I was born and raised in Central Asia, at the crossroads of the Turkic, Persian and Arabic cultures. The gardens and vineyards bathed in the southern sun, the towering mountains with sharp peaks abutting the vast Central Asian sky, the bustling eastern bazaars with an endless assortment of condiments, oriental flat bread, fruit and vegetables – and filled with all of the sellers and unique aromas of spices – always inspired and fascinated me. And the tales of

The Thousand and One Nights

, the travels of Marco Polo and Ibn Battuta along the Silk Road, and the poetry of Omar Khayyam, Hafez and Rudaki, strongly influenced the formation of my world view. Indeed, my heart and soul are deeply rooted in the East, with its charm, slow pace and its overflowing energy – a spicy hot melting pot in which hundreds of nations and cultures have come together. At the moment, I work as a winemaker in Central Europe. Additionally, I travel frequently and enjoy studying the cultures and gastronomic specialities of different countries. I am particularly interested in folk epics, tales, myths and legends.

During long summer evenings under the Central Asian skies streaked with Milky Way constellations, and with a piala of green tea, my little sister in her insatiable curiosity demanded new tales to help her sleep better. And when all the famous stories had already been told, I felt like Scheherazade on the 300th night! It became clear that the time had come to ignite my imagination and create, create, create. Thus, the novel “The Great Mist” was born. It came together like a khan-atlas patchwork. Like a solid stained glass with a colored mosaic of legends from the East and West. In time, on paper, the novel began to live its own mysterious life. This fantasy tells the story of love and hate, of passion and longing, of dreams and reality – all on the edges of consciousness and subconsciousness. The prophetic components of the story have come true with an unobtrusive effect on the readers, changing the course of their lives in a mystical and unknown way.

Part I. Kiar and Amalu

Chapter 1. The Gray Kingdom

In a gray-gray land, where the sun never shines, the trees do not grow, the rainbow streams do not sing and the trills of a nightingale are never heard across the fragrant gardens filled with moonlight; where, instead of air, there is only a gray, dense mist and the earth is scattered with dull stones and shabby bushes with sharp thorns – there is a small village surrounded by impregnable mountains.

Once upon a time, the village was called “the Kingdom”, and it was filled with the laughter of children and the fragrance of freshly baked bread. Whitewashed cozy houses on either sides of the road, paved with colorful pebbles, were smothered in flowers. The plain, on which the now-windswept wasteland with prickly-as-wire bushes and heather was spread, bloomed with endless gardens. And every autumn, the tree branches bowed deep to the ground under the weight of juicy fruits.

Now, above the gray, silent village, fear was looming. It paralyzed the hearts of the sullen people. It strangled their joy and dreams and swirled like a heavy mist throughout the abandoned houses. And if you looked into the dark windows of the houses, into the gaping black eye sockets, it seemed as if ghosts were moving in the depths of darkness.

If you looked at the mountains behind the wasteland, you could see a small crevice. It was said that a road was there, leading from the village. But no one could confirm this, because anyone who had ever gone to take the road had never returned. However, in the Kingdom, there was a legend that said: in a past time – of which anyone alive now has no recollection – someone called Udr, an evil and extremely powerful wizard, enchanted the road. But people were afraid to speak about it.

People here had little contact with each other. Each lived in his or her fantasy world, filled with memories and regrets about their past. About the times when the sun was shining every day in the Kingdom; when manly, handsome princes and beautiful princesses walked along the road while sounds of marvelous music and jousting tournaments were heard from the castle on the top of the mountain above; when the Kingdom was full of flowers and children’s laughter.

Now all adults were gone. They followed the road in the hope to find a better life, and possibly remove the curse. Whatever they found – none of them came back to tell about what they saw. It was said that at night the heather fields behind the wastelands glowed with blue lights; those were the small folks prowling around, searching for children, and turning them into ugly and stupid trolls underground, where they would be forced to look for treasures in the very bowels of the earth.

Everything was gray: the gray fog, gray rocks, looming gray clouds and even the people turned gray. It was as if someone had stolen the sun and light and all the children except Kiar and Amalu. They were often found in the heather on the border with heath, where the road made a sharp turn to the gray bush.

