by Iliazd
And the roar unexpectedly quieted and an unimaginable silence ensued. Ivlita took her palms from her ears and heard only the water murmuring, flowing down from the snow-covered outcroppings. Nothing more. Not a cry or a howl. The water is murmuring. Ivlita listened, and listened more intently. Had it been murmuring for long? It had always been murmuring, always would, the gentlest song of death. Must be, Jonah’s dead
Ivlita opened her eyes, but could not arrest her raised eyelids, and they went on parting more broadly, as though a moment were not sufficient to take horror at the spectacle of blood next to her in the nimbus of the new day. And Jonah’s crystalline voice, montane, not human, streamed over the blood: “Ivlita, why did Laurence nurse you back from death, compel you to live? You would already be with me.” “Jonah, are you speaking or dead?” But Ivlita learned nothing by bending over the corpse. Had the words been spoken by him, or had they only been heard by her?…
Laurence? What did he have to do with her? And suddenly Ivlita felt her mind spinning, she was sick to her stomach; one after another, unfamiliar sensations she could not square with anything seized her, she felt light pouring from her and such warmth that the glacier was no longer made of ice, but was warm, already so hot you can’t stand on it, it burns your feet so badly. And inside her, not just anywhere, but in a perfectly defined spot, unique in the whole universe, such a thing was happening that so distinguished the spot from all the same old stones, the same old ice, the source of a movement that began arbitrarily and on its own, the source of a sublime phenomenon, not subject to death, the rise of a new life
In reply to the tempest’s (or human being’s) curses, to the call of her mind (and the mind of the dying man), Ivlita answered with rebellion, a last effort to break beyond inviolable bounds. She triumphed
Ivlita broke into a run. But the dead man did not want to let her clothing out of his hand. Not strong enough to struggle against him, Ivlita was constrained to drag his corpse behind her. On the steep slopes, the corpse slid down more quickly, knocked her off her feet, drew her behind it, pulled her down into the snow, and she would get up after lying in the dead man’s embrace, covered in blood. This flight went on all morning, until Ivlita neared the wenny’s station. The slaughtered beasts showed black from afar, a magnificent hill
But the deceased had not managed to deliver his own quarry, too, when the soul-lacerating trampling reached them once more, ascending to the pastures. And then distant, frequent shots sounded, and voices full of mortal alarm. And Ivlita saw the shepherds toss aside the beasts they were already skinning, and without even thinking of the bleating goats in their pens, jump up and begin the descent to the fir forest in great haste. She shouted at them to wait for her, but no one turned around. She tore away. The dead man came loose
But Ivlita was chasing the runners naked
The soldiers played the march with stress and passion, and the march, bursting through the wall into the garden, kept Laurence from concentrating. And meanwhile he had to revive in memory developments following the second bomb right up to these comradely revels—it was necessary to know them, if only for the sake of prudence, but Laurence couldn’t recall anything for sure, and his already inebriated retinue didn’t want to delve into any details. Who had picked him up, saved him from the police, deposited him at this drinking establishment? And what could explain his comrades’ folly: carousing right next to a barracks and while the city was on alert and they were digging into every nook?
