Efectividad del proceso de Enseñanza – Aprendizaje

After a couple of days, a courier arrived and delivered to Ares a summons to appear in Tartarus on the double. The courier was an elderly genie slicked with oil; for the solemn occasion, he materialized whole and even put on the widest breeches, the kind that Methodius earlier happened to see only in movies about the Zaporozhian Cossacks. After delivering the summons to Ares and asking him to put an impression of his darc on the register, the genie hung around in reception for a while, unnoticeably snitched a silver spoon from Julitta’s desk, and disappeared. “What a parasite! Next time I’ll nail all the

spoons to the edge of the desk! It’ll be like in a funny farm: you want to mix in the sugar, turn the glass under the spoon! I have no more strength: agents snitch, succubae snitch, and now even genies!” said Julitta with indignation. “If you simply catch them red-handed?” Methodius asked. “Aha! Just try catching them! You seize his hand, he’ll plead kleptomania, on top of that even show a certificate!” the witch brushed it off.

Ares stared at the summons for a long time, trying to determine from the sender’s aura imprinted on it, what was worth waiting for in Tartarus. But the summons was standard, drawn up by some personal secretary in Ligul’s office, who at that moment had been thinking about her female fate and the trip to the canteen and therefore had imprinted no distinct aura. However, the signature at the bottom of the summons belonged not to Ligul himself but to one of his assistants who, in all likelihood, did not know why Ligul needed the chief of the Russian division of Gloom. After understanding this, Ares left the summons in the room and approached the portrait. “What do you need again, old man?

First one paper, then another? Do you sleep at night or just write and write all the time?”

he asked sullenly.

The hunchback in the portrait shrugged his shoulders and with a spiteful air started to shift from foot to foot. Then he extended a paper finger and pointed at the summons. Not understanding what he wanted, Ares glanced at the summons again and discovered that it stated under the heading “Urgency:”

“APPEAR IMMEDIATELY WITHOUT ANY EXCUSES OR EVASIONS!”

Specified below in small type was:

P.S. We request to take into account that imaginary ignorance, blindness, incarceration of the vessel (for genies) or in the wolf state (for werewolves), non-receipt of this summons in time on account of the accidental loss of the courier (sic!), and also clinical, physical, and astral death cannot be considered as justification of failure to appear (article 966 point 696 of Tartarus codes).

“Even envisioned the accidental loss of the courier, the skunk! I suppose the couriers get thrown around? We have some slick ones. Will swat them like flies and afterwards,

‘Well, I didn’t receive your letter!’ Okay, Ligul! Don’t bore me! I’ll return and immediately begin to play darts. Only pity there’s no target. But we’ll find something!

Something small and repulsive!” Ares promised with meaning. The vile expression immediately disappeared from the face of the portrait. Ligul started to puff and, stuck, with the help of his short legs, crawled to hide behind the frame.

Ares put on the breastplate, took the sword, with a sullen expression on his face walked up and down the office several times, and called Methodius. “Julitta and I are leaving for Tartarus. Of course, we’ll try to return ASAP. However, I have a bad feeling that we’ll be retained there for some time.” “What if you don’t give a damn about the summons? Rip it up?” asked Methodius. Ares became thoughtful and, putting his hands behind his back, moved the fingers a little. “Rip up the summons to Tartarus? A summons that I signed with an impression of my darc as a receipt? You amuse me, Signor Tomato! With all my disrespect to the Chancellery and personally to Ligul, Tartarus is a somewhat different thing. Its laws are unyielding. I have to go all the same.”

“But what should I do?” Methodius asked with unease. The room had grown narrower.

The world had become alarming. “Whatever happens, don’t leave the office and keep your sword ready. I hope that I was able at least to teach you something. If necessary, summon the spirit of Horse again, but to do this, only point out from the very beginning

his place as a guest. Otherwise, he’ll take away your body. Indeed I’ll be in Tartarus and would hardly be able to help you.” Methodius nodded unhappily. He understood this.

“Another thing… Mamzelkina promised to look in this morning. While Aida is here, you’re safe. Yaraat won’t poke his nose in. But around noon she has…eh-eh…a shift, so that you’ll have to care about the safety of your eidos and your head. I’d advise you to call Daph. Her armour-piercing pipe and poetic little beast with its heavenly claws can turn out to be useful company. Success to work and defence!” The heavy hand encouragingly patted Met’s shoulder.

