Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead

by Olga Tokarczuk

  He came to me in the Night and squatted by my bed. I wasn’t asleep.

  ‘Are you asleep?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you religious?’ I had to put the question.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied proudly. ‘I’m an atheist.’

  I found that curious.

  I raised the quilt and invited him to join me, but as I am neither Maudlin nor Sentimental, I shall not dwell on it any further.

  The next day was Saturday, and early in the morning Dizzy appeared.

  I was working in my garden patch, testing one of my Theories. I think I can find proof for the fact that we inherit phenotypes, which flies in the face of modern genetics. I had noticed that certain acquired features make irregular appearances in subsequent generations. So three years ago I set about repeating Mendel’s experiment with sweet peas; I am now in the middle of it. I notched the petals of the flowers, through five generations in a row (two a year), and then checked to see if the seeds would produce flowers with damaged petals. I must say that the results of this experiment were looking very encouraging.

  Dizzy’s rickety old car emerged from round the bend in such a hurry that one could describe it as breathless and overexcited. Dizzy hopped out, just as agitated.

  ‘They’ve found Innerd’s body. Dead as a doornail. For weeks and weeks.’

  I felt extremely faint. I had to sit down. I wasn’t prepared for this.

  ‘So he hadn’t run away with his lover,’ said Boros, emerging from the kitchen with a mug of tea. He didn’t hide his disappointment.

  Dizzy looked at him and at me hesitantly, and was too surprised to say anything. I had to do a quick presentation. They shook hands.

  ‘Oh, they knew that ages ago,’ said Dizzy, his excitement waning. ‘He left his credit cards behind and his bank accounts haven’t been touched. Though actually his passport has never turned up.’

  We sat down outside the house. Dizzy said he’d been found by timber thieves. Yesterday afternoon they had driven into the forest from the direction of the Fox farm, and there, just before Dusk, they had come upon the remains – that’s what they’d said. They were lying among the ferns, in a pit where clay was once mined. And apparently these remains were quite appalling, so twisted and deformed that it took them a while to realise they were looking at a man’s body. At first they had fled in horror, but their consciences had nagged them. Naturally, they were afraid to go to the Police for one simple reason – as soon as they did, their criminal activity would instantly be exposed. Oh well, they could always claim they’d just been driving through that way…Late that evening they’d called the Police, and during the Night the forensic team had arrived. From what was left of the clothing, they had provisionally managed to identify Innerd because he wore a distinctive leather jacket. But we’d be sure to know everything on Monday.

  Oddball’s son later defined our behaviour as ‘childish’, but to me it seemed as coherent as can be – namely, we all got in the Samurai and drove to the forest beyond the Fox farm to the site where the body was found. And we were by no means the only ones to behave childishly – about twenty people had come, men and women from Transylvania, and also forest workers, those men with moustaches were there too. Plastic orange tape had been stretched between the trees, and from the distance stipulated for spectators it was hard to make out anything at all.

  A middle-aged woman came up to me and said: ‘Apparently he was lying here for months on end and had already been well gnawed by foxes.’

  I nodded. I recognised her. We had often met at Good News’ shop. Her name was Innocenta, which impressed me greatly. Beyond that I did not envy her – she had several ne’er-do-well sons who were no use at all.

  ‘The boys said he was all white with mould. They said he’d gone all mouldy.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ I asked in dismay.

  ‘Oh yes, madam,’ she said very confidently. ‘And they said he had a wire around his leg, as if it had grown into the flesh, it was drawn so tight it was.’

  ‘A snare,’ I said. ‘He must have been caught in a snare. They were always setting them around here.’

  We moved along the tape, trying to make out something in particular. A crime scene always prompts horror, so the onlookers were hardly speaking to one another, and if they were, they were talking softly, as if at a cemetery.

  Innocenta shuffled after us, speaking for all those who were shocked into silence: ‘But no one dies because of a snare. The Dentist keeps insisting it’s the animals’ revenge. Because they hunted, did you know that? He and the Commandant.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I replied, surprised that the news had spread so quickly. ‘I agree with him.’

