by Tony Black
We sat in silence for a long time, until Father returned from the keel. I expected him to be agitated, concerned by my mother’s condition, but instead, he brought in the bursar with him.
The station’s bursar was an official man who wore a black suit of clothes and a tie, his hair combed back high above his forehead. He arrived in a shining black motor car and carried papers in a leather satchel. His appearance brought much excitement in the billet and a small crowd gathered round my father to be sure they were within earshot.
“’Tis a fine beast you caught,” said the bursar to my father, “a fine beast indeed.”
My father nodded once, a brief nod to recognise the compliment. As he did so the bursar held out an envelope which he presented with a rising boom in his voice. “The company is always glad to reward its workforce for solid duty,” he said, “I know you deserve that, but …”
My father’s smile slipped away and his eyes widened on the bursar where he stood. I knew he had followed every word of the official man’s speech, but he did not know what to expect next.
“But, well, there are rumblings that the government doesn’t agree with the threat the tigers pose to the company. Did you know the bounty could be gone in a year?”
“I did not,” said Father.
“Some think the tigers are becoming scarce.”
I watched my father’s brow become lined and fretful. He fingered nervously at the envelope in his hands.
The bursar spoke: “We need to act, sir.” He reached into his satchel and removed a thin sheaf of papers. “I have a contract here for a tiger man we need in Mount Cameron’s west. I see no reason why the job shouldn’t go to you … if you want it, that is.”
My father looked stunned; his face was a long white board. His mouth was a dark hammer-blow which cruelly marked his surprise.
Father reached out to the papers that were held before him and then drew them tentatively within his grasp.
I watched the bursar fasten the buckle on his satchel and begin to walk back to his motor car. “Well, that’s agreed. I can fill you in on the finer points some time later.”
He took short steps, his fine leather heels clicking on the wooden boards as he went. Outside the barn door the bursar glanced back to my tiger. “A grand beast you shot there,” he said, “a grand beast indeed.”
I felt my father’s eyes fall on me as he lowered the papers, but I did not meet their gaze. As I watched the bursar close the door on the shining black motor car and drive away, I heard my tiger’s cries come pounding in my head again.
The room’s colours flooded into me and quickly turned to white chalk spots before my eyes.
I felt a panic rising in my chest. I knew I was torn inside because I despised the blood on my father’s hands. I quickly turned, showing him my back, and ran out for the coastal heathlands. I heard my father calling out to me as I went, but I knew I must get far away from this place.
As I ran, faster and farther from my home, I saw for the first time that my tiger’s tragedy was also my tragedy.
Chapter Fifteen
With our mother gone to us, my brother Jurgis and I began the work of our farm in the Sakiai by ourselves.
We took milk from goats, collected eggs and gave fresh straw to the hens. The work brought colour to my brother’s cheeks, I could see the white of his teeth and the pink of his gums as he smiled at me.
We both worked hard, we were glad to be given over to such tasks and by nightfall we rested, tired but content. As we lay in our beds, waiting for our hard earned sleep, our minds raced with the new labours and what we must attend to next.
“Myko,” said Jurgis, “we still have lots of work to do.”
I knew at once what it was he spoke of: the flocks were neglected. “We cannot do everything at once, Jurgis.”
“But …” he replied, then he hesitated for a moment; “the flocks, what will become of them?”
“I don’t know.”
My brother kept silent for a long time and then, very softly, his familiar voice came through the night air. “Our father would know what to do.”
His words prodded me like sharp little needles; I did not wish to hear such thoughts brought into the open.
I tried to point Jurgis’s mind elsewhere. “We must do our best,” I said, “Mother needs us to do all we can.”
“Yes, Myko, we must do all we can.”
But there was only so much we could do; with our mother and father both lost to us, or so it seemed, the farm work felt like a heavy burden we struggled to share between us.
The wolves howled in the forests that fell around the farm and we spent a restless night.
“It is the wolves again, Myko,” said my brother.
“Yes. I hear them. Go back to sleep.”
“But the flocks, they may threaten the flocks.”
I knew the wolves would soon scatter the flocks. Father said they picked off the weakest first, like the lambs. When they grew bolder they sought out the larger beasts to feed their hunger. “Jurgis, go back to sleep!” I roared.
When the wolves’ baying became louder I felt my brother trembling beneath his blankets.
“Jurgis,” I called out to him, “there is nothing for you to fear, we are safe … we are behind locked doors.”
“The wolves cannot come through doors,” he said.
“That is right.”
He seemed settled, there was no noise from him for a long time, and then he spoke up: “Only soldiers can find us,” he said.
I had no more words for my brother. What could I say to such fears? What could I do?
The very next morning, our worries were taken from us when a strange man and woman arrived at our door. They were brought by a Russian, an official man who wore a dark suit of clothes. He rode in a military carriage and carried papers bound up in a leather scroll.
The man and woman stood behind the Russian and did not speak. Their clothes were old and worn. The man wore patched trousers hitched with a length of rope-yarn, tied in a looped knot. The rough frock the woman wore had a heavy weave; the nap was worn at her knees, where she scrabbled in the earth doing the work of a peasant.
