The darkness begins to dissipate, voices become audible somewhere in the distance. A hollow echo resonates with painful sensations, striking the temples, reverberating with flashes of pain somewhere deep inside. Darkness takes on form and taste, smell. Pain, nausea, a disgusting sour taste on the tongue, a musty smell. And pain. A flash of light—pain in the forehead, as if struck by a hammer, pain in the knees and back, shoulders—dragging, slow, constant, having retreated from the flash but ready to return. Weight on the neck and shoulders, fatigue and readiness to give up. What is this?
He opens his eyes and immediately closes them. It hurts. He tries to rub his eyes, but his hands suddenly hit an obstacle, something massive prevents him from reaching his eyes, prevents him from raising his hands.
"Scum! Take this!" comes a shout and a new flash of pain in his head! He tries to jump to his feet, but his legs don't obey, buckling under the weight of his body and he falls sideways, something painfully striking his neck. It hurts. Something unpleasantly crunches in his neck.
"Stop that right now!" comes a voice above him. "You can't throw stones at the head! I told you! Get away!" The stomping and shouts recede. He can finally blink properly, his hands still can't reach his head to rub the bruised spots, to rub his eyes... but at least now he can see. He sees a stone-paved square right in front of him, a street stretching into the distance, houses standing around. Everything seems foreign, like from a kung fu movie about the mysteries of a Shaolin monastery, roof edges curved upward, red tiles, kites flying here and there. From surprise, he forgot about the pain for a second and stared at the guard standing nearby. That this was indeed a guard—he understood immediately. The clothing on him was too characteristic, something like armor with leather shoulder pads and a cloak with a hieroglyph on it. The hieroglyphs were understandable, "City Guard," they proclaimed. How does he know hieroglyphs?
However, everything immediately flew out of his head as soon as the pain in his head and body returned. He groaned and reached to rub the sore spot and again realized he couldn't. He looked down. For some time he tried to figure out what kind of structure was embracing his neck and why his hand kept hitting the annoying obstacle. A thick wooden board with a hole for the neck, from which his head protruded. Because of this board, he couldn't see the rest of his body, only by sensation could he assume that somewhere there, under the board—there were shoulders tired from the heavy load, an aching back and numb knees.
"This is a pillory!" flashed through his mind and he immediately marveled at his discovery. A pillory or as it was called in the East—a cangue. Sometimes it has holes for hands too, and sometimes—only for the neck. What a strange dream? A dream? Of course it's a dream, he has photographic and absolute memory, he remembers his name, surname, patronymic and year of birth perfectly. He remembers books read decades ago, remembers his entire life. He also remembers how he was diagnosed with a terminal illness in its final stage. And nothing from his previous memories led him to a dusty stone pavement in the square of an unknown Eastern city with a cangue on his neck. And under guard too. So this is a lucid dream. He tried to imagine how the cangue-pillory flies apart, and he himself soars to the heavens. It didn't work. What an unpleasantly realistic dream. He should wake up. Very uncomfortable in this pillory, his back is stiff, his shoulders hurt, can't raise his hands. And he's very thirsty.
"Oh, they haven't killed you yet?" comes a hoarse voice from the side. He glances there. Next to him in the same cangue-pillory sits another sufferer, his greasy, shaggy hair sticking out in all directions. The sufferer's face is swollen, with a bruise under his eye. A yellow strip with hieroglyphs is glued to the pillory, which form the words "theft of a jade pendant from Lady Won Mi."
"It's fine, now there's time while Chan Di doesn't reach the end of the street," he confides. "And the children will get bored sooner or later. They'll come running two or three more times, no more."
"What?" Victor doesn't understand, then glances after the departing guard. Ah, clear. The guard isn't here for nothing, he patrols the streets, while he's here—he prevents vigilante justice.
"Were those children throwing stones?" he can't believe his ears.
"Who else. Who else has nothing better to do than throw stones at vagrants?" asks the shaggy one in the pillory. "That fat bastard Ju Won Mi and his piglets. His parents are just pure saints, such decent people and what is he growing up to be?" The shaggy one even tries to shake his head, but rocks his whole body, as if forgetting he's in a pillory.
"Listen, you... What did they put you in the pillory for?" asks the shaggy one, stopping his swaying. "What did you do?"
"Me?" Victor froze. Thought. He hadn't done anything. He was standing in a hospital room, planning his future death and suddenly—found himself here. No moment of transition, no Purgatories, no afterlives, no heaven, no hell, nothing. Although believing that he was still sleeping was difficult. His head hurt too convincingly, his back ached and... it was quite hard to find a part of his body that didn't hurt right now. His whole body was a bundle of painful sensations.
