Fiction

EnZi Part One Odesa Chapter 11 The Papyrus

by Stanislav Dema
01/21/26
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Die Apokalyptischen Reiter - Ein liebes Lied

Almost a month had passed since I arrived in Odesa.

The day after that memorable meeting at Privoz, Zusya and I met again and drew up a plan of action. The most important thing now was to find all available information about the mysterious En-zi and understand, at least approximately, how to neutralize it. The work ahead was difficult, but there was nowhere to retreat. If anyone were to wake this ancient monster, the consequences would be catastrophic.

This joint work brought me closer to Zusya, and we became friends. He turned out to be a very kind and wise man, as well as a wonderful conversationalist. He possessed great inner strength and a quiet trust in God, which he never put on display. Zusya was always full of optimism and kept a clear mind in situations where others lost their heads. With him, one could discuss infantry tactics, the meaning of life, and a new symphony with equal interest.

That day we met in the City Garden. It was very hot, and we sat on a bench in the shade of an acacia tree; a light breeze quietly rustled the leaves, and the city seemed to be in a semi-slumber. Zusya took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. I unfolded it—and realized: before me was a map. Not a regular geographical one, but a schematic of objects, buildings, and landmarks on an island. Looking closer at the outlines of the coastline, I understood—it was Snake Island.

— What you hold in your hands is a real treasure, — Zusya began. — I have an old friend—a Greek merchant, an honorary citizen, a patron of the arts; a respected and wealthy man. His name is Kostas. Once, he found himself in a very unpleasant situation: he was accused of murder, and all the evidence seemed to point to him. His wife came to me for help. She was absolutely convinced of his innocence. I engaged my connections, my agents, studied all the circumstances of the case, and found the real killer. My friend was acquitted. Since then, he has been in my debt.

When this whole story began, Kostas learned that I was gathering information about En-zi. A man came to me and said he had to take me to Kostas. We arrived at his home, Kostas met me and announced that he wanted to pass on something very important. It turned out that his family holds an ancient legend—and along with it, one item is passed down from generation to generation.

When he came of age, his father told him once: "If you hear that someone is interested in the Soul Eater named En-zi, give him this casket."

This relic was once passed down by his father, and to him by his grandfather, and so on, back many generations. His father gave him the code to the safe and ordered him never to open the casket. It was sealed and held some secret. Only a person ready to challenge the "Soul Eater" had the right to receive its contents.

Now Kostas decided that the hour had come, and solemnly handed me the family relic. We opened the casket—and inside was a rolled-up ancient papyrus. This map was depicted on it. I made a copy, and returned the papyrus to the safe.

— And now look closely at this place, — Zusya pointed with the tip of a pencil to an object on the map. Next to the icon labeled "Achilles' Tomb" stood a mark: "Key to En-zi."

I held my breath.

— Do you understand what this means? — he continued. — This is not just a mark on a piece of paper. This is a reference to an artifact—an object which, according to family legend, can shed light on the mystery of "En-zi" or even help stop him.

I was shaken and for a time could not find the words to express my feelings. But Zusya understood everything and immediately shifted the conversation to a practical track.

— You must go there immediately and find this thing, — he concluded. — This map will help you.

I listened without interrupting, but immediately began to calculate a travel plan in my mind—and confusion reflected on my face. Zusya noticed this and smiled.

— Yes, — he answered calmly, — I understand what you are thinking: I’ll arrive on the island, start poking around, and then the Coast Guard will show up and start asking who I am. Don’t worry, I’ve thought of everything.

He explained that he had arranged a pass for me to the island—as a historian from the University of Paris. I am writing a dissertation on antiquity, and I need to collect ethnographic materials about the tomb of Achilles. There really is a small Coast Guard outpost on the island, as well as a lighthouse. The keeper of this lighthouse is Kostas’s own brother—Vasilis Khazaridi. A retired naval officer, a war veteran; he was severely wounded but recovered and could still give odds to many young men. He has his own small house not far from the lighthouse, where he lives with his wife, Ester.

She is a well-known marine painter, and, I tell you, her paintings are a good investment today. On the island, they have a small vegetable garden and goats.

Their children grew up and scattered around the world: the eldest son serves in the Hetmanate aviation, the youngest went to Eretz-Israel, the daughter married an Argentine and left for America.

Vasilis is an educated man with a good library; I wrote him a letter warning him of everything, so he will help you to the best of his ability.

