At the mouth of the Dneiper, a blustery day. A fat old man in a pink caftan with a wonderful rat's tail mustache, – Taras Bulba – stands at one end of a raw plank table head flung back and laughing so hard he has to clasp his sides to keep his ribs from cracking and his heart from galloping away. Sultan Mehmed, Master of all that exists and will be, Beloved of all people, beloved of Allah, His buddies thronging round him, happily drunken happily angry, sinister, sarcastic, wildly, happily everything: the one, with a wisp of hair rising like a geyser from his shaven head, the gap-tooth Tatar, blotto beyond words, howling for attention, pointing away and gone Says to the Christian barbarians, Uncouth nomads of the steppes, Rebellious thugs: I am merciful. behind the ugly man in a black ushanka leaning across the table with a homicidal stare at something close at hand we can't see, Throw down your weapons, Bend to your knees, beg pardon, And return to mild obedience, the one with a sly, beseeching look cozying up to his generalissimo and one with a smile of utter content on his handsome brown face, Or defy me and fall to my cavalry's curved scimitars Like wheat before the harvester's scythe. The Sublime Porte, 1087 Shawal on űç Such a motley uproarious crowd you almost miss entirely dead-center of the canvas, the tidy little man seated at the table, a feather pen in his hand quiet amusement on his lips. Semi-profile, dark brown sweater, a white shirt collar hatless, almost modern. The puckish smile may also say, they love me today. Whereas and hereas and thereas and wherefore: We mighty and free Cossacks of the steppes reply to you the donkey Sultan Mehmed buffoon of the world and the netherworld, Turkish Satan, piece of shit! we aren't afraid of you or your army or your fleet. A shirtless man with a shaved head leans across the table watching the wild dance of the nib, everyone having his say, eager as hounds at their prey. Babylonian busboy Jerusalem brewer, Armenian pig, Macedonian mechanic, you are not fit to command the sons of Christians you swine snout unbaptized gob of spit, may the devil breathe fire up your ass He writes what they tell him but the coda is his very own: We don't know the date because we don't have a calendar.
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The Scribe
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At the mouth of the Dneiper, a blustery day. A fat old man in a pink caftan with a wonderful rat's tail mustache, – Taras Bulba – stands at one end of a raw plank table head flung back and laughing so hard he has to clasp his sides to keep his ribs from cracking and his heart from galloping away. Sultan Mehmed, Master of all that exists and will be, Beloved of all people, beloved of Allah, His buddies thronging round him, happily drunken happily angry, sinister, sarcastic, wildly, happily everything: the one, with a wisp of hair rising like a geyser from his shaven head, the gap-tooth Tatar, blotto beyond words, howling for attention, pointing away and gone Says to the Christian barbarians, Uncouth nomads of the steppes, Rebellious thugs: I am merciful. behind the ugly man in a black ushanka leaning across the table with a homicidal stare at something close at hand we can't see, Throw down your weapons, Bend to your knees, beg pardon, And return to mild obedience, the one with a sly, beseeching look cozying up to his generalissimo and one with a smile of utter content on his handsome brown face, Or defy me and fall to my cavalry's curved scimitars Like wheat before the harvester's scythe. The Sublime Porte, 1087 Shawal on űç Such a motley uproarious crowd you almost miss entirely dead-center of the canvas, the tidy little man seated at the table, a feather pen in his hand quiet amusement on his lips. Semi-profile, dark brown sweater, a white shirt collar hatless, almost modern. The puckish smile may also say, they love me today. Whereas and hereas and thereas and wherefore: We mighty and free Cossacks of the steppes reply to you the donkey Sultan Mehmed buffoon of the world and the netherworld, Turkish Satan, piece of shit! we aren't afraid of you or your army or your fleet. A shirtless man with a shaved head leans across the table watching the wild dance of the nib, everyone having his say, eager as hounds at their prey. Babylonian busboy Jerusalem brewer, Armenian pig, Macedonian mechanic, you are not fit to command the sons of Christians you swine snout unbaptized gob of spit, may the devil breathe fire up your ass He writes what they tell him but the coda is his very own: We don't know the date because we don't have a calendar.