  ‘Really? You think it’s possible that animals…’

  I shrugged. ‘I know it is. I think they were taking revenge. There are some things we may not understand, but we can sense them perfectly well.’

  She thought for a while, and finally agreed that I was right. We walked around the tape and stopped at a spot where we had a good view of the police cars and men in rubber gloves squatting close to the forest floor. Evidently the Police were now trying to collect all the potential evidence, to avoid making the same mistakes as they had in the case of the Commandant. Because they really had made mistakes. We couldn’t go any nearer, two policemen in uniform kept herding us back onto the road like a flock of Hens. But we could see that they were diligently searching for clues, and several officers were trudging about the forest, paying attention to every detail. Dizzy was frightened of them. He preferred not to be recognised in these circumstances; come what may, he did work for the Police. During an afternoon snack, which we ate outside – the weather was so lovely – Dizzy elaborated his thoughts.

  ‘This means my entire hypothesis is in ruins. I’ll admit that I was pretty sure Innerd had helped the Commandant to fall into the well. They had mutual interests, and they’d quarrelled, or maybe the Commandant was blackmailing him. I thought they’d met by the well and started squabbling. Then Innerd had pushed the Commandant, and the accident had occurred.’

  ‘But now it turns out to be even worse than everyone thought. The murderer is still at large,’ said Oddball.

  ‘And to think he’s lurking somewhere near here,’ said Dizzy, tucking into the strawberry dessert.

  I found the strawberries completely tasteless. I wondered whether it was because they fertilise them with some muck, or maybe because our tastebuds have grown old, along with the rest of our bodies. And we shall never again taste the flavours of the past. Yet another thing that’s irreversible.

  Over a cup of tea Boros gave us a professional description of how Insects contribute to the decomposition of flesh. I let myself be persuaded to go back to the forest again after Dark, once the Police had left, so that Boros could conduct his research. Disgusted by what they regarded as ghoulish eccentricity, Dizzy and Oddball stayed behind on the terrace.

  The gleaming orange tape phosphoresced amid the soft darkness of the forest. At first I refused to go any closer, but Boros was very sure of himself and unceremoniously dragged me after him. I stood over him as he shone his headlamp torch into the undergrowth, searching among the ferns and poking a finger into the leaf litter for traces of Insects. It’s strange how the Night erases all colours, as if it didn’t give a damn about such worldly extravagance. Boros muttered away to himself, while with my heart in my mouth I let myself be carried away by a vision:

  When he arrived at the farm and looked through the window, Innerd usually saw the forest, the wall of forest full of ferns, but that day he’d seen some beautiful, fluffy, wild red Foxes. They weren’t in the least afraid; they were just sitting there like Dogs, steadily watching him in a challenging way. Maybe in his small, avaricious heart a hope was born – that here he had chanced upon an easy profit, for such tame, beautiful Foxes could be lured and caught. But how come they’re so trusting and tame? he thought. Perhaps they’re a cross with the ones that live in cages and spend the whole of t
heir short lives turning circles, in a space so small that their noses touch their precious tails. No, it’s not possible. And yet these Foxes were large and beautiful. So that evening, when he saw them again, he thought he’d go after them, to see for himself what exactly was tempting him, what sort of a devil it was. He threw on his leather jacket and off he went. Then he realised that they were expecting him – beautiful, noble Animals with wise faces. ‘Here, boy, here, boy,’ he called to them as if to puppies, but the closer he came, the further they retreated into the forest, still bare and damp at this time of year. He figured it wouldn’t be hard to grab hold of one – they were almost rubbing against his legs. It also crossed his mind that they could be rabid, but in fact it was all the same to him by now. He’d already been inoculated against rabies, when a Dog he’d shot had bit him. He’d had to finish it off with his rifle butt. So even if they were, it didn’t matter. The Foxes were playing a strange game with him, vanishing from sight and then reappearing, two, three of them, and then he thought he could see some beautiful, fluffy Fox Cubs too. And finally, when one of them, the biggest, most handsome Dog Fox, calmly sat down in front of him, Innerd crouched in amazement and began to advance very slowly, legs bent, leaning forwards, with a hand stretched out ahead of him; his fingers pretended to be holding a tasty morsel, which might tempt the Fox, and then he could be made into a fine fur collar. But then suddenly he realised he was tangled in something, his legs were stuck and he couldn’t move after the Fox. As his trouser leg rode up, he felt something cold and metallic on his ankle. His foot was caught. And when it dawned on him that he’d stepped in a snare, he instinctively yanked his leg backwards, but it was too late. By making this movement he passed his own death sentence. The wire tightened and released a primitive hook – a young birch tree, bent and pinned to the ground, suddenly sprang straight, pulling Innerd’s Body upwards with such force that briefly it hung in the air, waving its legs about, but only briefly, for at once it became still. Seconds later, the overburdened birch tree snapped, and that was how Innerd came to rest on the ground, in a dug-out clay pit, where fern shoots were budding beneath the forest litter.