The table, laden with tasty dishes and with bottles, in particular, and spread in the shade of a magnificent cedar, shuddered every second from laughter, shrieks, blows, and other motions. What was Laurence to do with these people? They rejoiced at their success, and so did he. But he was hurrying home, to Ivlita. And then, these were outsiders he shouldn’t trust; he just knew Basilisk. But Basilisk was absent, and his place setting, which hadn’t been cleared away, gave the young man no peace
“Laurence, you’re a treasure,” someone across the table shouted. “The second bomb was a marvel. If not for you, it would all have been dust and ashes. Let me hug you, my darling dove”
Laurence felt hot and hemmed in and heavy because of the belt filled with gold hidden under his clothing, because of the banknotes sewn up in small sacks draped over his chest and back, stuffed into his boots and hat. Like he’d put on fat and grown four times as stout
“And your brave fellows, now they’re some devils…The youngest one made good on the ruckus, went back into the shop to grab a perfume bottle and pour the whole thing over his head. Now robbing the jeweler is more than I would allow, they’d probably get caught red-handed…Hey, some red and more peaches, please”
Jewels? Laurence had inadvertently forgotten; after all, he’d thought about them earlier. And Basilisk had assured him he’d get to buy a whole lot. It would be better than hauling gold around
“Can’t I get into the city?” the highlander abruptly interjected. “I need a gift to take for my wife, some emeralds, or something like that”
“To the city? Well, now you’ve lost your mind, comrade Laurence,” his neighbor shrieked. “They’ll nab you right away. The police are furious after being played. Now every place is dangerous except here, since this is our favorite and so the most dangerous place, and everyone’s sure we could be anywhere, naturally, but not here. Dimwits. And what do they want with us? The money’s lost, it’s already rolling across the border with one of our trusty men…By the way, don’t be alarmed: the police are the only ones who don’t know we’re boozing, the jeweler himself will show up here in person”
The military march blared incessantly. As though the soldiers, drawing valor from it, thought they needed to load up properly for some future heated engagement. And the more the French horns, never retreating, persisted, the more uneasiness found its place in Laurence until he became all ears. What tune was this, familiar to everyone, judging by his neighbor’s words, never performed in peacetime and whose purpose was bracing hearts in the hour of battle? And since this tune might be forgotten after a long deficiency of wars, they’d begun playing it during attacks, as they said, on the internal enemy, while massacring workers, destroying schools, annihilating villages and, as an exception, finally, while the soldiers were quartered in brothels. What was the occasion now?
They sent a lackey to scout it out. He disappeared for a long time, and during his absence all events were subjected to the alarm. Therefore, when a dealer in colored gems who was subsisting off parties reveling in the suburban gardens turned up with his bins and trays, where, despite their owner’s poor appearance, genuine treasures were on display, Laurence, without any sales pitch, parted with his gold, overpaying for everything—regardless of the conscientious tavern keeper’s intervention—by a factor of three. If not for this brazen music, what joy he would have felt toward these presents for Ivlita, about which he’d been dreaming for months. Hadn’t he bound himself to the conspiracy for the sake of these gems? But this unsolicited warmongering gobbled everything up, and, under the scourge of their trumpets, it struck Laurence that his exploits were hollow and his efforts wide of the mark
Neither police, nor perfidy, nor bullets had dissuaded him. And now the music started playing and Laurence realized he was weak, negligible, misguided; there’d been no point in starting the long drawn-out business, money was useless, since while pursuing it he’d been losing the main thing, which he could never recover
Why had he obeyed Galaction, followed Basilisk, taken his business beyond the confines of the mountains, descended into an unfamiliar world whose hardships he hadn’t taken into account? Raised forces against himself to a degree he couldn’t define? And for the sake of meaningless enterprises he’d turned his back on Ivlita, who was, perhaps, in life-threatening danger and had, just maybe, forgotten him, maybe…
Oh, to smash the trumpets, strangle the performers. An inadmissible disgrace…What’s this? Why are they playing it?
