<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now his main concern was to find water. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
He knew he couldn\u2019t survive long without water. Once he saw a heavy cloud with gray, swollen teats hanging down from its belly, but it soon dissipated without rain. In early mornings, when the air was icy cold, columns of fog walked between tree trunks. But still, the forest around him was as dry as tinder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Vlas felt at home in the forest. So many years had passed, but city streets still felt foreign to him. Born in a taiga village, nursed by the taiga, he was in love with its mysterious twilight; he loved its echoless silence and the comforting crunch of pine needles underfoot. Being here, in the world of towering pines, he felt peace and tranquility as if he had found his real home at last. But now, he had to do something about water.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When it got dark, he used a trick his father had taught him once: he raised his head to the sky and howled, imitating the wolf\u2019s call.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He listened, and listened, and listened. The air was quiet, without a hint of breeze. Then somewhere, very far away, at the edge of hearing, a dog\u2019s barking answered him. Dogs meant people. Probably it was a remote settlement of Tunguses. Or, who knows, a labor camp zone, surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by shepherd dogs. Searchlights. Guards with tommy guns, sitting in their nests like black storks. Sleeping and dying people who mumble and wheeze on their wooden bunks, with paralyzing fear in their skulls instead of dreams. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Tilting his head back, he imitated another long howl and waited again. No, the barking he heard wasn\u2019t the voice of brainless shepherd dogs guarding a camp. Only watchdogs could bark like that. They guarded a house and the kind, peaceful people who lived in it. At least, it was what he wished to believe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
* * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The house built of logs sat in the forest of dead and dying pines, which seemed transparent like a lump of orange glass. There were three dogs: two of them chained, and the third one, muscular and tough-looking like a wild boar walked freely. It came to Vlas, poked its warty nose at his leg, snorted, shook its hind leg with contempt, and walked away, but neither growled nor tried to bite. The other two were strangely silent. Vlas saw a mossy stones of the well, and thirst dried his throat. He came to the well and drank from the rusty pail. Some clay pots hung on the old fence. He saw a pigsty and a pig at its door, which lay hugging a pumpkin and squinting its myopic eyes at the stranger. A barn, or probably a stable, was nestled under the orange candle of a big maple shedding leaves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He could hear a song coming from the window. A young female voice sang:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I\u2019ll be nice to my dear guests,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n I\u2019ll make for them some mushroom scones.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n They will eat a hearty dinner,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n and I\u2019ll make a coffin for their bones.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n A broad-shouldered man with a graying beard opened the door. He was a boulder of a man, with large hands, arms, and chest, with a white scar curling below his right cheekbone. He looked the stranger over from head to toe, and let him in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNow tell me who you are,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd show me your papers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m a geologist,\u201d said Vlas, trying to sound convincing. \u201cI don\u2019t have to show my papers to you. I\u2019ll show them to a militia squad, if it\u2019s necessary.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHmm . . . Excuse my questions, stranger, but no one can be trusted now. There are too many enemies of people around . . . Geologists never travel alone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt depends on what they are looking for.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou\u2019re probably right,\u201d the bearded man agreed. \u201cThen, where are your tools? Have you lost them in the forest? Do you have a compass or a map? Where is your geological hummer? Or your microscope? I think you\u2019re lying, man. You must be a zek escaping from Rudnik.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOf course, I\u2019m lying,\u201d Vlas said. \u201cYou\u2019d better put some vodka and a loaf of bread on the table if you want to hear the truth.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n The man called his wife to the room. Vlas saw a young, rather tall woman, with nervous lips and somewhat mannered gestures. She brought water, a bottle of moonshine, a loaf of bread, and some mushroom scones. He was surprised to see that the woman\u2019s hair was tied up in a perfect ballet bun. He sat down to a clean wooden table, but decided not to eat the scones.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI used to live in this area long ago,\u201d said Vlas to the bearded man who was watching him with an unblinking stare. \u201cI lived in Anatamka and then in Kyerka. It\u2019s about two hundred miles to the north from here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYeah, I know where it is,\u201d the man said. He had already emptied a glass of moonshine, and his cheeks and his veiny neck were red. \u201cNow you\u2019re telling the truth. I can feel it in your voice.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut I wasn\u2019t there for twenty years,\u201d Vlas continued. \u201cWhen I returned, I didn\u2019t recognize my village. The taiga has changed and people have changed as well. I\u2019m a city-dweller now, a philologist and a writer. I decided to write a book about people who were turning the Yenisei to the north.