White Horse: Manuscript Found in Upper Bay

By Anna-Nina G. Kovalenko

This work is about the motherly beginning of all earthy, about spiritual origin of humanof a specific person, a woman. Heroine nicknamed Dove, sent to Earth of our time by Morena, the goddess of death and fertility. Dove lives among ordinary people, working, suffering, losing, loving, and tolerating. And finally she returns to the kingdom of Morena riding on a white horse, which was given to her for a worthy mission on Earth, and in the company of the child, whose name is associated with a particular object of the global hunt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jun 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781490773865

Anna-Nina G. Kovalenko

Photo Taken by Clarissa Pane Uvegi Anna-Nina Kovalenko ...Was born and grew up in a small Siberian village, in Old believers family. Studied in Moscow, Power Engineering Institute, then State Cinematography Institute. Worked for Siberian TV and newspaper. Back to Moscow; trained as an artist under Alexey Maximov. Became a member of Independent Artists Association (Malaya Gruzinskaya, 28). Organized exhibitions with young hippy artists, most remarkable the show-parade “Art is stronger than Bombs”. Member of group of peace initiatives “Trust” (Group for trust and confidence between East and West). For solo peace activity was arrested and imprisoned. Released was granted political asylum by US Embassy and in 1987 arrived to New York. Since then Member of Salon des Independants (Paris) and few art groups. Recipient of diplomas and medals from Ministery Cultural Affairs Francais. Member of Russian Writers Club, NY and Pen American Center. Published 17 books and many stories in Russian and English magazines and languages. Lives and works in New York.

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© Copyright 2016 Anna-Nina G. Kovalenko.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-7385-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-7387-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-7386-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016908493

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Contents

Instead of Introduction

Chapter One Advent

Chapter Two I Saw a Garden, Covered with Snow…

Chapter Three Snezhana’s Childhood

Chapter Four Peacemakers

Chapter Five Conquistadors

Chapter Six Agony

Chapter Seven The Last One Return

SUMMARY

This work is about the motherly beginning of all earthy, about spiritual origin of human – of a specific person, a woman. Heroine nicknamed Dove, sent to Earth of our time by Morena – the Goddess of Death and Fertility. Dove lives among ordinary people, working, suffering, losing, loving, tolerating. And finally she returns to the kingdom of Morena riding on a White Horse, which was given to her for a worthy mission on the Earth, and in the company of the child, whose name is associated with a particular object of the global hunt…

And adored Him that liveth for ever and ever…

(Apocalipse 4:10)

Instead of Introduction

In the beginning there was a dream.

Mother and I are walking in the endless, lit up by a dim sunrise, desert.

She is ahead, walking bundled up from head to toes in something of an earthy color, I can hardly keep up with her… I step up in the dimple of a sand, the dimple is spreading, growing onto a little swamp, a bigger one, a whirlpool, well, the name of which, I know (or hear?), Cockerels. I am stuck, cannot get out… I am up to my knees, disappearing-drowning, deeper. Yelling after my mother, who is going ahead: Mommy…But instead of a scream - just a quite wheeze. Mother turns around: her face is beautiful with a gentle sorrow. She sees me, sees everything, but she is not making a slight move to help, save me, dig me out. She stopped and is observing my drowning in silence… I toss and stretch out my arms to her; disappearing in a sandy quagmire, I call out with all the forces left in me:

Ma-a-ma-a-a! …

…And waking up, I keep yelling. Bent over me, two faces: it’s my mother and grandma. Grandma is correcting – her hand trembling – the glass of kerosene lamp, saying: Oh, you darling! Perhaps you got frightened by the dog…

You, yourself, are d… – mom objecting. Look, an entire pond. The bed is wet. You filled her up with drink before the bed time, didn’t you? Well, a bed wetter is a bed wetter…

Oh, oh, oh, oh, what are you… she is a child… you getting crazy, or something… You think because she’s a foundling… It was Bouquet, dog that ran off the chain and was barking…

Take the sheet…I’ll go to my bed with her.

…and she was not filled up", currant kissel* is all she had a bit of, two spoons full. It was Bouquet…"

Her sheet needs to get washed… Don’t throw it… can’t even say anything…

In a meanwhile, I grabbed with a dead grip, a left strap of my mom’ nightgown, shaking with fear of being torn away, left behind… Mother carried me, as a living broach, to her bed… I leaned against her and soon fell asleep, but when I woke up, she was not next to me anymore.

