«Well, sort of. Something about shamans,» Dmitry mumbled uncertainly.
«See? Clueless. What shamans? It's magic! Castaneda writes about magic and power,» Sergey cut him off. «Power's the main thing, and whoever's better at hunting it gets more of it. Usually you hunt alone, but sometimes hunters get together, take peyote, and meet Mescalito. That's a mitote. So, you in?»
«Tomorrow? Maybe, if my parents let me.»
«Just tell 'em you're going fishing.» Sergey stood up. «If you decide, let me know by tonight. Gotta go now, got stuff to prepare and one more candidate to talk to.»
«Candidate? Who?»
«Remember Fyodor? You saw us together at the station. He seemed interested. Anyway, see ya.»
Sergey waved and walked down the street. Dmitry got up from the bench by the house in the settlement where his family usually spent summers and went into the yard.
Dmitry spent the rest of the day browsing forums and skimming through Carlos Castaneda's books he'd downloaded. The topic intrigued him, but he didn't quite share Sergey's enthusiasm for the upcoming mitote.
That evening he was in the kitchen reading on his tablet when his father walked in.
«What are you reading?» he asked.
«Oh, Castaneda.»
«Who's that? What's it about?»
«Carlos Castaneda. He's an anthropologist, wrote books about studying the life and beliefs of Indians in Mexico.»
«Sounds interesting. Since when are you into this stuff?»
«Just started, actually. Hey, Dad, can I go fishing with Sergey? Overnight?»
«Good idea, go. Better than moping around the house all day.»
«Overnight?» Mom peeked worriedly from the living room.
«Come on, nothing'll happen to him. Best fishing's at dawn... eh, I'd love to go myself, but work calls,» Dad sighed. Mom shrugged and went back to the living room.
The settlement where Dmitry's family summered used to be entirely dachas. Over time, some residents started living there year-round. The factory it once belonged to had gone under back in the wild nineties. The settlement's official status was fuzzy now, but nobody cared; people just lived—some summering, some permanent.
Sergey was from a permanent family. Well, he lived only with his mother; he never talked about his father. Rumors flew: he was in prison, or drank himself homeless. Dmitry and Sergey had been friends since childhood, but as they grew up, the social gap widened. Dmitry had city life, college, a secure future. Sergey's was completely different. Lately Dmitry often saw him at the station with guys from the settlement. That's where they'd met recently; Dmitry hadn't seen him for a couple of years before that.
That evening, walking to the meeting point for this «mitote,» Dmitry recalled their station encounter.
«Yo, Diman!» someone called. Dmitry looked up from his phone. A stocky guy in typical thug gear was approaching. «Don't recognize me?»
The features were vaguely familiar.
«Sergey?!» Dmitry guessed rather than recognized.
«Bingo. Heading to the settlement?»
«Yeah. What are you doing here?»
«Hey, lemme use your phone, gotta call someone,» another guy of the same type sidled up behind Sergey.
«Back off, he's my friend,» Sergey cut him off. The guy snorted and wordlessly went back to the crew by the kiosk bench.
«Long time no see...»
After all that reading, Dmitry couldn't connect Sergey's Castaneda interest with his lifestyle. Still, he decided to go to this mitote and figure it out, even though he suspected nothing good would come of it.
It wasn't far. They'd agreed to meet by the river bend beyond the settlement—pretending to go fishing. Sergey said it was to avoid attention. Actually, they were heading into the woods to a perfect spot for a mitote.
They were already waiting on the bank. Sergey had two others with him. One was the guy from the station.
«This is Fyodor, he's coming too,» Sergey introduced.
«Yeah, mitote at Fedot's!» Fyodor blurted with a stupid grin.
«And this is Andryukha.» Sergey nodded at the second one. Andrey grunted something unintelligible, his face unchangingly sullen.
«I'm Dmitry. Nice to meet you.»
«Yeah, us too, like, nice,» Fyodor said, shaking his head, still grinning stupidly.
«Alright, let's move. Gotta get there before dark,» Sergey interrupted the pleasantries.
