A decision had to be made.
“May we sail along with you?” I asked.
“Go ahead, it don’t bother us none,” the stocky one said, pushing away from the bank with his oar.
“Godspeed,” the intelligent one said loudly, and they all crossed themselves.
Their long boats moved out. I put Fer in our boat, pushed off the sandbar, and jumped in. The seagulls sitting on the trees immediately glided down to the smoking campfire and began to peck at the vomit left by the red-bearded fellow.
Fer and I took up our oars.
The runners used their oars rarely but skillfully, helping the current. Their boats traveled in a caravan, one after the other. The red-bearded fellow sat in the last one. Our boat fell in line behind him. Steering the boat, we would glance at the blond nape of his neck. He was tense and behaved uneasily: he smoked a lot, spat in the river, and kept up an irritated mutter. The metal-toothed runner began a long, drawn-out song, which was gradually picked up by the others. They sang of abandoned childhood homes, of a mother’s grave, of the wanderer’s bitter lot. Their discordant voices carried over the smooth surface of the river.
The sun hid beyond the horizon. The first boat lit a tar torch. The river was submerged in the dim Siberian night. The song finished. And from the banks you could hear the sound of a felled tree. It seemed to urge us on. Our hearts throbbed. We still didn’t know what to do, but with our hearts we understood how. I leaned on my oar, and Fer, sitting closer to the bow, leaned on hers. Our boat pulled up beside the last of the runners’ boats. We were getting closer to the red-bearded young fellow. He looked over in our direction. I began to think what I should say to him. But Fer took the lead from me: “Will you show me how to row?”
The red-bearded guy, not realizing that she was talking to him, looked around. But Fer looked straight in his eyes. The two runners sitting in the boat with him laughed, puffing out tobacco smoke. The young fellow laughed spitefully.
“Row...What’s there to...?”
It seemed that he was cursing Fer. But then, setting his oar aside, the redheaded fellow grabbed the side of our boat with his strong hands, pulled it over, and jumped in with us. The others, remaining in the boat, laughed.
“Watch out, our Kolyvanets here is on the loose.”
“Hey there, youngster, watch out for your wife.”
The red-bearded guy sat in the middle of the boat, his back to me, facing Fer. She handed him her oar. He took it, glanced back at me, lowered the oar overboard, and began to row. He was anxious and rowed with too much zeal and strength. We began to pass his partners’ boat.
“Don’t hurry,” I said.
He looked back at me again. In the twilight he seemed bewildered. And I understood — he couldn’t escape our hearts. Fer also understood this.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Nikola,” he answered.
“Where you rushin’ to, Nikola?” asked Fer, and the way she said it filled me with such ecstasy that tears came to my eyes.
I adored Fer.
“Whatcha mean, where? There! With them!” The young fellow grinned, trying to get a hold of himself.
“You don’t need to go with them,” I said.
“Why’s that?” A shiver ran through his powerful shoulders.
“You don’t need to go with them.” Fer spoke.
And our hearts began to speak. Nikola’s sleeping heart was between us. It became agitated. He froze stock-still with the oar in his hands. I also stopped rowing. Our boat began to fall behind the caravan of runners.
“You need to go with us,” I said.
“You need to go with us,” Fer said.
The young man fell into a stupor. We froze as well.
The current carried the boat. The caravan sailed on; the flame of the torch grew smaller, disappearing in the twilight. The river began to turn to the right. Our boat was carried to the bank. The bottom scraped against the sand, the bow knocked against the dark bank. The boat stopped.
“Niko-la-a-a-a!” came a weak cry from far off.
The fellow shuddered.
I put my hand on his shoulder. “They won’t sail against the current.”
“Come on, don’t fool around,” he muttered, but didn’t budge.
Fer took him by the wrist.
“Who...are you?” Nikola asked.
“I am your brother,” I answered.
“And I am your sister,” Fer said.
“We came for you,” I added.
