Wailing outside the window, throwing snowflakes at the window, the winter wind rustling on the roof. Today he is unbearable, cruel, demanding to close in the house, not to go out. But I still open the window and sit on a wide window sill - today I want to freeze to the bone.
The wind tears my hair hits my cheeks, and a second later I jump into his arms to imagine myself as a flying snowflake, which is not in control of itself.
I land in a snowdrift, the snow is absorbed by the ice stings in my bare feet. The tinnitus grows in my ears, my body is frosty, chilly, and not good, but I take the first step, cover my eyelids, and throw my hands out.
In the next moment, everything seems to be subsiding, though, in fact, the element hasn't disappeared, it's just clubbing around.
- Why did you come, shaman? - asks the Wind, and now I can open my eyes and look at it.
Today he is a young man in white clothes, spacious and reminiscent of a bizarre kimono. If you look closely, you can make out a pattern on a heavy fabric, similar to what the frost paints on the windows.
- I was hungry for dates," I laughed. My voice is weak here and now and is not suitable for conversations with the spirits of the elements, but the Wind hears, hears, hears, he looks closer in the face.
I know that he sees a sudden emptiness, a black scar in the shower, which I would like to cure with his icy breath. But would he want to help me? It's a question of questions.
- It's not that easy to get it right," he concludes and turns away, his shining eyes hiding behind his fluffy white eyelashes for a moment.
- You're looking for oblivion, but I only give it to you in death, shaman. You know this too, but can you come out of it?
The white whirlpooling around us is comparable to a storm, a whirlwind, a rabid blizzard. There is no city, no home, nothing else nearby, only snow, snow, snow, snow, stirring ice floes, painful face. But I can't feel the pain now. And I smile.
- I want to remember - I object at last.
- I don't need to be forgotten. But it's white.
- It can be arranged if you dance before dawn.
Dance is a sacred act, I was ready for such a demand, but still, listening to the voice of the Wind, it seems that he has not yet said everything.
- It's not clear what you're looking for," it says behind me. The wind is now all around me, though I keep looking into his eyes.
- But I can't stop you from looking. The dance will give you an answer, or maybe it won't give you anything. But dance, shaman, because in the hour of my power you can live only in the dance.
He's a bit of a trickster - but the winds are always tricked, that's life.
Now I don't need his truth, inside me sound my own, the main thing is to hear. And while I dance, my thoughts become crystal clear and cold, and then the words appear, then I can read why the ugly black scar cuts through my soul.
- Why do you need a cure? - he asks.
- I want to release the blackness - my explanation does not explain anything, but the wind is clear and without it.
In the white field we dance among the hills, we bring in a blizzard forest, we fall asleep in the city. We freeze only for a moment, and then spin even faster, without unhooking our arms.
My heart beats with a loud bell, and I can already see how I cut my own chest to take out the ugly blackness from the inside, pour it with ink blots over the snowy white skin of the snow.
- Give me the knife - my lips whisper by themselves.
The essence of the shaman is to sacrifice himself over and over again, to take away from his own chest what should be forged, to give to elements, to take weapons from their palms.
The blade of the wind is crystal, it is transparent, covered with an intricate pattern. It cuts well, enters without pain, irrigating everything around not scarlet, but black. The darkness itself drips from the blade, and I impatiently drive the blade over the handle into myself to widen the wound.
Now the sound of my heart is so loud that the Wind is retreating one step further, wavering from the sound. My fingers are dirty with black, the blade is dirty with it, the ugly darkness is flowing on the handle.
Snow flies into me fills me with white, and I kneel down, giving them shelter in my chest. They drive out the blackness, hiss and melt in the scarlet, sneaking out. This is the last time I've scooped up moisture from my own chest. It's not black anymore, it still has snowflakes in it. The wind bends down to the palms of her hands folded into the boat and seizes her icy lips.
- My share," he says, "and I can't refuse, silently watching him drink thoughtfully, without letting a drop of it escape from his fingers.
He wipes his scarlet lips.
- That's all.
He covers my breasts with one touch. Inside, a new and old scar shines white. The blackness is covered with snow. We are standing by my window, right in the air.
- Come home, shaman, come to me later," says the Wind.
Tiredness is growing inside, but I have time to step over the window sill before I fall. Only an hour later do I wake up and close the window, leaving the snow behind the glass. The wind dances outside the city with someone else.