The Way of Muri

by Ilya Boyashov

  Life on the farmstead moved at its own pace. The local elementals relaxed in their own dwelling places or drifted lazily about their business, virtually falling asleep in mid-air. There was no sign of any bullying. On the contrary, the spirits were welcoming, if a little reserved, greeting the cat with typical provincial civility and ceremony. The mischievous young house spirit barely even glanced past the threshold – he was happy amusing himself by hiding in the old rubber boots Marta wore on her bare feet when it rained and rummaging through the rubbish in the loft. There was no point even trying to have a sensible conversation with him. So Muri was left to his own devices, which suited him just fine. He paced about the courtyard, exploring all the hidden corners and remembering to keep his distance from the dog’s kennel.

  As far as the other animals were concerned, the gelding turned out to be slow-witted and rather dull and the multicoloured chickens spent all their time persecuting the weakest member of their flock, occasionally pausing to lay eggs. Apart from the Patriarch in the birch tree, the only other creature worth talking to was the complacent piglet, whose little red eyes glistened in the semi-darkness of his sty. The piglet’s life revolved around sleeping and eating, and he showed no interest in anything that was happening elsewhere in the courtyard. He was extremely happy with the log walls of the pigsty and his own manure, which he produced in abundance. Nevertheless, he turned out to be a most hospitable creature and immediately invited Muri to his trough.

  ‘You’d better wise up,’ Muri said to him, touched by the sudden attention. ‘As soon as they start dishing out extra swill, as soon as they start fawning over you and feeling your sides, you need to get out of here as fast as you can. Trust me, freedom never boasts of satiety. So run, you little fool, as fast as your legs will carry you!’

  Every evening the sun would wrap itself in a blanket of clouds and Marta, drunk on her own energy, would fold her arms under her apron and head for the bench near the gates.

  ‘Why’s she staring off into the distance like that?’ Muri asked the Patriarch.

  ‘She’s waiting for him to come back,’ answered the courtyard spirit.

  ‘If you mean her spurned suitor, he’s not coming back,’ the cat declared authoritatively. ‘If he really is strong, he won’t show any weakness.’

  ‘You don’t know humans,’ the spirit remarked gently. ‘Marta cast her net and caught her fish. Vitas Senciavicius can thrash and quiver all he likes, but she will drag him onto her shores, you can be sure of that. It’s not even worth arguing about. You don’t understand the human heart… Sometimes it works in peculiar ways.’

  The spirit was right, as it turned out. It wasn’t long before another guest turned up at the farmstead. He appeared in the afternoon, when the summer sun was at its zenith, when every living creature in the vicinity was pining for the shade of a tree, a bush or the fence. Having chosen to return at such a brutal time of day, Vitas Senciavicius stood near the gates with his feet planted firmly apart, gnarled and sinewy, with a blade of grass clamped between his teeth. His suit was sticking to him. Unable to find a handkerchief, he wiped his forehead with his tie.

  Two spirits noticed his appearance – the imperturbable inhabitant of the birch tree and Muri, sprawled underneath it. Vergilius, the resident security guard, yelped and retreated into his kennel, cursing his inability to escape from his own fur.

  ‘That human is going to stand there wiping his brow for a good while yet!’ remarked Muri, immediately guessing who stood restlessly before them. ‘I saw the mistress heading out across the field, to gather new birch twigs for the broom!’

  The Patriarch didn’t have time to respond because Marta, breathing heavily, was already at the gates.

  ‘I came to pick up my jacket,’ said Vitas Senciavicius.

  ‘Well, there it is!’ shrugged Marta. ‘It’s been hanging on that nail by the door for over a year now.’

  The heat of the sun was unbearable. The cat beat his tail against one of the roots of the tree.

  ‘A year has passed,’ agreed Vitas Senciavicius, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and glancing around the courtyard. ‘Yet it’s still hanging there, just like new!’

  ‘What did you think would have happened to it?’ smiled Marta.

  ‘I’ve just dropped by to pick it up on my way to Vilnius,’ continued Vitas. ‘I’m visiting family there. I’ve had enough of Murmansk. It’s a foreign country now, anyway.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ the young woman calmly agreed.

