How those chickens would sing in the summer when the twilight fell and the moon rose in the sky, the sunset smoldered, the dew began to gather, and the flowers smelled sweet! Fine young fellows and fair maids would sit out in the yard, munching pickled nuts, chewing firelings, sighing, or chatting and pinching each other. As soon as the first star rolled out in the sky, the chickens would begin to sing. At first they'd crackle like kindling, then you'd hear a trrrrr, trrrr, then croo-croo-croo, and then when they got going, they'd roll out such thundering roulades, it'd warm your heart, as if you were flying off somewhere, or running down a mountain, or remembering some strange poems by Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe:
On the black sky-words are inscribed- And magnificent eyes are blinded… And we fear not the mortal bed, And for us the lounge of passion isn't sweet. Writing-in sweat, working-in sweat! We know a different fervor: Light fire dancing over curls- A little breath-and inspiration!
And when autumn came with its rains and winds, all the fowl in the whole settlement headed south. Their owners would come out to see them off, sad and glum. The head hen would move in front, stick one leg out, flap her wings-and they'd all belt out a last, farewell song. They'd soar to the skies, take a turn around their homes, stretch out into a line, and fly off in pairs. You'd wave a kerchief, and sometimes the women would start wailing.
But then those chickens just went plain mad. They stopped flying, stopped singing, autumn passed, winter was just around the corner, all the other birds had headed south, and these crazies stayed put. Anfisa Terentevna shooed them with a switch broom, but they balked, ruffled their feathers, and even seemed to start talking like people. "Walk, talk, balk, whoo, whoo, whoo?" they asked, laughing at her. And they took to laying big, scary-looking white eggs. The poor woman near to lost her mind with fright. Benedikt rushed to help her and together they smothered those evil birds. They left one egg as a curiosity. Benedict showed it to Nikita Ivanich. The old man-he's never afraid of anything-cracked the egg open on the edge of a bowl, and inside-Lord save us!-there was a yellow ball that looked like it was floating in thick water, and there wasn't any kvas malt at all… Lord Almighty! The old Stoker jumped up and shouted "Where are the others?" in a terrible sort of voice. We reassured him, sat him down: Don't worry, Nikita Ivanich, we know, we're not children. We got rid of the whole foul flock, cleared the coop with birch smoke so nothing evil would sprout up, and brought Goga the Fool to cast a spell: North, south, east, west, under the green sea, under the flaming oak, under the hot stone, under the stinking goat-hey, hey, fly away fly; blow left, spit right, eins, zwei, drei. It's a strong spell, tried and true, it should last.
Nikita Ivanich sat slumped over the table. He squeezed his eyes shut, clutched his jaw, and just sat there. Then he asked what the chickens had eaten before they went mad. How do we know? He went to see Anfisa Terentevna to ask, and thought about it for a long time. And that yellow ball, the one in the egg -he fried it and ate it. Honest to God, he ate it!!! And nothing happened to him.
Come to think of it, he never eats like people do. He won't touch worrums. They made Mother sick too, for that matter. But Benedikt learned how to find them as a child. He'd be playing in the streams and puddles with the other kids-there are a lot of clay-filled streams in the town-and he'd always feel around in the water and find worrums. Worrums are blind, stupid. You can catch a couple of dozen, put 'em on a stick, dry 'em out, and then pound 'em into a powder. They're so salty! The best flavoring for mouse soup. Father praised Benedikt, and he caught worrums himself, but Mother always made a face and pushed them away. Once Benedikt gave Nikita Ivanich a whole stringful. They just hung there on that string, the old man never touched them. A neighbor dropped by to ask for some fire and couldn't believe it: valuable goods were going to waste. Nikita Ivanich just gave them to her, each and every one of them. And it's so much work to catch them, you have to sift through a lot of mud till you feel the worrum, and then it wiggles around, nips at your fingers. Just try digging for them yourself! You won't go giving them away to neighbors.
One time Benedikt dropped in to see the old man, and he was sitting and sucking on a spoonful of yellow glue, the kind you see dripping down the trunks of elfirs. "What're you up to, Nikita Ivanich?"