For a minute he sat in a stupor. Then he let out a sob and began to cry. We embraced him. He wept, his broad shoulders shook. There was much of the child in his weeping. My heart felt that he was tired of waiting. And just plain tired. When he calmed down and wiped his face with his sleeve, we helped him out of the boat onto the riverbank, pulled the boat onto the shoal, started a campfire, and sat near the flames. Nikola crossed himself and began to speak incoherently. He hadn’t slept for four days, since he’d had a vision. When the runners arrived at the village of Neriunda on the Katanga, three new boats built by the locals awaited them. The runners, as always, paid for the boats with nine horses and began to prepare to sail. The only thing left to do was to tar the boats. They heated the tar in three pails. Nikola picked up one of the pails. He went over to a boat with the pail and a brush, glanced in the pail, and in the hot tar saw his own reflection. It was him, but he was six years old. He was with his father, mother, and uncles at haymaking time; they were sitting on a tablecloth in a field. And suddenly fire flew across the sky. Then there was such a thundering crash that the whole forest swayed. And all the grown-ups fell to the ground in fear. But Nikola wasn’t scared by it, just the opposite — he had a very good feeling in his chest. He sat and looked at the sky, where a wide trail remained from the fire. When everything quieted down, the grown-ups lifted their heads. And Nikola didn’t recognize them. His father, mother, and uncles forever ceased to be his family. It was as though they had been pushed aside. Six-year-old Nikola realized that he was alone. It scared him so badly that he stopped talking and instantly forgot everything that happened. He began talking again only two years later. The hot tar had reminded him of all this. He dropped the bucket. And suddenly he felt that he was once again alone among people. This made such an impression on him that he stopped sleeping. He could not drift off, forget himself, and fall asleep.
Neither could he with the runners, not at night while they traveled, nor during their daily stops when most of them dozed. People frightened and puzzled him: he didn’t understand who they were. The runners noticed that he was acting strange and started to make fun of him. But the stocky man from his village stuck up for him. With every passing day of the run, Nikola felt worse. Life among alien people seemed horrifying to him. He began to think about suicide. When Fer and I appeared he was shocked: he felt that we were different. Everything that happened seemed like a dream to him: he didn’t know what to do. But he understood it was no mere coincidence that we had come.
Having listened to his confused story, Fer and I held his coarse hands, roughened by his toil with the oar. We were happy.
“When were you born?” I asked.
“Three days after Easter in 1902,” Nikola answered.
“Where did you live, when you saw the fire in the sky?”
“In Ust-Kut,” he replied.
That was about seven hundred kilometers from the place where the Ice fell. I already knew with my heart that the Ice had flown from southeast to northwest. It had flown over Ust-Kut. With my heart I envied Nikola: he had seen the Ice in the sky. I had only heard it.
“What was it?” Nikola asked.
“Our joy and our salvation,” I answered.
He grew thoughtful.
“And how come they call you Kolyvanets, iffen you’re from Ust-Kut?” asked Fer.
“I did time in Kolyvan. That’s why they give me the nickname...”
“What for?”
“Horse rustling. I
got two years, but I run away from the convict transport. Joined up with the runners.”
He stared at the fire. The flames played in his blue eyes. I squeezed his hand.
“Nikola, what you saw back then — it flew here for us. It fell to the earth. And lies there now, beyond the Katanga. We need to go there.”
Nikola stared into the fire silently. He was numb. But Fer was agitated. Her heart felt the Ice.
“Oh my, how my heart wants it...” She placed her hands on her chest. “And it ain’t far?”
“About four days’ walk,” I estimated. “But — at a fast walk.”
“And what will happen?” asked Nikola.
“Everything will happen,” I answered, helping with my heart.
And Nikola understood, even though his heart was sleeping.
The road back to the Ice was a happy one for me, joyous for Fer, and a sore trial for Nikola. Fer and I could walk the taiga day and night without tiring, as though we were being pushed along from behind. Nikola was experiencing much the same thing that I had during Kulik’s expedition. He stopped speaking, became furious, and then cried. We led him, holding him up under his arms. Nor could he eat. Fer and I fed off berries and were not troubled by hunger. After my heart began to speak, I forgot hunger forever.