  ‘I’m hoping to find work in Klaipėda. These hands know a thing or two,’ said the man, finally putting his bag down. He showed her his marine mechanic’s hands.

  ‘You’ll find work in Klaipėda,’ replied the young woman, having finally got her breath back.

  Vergilius stuck his nose out of his kennel and started yelping again, presumably as a conspicuous demonstration of his guarding abilities.

  ‘Your dog’s looking old,’ said the sailor, wiping his sweat away with his tie.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ answered Marta. ‘He’s exactly the same as he always was. All bark and no bite!’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ agreed Vitas Senciavicius. ‘I guess he’s not likely to have aged much in a year!’

  They both stood there for an agonising half hour. ‘How’s the gelding?’ asked Vitas, melting in his suit. ‘I bet he died, didn’t he? That old nag of yours was always dragging his hooves.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Marta answered laconically. ‘He’s grazing over there, near the road. You walked right past him!’

  ‘Oh yes… so I did,’ muttered Vitas Senciavicius. ‘How did I miss your gelding? I can’t believe I didn’t see him… Ah yes, come to think of it, I did see a horse grazing there, but it didn’t occur tome that it was yours. Of course it was. You wouldn’t be gathering hay on your own back! You wouldn’t be able to carry much… But it’s different with a horse, especially one like yours.’

  ‘He’s a lazy good-for-nothing,’ said Marta, interrupting him. ‘I have to keep prodding him along. He’s always falling asleep.’

  ‘That’s because he’s old,’ interjected Vitas Senciavicius. ‘As I was saying, a year has passed. A whole year…’

  Marta’s cardigan had darkened from the humidity, and her dress was clinging to her magnificent thighs. A river of sweat glistened in the valley between her breasts. But she didn’t take a single step.

  Vitas Seniciavicius devoured the young woman with his eyes. His mouth began to water, and he swallowed hard. ‘I’ve had enough of travelling round the world,’ he began, launching his final appeal. ‘First we went to Argentina. Then it was Malaysia and Hong Kong, and then on to the Red Sea. But now I’ve had enough. My eyes have been dazzled. Bahrain, the United Arab Emirates… It’s only been a year, but I’ve seen so much of the world!’

  The sun was annihilating Vitas Senciavicius. The chickens were clucking sleepily behind the pigsty. Vergilius shifted in his kennel. The cat continued to flog the innocent birch root with its tail. The Patriarch held his breath. All the provincial spirits held their breath. Themice and rats fell silent; even the piglet stopped chewing.

  ‘It’s your own fault,’ said Marta.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ conceded Vitas Senciavicius, spitting out his blade of grass.

  ‘It’s a no,’ said the hurtful young woman. ‘No, no and no,’ she began shaking her head decisively. ‘I have no need for a shameless idler, a rolling stone, a wanderer who cannot resist the lure of Rio, or Argentina.’

  ‘It’s a no,’ the man interrupted her, without taking his eyes off her mighty bosom.

  ‘Go on, off you go to Klaipėda! Walk, if you have to. Or get the bus, or the train,’ said Marta. ‘You always have to be running somewhere, don’t you? You can never stop, not even for a day.’

  Another eternity followed these words. Then Vitas Senciavicius picked up his bag and put it over his shoulder. He turned away from the woman, the gates, the
fence and the well and began walking in the opposite direction. A cloud of summer dust obediently rose up and followed him.

  But the mistress of the house didn’t make it back to the porch. Nor did she manage to raise her apron to her eyes, to hide her despair from the animals and spirits. Vitas Senciavicius was already behind her, breathing heavily into her hair… It had clearly been a while since he’d run so fast. The wanderer had stopped near the gelding before running back and now, in the distance, the horse neighed in surprise, showing his disgusting teeth. Vitas Senciavicius had already laid his hands on the young woman’s shoulders. The cloud of dust, which had followed him joyfully back to the gates like a faithful dog, settled down again as though it had never stirred. Vergilius opened his mouth wide in surprise.

  ‘My jacket,’ said Vitas Senciavicius, turning the beautiful Marta towards him. ‘Can you believe it? I nearly forgot my damned jacket again!’