They walked along the bank, then veered into the woods where the river turned. They walked in silence, each lost in thought. Fyodor's presence was an unpleasant surprise for Dmitry, even though Sergey had mentioned him. Dmitry mulled over bailing and going home. Each step made it clearer: he'd much rather study this esoterica from books on his couch than in the woods. And each step made it clearer that backing out now would make him look stupid or, worse, a coward. Dmitry didn't want that, so he trudged on, growing gloomier.
What his companions were thinking, he had no idea. Sergey was focused, constantly checking his bearings, navigating by landmarks known only to him. The stupid grin never left Fyodor's face; Dmitry started wondering if the guy was all there. Andrey trudged along, still frowning.
After an hour of wandering, they emerged into a clearing with a small hill, its flat top dotted with sparse trees. Sergey confidently headed for it and started climbing. The others followed.
At the top was a convenient flat area, a kind of hollow carved into the hillside, walled on three sides by natural rock and open on one. From the open side, a beautiful view stretched over the forest below, with clearings and the meandering river vanishing into the distance.
«Here we are,» Sergey announced with satisfaction.
«What is this place?» Dmitry asked.
«A place of power...» Sergey added meaningfully.
Fyodor burst out laughing.
«What's so funny, dumbass?» Sergey glared at him. «Go get some firewood.»
«Aw, come on, I was just—»
«Just what?»
«Nothing.» He didn't finish and went to gather wood.
«We need to get everything ready before dark,» Sergey said, opening his backpack and pulling out bundles.
Dmitry opened his pack too, taking out the food his mom had packed, a blanket, and a warm sweater he decided to put on right away. Andrey was also rummaging in his bag.
Soon Fyodor returned with an armful of deadwood, dropped it by the fire pit, and went for his own pack. Sergey got the fire going quickly and skillfully. He went down to a small spring at the hill's base, brought back water in a pot, set it over the fire, and returned to his things.
Fyodor, meanwhile, pulled several bottles of vodka from his bag.
«Why the vodka?» Dmitry was surprised.
«Can't do without vodka,» Andrey suddenly said, smiling for the first time and speaking actual words.
«Well, this is... I don't know, different...» Dmitry stammered.
«What's different? This ain't Mexico. We'll need it to keep warm,» Sergey backed him up.
«I don't know... Did you even read Castaneda carefully?» Dmitry asked.
«Well... sort of.»
«Yeah, right, he read it!» Fyodor laughed again, then added to Dmitry: «Lenka's the one filling his head with that crap.»
«You talk too much,» Sergey snapped, immediately on the attack.
The vodka killed whatever was left of Dmitry's mood. He was more and more convinced this «mitote» was a mistake. It wasn't that he never drank, but from what he'd read, vodka was clearly out of place. But Lenka's mention upset him even more. She was their mutual childhood friend. One summer after eighth grade, he'd even awkwardly tried to court her, but she'd just laughed at him. Sergey had said Dmitry had no chance anyway, because Lenka was already hanging with older guys. Still, Lenka's prematurely developed figure had haunted Dmitry's thoughts for a long time.
Fyodor and Andrey had already spread the blanket, put out a cloth, and were arranging food and drinks. Sergey added his food to the pile, took only a small bundle, and went to the fire. Unwrapping it, he pulled out dried mushroom pieces and caps and dropped them into the pot. The guys had finished setting out food, opened a bottle, and started pouring.
«Well, as they say, let's eat, drink,» Sergey said, sitting down with them after finishing at the fire. «Dim, why so glum? Cheer up! It'll be fine. We'll have a bite, drink some mushroom tea. Or you against it?»
«No, I just...» Dmitry was against it all, but playing the coward wasn't an option, so he forced a smile. «I'm fine. Just remembered something...»
«Lenka, I bet,» Sergey interrupted. «Still pining?»
«No, come on. Wasn't thinking about her.»
«I told her I saw you at the station. She asked about you, said to say hi if I saw you again. I totally forgot. So, hi from her.»
«Thanks.» Dmitry smiled.