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The man lit a Kazbek cigarette and shoved it into the gray froth of his beard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cA writer, you say? Right. Do you write about the taiga?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m mostly interested in stories people tell. Maybe you can also tell me something worth hearing, and I\u2019ll put your story in the book.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSomething interesting, you say, eh? I don\u2019t know. Life is simple out here. There used to be a lot of animals in the taiga before. In early spring, bears broke into the windows when my mother, God bless her soul, was cooking salted meat. So many boars walked around that you could catch them with your bare hands. Pikes in our river, the Tazz, were so big that it took three men to drag them out of the water. But that was very long ago. When the Yenisei started turning north, the water spread wide, and the taiga around here turned into a swamp. It didn\u2019t last long. The swamp disappeared in a year or two, and we\u2019ve been having a great drought since then. The big river turned into a brook. All the pikes in it died, and only roach survived. This year, the brook is going to dry up as well. But there are no mosquitoes anymore.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHas the Yelloguy dried up too?<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo, the Yelloguy is still running, but it\u2019s sixty miles away from here. You should know geography better. Don\u2019t interrupt me, philologist. When fish and animals died, people left this place. Only the old Pherrapont and I decided to stay. His old log hut is over there, behind that hill. We stayed because of our wells. To the very Yelloguy you can\u2019t find any water around. My hut here is the last oasis in the desert. So I live and give water to strangers who happen to walk by: to geologists and all kinds of philologists like you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The man laughed unkindly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTell me about Pherrapont. Is he still living in his log hut?\u201d said Vlas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHis well was better and bigger than mine. And his character was more cheerful. And his moonshine was sweeter. So all the travelers went for water to Pherrapont, and not to me. I didn\u2019t like it. Who would? One day I tried to throw some poison into his well, but his dogs didn\u2019t let me do it. So I invented a clever trick: I started to swear his well in mat words.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIn mat words? But mat is just profanity, a filthy language. How can it help?\u201d asked Vlas, surprised. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou philologists know nothing about words! My mother who was from a family of Tungus shamans, often said that Russian mat words are the last remains of pagan fertility cult, so they still have magic power. I remember her swearing in mat over her dough, and the dough rose much faster then, just before my eyes. When she matted milk, it immediately turned sour. One day she matted my father so severely that a bear broke his neck just a few hours later. There was a shaman\u2019s power in her words, and probably is in mine because the same blood flows in my veins. So imitating my mother\u2019s example, I started going out at dawn and curse Pherrapont\u2019s well in mat for a whole hour, every day. And you know what? His well dried up some months later. Pherrapont died from grief and from drinking too much soon.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The man emptied another glass, turned it upside down, and smelled a crust of bread. Vlas did the same.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Night was approaching, and the woman started making up a bed for Vlas, on an old sofa, outside the bedroom.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow old are you?\u201d Vlas asked her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTwenty three.\u201d She shook a blanket, then patted the pillow to show how soft it was, all in precise, quick, but at the same time unhurried motions as if she were a professional dancer performing in a musical show. Her neck was impossibly long and slender.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAnd how old is your husband?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFifty-seven. But he isn\u2019t really my husband. He is my master. I\u2019m a slave here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Saying that, she turned to Vlas, and he felt her warm breath, and suddenly her eyes got incredibly, almost kingfisher blue and, for a fraction of a moment, he felt he could fly without wings. He was sure her eyes had momentarily changed their color. Now they were water reflecting summer sky. Two tiny magic lakes, with currents flowing deep, and full of underwater life. He was too stunned to say anything.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTime\u2019s pressing,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019ve got only a couple of minutes. You should know that my husband and master gets paid for catching such escapers from the camps as you. That\u2019s what he gets paid for. He gets seven hundred roubles for every enemy of people he has caught. He didn\u2019t believe your story. No one would. His dogs are trained to catch people. They let everyone in, but don\u2019t let anyone out. They can easily hunt you down in the forest, if by any chance you try to run away. He caught me one day too, but didn\u2019t hand me over to the militia. He let me stay with him as a wife and slave. I have no other choice than to serve him faithfully, or else I\u2019ll die in labor camps. I\u2019m three months pregnant, so if you decide to kill him, please, don\u2019t kill me and my baby. There is a double-barreled gun in the pantry. It\u2019s always loaded. You must kill him if you want to live. There is no other way. He has a horse, so you can escape after killing him. And he has a telephone in the back room, to report the convicts who escaped from the camps. Now do something! Are you a man or what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Now her face was as white as chalk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI feel dizzy,\u201d she said. \u201cI\u2019d better go and drink some water.