After taking Julitta with him in order to give his appearance in Tartarus the nature of a business trip, Ares departed for Tartarus. “Met, be good and keep your chin up! That’s the main thing!” Julitta shouted at parting. The young witch tried to keep her spirit up, but she looked depressed. She did not want to go to Tartarus. Even with the chief. Even on an official call. To get oneself there is much simpler than booking a return ticket.

Methodius remained in the residence of Gloom in solitude. (Is it only pride here?) It seemed that with the disappearance of Ares and Julitta the walls of reception had shrunk, grown dim. A long crack ran along the ceiling. “Everything here is only appearance.

Nothing real… Eh-eh, well, okay!” he thought and, after opening the case, looked over his sword. A rather dull blade, a notch, a simple handle… Mm-yes… Looks pretty unassuming. However, to judge a magic weapon by its appearance is to judge the taste of the soup by the colour of the pot. “So, Yaraat! I’m waiting for you! Indeed it’s you who started everything, I know,” Buslaev said loudly, attempting to find confidence in this loudness. He set off to Ares’ office, placed the case beside him and, after putting his feet up on the desk, mentally began to twirl in his memory all the lessons, which the swordsman of Gloom had given him at some point. In his imagination, blades sparkled and blows rained down thick and fast. It was difficult to say whether Ligul sensed something; however, it did not look out of the portrait, sensibly preferring to stay behind the frame.

Suddenly the office door creaked. Tukhlomon’s surly stretched-out mug pushed through. The agent twisted his head around with curiosity and, on noticing Methodius, grinned rather disgustingly. “Acting as the chief? If so, a promotion for you!” “What promotion?” Methodius did not understand. Tukhlomon nastily wagged a plasticine finger at him. “Oh yea? Feet-eh on his desk-eh? On his desk-eh! You won’t deny it? You won’t! I understand you-eh: it’s always pleasant to scoff, so to speak, with feet on the platform-eh! To express one’s own attitude to management. Eh? Uh-huh! Indeed, do acknowledge that you don’t like Ares. Well, please acknowledge!”

Suddenly a bad feeling emerged in Methodius that this visit of Tukhlomon had been prepared earlier. The agent was clearly well informed that Ares was in Tartarus, otherwise he would never poke his nose into his office without knocking. And this rather offensive, mocking formal “you.” “And where are you going with this?” Methodius growled. “Aha, here you almost let the cat out of the bag! Well, please tell the truth, please say: I can’t stand him, such a plodding camel!” Tukhlomon goaded. An interested Ligul stretched out of the frame his own aural sink overgrown with black hair.

Having perceived that Tukhlomon was annoying him on purpose, Methodius controlled himself. “What do you want? Today is not receiving day.” Not a bit embarrassed that he was not invited, the agent barged into the office and, having sat down on the edge of the desk, started to stare insolently. “I know-eh about receiving day-eh. But I have a personal

question for you!” said the agent and winked his bulging eyes in turn. “Admittance of personal questions every first and third Thursday of the month by advanced booking.

Regularly from 15:55 to 16:00. And now please kindly leave the office!” Methodius parried. After all, Julitta’s school was Julitta’s school.

However, this did not make an impression on Tukhlomon. Leaning over the desk, he hugged Methodius’ shoulders and, sobbing, poured forth an incoherent tirade interrupted with sobs. From the tirade Methodius could make out that Tukhlomon was calling him

“my friend,” “young man,” “smart person,” and “dear father,” and portrayed himself as a victim of love for truth and someone spreading true love. “If it’s necessary to break someone, just whistle! We’re all like this, stand up for truth!” Unexpectedly Tukhlomon finished his tirade, continuing to moisten Methodius’ T-shirt with crocodile tears.

Having lost patience, Buslaev bellowed at him and, after breaking away from the tenacious hands, pushed the agent off the desk. “Well, say what you need, and clear out!”

he threatened. After falling onto the floor, Tukhlomon did not attempt to get up and became sad. “So, how are you treating me here? Possible to say I come to you with a quivering heart and baring my soul, and you kick me? Not ni-ice, oh, not ni-ice!

