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I read the novel and am at a loss as to how to evaluate it and what rating to give.

However, first things first. The novel is written in a clear, literate language, somewhat heavy, and we are not talking about Latin, which in half the cases I understood without translation, but about an overabundance of participial and adverbial phrases, compound sentences and other joys. However, the original texts of that time, especially legal ones, are so unreadable that we should be grateful to Nadezhda Popova, who saved us from this pleasure. A strange impression is caused by the neologisms inserted into the text, or, say, allusions to the “Goblin Reserve” and an unquoted quote from Marshak. Such jokes are good in subtle texts, but here everything is very serious.

There are many historical inaccuracies in the text, and we are not talking about those changes in history that were made consciously and are part of the author’s concept, but about ordinary errors that arise from ignorance and unwillingness to study the era. So the characters eat buckwheat porridge, and even with carrots, although buckwheat is still sold in Germany only in the largest stores in the departments of colonial goods, and it is bought almost exclusively by Russian emigrants. And modern varieties of carrots had not yet been bred; carrots resembled rat tails and were used as a spice. Villagers cook with vegetable oil... what kind of oil? There is no sunflower yet, olive oil in Germany was imported and very expensive, you cannot cook with flax and hemp, they weaken, and after heat treatment they turn into something like castor oil.

I would like to advise the author to go to the Hermitage and look at examples of furniture from the 15th-16th centuries. After that, she would not write how the tired hero sits down on a chair. Sitting on such a structure is a fair amount of torture. I would like to see how you can squeeze your back into the trunk of an elderberry tree. Elderberry is a bush, and even with fragile branches. In short, the author does not know what they ate, what they wore, where and how her heroes lived. Again, the author clearly did not have to be in a burning building. This is not the place and the wrong environment to indulge in heart-warming conversations.

The psychology of the characters is completely unnatural. I had to work with difficult children, including juvenile killers. So I firmly declare that the method of education proposed by Popova is undoubtedly nonsense. I myself did not deal with children who went through the school of street gangs, I would read Makarenko.

Here’s another moment... One of the characters says: “the word “convey” is so unloved by the people...” For pity’s sake, writing denunciations is a national sport in Germany, and the author knows this; it’s not for nothing that the novel begins with the inquisitor reading a thick book. a pack of anonymous letters. But as soon as the conversation turns to the priest, he pronounces a passionate philippic against denunciation. Where did he get the Russian mentality, formed in the 19th century? By the way, are the numerous references to maintaining the secret of confession due to illiteracy or a deliberate distortion of the truth? This issue was resolved by the Christian Church a long time ago and was resolved very simply. A priest who learns of a serious crime during confession is obliged to immediately (Nec plus ultra) demand confession from his bishop, after which he releases him from maintaining secrecy, and the priest in the most beautiful way informs on the criminal. But this is only in the case of really serious crimes; the runaway man who seduced the count's daughter is not one of those.

The author deliberately postpones the writing of “The Witches’ Hammer” a hundred years earlier, from the end of the 15th century to the 16th century. Why was this done? The fact is that the Congregation enforces the principle that only proven maleficium should be punished. But all the legal proceedings of the Middle Ages were based on this principle! The canon of “Bishops” directly prohibits believing in lamias and strigi, and allows punishment only for maleficium. The only punishment for a person who has entered into an agreement with the devil is denial of communion. Innocent III, the creator of the Inquisition, in the bull “Voice in Rome”, spins like a devil in a frying pan, trying to prove that the Bremen peasants are malefics, although their only fault was refusal to pay the tax for jubilee years. And only Sprenger and Institoris postulated that a heretic or a witch is a priori malefic and subject to punishment. They, and not Vyshinsky at all, called recognition “the queen of evidence.” So everything that the Congregation is “fighting” in reality appeared precisely at the time when the Congregation of Nadezhda Popova had just been created.

This is where the question arises, why did the author need all this? If the novel was written in spiritual simplicity, then one could give it a seven and expect Popova to write something more literate. However, one cannot escape the feeling that the author knows what he is doing.

Spoiler (plot reveal)

Secret peasant unions in which modern identity the German nation, under Per Popova, are turning into a collection of fools led by devilish forces. The brewer Kaspar - the only positive character - becomes Popova's only negative character, and, moreover, so black that even for fantasy it is too much. Only in bad fantasy stories, the main villain, instead of shooting the enemy and quickly getting out of the burning house, begins to brag for a long time, and then leaves without finishing off the enemy so that he can escape. Kurt is also good: he gives away his source of information. Now Kaspar knows how they found him, and that means Schultz and his family will not live.

All the peasants are complete nonentities, but the baron, who flagrantly neglects his duties, is so noble that you want to spit. As a result, the entire text begins to reek of such obscurantism and obscurantism that there are too many novels.

Perhaps I’m wrong and attribute a universal conspiracy to Nadezhda Popova,

Spoiler (plot reveal) (click on it to see)

like what the brewer did

It is difficult to judge from one novel. Therefore, I will refrain from giving a rating for now, reserving the right to subsequently give both a seven and a one. But for this you need to read at least one more work.

Rating: no

All the way I honestly tried to find something good in this book. Up to one passage.

Spoiler (plot reveal) (click on it to see)

There, at one very tragic moment, when the main character is about to become a victim of a bloody peasant uprising (this takes place in Germany in the 14th century, let me remind you), this same main character, an aspiring inquisitor, asks whether the organization of the rebels is called the “Union of Sword and Ploughshare” .

I didn’t even believe it at first, seriously. You really have to be a very virtuoso author to literally destroy in three words the historicity (even pseudo-historicity) of the entire novel, and the seriousness of the moment, and turn your own work into a stupid farce. Well, if the author treats his creation this way, then what is the demand from me?

The first two things that immediately catch your eye are the enchantingly clumsy language and the “run-out” style. I don’t know if the text had a literary editor, it looks like it didn’t, because the volume, uh, of the text could have been cut threefold without the slightest harm to the plot. There is not a single simple phrase, everywhere there is a heap of phrases, repetitions and painful verbosity. And also, apparently, the author’s favorite technique is a common application that separates the subject and predicate, so that by the middle of the sentence the reader manages to forget what it is actually about. I confess that the pleasure from the literary qualities of the text is comparable only with the pleasure that part 4 of War and Peace delivers.

Running out is even more fun. The author, apparently, reasoned that since we are talking about the 14th century, in order for all readers to believe that this is really him, and not some kind of fake, it is necessary to cram as much Latin into the text as possible. But really, world literature has not come up with any other ways to indicate the time of action. But as luck would have it, the author is very bad with the notorious Latin. In general, one gets the impression that the author found some kind of selection of “Latin words and expressions for the little ones” on the Internet and is diligently pushing it wherever she can. Including in the thoughts of the characters. Just imagine, let’s say you speak English fluently, but when talking to yourself about some complex subject, will you insert English conjunctions into your mental constructions? It looks very doubtful, like all cases of using Latin in general. this text. Separately, I say hello to the words “status” and for some reason “début” (although why did you get in here? French word, if our heroes are German priests... the influence of Professor Vibegallo is definitely), which, of course, are absent in the Russian language, and it is impossible to write them except in Latin. Overall, impressive knowledge. foreign languages And lexicon.

Also on the question of inappropriateness: when we first meet the village priest, we learn that he does not know Latin at all, and this circumstance has been exaggerated for so long that even the laziest and most inattentive reader will involuntarily remember it. But a little further on, the same village priest, inviting the inquisitor to dinner, for no apparent reason, turns into a proposal Latin phrase, which, by the way, is completely unnecessary in this context. Obviously, within a few dozen pages, the author managed to forget how her characters differ from each other and what sins she has already invented for them. And in the list of Latin words and expressions, not everything has been crossed out yet, you need to cram it through the text, I was trying in vain to search, or something. Whether this use of the hero’s personality is appropriate or not is not important. Next, the 14th century inquisitor uses the expression “déjà vu,” successfully invented by psychologists only in the 19th century, but who cares, really.

In general, the way the text is technically made can be described as hack work. Hackwork in Russian, and in Latin, and in speech characteristics characters who not only do not exist, but are absent with a negative sign (see above about the priest), and in the use of words and concepts that the heroes of that time could never have had (vegetable oil, yeah. What kind of Soviet degenerate is this? Possibly there was no need to be so sophisticated and immediately write that in a German village tavern in the 14th century they cooked on “Olein”, but wow!) And all this is not counting the mistakes that reveal not so much unfamiliarity with history and culture, but with the world around us. Here somewhere the hero “squeezes his back into the trunk of an elderberry tree,” and then crawls out of a broken elderberry bush, all scratched up. Obviously, such elderberry grows in the same place as spreading cranberries (see Swift Jack). Know and love your land, it’s called. The text is so sloppy that it’s unpleasant to pick up, let alone read.

Oh yes, the notes below say that this is an alternative history. The fact that “The Witches’ Hammer” was written a hundred years ahead of schedule can still be forgiven (although it is unclear why), but in the author’s alternative world, apparently, some countries managed to advance in their development 500 or more years ahead, somewhere they had already invented psychoanalysis , and also wrote and even translated “12 chairs” into German. Muscovy, apparently, has dramatically expanded its zone of influence throughout Europe, since even their German inquisitors swear in Russian.

Seriously though, omitting numerous authorial mistakes, the “alternative history” part is the saddest in terms of quality. From the text of the kagbe it follows that in the middle of the 14th century the “bad” Inquisition suddenly! changed to the “good” Congregation. At the same time, there is not a word about how and why this happened, although it would seem that this is the most interesting question to which everyone wants an answer, but alas, historical realities remain far beyond the scope of the text.

The plot is so stupid that it's almost annoying. There is no motivation for the characters' actions as a class,

Spoiler (plot reveal) (click on it to see)

Why would some village brewer so sophisticatedly (choosing the most complex and confusing method) try to destroy a visiting and unknown inquisitor - is not explained

Why the inquisitor behaves like an idiot - well, this is understandable, apparently because he really is an idiot. On this interaction of one idiot and one character, behind whom the author’s lines are clearly visible, a semblance of a plot is built. Moreover, in the first half of the novel absolutely nothing happens, and in the second half so many unmotivated events happen and so many pianos crawl out of the surrounding bushes that you remember the first part with some longing.

The ending suggests that all this bedlam will have some kind of continuation, in which the author, obviously, promises to explain all the shortcomings of the first in the next novel. Well, no, thank you, there was already one more Vera Kamshi in my life than I should have. As a result, I feel a desperate need for ritual cleansing with something of high quality... Pushkin, perhaps, re-read.