  Now Boros was kneeling in that spot.

  ‘Give me some light, please,’ he said. ‘I think we have some Cleridae larvae here.’

  ‘Do you believe that wild Animals could kill a Person?’ I asked him, preoccupied with what I had seen in my vision.

  ‘Oh yes, of course they can. Lions, leopards, bulls, snakes, insects, bacteria, viruses…’

  ‘What about Animals like Deer?’

  ‘I’m sure they could find a way.’

  So he was on my side.

  Unfortunately, my vision did not explain how the Foxes from the farm had got out. Nor how the snare on his leg had been the cause of his death.

  ‘I found Acarina, Cleridae, wasp larvae and Dermaptera, that’s to say earwigs,’ said Boros over supper, which Oddball had made in my kitchen. ‘And ants of course. Yes, and lots of mould, but they damaged it very badly while removing the corpse. In my view it all proves that the body was found at the stage of butyric fermentation.’

  We were eating pasta with blue cheese sauce.

  ‘You can’t tell,’ said Boros, ‘if it was mould or adipocere, in other words corpse wax.’

  ‘What did you say? What on earth is corpse wax? How do you know all this?’ asked Oddball with his mouth full of noodles; he had Marysia on his lap.

  Boros explained that he used to be a consultant for the Police. And had done some training in taphonomy.

  ‘Taphonomy?’ I asked. ‘What on earth is that?’

  ‘It’s the science of how corpses decompose. “Taphos” is the Greek for a grave.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ sighed Dizzy, as if asking for divine intervention. But of course nothing happened.

  ‘That would indicate that the body was lying there for some forty to fifty days.’

  We quickly did some mental arithmetic. Dizzy was the fastest.

  ‘So it could have been early March,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘That’s only a month after the Commandant’s death.’

  For three weeks no one talked of anything else, until the next incident occurred. But now the number of versions of Innerd’s death going around the neighbourhood was vast. Dizzy said that the Police hadn’t looked for him at all after he went missing in March, because his lover had disappeared too. Everyone knew about her, even his wife. And although various acquaintances had thought it odd that they’d gone away so suddenly, they were all convinced that Innerd had his own shady business going on. Nobody wanted to stick their noses into someone else’s affairs. And his wife was reconciled to his disappearance too – what’s more, it probably suited her fine. She had already filed for divorce, but obviously that was no longer necessary. Now she was a widow, and it was better for her that way. Meanwhile, the lover had been found; it turned out they’d broken up in December, and she’d been living with her sister in the United States since Christmas. Boros thought the Police should have issued a wanted notice for Innerd, seeing they had all sorts of suspicions. But maybe the Police knew something that we didn’t.

  The next Wednesday I found out at Good News’ shop that apparently a Beast was stalking the neighbourhood, and that it was particularly fond of killing people. And that last year this same Beast had been on the prowl in the Opole region, the only difference being that there it had attacked domestic Animals. Now people in the countryside were scared out of their wits, and everyone was bolting their houses and barns at night.

