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Kindle Edition
Published March 3, 2026
‘You’re just a mirage,’ Kovrin murmured. ‘Why are you here, sitting still like that? It doesn’t tally with the legend.’
‘Never mind,’ the monk answered softly after a brief pause, turning his face towards him. ‘The legend, myself, the mirage are all products of your overheated imagination. I’m an apparition…’
‘That means you don’t exist?’ Kovrin asked.
‘Think what you like,’ the monk said with a weak smile. ‘I exist in your imagination, and your imagination is part of nature, so I exist in nature too.’
A figure emerged from a clump of trees and came towards her through the graves: the shape of a man in black, cut out of the air.
His gait was awkward. He kept his right arm stiffly by his side and held his other hand to his face. Drawing nearer, he tripped but righted himself.
She saw blood running over the hand he held to his mouth. His shirt was stained with spots of red. He saw her and made as if to veer away, but when she stood up and asked if he was all right, he changed his mind. He reeled, closed his eyes. She could see he was dizzy, concussed maybe.
Alice could recall, as if she was writing a story, what they managed to convey to one another, even though she remembered it only broadly, and his spoken English was very limited.
In Chekov’s story, a man starts seeing a black figure in the air, a hallucination. When the monk appears, the man feels insane but happy. When he stops seeing the monk, he’s sane but miserable. What can this mean?
Perhaps it means he needs his madness. His madness is the only thing keeping him sane.
What if, for Alice, the black monk didn’t represent madness but fictionalising? Her black monk was a shapeshifter; he appeared and disappeared, he existed in a no man’s land between fiction and fact. As far as she knew, he never told the truth, he made his own reality. He was the shape of a man cut out of the universe, revealing the blackness beyond.