Rating: 1

Alternative historical detective story with fascinating plot twists, captivating, gripping from the first page, and beautifully written. Is this what you wanted to hear from me? Bald trait. There will be several paragraphs further where I won’t say a good word about this masterpiece. I suggest that relatives, sympathizers and members of the fan club leave the operating room immediately; I recommend that others wear bile-protective masks, I have prepared them. So let's get started.

The plot is based on the young inquisitor Kurt Hesse's investigation into the circumstances of a double murder in a German village in the 14th century. The basis is the basis, why not read about a fascinating investigation, right? I won’t bore you and answer this intriguing question myself: it’s hard to believe that what’s happening can be called a fascinating investigation with such a stretch. Or you don’t have to name it - and by the way, I won’t.

Basically, our hero sighs wearily (this begins around the second day of the investigation), suffers from headaches and torments the reader with “thoughts.” His thoughts are quite dull (for example, the author can spend a paragraph on a meaningless message about what the hero was thinking, and end with the phrase “then my head was empty”) and revolve mainly around how not to beat and condemn an ​​innocent person. There are no special prerequisites for moral torment in the first half of the text. It’s just that the author leads us to the idea that the main suspect is everyone to buckle up! - innocent. Didn't you expect such a turn? I personally was in complete shock. And in general, the monstrously fresh idea that it is wrong to punish the innocent, but the right thing is to look for and punish the guilty, is chewed over for a long time, tediously and in the most uninventive form.

Open “The Catcher of Men” for the sake of a thoughtful and interesting plot, a masterfully constructed plot, the appearance of intriguing details, unexpected events, more or less decent cliffhangers that would make you greedily swallow chapter after chapter, there is no point. This is a boring verbal toffee, where the author fills the norm of characters in a time-tested way: by pouring from empty to empty. It's not interesting to follow what the hero does. It's not interesting to read what the hero is thinking about, because see above. It is also impossible to enjoy the artistic features of the text and the author’s style, and we will talk about this below.

In telling her story, Nadezhda Popova actively uses long, overloaded sentences where great amount introductory constructions and participle-adverbial phrases. Guys, I adore participial and participial phrases and can safely call myself the most devoted fan of introductory words in Eurasia. But all this is good if the author has (Nadezhda Popova would write “available”) a rich vocabulary and figurative speech. I didn't notice either one or the other in the novel. The expressive means with which the author tries to decorate the text are as dull as the reflections of the Inquisitor Hesse.

Nadezhda Popova adheres to a free style in her text - that is, strictly speaking, she does not adhere to any style. The novel calmly coexists with words with a touch of archaism, modern jargon (“stupidly Pikhtovka,” “frankly stupid,” “not weak”) and simply stylistic mutants (“unscheduled rest,” “the daily routine was literally as God dictated.” ). This whole mess looks like porridge. Sometimes in the process, Nadezhda Popova seems to remember that she forgot to salt the porridge, and here and there sticks in the words “that one,” “which one,” “which one,” etc. In principle, there is nothing wrong with these words. They are simply wedged into the text, which does not carry anything archaic in itself, either in essence or in form. It turns out to be a guy who came to a field role-playing game and considers himself at least Loras Tyrell, although his real image consists of a newspaper cone, headphone wires and Converse.

When I wandered around the apartment and inclined Popova’s book in different ways, my wife read me a quote:

“They were surrounded by complex pointed structures. Slender vertical patterns either narrowed or expanded and looked like whimsically frozen streams of water. It’s as if Gaudi built a paper model of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, and then turned it inside out and fastened it with a ring around the observer’s head.”

So, my dear connoisseurs of beauty: from a literary point of view, “Fisher of Men” is not entirely worth this paragraph alone. In almost 400 pages, I never once wanted to stop, taste the author’s line and say to myself: yes, this is great, this is interesting. Never. In an artistic sense, “Fisher of Men” is, excuse my Pomeranian Latin, a tabula rasa.

Let's summarize. This book is no good if you want to read a detective story. This book is bad if you are interested in historical (pseudo-historical, alternative historical, or whatever you want) text. If you want light or serious, magical or not so magical, dark or epic, urban or rural, or any other fantasy, this book is not for you. If you're looking for a thrilling adventure novel, you won't find it here. Finally, if you decide to take on anything written in beautiful Russian, look for a gas pedal nearby and press it hard.

In conclusion, I have some good things to say about “Fisher of Men,” but Nadezhda Popova has nothing to do with it. The book has a decent cover that catches your eye (no, I’m not talking about a man with swords against the backdrop of burning real estate). It's a pity that under the cover there was this.

Rating: 1

I became interested in the author after it turned out that in Nadezhda Popova’s thread on FantLab, more than thirty pages of discussion had been clicked in six months. What kind of author is this, who is being so actively discussed, but I can’t sleep or listen to him?

As it turns out, the tracks lead to SamIzdat. Usually, if a SI author is so actively discussed on FL, it means there is terrible graphomaniac, heresy and obscurantism there, but while reading, you can catch a sea of ​​lulz, as was the case, say, with Anna Darkness or Oleg Vereshchagin.

It was with approximately these thoughts that I put into the reader the story “The Fisher of Men,” the first part of the “Congregation” series. The reality pleasantly surprised me. The book is quite a dashingly twisted inquisitorial detective story. It could be compared with “The Servant of God” by Jacek Piekara, but I will not do that. Pekara is very dark-skinned, and deliberately, I would even say, feignedly dark-skinned. And with an eye to similar themes, I liked Popova’s adventure detective more. But who could really be compared with is McCamon’s first book in the Matthew Corbett series, “The Voice of the Nightbird.” There, the heroes are a young investigator who, in the scenery of the conventional Middle Ages, is trying to protect a girl accused of witchcraft from the harsh people's court, the essence of lynching.

So, “The Catcher of Men” is the story of a young investigator of the reformed Inquisition, Kurt, who came to a village to investigate a suspicious murder, and ended up in the very center... However, I won’t write anything more, in case someone is interested, but I don’t want to reveal the plot. For it is full of false tracks, and owls, as usual, are not what they seem. By the end, our hero, your Willis, is beaten, wounded, bloodied and tortured half to death, which again makes him similar to the same Matthew Corbett. What I liked: the plot is exciting, the deception moves are cleverly placed, the suspended guns shoot on time and right on target; the characters are bright and memorable, and the main character is by no means MartySue, because it’s hard to even say in the finale whether he completed his assignment, or was simply a puppet directed by more skillful hands; The setting of a decaying medieval German village is depicted with dignity and the tempo of the story is perfectly maintained. This is especially important; young authors often begin to fragment or, conversely, mark time. Here the dynamics are maintained and there is no feeling of the text being torn.

I won’t say that everything is perfect: in places the modern slang that breaks through seems inappropriate, but this can easily be removed by careful editing. There are also a number of “Hollywood” cliches that are not critical (moreover, given the cinematic nature of the story, they look like an obligatory element of a potential blockbuster), but the eye clings to them. But otherwise everything was very successful, and I read the book with pleasure.

Rating: 8

Before us is a world similar to Germany in the 14th century, but the history of this world has taken a different path, as stated in the annotation. Firstly, there really are sorcerers, witches, vampires and werewolves, “from the other side of reality” all kinds of evil spirits penetrate, threatening humanity. Secondly, the Inquisition, which appeared here earlier than in our history, gradually changed through the efforts of a few enthusiasts. Sentences are no longer passed only for abilities superior to human ones, and one cannot end up at the stake solely on suspicion. Now it is not abilities that are blamed, but actions, and the new Inquisition (Congregation) works differently: it conducts real investigations, interviews witnesses, searches for evidence and applies logic, not outdated dogmas.

The Congregation series is a wonderful fantasy series, but it's not just fantasy. Here there is both philosophy and deep psychology, questions of interaction between man and society, man with himself, man and the state are raised here. The cycle is not written in a standard way: there is no attempt to stylize it “in the language of the Middle Ages,” but there are many references, allusions and quotes that draw parallels with the reality we are used to, with our time, with our problems and questions, the main ones, as the author shows, were not very different at all times.

In the first book, we meet the main character - a young investigator (inquisitor), a graduate of a special academy of the Congregation, the students of which were recruited from orphans and street children. From former juvenile delinquents they raised real “dogs of the Lord.” The hero (Kurt Hesse) is sent to serve in the real wilderness to investigate the death of two peasants. The people there are inhospitable and not at all eager to help the investigation; any information is obtained with difficulty. And the hero suffers one disappointment after another. The first of them is disappointment in the “outside” world. Raised by the academy and the Church, Kurt puts duty and responsibility first:

“Everyone has their own fear,” Kurt said, having calmed down a little.

And you?

“Me too,” he nodded without hesitation. - I'm afraid of not doing what I should. I'm afraid of being unable to justify my trust. I'm afraid to let down those who believe in me; That’s my fear.”

It would be naive to expect others to be equally responsible to own conscience, and yes, Kurt the graduate in the first book is a little naive in this sense and expects too much from reality. But reality very quickly shows that it is not like his expectations:

“having left the street, he discovered that among law-abiding subjects there were street laws and street concepts. The one who turned the other cheek, who forgave the enemy and blessed the curser, was considered not pious, but weak.”

From the very first days of being in a new place, it turns out that as soon as those around them forget about the power behind the investigator, as soon as they are no longer afraid of his “formidable status,” peaceful peasants easily turn into a brutal crowd, ready to trample any dissent. And if there is still someone who can skillfully direct this crowd, then it is no longer possible for anyone to resist this element alone...

Kurt barely emerges from his first investigation alive, leaving wounded physically and mentally. This is how he receives the first blow to the existing picture of the world. So he becomes disappointed in people. This is how he learns that no one can be trusted and no one can be relied upon. This is how the inquisitor Kurt Hesse begins his journey. But that's a completely different story.

Rating: 10

The name of the author, Nadezhda Popova, has been on my lips for quite some time - in one way or another, reviews of her works made themselves known and stirred up my interest. Reviews vary - from enthusiastic to critical. But until you read it yourself, you won’t know the truth. I will say that when I started reading the first book, what I imagined was not at all what turned out to be in reality. I was expecting something very gloomy, dark, with brutal torture and unfair accusations of the Inquisition, a hero who would have to do Difficult choice between your conscience and duty. I wondered how a female author could manage such a complex plot.

