The Fantastic Worlds of Yuri Vynnychuk

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The Fantastic Worlds of Yuri Vynnychuk Page 8

by Yuri Vynnychuk


  “Well, look,” I thought, “You don’t have to travel far for folklore—it’s under your house, growing like pigweed.”

  “That’s not all,” Kostyo couldn’t calm down, “If it only was! But those rabbits influence us in some way. At times it seems as though something is creeping into your soul... well, I don’t know how to say it... it’s as though you’re a rabbit... Do you understand?”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “Well, you walk along the field and above you a raven says “Caw!,” and you shrivel up. Or a dog begins to bark, and it’s as though a grater’s passing along down your back. Or you look into the mirror—and see the spitting image of a rabbit. It’s already at the point I shave just when I really have to, so I don’t have to look as often in the mirror... Or if you look at your wife—she gets a harelip. I’ve lived with her for so long and never noticed it. And then suddenly I noticed... Something unfathomable is going on... You’re about to laugh—and that laughter is just like a rabbit’s squeal. Eh, eh... Have I ever eaten raw carrots before or cabbage? Never before. Then from a certain point in time I began to guzzle down food... Somehow I drop by at my neighbor’s—and he’s holding his hand behind his back. And he—chomp, chomp... his hand behind his back... then he quietly lowers it. Then it rolls out from under a bench. I look—a head of cabbage. Well, I think, it’s not just me who’s stupid.”

  “It turns out then, Valikhnovska tricked us?”

  “It turns out she did... Not for pleasure of course. Her husband also got a heart attack cause of those rabbits when he chased after them with a rifle... Hey, why am I telling you just about bad stuff? I made a fence out of barbed wire, I dug in wooden stakes all around the seedlings and now I have some peace. You can live... why not? Just sometimes you feel like hiding in a corner, falling to the ground and pretending that you’re not there. Why is that so?”

  2

  A year passed...

  “Where’re you going?”

  “I’m gonna do some shooting.”

  “Don’t go,” I could sense an apprehension in her voice I never knew. She looks at me almost pleading. I want to shake this penetrating gaze off of me, but can’t. “Do you hear me?” Her voice echoes as though from a far off valley. “I don’t want you to go. Better if you’d play with Baby Andriy.”

  Baby Andriy is fidgeting on the floor, trying to fix a broken drum-playing mechanical rabbit.

  “I’ll be back soon... I’ll bring him a little rabbit.”

  “I want a little rabbit!” The little guy screamed. “This one’s broke. Bring me another one.”

  I walk out of the house and I see my wife’s tightly compressed lips. They’re trembling like leaves in the wind.

  Our house rises above the wide high ground, overgrown on both sides with sweetbrier and thorn berries. The high ground rolls to Kryva Dolyna and gets lost there. My feet slip along the loose, saturated earth.

  I looked back beyond the gate. I saw her face in the window. Having pushed aside the curtain, she follows after me with her gaze , it’s as though I hear: “Don’t go!”

  A morose noontime takes me into its gray coldness, a damp silence on watch wafted out of the valley.

  I took my rifle off my shoulder and slowed down my step so as not to frighten the rabbits beforehand.

  3

  When Arkhyp Kalenyk found out that I had bought a rifle to hunt rabbits, he wagged his head, deeply disconcerted.

  “You want problems? I can’t recall anybody ever shooting even a miserable one here.”

  “Till I try my hand—I won’t believe it.”

  “But this is stupid. There are a lot better ways to kill time. Ones that are completely safe.”

  “And do you want to believe in all that nonsense? For a while I’ve had a mind to teach them rabbits a lesson. Especially now that I’ve bought a rifle.”

  “Have they really bugged you so much?”

  “All those tall tales they spin around them have bugged me the most.” “And what if I tell you they’re not rabbits at all?” “Not rabbits? How can they not be rabbits?”

  “So-o... they’re not rabbits. Maybe they’re some kind of demons, do I know? It just happens sometimes that at night something shines in the valley. I’ve seen that light. It was in the form of half a globe as big as a good size hut. I stood there dumbstruck, I didn’t believe my eyes. I thought I had to come closer and look. I was going-going along and it was—well just like from the house to the fence gate... and I couldn’t get up closer to it. As though it’s not going further away, and it’s standing in place, but you can’t go up to it. I spat and started off along the road home. But when I emerged on top of a hill and looked back—the light was gone.”