Passing along the riverbed of the Chamba, we found traces of the expedition’s campgrounds and set out along the old trail. Four days and nights flew by for me like a single moment. We carried Nikola the last few kilometers: a fever had gripped his body and he mumbled, unconscious. We were drunk with delight: every step we took brought us closer to the Ice. The dead taiga parted, admitting us to a miracle. Our hearts anticipated with pleasure. Fer sang and roared with joy, her eyes shone like stars.
When we came to the swamp, the sun stood at its zenith. We laid Nikola down on the sun-warmed moss and began to tear off our clothes. Then, taking each other by the hand, we entered the swamp. The icy water seemed as warm to us as milk fresh from the cow. We laughed and cried: the Ice awaited us!
Quicksand grabbed at our feet, branches of trees rotting in the swamp waters scratched us and held on, but what could hinder us? Overcoming the swamp mire, we swam in the strip of water. And soon we touched the Ice. Fer gave a long-winded shout. I pushed her out onto the concave surface of the Ice. And climbed up there myself. The great block of Ice vibrated invisibly under us. Our hearts resounded in reply. Embracing, we collapsed upon the Ice.
We awoke at night. We lay on the Ice in a hollow that had melted under us, in a form shaped like the contour of our bodies. Warm water filled the hollow. We broke our embrace and climbed out onto the top of the iceberg. The moon, obscured by thin clouds, faintly illuminated the watery mirror of the swamp. We stood on the Ice up to our ankles in water. I walked around the lens and discovered my indentation, which recalled the letter Φ. It had been completely preserved, as though I had left it only a minute ago. The spur of Ice still stuck out, slightly melted. The other one I had broken off and taken with me, to people. Fer walked over to me. I took her hand and put it on the place where I’d broken off the icy spur. She understood that it was this very Ice that had awakened her heart. Crying and laughing, she began to touch the Ice.
But we had to think about Nikola. His heart was waiting on the bank. I kicked the other spur. It didn’t budge. I kicked it again, with all my might. It cracked and broke off. I picked up the piece of Ice and headed back. Fer followed me. My heart remembered the short path to the shore. Climbing out, we went over to Nikola. He lay on his back, his arms outstretched. His eyes were closed, his lips whispered, and his pale face stood out in the darkness. I knelt, lifted the piece of Ice in my hands, and swung back. And froze. And once again, my heart told me: I wasn’t doing it right. Not with the hands! For awakening a heart a hammer was needed. AN ICE HAMMER!
This is what would help to waken the heart in the name of the Light! This was what we needed! Searching around me, I saw a dried pine branch not far off. Grabbing it, I found my work boots nearby as well, and pulled out the leather laces. Together we tied the Ice to the stick. Fer’s small but strong hands tore the shirt covering Nikola’s chest. I swung back and with all my strength hit him in the chest with the hammer. The Ice flew apart, smashed to smithereens by the crushing blow, and the stick broke. Nikola’s breast missed a beat and jerked. We pressed ourselves to it. Inside his chest a twitching could be heard; his body trembled and he ground his teeth. Our ears and hearts listened to the voice of his awakening heart.
“Ep, Ep, Ep...”
The body of our red-bearded brother shook, as though in a seizure. Blood spurted from his nose.
“Ep! Ep! Ep!” his heart pulsated.
His heart was large. And strong.
We embraced brother Ep.
Brothers
We came to in the morning.
Ep was weak, his injured chest hurt. But his heart was already speaking timidly with our hearts. Exhaustion and shock had immobilized his strong body: he barely moved. Tears constantly rose to his eyes. Fer and I constructed a hut from the branches of bushes and young trees and placed brother Ep inside it. When he fell asleep again, Fer and I kneeled and spoke heart to heart for a long time. In the green, rough hut our hearts learned from each other and from the great Ice lying so close by. The huge block of Ice resonated with our tiny hearts. It was as though they were created for each other. Our hearts were drawn to each other like the opposite poles of magnets. Separately, everything was harder for them. But together they were capable of a great deal. Sensing the awakening power of our hearts, we trembled. Resonating with the Ice, our hearts suggested a solution to us. When we came to and had eaten some berries, our lips gave sound to the Wisdom of the Light. We spoke in the miserly language of the mind, aided by the language of the heart.
