The Shapeshifter's Bride

What’s the customary way to begin a long narrative? As is tradition, with a foreword. Do you usually read forewords in books? I don’t, because, honestly, I’m too lazy. Besides, a foreword might bombard you with a complete retelling of the work, along with all sorts of conclusions, summaries, analyses... Yet it’s so pleasant to understand everything on your own. It’s like... Like you’re planning to go see a good mystery thriller at the cinema, directed by a renowned master of plot twists, and some acquaintance of yours goes and blurts out what the twist will be. What a vexation! So... folks, there will be no forewords in this book. Let’s just call this little introduction “chapter number zero,” in which I casually and unobtrusively do NOT say a few words about what awaits you (because I haven’t the slightest idea) and wish you pleasant reading!

Believing in something bright and genuine in our corrupted age is quite difficult. However, starting to believe in the appearance of a ‘prince on a white horse’ in your life is very, very easy. It happens by itself—his dazzling image forms in your young head from an early age, and upon reaching a certain age, the prince begins to appear to you in every remotely attractive boy. And continues to appear with doubled force, even if he has absolutely no interest in you. Consequently, all this results in either an unhappy love or a tragic infatuation (depending on the severity of the love ailment), smoothly transitioning into inevitable disappointment, because princes don’t just lie around on the road (and you, Anton, are no prince at all! Just a self-obsessed idiot!).

But nevertheless, you continue to believe. Even when fate mercilessly beats you over the head with thick glossy magazines and their stupid advice (which will soon rival all four volumes of ‘War and Peace’ in volume), and the beauties on their covers seem to mock your not-too-long legs, not-too-large breasts, as well as those hateful and ineradicable pimples. Despite everything, the belief in the prince is so strong and firm that you begin to work on yourself and become a more or less attractive girl. You rush around sales in search of clothes that will make you ‘super sexy and glamorous.’ But it doesn’t work. Princes don’t fall for that. Only obsessed, insecure, self-loving idiots and dumb freaks who have only one thing on their mind do (yes yes, Anton, I’m talking about you again!).

But you still continue to believe.

Belief in miracles is quite a different matter. You’d be happy to believe in them, but you know perfectly well that they don’t exist. And won’t. Well, maybe they existed once a hundred years ago, in a land far, far away, but that was long ago and untrue. And no miracle will happen to you. And it’s high time to get rid of the fairy tale books that have overstayed their welcome on your shelf, Disney cartoons about talking animals, and the idiotic idea that you are endowed with some miraculous power, only you don’t suspect it yet.

However, there is one magical thing that exists in the life of absolutely every person, but which almost no one takes seriously—dreams. Yes, yes, of course, it’s like our subconscious, quirks of the brain and all that. And although dream interpretation, in my view, is a completely meaningless occupation, still...

I glanced at the clock. Wow, it’s already half past three! Time for beddy-bye. I’d better finish the article tomorrow morning. It won’t go anywhere overnight. Neither will this teenage girls’ portal that I’ve had the honor of collaborating with for a year, and thanks to which I was able to significantly expand my printed manga collection.

From the window, the round moon gazed at me benevolently, the stars shone welcomingly. “Just like a typical Christmas Eve night,” flashed through my mind. In the old days, our great-grandmothers would never have simply gone to bed at such a time. They would have definitely found some bathhouse, locked themselves in, and started divining about their betrothed. They would have laid out special divination solitaires and, peering at the next lubok jack, would have found features of resemblance to a stately merchant’s son. And then, sitting on the bed, they would have combed their long hair with specially enchanted combs and placed them under the pillow. A dream on Christmas Eve was considered almost prophetic—a young man seen in it would certainly become at least a friend of the heart, and at most—a potential fiancé.

But in our time, we don’t believe in such nonsense. We have the Internet for meeting people.

Pondering all this, I didn’t notice when I fell asleep.