«Oh, look at that! And you said you weren't thinking about her,» Sergey laughed. «Seriously, she's something else now. Just got back from Goa, all tanned and everything...»
«Yeah, quite a babe,» Fyodor chimed in.
«Keep your drool to yourself and pour,» Sergey snapped again. Fyodor just grunted and poured.
It was fully dark now. The clear sky was thick with stars. The vodka spread a pleasant warmth through Dmitry. He settled back against his backpack. This felt more like a picnic or even a fishing trip, minus the fish. He'd expected they'd discuss Castaneda, but the guys acted like they'd just come to the woods to drink. He decided to ask Sergey directly:
«So, what about it? You said mitote, magic... We're just drinking.»
«Everything in its time,» Sergey said mysteriously.
«Won't we even discuss—»
«Nothing to discuss.» Sergey's tone was still mysterious, then with theatrical gravity: «What needs saying will be said. What needs to happen will happen, when it needs to. Trust the Power.»
«Got it,» Dmitry said, though he understood nothing.
«He gets it, but I don't get shit...» Fyodor butted in again.
«Something bothering you?» Sergey cut him off rudely.
«Why you been riding me all day?» Fyodor suddenly bristled.
«Then don't provoke me. You don't like it, you're out, and you can leave right now.»
They were raising their voices, the alcohol kicking in. For a second Dmitry thought they'd fight, they glared so fiercely. But Fyodor, as usual, just laughed again.
«Can't even say anything now? Fine, I'm good.» He raised his glass. «To Power!»
Andrey, who hadn't spoken all evening and seemed not to have noticed the spat, immediately joined in. Sergey drank too, went back to the fire, and took off the pot. He returned, sat down, leaned back on his pack, and stared at the stars.
Silence fell. Dmitry only now noticed how quiet it was. Just a faint insect chirring somewhere far off. Up here on the hill, not even mosquitoes. Maybe it really is a place of power, he thought.
After a while, Sergey got up, took the lid off the pot, and stirred.
«Looks ready. Give me your cups, tea time.»
He ladled the brew into each cup and passed them around. Dmitry peered into his. In the dark, he couldn't see the color. He sniffed — smelled like herbal tea, nothing special.
«Now what?» he asked Sergey.
«Now? Now the mitote. Just relax. The mushrooms'll do their thing. Words, questions, meanings — they don't matter. The important thing is the experience, the feelings you take with you. Let the Power decide. You just rest and enjoy.»
Dmitry chewed his piece and stretched out like Sergey. For about twenty minutes, nothing happened. Then a sort of euphoria started creeping over him. What was I so worried about? he thought. Such a great evening: quiet, beautiful stars, good guys... everything's fine. He even felt a surge of energy, but didn't want to move. He just lay there, seemingly for a long time, because the firelight dimmed. The wood had burned down; he should add more, but moving was out of the question — even turning his head to see what the others were doing.
Suddenly he heard a painfully familiar laugh. He knew that laugh, but for some reason couldn't place it. With immense effort, he turned his head toward the sound, but there was only a tree. Finally, he realized: it was Lenka's laugh. He even sat up, searching, but saw no one. Just the tree.
Then the tree turned its head — Lenka's face — and laughed at him. He looked around wildly: all the trees had Lenka's faces, all staring and laughing deafeningly. One tree leaned sideways, pulling its roots from the ground on one side, then the other, yanking them free. The other tree-women did the same, laughing all the while. When they'd all uprooted themselves, they circled Dmitry, still laughing. The circle tightened, they moved closer, reaching out their branch-arms toward the paralyzed Dmitry. They kept laughing, but now words emerged. As they closed in, he heard them chanting through their laughter: «We're taking you to Goa...»
The branch-arms enveloped Dmitry completely, and he sank into the blissful darkness of oblivion.
He'd completely lost track of time, so he had no idea how long he was out. He came to again because of some circular motion. Opening his eyes, he saw it was lighter; someone had added wood to the fire. He raised his head. The circular motion was Andrey, running intently around the fire and their campsite. Dmitry tried to call out but couldn't. He looked at the others.
