The sun was swaying in the blood

© Madina Fedosova, 2025

ISBN 978-5-0068-0919-2

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Author’s Foreword

Georgia has always inspired me with its unique culture and breathtaking landscapes. It was this inspiration that led me to write the thriller “The Sun Was Swaying in Blood.”

This book is a product of my imagination, a story unfolding in the harsh and beautiful Shatili. I hope that readers, both in Georgia and abroad, will find within its pages a gripping plot and food for thought. I have striven to treat local traditions with respect and to capture the atmosphere of this remarkable region.

In Shatili, there is always room for new stories.

Introduction

The cold seeped into her bones, despite the woolen blanket they had wrapped her in. Alma tried to move, but her body responded with a dull ache. Where was she? A black hole gaped in her mind, swallowing her most recent memories. Only fragments of vague images flickered before her mind’s eye: a blazing sun, a narrow road snaking between cliffs, and the piercing screech of brakes… And then – darkness.

She opened her eyes. White walls, dim light, the sharp smell of medicine. A hospital room. But not like the ones in Germany. Everything here seemed… outdated. In the corner, an old stove crackled softly, struggling to heat the room. Outside the window, the silhouettes of mountains shrouded in thick fog were visible. Mountains… She had never seen mountains like these.

A woman in a white coat entered the room. Her face was stern, but her eyes held kindness. “You’re awake, Alma? How do you feel?” Alma tried to answer, but only a rasp came from her throat. “Don’t worry, it’s alright. You were in an accident. They found you not far from Shatili… Do you remember anything?”

Shatili… The name echoed like a sound from a distant past. Alma tried to strain her memory, but it was useless. Shatili remained a blank spot on the map of her consciousness. The female doctor shook her head sadly. “That’s not surprising. You have a severe head injury. Memory loss is common in such cases. But don’t worry, it will come back. You just need time.”

But Alma felt it wasn’t just the memory loss. Something was wrong in Shatili. Something sinister and inexplicable hung in the air. She saw it in the sullen glances of the locals, heard it in the mournful songs of the wind whispering in an ancient tongue. And with each passing day, the sense of dread grew stronger, seeping into her very soul. Alma felt she was at the center of some terrible secret. A secret that could cost her her life.

Chapter 1

The Cold of Shatili

The cold seeped into her bones. Alma tried to pull the woolen blanket higher, but it was futile. The chill was not just in her body, but in her soul. She still didn’t understand where she was. The hospital room was like a frame from an old film: peeling paint on the walls, a creaky iron bed, a murky windowpane swirled with fog outside.

Yesterday’s conversation with the doctor had brought no clarity. Accident… Shatili… Memory loss… The words sounded empty. Alma remembered nothing. Not her arrival in Georgia, not the accident itself, not even her home in Germany. Her past had been erased, like chalk on a board that had been thoroughly wiped clean.

She sat up on the bed, feeling dizzy. Her head was splitting, as if squeezed in a vise. Alma lowered her feet onto the cold floor. There were no slippers. The room was empty, save for an old wooden chair in the corner. She felt abandoned and alone.

Steeling herself, Alma stood up and walked to the window. Beyond the murky glass, she could see the outlines of mountains shrouded in thick fog. Grey, impregnable peaks loomed over the village like stone sentinels guarding ancient secrets. Shatili… Alma tried to picture the place, but only vague images arose in her mind.

She opened the window, letting a stream of icy air into the room. The smell of smoke, damp earth, and unfamiliar herbs hit her nose. Alma froze, inhaling this strange, intoxicating aroma. It held a kind of wild, primal power.

Below, under the window, a narrow street wound its way between stone houses. The houses were old, built of rough stone, with small windows and flat roofs. They seemed abandoned and lifeless. Not a single person was in sight. Only a lone dog, skinny and dirty, wandered the street, rooting through garbage.

Alma felt a chill run down her spine. Something was wrong with this place. Something sinister and threatening. She didn’t know what, but she felt it in every cell of her body.

Suddenly, she heard the sound of footsteps. Someone was approaching the room. Alma froze, pressing herself against the wall. Her heart began to beat wildly in her chest. Who could it be? The doctor? Or someone else? Someone who might know the truth about what happened in Shatili?