But things didn't work out that way. These events take place in a situation if the history of the development of Europe and Christianity in it had taken a different path. Such events take place in a world where the Holy Inquisition has undergone reforms and began to act completely differently, not sending everyone to the stake for any accusation, but carefully conducting an investigation, slowly, step by step, approaching the true solution to the case.

It is during such an investigation that we meet the main character, the investigator of the Congregation, Master Inquisitor Kurt Hesse. He is very young and this is his first independent business. He tries his best to do everything as he was taught, but the reality turns out to be incredibly far from his training. He had to face a very serious opponent face to face, but he turned out to be a great guy. This hero captivates from the very beginning with his charm, his actions: it’s funny to watch him, how he tries to be impressive, tries to instill fear in everyone, while being very worried inside, how openly he scolds himself for his mistakes. And gradually, step by step, a very strong and strong-willed personality is revealed to us, who has undergone incredible metamorphoses from a street bandit to an Inquisition investigator - this only speaks of strong character Kurta.

The memory of his past, a heavy burden, forces him to treat people in a special way. This is his attitude towards the tramp Bruno - Kurt accepts his story, and, remembering how they once treated him, gives him a chance, seeing his potential and does not allow himself to fully condemn him. While this couple justifies their difficult attitude towards each other - they are both young, have already experienced and endured a lot in life, but both have an incredible Vital energy and charisma, both have strong personalities, so their clashes are interesting to watch, their dialogues made me smile more than once.

At first, the story seems very simple and it seems that everything is clear. But gradually new questions open up in the story and the incident in a small village turns out to be something more than a simple murder. The tension in the story increases gradually and in the finale it splashes out on the reader all the aggression, helplessness, willpower and optimism combined. This ending can hardly be considered a happy ending. After all, Kurt received not only physical injuries, but, most importantly, mental ones. He will forever remember this his first case; here he received his first cruel professional lesson.

I was pleasantly surprised at how easy this book was to read - I read it in two days, I was so captivated by it. Although at first I was bothered by the language of the characters - it was very modern. But this is not historical novel, not realism, but an alternative history, so why shouldn’t the heroes in this world use such speech patterns and be very literate? The book is written with talent, easily, without strain, without those banal techniques for increasing the impression that hurt the eye and imagination. The author created a great story and interesting characters, whose adventures I will definitely continue to follow, especially since there is an ellipsis in this story...

Rating: 10

A very good detective thriller with a medieval setting.

It is a great pleasure to read.

Not like the classic medieval detectives like Brother Cadfael Peters.

Dynamic plot. Not a bad language. Attractive main character. In general, everything that is needed for a person to enjoy reading.

Yes, of course, this is not our Middle Ages, but from some more pleasant parallel world, so it is partly an alternative.

I give it a solid eight and will definitely read at least one sequel.

It is worth noting that despite the author being a woman, for me most of the characters’ actions are quite psychologically motivated (which, unfortunately, is not always the case!). And, by the way, what is rare in this case is that the author managed perfectly without love lines.

Some small notes that might arise while reading the claims, such as:

Errors in medieval life descriptions such as buckwheat porridge in a 14th century German inn;

Modern psychology of medieval characters;

would certainly be fair, but for readers who are not specialists in medieval studies, they are insignificant and do not spoil the pleasure of reading.

In the end, why invent an alternative reality and at the same time endow the heroes with medieval thinking and speech? This is not a historical novel. And the plot doesn't suffer at all. Well, even the great Oldies sometimes allowed themselves in the same “Black Screwtape” (Ancient India, by the way!) phrases like “the sage crept up unnoticed” - and what if there is some kind of irony in the book (and it is present) - is this Does it hurt your eyes a lot? Well, let's not be boring, gentlemen. The author's slight self-irony and teenage banter are completely different things.

In general, I enjoyed it myself and would recommend it to my friends.

Rating: 8

We are already accustomed to the fact that the Middle Ages usually mean a sea of ​​filth and abominations, ignorance and stupidity, senseless cruelty and general ruthlessness. The novel “Fisher of Men” looks all the more unusual, in which the author skillfully combines both deep knowledge of the era and his own imagination, creating a world in which the first shoots of enlightenment and science are already breaking through, despite the dark shadows of the past. In this world there is also the Inquisition, or rather the Congregation, which vigilantly monitors the mental health of people. The main character, a young investigator, arrives in the province, not even suspecting that he will soon have to test his knowledge and skills in practice.

The style of the novel is very unusual, striking from the very beginning with its elaborate ornateness and abundance of quotations from Latin. However, you get used to it quite quickly and soon you are enjoying unwinding your thoughts. This becomes all the more interesting due to the fact that the author describes the characters, their behavior and personalities in great detail and vividly. But the main thing is that she does not hesitate to touch upon acute, topical and controversial issues, both moral and philosophical. As for the detective line, if at first it marks time, allowing us to take a better look at the scenery and find out characters, then in the second half the pace begins to speed up, throwing up more and more surprises. It’s nice that the author managed to combine both harsh realism and light optimistic notes in the finale.

The result: a psychological detective story in a high-quality medieval setting.

Rating: 8

“Be sure to remember your own weakness, so as not to indulge, no, but to understand the weaknesses of others” - extremely true, surprisingly close.

So, the book “Fisher of Men” -

Very atmospheric:

The first pages are being set up. As if you find yourself in a dark corridor, you take hesitant steps, and with each subsequent paragraph the outlines of the situation appear. Here are the bas-reliefs on the walls, here you can guess a massive wooden beam, now you miscalculate and almost run into the dusty weight of an ancient tapestry... The corridor ends - you are accustomed to the style, to the heroes. You are already glancing with admiration over the huge hall, along the dark vertical columns going up into the heights, admiring the pillars of light shining through stained glass windows and the play of colorful reflections on the floor. And I want to go further and further, faster and faster, looking at the amazing decoration, hurrying to move from hall to hall, from chapter to chapter.

Very fascinating: I read it in a day,

Very...personal:

I immediately remembered my childhood (oh, yes, everything is serious); And Latin expressions, I heard them in such quantities only then from the parent, and the hero’s views on duty and his understanding of responsibility. There is no “want” or “don’t want” - there is “need”, because “you have to”, and you should be ashamed of weakness.

If you have failed the case, then you must say it out loud, without launching into explanations and justifications. You can leave them to your inner voice and the rapid sliding of thoughts in the subcortex. Fast. Because the result is considered after the fact. This is the ability to take responsibility for your actions. Wrap around, wrap around, in other words. This is extremely mobilizing and collecting - every time you feel like you’re ready to fuck yourself, keep the end result in mind.

In the same way, in the most acute moments of danger and physical weakness, the exhausted, wounded Kurt orders himself to get up and move on. Not at all for the sake of saving his life, but out of a desire to go to the end in fulfilling his assigned (and accepted!) obligations.

The charm of Kurt Hesse is that you don't perceive him as a hero. Not at all. He just tries to the last to do his job. There is no forced fairytale or polished heroism in it. There is a living person with his own weaknesses, doubts, and untimely considerations.

In all of them, from Bruno and Kaspar, to the baron and the last peasant in the crowd, one can feel the beating of life. Without templates, without stencils, you feel them different and real.

Rating: 9

Kurt Hesse is a young inquisitor who has been assigned to work in a small provincial town. If Stephen King had written this case, it would have turned out to be a thick novel with a detailed breakdown of all the skeletons from all the closets of every local resident. If Robert McCammon had written a novel with such (or approximately the same) plot, it would have turned out (and it did) “The Voice of the Night Bird.” However, foreign masters of action-packed prose have nothing to do with this book.

I undertook to read this work only in order to have my own opinion on it. It was the same with “Twilight”: those around them are suddenly divided into ardent lovers and ardent haters, after which they all work together to dig up the axes of war on an industrial scale. But if with “Twilight” everything was clear from the beginning, and reading only slightly added clarity, then with “Fisher of Men” everything is not so simple. Firstly, the book is initially pretentious: the cover states that the novel is “for everyone who loves Umberto Eco,” this sets a certain bar. Secondly, without reading a book, it is quite difficult to determine its genre: on some resources it is fantasy, on others it is alternative history, in the annotation there is generally a hint of vampires, that is, perhaps we are looking at mysticism? Well, without delaying the matter, let’s get started.

I have already described the plot of the plot, all that remains is to add that the novel gravitates towards a detective story in a historical setting, with various admixtures. Well, I’ll also say that the plot itself is quite common: in the film “Sleepy Hollow,” constable Ichabod Crane comes to a small village and investigates the case of the Headless Horseman there; in the aforementioned “The Voice of the Nightbird” by McCammon, magistrate’s student Matthew Corbett ends up in small-time trouble. village and investigates the case of a witch. But it’s also somehow strange to demand innovative plot developments from a debut novel.

Now about the language. There were some flaws and clumsiness here. In principle, I don’t see anything wrong with this, after all, it’s the first novel, but my eyes caught my eye.

And now the main thing. Why does “The Catcher of Men” for me lose to “The Voice of the Night Bird” with a similar plot? The answer is simple: the image of the main character. Matthew Corbett looks more serious, and the troubles that befall him are more dangerous. While I was reading about Kurt Hess, I had the feeling that the character did not take what was happening quite seriously. Postmodern games with various phrases that are not entirely suitable for the 14th century, a certain detachment in the thoughts of the main character, and at times appearing arrogance - all this did not allow me to fully empathize with Kurt.

I don’t find it necessary to write in my review about logical inconsistencies and any historical inconsistencies, if any. Firstly, I wasn’t looking for anything like that and didn’t notice anything. Secondly, “Fisher of Men” is fiction, and the main goal of modern fiction, in my opinion, is to entertain the reader. And for this purpose the novel did a good job: the adventure component and the denouement are quite good.

Overall, I can say that the debut turned out to be quite good. So well deserved 7 points. The rating would probably be higher if I hadn't read so much. The greater the reading experience, the more difficult it is to surprise you with something and the feeling of novelty from each subsequent novel dulls.

Rating: 7

In a certain kingdom, in a certain state, called, it seems, Germany, they decided to carry out a reform. And they renamed the police to the police... that is, no, sorry, the Inquisition to the congregation. The new power structure shines with humanity: it tortures only in cases of “unconsciousness”, and only one in ten is sent to the stake. True, we learn about all these miracles of progress and liberalization from the newly minted investigator of the congregation (or inquisitor? He himself gets confused at times), so we don’t have to believe him... But it’s better to express doubts, if you have them, carefully: the congregation is freethinkers is also closely involved.

I’ll say right away that Kurt Hesse’s political views do not appeal to me. I was also not impressed by the seemingly medieval Germany, in which there is nothing medieval and nothing Germanic, in general.