  ‘Yes, I’ve nailed up all the holes in my fence,’ said the Gentleman with the Poodle, who this time was buying an elegant waistcoat.

  I was pleased to see him. And his Poodle. It sat politely, gazing at me with a wise expression in its eyes. Poodles are more intelligent than people think, though they certainly don’t look it. The same thing applies to many other brave Creatures – we don’t appreciate their intelligence.

  We left Good News’ shop together, and stood a while by the Samurai.

  ‘I remember what you said that time, at the City Guard post. I found it very convincing. I don’t think this is to do with a single killer animal, but animals in general. Perhaps thanks to climatic changes they’ve become aggressive, even deer and hares. And now they’re taking vengeance for everything.’

  So said the old gentleman.

  Boros left. I drove him to the station in town. His ecology students had never arrived – eventually their vehicle had broken down beyond repair. Maybe there weren’t any students at all. Maybe Boros had other matters to see to here, not just to do with Cucujus haematodes.

  For several days I missed him very much – his toiletries in the bathroom and even the empty teacups he left all over the house. He called every day. Then less often, every other day or so. He sounded as if he were living in another dimension, in a spirit world in the north of the country, where the trees are thousands of years old, and large Animals move among them at a slowed-down pace, outside time. I calmly watched as the image of Boros Sznajder, entomologist and taphonomist, faded and evaporated, until all that was left of him was a little grey pigtail hanging in mid-air, ridiculous. Everything will pass.

  The wise Man knows this from the start, and has no regrets.

  XII

  THE VENGEFUL BEAST

  The Beggar’s Dog & Widow’s Cat

  Feed them & thou wilt grow fat.

  Towards the end of June the rain began to come down in torrents. That often happens here in summer. Then in the omnipresent damp one can hear the rustle of the grasses growing, the ivy climbing up the walls, and the mushroom spore expanding underground. After the rain, when the Sun breaks through the clouds for a while, everything takes on such depth that one’s eyes are filled with tears.

  Several times a day I went to examine the state of the little bridge across the stream, to make sure the agitated waters hadn’t washed it away.

  One warm, stormy day Oddball appeared at my house with a timi
d request. He wanted me to help him make a costume for the mushroom pickers’ ball, taking place on Midsummer’s Eve, organised by the Penny Buns Mushroom Pickers’ Society, of which, as I learned to my surprise, he was the treasurer.

  ‘But the season hasn’t started yet,’ I said hesitantly, unsure what to think.

  ‘You’re wrong. The season starts when the first ceps and field mushrooms appear, and that’s usually in mid-June. After that there won’t be any time for balls, because we’ll be out picking mushrooms.’ As proof he stretched out a hand, in which he was holding two lovely birch boletes.

  I happened to be sitting under my terrace roof, doing my astrological research. Since mid-May Neptune had been well-aspected to my Ascendant, which, as I had noticed, was having an inspirational effect on me.

  Oddball tried to persuade me to go to a Society meeting with him. I think he even wanted me to enrol and instantly pay my member’s fee. But I don’t like belonging to any sort of society. I took a quick glance at his Horoscope too, and discovered that Neptune was well-aspected to Venus for him as well. Maybe it would be a good idea for me to go to the mushroom pickers’ ball? I glanced at him. He was sitting opposite me in a grey, faded shirt, with a small basket of strawberries on his knees. I went into the kitchen and fetched a bowl. We started to remove the strawberry stalks; they were slightly overripe, so we needed to hurry up. He used a special pair of tweezers of course. I tried removing the stalks with them too, but found it more convenient to do it with my fingers.

  ‘What is your first name, by the way?’ I asked. ‘What does the Ś before your surname stand for?’

  ‘Świętopełk,’ he replied after a brief pause, without looking at me.

  ‘No!’ I exclaimed as a first reaction, but then I thought that whoever had given him that strange, traditional name had hit the bullseye. Świętopełk. It looked as if this confession brought him relief. He put a strawberry in his mouth and said: ‘My father called me that to spite my mother.’