Then he took out a bundle and placed it on the bench.

— I understand perfectly, — he explained, — that you won’t last long in Odesa on your own savings. There are people ready to sponsor our search. Through me, they are passing these funds to you so that you need for nothing.

I thanked Zusya and his patrons, then we discussed transportation.

— How will I get to the island? — I asked.

He smiled like a man who has answers ready for all questions in advance.

— I have chartered the shalanda of a good acquaintance of mine—Kostya Kubakh, — he explained. — An Odesa skipper: a fisherman, but occasionally he transports cargo and people. Tomorrow he happens to be taking supplies and mail to the island. Kostya is a good lad; he’ll get you to Zmeiny without unnecessary questions. And in two days, he’ll pick you up.

Zusya gave me precise instructions: tomorrow at 5:00 AM, be at the pier of the 16th Station of Fountain. Kostya’s shalanda will arrive there.

— In three days, — he added, — we will meet right here at the same time. Good luck, Chelago.

Zusya shook my hand firmly, smiled, and left, while I remained on the bench with the sheet in my hands and an unusual feeling of anticipation. As if I were holding not just a piece of paper, but a key to a door behind which the solution to the mystery awaited me.

I decided to prepare for the trip. Khazaridi, as Zusya said, loved books—and this simplified the task of buying a gift.

I crossed Deribasovskaya and went into a bookshop on Greek Square. It was one of the oldest shops in the city, with a huge selection of books. I walked among the rows of shelves for a long time until my gaze caught a thick tome in a blue binding—a fresh digest dedicated to geographical discoveries and travels. Richly illustrated: engravings, maps, photographs. There were accounts from explorers, scientific articles, and descriptions of new ships with blueprints—I immediately realized that the old sailor would like this.

On my way out, I noticed in the shop window opposite a light silk scarf—the color of the summer sea at dawn. The fabric shimmered like a wave under the sun; along the edge ran a thin Greek ornament, among which dolphins and spirals of waves flickered. This scarf held everything: the sea, light, silence, and the birth of a new day. I immediately realized—this was the perfect gift for Ester.

After that, I went into a wine shop on the corner—a large premise with semi-dark halls and oak racks for bottles. The clerk, a dignified man in a vest, assured me that "Schwarze Rebe" was the best wine in the Hetmanate. I tasted several varieties and admitted he was right. Finally, I chose the one I liked most, and the clerk wrapped the bottle beautifully for me.

The gift was ready: a book for the mind, wine for the body, and a scarf for the soul. Everything else was left to the will of the sea and fate.

Then I bought everything necessary for tomorrow's trip: a large loaf of Odesa bread, bryndza, vegetables, and a smoked chicken. The seller—an old Jew with the face of a biblical patriarch—solicitously packed these products for me, adding a small jar of some sauce for free.

— An old family recipe, — he said friendly, — try it—and tomorrow you will definitely buy more, — and he winked.

Returning to the hotel, I packed my backpack—food, a flask of water, and the gifts for Vasilis and Ester.

Night came unnoticed. The lights of Odesa went out one by one, leaving only rare reflections in the windows of houses and the distant flickering of lights in the roadstead. The room filled with a loud silence—that special night silence when the nervous system is overexcited by events, and every sound seems louder than it actually is. You hear the ticking of the clock, drops of water falling outside the window, the rustle of leaves.

Sleep did not come. I tossed and turned—my head was overflowing with thoughts of the upcoming trip: the road, the island, the people Zusya spoke of, the map, the mark "Key to En-zi"... All this spun in my consciousness like a whirlpool and gave me no peace.

Then I remembered an old trick I had learned back in the days when I served as a sailor. On long voyages, when you spend half the night on watch in the engine room and think that you’ll just climb into your hammock and instantly switch off, it happened that sleep would vanish somewhere. And then I would imagine the shore. Not an abstract one, but my own—where I grew up: with the smell of the sea, the creak of ropes, and the soft rustle of the surf.

I closed my eyes and mentally transported myself there, to childhood: soft sand, a wool blanket I used as a sleeping bag, the breeze moving the light awning, the moon path shimmering beautifully. The wave rustles with the surf, rolling small pebbles and shells—as if whispering something lulling. Above you spreads a black tent embroidered with diamonds of stars, and the Milky Way beckons somewhere to the edge of the universe. And in this shimmering starlight, everything seems simple and right.