On the other hand... the language seems smooth, the plot is dynamic - why not read to the end?

Alas, the plot turned out to be my main disappointment in this book: it was too standard. (Lots of spoilers ahead.)

Spoiler (plot reveal) (click on it to see)

Great detectives are not in fashion these days - well, here’s a blockhead who stupidly pokes his nose into all corners, and the villain must tell him the answer. (Yes, I know that this is Kurt Hesse’s first case in his life, there are simply too many such klutzes in today’s detective stories.) The mountain of corpses in the finale and the hero almost replenished this mountain with himself is also included in the mandatory assortment. And, of course, the villain cannot help but make a long speech to the hero, talking about his crimes - otherwise it is simply indecent. Maniacs also always attract attention - you will get a maniac.

(Since clarification is needed: in the scene of the burning of the castle, Caspar exhibits pyromania, and this is a mental disorder; and how long has it been since I saw a detective with a criminal without a mental disorder!). And yes, mental illness is such a convenient way to hide plot flaws! If the motives of the commander are not visible in any way, it is so easy to attribute everything to his madness. By the way, the explanation of Kaspar’s motives, oddly enough, did not suit not only me, but also his own “superiors”:

“You failed, my friend. Things didn't work out as planned.

- I know. No one is protected from unfortunate accidents.

- You'd be ashamed. Your unfortunate accident was a graduate, boy! You should have finished him off, not staged a show with fire! Why are you laughing?

And yes, it’s still strange to me that no one in a remote village, where every person is visible, noticed any madness in him.

It was as if they had laid out a “Modern Standard Detective” construction set in front of me. The parts are bright, the structure doesn’t seem to fall, but I’ve already seen the same set dozens of times.

Rating: 6

I think it’s no secret to anyone that this book is the first volume of a series that, long before its publication in paper, gained both fame and a considerable number of fans. Multi-page discussions on thematic forums, many reviews and readers. Considering also the fact that almost all the most interesting things in Russian-language fantasy now actually happen in samizdat, I was, let’s say, intrigued. And I expected a lot from the book. These expectations of mine were not fully met, and now I’ll tell you why in more detail.

So, the world of the book is a sort of fantasy Middle Ages, gravitating more towards alternative history than fantasy as such. We will not find werewolves, vampires and sorcerers in the text, although their existence is mentioned in passing. Before us is a rather atmospheric detective story, very much tied to running around and fighting, in some places even to the detriment of the actual intellectual part of the investigation. This is even justified, because the main character is a smart guy, but still very inexperienced. Another thing is that sometimes Kurt (that’s our hero’s name) makes mistakes that are noticeable even to the reader. But he had been coached and trained for several years specifically for such things. Don’t ask the names of the dead, don’t be interested in the nature of the wounds, don’t even think about the motives until everything becomes obvious. It seems to be immediately clear that the rebellion and bloody reprisal against the baron happened on their own, without any presence of the inquisitor, who, in an amicable way, could have prevented this, which is what Kurt did. But the protagonist managed to make a reasonable assumption that he was the target of the conspiracy almost at the same moment when a crowd of angry mob rushed at him, shaking pitchforks.

On the other hand, sitting in a comfortable armchair, it is very easy to scold the young investigator who was left alone with all this dregs. So this is forgivable, especially since the image of Kurt itself is very good. At first, the hero looks somewhat dull, but with each new biographical fact, with each monologue of the hero, we begin to understand him and see him as a person, and not a book character. The ending is very beautifully arranged, in which Kurt must Once again understand yourself and survive the imaginary defeat. What captivates us in the image of Meister Hesse is the series of contradictions, the metamorphosis of a scumbag from a street gang into a devoutly believing dog of God, arrogance and compassion at the same time, superhuman perseverance and at the same time internal weakness and gullibility, which you would never expect from former killer and the current inquisitor. The glorious young man Kurt is a complete uncertainty; he can equally turn out to be a genuine saint, or Torquemada, who with fire and sword eradicates everything somewhat human. It is interesting to see Kurt’s future, because he is potentially a personality of such magnitude that the episode “how His Eminence Kurt Hesse dealt with the witcher Kaspar” may well not be included in the hero’s posthumous biography as not worthy of attention. Kurt can move mountains, but he will decide where he will direct his unyielding will.

By the way, a parallel with another sensational novel in narrow circles suggests itself - “The Servant of God” by the Polish science fiction writer Jacek Piekara. Popova's book is much easier to perceive; her Kurt is an extraordinary person, but we understand him, which cannot be said about Mordimer Madderdin. In “The Catcher of Men” there is no deliberate flaunting of cruelty, the local Middle Ages are more authentic and the complex metamorphoses of ethics do not confuse the reader. But what Popova would do well to borrow from a colleague on the topic is dynamics. No, I understand that Kurt is not a killing machine, and somehow the undead were not brought in. It is also clear that at the center of Nadezhda’s plan is the consistent evolution of Kurt and the formation of the future Grand Inquisitor. But with all this, the author spends an inadmissible amount of time on build-up. The first third of the novel is amazingly boring, which is definitely not what you expect from a potential bestseller. When the image of Kurt is finally revealed properly, then the reader becomes involved and tightly bound by the text. But many simply won’t get to that point. So, although this is undoubtedly a strong work, it is still not the best that I have come across in the vastness of samizdat. But I will certainly read the continuation: there, as they say, they will finally appear female images and real witchcraft. Just what the slightly stagnant plot of “The Trapper” lacked.

Words like “stupid” in such a text look truly wild.

In general, it’s good that our publishing houses pay attention to such literature, and the authors are still writing it.

Rating: 8

Oh, brothers and sisters, there are so many myths and misconceptions about medieval justice in general, and church justice in particular. Like, how cruel and unfair it all seems. If we tell the truth, this is how it was from today's bell tower, but there were reasons for this, and the first of them was its extreme ineffectiveness in view of the then moral standards, material base and scientific and technological progress. No modern operational search and investigative measures for you, because there was simply nothing to carry them out. And they often tried to compensate for this very ineffectiveness of the judicial process simply and directly - with its excessive cruelty. Like, we can’t catch very many people, but if we do catch him, we’ll do something like this to him so that others won’t be able to do it for another ten years. There are, of course, a lot of nuances, such as the fact that everyone was absolutely unequal before the law, and the severity of guilt was often determined by class, and so on, so on, but let’s not go into the wilds so far. Let’s just take it for granted that the judicial-punitive system of those times was simply a true child of its era, flesh of its flesh, and it became so cruel not just because of the harmfulness of the sheriffs and clergy, but under the weight of many factors.

But some of you, brothers and sisters, may ask, what does the above have to do with the subject of today’s consideration? Yes, the most direct. For any author who tries to go beyond the antediluvian stereotypes “evil churchmen burn witches/corrupt sheriffs hang unfortunate peasants/vile feudal lords commit nothing but atrocities” subconsciously earns my respect, for see above. Let him need to drive his work into an alternative historical framework for this. Therefore, past this literary work I just can't get past it.

But here’s the problem. I was consumed by grave doubts, for I had heard a lot of bad things about this book. She was accused of excessive and inappropriate verbiage, and of bad speech, in which ancient words are mixed with modern expressions, and much more. But in the end, putting aside my indecision, I decided to check for myself what was there and how.

And what can I say, brothers and sisters? Yes, many of the sins of which this work was accused are true (it hurts your eyes, you know, when they first present Latin speeches, and then, without warning, “the village was stupidly called ...”). But those sins could and could have been forgiven, if not for one, the most serious, mortal sin. Dejection. Why all this effort, why turn the story in a different direction, if in the end we just have an extremely sluggish rural detective story, where the hero walks from corner to corner and whines about how much his head hurts? Why all these attempts to seem like an “intellectual work” and colorful Latin phrases, if in the end it all comes down to the most banal cinematic techniques in the style of “it’s all a conspiracy of the Freemasons”? Why supposedly invent a whole world if all the action still takes place among three huts? For the sake of sequels? Have mercy, even this book is so fascinating that it can cure insomnia, and one must have considerable fortitude in order to master it to the end.

Much can be forgiven, brothers and sisters, of a book if it is fascinating, that is, at least interesting to read. But then neither the mind nor the heart. Neither a fascinating narrative, nor a snapshot of a normal era. And then there will be no forgiveness, no encouragement, or anathema for this work from me. Loud curses, too, you know, must be earned through bad deeds. But here... here it’s different. Just gray boredom, and nothing more.

"Fisher of Men"

The most beautiful thing in life is delirium, and the most beautiful delirium is falling in love. In the morning fog, vague as love, London was delirious. Pink-milky, with his eyes closed, London floated - no matter where.

The light columns of Druid temples are like factory chimneys yesterday. Air-cast iron viaduct arches: bridges from an unknown island to an unknown island. The arched necks of antediluvian huge black crane swans: now they will dive to the bottom for prey. Frightened, the ringing golden letters splashed out towards the sun: “Rolls-Royce, auto” - and went out. Again - in a quiet, vague circle: the lace of sunken towers, the swaying web of wires, the slow round dance of dozing house turtles. And a fixed axis: the giant stone phallus of the Trafalgar Column.

At the bottom of the pink-milky sea, organist Bailey floated through the empty morning streets - no matter where. Shuffled along the asphalt, got tangled up in flimsy, ridiculous long legs. He closed his eyes blissfully; With his hands in his pockets, he stopped in front of the shop windows.

Here are the boots. Brown leggings; black, huge waterproofs; and tiny patent leather ladies' shoes. The great shoemaker, the divine shoemaker...

Organist Bailey prayed in front of a shoe display:

Thank you for the tiny shoes... And for the pipes, and for the bridges, and for the Rolls-Royce, and for the fog, and for the spring. And let it hurt: and for the pain...

On the back of a sleepy elephant - the first bus of the morning - organist Bailey rushed to Chiswick, home. The conductress, motherly-sided, like a bun (there are a lot of guys at home), good-naturedly kept an eye on the passenger: it looked like he had been drinking, the poor fellow. Eka, loosened your lips!

The lips were thick and must have been soft, like those of a foal, smiling blissfully. The head, with its comfortable ears protruding and curled at the edges, swayed: the organist Bailey was floating.

Hey sir, isn't this where you want to get off?

The organist opened his eyes in surprise. Like: get off already?

Well, have you had a drink, sir?

The foal's lips parted, the organist shook his head and laughed happily:

Did you drink? My dear woman: better!