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She walked out of the room, carrying the future in her body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n * * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n An orange mist of the late afternoon rays poured through the window. Looking out, Vlas saw that the dogs were unchained now. They lay at the porch steps, watching the door, listening, counting each step behind it, lifting their muzzles again and again. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The bearded man came into the room and patriotically crossed himself in front of the blackened portraits of Stalin, the Father of the Peoples, and Marx, the Author of the One and Only True Theory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s happened to you?\u201d he asked Vlas. \u201cYou look terrible. What\u2019s wrong?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYour wife is three months pregnant,\u201d Vlas said, surprised at the hoarse sound of his own voice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cHow do you know about that?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI was a physician in the past. I understand such things. She felt bad just a minute ago.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSuch things happen to women,\u201d the bearded man said. \u201cShe\u2019s going to be all right.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo,\u201d said Vlas. \u201cShe needs a doctor immediately, or else she\u2019ll die. Now, they have a new medicine that can save her and your baby as well. It\u2019s called antibiotic. Without it, she\u2019s going to die in a week, at most. You can buy that medicine for seven hundred roubles.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSeven hundred roubles is big money,\u201d the man said, and his scarred fingers clenched into a fist. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPenicillin antibiotic. And a doctor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWait for me here, I\u2019ll be back soon, after I telephone to the city.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He shuffled off without haste.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Soon after the man left the room, Vlas followed him. He opened the door to the corridor, quietly. He could see two doors now: one led to a summer veranda, the other one to the pantry, where the man kept his gun. There was a heavy padlock on it. He didn\u2019t know what to do about that. He couldn\u2019t think clearly. It wasn\u2019t panic yet, but the damp, nibbling fear he felt made him sick. <\/p>\n\n\n\n The door to the veranda creaked. He was sure someone was standing there, watching him. The door creaked again, sending widening concentric circles of fear through his soul. Drops of perspiration trickled from his forehead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The door opened slowly and the woman came out of the veranda. The sun shone through her dress, and Vlass could see how skinny or even emaciated she was. Her belly and breasts were almost non-existent. She held a stack of fresh towels in her hands. She measured Vlas with her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou are scared, man,\u201d she said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYes, I am.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s disgusting!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo, not at all. Some people are made of steel, some are made of stone, but some people are made of glass. I\u2019m made of glass. I\u2019m fragile, but it\u2019s not bad. You can\u2019t build a house of steel and stone, without any glass.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, you\u2019ll never do it, philologist,\u201d she said. \u201cYou\u2019d better not even try.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOpen the pantry door.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo. I\u2019ve changed my mind. You can\u2019t kill him. You\u2019ll just destroy me and yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhen escaping from the camp,\u201d he said, \u201cI killed a guard.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSo what? Give yourself a Gold Star of the Hero of the Soviet Union for it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNow I don\u2019t care if I have to kill anyone else. Open the door!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n They both were speaking in a half-whisper, afraid to alert the master of the house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her face tautened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t believe you,\u201d she said. \u201cYou\u2019ve never killed anyone in your life. You are a rotten intellectual. You have no proper violence in you. I could take your eyes out with my bare fingers, if I wanted it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Still, she opened the door, came into the pantry, and put the towels on the lid of a barrel, carefully. \u201cWhat\u2019s now?\u201d asked her eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He followed her. She lit a candle, and two commas of golden light started dancing in her eyes. He didn\u2019t know what it was, but he was sure she was going to say something extraordinary now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJadwiga,\u201d she said. \u201cBut he calls me Jaga, the forest witch. I remind him of his mother, who was really a witch everyone around was afraid of. She could cast spells. He believes I have the same psychic powers his mother did. He believes I\u2019m a witch too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cNo, I don\u2019t think so. I\u2019m just a na\u00efve city girl. In the past, I went to a ballet school in Moscow. People said I was really talented. Hoped to dance in the Bolshoi Theatre. And here\u2026 Here no one even knows how toilet paper looks.