"Eating honeycomb."
"Hummycum?"
"What bees make."
"Are you crazy?"
"Just try it. You people eat mice and worms, and then you're surprised to see so many mutants."
Benedikt got scared, he froze and finally left feeling a bit queasy, in a fog. It was frightening: the old man had gone by his own self and messed with the bees in the tree hollow… Then, of course, Benedikt told the others. They only shook their heads. "Sure. The bee shits, and we're gonna eat it?"
And One-and-a-Half-he has one and a half faces and a third leg-said, "What's Nikita Ivanich up to, egging us on to do things like that? And him a Stoker… Remember how he used to take the fellows to Murka's Hill, he wanted them to dig up the ground… He said there were mustardpieces buried there. And stone men, humongous white Rowmans and Creeks. We got plenty of our own rowmen, and only one river anyway."
That's right, he did take them. He said that in Oldener Times there used to be a Moozeeum on Murka's Hill, and there were shameful white stones buried in the earth. They were carved like men and women, with nipples and everything. It would be interesting to take a look, of course, but what about Freethinking? And you'd never finish digging there. And what do you need stone women for when there's plenty of live ones? The old man was playing tricks. For a long time kids ran after him and teased him: "Old Man Ivanich, wonders why his pants itch; takes them off at night, puts them on first light."
Nothing came of it.
Benedikt sighed, flicked a fleck of dust off his writing stick, and quickly finished copying the tale of the Golden Goose. He left space for Olenka to draw a goose. Then the booklet would be taken to market and traded for mice. You could trade a string of mice for a booklet. There's only government trade, though, don't dare copy anything yourself-if they find out, you'll get a thrashing.
They also say… but wait till Vasiuk the Earful moves away. They also say that somewhere there are Oldenprint books. Who knows if it's true, but there's a rumor. Those books, they say, were around before the Blast.
And they tell other lies: that in the woods there's a glade, and in the glade there's a white-hot stone, and beneath that stone there's a treasure. And on a dark night, when there's no moon or stars in sight, if you come to the glade barefoot, walking backward, and say, "I won't take what isn't found, but only what is underground," and when you get to the place, you turn three times, blow your nose three times, spit three times, and say, "Earth, don't conceal yourself; treasure, now reveal yourself," then a dark fog will come down and you'll hear a squeaking and a creaking from the woods, and that white-hot stone will roll back and the treasure will appear.
And that's where the books are buried. They glow like the full moon. But don't grab more than one, and when you've got one, run for your life, and if you do it wrong, then, they say, a veil falls over your eyes, and when you wake up you'll be sitting on the roof of your izba with empty hands.
And they also say these books have been seen at people's houses.
DOBRO
The bell rang: lunch. It was too far to go home, so Benedikt went to the Food Izba. For two chits you could have a lunch of two dishes. Not as rich as at home, though at home the soup wasn't that thick anyway. But it wasn't far. Olenka ate at home, they sent a sleigh for her. The sweetheart.
Varvara Lukinishna latched on to Benedikt. She'd been keeping an eye on him for a long time. Are you going to the Food Izba? I'll go with you. And the fringe on her head quivers. If we're going, then let's go. Doesn't take long to lick your finger and put out the candle, does it?
There was such a crowd at the Food Izba! Benedikt nudged Varvara Lukinishna up to the counter with the bowls so she'd get in line, or else another bunch would come in. H
e rushed to a table and grabbed two places. He put spoons down: these places are taken. And he blocked them with his leg, so no one could push in. And he spread his elbows out wide and made threatening faces: it helps.
If a stranger ran up to steal a place, he'd take one look at Benedikt, and if he was a weakling, he'd turn away: Who needs to cross someone with a face like that, he'd think, God forbid; I'll sit in the corner, farther away… You have to know how to go about everything in its own way.
Smoke floated in the air. The bowls steamed, the spoons thudded, the candles crackled. It was hot. The cooks screamed with bloodcurdling voices, "Whoever's smoking rusht in the hut -get out! We can't breathe!"
No one moved, of course.
Varvara Lukinishna made her way over with the bowls. She didn't spill too much, even though there was a lot of pushing.