"Scum! Rotten turtle egg! Take this!" From somewhere around the corner ran a flock of boys in bright clothes, they immediately started throwing stones. At first Victor froze, not understanding what he had done and why he should fear simple children, but when a stone hit the pillory and, bouncing off—almost knocked out his eye, he immediately turned the pillory at an angle, trying to reduce the target area. A few more stones. He tried to rock from side to side, but firstly, the pillory was quite heavy and moved very slowly, and secondly—it was chained. So it didn't work very well. More stones, one painfully hit his crown and the light dimmed for a second. Victor was scared for a second, but then suddenly realized that the worse it got—the better. The faster they beat him to death with stones here—the faster he would wake up in his hospital room. He still had to write a will. He stopped dodging and instead began to expose his head to the blows. However, no one even hit the pillory anymore. The stones flew past.
The guard appeared again and the boys scattered. The guard cast an indifferent glance at the two of them and walked on. While he was nearby—the shaggy one was silent. As soon as he left—he spoke again.
"So what did they throw you in the pillory for? They accused me of theft. Me! The most honest man! Who needs this jade pendant anyway! Complete nonsense. But Judge Chen didn't even bother to ask—into the pillory and that's it. Eh. If it weren't for my sworn brothers, I probably would have died of hunger. So what about you, eh? You can tell me while Chan Di isn't around," says the shaggy one and makes some faces.
"My nose itches—it's driving me crazy," he informs Victor. "As soon as I get out of the pillory, I'll immediately rush to the northern lands and never set foot in Chanyuen again. Inhospitable city here. What's wrong with you? Did you hurt your head? Why are you silent?"
"I... don't know myself," Victor answers, checking the strength of the pillory and chains. No lock within reach of his hands. The pillory is simple in design, sturdy, and escaping from it while being in it—is practically impossible.
"What's there not to know?" the shaggy one squints. "If you're in the pillory, it means a minor crime. Theft, for example. Or fraud. Or you pushed someone, got in a street fight and caused a scandal. And you don't have money for a fine. Your clothes are decent, but not very rich, you have an accent in your speech, so you're not local. So you need to befriend me. Stick with me, stranger, and you can call me Big Brother Ishi."
"Why should I befriend you?" Victor asks mechanically, still feeling the pillory from below, fortunately his hands are free.
"You still don't understand," Big Brother Ishi shakes his head, shakes, as before—swaying his whole body. "Tell me, how will you drink in such a pillory? Or eat? You're not from the local community, no one will bring you food or water or give you a drink. I've been sitting here for three days already. At night they'll take us to prison, and during the day they'll put us back here. When the guard left, my sworn brothers brought me water and fed me. They adore me, because I'm the leader of these youngsters, a spirit conjurer, Terrifying Ishi!"
"Now I understand," Victor nodded, or rather—tried to nod. The pillory on his neck interfered. It was massive after all. As a doctor, he could immediately list the health problems that prolonged wearing of such an "accessory" on one's neck would ensure, however many of them wouldn't threaten you if you weren't able to eat or drink yourself. This reality still seemed like a dream and right now the thought of dying right here didn't scare him one bit. He was already dying, what difference did it make in the end. The only thing that bothered him a little was the thought that death in a pillory from thirst was quite an unpleasant experience. And to hell with it. You suffer a little, tormented by thirst, start to rave, and then lose consciousness. That's it. What happens after death? Peace and darkness—that's what he thought before. But now he's not so sure. Still, peace and darkness are much better than this life. Skin on his neck rubbed raw—from constant contact with the rough wood of the cangue-pillory. Bumps swelling on his head, he couldn't feel half his face anymore. Back and shoulders aching from the weight of the cangue, numb knees—because the chain wasn't long enough to stand at full height, to straighten his legs. He could only sit directly on the cold stone with his buttocks, but you couldn't sit like that for long either. This ancient punishment device was specially designed so that whoever wore it couldn't get comfortable.
His brain finally woke up from hibernation and immediately produced several explanations for what happened, each more incredible than the last. From hallucinations on the brink of life and death, rapidly playing out in his head while his body settles on the hospital room floor, to a virtual world he found himself in, since his previous life also took place in a virtual world. And a dozen different variants between them. However, he quickly realized that such theories were of little use. There was reality. And right now this reality was a wooden cangue-pillory on his neck. Thirst, pain throughout his body, stones thrown by these evil children, a guard walking in circles through the streets, and this shaggy leader of a bandit gang.
