed it down with the wine he scooped. Burlan quivered, not daring to rise from the table. He gestured to his servants to serve new courses as frequently as possible, and the pilgrims gulped down piles of hazel-hens, hocks of deer, fillets of beef, washing all of it by waterfalls of wine. Thomas got red, his cheeks glistened, his eyes roved. Suddenly he began to bowl the marching song of Roncesvalles. Dishes started to shake, the thick dust with small stones poured down from the ceiling, and the third wall gave a dry crackle, as a winding crack ran down, from the vault to the floor.
Thomas made an encouraging gesture to Burlan, and the lord began to sing in a shaky voice. He sounded like an old goat bleating. Thomas frowned: he recalled Burlan’s voice to be different. Could the host be mocking at him? Could he mimic his guests, which was simply inadmissible for any European, even uneducated one, not to say anything of a civilized man whom a noble knight of Christ’s army should be…
Just two warriors remained at the door: backing, jerking their heads up in fright to look at the crackling vault. Thomas got silent for a moment, taking a breath, and a trample of feet running away came from the corridor. With ardor in heart, Thomas sang about the last battle of Roland, in which he slayed Saracen with his beloved sword, wishing no mercy of them. A new, broader crack ran across the first one. Small stones rained down.
Oleg clapped Thomas on the shoulder, pointed at the crack, and stood up. “Thank you for your hospitality, lord. That’s our way: everything for guests! But we mustn’t outstay our welcome. Sir Thomas, take the cup. We must go.”
Pale Burlan managed to raise himself up his feeble feet. His armor clang like dishes in a cart pulled by a horse galloping along a forest road, over stumps and logs.
“And I want to paint the town red!” Thomas declared stubbornly. “A death I’d like is to drown in a barrel of wine!” He gave a loud hiccup, scooped some wine hastily and drained it.
Oleg clapped on his shoulder. “Sir Thomas!” he said in a warning tone. “The last time we painted the town red we ruined all of it… That’s no good!”
“And here… hic!.. we r-r-r-ruin…” The scoop in his hand got crumpled like a burdock leaf. Thomas threw it away indignantly, groped about the table, felt the plate where the roast boar had been very short time before.
“No good,” Oleg repeated with reproach. “That time you were punished by forty bows and two days fasting without wine and I, as a Pagan, was told to sacrifice to Peroun two sheep, a goat, and three Christians! If they tell me the same now, where am I to find sheep and goat in this place? Though it’s good with Christians…”
He stared with dim eyes at the last brave warrior who held the door steadfastly, though there were terrible holes in both walls, each large enough for two men to ride through in a row. The warrior went pale, gave a sob. He seemed to be blown away by wind, with only a fast tapping of heels heard, then a door slammed below.
“And you,” Oleg went on persuading, “you’d rather burn in hell than do two days without wine! Let’s go.”
As Thomas, in his tragic absent-mindedness, thought over the wonderer’s words, he rolled the iron dish into a pipe, smoothed it again carefully, like a crumpled parchment, and rolled again. His eyes were dim. Oleg raised him by shoulders. Thomas, in his last gleam of consciousness, grabbed the cup, pressed against his breast with both hands.
Oleg turned to Burlan. “Tell them to drive up quickly two remounts! With blankets and food for a week. And give our clothes back to us. Do it quickly, or he’ll smash the place all over!.. As he destroyed the Temple of Solomon, the Gardens of Semiramis… and the Tower of Babylon — the second, smaller one…”
With his help, Thomas was clad in full knight’s armor. Oleg hurried to lead the knight outdoors. The floor was rocking like sea waves. Shadows darted ahead, some heads stuck out and vanished. All the doors were wide open, neighs and frightened screams heard from the yard.
Oleg led Thomas down the porch, embracing him by waist. Men bustled about in the dark night and red torchlight, carried sacks and saddle bags. Two saddled horses were jumping, in fright of shouts and torches, trying to pull their reins free. The bravest men took the risk of leading them up to the porch.
Oleg helped Thomas into the saddle, tucked the reins in his hand. Thomas went drowsy at once. In terror, Oleg felt his own body get heavier quickly. His legs seemed to turn cast-iron, his mouth dry, his tongue scratching the throat. “Hail,” he muttered, “ssssee us off not…”
Once mounted, he took the reins from Thomas’s hand, drove the horses to the breach in a slow pace. The scattered blocks had been removed, but the gate still lay in the middle of the yard. Smiths and carpenters in the torchlight were tearing the iron cramps and stripes off, dragging the heavy logs away. As they saw the travelers who had knocked the gate out coming, they dropped crowbars and ran away.
Losing his strength quickly, Oleg glanced at Thomas with fear. The knight reeled, then lay down on the horse’s mane. In the breach, there was a clatter of axes and hammers. Oleg thought sluggishly that they, he and the valiant knight, were too weak to beat off sparrows.
Suddenly the clatter stopped abruptly, some shadows darted away and vanished in the dark. The horses galloped out briskly, with a feeling of freedom, from under the stone vault into the night. The cold air chilled to the marrow. Oleg curled up, feeling as though skinned. He took a firmer grip on the reins, as heavy as soaked logs, with his fingers going numb, used his last strength to kick the horse with heels.
The road glimmered dimly in the ghastly starlight: no moon. The earth looked scarily dark, only the tops of knolls, stamps, and boulders were silvered a bit.
Giant trees dashed past, on both sides of the road. Horses galloped on, as though along a narrow valley, the faint starlight silvered the path a bit. The cold of death was coming deeper into Oleg’s stiffened body that had spent all of its vitality before, his heart beat slower and quieter. Finally, trees came closer, branches intertwined overhead, screening off the sky.
Their horses stopped in complete darkness, blacker than pitch or tar.