Downright humanly unpleasant! Oh-oh-oh!” Methodius threw the inkpot at him. The agent did not try to dodge from it, but, jumping, deftly caught it with his teeth, like a dog catching a Frisbee. “Well, why would you break it? Not nice! Again, not your things!” he said, reproachfully putting the inkpot back onto the table. “And in general, Methodius Igorevich, my dear, you’re not in a position to trample me or throw things at me! You’re completely at my mercy!” Tukhlomon stuck his hand into his pocket and quickly pulled out a crumpled piece of pink paper.

“What’s this scrap?” asked Methodius contemptuously. “This isn’t simply scrap. This is pulled out of a diary! Girls, you know, love diaries! All kinds of little notebook, hee-hee!

Sometimes they write such nonsense that even they feel sorry later!” Tukhlomon grinned.

He grinned so nastily, with a hint. “What are you talking about?” “Here’s what! Please have a look!” Tukhlomon said and brought the pink paper in front of Buslaev’s eyes. “I love M.B. so that I’m ready to sell my soul, if only he would be pl…” he began to read.

Half a dozen words after that were boldly painted over with a felt-tip pen. Likely, someone, after making an entry in the diary, deleted it, ripped out the page, and, crumpling it, threw it under the bed or the table, where Tukhlomon carefully fished it out afterwards.

“Who is this? Really Irka?” thought Methodius. However, he felt not joy but uneasiness and guilt. Intuition suggested that the paper was Irka’s after all. But it meant that Tukhlomon, persistent like chewing-gum sticking to the sole, had consequently picked up a small key to Irka’s eidos. Certainly, this was altogether only a piece of paper, not a document, not a renunciation, but paper is extremely dangerous. In confusion, Methodius stretched out his hand in order to grab the pink sheet, but, before he could do this, the agent abruptly jumped away. “Ah-h, no! Do you think that I’m a complete fool? If I give you this paper, you’ll easily dispose of it. No give, and that’s it!” shouted Tukhlomon, instantly passing to the informal “you.” He must have decided that the necessary moment had already begun.

“You will hand it over like a dear!” said Methodius, after pondering how to pressure him. “According to the decree of Chancellery № 7 of 4.11.4512 from the creation of the world all compromising materials of such kind are subject to immediate delivery to the

division. Non-delivery means exile to Tartarus for a period of up to thirty centuries.

Consequently, however it turns out, this paper nevertheless will come to me.” He hoped to drive the agent into a blind alley, but Tukhlomon only grinned cunningly and rather nastily, and sniggered with somewhat conspiratorial familiarity, “Make no doubt about it, Methodius Igorevich. Though we’re simple ignorant spirits, the laws, I dare say, we know rather better than you. I have to deliver the paper, it’s true, only to where? Can be different divisions. If I want, to Julitta, or if I want, to Ligul. He’s angry now, would be glad to grab this scrap with both hands… Well, got it?”

Buslaev felt that the agent’s arguments were steadily forcing him into a corner.

Showing that he surrendered, Methodius raised both hands above his head. “Fine,” he said dejectedly. “I acknowledge that you’ve got me by the throat, Tukhlomon! How about a bargain? What do you want for this paper?” Astonished by how quickly his opponent surrendered, Tukhlomon, morally prepared for a prolonged siege, blinked, and scratched the bridge of his nose. Methodius perceived with happiness that earlier the agent had only been exploring the ground, blackmailing, considering how to profit, and still plainly did not know what to demand. Undisguised greediness now caught fire in his watery eyes. Tukhlomon definitely feared a cheap sale.

“Eh-hmm-eh-eh… I want a lot! So, I’ll simply not give it away for the asking! I indeed didn’t get the paper for free!” he procrastinated, rubbing his hands. “First of all, I want your ei…” “Stop!” Methodius cut him off. “I myself will not give you any ‘ei’. I propose the price! What will you say to the Pharaoh’s ring, which summons genies? The one who has this ring easily has thirty thousand spirits obeying him every ten years. Thirty thousand!” The agent stared distrustfully at Methodius. The fact is that he was now describing Ares’ favourite ring, from which Ares, beyond any doubt, would not want to part. Buslaev only shrugged his shoulders: it said, here do what you want, you have driven me into a corner. Tukhlomon thoughtfully chewed his lips. “It’s tempting, but I truly don’t know,” he said, acting like a shy maiden. “Please let me look at the little ring first. Already awfully unexpected.”

