I HALF-SAT, HALF-LAY ON THE SPACIOUS SEAT, LOOKING through the plane’s window at the white mantle of clouds and listening to music. I used to have a minidisc player that I crammed all my favorite songs onto. Unfortunately, minidiscs died the death . . . or rather, they’re in the process of dying out now, having become the exclusive preference of retro types, romantics, skinflints, and conservative journalists. Their place has been taken by MP3s, simply files without any external medium. Download what you like from the freebooting piratical expanses of the Internet and listen to your heart’s content . . .

So there I was, listening, as usual, in random-selection mode. The electronics selected the group Orgy of the Righteous. Sometimes it seems to me that I affect the choice involuntarily: the songs are simply too much in tune with my own thoughts . . .

My heartbeats insist that I have not died

Dawn peeps through my eyelids scorched by the flames

And standing right there when I open my eyes

I see the Great Horror that has no name.

We were all overwhelmed, trampled into the ground

They swept us aside like a raging black flood.

Our standards and banners thrust into the sand—

They smashed everyone, drowned us in our own blood . . .

I looked at Arina. The witch was sleeping: she’d either crashed out after the complimentary glass of champagne, or she was tired after some mysterious nocturnal exploits that I knew nothing about . . . or it was simply out of habit. She still looked just as young and beautiful, only her mouth had come half-open like an old woman’s and a slim thread of saliva was trickling out onto her chin.

Through the burnt crops I could creep to the river,

Cut loose a boat and then leave, safe and free,

To be this war’s one and only survivor.

But I spit in their faces, tell myself: “On your feet!”

My heartbeats insist that I have not died

Dawn peeps through my eyelids scorched by the flames

And standing right there when I open my eyes

I see the Great Horror that has no name.

And I see the Shadow, dead ashes and stones,

I see there is nothing more left here to guard.

But raising my battered shield high once again,

I reach for my scabbard and wrench out my sword.

The last warrior of a dead land . . .

But what I know dies not with me this day,

Even though victory can never now be mine:

They have no right to see the dawn’s bright ray,

They have no right even to be alive.

And through my cracked war horn I trumpet out loud,

Sounding the charge for all our lost men.

“Follow me!” I bellow. “Forward!” I shout.

When none are alive, the dead must rise again.