So. Mouse soup again. Governmental food, of course, is no match for homemade. The mice are the same, but the taste isn't. It's watery. There were so many worrums plunked down in the soup it could curdle your cheekbones. They don't begrudge the worrums. The soup's too salty. You stir it with your spoon-and all you get is a mouse tail. Well, maybe some eyes. Couple of ribs.
You can understand the cook. He probably hides the carcasses, takes the best pieces home to his kids.
Anyone would do the same. It's one thing to cook for strangers: Who knows what kind of people they are? But it's another to cook for your kids. Some people say you should cook the same for everybody. But who ever does that?
A stranger is a stranger. What's so good about a stranger? If the stranger's not a woman, of course. What's so good? Maybe he doesn't even get that hungry. Maybe he'll manage without. Change his mind about eating.
But one of your own-he's cozy. His eyes are different. You just look at him and you can see he wants to eat. You can feel his stomach grumbling. One of your own is almost like you.
Varvara Lukinishna sighs. "I see they're not gutting the mice."
"They say there's not enough people to do the job."
"I understand, but still. Come and visit me, Benedikt, I'll treat you to some good soup."
"Thank you, Varvara Lukinishna. I'll definitely do that sometime."
Poor thing, that cockscomb just sticks straight out of her eye. Hard to look at it.
"I've been meaning to ask you, Benedikt. I'm copying poems by Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe. And I keep coming across the word 'steed,' 'steed.' What is a steed, do you know?"
Benedikt thought for a moment. Then another. His face even reddened from the effort. How many times he'd written that word himself, and had never thought about it. "It must be a mouse."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because 'Don't I take care of you, don't I fill your trough with oats?' That's it, a mouse."
"Well, then, what about 'The steed races, the earth trembles'?"
"It must be a big mouse. Once they start running around, you can't get to sleep. You remember, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, also wrote, 'Life, you're but a mouse's scurry, why do you trouble me?' It's a mouse, that's for sure."
"Still, it's strange. No, you haven't convinced me."
Varvara Lukinishna knows a lot of poems by heart. And she's always wanting to understand something. Who can count all the hard words! Someone else would shrug it off, but she needs to understand. Go figure. And she talks like a book. That's the way Mother talked. Or Nikita Ivanich.
Varvara Lukinishna lives alone. She catches mice, takes them to market, and trades them for booklets. Reads all the time.
"You know, Benedikt, poetry is everything to me. Our job is pure joy. And I've noticed something. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glory-he, he's different at different times. Do you understand what I mean? It's as though he speaks with different voices."
"That's what makes him the Biggest Murza, Long May He Live," said Benedikt cautiously.
"No, that's not what I mean… I don't know how to explain it, but I can sense it. For example: 'The reed pipe sings upon the bridge, and apple trees do bloom. The angel lifts a single star on high, of greenish hue. And on that bridge it is divine to gaze into those depths, those heights…' That's one voice. But, say-"
"On the bridge?" Benedikt interrupted. "That must be Foul Bridge. I know it. I caught worrums there. It really is deep as can he there. Watch out! If you bump your head and topple over, all they'll remember is your name. There'll only be bubbles left. The boards are rotten there too. When they herd the goats over it, one always falls through. I know that place." And he sucked on a bone.
"No, no, that's not what I mean. Listen: 'In the district where no feet have passed, save assassins' / Your herald the aspen is lipless and hushed, a specter far paler than canvas…' That's an entirely different voice, you must admit. Entirely different."
"I know that neighborhood too," cried Benedikt. "That's where Pakhom cracked his skull open."
Varvara Lukinishna shook her head, looked at the candle, and the blue flame wavered in her only eye.
"No, no… I keep reading and reading, and thinking, thinking… And I've divided the poems into different categories. And re-sewed the notebooks. And you know what's interesting?"
"Vasiuk the Earful over there is interested too," said Benedikt. "Huh, look how he's spread out. And you're wasting your time sewing poems back and forth. That's Freethinking."