Methodius vigilantly estimated the distance. Tukhlomon was looming by the office door. No, still cannot reach him. “Why not? Of course you can look.” he opened the top drawer of Ares’ desk and beckoned Tukhlomon over. When the agent, having lost vigilance from greediness, leaned towards him, Methodius seized the case with the sword and, not having time to pull out the sword, hit the back of Tukhlomon’s head with the case. Artefact is artefact. The agent began to squeal in a high pitch like a suckling-pig.

Methodius pulled the pink sheet out of his hands and, after tearing it into tiny pieces, burnt it over the candle. Tukhlomon with a howl rushed with his stomach on the desk, trying to take possession of at least the ashes, but did not manage.

After opening the case, Buslaev took the sword from the velvet. “Now, get out! Out!”

he shouted terribly, hardly recognizing his own voice. The sword impatiently jerked in his hand. Another instant and it would cut the plasticine person into two unequal parts.

Squeaking, Tukhlomon jumped out the door and, stumbling, took to his heels. Methodius understood that this time the battlefield remained his. The former sword of The Ancient One, which had become the sword of Gloom long ago, shook and struggled in his hand.

Ripples ran along the dull blade. The notches were grinning nastily. The sword was mad at Buslaev for not succeeding in cutting Tukhlomon. “Stop, friend! You wouldn’t like it!

There’s no blood, there’s nothing, only plasticine!” Methodius said and hurriedly

returned the sword to the case before it turned on him in the heat of the moment. It was completely possible to expect this from the wilful artefact.

Soon, as Ares had also warned, Mamzelkina limped in with the stretchable sagging knapsack on her back. If not for the covered scythe, it would be possible to think that she was collecting beer bottles in public gardens. Not finding Ares and Julitta, Mamzelkina felt hurt and became glum; however, a keg of honey wine was discovered in the usual place, and Aida Plakhovna was noticeably consoled. The ringing scythe stood in the corner.

“Well, brother Met? The little heart goes pitter-patter? The eidos with wings goes flitter-flutter?” she joked, scooping out honey wine with a cup. “Sit with me, let’s chat.

Don’t be afraid, my dear, we’ll call a time-out…” Buslaev carefully lowered himself onto the sofa next to the old woman. On Mamzelkina’s feet were the usual worn white sneakers. One lace was shorter and was therefore probably laced through a hole. For some reason this everyday, very ordinary detail especially surprised and frightened Methodius. It would be simpler for him if he saw bones instead of sneakers.

“What does Ligul’s reception in Tartarus look like? Were you there?” he asked, distracting himself from bad thoughts. “Ah, my dear, where have I not been! Where did I not cut down people!” Aida Plakhovna smirked. “Indeed I don’t know: can we call it reception? It’s this narrow long corridor entirely crammed with old empty chairs, and with one single room at the end.” “A room with spiders?” Methodius absent-mindedly asked. “With what, with what?” Mamzelkina asked tenaciously. Buslaev was uneasy. He had the feeling that he had just uttered some word dangerous for him. “Well, it’s from Dostoyevsky. Svidrigailov feared that instead of eternity there will be a tight room with spiders,” he hurriedly explained.

“How do you like that! So smart, and read smart books! Decided to read it yourself or did someone put you up to it?” Aida Plakhovna was touched. “Myself.” “You’re lying!”

said Mamzelkina, threatening him with a bony finger. “Oh, you’re lying, love! You’re lying through your teeth!” “Well, I’m lying, I’m lying. A friend gave it to me,”

Methodius unwillingly acknowledged. It was useless to deceive the old woman. “What friend? Really Daph?” affectionately asked Aida Plakhovna. Methodius felt uneasy. The old woman clearly knew much more than it was possible to assume. “If only,” he said

Methodius unwillingly acknowledged. It was useless to deceive the old woman. “What friend? Really Daph?” affectionately asked Aida Plakhovna. Methodius felt uneasy. The old woman clearly knew much more than it was possible to assume. “If only,” he said