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThen what are you doing here?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt\u2019s better than pushing up the daisies. Or rather, pushing up the moss and pine needles\u2026 He is a kind of Bluebeard. You know, I\u2019m his seventh wife, and the ghosts of all his previous wives speak to me at night. When he is drunk, he plays his accordion and makes me dance to the music. You know, the Dying Swan, Giselle, and the like. He keeps me always hungry, so I am in good dancing shape. He insists on it . . . Unlike you, he isn\u2019t fragile.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Suddenly he knew he would live. Live a very long life, a personal forever. Just because he had seen all this and many other terrible things like this. That was a sufficient reason for living long. He had been walking through his life, holding his attentiveness in front of himself like a small oil lamp, never judging, never intruding much, making visible this and that, and remembering, always remembering. If he died, so many things he \u2018d been a witness to would disappear. The ultimate force ruling the universe would never allow that to happen. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d he said, \u201cI\u2019m so sorry . . . \u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t speak too much,\u201d she interrupted him curtly, \u201cor you\u2019ll faint from hyperventilation. Take the gun and do something!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She handed him the gun. The barrels looked bronzed in the candle light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI\u2019m going to lock you in the pantry,\u201d he said. \u201cGive me the keys.\u201d He took them, and when their fingers touched, she startled and pulled her hand away, like a frightened child. He felt touched. \u201cBe as quiet as a mouse here. I\u2019m not going to kill anyone yet, but who knows?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She looked at him with disdain. Her lashes trembled, and he was sure she was about to cry, but instead, she opened her mouth so wide that he could see all her molars, even in the darkness, and let out a hysterical scream ringing in his ears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Vlas jumped out of the pantry, locked the door. Jadwiga still screamed and yelled like mad. The next moment, the outer door flung open, and Vlas saw the bearded man with a sharpened axe in his hand. The blade glittered. A huge dog jumped out from behind the man\u2019s back and attacked Vlas. He shot point-blank. The dog gulped the bullet, its eyes expectant and uncomprehending; its head jerked back and burst into a bloody horror, into an open pomegranate. Vlas pushed the heavy body away. Seeing that, the man stopped in his tracks. The other two dogs were barking outside.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cPut the axe down on the floor,\u201d Vlas said, and the man dropped the axe down, then ripped open the cross-stitched collar of his shirt and breathed loudly through his nose like a bull. \u201cNow turn to the wall, get on your knees, and place your hands behind your back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The gun was cold and heavy under his fingers. It felt alive and having its own will. A metal snake about to strike out and bite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The man did what he was told to do.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cJust don\u2019t hit my wife in the stomach,\u201d he said to Vlas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDon\u2019t kill my baby, please.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou surprise me,\u201d Vlas said. \u201cI thought you were as unable to love as a fir tree.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIf I take a mature fir cone that has already begun to open,\u201d the man said, \u201cand plant it under a big tree, it will never grow. But if I plant it in the shade of its parent tree, it\u2019ll become a seedling, even without full sunlight. It just goes to prove that even trees can love their babies. If you promise not to kill her and not to hit her in the stomach, I\u2019ll tell you where I hide my money. Seven thousand roubles.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t need your money.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI hid it in the pigsty.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t need your money,\u201d said Vlas again, and the man howled softly, rocking back and forth. Vlas tied his hands behind his back with a lacy curtain he tore from the window. All the time Jadwiga was shouting and banging on the wall of the pantry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Vlas tied the man\u2019s legs too, then he dragged him to the bedroom, shoved a gag into his mouth, and tied him to the heavy wooden bed. The man arched his back, flopped like freshly caught fish, in attempts to free himself, and tried to drag the bed behind him like oxen drag a plough stuck in the middle of a furrow. Vlas started searching the house. First of all, he cut the telephone wire, then took two big knives, a whetstone, salt, two lumps of sugar, a sack of flour, and seven boxes of matches in the kitchen. Drew new pants on: his old ones were drenched in the dog\u2019s blood, which was still wet and had the consistence of yolk. Found a razor and shaved accurately. Drank chilly water from a metal pail. Washed his hands. All the time he could hear the man cursing, his voice muffled by the gag. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Then he let the woman out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy did you scream and bang?\u201d he asked her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou never know how things are going to turn out, right?