The dream was very vivid and detailed—as if everything happening was real. Previously, my dreams were somewhat blurry, with unclear outlines and equally unclear plots. Upon waking, I’d extract the most memorable moments from my dream and recount them to my sister. She would take some thick tome from the shelf and begin to explain what all the nonsense I’d seen meant.

But this time everything was different.

It all started well. I was sitting in front of a monitor screen with a mouse in hand, banners from some website flashing before my eyes. Looking around, I realized I wasn’t at home. Judging by the surroundings, it was an Internet café, but what an amusing one! The tables with computers were arranged in some chaotic order, as if the establishment’s owner despised the rational use of space; orange plush sofas with small colorful cushions lurked in the corners, embroidered with portraits of people in medieval costumes with dog heads. And from old black and white photographs in gilded frames hanging on the walls, the same anthropomorphic dogs gazed at me, but now in 1920s attire. The surrounding space was filled with subdued light and the smell of cinnamon emanating from the cup of cappuccino on my table with an appetizing white foam and a mysterious chocolate pattern on top of it. The sounds of quiet and pleasant jazz melody came from somewhere above and to the side. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some guy approaching me.

“Hi, sorry I’m late. The car broke down again,” he said in a completely casual tone.

“Hi...” I replied and started examining him quite unceremoniously.

Well, what can I say, he was terribly cute. Dressed, from the perspective of my perverted taste, simply impeccably. A double t-shirt (like the ones Sheldon wears in “The Big Bang Theory”), worn jeans, cool designer sneakers (I think those with the Pink Floyd album cover design), a backpack behind his back, headphones around his neck. Something of an overgrown schoolboy with the charisma of Colin Firth that came from who knows where, the charm of Kevin Spacey, and the rebellious squint of Colin Farrell. A volatile mix.

His face (ha, try to imagine it after such a wild description) seemed terribly familiar to me, but I couldn’t figure out how I could know him. So I decided to clarify.

“Have we met before?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“You see, I don’t have the most impeccable memory...”

“Well, here we go again, having to explain everything... Why do I always remember you, while you see me each time as if it’s the first time!” he exclaimed.

“I don’t remember you, honestly!”

“So... This is going to be a long conversation, would you mind if I join your...” he began and darted a glance at my cup, “...meal.”

“Of course, join in, but I still don’t understand anything...” I mumbled, already somewhat distrustfully.

He called over a waiter, ordered a strong bitter coffee (yes, exactly in that form, word for word) and addressed me again.

“First of all, let me greet you once more. And you haven’t changed at all, still the same...”

“I may be repeating myself, but we don’t know each other!” I said somewhat irritably, abruptly switching to the informal “you.”

I mean, why be formal with him, really!

“But we do, I’ve known you for several years... or even centuries!” He said and smirked.

“Please, speak clearly...”

“Alright, by the way, they’ve already brought my coffee,” he rubbed his hands contentedly and took a sip, “simply wonderful, I’m surprised you don’t like it.”

“How do you know what I like and don’t like?!”

“I know absolutely everything about you. Over the several centuries during which I’ve observed you, I could write a whole book about you! Or no, even several hefty volumes!”

“I doubt such reading would interest anyone...” I grumbled and added, “But, still, how do you know me?”

“The thing is, you’re... my destined one!” he declared contentedly.

“What?”

“You’re my destined one.” He repeated in an everyday tone and, as if nothing had happened, took a sip of his nasty coffee.

“And you’re my costumed one...” was all I could reply.

“Well... in a sense. Have you ever heard of the so-called ‘marriage in heaven’?” he asked quietly, leaning toward me.

“Well, yes, I’ve read something about it...”

“Read? Oh, you clever girl. Then please look at your foot.”

“What for?”

“Come on, what’s the problem...”

“Everything’s fine there. Though, for some reason, I’m barefoot...”

“Damn, wrong foot! The left one, on the left.”

“What on earth is this?!”

A red silk cord was tied to my left foot, its other end was tied to... well, what nonsense! To the foot of my new acquaintance.