The door creaked softly, and a woman entered. Not the doctor. A local woman, dressed in dark woolen clothes and rough leather boots. Her face was stern and wrinkled, as if carved from stone, but her eyes held a strange warmth. In her hands, she carried a wooden bowl filled with a steaming liquid.

“Gamarjoba, tsiskart,” the woman said in a quiet, hoarse voice. Alma didn’t understand a word. “I brought you some khashi,” the woman continued in broken Russian. “It’s a traditional Georgian soup. It will help you regain your strength.”

Alma looked warily at the bowl. The soup looked strange but smelled delicious. Its warm, spicy aroma filled the room, overpowering the smell of medicine. The woman noticed her hesitation and gave an encouraging smile. “Don’t be afraid, it’s good for you. Shatili is a harsh place. You need a lot of strength to survive here.”

Alma took the bowl and took a sip. The soup was very tasty. Thick, rich, with garlic and herbs. Warmth spread through her body like a small sun. Alma felt the tension ease slightly.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “My name is Alma.”

“I am Nana,” the woman replied. “I live here, in Shatili. I know it’s hard for you right now. You’ve lost your memory and don’t know where you’ve ended up. But don’t be afraid, you’re not alone. We will help you.”

Nana walked to the window and looked out at the mountains. “Shatili is a special place,” she said. “Strong, proud people live here. We have endured many hardships but preserved our culture and traditions. We love our land and are proud of it.”

Alma looked out the window. Now she saw Shatili with different eyes. Not just a gloomy and sinister place, but also a beautiful and majestic one. The stone towers stood like sentinels over the village, reminders of an ancient history and a strong spirit. The mountains, shrouded in fog, created a sense of mystery and seclusion.

But despite this beauty, Alma felt that something evil was hidden in Shatili. Something connected to her memory loss and the terrible premonition that hadn’t left her for a minute. And she knew she had to unravel this mystery to survive in this harsh and beautiful place.

Alma looked at Nana, trying to understand what lay behind her words. “What happened in Shatili?” she asked. “Why am I here?”

Nana sighed and looked away. “Things… happen here. Shatili is an old place, with a long history. And not all of that history has been bright.”

“But what happened to me?” Alma insisted. “Why can’t I remember my past?”

Nana was silent for a moment, as if weighing her words. “You’d better ask the doctor about that. I’m a simple woman; I don’t have answers to all the questions.” She put the bowl on the bedside table and headed for the door. “Rest. You need to regain your strength.”

“Wait!” Alma called out to her. “Do you know anything about murders? I… I think I saw something terrible.”

Nana stopped sharply at the door. Her face grew even sterner, her eyes as cold as the mountain peaks. “Don’t talk nonsense,” she snapped. “There are no murders in Shatili. It’s a quiet, peaceful place. You just need to rest and forget your nightmares.”

With those words, Nana left the room, leaving Alma alone in the cold, dark space. Alma felt fear grip her again. What was this woman hiding? Why had she reacted so sharply to the mention of murders? And what nightmares haunted her dreams?

Alma went back to the window and looked out at Shatili. Now it seemed the village was looking back at her. The stone towers watched her every move like eyes. The wind, whispering in an ancient tongue, seemed to warn her of danger.

She knew she couldn’t trust anyone. Not the doctor, not Nana, not any of these silent, stern people. She had to unravel the mystery of Shatili herself. She had to remember her past. She had to survive.

Suddenly, Alma noticed something in the window opposite. In one of the houses, directly across from her room, stood a figure. A person dressed all in black was watching her. Alma couldn’t make out the face, but she felt that gaze piercing right through her.

She froze in horror. Who was that? The killer? Or just a curious onlooker? Alma didn’t know, but she felt her life was in danger. The game had begun.

Instinctively, Alma recoiled from the window, pulling the curtain shut. Her heart was pounding like crazy. She felt that gaze, piercing and cold, penetrating her very soul. She needed to pull herself together. Panic was a bad advisor.

She looked around the room. The white walls felt oppressive in their sterility. The single door seemed like a trap. Alma knew she couldn’t stay here long. She needed to find out what was happening. She needed to remember what she had seen.