\u201d she said. \u201cIf Pantelei, my husband, had been lucky enough, you know, to kill you, he\u2019d have asked me then, \u2018why didn\u2019t you shout for help, bitch?\u2019 What would I have said to that? So I shouted for help. I have a baby in me to protect. And besides . . . \u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She started to cry. \u201cI just wanted to make you angrier,\u201d she sobbed out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat for?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cTo make you kill this brute, of course! But you didn\u2019t, and now I\u2019ll have to live with him on and on until he decides to find someone younger. I\u2019d kill him myself, but I can\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cSorry, neither can I.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat should we do then?\u201d she asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. Pity you\u2019re not a witch, or you could curse him as he cursed Pherrapont\u2019s well.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cDo you think it is going to help?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCurse him in mats, as hard as you can. With soul. You might as well try.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWith soul? Right.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Then Jadwiga breathed in deeply and let out the longest and wildest hurricane of mats Vlas had ever heard. Being a philologist, he knew that the dictionary or Russian mat contained six thousand mat words derived from only four obscene roots, using the inexhaustible arsenal of suffixes, prefixes and phonetically similar words, but it was surely just the icing on the cake: the real number of mat words was infinite. Mat words could be any part of speech, except a personal pronoun. So you could use just personal pronouns, those four roots and their derivatives to build a complete language in itself, capable of expressing any emotions and ideas, including the subtlest ones. <\/p>\n\n\n\n Jadwiga was uttering her curse practically without stopping, taking just brief pauses to catch her breath, and then again, new and new curses exploded from her lips. Suddenly, pots jumped up on the old fence, the mirror above a dilapidated washstand cracked, and dust rose from the ground. Pine needles started swirling in a flimsy vortex around her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Vlas knew that the official record of mat phrases belonged to tzar Peter the Great, who had managed to say seventy-four mat words in one sentence. The record sentence containing only one mat root and its derivatives but nothing else was twenty-four words long. But what he heard now was a linguistic miracle. Jadwiga still spoke, pronouncing her curse, and her eyes were sightless, unfocused, looking into nothing, but full of dark fire. A terrible thing to see. Then she tilted her head to the sky, as if cursing angels, or maybe, persistent communist rockets that pierced the stratosphere and beyond, bringing Marxists ideology to angels, moons, planets, and stars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n At last, she stopped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOh, you\u2019re really a forest witch!\u201d Vlas said. The last words of her curse still rippled through his mind, travelling back and forth. \u201cThat was an epic symphony.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She just smiled. Then she blushed, flattered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n She pulled the dogs on the chain. <\/p>\n\n\n\n He took the gun and cartridges and everything else and was ready to go. Jadwiga appeared on the porch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThe Bluebeard has swallowed the gag and died!\u201d she said, a note of undisguised triumph sounding in her voice. She came close to him and kissed him on the cheek. \u201cThank you for your advice, enemy of people. Good luck to you. You\u2019ll find water six miles to the west, in the old bed of the Tazz. It\u2019s so shallow now that you can wade across it without the water getting higher than you waist. Then just let the horse go and she will find her way home. She always does.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAre you going to labor and birth alone?\u201d he asked. \u201cIn the middle of the forest, like an animal?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy not? I like being alone. I\u2019m introspective.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cBut . . . \u201c<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou know quite well you can\u2019t stay. You don\u2019t have your papers. You\u2019ll be caught and sent back to the camp, and the communists will break you with tortures as they break anyone. Don\u2019t worry about me. I\u2019m strong. I\u2019m made of steel. Have a nice journey, enemy of people.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He saddled the horse, mounted, and rode away at a hurried pace into the infinite cathedral of pines and night shadows. He was going to look back and glance at her for the last time, but the next minute he already had to maneuver among the outcrops of boulders\u2014the remains of ancient mountains that still tried to strangle the forest with granite fingers\u2014and he didn\u2019t. <\/p>\n\n\n\n So he didn\u2019t look back. And a minute later, she became a memory.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \n\n\n\n SERGEY GERASIMOV<\/strong> lives in Kharkiv, Ukraine. His stories written in English have appeared in Adbusters<\/em>, Clarkesworld Magazine<\/em>, Strange Horizons<\/em>, J Journal<\/em>, Fantasy Magazine<\/em>, Oceans of the Mind<\/em>, and other venues. Also, he is the author of several novels and more than a hundred short stories published in Russian. Translator of Russian poetry and prose.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Sergey Gerasimov Now his main concern was to find water. He knew he couldn\u2019t survive long without water. Once he saw a heavy cloud with gray, swollen teats hanging down from its belly, but it soon dissipated without rain. In … Continue reading
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