Short Fiction Fyodor Sologub (any book recommendations txt) 📖

and the empty clangour of their beating hoofs resounded in the far distance of the wilderness. A sense of dread came over him, a dread to which as to his tiredness he saw no term.

He seemed to hear the sounds of wailing somewhere afar.

The earth trembled and murmured under the beat of the horses’ hoofs.

Someone was running towards them.

A dim voice, a voice like that of the boy began to cry.

The Centurion looked round on his soldiers. The shadow of night lay on their bowed faces, distorted with dust, sunken with tiredness, and a look of confused terror hung on their countenances.

The parched lips of Lucillus whispered nervously, “Oh that the camp were in sight.”

“What is it, Lucillus?” asked the Centurion looking fixedly into the tired face of the young soldier.

And Lucillus whispered in reply:

“I am in dread.”

And then, blushing to have confessed to fear, he added in a louder voice:

“It’s terribly hot.”

And then relapsing into a whisper, he shuddered and went on.

“That accursed boy is on my conscience, his face pursues me. He was in league with sorcerers, and though we cut him down we could not lay him, he was enchanted⁠ ⁠…”

The Centurion scanned the dark landscape. There was not a soul to be seen, near or far.

“Have you lost the amulet you received from the old priest at Carthage? I remember it was said that he who wore that amulet was immune from the spells of night enchantments,” said the Centurion.

“I am wearing it now,” said the young man. “But it is burning into my chest. There are earth-fiends after us; I hear the murmur of the earth disgorging the hurrying fiends.”

“Oh, you make a mistake,” said the Centurion, seeking to reassure him by reasonable words. “The earth fiends are mightily beholden unto us for giving them a rich feast today. In any case, fear should find no place in the heart of a valiant soldier, not even the fear engendered by the moaning of sprites in the night in the wilderness.”

“Oh, I fear, I fear,” cried Lucillus. “I hear the voice of that strange child following us.”

Then suddenly in the sultry silence of the night a moaning and maledictory voice broke forth:

“Curses⁠ ⁠… curses upon the heads of the murderers.”

The soldiers shuddered, spurred their horses and clattered along more quickly. But the voice of an unseen spirit pursued them and cried out all about them, now in front of them, now behind, now at one side, now another, sharply, distinctly:

“Murderers! Slayers of innocent babes! Merciless soldiers; ye yourselves shall not receive mercy!”

The soldiers took fright and spurred their steeds and hastened. But the old Centurion was angry and scolded them, crying:

“For shame! Of whom are you afraid. Are soldiers of the mighty and godlike Emperor afraid of shadows. From whom do you flee? From a boy whom you killed, from a dead body raised to life by unclean charms! Pull yourselves together, men, and remember that the Roman arms triumph not only over our enemies, but over the enchantments of the enemy also.”

The soldiers took shame. At the bidding of the Centurion they came to a halt. They were still and listened to the noises of the night. Someone was distinctly on their tracks following after them, waiting and denouncing. No shape was seen in the darkness or upon the vague shadowiness of the landscape, but a small intense voice of a child cried out incessantly.

“Let us find out who it is,” said one soldier, and the troop spurred their horses across the waste in the direction of the sound. And when they had lost sight of the road they came suddenly upon a strange child running on the heath, his garments torn, his dark hair dabbled in blood. And the child streaming blood as he ran, moaned and shouted and threatened with a maledictory hand.

With wild rage the soldiers drew their swords and dashed at the boy and slew him again, hacking him into a hundred bits and trampling the flesh under their horses’ feet. And before they resumed their journey they scattered the remains of the dead child’s body and flung portions north, south, east, and west.

Then they wiped their swords in the grass, got into their saddles, and hastened once more onward on the long roundabout homeward road. But hardly had they resumed their journey than the moody silence that was between them and around them was broken by a sharp exclamation: “Murderers!” and once more they were assailed by a running accompaniment of curses and denunciation from an unseen child.

They turned their horses in terror and rage, and sought the spirit out again, and away in the darkness once more they saw the strange boy running with torn garments and black hair dabbled in blood, with blood streaming from his hands. And once more they set upon him and cut him down, and stamped upon the body and scattered the severed limbs and galloped away.

But again and again the wailing child came after them. And in the rage of murder that had no end and of wails and denunciations that never ceased the troop missed the way to the Camp and went round and round the wild district where the children had been slain by them. The grandeur of night spread over the valley and the stars glimmered, sinless, innocent, remote.

The soldiers followed on their own tracks, and the cries of the boy on the heath were heavy on their souls. Round and round they wandered and killed in fury and yet could not kill.

At last, just before sunrise, with madness at their heels the troop galloped on to the shore of the sea. And the waves boiled under the frenzied onrush of the horses.

So perished all the horsemen and with them the Centurion Marcellus.

And to the far silent spot where by the roadway lay the bodies of the boy Lin and the other children, bloodstained, unburied, wolves came creeping stealthily, fearfully, and they sated themselves with the innocent and sweet bodies of the