  “What could it have been?”

  “Maybe little people or the rabbits drying their treasures in the moonlight,” Kalenyk wryly laughed.

  4

  I sat down on a stone, began to smoke and waited. The entire valley was dotted with big and small stones, in places they were squeezed out of the ground and gigantic—half a man’s height, as well as clumps the height of a man. They were covered with moss, they got wrapped with bindweed, spare tufts of grass jutted out from the crannies. The place wasn’t very suitable for rabbits. True, a tall fern created something like a roof over the ground, and if a rabbit were to sit still, you’d hardly see him unless you stumble over him while you were walking. I lifted up a pretty big stone with my foot, and it began to roll down, bending over stalks of ferns to both sides. I kicked one, another, a third, and a fourth. The stones rolled, jumping up, hollowly striking one another, and grew still somewhere in the depths of the valley in the sweetbrier bushes and hawthorns. With a staff I raised an entire clump, round and wide-brimmed, and it rolled with a rattling sound, hitting the smaller stones, and then a whole bunch of them went downhill, so the fern began to hiss angrily.

  Then I saw it. It jumped out of the grass, dove, jumped out again, and dashed, leaping before my eyes. I aimed and fired.

  But I missed. The rabbit escaped. Then another one appeared, and, jumping just as high, rushed in the direction of the dense bushes. I fired again. This time the rabbit no longer jumped. With a joyful shout I ran to the spot where I saw it last. I didn’t have to search long. Bending a fern I saw droplets of blood on a stone. But the rabbit wasn’t there. A little further—blood again. I began to amble to the bottom of the valley, surprised at the spiritedness of this rabbit, because he certainly must have lost a lot of blood if he had marked the road for me so considerately. A tall prickly wall of blooming thorns cut my path. There in the thicket, perhaps, the last tracks were lost. And when I raked away the twisted branches with my rifle, I nearly shouted from surprise—the rabbit was sitting in the bushes and looking at me. He looked with such ferocity in his eyes that it was not like a rabbit, but an agitated dog. For a second I froze in indecision, but the rabbit didn’t flee, and I feverishly began to think over the situation. I can’t crawl through those bushes and I can’t reach it with my arms. The bullet obviously had hit it in the back leg, which was all red, and surrounding it a whole pool of blood. This was unbelievable—rabbits don’t have this much blood. I recalled that the tracks he had left behind also were overly saturated. Blood could be seen on the stalks of the ferns, and here even on the branches and leaves. An improbable fear took over me, perhaps the result of that fierce gaze that crucified and quartered me, a gaze that I was unable to endure, and I turned my eyes away. Trying not to make sudden movements or to make noise, I let the branches return to their place and then rapidly loaded the rifle. And again, spreading the branches apart, I met those hateful eyes. It was evident how furiously its tiny heart was beating—its chest pulsed in a nervous rhythm, and the pool of blood got bigger. Maybe it feels the pain, I thought. Then why is it sitting so still? I tried to imagine myself with a wounded leg, that is, rather not to imagine, but to recall how when in the army a piece of railroad track flew out of my arms and fell on my instep. I rocked back a
nd forth along the gravel, going out of my mind from the pain, I coiled and uncoiled like the torn off tail of a lizard, wailing so much that you could hear me maybe all the way to the next station, then it turned out that nothing really awful had happened, just a small crack.

  I raised my gun at him and noticed surprise and despair flashing in his eyes, as though he expected something that I was supposed to read in his eyes and understand—there was something else besides ferocity, there was something there which I didn’t pay attention to, and now I distressingly wanted to remember, as though my own fate and further life depended on this, but my memory didn’t return anything but this wrath of his. My finger froze on the trigger, perspiration covered my brow, my heart became vile and frightful.