I moved down the stairs from the top of the bus. Below, in the fog, they squinted in embarrassment, the Craggs' windows, washed for Sunday, glowed with milky pink lights. The sun was rising.

The organist returned to the conductor, silently pointed to the windows and, just as silently, hugged and kissed her with his soft, foal-like lips. The conductress wiped herself off with her sleeve, laughed, and rang the bell: what can you get out of that?

And the organist dived into the alley, quietly unlocked the back gate of his house with a key, entered the yard, stopped near a pile of coal and looked up through the brick fence: out the window to the neighbors, the Craggs. In the window there was a white curtain breathing rhythmically from the wind. The neighbors were still sleeping.

Taking off his hat, he stood there until a light shadow flashed across the curtain. A hand flashed and turned pink in the sun and lifted the edge. Organist Bailey put on his hat and went into the house.

Mrs and Mr Craggs were having breakfast. Everything in the room is metallic shining: the fireplace unit, mahogany chairs, snow-white tablecloth. And maybe the folds of the tablecloth are metallic-stiff; and maybe the chairs, if you touch them, metallic-cold mahogany-painted metal.

On the uniform green carpet behind Mr. Craggs's metal chair are four light footprints: this is where the chair will go when breakfast is finished. And four light footprints behind Mrs. Craggs' chair.

On Sundays, Mr. Craggs allowed himself crabs for breakfast: Mr. Craggs loved crabs. Swallowing bits of words with pieces of crab claw, Mr. Craggs read the newspaper aloud:

The steamer... mmm... for a long time with its keel up... They knocked on the bottom from below... No, an amazing crab, truly amazing! Zeppelins over Kent again, six men, eleven... mmm... Eleven - eleven - yes: eleven women... For them, a person is just like... like... Laurie, would you like a piece of crab?

But Mrs. Laurie had already finished her breakfast and was putting away the spoons. Mrs. Laurie had a fine collection of teaspoons: a gift from Craggs. Silver spoons - and each was decorated with a gilded and enamel coat of arms of one of the cities of the United Kingdom. Each spoon had its own case, Mrs. Laurie put the spoons in the corresponding cases - and smiled: on her lips there was a curtain of the lightest and yet opaque pink silk. Just pull the cord and it’s immediately wide open, and you can see what a real Laurie she is behind the curtain. But the cord is lost, and the curtain is only slightly swaying up and down with the wind.

The disappeared Mr. Craggs suddenly emerged from under the floor, stared at Mrs. Laurie on an invisible pedestal - such a short cast-iron monument - and held up a cardboard:

My dear, this is for you.

The cardboard contained white and soft pink silk slips, and something unimaginably lace, and spiderweb stockings. Mr. Craggs had chaste views, did not tolerate nudity, and his passion for lace things was only a natural consequence of chaste views.

Mrs. Laurie is still not used to the magnificence. Mrs. Laurie turned pink, and the pink curtain on her lips swayed faster:

Ah, you are lucky again... on the stock exchange - or... where you are engaged in transactions, who knows...

Uh-hum...- Mr. Craggs sucked on his pipe and, as usual, without raising his cast-iron eyelids, smiled triumphantly on the pedestal.

Mrs. Laurie examined the soft pink, unimaginably lace and gossamer, found a ripped seam on one pair of stockings and, putting it aside, tilted her cheek towards Mr. Craggs. Craggs put out the pipe with his fingers, put it in his pocket and pressed his lips to his cheek. Mr. Craggs's jaws and lips are pointed forward - into the world's sea; lips are designed specifically for sucking.

Mr. Craggs sucked. A beam of dust hit the window. Everything shone metallic.

Upstairs in the bedroom, Mrs. Laurie once again examined the stockings with the seam ripped open; she laid out everything in the appropriate drawers of the chest of drawers, carefully washed her face with soap; and hung Mr. Craggs' new trousers out of the closet: he'll wear them to church.

The wind was blowing through the window. The trousers were swaying. Probably Mr. Craggs is wearing beautiful trousers and, together with his body, will give a consonant chord. But so, isolated in space, Mr. Craggs' trousers were a nightmare.

The wind was blowing through the window. Swaying, the trousers lived: a short, stubby, cubic creature, made up only of legs, belly and other appurtenances. And so they take off and start walking around - among people and among people, and grow - and...

We need to close the window. Mrs. Laurie came up, stuck her head out for a second, slowly, blushed deeply and knitted her eyebrows angrily: again?

In the courtyard on the right, near a pile of coal, again stood the absurdly long and thin organist Bailey, cut out of cardboard. He held his hat in his hands, his protruding ears shone through in the sun, he smiled blissfully - right in the face of the sun and Mrs. Laurie.

The upper half of the window jammed, and while Mrs. Laurie, raising her eyebrows more and more angrily, impatiently tugged at the frame, the window on the left spluttered, and a high, shimmering voice cackled:

Good morning Mrs Craggs! No, what is it, huh? No, how do you like it? No, I’ll run to you now - no, I can’t...

Mrs. Fitz-Gerald's attitude towards the whole world was definitely negative: "no." The downside began when I had to sell the castle in Scotland and move to Abbey Street. Organist Bailey was stabbed by Minus with a spear. And how could it be otherwise, when one of Mrs. Fitz-Gerald’s nine daughters had long been running in the evenings to “private lessons” with organist Bailey.

Mrs. Laurie went down to the marble dining room, as always, and still with her same unchanged - the lightest, opaque silk - curtain on her lips.

Craggs, Mrs. Fitz-Gerald will be here now. Your trousers are hung - at the top. Oh, and by the way: this Bailey, you know, is simply becoming impossible, always staring out the bedroom window.

The cast-iron monument on the pedestal was motionless, only from under the lowered eyelids were the blades of the eyes:

If it’s forever, then... why are you still... However, today, after church, I’ll talk to him. Oh yeah!

Mrs. Laurie turned to draw the curtains.

Yes, please, and more seriously... It’s just painful to watch: this is the sun, isn’t it?

Mrs. Fitz-Gerald was already knocking on the door. Mrs. Fitz-Gerald was a turkey: on an outstretched neck - her head was always on one side, and always with one eye up, into the sky, from where a kite could fall every minute and steal one of her nine turkeys.

Mrs. Fitz-Gerald cackled loudly about the organist.

No, just think: in the parish there is not a single young and beautiful woman who wouldn’t... who wouldn’t... No, his poor wife, she’s just an angel: she locks all the money away from him and hides the key to the door, but he manages - through the window... And now - I looked out the window... no, just think!

Mrs. Fitz-Gerald fixed one eye on the sky, the other on Mrs. Laurie; Mrs. Laurie entered the pause as if entering an open door: without knocking.

I just asked Craggs to talk to Mr. Bailey about this. It will be very funny. Come see this vaudeville - after church.

Mrs. Fitz-Gerald was still incredulously looking for the kite in the sky with one eye:

Oh, Mrs. Laurie, you, you, I know, are not at all like the others. I know the cast-iron monument motionless, without raising his eyelids, looked up at Mrs. Laurie: “Not like that - but what kind?” God knows: the cord from the curtain was lost.

Here, on Abbey Street, there was still London - and there was no longer London. The neighbors already knew their neighbors well; and everyone knew, of course, the highly respected Mr. Craggs. Everyone knew: on the stock exchange - or anywhere in general - Mr. Craggs was successful in his transactions; had a current account with the London City and Midland Bank, a beautiful wife, and was one of the volunteer apostles of the Society for the Suppression of Vice. Naturally, the procession of Mr. Craggs in new trousers to St. George's Church was a triumphal procession.

With every step, doing a favor to the sidewalk, the flattened monument pawed out with its paws, for a second screwing itself to one pedestal, to another, to a third: the sidewalk was an integrated series of pedestals from the house to the church. Without raising his eyelids, the monumental artist smiled graciously, every second his top hat sparkled in the sun and took steps, adorned by the presence of Mrs. Laurie: this is how the bas-reliefs on the pedestal of Richard the Lionheart modestly but harmoniously decorate the Lionheart.

And finally, the equation of Mr. Craggs's solemn procession is solved: finally - the church.

Narrow gorges are windows into the world. On colored glass there are deer, shields, skulls, dragons. The glass at the bottom is green, the glass at the top is orange. From the green, soft, dense moss crawled across the floor. The footsteps were fading, becoming quieter, as if at the bottom - quiet, and God knows where - the whole world, a crab, a cheek, a ripped seam in a stocking, one-eyed Fitz-Gerald, spoons in cases, thirty-two years...

Up in the choir loft, organist Bailey began to play. Slowly, slyly, the orange sun grew above the green moss. And so - violently upward, right above your head, and breathe only through your mouth, as in the tropics. Uncontrollably intertwining grasses, shaggy trunks frantically rising towards the sun. Black-orange branches of the bass, with gentle roughness, deeper and deeper inside - and there is no escape: the women opened up like shells, throwing God into the heat of their prayers. And maybe there was only one Mrs. Laurie Craggs - alone, sitting magnificently marbled, as always.

Have you forgotten about Bailey? - Mrs. Laurie whispered to her husband when it ended.

I? Oh no... - Mr. Craggs flashed a blade from under his lowered eyelids.

The one-eyed Mrs. Fitz-Gerald looked anxiously up at the hypothetical kite, gathered nine turkeys in white dresses under her wings and stood on tiptoe so as not to lose Mr. Craggs in the crowd and not miss his meeting with Bailey.

Outside, at the door of the church, was the grave of the knight Hag, once beheaded for papism: on a stone, in stone armor, lay a headless knight. And here, near the headless knight, women crowded around the organist Bailey.

Mr. Bailey, you played especially today. I prayed so much, I prayed so much that...

Mr. Bailey, could you - I would just like...

Mr. Bailey, you know that you are - that you are.

High above their open, expectant lips, the organist's head swayed, his translucent ears with curved edges. And even higher, closing his eyes against himself, the sun rushed headlong - no matter where.

The organist had long, monkey-like arms - and yet it was impossible to hug them all at once. The organist shook his head blissfully:

Darlings, if I could...

Organist Bailey thought about the great Isis - with a thousand outstretched arms, with a thousand flowering breasts, with a womb - like the earth, receiving all the seeds.

Ah, my dear Bailey! As usual, of course, he is surrounded... Can I see you for a minute?

It was Craggs. He erected himself on the last step of the staircase, decorated with Mrs. Laurie's marble neighbourhood, and waited.

Bailey turned like a compass needle, pulled off his hat, tangling in his own feet, ran up, squeezed Mr. Craggs’s hand and beamed at him with his eyes - you could almost hear: “Dear Craggs, the only Craggs in the world, and you - and you too, beloved Craggs. .."