And if they only had a chance to see the world in colors, then Kiar would see a charming little girl with unusual gray eyes. It was not a dull gray color that surrounded the eyes all day long, but it was a light smoky hue with small droplets of sun running from the pupil. She had thick and wild red hair that would shine in a heavy copper color in the sun. She had a slightly elongated face framed by a few freckles. Her little red mouth was created to smile, but more often it was impacted, so that the lips formed a narrow line.

Looking at Kiar from under her long dark copper eyelashes, Amalu would see an unusually pale thin boy with jet black hair, a slightly elongated and narrow face with touching, sorrowful folds at the corners of his mouth, and heart-stopping eyes – eyes that were deep-set, strikingly blue and full of unspoken yearning. Only when Kiar looked at Amalu, his eyes softened and were filled with warmth and infinite love.

The children loved each other with that gentle, sincere and selfless love of which the young and pure of heart could be capable.

And now, sitting on a rock near the road and tearing dry twigs of heather, Kiar asked:

“Amalu, do you know what happened to your parents?”

“No,” the girl said sadly, shaking her head. “I have often wondered about it, and asked my grandmother, but she was always afraid to talk about that subject. She only cried when she thought I wasn’t looking at her. Once she let slip that they left by this very road.”

“I will also follow the road when I grow up! I am tired of sitting in the gray mist, waiting for something to happen and being afraid of everything!”, Kiar exclaimed angrily, as his black eyebrows instantly converged on the bridge of his nose. “Will you come with me?”

“Of course,” Amalu said, and then smiled before beginning their favorite topic of conversation. “What do you think is there beyond the gray mountains?”

“Probably there is a castle and another good Kingdom where there are many children living with their parents. Ah, I would do anything to escape from here! We could become wandering gypsies and trot around the whole world!”

“Yeah, I can’t wait to grow up and go on a journey!”, Amalu exclaimed, throwing her dreamy eyes to the leaden and overcast skies. “Do you think we will be able to find our parents?”

“I do not know. Why did they leave you and never return? And who are my parents? And what happened to them?” Kiar sullenly drew unknown figures on the ground.

“I do not know,” Amalu said sadly, and then sighed as two tears rolled down her cheeks onto the sand.

“I’m sorry, Amalu, do not cry,” said Kiar gently as he pushed back her fluffy hair and ran his fingers in surprise down the lachrymal traces of her face, leaving a black mark. “Let’s imagine what will become of us when we grow up?”

Hand in hand, they went home. The house where Amalu lived with her grandmother stood far from the main road, where the gray rocks crept closer. The house was small but cozy with a tiled roof and large windows that allowed sunlight to warm wide windowsills with embroidered cushions. But now as there was no sun, the windows were draped with a thick cloth, and the cushions embroidered with flowers were the only reminder of the magnificent flower garden in front of the house.

“Well, when I grow up, I’ll become as beautiful as a princess,” Amalu said, kicking a stray pebble from the road. “We will go on the road through the mountains, and you will fight for my favor at all tournaments.”

She glanced slyly at Kiar, watching his reaction.

“Well, I already have your favor,” Kiar chuckled with confidence.

“Actually, the favor of a beautiful lady must be won – as it is written in all the books!”, Amalu said with a flare of resentment. “I could give my favor to someone else, you know! Anyway I’ll be so beautiful in a red skirt, I’ll look like a gypsy lady, and everyone will admire me!”

Amalu’s favorite book was about the wandering gypsies. Imprisoned in a Gray Kingdom, she thought that one could not imagine a better life than the life of wandering, noisy and funny gypsies.

“But you will still love me, right?”, Kiar looked at Amalu peacefully and took her hand again.

“Of course,” at once surrendering, Amalu smiled.

“You know, I would have found and fought Udr himself for you!”

“Oh, do not say that, please! What if he wins? I could not bear it.”