"Oh, my God… Let's go back to work. They'll be ringing the clapper any moment now." Varvara Lukinishna looked around the hut. Rusht smoke was so thick you could cut it with a knife. It hung down blue to the floor. In the corner, Golubchiks who had had their fill were playing thwackers. Two of them had already drunk a lot of kvas and lay on the floor. Vasiuk wrote down their names.
"This restaurant is rather noisy," said Varvara Lukinishna, sighing. " 'I sat by the window in a crowded ballroom, while the bows in the background sang about love…' What do you think bows are?"
"Some kind of fast women?"
"No… You know, I so long to talk about art… Come visit me. Really, do come!"
"All right, I'll drop by sometime," said Benedikt unwillingly. If she weren't so ugly, he'd be happy to, of course. Take a steam bath and then go visiting. But in this case-there's plenty of time.
Maybe if he squinted it wouldn't be so bad. She was a nice woman. And she'd feed him soup. Then again, all of these conversations unsettled Benedikt.
Everyone had gathered in the Work Izba, but Olenka wasn't there. Benedikt waited, chewed on his writing stick. She wasn't coming. That happened sometimes: she was there before lunch, but didn't come in the afternoon. That must be the way it had to be. None of his business. But it made things boring.
He sat down to work on a new fairy tale, "The Gingerbread Man." What a funny story. This Gingerbread Man ran from a husband, he ran from a wife, and from a bear and a cow. He ran all on his lonesome through the forest, singing little ditties: "Run, run, as fast as you can, you can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man." Benedikt was happy for the Gingerbread Man. He laughed. His mouth hung open as he wrote.
But when he got to the last line, his heart skipped a beat. The Gingerbread Man died. The fox gobbled him up! Benedikt even set his writing stick down and looked at the scroll. The Gingerbread Man died. Such a jolly little fellow. Singing songs. Enjoying life. And then-he was gone. Why?
Benedikt swallowed and looked around the izba. Everyone was writing, leaning over. The candles flickered. The bear bladders on the windows let in a bluish light. It was evening already. A storm was probably coming. It would sweep the snow into high drifts, whistle through the streets, bury the izbas up to the windows. The high trees would moan in the northern forests, the Slynx would come out of the woods, head for the town, hiss sadly, wail mournfully: Slyyyyynx! Slyyyynx! And the snowy wind would rage over the village, whirl over the terems, carrying the wild plaint into the distance.
Benedikt imagined himself sitting on the stove as a child, his boots hanging down and a blizzard carousing outside the window. The bluish mouse-oil candle crackled, s
hadows danced on the ceiling, Mother was sitting by the windowsill, embroidering a bed curtain or a towel with colored threads. Kitty crawled out from underneath the stove, soft, fuzzy, and jumped on Bene-dikt's lap. Mother doesn't like Kitty: if he claws her skirt she always brushes him off. Says she can't stand to look at his bare pink tail, the trunk on his face. And she doesn't like his pink, childlike fingers either. It seems these animals were completely different when she was young. So what, a lot of things have changed! If not for Kitty, who would catch so many mice for them, and where would they get lard for candles? And Benedikt loves him. If you reach out your finger, he'll grab it with his little hands and purr.
Mother supposedly had an Oldenprint book. But she kept it hidden. Because, they say, they're contagious. So Benedikt hadn't ever touched it or even seen it, and Mother strictly forbade him to talk about it, as if it didn't exist.
Father wanted to burn it. He was afraid. Some kind of Illness came from them, God forbid, God forbid.
And if it came, then the Red Sleigh would come.
And in the sleigh would be the Saniturions, may they remain nameless at night. They fly about in Red Sleighs, knock on wood, in red robes and hoods, slits where their eyes should be, and you can't see their faces, knock on wood.
And there's Benedikt sitting on the stove, and Mother embroidering, and the blizzard wailing outside the window, and the candle flares a bit, like the flickering lights above swamp rusht, and it's dark in the corners, and Father has already gotten ready for bed and undressed.
And suddenly Father screamed: A-a-a-a! And his eyes bugged out and he stared at his stomach, and kept on screaming and screaming. And there was a sort of rash on his stomach, like someone had patted him all over with dirty hands. And he screamed, "Illness! Illness!"
The Slynx Page 4