The three of them stepped aside, and only Mrs. Fitz-Gerald appeared inconspicuously behind, approvingly shaking her head at every word of Craggs and throwing minus-spears at Bailey’s back with one eye.

Listen, my dear Bailey. My wife told me that you constantly ruin her view from her bedroom window. What do you say about this? A?

The sun wine was buzzing in Bailey's head, and words were hard to hear. But when they heard it, Bailey's expression went blank, his forehead wrinkled, and it immediately became clear: a mass of excess skin on his face, all like a saggy suit bought in a ready-made dress store.

Mrs Laurie? No... it can’t be... - Bailey’s lips slapped in confusion. - Mrs. Laurie, you didn’t say. No, that’s what I mean, of course: you don’t. Certainly...

It was funny to me that I believed it even for a second. He waved his hand and smiled blissfully.

Mrs. Laurie knitted her eyebrows. She hesitated. Craggs' claws were already moving on his stomach, and Mrs. Fitz-Gerald stood up joyfully on tiptoe. But at the very last moment, Mrs. Laurie laughed loudly:

Imagine, Mr. Bailey: I spoke. And you know very well: I was finally forced to say it. Yes, you know.

Bailey blinked. Again: a saggy suit from a ready-to-wear store. Suddenly he pulled his hat down with both hands and, without saying goodbye, without listening to Craggs anymore, he ran, weaving, along the asphalt.

Mrs. Fitz-Gerald's minuses poured after him, he ran - and mid-step, for no apparent reason, he stopped dead in his tracks. God knows what came into his head and what he remembered - but he smiled wide open, blissfully, joyfully waving his hat to the Craggs.

Craggs shrugged.

Just crazy...

And he moved towards the house - from one pedestal to another, from another to a third, along an endless row of pedestals.

London has gone crazy from the sun. London was racing. A stream of top hats, white hats with huge brims, and impatiently parted lips broke through the dam.

Elephant buses rushed in a frantic herd from the spring and, bowing their heads, sniffed out each other like dogs. Posters shouted in crimson, green and orange voices: “Rolls-Royce”, “Waltz - the two of us”, “Automatic sun”. And everywhere between the flashing legs, letters and wheels - lightning-fast boys in white collars, with an emergency issue.

Cylinders, elephant buses, Rolls-Royce, automatic sun - bulged out of the banks and, of course, would have washed away both houses and statues of policemen at intersections, if there was no flow down into the subway and into the underground roads: “pipes”.

The elevators swallowed one portion after another, lowered them into the hot depths, and then the maddened blood of London pulsated and rushed even more madly through the concrete echoing pipes.

Enraged London poured out of the city, into parks, onto the grass. They rushed, rode, walked, carrying newly produced babies in countless wicker strollers. Mrs. Laurie through clear glass From the window I watched the procession of countless strollers along the asphalt.

Mrs. Fitz-Gerald knocked on the Craggs' window in an alarmed voice:

Mrs Laurie! Listen, Mrs. Laurie! Don't you have my Annie? No? Well, that’s right: I rushed out of town again with this... No, you’re happy, Mrs. Laurie: you don’t have children...

On Mrs. Laurie's marble forehead there were two very slight dark veins-wrinkles, which, perhaps, only testified to the authenticity of the marble. Or maybe these were the only cracks in the most immaculate marble.

Where's Mr. Craggs? - Fitz-Gerald looked up worriedly with one eye.

Mr Craggs? He said that he needed to go somewhere there on the affairs of his society - the Fight against Vice.

No, you are so happy, so happy...

Mrs. Laurie walked around the dining room. The legs of one of the metal chairs were outside their intended sockets on the carpet. Mrs. Laurie pulled up her chair. She went upstairs to the bedroom, raised the curtain, the window was open, the bedroom was freshened up. However, Mrs. Laurie was sure that the window was open, but for some reason she had to lift the curtain and take a look.

Mrs. Laurie sat down again in the dining room and watched the procession of countless strollers. And Mr. Craggs - on his lapel there is a white cross of the Apostle of the Society for the Fight against Vice - Mr. Craggs somewhere was slowly rushing in the echoing pipes. Cast iron eyelids are lowered in an emergency release: at three o'clock zeppelins are spotted over the North Sea. This was completely helpful.

“Excellent, excellent.” Mr. Craggs was anticipating success: the atmosphere was right.

And Mr. Craggs decided to use the atmosphere - in Hampstead Park.

Hampstead Park was filled to the brim with champagne: a light fog, streaked through with sharp sparks. Two at a time, crowded together on benches, shoulder to shoulder, getting closer. The boring dress was rotting, and sunny champagne flowed from body to body. And here are two of them on the green silk of the grass, covered with a crimson umbrella: only their legs and a piece of lace are visible. In a magnificent universe, under a crimson umbrella, we drank crazy champagne with our eyes closed.

Special! Zappy over the North Sea at three o'clock!

But under the umbrella - in the crimson universe - they are immortal: what does it matter that in another, distant universe they will kill?

And a carousel of lightning-fast boys rushed by: collectors of cigarette butts, sellers of special issues, happiness, kissing pigs, patent pills for men. And crackling parsley, and smoking cars on wheels with sausages and chestnuts, and herds of top hats - single file, like elephant buses frantic in the spring...

A piercing whistle - unbearable, like a whip. And again: with a whip. Heads poked out from under a crimson umbrella, top hats, and huge white hats: on the table there was a cast-iron monument, standing and whistling seriously.

Ladies and gentlemen! - Mr. Craggs stopped whistling. - Ladies and gentlemen, special issue: zapps over the North Sea. Ladies and gentlemen, check yourself: are you ready to die? Death today. It is you who will die... no, no, not your neighbor, but you, the beautiful lady under the crimson umbrella. You smile, your teeth sparkle, but do you know how the skull smiles? Stop - just for a second - check yourself, have you done everything you need to do before you die? You are under a crimson umbrella!

We laughed. The beautiful lady laughed, covered herself with a crimson sky-umbrella and, obviously for everyone, pressed her knees to her Adam: they were alone in the crimson universe, and they were immortal, and the park was full to the brim with sharp sparks.

Mr. Craggs circled around the crimson universe, black ladies' shoes and brown men's shoes were visible from under the umbrella. Brown male shoes and the silk, blue, brown polka-dot socks were clearly of a very high, expensive variety. It was worthy of attention.

Mr. Craggs walked with huge crab claws in front of him, on his stomach, and his eyelids drooping. With his cast-iron eyelids lowered, Mr. Craggs was dining, and at the next table a beautiful lady was dining under a crimson umbrella. It was all filled with the sweet amber juice of the sun: it was painfully necessary to drink at least a little of it. An apple - on a windless, stuffy evening: it’s already full, it’s becoming transparent, it’s suffocating - oh, it would sooner break off from the branch - and fall to the ground.

She stood up, Lady Apple under a crimson umbrella, and her Adam stood up - it didn’t matter who he was: he was only earth. Slow, weighed down, they climbed the purple hill in the twilight, crossed it, and slowly sank into the ground on the other side of the hill. The head is just a crimson umbrella, and it’s gone.

Mr. Craggs waited a moment. Still hiding something under his drooping cast-iron eyelids, he climbed up the hill, looked around - and with the agility of a rat, unexpected for a monumentalist, darted down.

Down there, everything quickly became shaggy, everything was overgrown with purple night fur: trees, people. Under the stuffy fur coats of the bushes, the gentle, overgrown animals breathed and whispered frequently. Furry, silent, Mr. Craggs scurried around the park as a huge, dreamed rat, blades sparkled - by night, the blades of the eyes opened on the wooly muzzle, Mr. Craggs was out of breath. The crimson umbrella was nowhere to be found.

“The boat...” Mr. Craggs’ claws tightened and grabbed hold of the last thing he had found in a boat once or twice.

Quiet, resin pond. A pair of swans in the middle is piercingly white with nakedness. And in the distance, under a comfortably hanging willow tree, there is a boat.

Mr. Craggs pawed the grass faster. The swans are getting closer and whiter. On tiptoe, he carefully leaned over the willow trunk.

The boat is below. A soft shaggy umbrella, recently still crimson, darkened all around, covering their faces, at one end of the boat, and at the other, the legs of a swan were white in the darkness.

Mr. Craggs wiped his face with a handkerchief and unclenched his claws. Happily resting, he lay there for a minute - and silently, woolly, crawled down the slippery clay on his stomach.

Good evening, gentlemen! - A monument stood near the boat. The eyelids are chastely lowered. The protruding nose, lower jaw and lips were smiling.

The swan-white flashed and disappeared. Scream. The umbrella jumped into the water and swam. The shaggy beast jumped out of the boat towards Craggs:

Damn it! What - what do you have... Yes, I just - I...

Mr. Craggs smiled with his eyelids down. The terrible crab claws unclenched and bit Adam's hands beautiful lady An apple - and Adam, puffing, hid in the trap. Mr. Craggs smiled.

You - will - go - with me - to the nearest - police station. You and your lady - I'm very sorry. You will announce there the names - yours and your lady's. And we will meet later in court: I am very sorry to say this. Oh, you tell the lady to stop crying: for the violation of morality in public place- The punishment is not that big at all.

Listen... damn it! Will you let go of my hands? I'm telling you...

But Mr. Craggs held on tight. Lady Apple was now kneeling in the sand, covering her face with her knees and, sobbing, begging incoherently. Mr. Craggs smiled.

I really feel very sorry for you, my dear lady. You are still so young - and to appear in court...

Oh, whatever you want - just not this! Well, if you want, if you want... - The lady’s hands turned white as a swan in the shaggy darkness.

Well, okay: just for your sake, charming lady. Promise that you will never again...

Oh, you are so... merciful... like God. I promise you - oh, I promise!

With one claw still holding the limp, dead Adam, with the other, Craggs pulled out the whistle and put it in his mouth:

You see: one step and I will whistle... - He released the prisoner. He looked him over from his silk socks to his head, took stock of him by eye, and then said briefly:

Fifty guineas.

Fifty...guineas? - took that step towards Craggs. Craggs's whistle began to squeal - still barely audible, but now... The prisoner stopped.

Well? Do you have your checkbook with you? “I’ll give you some light,” Mr. Craggs kindly offered and pulled out a pocket electric flashlight.