The sight of these people disturbed my brother and me. Who were they? Why were they here? We had rarely known strangers to travel to our door, we lived so far from anyone else.
We stood either side of our mother, clutching her. She seemed unmoved by these people as she motioned them into our home.
The Russian raised his voice and the man and woman moved quickly to the carriage, removing a heavy wooden kist and a large parcel made with a linen bedsheet, tied in a single knot.
I looked to Jurgis and saw his eyes following the packages as they were brought into our home.
The Russian spoke in a clear, clipped voice but his tone was not like that of our countrymen. “As you know,” he said, “the Czar sees no reason for any one of his subjects to hold this type of property.”
Our mother, sat motionless. She stared only to the floor, her eyes unmoving.
“And so,” said the Russian, “we have installed a manager to oversee the Czar’s interests.”
My brother looked towards me for an explanation, but I had none.
“You will remain, the Empire has granted that,” said the Russian, “but you can have no part in the running of the Czar’s farm, save what the manager instructs you.”
There was silence in the room, only the sifting of papers. “Do you understand?” said the Russian. He seemed perturbed. “Are you listening to me?”
Mother remained motionless and the Russian shook his head with frustration and then rose quickly to his feet.
“No one has the right to hold this type of property,” the Russian said loudly. His broad face was fully red, except for the large whites of his eyes. “The Czar’s farms are worked for the good of all his people.”
He reached over to my mother and grabbed her by the jaw; turning her head, he bellowed in her ear, “The manager h
as our instructions. You will obey! You will assist!”
Within days of the Russian peasants taking over Father’s farm I watched my brother crying as the flock was slaughtered.
Saule, the word for sun in our own language, was the name my brother gave to a lamb born to the farm. He treated the lamb like a puppy dog and as it grew Saule followed him around. The lamb trailed him like a pet or a young child, seeking him out each morning, long before any bird’s song.
I knew it was painful to see the flock, which Jurgis cared so much for, turned over to the peasant named Kazimeras.
“I have not the bullets for a quick death,” he told us, as he took first the ewes and pinned them down, to crack open their skulls with a hammer.
The animals fought. Kicking, they ran from the hammer and tried to escape the peasant’s grasp, but he was a bear of a man and too strong for them to resist.
“No. No. No …” my brother cried out as each hammer blow came down upon the wailing flock.
The animals fell quickly and were piled high, the red and grey drools of their wounds seeping from their white gaping skulls.
“Come,” said Kazimeras, his blank eyes bulging, his lower lip hanging like the belly above his rope-tied belt, “you can help drag the beasts away.”
I took Jurgis by the arm and led him to where our father’s once proud flock lay. “We must do as he says,” I told him.
“But why?” sobbed Jurgis, “why must we?” He could not understand what he had seen. It had wounded us all deeply, but my poor Jurgis was felled by the sight which I wished I could have shielded him from.
“We must, Jurgis … we have no choice.”
Mother and Kazimeras’s wife, Ruta, lifted the carcasses by their hinds and loaded up the carts. Filled with the day’s slaughter, the carts soon stood piled high before us, at the edge of our father’s pastures.
When we were finished, the peasant sat down on his heels and spoke: “Where are the men I was promised?” said Kazimeras. He looked all about, in every direction, his heavy lip drooping like a tucker bag. “Where are the men to remove the carts?”
We waited longer, but the men did not come to take the carts away. After a day the blood of our father’s flock brought wolves and lynx from the forest. Black clouds of flies settled over the carts and maggots writhed in the gruesome decay that was once living flesh and blood. By week’s end even the wool was rotten, worthless.
Kazimeras rested one hand upon his hip and swiped at flies with the other as he took in the scene. “We must dig a pit.”
Every inch of the land was vital, we had nowhere to bury the beasts hereabouts. “Where?” I asked.
“Where we have space for such a vast pit – in the low pastures.” Kazimeras strode towards the carts; his face became twisted as he neared the decay’s stench, but he did not flinch from the task. He grasped the nearest handle firmly within his hands and then he hitched it high upon his shoulder.
As the cart’s wheels turned my brother and I followed Kazimeras with our eyes; I knew he was headed for the best of my father’s land. “But what will become of the pastures?” I called out.
“We shall see,” said Kazimeras, “come, take up the carts.”
For three days we dug in the low pastures. When we were finished digging, my father’s land was the graveyard of his once proud flock. What was once pristine and green land was now riven and scarred, a place where black rooks fed upon its surface.
Though I stared and stared, I could little comprehend the change. “Nothing can graze here,” I said.
“No,” said Kazimeras. He crouched low and sifted the soil through his plump red fingers. “I will plant this land now … with potatoes.”
Chapter Sixteen
A settler’s hut in the island’s west became our new home.
Rain ran down the walls in streams the colour of mustard that gathered on the earthen floor. Winter forced its way in through gaps between the planks, where beyond, flour sacks lined our cots. The door was held with wooden pegs, which blew out in the high winds that set the rusty hinges screeching.
“Myko, the door,” called out Father.