Kiar smiled, and children rushed to the house

At home, the nourishing dinner was, as always, laid out for them: boiled wheat grains and goat cheese; steaming porridge embracing a slice of slowly melting butter. The hungry children ate it all quickly. They had a lot of time before darkness fell, so they began to look through a small library. While studying the beautiful and unusual pictures, the children coaxed their grandmother – who was by the fire, knitting a long, warm and fluffy afghan – for the umpteenth time to tell them about the ancient legends of valiant warriors, about the unknown and wonderful countries, about mythic creatures that had once inhabited this world! Turning the pages of a book about gypsies, Amalu saw her beloved picture: a young Gypsy woman with a huge rose in her wild, loose hair was spinning in a whirlwind of frantic dancing.

“Oh, how beautiful she is! How I want to be like her!”, the girl cried out, looking with fascination at a rose in the dancer’s hair.

“I’ll search everywhere in the Kingdom and find the same rose for your soft hair!”, Kiar exclaimed.

He felt a little embarrassed, as he had never told Amalu how much he liked her, and how he loved her delicate and fluffy, soft hair that smelled so wonderful. Sometimes, when they made their daily rendezvous on a rock in the wasteland, Kiar pushed the strands of Amalu’s hair through his fingers. He was happy with the feel and smell of her hair, something that calmed him down. Of course, this was not the reason that they were there – they did not sit for the entire day on a rock just to make up Amalu’s hair! They waited and waited, hopelessly and unceasingly, to hear the clatter of hoofs and the hubbub of cheerful voices; for people to come and save them, rid them of that terrible curse, to return their beloved parents. But it was only a cold wind from the mountains that rustled through the dry heather.

In those days of late autumn, dusk came early. And at night, when the fog fell on the village, the first frosts painted the windows with fancy curlicues. Soon, Kiar decided to go home; he did not want to be lost in this thick and sticky fog. His home was near, even closer to the rocks. It was small and abandoned. Almost all the time Kiar spent with Amalu, and he came home only to sleep. No one knew who his parents were; they have simply never been seen by anyone. According to the stories of Amalu’s grandmother, one gray afternoon at the age of three years, Kiar appeared in an abandoned house close to the rocks, where Amalu had found him. Because of this mysterious appearance, people disliked and feared Kiar. It was even said that the heath-elves had left him there. But, as reasonably questioned by Amalu, why would they leave the children if they stole them? So children decided that Kiar was too obnoxious and nasty a troll, so the elves had to return him back to the joy of Amalu.

Every evening, after chewing a piece of bread and drinking some warm milk, Kiar sat by the window and watched how the sea of mist descended from the sharp peaks of rocks, it eddied like the waves of a huge tide and flooded the village, slowly creeping up to his house and completely swallowing it. And no matter how much he tried to make out anything in the gray-black velvety gloom, at least the tiny lights of the heather elves, he could not.

The night passed slowly, and sleep did not come. Kiar would doze and re-awaken continuously. His thoughts became jumbled and the line between dreams and reality became thinner. If only there were the Sun or the Moon! Even just for a little while! How things would change! Colors would return to the world, the fog would clear, and from the window he would see the house of Amalu, where on a wide windowsill with a candle, she would be reading a book while wrapped in a knitted blanket. And through the open window, the scent of roses would pour inside. He could just look at her in the moonlit glow of the candles, playing with her hair, and be perfectly happy. He would be able to pick a rose from her garden and decorate this wonderful hair.

“Roses! Yes, roses… I guess that would be the smell of Amalu’s hair”, thought Kiar.

Early in the morning, unable to sleep, Kiar went to the window. It seemed as if an unknown voice from the very heart called for him. His hot forehead pressed against the cold glass. Kiar looked longingly at the fog. Maybe someone has stolen the Sun and the Moon; maybe the elves had wandered among the rocks with their lights? What a hero he could become, if he was able to return the Sun to the people, if he could free the Kingdom from the evil spell.

Later Kiar could not remember what prompted him to make this desperate step. The desire to become a hero. To fulfill the dream of Amalu and give her a rose? To perform this act of bravery in her name? Who knows what drove us when we were twelve years old, and of what unspeakabl

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Beyond the Great Mist

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