We had to go and search for our brothers and sisters. But the Ice should always be with us. It would be more convenient that way, easier. It shouldn’t lie here and wait for us to bring a newly acquired brother or sister to it. It should always be with us, among people. We would fashion icy hammers from the Ice. Dozens, hundreds of Ice hammers. They would strike the chests of brothers and sisters. And their hearts would begin to speak.
It took three days for Ep to get back on his feet. His awakening heart helped his body. From a depressed, mortally exhausted being, Ep was transformed into an inexhaustible and bold brother. He kissed our feet from joy, and we taught his inexperienced heart the first words.
Now there were three of us. We were young, strong, and ready to do anything for the Light. In the hut we decided what our plan of action would be: While waiting for the cold autumn, we had to carve out several large pieces of the Ice, haul them on a sleigh to the Khushma, prepare and load the Ice, and sail first along the Khushma, then along the Chamba to the Katanga. There, on the shore, we would dig a hole, place the Ice in the permanently frozen earth, and cover it. From this store we would take a few large pieces of Ice with us and set off on our search.
That was what we did.
Fer, Ep, and I spent two months in the dead taiga near the Ice. We lived in the hut all that time. And we were absolutely happy. The Ice was with us; our hearts matured and grew wiser; our bodies filled with a new strength. This strength wasn’t only physical, although our muscles became stronger than before. The new strength had forever conquered fear, hunger, and illness in us. The three great enemies had been vanquished, never to be resurrected in our bodies. We fed on berries and the roots of swamp grasses. We slept on the moss, embracing each other, unafraid of the permafrost cold that rose every night from the Tungus earth. Wolves howled and bears roared in the dark, but it didn’t scare us: we fell sweetly asleep to the howling of the wolves. Animals avoided our hut. Nor did people bother us: after the fire I started, the expedition left the area. The Evenki continued to be wary of the “accursed” place. Speaking in our new language to our hearts’ content, we would light a campfire. Embracing, we stared silently at the fire. It was of this planet, eph
emeral, a weak reflection of the Heavenly Fire — the blinding, imperishable fire that had given birth to the worlds of Harmony.
The Siberian summer ended in the middle of August. The leaves of the bushes and the gnarled birches surrounding the swamp turned yellow. A cold northern wind began to blow. And one morning occasional snowflakes spun over our hut — harbingers of the long Siberian winter. The first snow was a sign: the time had come to act. During those two months we not only had spoken with our hearts but had found the shortest passage to the Ice and laid eighteen fallen logs across the swamp. The bog engulfed the logs, but one could lean against them. Undressing, taking an ax and knives, we traversed this log road to the Ice. We cut out eight huge pieces of the Ice and carried them to shore. Each piece weighed about as much as a man. On the shore we built a drag of young trees, and in three trips we hauled the Ice to the Khushma, which ran about a kilometer from the swamp. This river was about twice as narrow as the Katanga and its shores were not so high. We quickly put together a raft as well, and tied the logs with bast fiber torn from young trees. Loading the Ice onto the raft, we attached it to the raft logs with wet bast, took the long oars that Ep had carved, and pushed off from the shore.
The journey by water took three days. Our raft sailed successfully along two rivers and reached the Katanga. We tried very hard to keep the Ice intact. And during the trip we didn’t allow ourselves to speak with the heart. The cold water brought us to the place where we had sat that night with Ep by the fire, listening to his incoherent story. Upon landing, we untied the Ice and carried it to the shore. Pieces had melted slightly during the voyage. We dug a hole not far from the shore. It didn’t take long to dig it — one and a half meters down the ax struck the icy soil of the permafrost. Gouging out a cavity in it, we put several pieces of the Ice in it, wrapped in moss and leaves; then we covered it all with earth. Ep and I pushed a heavy stone on top of the store of Ice. We dug a hole for the eighth piece of Ice right on the shore. Having hidden the precious Ice, we embraced. Night fell, the stars came out. We built a fire and gave our hearts their will. They spoke all night.
Ice Trilogy Page 12