Read the book: «The Art of Dying»

– Why do you, my son, always choose only black paint for your drawings?

– Because black is the strongest color.

It can conquer any other.

© Inga Soborova, 2026

ISBN 978-5-0069-7017-5

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Chapter 1. The Prophecy of the Wind

The sun scorched the mountain slopes, burning away the last traces of green.

I, Ishtali, sat on the hilltop. The wind smelled of salt and dried grass as it pulled at my hair.

I was only ten, yet I already felt the weight of the world – a weight adults hide behind small talk about crops, hunting, and preparations for ritual celebrations.

I was born into the Roko tribe, in a small village lost among canyons and deserts in northern Mexico. My parents were farmers, simple people, but they believed there was something unusual about me. Even as an infant I never cried – I only watched the world with wide, black eyes full of inexplicable wisdom. My mother used to say I could see what others could not.

My earliest memories are of the wind passing through me as if I were made of smoke – a wind woven from the whisper of stones, the heartbeat of the earth, and the song of snakes beneath the cactus roots. At night I watched spirits walking the narrow paths toward the sacred plateau. Other children feared the darkness, but to me it was a refuge. In its silence, I felt at home.

Chapter 2. The Path of Spirits

When I was four, I wandered off during play. The other children grew frightened, and the adults raised the alarm. I still remember that day clearly. I followed a path no one else could see – a trail laid out for me by the spirits, winding through thick brush and dry riverbeds. When night fell, an even deeper calm settled over me. xI remember sitting beneath a tree in the darkness, listening to rustles that moved around me – now on the ground, now far away, now somewhere high above in the branches. And through it all, I felt protected, as though unseen hands were gently guiding me home.

When I finally appeared at the edge of the village, unharmed, people began to whisper. Over time, more and more of them came seeking help. I found lost animals, sensed coming droughts, and even eased illness – not through magic, but through understanding.

I see how energy moves. I sense illness the way one feels a cold wind – a sudden chill, a shift in the flow – and I know how to guide life’s warmth to the place where it is needed most.

Chapter 3. The Shadow Behind the Sun

Death… I had always felt its presence – like a shadow lingering just behind the sun.

To me, death was never an ending. It was a transformation, a passage from one state of being into another. I watched souls slip into eternity the way birds rise into the sky. They merged with the wind, with the stones, with the plants. They became part of the greater whole.

Life and death were two sides of the same coin – inseparable, forever turning in their silent cycle. The boundary between them was thin, trembling like the edge of an obsidian blade, and I could sense its shimmer. Sometimes that boundary would quiver, and the spirits would draw near, whispering the secrets of existence into my ear – of eternity, of the cycles that govern all things, of how everything passes… except life itself.

At sixteen, my tribe chose me as their shaman. It was not merely a ceremony, but a recognition – an acknowledgment of my bond with the spirits, of my ability to see the unseen and feel what lay beyond ordinary perception. I became the keeper of traditions, a healer, a guide between worlds. Yet I never forgot that day on the hill, when the wind whispered to me of the mysteries of the world – of life, of death, of the fragile line between them.

Only now do I truly understand: that moment was not an ending or a beginning, but the first step on a much longer path. A path toward the heart of eternity. A path toward the very pulse of the earth.

Chapter 4. The Hut Between Worlds

I sat beside my hut, its walls covered with a soft layer of moss, draped with animal skins, and adorned with wards crafted from the skulls of fallen warriors of our tribe. My hut stood apart from the village, wrapped in an invisible veil – a boundary between two realms: the world of people and the world of spirits. Here, among rustling leaves and whispering trees, amid the breath and hiss of wild creatures and the quiet murmur of ancestral spirits, I entered a different kind of silence – a ringing stillness filled with streams of knowledge.

This was where I moved along the boundary between the two worlds: the realm of flesh and stone, and the realm of spirits, woven from mystery and unseen currents. At times I would slip into the world of dreams, sinking into a muted conversation with eternity – a place where time and distance blurred, and where new realities were born.

Chapter 5. Xanta

It was on one of those days that I saw her. I still see her now as clearly as if it were yesterday. Her name was Xanta. Her skin, the color of ripe peach flesh, seemed to hold sunlight within it. Her hair, black as obsidian, fell in a heavy, glossy braid all the way down her back. And her eyes – deep as a dark ocean, touched with midnight-blue, held a quiet gravity that stilled everything around them. Her smile was so fresh, so innocent, that the world itself seemed to fall away. I forgot everything – my gift, my purpose, even the weight of my destiny.

When our eyes met, something extraordinary happened. It felt as if my consciousness brushed against hers – as if I stepped into her thoughts, into the soft rhythm of her heartbeat. And yet I remained myself, whole and unbroken. Through that brief touch I felt expanded, enriched by what she was. It was a miracle beyond anything I understood – beyond magic, beyond the spirit world, beyond every mystery I thought I already knew.