  He didn’t run away, he stubbornly looked at me and it seemed as if he were reading me like an ABC book, reading me—wretched and empty, because that’s exactly how I was at that moment. Didn’t he really have the strength to crawl away a little further, at least to move from that spot? Maybe he understands that right when he does that I’ll shoot immediately. I knew this, waiting for him to stir, and the rabbit stuck out petrified in place, and his ears protruded, and bloody veins appeared in his eyes, as though the fires of a distant city flared, extinguished, and flared again, because it was certainly the only language with which he could still come to an understanding with me—the language of blood. Only I couldn’t understand it any longer.

  This gaze would soon crack me like a nut and shell me. I already felt how it was becoming difficult to breathe, as though I had just covered a who-knows-how-long-of-a distance, just a little more and my heart will be beating in single rhythm with his tiny frightened heart. I understood the stupidity of all these thoughts but I couldn’t control myself, something greater than fear crawled into my chest. And then I hollered at him. I wanted to shout something like “shoo!,” but only a graty whoop tore out, either because my mouth got filled with saliva, or because of the imaginary run, after which I sensed myself exhausted and with bitter acid burning in my throat.

  The shouting, though, didn’t stir him. This was already beyond my strength. I couldn’t leave my trophy in these bushes, and, putting my tail between my legs like a beaten dog, trudged home. I had to leave from here as a victor, because I am the king of nature and he is not. How dare he humiliate me with his terrifying steadfastness, throw me from my height to occupy the place that is destined to be mine? Now it was not ferocity, but the blood of distant ancestors beginning to shimmer and flap like flags, and then with such fervor as though I am destroying all the evil and unfairness in the world, with the fervor of a person who had been chosen for this blessed mission, believing that all of humankind was behind me—I pressed the trigger.

  The eyes of the rabbit flared, but I no longer noticed surprise in them, the blow tossed him away and knocked him on his side, shattering his pulsing chest.

  With my walking stick I pulled him closer, grabbed him by the ears and pulled him out of the bushes. His weight surprised me. He was too heavy, maybe twice the weight of an average rabbit. This must be some kind of special breed, I thought, throwing my trophy into a bag, and I started off uphill. It began to grow gray, a fog slowly crawled into the valley, and the ferns joyfully met it.

  I felt easy and uplifted, as if I had just thrown off an unbelievable burden from my shoulders. But then I heard a squeal in the grass, bent over for a moment and saw a small baby rabbit. It was shriveled up and leaning close to the ground. I’m lucky, I thought, my little one will be really pleased. I grabbed the baby rabbit by the skin and, putting it in my hat, carried it off home.

  It was already completely dark when I made my way out of the valley. My mood was like after a just victorious battle.

  I walked along the road and whistled. The baby rabbit squatting quietly sat in the hat that I pressed to my chest.

  And here I heard that someone was behind me, I even differentiated the stealthy footsteps. I nervously glanced back—some kind of shadow suddenly appeared on the road, or so it seemed... I stopped, guardedly looking into the darkness, and again an interminable fear overcame me, and my ears began to rise just like a rabbit’s.

  I moved almost in a run, but the road led uphill and I quickly ran out of breath and slowed my pace. Behind me I could clearly hear footsteps, here the unknown thing stepped on a branch and it cracked dryly. I stopped again almost physically sensing how my ears had stretched out, ardently listening to the darkness. But I didn’t hear anything more and didn’t see anything suspicious.

  Gotta move on, these hallucinations can go to hell...

  The higher I climbed, the hills along the path grew shorter and shorter, the force of the wind increased, it ruffled my hair, which now stuck to the side of my head. My head cast the shadow of a beet with a top. Tall ash trees rustled so loudly that I barely could catch the sloshing sound of feet behind me, someone was doggedly following me, managing to remain undiscovered. I tried to calm myself. Why be afraid? I have a rifle. Here I remembered that it wasn’t loaded. I loaded it on the move. Again I looked back. The stranger obviously was walking along the palisade where it was darkest. Then I also stepped to the side and plowed along the palisade. It was curious that I barely heard my own steps, on the other hand, those in back of me still came through, despite the swaying of the wind and the rustling of the ash trees. High in the clouds the blind half-eye of the moon swayed, it blew cold and emptily from the sky where, it seemed, terrible winds were raging at that time, and the whirlwind dances were drawing in frightened stars as though into a vortex.

  It was already not far, I could see the illuminated windows of my house. And I boldly quickened my pace.