“When did you manage to do this? I appreciate the joke, well done. Very funny and elegant.”

“It wasn’t me. This is the invisible thread of fate.”

“How is it invisible! It’s very visible! What knot did you use? A sailor’s knot or something... It won’t untie...”

“You can only see it once in a lifetime, and only in a dream. Many don’t even remember this dream and screw up their entire destiny. But you’re lucky!”

“Well done, and you made up a legend too. Oh, if only your talents were put to good use! What do you do anyway?”

“I admin...” he answered automatically, but then caught himself. “That’s not the point! Listen, you’re still an educated girl! Did you study mythology in school?”

“Of course. Greek, Indian. All those Ganeshas, monkey kings...”

“Forget about the monkeys. Here.”

And he took out from his jeans pocket a small elegant booklet made of red leather, with golden hieroglyphs on the cover, and opened it to a page marked with a ribbon-bookmark with a red tassel at the end.

“What’s this?”

“Here, read.” And he handed me the book.

“‘In China, every union between a man and woman was determined from above. The god of marriage ties an invisible thread to the feet of the intended spouses, and no force in the world can break it...’ Listen, are you Chinese?”

“Is that really what matters?!”

“Well, you know, I’m definitely not from China, and even if I’m willing to believe all this nonsense, I still don’t understand why I fell under the jurisdiction of some Asian deity.”

“Maybe he decided to work on an exchange program,” he replied with a smirk.

“Ha, and indeed, that explains everything,” I muttered, and then laughed.

“Well, at least you smiled.”

“Yeah, one certainly won’t get bored with you.”

“So do you believe me?”

“I don’t know... When did you discover all this?”

“About five hundred to seven hundred years ago. I saw a dream, and in it—you. And this guy appeared from somewhere and tells me: ‘Look, Grytsko, what’s tied to your foot? That’s the red thread of your destiny, lad. Your beloved is this maiden. Find her and you’ll find happiness.’”

“Grytsko? So you’re from Ukraine?”

“No. It’s just that this Chinese deity thought that since we’re Slavs, it doesn’t matter what language to speak with us... I suspect he’s a racist...” he said and pondered.

“Five hundred to seven hundred! You’re that old?! Doesn’t seem like it... Are you a vampire or something?”

“No. I’m a human just like you. Well, maybe just a bit older and smarter.”

“Want a punch in the eye?!”

“Come on, don’t be angry. It’s just that for some reason I remember each of your reincarnations, while you don’t remember mine. And I have to start this whole circus anew, although, in a way, I even like it. It’s so romantic to win you over again... And you should be envied. Each time—like the first.”

“Reincarnation, you say...”

“Yeah.”

“Amusing... How can you prove it?”

“What’s there to prove, didn’t I seem familiar to you? When you saw me, did your heart tighten? Did your pulse quicken? At least, did your legs go weak? Knees buckle? Blood pressure rise? Temples throb? Stomach growl?”

“Uh... Let’s stick with the first option.”

“You know what, you don’t even have to believe me, it’ll be more interesting this way. In your past life, you were too trusting, any fool could mislead you. So this is even good. You’re probably growing up.”

“No, you’re asking for it... Definitely asking for it.”

How I wanted to hit him, my hands were literally itching, but I managed to control myself and instead, said:

“I suddenly thought for a moment that both you and your incomprehensible babble are just a dream!”

“So what, in my opinion, dreams can be trusted much more than some lousy gray and boring reality.”

It seems this guy knows my weak spots. Sigh...

“Let’s postpone our conversation on this topic.” I said after some hesitation. “For later. Or rather, for never. I think I’ll be waking up now, because you’ve frankly exhausted me...”

“So do you believe me or not?..”

“Not really. A thread tied to the foot, a pseudo-rare edition to throw dust in my eyes and make an impression, chatter about reincarnation... All this, even taken together, doesn’t count as good evidence.”

“Fine, you’ll have your evidence.”

I just shook my head in disbelief, took a sip of cappuccino and...