Sergey hadn't moved, still lying, staring at the stars. Fyodor sat cross-legged, elbows on knees, hands propping his head, staring intensely at the center of the cloth where, amid the remains of their supper, some printed pattern was visible. Dmitry warily eyed the trees, but they were still.
He lay back down. After a moment, he thought he felt surprisingly sober — apart from the tree incident. Should add wood, he thought, sat up, and tried to move toward the fire. But his body wouldn't obey. His momentum pitched him forward, and without an arm or leg to catch himself, he fell face-first onto the ground and just lay there, feeling perfectly fine and even comfortable. For conscience's sake, he tried again, but only managed to scoot forward a bit, one leg landing in the old ashes. Realizing he couldn't do more, he stopped trying, remembered Sergey's advice to relax, and did so. Soon he blacked out again.
He woke to cold. Still face-down. His whole body shook violently. He felt his body now, and he was freezing. Morning had come. Trembling, Dmitry sat up and looked around.
Sergey lay in his spot, eyes closed. Fyodor was face-down on their makeshift table, his legs still crossed as if sitting Indian-style — he must have just toppled forward onto the pattern he'd been studying. Andrey was nowhere to be seen. Dmitry stood, went to the dead fire hoping for warmth, and from there spotted Andrey's legs sticking out of the bushes.
The fire was long out. Dmitry stood stupidly staring at the ashes, trying to think. Get wood, relight the fire... But he didn't want to do any of it. What he wanted was home, his room, his bed, a warm blanket. Shivering, he looked around again: What's stopping me? And he started down the hill.
He didn't even think about how he looked. All that mattered was the cold and the uncontrollable shaking. But his appearance was, to put it mildly, unusual. Having spent half the night face-down on damp ground with one leg in an old fire pit, he'd become two-toned. First, his face was half pale, half red — the side he'd lain on. Second, his pants: one leg clean, the other black with old ash. Add disheveled hair, a completely crazy stare, and the visible shaking, and the picture was complete.
But Dmitry, usually so neat, didn't care — the mitote's aftereffects were in charge. He automatically retraced the path home, not even thinking about direction, and soon reached the settlement. It was early, streets empty, and he, shaking and limping slightly, made it to his house.
Meanwhile, Dmitry's father was already up, puttering in the garden. A neighbor appeared at the fence, another early riser, but one who preferred chatting to digging. Spotting Dmitry's father, he headed straight over.
«Morning, neighbor!» he announced cheerfully, glad for company. «Up and at 'em early in the garden?»
«Oh, uh... good morning,» Dmitry's father was always up for a chat. «How are things, health?»
«What things can a pensioner have? Come on!» the neighbor mock-protested. «Health's not what it was. Better tell me your news. Father in the garden, so Dima's still asleep, I suppose?»
«No, he went fishing.»
«Fishing! Good deal. Alone or with someone?»
«With Sergey. You know, from Second Street probably.»
«Ah, that Sergey. You better keep an eye on your boy. That Sergey's a bad seed. Like his father. Drank his whole life, stole anything not nailed down from the factory, ended up in prison for it. Now nobody even knows where he is.»
«Oh, I don't know... He's got to have someone to fish with. And my boy's sensible, always studying, reading. Just recently, for instance, he got into Castaneda.»
«Into what?»
«Cas—» He didn't finish. He froze mid-word, mouth open, stopped by Dmitry's appearance.
A silent scene followed. The neighbor looked equally stunned, though his mouth was closed.
Dmitry stood before them in all his «glory»: still shaking, now limping on the leg he'd apparently slept on. He walked up the path, frantically trying to think of something to say, but couldn't remember what one was supposed to say. So he decided to just nod. He nodded. But due to his general stiffness, it didn't feel like a proper nod, so he nodded again. His stunned father and neighbor didn't react. They must not have seen me nod, he thought, and nodded again... This thought looped several times. He walked past them, nodding repeatedly, until he disappeared into the house.
«Well,» the neighbor finally found his voice, «that there "castaneda" of yours must be some powerful stuff...»