  After the sauna had heated up, the birch twigs had been lashed together and the home-made wine had been drunk, the man and the woman sat side by side, exhausted from the heat of the sauna, holding their naked bellies up to the evening sun. But Muri had begun preparing for his departure. After flexing his paws and grooming his smooth fur, the cat made a farewell circle of the courtyard. The humans paid no attention to him whatsoever.

  ‘I swear to you, Marta, I’m sticking around for good this time,’ Vitas Senciavicius declared solemnly, unable to take his eyes from the voluptuous white breasts of his beloved. ‘I swear I’ll settle down. I’ll never leave this place again, except to go to the market!’

  ‘You can swear what you like, Senciavicius,’ answered the young woman, laughing. ‘Your song is sung. Your wandering days are over. Farewell to your cheap girls in taverns… It’s almost haymaking time, and come autumn time the pigs will have a good layer of fat on them. Who’s going to deal with them if you’re not here? Who’s going to prepare the carcasses?’

  ‘Yes! We’ll make splendid ham,’ Vitas Senciavicius agreed with every bit of her, right down to the very last strand of hair that was shining in the evening sun. ‘And we can set up a couple more barrels of beer down there in the cellar.’

  ‘Set them up, Vitas!’ said his woman, who had finally got what she’d been waiting for. ‘You’ll never run from me again.’

  ‘Right then, I’m off,’ announced the cat.

  The Patriarch leaned out of his branches, not at all surprised.

  ‘Well, good riddance! I hope your quest has a happy ending too.’

  ‘My goal is quite different,’ the cat interrupted him.

  ‘Whatever you say! Not all roads are as straight as yours,’ remarked the master of the courtyard. ‘Some paths lead you away and then bring you right back to where you started. Besides, humans have their own idiosyncrasies. You ought to make a few allowances for them… Hey, where are you going?’ On the same day, over the most deserted part of the Pacific Ocean, a meteor blazed its way through the sky above Dick. The area was bleak enough to inspire melancholy in its rare visitors. There wasn’t a single cargo vessel for 1,000 miles around, and the only aeroplane trails were barely visible in the distance. Rather than plunging into the ocean, the meteor and its trail of smoke came to rest about 100 feet above the sperm whale and hung there, suspended in the sky. If Dick had eyes in the back of his head and wasn’t in such a hurry, he would have seen that the ball of fire wasn’t a meteor at all – it was simply an ordinary extra-terrestrial UFO, one of the hundreds, maybe even thousands, that fly past our planet every day. This particular UFO had taken a detour to Earth, for a change of scene. The hatch opened and two of its pilots appeared. While they lazily scanned the horizon, a third colleague tinkered about in the depths of the spaceship with his tentacles, making ringing noises with his tools – just following standard procedures. When the alien engineer came to the external part of his service check he managed to drop a glowing radioactive key into the ocean, but his exasperated swearing didn’t last long. Before continuing their journey the aliens greeted their fellow traveller, but the whale was focused on his own never-ending journey and completely ignored them.

  ‘Homo sapiens is just one of many species endowed with reason,’ declared Pete Stout, as he concluded yet another conference. ‘Exalting humanity, maintaining that we are superior to animals and therefore somehow more important – this merely demonstrates a staggering ignorance of the nature of the world, for we are surrounded by evidence to the contrary! Truly, spiritus ubi vult spirat25… But let me share my dream with you! We are above all products of our social relationships. This being the case, if each of us embraces the notion that all living beings are equal, is it not our duty to inspire others? Should we not take the opportunity to educate an entire generation in the spirit of true humanism? Only by uniting will we be able to smash these foolish dogmas. Our future lies in community and cooperation, but above all we must work towards a clear goal. That is all I wish to say!’

  We must acknowledge the indisputable fact that man is the only creature in the entire Universe with the capacity to reason, having been created by God in His own image. As such he has a responsibility above all to his Heavenly Father, who first granted him the possibility of individual choice. The path chosen by each Homo sapiens is his individual path. Man simply does not have the moral or ethical right to lead others like him,’ raged Belanger in the conclusion to his book. ‘Of course, ad cogitandum et agendum homo natus est26, but this applies to his own thoughts, his own actions! This is my credo, if you like – the alpha and omega of my doctrine. Any attempt to harness large numbers of followers, devotees, disciples and so forth to one’s personal cause is doomed from the outset to fail. World history indicates the futility of what I can only call this ‘egotism’, in the truest sense of the word. As far as the methodology and analysis of the infinite journey are concerned, I believe in the absolute individuality of every living being… and on this point I will not be shaken. Dixi!27’

  It’s time for us to sum up, too. Timosha the goose passed away on the operating table, after military medics attempted to get to the bottom of the mystery by implanting special microchips into the unfortunate bird’s brain.