The prisoner, gritting his teeth, wrote a check to the London City and Midland Bank. The lady, with stupefied eyes, floated with her umbrella: the umbrella slowly and forever disappeared into the shaggy darkness. Mr. Craggs, holding the whistle in his teeth, smiled: two months were provided. Fifty guineas! Mr. Craggs was not often so lucky.

Dark. The door to the next room is not closed tightly. Through the door crack there is a strip of light on the ceiling: they are walking with a lamp, something has happened. The stripe is moving faster and faster, and the dark walls are moving further and further, into infinity, and this room is London, and thousands of doors, lamps are rushing, stripes are rushing across the ceiling. And maybe it's all nonsense...

Something happened. The black sky over London was cracked into pieces: white triangles, squares, lines - a silent, geometric delirium of searchlights. Blinded elephant buses with their lights extinguished rushed somewhere. The tramp of belated couples on the asphalt is distinct - the feverish pulse is frozen. Doors slammed everywhere and lights went out. And now - swept away by an instant plague, an empty, echoing, geometric city: silent domes, pyramids, circles, arcs, towers, battlements.

For a second the silence swelled, thinned like a soap bubble, and burst. The cast-iron feet began to hum and stomp from afar like bombs. Higher and higher, up to the sky, the delirious, stumped creature - legs and belly - stupidly, blindly stomped bombs over the cubic ant mounds and ants below. Zeppelins...

The elevators did not have time to swallow: the ants poured down the emergency stairs. They hung on the steps, rushed with a roar in the pipes - no matter where, got out - no matter where. And they crowded into a delirious underground world with a looming concrete sky, tangled caves, staircases, suns, kiosks, machine guns.

Zeppelins over London! Extra special! - mechanical, clockwork boys snooped around.

Mr. Craggs rushed in the carriage standing, holding on to his belt, and did not raise his eyes from the emergency release. Top hats and hats kept coming, moving him from the pedestal - forward - to someone's knees - his knees were trembling. Mr. Craggs looked: Lady Apple.

Oh, that's how it is? And are you here? Very nice, very... I apologize: it’s so tight... - Mr. Craggs took off his top hat with a smile.

Lady Apple was alone. Lady Apple answered Mr. Craggs with a smile of dull resignation.

In Mr. Craggs's left inside pocket lay a check for fifty guineas, and it warmed Mr. Craggs' heart. Mr. Craggs joked kindly.

We, like ancient Christians, are forced to flee to the catacombs. Isn't it, miss, very funny?

Miss should have laughed - but she couldn’t. With all her might, and finally she laughed, something ridiculous, indecently loud, came out, loud enough for the whole carriage to hear. They turned around from all sides. Mr. Craggs, raising his top hat, hurriedly moved forward...

From above, through the wells of elevators and stairs, a dull cast-iron rumble was heard. Top hats and huge, slanted hats remained on the platform, stuck to the dazzling white walls, merged with crimson and green posters, with motionless faces racing in a Rolls-Royce car, with the Automatic Sun. A crowd of strange poster Christians took refuge in the white tiled catacombs.

Lady Apple looked around lostly, fixed her eyes on the only familiar figure - with claws folded on her stomach and paws slapping out - and mechanically, in her sleep, entered the elevator with Craggs. The elevator carried them upstairs to the street.

There, in the black sky, white triangles of lines flashed, deaf turtle houses and trees rushed with the stomping and roar. Lady Apple caught up with Craggs.

Look... I'm sorry. Can you, for God's sake, take me somewhere. I had to go to Leicester Square, I don’t understand anything.

The cast-iron monument stopped steadily for a second, a century. From under the lowered eyelids in the dark - the blades of the eyes:

Really, I'm very sorry. But I'm in a hurry to get home. And besides - Mr. Craggs laughed silently, it was just funny - just think, he - and and some.

Perpendicularly overhead, in the thinning silence, a huge hornet chirped. Mr. Craggs was in a hurry. Laurie was alone. He quickly splashed his paws on the asphalt. It seemed that the check had stopped moving in his pocket, Mr. Craggs paused to feel - and heard small, trembling steps from behind, a shadow ran towards him, like a lost, ownerless dog, timidly, humiliatedly.

It became clear: this... this woman would follow him to the very door, would stand all night or sit on the steps, and in general - something ridiculous, like in a dream.

Mr. Craggs wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, glanced back over his shoulder, and dashed into the first dark alley to get into the house from the yard.

By groping, using the chipped bricks in the gate, Mr. Craggs found his gate and knocked. A face appeared vaguely in the dark bedroom window - it was clearly the face of Mrs. Laurie. Mrs. Laurie swung her hand and threw something out of the window. What does this all mean?

Mr. Craggs knocked for a long time, knocked louder and louder - all over Abbey Street - but the gate did not open. Mr. Craggs was discussing the situation and trying to get at least something intelligible out of his head, when suddenly they stomped very close, then cast-iron feet rattled the stems of glass, Mr. Craggs’ cylinder fell, and, catching the cylinder, the monument fell onto the asphalt.

On Sundays, when Mr. Craggs was not at home, Mrs. Laurie received her mother and sister.

At dusk they came from White Chapel, knocked softly on the back gate and walked through the kitchen into the dining room. In the metal dining room they sat on the edge of a chair, drank tea in their hats, and ate one piece of cake.

Well, please, dears, take it: I have another one just like it in my cupboard, whole... - Mrs. Laurie triumphantly opened the cupboard.

No thanks. Really... - The guests swallowed their saliva and, sitting on the edge, listened through the window with one ear, so as not to miss the familiar splashing of paws and disappear into the kitchen in time. But all that could be heard was the rustling of countless wicker strollers on the asphalt.

You are happy, Lori... - the guests sighed, admiring. - Do you remember how you used to be with us at the market... And now...

Mrs. Laurie's marble turned pink: it is so necessary to receive confirmation from the outside that you are happy...

The three of them went to the bedroom. Mrs. Laurie turned on the lights, the crystal pendants shone, the eyes sparkled. On the bed, on the chairs - unimaginably lace, and white, and cobwebs.

Well, Laurie, please. In white you must look like a queen.

Mrs. Laurie was undressing behind the screen. She came out - in black stockings, and in shoes, and in the finest white, Mrs. Laurie's warm marble turned a little pink through the white, the crystal pendants shimmered, turning pink, and the pink curtain on Mrs. Laurie's lips quickly swayed: it was about to be blown by the wind.

“You are happy, Lori,” the guests sighed, admiring.

Downstairs someone was knocking on the door. All three have one Craggs.

“Lord, it’s already dark, it’s time to go home,” the guests jumped up.

Mrs. Laurie hastily put on her morning white robe, escorted her mother and sister through the back door and opened the door.

But it wasn’t Craggs: a white-collar boy stood in the doorway with a package, and as if so naively, he scrunched his nose, but one mouse eye was cunningly narrowed.

“To you, madam,” he handed the package.

The package, like last Sunday, contained a bouquet of tea roses, with protruding petals bent back at the edges.

Mrs. Laurie flushed.

Give it back - she angrily poked the bouquet at the boy.

The boy narrowed his eyes even more:

Well, where to go: the store won’t accept it, the money has been paid.

Mrs. Laurie ran into the bedroom with the bouquet. The roses were very ripe, petals were falling down the stairs, Mrs. Laurie looked around in confusion. She put the bouquet under the lace heap on the chair and, collecting petals from the steps along the way, went downstairs. She handed three pence to the boy, trying to look up - past the knowingly narrowed mouse eye.

There, above, there was a black mosaic sky - made of white crawling triangles and squares.

Well, yes, of course: the zapps are flying,” the boy cheerfully answered Mrs. Laurie’s raised eyebrows. “They’ll start soon.” Thank you, madam... - and dived into the darkness.

Mrs. Laurie lowered the blinds in the dining room and - all in a metallic glow - was in a hurry to put the famous spoons, each in its corresponding case: it was necessary to quickly, before they started. On the sixth spoon, with three locks - the coat of arms of the city of Newcastle - there was a dull whoop. The spoon with three locks remained lying on the table, next to the empty case.

Dull cast-iron feet stomped with a roar - towards houses, towards people - getting closer and closer. One more step - and Mrs. Laurie's world will collapse: Craggs, spoons, unimaginably lace...

Live - another five minutes. And it is necessary - the most important thing.

“Bouquet.. The most important thing is to throw away the bouquet...” Mrs. Laurie was in a hurry to tell herself.

In the bedroom, she snatched a bouquet from under a pile of lace.

“Well, yes, into the yard. To his yard, so that he...”

She leaned out the window and waved. A delirious geometric sky flashed very close - and a black figure cut out of swinging cardboard in the neighboring yard. Mrs. Laurie angrily threw the bouquet right in his face and heard - perhaps in delirium - such a funny, childish, squelching cry.

It stamped here, nearby; the stems of glass rattled and fell; Mrs. Laurie's world was collapsing, spoons, lace.

Bailey! Bailey! - The destroyed Mrs. Laurie flew headlong down the stairs into the yard.

The delirious sky flashed. A black, absurdly thin figure flashed under the fence. And soft, like a foal's lips, parted the curtain on Mrs. Laurie's lips. Live one more minute.

On the asphalt strewn with coal dust, they lived for a minute, a century, in an immortal crimson universe. They knocked and knocked on the gate. But in the distant crimson universe it was not heard.

The electric lamps went out. Stumbling with his paws in the shaggy darkness and crushing the stems of glass, Mr. Craggs wandered around the rooms for a long time and called:

Laurie! Where are you, Laurie?

The cast-iron feet, hooting, went south and fell silent. Mr. Craggs finally found a candle and ran upstairs to the bedroom.

And almost immediately after him, Mrs. Laurie appeared on the threshold.

God! Where have you been? - Mr. Craggs turned on the pedestal - The cylinder, you see, the cylinder was knocked down... - Mr. Craggs raised the candle and opened his mouth Mrs. Laurie's white morning robe - unbuttoned, and the thinnest white underneath - torn and all covered in coal dust. There are tears on the eyelashes and lips.

There was no curtain.

What's wrong with you? Are you... aren't you hurt, Laurie?

Yes... I mean no. Oh no! - Mrs. Laurie laughed. “I just.. Go out for a minute, I’ll change my clothes and go down to the dining room.” It seems that everything is already over.

Mrs. Laurie changed her clothes, carefully collected the petals from the floor, put them in an envelope, and the envelope in a box. The cast iron feet fell silent somewhere in the south. It's all over.

Evgeniy Zamyatin - Catcher of Men, read the text

See also Evgeniy Zamyatin - Prose (stories, poems, novels...):

Mamai
In the evenings and at night - there are no more houses in St. Petersburg: there are six floors...