Alma walked over to the bedside table where Nana had left the bowl of khashi. The soup had cooled, but its warm aroma still hung in the air. Alma mechanically picked up the spoon and took a sip. The taste was rich, spicy, warming. For a moment, Alma thought she remembered something important. An image of a woman cooking khashi in a kitchen flashed in her memory, but then vanished.

Alma pushed the bowl away. She needed to act. She went to the door and listened. The corridor was quiet. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and peered out.

The corridor was empty and dimly lit. A window was visible at the end, fog swirling beyond it. Alma cautiously stepped out of the room and moved along the wall.

Passing one of the other rooms, she heard a muffled conversation. Alma pressed herself against the door and listened.

“…they say she saw…” one voice whispered.

“…can’t let her remember…” another replied.

Alma froze. Who were these people? Who were they talking about? And what had she seen?

“…Nana said she’d keep an eye on her…” the first voice continued.

“…Nana? She can’t be trusted… She’s too close to them…”

Alma felt a chill run down her spine. Nana! The very woman who had brought her khashi, the one who had seemed so kind and caring! Was she involved in something dark, too?

Alma slowly moved away from the door and continued down the corridor. She needed to run. She needed to hide. But where? And from whom?

Suddenly, she heard footsteps behind her. Alma turned and saw Nana. Her face was impassive.

“Where are you going?” Nana asked. Her voice was calm, but a flicker of anxiety showed in her eyes.

Alma felt fear paralyze her. She didn’t know what to say.

“I… I just wanted some fresh air,” she mumbled.

Nana stepped closer and looked at Alma intently. “You need to rest,” she said. “Come, I’ll take you back to your room.”

Alma knew she couldn’t resist. She knew Nana was lying. She knew her life was in danger. But she didn’t know what to do.

Nana took Alma by the hand and led her back to the room. Alma walked as if in a dream, feeling the noose tightening around her.

When they entered the room, Nana closed the door and turned to Alma. A knife glinted in her hands.

“Forgive me,” Nana whispered. “But this is necessary.”

Alma screamed.

Alma recoiled from Nana, pressing her back against the wall. In the woman’s hand glinted a knife – the kind used to cut cheese for khachapuri. Alma couldn’t believe her eyes. Did this kind, caring woman really want to kill her?

“What are you doing?” Alma whispered, trying to hide her fear. “Why?”

Nana’s face twisted in pain. “You shouldn’t have come to Shatili. You saw what you weren’t supposed to see.”

“What did I see? What is happening here?” Alma desperately tried to remember something, anything, but her mind was still empty.

“You saw them… You saw how they left,” Nana whispered, as if speaking to herself.

“Who are they? Who did I see?” Alma felt she was getting closer to the answer. But what answer? What terrible secret was Shatili hiding?

Suddenly, an image flashed in Alma’s mind. A dark night, a mountain road, three female figures walking along a path… And then – gunshots. Blood. Screams. Horror.

Alma clutched her head, trying to hold onto these fragmentary memories. “I… I remember… I saw women being killed!”

Nana’s face contorted even more. “Too late,” she whispered. “You’ve remembered too much.”

Nana lunged at Alma with the knife. Alma managed to dodge, and the knife only grazed her arm. Pain shot through her body, but Alma knew she had no time for self-pity.

She pushed Nana away and rushed for the door. But Nana was faster. She grabbed Alma by the hair and threw her to the floor.

Alma screamed, trying to break free. Nana was on top of her, pinning her down. A mad fire burned in her eyes.

“You will die,” Nana hissed. “And no one will ever know the truth.”

Alma felt the knife approaching her throat. Was this the end? Would she die in this cursed place without ever knowing what had happened?

Suddenly, the door to the room flew open, and a man entered. He was dressed in a black uniform. A policeman.

“What’s going on here?” he shouted, drawing his pistol.

Nana was distracted and turned. Alma used the moment to throw her off.

Nana tried to run, but the policeman fired a shot into the air. Nana froze.

“Hands up!” the policeman ordered.

Nana slowly raised her hands. Hatred and powerlessness were in her eyes.

The policeman approached her and put on handcuffs. “You are under arrest on suspicion of assaulting Alma Weiss and withholding information regarding the murder of three women.”

Alma lay on the floor, breathing heavily. She was saved. But she knew this was only the beginning. That behind this story lay something much larger than just a madwoman with a knife. And that she would have to learn the truth, no matter the cost.