I ran to force back the door; the bark roof was about to start its cracking, threatening to leave the four walls where they stood.
“Is it tight?” asked Father.
I pressed the door’s bar; the pegs held firm. “Yes, it doesn’t move an inch.”
“Then come back to the warmth.”
Mother knelt by the fire, rocking gently to and fro as though before a blessed altar, and spoke in our native words, “Sacred Gabija, forged, may you lay, kindled, may you shine.”
I sat silently and watched her make a bed for the fire, delicately pouring ashes around its contours. Closely Mother arranged the cuts of wood in the homefire and then placed more neatly round its base.
As the fire began to crackle, flames leaped from the wood. Mother turned to look at me; I saw a heavy sagging beneath her eyes, but said nothing. Her mouth became a tight little knot holding in her words and thoughts. Her once elegant features now seemed pained to me.
I watched and when she spoke Mother addressed the fire as Ungis.
“Praise to you, Ungis,” she said.
Mother placed a jug of clean water by the fire, “Ungis, may you have the water needed to cleanse yourself.”
She sprinkled some salt into the flames and said, “Sacred Gabija, be satiated.”
I saw the fire grow and the heat spread throughout the small room. Mother’s face reddened before me and white pearls of moisture broke over her cheeks.
Her dark hair was soft as velvet; reflecting back the fire’s glow, it glistened from root to tip. “Sacred Gabija, our calmer, be still, be rapid. For ages and forever,” said Mother, and then she stood and faced me, smiling. “Myko, you cannot speak, or look away even,” she insisted.
I sat calmly before her, recording her words. My mother had become absorbed in these old country superstitions as never before.
“If a visitor is to appear at our doorway,” she said, “his call must go unanswered – the fire cannot be extinguished this day.”
I nodded as she formed her words.
“There can be no harsh talk in front of the fire this day,” she continued, “the fire must not hear insults. It is not to be harmed. There will be no spitting in the fire, or kicking of the embers this day. Do you understand?”
I nodded before my mother once more, though I did not know why, my thoughts were coiled up like a bowline. I wished for one thing alone, to bring some peace to my mother’s sicklike mind.
“All of these actions are sinful and inviting of punishment,” said Mother, “either whilst alive, or after death.”
Her words startled me and a long silence stretched out between us; yet her words seemed to hang in the air like loops of smoke.
“But how after death?” I said quietly.
The question made Mother flinch; her cold blue eyes froze on me. She knelt down and as the fire flickered behind her a long black shadow fell upon the wall.
“The dead live on, my boy,” said Mother, as her eyes narrowed, “in the hearth of the fire dwell our ancestors. We must honour them always.”
I did not know what to say, I felt as spooked as a horse which has just encountered a copperhead snake in its path. A sharp spasm of fear entered me, but I asked no more questions.
I had heard my mother talk many times of the old country ways. She talked of our traditions and the tales which were carried with them, but I knew now they kept a hold on her, which tightened by the day.
“Do you understand, Myko?” she said.
I knew I must accept my mother’s ways with wonder. It was improper to press her for answers that this world did not have. “Yes, Mama,” I said, “I understand.”
My mother raised herself from the fireside and her long, loose gown dragged upon the dusty floor as she moved towards our eating table. She seemed to glide like a swan upon calm waters, her movements as seaml
ess as if being drawn by a string.
As Mother raised her elbow the coffee-pot caught an arc of sunlight coming through the window and a million tiny dust specks were lit in the air. The grey liquid that she poured from the coffee-pot had a strong smell and it floated to the four walls and the roofbeams.
My mother passed a small tin cup to my father where he sat by the doorway, lacing-up his square-toed bluchers. “Do not go, Petras,” she said.
My father said nothing, and my mother repeated her plea: “Do not go.” Her voice was soft, but a quiver in its tone betrayed her emotions.
“I must,” said Father.
“No, Petras, you cannot go.” Mother dropped to her knees, locking her arms around Father’s legs as tight as a ball of twine. “I have seen your suffering in my dream.”
“But I have our keep to earn.” As he stood up my father coped easily with the strain of my mother’s grasp. “Myko, my rifle,” he said, motioning to the rack above my head.
“No, you cannot!”
Mother became frantic, she wailed out as if in terror. It was a pained and mournful cry. I had not heard such sounds within these walls before.
Mother threw herself on the ground in front of my father and grabbed tight around his legs, she lay atop his heavy bluchers, weeping. “Stay, stay with me,” she called out.
Father raised her from the floor. “Stop, stop with this.” He gathered her up in his arms and carried her to her crib, laying her down gently and stroking her brow. “Hush, hush,” he said over and over again. But my mother did not calm any.
All colour left her face; my mother’s pale lips held taught as soapy white deposits gathered in their corners and she began to shake all over in her crib, bobbing like a piece of driftwood on a choppy swell.
“Calm now, Daina,” said Father, “you must be calm, I have to go now.”
Father made to leave, reaching up for his rifle as he hurried for the door. “Attend to your mother, Myko,” he called to me as he went.
I tried to comfort my mother some more, but I feared my words had little effect on her as she lay before me in her agony.