Grandma took me to a healer, to get the fear out… The healer with her bluish-white hair, like a morning snow, melted some wax and poured from top to bottom at a table surface. Grandma was observing with interest as the wax was cooling off: she was expecting for a dog, but a woman came out, bundled up from head to toes in some kind of blanket. The healer got closer to my ear wrinkled lips of her and called out three times in a quite whisper:

"Morena… Morena… Morena**…"

Later, I was harvested – with a large spoon – berries from currant kissel, accompanied by remarks: Look what she’s doin! Soul Berry! …

CHAPTER ONE

ADVENT

O mortal ones’ vain efforts…

(Dante, Divine Comedy)

…Russia… Mom and Grandma… My most loved beings… While alive, always in quarrel and even after died did not go to bury each other… But now, years later, as soon as I close my eyes in the ominous night of New York, they come together, together; take my hands – I turn into a little girl – and take me for a walk in the beautiful Siberian sogra***, translucent, warmed up with a summer sun. Aspen trees leaves are trembling in a wind, grass rustling, smells like mushrooms… They return me to wake up early in the morning, alone on the holey couch, thinking:

What is that force, what is able to reconcile, move across the years and oceans?

And then, where is that forest?

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Morning yoga Continue lying on my back – the pillow is removed, i.e. punched away with my fist from under the head, thrown on the floor – I relax. First asana: hills - together. I fix look straight ahead: cracks, water stains on the ceiling. Leaks when it rains outside… Raining… Rain… Because of landlord – damn! …I must have a clear mind, thoughts should not be. "If there are thoughts, tell them Go away! They will be surprised and will depart."

I start with my left foot: toe slowly – more slowly – turns, at this time the foot … Dostoevsky said: Man lives – so he is happy! That kind of definition of happiness seems to me sadomasochism.

My (happiness, I mean) at the time was: Happiness – when you are in twilight approaching to home, and here you see the light in your window.

That was there, first in Siberia, then in Moscow. Not that I had my own house, but I had my window.

…Now, in New York with its estranged windows, happiness is understood as the past. Happy is – relatively, actually – one who is not from here…Thigh muscles of the leg, meanwhile press it (the leg) to the plane. The other leg should be relaxed… - I am trying… "Go to Purna Sarpasana – a full pose of snake…" -!…

That’s enough. Now sit up. Sit on a rug… -? Spine is straight. Like this. Thoughts must be left behind. They are. Drink three-four hundred grams of clear water… – This glass fits only two hundred – isn’t it enough? …with pleasure think about what…

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ONE INDIAN SUMMER I was walking through the alleys, actually, to be more specific, through a path of a Tryon Park. This path, covered with gravel (crunching under my feet), took me past a brick wall-barrier with a view of the Hudson to the Cloister, an old castle, a historical object and an economic migrant from the South-West Europe****.

It was a clear, calm morning – a real concert of silence.

…Now I am all alone on a bench by the castle, may be even all alone on the whole planet.

Silent shadows – a couple of lovers – went by.

Then a shadow of a bird flew by.

Then a couple of the Japanese - he and it - who arrived here on a noiseless shadow of an automobile, slipped silently.

Three more genderless shadows past by: seemingly, leftovers (or shadows) of a past civilization.

…It was time to go home – back to the window gates and unpaid bills of Indian summer… My attention was drawn by some bright-lilac sparkles of stars in the shade, at the base of an old oak: turns out, crocus, the flower of spring, according to the botanical guide. I came closer and bent over – not to pick them, no, only to admire them little closer… Suddenly, something flew right by my head, barely missing it, and hit the ground. (I jumped to the side and started walking away, farther…)

The old oak, incorrectly interpreter my body language, and threw an acorn at me.

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…New York…Everything and all – aggression… Birds… singing, in park.*(*Paraphrasing a song by a Russian poet Okudzhava: Here birds don’t sing…) Children… They, squeal ear-piercingly, walking on the streets, treating you as an object, like a thing; when they knock down you, hurting, they do not apologize, do not notice you as a person – continue walking or speeding, squealing like (repulsive) fire sirens, like small tanks… Devils… And this is somebody’s future? Somebodies futures…

New York. Persuade myself not to fear anything – sometimes an inner voice says just that, Don’t be afraid – and to tear away from the spell bound circle by the name New York. But…

…New York… It is, in the beginning, rectangle and triangle swatches (water – land – water) from the window of an arriving airplane; passing through the long dark tunnels of the JFK airport; black (?) faces in the abundant windows ; crowds awaiting – but not for us… Not for me… Woman – driver (sloppy: on the shoulders of her black coat is dandruff, dandruff…) with a boring voice (with a perfect, but somewhat computerized, Russian: to take English, to exchange occupation, etc.) informs of the transit workers’ strike, and it’s not clear if she is happy of it, jealous, apologizing, or celebrating? …Brooklyn: grave-gray buildings and cemeteries. Broken black snakes of fire escapes… Manhattan: winter rain…

…I am healthy. I am totally healthy.