Chapter 2

Through the Fog of Memory

A throbbing pain pulsed in her head, as if someone were methodically driving nails into her temples. Alma slowly opened her eyes, focusing on the familiar white ceiling. The room again. The hospital again. But something had changed. The atmosphere felt less oppressive, as if the fear had receded slightly, making room for a faint hope. Or perhaps she had just gotten used to it, like getting used to a constant toothache.

Sitting by the bed in an uncomfortable position was the policeman. Very young, barely twenty-five. Levan, as he had introduced himself yesterday. He had an open, honest face and kind, slightly tired eyes. He lacked the stern suspicion Alma had seen in the other residents of Shatili. He seemed sincere.

Levan started and stood up when he saw Alma was awake. A faint smile appeared on his face. “How are you feeling? Is your head hurting badly?”

Alma tried to sit up, but a sharp pain in her shoulder shot through her body. She groaned and fell back onto the pillow. “What about Nana? Where is she?”

Levan sighed and sat back down on the chair next to the bed. “Nana is under arrest. She’s been charged with assaulting you and withholding information about the murder of three women. She won’t harm you anymore, don’t worry.”

Alma felt relief, but not complete. She understood that Nana’s arrest was only a small part of the truth. Something much larger and more sinister lay behind this story, something that permeated the entire village. “Who killed those women?” she croaked, struggling to part her dry lips. “What is happening here? Why is everyone silent?”

Levan looked away, as if avoiding her direct question. “It’s complicated, Alma. Shatili is a special place. It has its own laws, its own traditions, its own secrets, carefully guarded from outsiders. What happened to those women… It’s a tragedy. A horrible tragedy. But we will figure it out. I promise.”

“I remember… I saw them,” Alma said, trying to hold onto the fragile shreds of memory. “But it’s all blurry… Like looking at the world through a foggy glass. I don’t understand what happened, why I’m here.”

Levan leaned forward, his gaze becoming more serious and focused. “Try to remember everything you can, Alma. Any little thing, any detail could be important. Even something that seems insignificant.” He handed her a glass of water. “Drink. It will help.”

Alma took the glass with trembling hands and took a few sips. The water was cold and refreshing, like a mountain stream. She felt the tension ease slightly, allowing her mind to clear. For a moment, she thought she remembered something important, but the thought slipped away like a caught butterfly escaping.

Closing her eyes, Alma tried to concentrate. She pictured that dark night, the mountain road, the three female figures walking along the path… And then – gunshots. Loud, deafening shots that shattered the night’s silence. Blood soaking the earth. Screams full of horror and despair.

“I saw them… They were walking on the road… It was dark… Very dark… Then I heard shots… I got scared and hid… I saw who was shooting…” Alma’s voice trembled, betraying her agitation.

“You saw the killer?” Levan asked, leaning even closer. Hope burned in his eyes. “Can you describe him?”

Alma shook her head. “No… I don’t remember his face… It’s all in a fog… I only saw a silhouette… Tall, thin… He was dressed all in black…”

“Try to remember something else,” Levan urged, not losing hope. “What happened then? Where did you go? What did you do? Any detail could help.”

Alma strained again, trying to pull anything useful from the depths of her memory. A new image surfaced. She was running through the forest, stumbling over roots and falling in the mud. Thorny branches scratched her face. She heard voices chasing her, like evil spirits. She was looking for shelter and found it in a dark, damp cave.

“I was running… I was running… I hid in a cave… It was dark and cold… Very cold… I was shaking with fear…” Alma began to cry, unable to hold back her emotions.

“What cave?” Levan asked, trying to remain calm. “Where is it? Can you describe it?”

Alma tried to remember. She saw the cave entrance, overgrown with wild blackberry bushes. She remembered the smell of damp earth, moss, and mold. She felt a chilling cold that went right to the bone. But where was it? Where was this cave?

“I don’t know… I don’t remember… I can’t remember,” Alma felt despair washing over her. “It’s all useless… I remember nothing… I’ll never remember!”

Levan took her hand, trying to calm her. “Don’t say that, Alma. Don’t give up. We will find that cave. We will find the killer. But you have to help us. You are the only one who can tell us what happened.”