When the scout return
ed, he affirmed what Laurence didn’t dare think, but could almost smell. A cavalry squadron was leaving for the mountains today on a punitive mission to a village where, a few days back, some gendarmes had been lured into an ambush and massacred. People said it was the work of the same Laurence who robbed the treasury that morning. The soldiers were happy, anticipating the love of mountain beauties…
Mountain beauties? And him? And the party? Laurence jumped up, leaned across the table, scrutinizing his accomplices. Would the party allow it? Among the dismal bearded faces, the wise men who knew the prices of things and were possessed by an end that justified the means, he was such an unexpected sight that if any of them had raised their eyes, they would have seen the triple cipher of faith, hope, and love above the highlander’s shining head. But the gazes of his comrades bore into the earth. No answer followed. You refuse to help?…You’re handing them over to rapists? And suddenly peals of laughter and empty rhetoric seized Laurence
Ravishing. Things couldn’t go any better. What luck that the party at whose disposal he remained, ready to do them service, did not reciprocate. For if the city was threatening his native village, Laurence, and no one else, must and would be able to defend it
“Comrades, I cannot hide from you the fact that this very seat remains empty on my account, since it was I who killed comrade Basilisk. During the course of a month, Basilisk treacherously sent me, Laurence, to life on a daily basis and then demanded a bribe, since I was supposedly beholden to him for my life. But when he’d played to his heart’s content, he sent me, Martinian, to death. And so I resolved to kill him, too, in order to prove that a highlander is free, and that laws apart from economics exist, and forces besides the party
“Now, when the overcoats are going to pay for their insolence with their heads, a revolt is flaring up and not one of our shots will be fired in vain, no one will dare say we were led or that we are beholden to anyone whomsoever for our victory over the plains. A punitive squadron? The love of mountain beauties? We’ll marry off every soldier, hand him a cherry, our sister death…. Farewell”
Everyone straightened up. Laurence, circling the table, kissed each party member on the shoulder and, backing away with his finger on the trigger of the pistol hidden in his bosom, reached the garden gate. The wennies imitated his movements. After letting them pass, he turned and leapt headlong onto the road
But his caution was misplaced. None of the party members had any intention of shooting. Sobered, they looked at one another, not without bewilderment, and when Laurence had disappeared, one of those present, shrugging his shoulders, said: “Still and all, Basilisk was an oddball. What the devil was the point of hiring that blowhard? That the police, it was said, didn’t know him and he could throw perfectly? Silliness, we would have gotten by even without such a luxury. And now he’s paid for his whim, and how much money, so necessary for the party, had to be allotted for his scheme”
And no one sat back down. After settling up with the surprised host, the guests left the garden behind and, with hands in pockets, went back to the city to put themselves in prison, a safe haven in their current situation
And Laurence and the wennies were walking toward the train station behind the squadron in a crowd of gawkers and little boys, to the accompanying mockery of that same march. Of the highlander’s recent self-reliant confidence nothing remained. “His speech was what exactly?” Laurence reasoned it out: Was it slander against himself, or in killing Brother Mocius for no good reason, Luke in self-defense, Galaction in vengeance, Basilisk from a thirst for blood, had he really been killing just to kill, proving that freedom exists? But that meant there was no confusion, and those who suspected a boundlessly ill will in Brother Mocius’s murderer had been right, and Laurence was, in fact, an evil man. At the same time, Laurence knew he was no villain, and he was sure that if paradise existed, space would be found there even for him. Then what was he? A plaything of the elements? And this thought—not exactly a justification, not quite an intuition about the universe or insurance against any eventuality, arising not for the first time and making itself his constant companion—embarrassed him. And the words spoken by Basilisk, that he knew how to kill, came to mind as wheedling. His speech before his comrades was boasting and nothing more
The train station presented a thoroughly outlandish scene. The square in front of it was jammed with pedestrians and carriages waiting for the punitive squadron to appear. The carriages were wallowing in flowers, and the pedestrians, mostly women, held armloads—bouquets and wreaths. But evidently the ocean of flowers was insufficient, since along the adjacent streets stood wagons, from which hawkers were calling out prices for roses, tulips, carnations, all red. The cream of city society, who had abandoned the grand boulevard for the holiday, gleamed with beauty in their calashes. But no matter how much gawkers and customers peered at them there on the boulevard, their faces had never flushed as they did now, had not blazed with the excitement, the frenzy that seized their beings. If they had seen the squadron at work, they might have behaved otherwise. But the thought of future massacres, the blood that would flow, enraptured them all, cheered them, made some cling to others, draw deep breaths, find life magnificent, and themselves likewise