I breathed slowly, trying not to think of anything. The world around dissolved—only the wind, water, and peace remained. And somewhere on the verge of sleep, already falling into darkness, I heard the familiar whisper of the surf. The waves were calling. And I didn't notice myself falling asleep.

I got up long before dawn. Packing didn't take much time, and I went out into the street. The city slept, but a carriage I had hired the evening before was already waiting at the gate. The driver nodded silently, I sat in the cab, and we moved off.

Half an hour later I was at the 16th Station of Fountain. The morning greeted me with coolness and the smell of the sea—that unique smell of salt, algae, and freshness that immediately returns one to childhood. I got out of the carriage and descended the gully to the Golden Coast. Waves lazily rolled onto the beach, the horizon colored in pink. Sunrise was coming soon.

The wind came from the sea, bringing the rhythmic sound of a steam engine—as if a sea monster were breathing heavily. The sound approached, became louder, and soon a shalanda appeared from the morning haze. At the stern, near the tiller, stood a tall figure—a broad-shouldered man in a faded telnyashka. By all appearances, this was Kostya.

I raised my hand and waved to him. Noticing me, he smiled warmly and replied with the same confident, sweeping gesture. The shalanda smoothly approached the pier. A sailor jumped onto the forecastle—a man of about thirty, tanned, with a khaki-colored kerchief tied on his head. He deftly threw the lines onto the pier, then jumped down, wound them around the bollards, and secured the moorings. The shalanda pressed its fenders softly against the pier and froze, as if resting.

I picked up my backpack and carefully stepped onto the deck. The wood underfoot creaked slightly, smelling of tar and fish. Kostya extended a hand—strong, tanned—and we exchanged a handshake. He turned out to be a lad of about twenty, tall, broad-shouldered, with fiery red hair and bright green eyes in which the sea itself was reflected. He wore an old, faded telnyashka and canvas trousers, and on his head—a skipper's cap with a grappling hook on the cockade.

— Welcome aboard the "Poseidon", — he pronounced with a wide smile and led me to the stern.

There, in the shade of a tarp, a straw mattress was laid out—a simple but cozy place for a passenger.

— I’ll settle some formalities now, and we’ll depart, — Kostya explained and went ashore.

Before putting to sea, Kostya had to stop at the Coast Guard station to register the voyage—no vessel was allowed to sea without this procedure. A small building stood right by the pier: a flag, a mast with a searchlight, on the door—a brass plaque reading: "Border Post No. 16". Inside, it smelled of whitewash, tobacco, and coffee—like all naval offices. On the wall hung the coat of arms of the Hetmanate and posters with "Document Processing Rules."

At the desk sat a duty sergeant—fit, with neat mustache and a stern look. Kostya took off his cap, greeted him, and handed over the documents: the certificate of the right to sail under the flag of the Hetmanate, the shalanda’s registration card, the headquarters' permit to visit Snake Island, and the pre-filled crew list.

The sergeant checked the papers and clarified:

— Fuel, water, communication and signaling means, provisions—all normal?

— Everything according to regulations, — confirmed Kostya.

— Confirm list of crew and passengers.

Kostya opened the log and wrote in neat handwriting: Captain – Konstantin Kubakh, Senior Sailor – Petro Koshka, Mechanic-Stoker – David Feldstein, Passenger – Dr. Étienne Duroc.

In the column "Purpose of Voyage," he wrote briefly: "Logistical voyage. Delivery of cargo for the outpost and a specialist-researcher to Snake Island."

The sergeant reviewed the entry, compared the signatures, checked the stamps on the documents, then stamped the crew list with ink: "Inspected. No comments. Departure to sea permitted. Return—within 48 hours."

After that, Kostya received one copy with a stamp—for port supervision, left the second with the duty officer, and neatly folded the third and put it in his map case along with the ship's papers.

— Everything is in order, Captain, — summarized the sergeant, returning the documents. — Have a safe journey.

Kostya nodded, put on his cap, and walked unhurriedly to the pier. The shalanda was already smoking—David had stoked the boiler and was checking the steam pressure. Everything was ready for departure.

Kostya boarded and gave the command to the sailor. Petro untied the moorings. The engine sighed, puffed, and the shalanda slowly moved away from the pier, picking up speed. The water overboard sparkled. The "Poseidon" rounded the cape and set a course for Vylkove.