Martyrs of Science
Starting with Galileo, they are all listed in the famous book by G. Tissandier...

Basic Description

The birth of the Catcher of Men is a mystery shrouded in darkness. A meeting with this individual is extremely dangerous and unpleasant. He loves to catch people for their minor or very minor sins. He does not disdain heroes who accidentally come across him along the way. When attacking, he uses the full power of black magic and, under certain circumstances, can revive everything around him. In anger he is menacing, scary in everyday life, and unpretentious in food.

Fierce and extremely dangerous, however, it is quite amenable to killing if you know all the mantras. But this is a difficult and lengthy task, therefore the formidable Catcher of Men successfully distributes tickets to the next world to those heroes whose level is low and does not inspire respect for him.

Motto

Let's catch people and build our own world - with preference and courtesans!

Combat tactics

If you are a human, then under no circumstances try to catch the Man Catcher - it is, of course, tempting, but, firstly, what will you do with it later, and secondly, the chances of success are still minimal. In addition, there is a belief that every person who catches him becomes a Catcher himself. If you are of a different race, then you may well try, in the end, one more death, one less...

During standard combat, do not give in to threats and tempting offers of an easy death; remember: everything said by the Hunter is a lie, based, as a rule, on knowledge of your weaknesses. Just hit, watch your health and don't skimp on your prayers when calling on your god. Often it is his deadly lightning (as well as all-destructive goodness) that decides the outcome of the fight. IN critical situation try to concentrate and use the best of your skills. If the battle follows the correct scenario, then the Man Catcher can easily be finished off with a bag of trophies (the more trophies, the easier it is to finish off). It is very effective to set a swarm of wasps on it.

If you have already run around Godville enough and managed to level up your level above average, the battle will be somewhat more difficult. At least that's what we think.

INFORMATION ABOUT THE BOOK

Catcher of Men - Nadezhda Aleksandrovna Popova

catcher of men

Owner: library fund

Book format: FB2

File size: 318.94 kb

Added to the library database: 15.09.2013

Inquisitor Kurt Hesse, a graduate of the Congregation Academy, is sent to the provinces on his first assignment. What begins with strange reports suggesting a vampire gradually turns into an investigation in which the suspects are not as simple as they seem...
From the first pages of her novel, Nadezhda Popova makes it clear: the fact that the action takes place at the end of the 14th century does not mean at all that the psychology of the characters and the degree of intrigue will be at the level of the Middle Ages. The phrase “excesses on the ground” cannot but bring to mind the twentieth century for a person even slightly familiar with our history. And any remaining doubts will be dispelled by the hero’s reasoning in the spirit of “... will consider Kurt a person on whom his self-esteem suddenly became dependent.”
It is worth especially noting the style of the novel. Detached, somewhat “clerical”, it creates an unusual atmosphere and, in combination with modern words, betrays the author’s desire to take the text beyond the boundaries of “genre” fantasy, and this brings “The Catcher of Men” into the fold of the good old Soviet detective story. After all, Kurt is a typical young investigator from novels about the police, who came to the village after graduation and there encountered local residents whose psychology he did not understand, and in general he would not have seen these people in person. But service is more important, and Kurt begins to dig his nose into the earth in search of villains, stumbling upon numerous rakes due to inexperience - from traditional false denunciations to the active fear of the natives of the “man of power”... Actually, the entire storyline fits perfectly into the framework of the Soviet “village detective”. Another thing is that not every current reader has encountered this at all. literary direction, after all recent years Almost no one wrote twenty similar books. And the fact that Popova chose such a combination of genres clearly shows that the author is not one of the MTA - the canons are too strictly adhered to.
For those who like to hang labels, we can firmly state that “Fisher of Men” is a postmodern fantasy detective story in the setting of an alternative historical pseudo-medieval era. And the last one is worth dwelling on separately. AI in the book is not an end in itself, but only decoration. It is clear that the world is almost ours - the same countries, Christianity, the usual barons, counts, and so on. On the other hand, there was no Congregation in real history, so the difference is not only that there is magic and evil spirits in the world, but also in the presence of a medieval organization that works in the style of modern security forces. In addition, the leaders of the Congregation, who constantly mention the salvation of the soul and other religious aspirations, do not at all look like sincerely believing people. For them, the Bible is more like an army manual or a code of the builder of communism than a divine revelation. And the inquisitors have a corresponding attitude towards miracles.
Depending on your point of view, the novel can be read both as a fascinating detective story and as an absurd one. alternative history. The characters may be considered either beautifully written or completely far-fetched. The author's language and style can be called inappropriate to the essence of the book or, on the contrary, superbly stylized to resemble the Middle Ages. And if we start talking about the background of what is happening and draw analogies with our world, then, depending on the political views and moral principles of a particular reader, the novel can be placed on a pedestal or, together with the author, handed over to the executioner-inquisitor - for heresy.

Francesco Maria Guazzi, “the number of nicknames for naming witches (“classes”)” is virtually endless. Like some examples:

bacularia– from “riding on a stick”;

fascinatrix– from the “evil eye”;

herbaria– from “herbs”;

maliarda– from the “evil, damage” that it brings;

Guazzi, unfortunately, is prone to excessive detail where there is no need for it, listing on the next page and a half excerpts from folklore rather than actual “classes” or “species”, or at least their semblance. This list ends not only with traditional

maleficius– “a villain who causes harm to people, animals, birds or property” (Gvazzi’s definition) and

incantator– caster,

strix- night-bird,

or simply

femina saga- that is, a wise woman.

All this would make sense if the goal were to compile some kind of overview of synonyms existing in public opinion. In the section “Folk beliefs, superstitions, etc.” This is exactly what will be done in more detail.

A truly meaningful and accurate enumeration, so to speak, of classes is present in “ Cautio criminalis", compiled very intelligibly and in detail by Friedrich von Spee. This work, which of course should be studied in itself in the original, we will briefly consider in this section, with all the comments and interpretations”...

There was neither the desire nor, most importantly, the opportunity to re-read either the comments and interpretations, nor von Spee in the original, nor anything else from the course already completed. Closing the book, Kurt got out of bed, where he had been lying for the last hour and a half in the most obscene manner, perching his boots on the headboard of the bed, and took the textbook to the shelf in the library room. If there was anything that irritated him more than ignorance, it was the way some, having stopped reading, plop the book on the table (which over time causes the spines to fray and the pages to rub where the thread that stitches the sheets touches them) or the windowsill (where sunlight spoils the cover , drying it out and accelerating cracks in the skin).

He paused at the shelf, looking around the collection of books with a sad look. There was a lot of reading - and namely books, sheet by sheet, stitched and bound, and rather cheap books, collected haphazardly, but with very interesting content, and pamphlets, but read there was nothing for a long time. Firstly, like any graduate of the current year 1389 (and even more so a graduate cum eximia laude), everything covered from first to last course it was still fresh in memory and properly consolidated by exams, which, in terms of the severity of their requirements, differed little from interrogation with bias. Secondly, despite this, during the month spent in this small (and frankly speaking, tiny) town, virtually every book, little book and little booklet in the local temple library had already been re-read more than once. Unfortunately for him, Kurt read quickly. The library of even the local abbey was so extremely poor that the church records of births, deaths and marriages and christenings of the local population were much more extensive and interesting. Which were read for the sake of order, in order to become familiar with the state of affairs not from someone else’s words, already in the first week.

From, so to speak, handwritten works that had not yet been read and required mandatory reading, there remained a stack of sheets on the table in the room he occupied, but he did not want to touch them. Kurt was warned that this would happen before the distribution; this happens every time a provincial department starts work. The graduate’s patience was angelic (although, while saying this, the mentors smiled slyly, so this compliment was extremely doubtful), therefore, in their opinion, he should have survived this period without much nervous loss. The elders, of course, know better, but the only thing Kurt wanted now was to throw the entire stack into the fireplace and breathe a sigh of relief. No one would ever know about this, and living in this world would become much easier. True, he thought about this detachedly, unreasonably, as an option that had a probability of existence in principle, not admitting it as a real possibility. Firstly, this would be a violation of duty, and therefore unacceptable. Secondly, from this not very exciting reading one could form an image of the inhabitants of the town, which is not always correct upon personal acquaintance. This was possible even though not a single signature, either in full or in abbreviation, was available. Actually, out of complete boredom, one could amuse oneself by identifying the author of each anonymous letter by style, phrases and handwriting, but complete and hopeless boredom had not yet arrived. Thirdly, from all this obscurantism there was one comforting conclusion: literacy in the town was truly widespread...

“I am bringing this to the attention of the Master Inquisitor”... All opera anonymous began the same way, excluding those that, reminiscent of the expressions of teasing children, reported: and such and such is a witch, she has a goat (cat, dog, husband) with black hair. The slander against the local innkeeper was clearly made by the owner of the inn near the baker's shop - after the death of his wife, as they had already told Kurt, he fell into the temptation of the availability of booze, which was always at his disposal, which is why things went out of hand, and as a result - wild hatred to a successful competitor, always famous for her meticulousness, accuracy and balance. Have a chat with him, or something, so that he doesn’t do anything...

"Investigation denied." "Investigation denied." Kurt’s handwriting was already excellent, but it seems that these words will now be a masterpiece of calligraphy - besides them, he has not written anything in recent days. Although in some places I wanted to put the resolution “Nonsense!” or “Complete nonsense.” At times I was tempted to write “Heresy”, just not in the academic sense, but in the colloquial sense...

It seems that it was not in vain that the mentors called for remembering that restraint is the highest virtue of an investigator, because behavior local residents fell under the capacious definition of “got it.” In general, even before him there was someone to complain to. The abbey, although small, is still there; the abbot does not have the right to his own investigation, but has the opportunity to report, as they say, “to whom it should be.” The magistrate has the same rights and powers. There is even an executioner here. But in order to “signal” one of them, you need to have information that is truly valuable, truthful, or at least similar to the truth. The reputation of the Congregation (alas, it cannot be said that it is completely undeserved - not so long ago there really were kinks in places, and abuse, and dishonest performance of duties) implied that at Kurt’s expense the locals would try to begin settling scores. And this seems to last for a long time...

"Investigation denied." All.

– Glory to You, Lord!

And no remembrance in vain. Kurt has already begun to think that he is condemned to the fate of Sisyphus, and every time he puts the paper he read to the right, another one spontaneously appears in the left pile. Or two. The gratitude that the crumpled pieces of paper and torn pieces of peeled parchment were gone was sincere and complete.