  The Serbian lorry-driver Zonžič was last seen in Norway, in the county of Vestfold.

  Old Jacob led his flock from the refugee camp to Innsbruck. He then did everything he could to help the Sveinger, Sharum and Alocha families get to New York, along with all the others who had followed him beyond Munich. He even accompanied them to Frankfurt airport. The stubborn old man refused point-blank to go with them, though, declaring that he was tired of being on the move. Jacob shared his knowledge of America with young Shiloh, the most impulsive of those he had led out of hell, assuring him that Brighton Beach would be just a temporary stop.

  ‘I have a feeling you won’t spend too long there,’ Jacob whispered to the growing youth. ‘My strength is already spent, and I can lead you no further. Shiloh, you must not believe anyone who tells you that we are destined to stay in one place forever, even in the Promised Land. It will be your responsibility to lead those who are still barely moving in their mothers’ wombs, so you’d better get used to the idea! You must keep your cart ready, at all times and everywhere. God did not create us so that we might grow fat in the shops of Amsterdam or Chicago. Make sure you’re ready to step forward and lead others at any time of day or night. It doesn’t matter where – that’s up to you. Promise them all a happy future! The most important thing to remember, Shiloh, is that you must always keep your cart ready. And you must keep your tobacco in a waterproof place, preferably your breast pocket. There’s one more thing… You may choose to put your faith in trucks and aeroplanes, and that’s fine, but you should be able to rely on your own two legs. Walk every day to exercise your legs – take good care of them, because you never know when you might need them. Make sure you know how to run, Shiloh!’ With these words Jacob kissed the youth, who couldn’t help sniggering into his fist at the old man’s solemnity.
This infuriated Jacob.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter, you young reprobate!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘Walk your way around New York, and don’t forget that we survived. I’ve done my share of roaming in this part of the world. At some point the time will come for you to roam America, but such is the will of God. Now, promise me that you’ll remember everything I’ve told you.’

  Shiloh promised, albeit with a smirk. Jacob shook his head reproachfully at the criminal frivolity of youth. He went into the waiting room and watched the Boeing force itself up into the air. Some of its passengers had no idea what lay in store for them, but they were happy in their ignorance. The exuberant Shiloh had other things on his mind – his big, brown, hungry eyes were fixed on red-headed Evelina, the youngest daughter of Leib Shakhnovich, whose temper was as fiery as her hair. He was quite smitten. Meanwhile, after seeing off his fellow countrymen and muttering his prayers, Jacob sat down on a bench in the waiting room and drew his last breath.

  Someone called an ambulance, and then the police arrived. It took the medical staff some time to prise Jacob’s pipe from his stiffened fingers – he seemed determined to take it with him. One of the doctors turned to the indifferent policemen. ‘Look, he’s got a cart with him! What shall we do with his cart?’

  He didn’t wait for an answer.

  Petko Patić, the unlucky astronomer from Zagreb, waited in vain for his explosion. Displaying the same dogged determination as Defoe’s hero, he recalculated his table for the umpteenth time and found yet another inaccuracy. He was now convinced of the regularity of explosions with a different interval between them. He fully expected the next event to occur within his lifetime and was planning to go to Chile to observe it. But Patić became famous for a different reason! The newspapers had had their fill of the slaughter in Yugoslavia. Ethnic cleansings were so commonplace that they no longer held any interest; by contrast this stubborn astronomer, who had spent the winter isolated in the mountains, became a media sensation. The press were fascinated by his tenacity and single-mindedness – his obsession with nebulae and galaxies was such that he simply hadn’t noticed the war. His generator had given up on him, and the steps leading to the little chapel were completely covered with ice. This voluntary Crusoe had survived the latest frosts by virtually wrapping his arms around the tepid stove. Patić said in an interview that he had even gnawed candle stubs, for the calories from the wax. But he categorically refused to admit defeat before the astronomical community.