My world is spinning around me.

Shower. Cold. Coffee. Hot coffee. Good morning, Vietnam… I mean, New York…

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"…Good morning, my dear city,

Heart of my Homeland!.."

Radio was rejoicing. Train was slowing down: arriving to Moscow. It was, literally, a good beautiful morning. Galia and I (we met in the train) were standing, ready to clear the train cars, just as the conductor requested… Galia is met by near-Moscow’s relative, aunt, aunt Dina. Standing at the platform, towering over the crowd, came to life, wrapped in a red satin sarafan* (*summer dress), a sculpture of an Aphrodite. Her wheat colored braids arranged into a circle. A thought: Russians came from the Greeks… I mean, from the Vikings… From Variags… To the offer of going to the Aunt Dina’s all together I blurted out Yes!

…Buildings… Three train depots… (Scholars – Siberian bumpkins, country scholars – enthusiastically repeat: There are nine train depots in Moscow!.. Ten… Nine!..) …Tall buildings, stores… Indeed, belokamennaia* (*white stoned-Rus.), even better, more beautiful, than imagined in the child dreams (…while wandering through the overgrown by the burdocks and stinging-nettles country streets…)

Descent into the Metro – baptism by fire: some woman is pushing me in the back, as I am lingered, frozen up, scared of the escalators (and I even knew about these already, from the school textbooks… Moscow Metro… Everything escaped from my head… Perpetual movement – perpetual fear) and then she supporting me by the elbow helps me come off it, to land.

Aunt Dina has a husband Georgy in the military uniform at the table. They actually met at the front line, where Aunty Dina, at that time nurse Dina, carried him wounded from the battle field, and now she is adding more buckwheat kasha to his plate. Three children, one skinny (oldest one) and two plump, teaching me how to use the fork: Hold it not like the spoon, but like a pencil. That’s right…

From the kitchen window: white hollyhocks, pink hollyhocks, dahlias, red hollyhocks…

….Moscow dormitory: Galia gives some of our papers to our commandant (superintendent). She cut her hair like a boy. Even, straight forelock covers up her wings-like eyebrows. Commandant has a square face, evil… In our little room there is a table, and two beds. On the one bed, that by the window, sits Galia. She sits hunched and cramming, cramming… Her admirer by the name Begench from Ashkhabad came over. He already failed, going back home, and inviting Galia to the Lenin Hills, to admire before departure, but she can’t. She proposes him to take me instead… Linden, rowan-trees… Pines… Jumping over the ditch – Begench gives me his hand… Climbing on the hillside… Out of the habit, I am trying to find in the grass, bleached by sun, strawberry, but vainly, it doesn’t grow here…

Begench left, and soon a post card arrives from Ashkhabad, for me, not for Galia (questioning-stern look from under the wings-like eyebrows)… Later, a written math exam (algebra)… Galia in a condition of stupor, but is overtaken by her stubbornness to accept my help – in a form of completed answer, just copy it. Out of her pride, she refuses, then decides to do it, takes my sheet (under the table), but it’s too late. A man in a striped shirt, grayish-blue, is walking through the isles, collecting stamped exam papers… She goes back home to Siberia, but I am staying. I am enrolled in the first year of radio-faculty…

New roommate Lilia… Or Lia? From Verbilky. She’s laughing on me, at my pre-historic name, mocking my clumsiness and, when she through the laughing, asking (her friends here are, also from Verbilky, a room full of them, four or five): where I disappear on Sundays (off to Aunt Dina), go to see lover or something? How come I don’t use public shower on the main floor (too shy, everyone can see each other there), do I have a syphilis or something? Entering without knocking, as usual, her admirer Vladik (his full name is Vladimir, but he prefers Vladik, and his last name is Veliky, i.e. grand), stately brunet with small eyes; blows me a kiss, then says about me in a third person:

I think she likes me.

(Why is he doing this again? His paying attention to me is exactly what brings Lilia’s anger… How lonesome… Sitting on the bench in a square, I silently crying … Tears – is not it like a shower?)

Math analysis (calculus)… Professor Kulikovsky… Childish smile… While explaining his subject and covering the blackboard with formulas, he gets dirty with chalk: hands, face, hair, clothes – everything covered with chalk… Funny… Hands out notebooks with a graded homework – not mine though, it’s lost… Next time – the same old story…

Professor Shatalov – lectures about some division of physics… or is it electrical mechanics… You can frequently see him around the tennis court. Long legged, tall, tanned… He is fifty? - Hard to believe… Some of the students