The squadron’s appearance elicited a storm of welcome. All who were sitting jumped up, and all who were standing raised themselves up on tiptoes, and there was no silencing the “Hurrah!” in honor of the future conquerors. A barrage of flowers began. They threw them from the windows of the surrounding houses, from the roofs; the imps who had taken to the trees threw them from the branches, so that the soldiers, leading their horses by the bridle and weakly defending themselves with their free arms, were marching in flowers up to their knees. The band struck up once more the march of blood and the cries of “Hurrah!” gave way to an equally unified and rhythmic: “Don’t spare the bullets!” Women caught the soldiers’ hands and kissed them, and those who were further off wailed: “Don’t spare them,” and blew kisses with both hands. When the squadron entered the train station, the whole square was ready to follow them. Doors were torn from their hinges, fences were broken down, and yet few had the good fortune of making it to the platform. There stood the military train, its cars decked in flowers from their roofs to their wheels
But if the soldiers were objects of adoration for the bourgeois (men and women alike), the chief honors, nevertheless, fell to their leader. Stately, with a broad backside exaggerated by the cut of his breeches, his chest enhanced by an attractive breastplate, and a crop in his hand, Captain Arcady smiled indulgently at the frantic ladies, never removing his chamois-gloved hand from the visor of his cap. While the soldiers were showered with flowers, he had to accept offerings as well. And, standing on the step of the car assigned to him, the captain tirelessly bowed to take from the tenderest hands some fetish or jewel and handed them off to an orderly, efficiently sorting his master’s acquisitions inside the car. Here were rings hastily removed from fingers, brooches only just unpinned from bosoms, watches, crucifixes, and more. But the most numerous items were made from women’s hair. How many of the city’s women had not slept during the previous night so that, after shearing off a lock, they could weave a watch fob or a bracelet or a cross to be worn on the body. Several had contrived even to craft from their hair bouquets or initials placed in frames, under glass. But there were also those who simply brought their sheared plaits, tied up in ribbons. One beauty sacrificed all her hair to weave a rope from which she adjured him to hang the chief rebel. They had to resort to the strictest measures and, by establishing some kind of line, reduce the crush. One hour passed after another, and there was still no end to the queue of admiring women craving to kiss the captain’s hand
Even Arcady began to feel nervous and tired because of this measureless immodesty. He would long ago have given the order to depart if he hadn’t been waiting for someone. Finally, a certain youth turned up, mincing, heavily powdered and pomaded, escorted by envious glances. “Arc
ady,” he cried out while still at some distance, “May the Lord bless you, may He help you accomplish your feat of arms…,” and, after embracing the captain, the youth whispered: “My dear, I love you more today than ever before. To live, it is necessary to kill. You see, our senses are fresher now than they were on the very first day. My hero, my god”
Laurence, persistently following the soldiers, had pushed his way through to the train and followed what was happening, spellbound and shamed. He recalled lording it over the villages, the receptions in the village halls and thought, how trivial compared with Arcady’s triumph. What was the officer posing as? Some ordinary dirty cad like all the rest. And just the same kind of effeminate coward as was customary. But see, it was enough for Arcady to be entrusted with some affair, easy and shameful, and he was elevated to the heavens. And after resolving that the captain would not escape his bullet, Laurence sorrowfully chided himself for being ruled by envy
How much the last months had perverted him. Not that long ago, he wouldn’t have thought anything of drawing his pistol and laying the captain low. But now he rebuked himself, no, it wasn’t the time, he had to spare himself, the main thing lay ahead, and so on. Earlier, Laurence could only act, or, presumably, reason. But now, it gave him pleasure to spend time contemplating and in order to prolong that contemplation, he sought out every possible justification for his weakness
Therefore, without undertaking anything, he climbed into the train along with several curious people who didn’t want to let the squadron out of their sight and departed, together with the wennies, for his native land. Without any agitation he watched the local authorities, the clergy, and, again, the women greet Arcady at every station. In the car, the soldiers’ conversations turned on one and the same tedious question—whom they would get to sleep with in the village, and that the mountain girls, although they had splendid bodies, didn’t know how to put out and just lay there like corpses. “Lifeless beauty,” the narrator added with the air of a connoisseur