  Suddenly I screamed—something grabbed my left pant leg. It jolted from between two fence boards—my first sensation was that the tentacles of an octopus had grabbed me. I nearly fainted from surprise, tore away my leg—something prickly and thin passed along my pant leg. Soon my other leg was girdled by these... I don’t know what to call them, because at that moment only the frantic round dance of octopi and cuttlefish circled in my head. Fortunately, when I tore free, I slipped and fell, and my hand ended up in the interweaving of those prickly tentacles, and only then did I understand that it was an ordinary blackberry bush. I tore out of it onto my feet, swore loudly and stepped out onto the road.

  Curiously, the whole time that I was writhing to and fro beneath the fence, I couldn’t hear the steps of the stranger. That meant that he was waiting patiently. I went on more slowly, straining my ear and trying to understand where my tormentor was. He too should get tangled up in the blackberry bush. But I had already crossed a large chunk of the path, and his steps hadn’t become silent for a moment. What does he want?

  “What do you want?!” I screamed, shouting over the wind and the rustling of the trees, the shout flew off and opened up in the darkness without an answer.

  Then I threw myself into a run, my feet got stuck in the mud, and slipped, it wasn’t easy to keep my balance, but the protective light of my own house quickly grew close, and I was already in the magic circle of the house light. Our entire yard was brightly illuminated. I entered with the look of a victor and shout:

  “Khry-y-yshka!”

  And the wind reverberated with the ash trees: “Khry-y-yshka!”

  My wife appears on the threshold with the little one.

  “Look what I brought!”

  I gave them my trophy, and only then, turning my face to where I had come from, but my tormentor wasn’t bold enough to step into the area of the light. He remained there in the darkness, it seems I could even discern his figure—he was standing beyond the fence and, perhaps, was looking at us.

  “Khrystia, look over there—is anybody there?”

  “Where?”

  “Over there, where I’m pointing.”

  “N-no... Who’s supposed to be there? I don’t see anyone.”

  “So... Must have imagined it for sure. Let’s go inside.”

  5
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  The little guy was really pleased with the tiny rabbit. We put him in a big cardboard box where we had put some sawdust. It was already too late to bother with the captured prey, and I carried it off to the cellar, and the next day on Sunday I pulled it out and showed it to Khrystia. I held the jackrabbit by the ears, turned it on all sides, waiting for shouts of enthusiasm. To my amazement my wife was silent. She kept silent and didn’t look at the jackrabbit, but at me. She looked at me the same way when I had been getting ready to go hunting.

  “Why are you looking at me like this?” I couldn’t hold out any longer.

  “You... you...”

  “Well, what?”

  “It’s a sh-she-rabbit, not a jackrabbit...” She was nearly whispering. And her face was pale.

  I took a look—yes a she-rabbit. Does it matter? There were so many rabbits in the valley that it was time to totally annihilate them. Like rats.

  “Well, what? Just imagine—a she-rabbit.” I shrugged my shoulders.

  “And this—is it her baby?”

  “This is just too much!” I exploded. “This is a baby rabbit I picked up when I was walking out of the valley, it doesn’t have anything to do with this one...these, in short, don’t seem related.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll repeat again—I found it in another place. Besides, even if it were so, what does it change?”

  “Are you planning on eating it?” There was such amazement in my wife’s voice, as though I were planning on frying an old fat toad.

  “And why not?... The fur, it’s a shame, is messed up. Then we’ll have roast—it’ll be finger-lickin’ good.”

  “You’re nuts! I’m not planning on eating her!” Now she looked at me with repugnance.

  “Maybe I should even cook the meat?”

  “I don’t wanna have anything to do with it! And, please, do your culinary art out of my sight.”

  “It looks like it’s not me who’s nuts, but you. What’s with you—your maternal instinct has extended to our tiniest brethren? And how about when your father stuck a pig, leaving behind eight little piggies? Think about it—eight little orphans who had just stopped suckling milk. And you were eating their beloved mommykins. And you even helped make garlic sausage, scrapple sausage, kishka, ham, and the devil knows what else! Why didn’t your instinct begin to speak then? And what about the eggs you enjoy every morning. You steal them from the nest of a loving mother! You eat the babies that still haven’t come out of the shell!”

 

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