Alma looked into Levan’s eyes. In them, she saw not only sincerity and hope but also desperation. She realized that Levan also wanted to know the truth. That he, too, was afraid of what was happening in Shatili. And that she was his last hope.

Gathering her strength, Alma wiped away her tears and looked at Levan with a firm gaze. “I will try,” she said. “I promise. I will remember everything.”

“I will try. I will remember everything,” Alma repeated, as if making a promise not only to Levan but to herself.

Levan nodded encouragingly. “Then let’s start. Tell me about that night. What were you doing in Shatili? Why were you on that road?”

Alma closed her eyes, trying to reconstruct the sequence of events. “I… I was traveling through Georgia… I wanted to see Shatili… I was told it was a beautiful and unusual place…”

“Were you alone?” Levan asked.

“Yes… I like to travel alone… It gives me freedom…” Alma faltered, feeling a new wave of pain pierce her head. “I don’t remember… I don’t remember how I got to Shatili… I don’t remember what I was doing that day…”

“Try to remember what happened before the accident,” Levan suggested. “What did you see? Who did you talk to? Where were you headed?”

Alma strained with all her might. Disjointed pictures floated into her head: a mountain landscape, a narrow road, a small cafe on the roadside, the smiling face of a waiter…

“I… I stopped at a cafe… I had coffee… I talked to the waiter… He was very kind…”

“Do you remember what you talked about?” Levan asked.

“He told me about Shatili… About its history… About its people… He said it was a place where time stood still…”

“Did he say anything about the murders?” Levan asked.

Alma frowned, trying to remember. “No… He didn’t say anything about murders… He only said that Shatili was a dangerous place… That harsh people lived there who didn’t like outsiders…”

“Did he say why it was dangerous?” Levan pressed.

“No… He just warned me… Told me to be careful…”

Alma fell silent, feeling her strength leaving her. The memories came and went like ghosts, leaving behind only a sense of pain and emptiness.

“Maybe you should rest?” Levan offered, seeing her condition. “We can continue tomorrow.”

Alma shook her head. “No… I have to remember… I have to know the truth… I can’t stop…”

“Alright,” Levan said. “Then tell me about the women. What do you remember about them?”

Alma closed her eyes and tried to picture those three women she had seen that night. She remembered their silhouettes, their dark clothes, their quiet voices. But she couldn’t remember their faces. She didn’t know who they were.

“I don’t know them… I’d never seen them before…” Alma whispered. “They were walking on the road… They were talking about something… Then I heard the shots…”

“Can you remember what they were talking about?” Levan asked.

Alma strained again. She tried to hear their voices, but there was only a cacophony of sounds in her head.

“They were talking… about something important… About something connected to Shatili… About some secret…”

“What secret?” Levan asked, holding his breath.

Alma shook her head. “I don’t know… I can’t remember… It’s all so far away… So blurry…”

Suddenly, a new image flashed in her mind. She saw an ancient book, bound in leather. On the cover was a symbol: a sun with bloody rays.

“A book!” Alma exclaimed. “They were talking about a book! Some ancient book with an image of the sun…”

“A book!” Alma exclaimed, her voice breaking, trembling with excitement and fear. “They were talking about a book! Some ancient book with an image of the sun… A sun with bloody rays…” The image of the book flared in her memory like a brand seared onto her retina.

Levan leaned forward sharply. His usually calm eyes now burned with an almost fanatical interest. “With an image of the sun? Are you absolutely sure, Alma? This is important!”

Alma nodded, barely feeling the pain in her shoulder. “Yes… Yes, I saw it… It was a very old book, large and heavy, with thick, yellowed pages… The binding seemed to be leather… They said it held some secret… Something very important that could change everything…”

“What secret, Alma? For God’s sake, remember!” Levan whispered, his voice quiet but filled with desperate tension. “What did they say about the secret?”

Alma concentrated; a storm of fragmented phrases, voices, and images raged in her head. She felt she was approaching the edge of an abyss, on the verge of understanding something terrible and irreversible.

“They were talking… about a tradition… About some ancient, cursed ritual… About revenge…” Each word was a struggle, as if she were pulling them from a viscous swamp. “They said it was necessary… To protect Shatili…”

Levan recoiled from her as if from a leper and began pacing the cramped room like a caged animal. “Revenge? A ritual? What ritual, Alma? You must remember! This could help us stop it!”