The most important thing in all this was that simply waking up wasn't working. The pain was very real, everything around was too realistic, too many small details, usually dreams don't have this. Everything he looked at was completely real, he could see every individual tile on building roofs, every metal plate on the guard's armor, and even the hairs on the legs of a fat, bluish meat fly that perched on the edge of the cangue-pillory. Out of habit, he raised his hand to shoo it away, but his hand once again hit the wood of the pillory, and he simply blew at the fly. It flew up and by nasty fly habit—immediately landed on his cheek. He grimaced and blew upward, chasing it away. I'm in another world, he thought, incredible. How is this even possible? No, stop, enough of this. How exactly this is possible—that's not the problem, dozens of theories can be invented for how. The question is different—what to do? And here's another thing—if he was transferred here in his body—what about his illness? Will he die here too? He'd prefer without suffering, in a hospital room, on a soft bed, surrounded by care, not here, in the middle of a city square with a pillory on his neck.
Too much information, too many questions and no answers. Perhaps if there was a "die immediately" button here—he would have pressed it. But there was no button.
"I really don't remember anything," Victor admits to his interlocutor. "Apparently the memory was knocked out by the stone blow."
"The little bastard throws stones surprisingly well," Big Brother Ishi agrees with him. "He should go to the stone throwing competition in spring. Such talent is wasted. Ju Min, his mother—is just a bright celestial maiden in the flesh, and this little demon only knows how to cause trouble for people. Too bad you don't remember anything... well, I'll tell you everything now."
"Thank you," says Victor. He knows for certain that information is never superfluous, especially at such a moment.
"What's there to it," the shaggy one's face darkens. "We need to stick together, then it'll be easier. Try spending a month in a pillory, especially when no one talks to you, you'll go crazy."
"Do they remove the pillories at night?" Victor clarifies. He desperately wanted to free himself from the interfering piece of wood. It was very uncomfortable, his body was already somehow weak, and with this huge thing on his neck he felt like a bug under someone's boot.
"What? Of course not. Otherwise it would just be a resort—you sit in the square, then they remove the pillory and into bed with soft feather beds and silk sheets. Ha! I would be glad if it were so. The damn pillory presses on the shoulders, and the neck hurts. And my hair sticks out in all directions, can't smooth it down," says Ishi. Victor winces. Very bad. Spending the night in such a thing... can't lie down properly, neither on the side, nor on the back, especially not on the stomach. The pillory immediately starts to squeeze the neck, a person suffocates. The only option is to sit and fall asleep just like that—sitting. No rest for muscles tired during the day. Constant annoying pain.
Enough, he thinks. Situation analysis, quickly, quickly. Reflections of the "I don't believe it" and "we're all going to die" variety—for later. Right now the situation is lousy—he's sitting in a pillory, which means the previous owner of this body committed some offense. What kind? He glanced at the strip with hieroglyphs that was pasted on his neighbor's pillory. The hieroglyphs read "theft of a jade pendant from Lady Won Mi." So the same is pasted on my pillory, he thinks and calls out to his neighbor and fellow sufferer.
"Hey, Ishi! Listen..."
"Big Brother Ishi!" the ragamuffin in the cangue with shaggy hair strictly corrects him. "Don't forget that!"
"Big Brother Ishi," Victor sighs, deciding not to start an argument over nothing, if this shaggy guy cares so much about being called "Big Brother," let him be "Big Brother." Call him a mushroom, call him Heavenly Emperor, the main thing is not to get shoved in a basket. What difference does it make.
"Big Brother Ishi, what crime did they put me in the pillory for?" he asks. "What's written on my piece of wood?"
"What? Uh... well yes... heh, heh, heh..." the shaggy one swayed to the side, as if he wanted to reach with his hand to the back of his head—to scratch. But the pillory interfered, he just poked his hand at the piece of wood. Habit, Victor thinks, a habitual gesture.
"Your inscription is worn away, can't make out anything," says the shaggy one and slightly lifts the pillory with his hands, giving his neck a rest. "Can't see anything at all. It's all completely worn away."
"Really? Well..." staying in the pillory was extremely undesirable, but he knew nothing about the local justice system. What they punish for, how much longer to endure this punishment, and whether this punishment is just a prelude to another. For example, first standing at the pillory for three days, then having your head cut off in the square, with crowds watching.
"But, as far as I know, you're either a thief or an unlicensed prostitute. You probably didn't kill anyone."
"What?!" Hands down, quickly! To hell with the pillory, to hell with the pain in the wounded neck, to hell with everything! Can't see anything and won't be able to see, the piece of wood interferes. But! Some ties on the pants, no these aren't pants, this is a skirt!
"What?!"
"Hey, what's wrong with you, xiamei? Friend? Hey? What's wrong with you? Guard! Chen Di, greatest of the guardians of justice and the most incorruptible golden talent in the eye of the Heavenly Lord! Over here! Seems this strange one died! If she had anything, then I'm her heir sort of, we're all like one family here in the pillory!" he hears the cries of the panicked neighbor convict, already losing consciousness.