by Ayn Rand
Comrade Fedossitch laughed when Makar came running back, blubbering crazily, incredulously:
“He’s gone! He’s gone! They’re gone! The boat’s gone!”
“I’m the head of this island, now,” said Comrade Fedossitch, his teeth chattering, when the rope jerked him out of the pit. “And it’s my boot into the teeth of the first one who doesn’t obey orders!”
“Bring Citizen Volkontzev here!” was the first order.
Makar departed obediently and returned wide-eyed, reporting that Citizen Volkontzev had gone, too.
“Well,” laughed Comrade Fedossitch, “the Comrade Commandant was a bigger fool than I thought.”
Up the old tower stairs to the wireless room Comrade Fedossitch ran, stumbling, stopping to cough, shadows dancing crazily around the shaking lantern in his hand. Makar followed, bewildered. Comrade Fedossitch’s boot kicked the door open. The light of the lantern shuddered in a red circle over the crushed remains of the wireless set.
“I’ll get him,” Comrade Fedossitch choked. “I’ll get him! That great red hero! That arrogant Beast!”
Then he raised his lantern, and waved it triumphantly, and yelled, pointing to a dark object in a corner:
“The spotlight, Makar! The spotlight! We’ll signal the coast! We’ll get him! Connect it and bring it up! To the bell tower!”
Comrade Fedossitch’s woolen scarf slapped him furiously in the face when he emerged upon the platform of the bell tower. He threw himself forward against the wind, as if pushing aside an unseen, gigantic hand that tried to hurl him back down the stairs; his long shadow leaped dizzily over the parapet and into space.
He put his lantern down and seized the rope of the bells. It burned his bare hand. He tore the scarf off his neck and wound it around his fingers. Then he pulled the rope.
In clear weather the bells could be heard on the mainland. The sky was clear. The wind was blowing towards the coast.
The bells gave a long, moaning cry. Frozen snow showered Comrade Fedossitch’s shoulders. A shudder ran through the old monastery, from the tower down to the pit.
The bells roared in agony, the brass ringing in long, clamorous sobs. Furious blows hammered like a huge metal whip, and the droning thunder rose heavily, floating slowly away, high over the sea.
Comrade Fedossitch swung the rope ferociously. He dropped his scarf. He did not feel his bare hands freezing to the rope. He laughed deliriously, coughing. He ran across the platform and swung back, his legs and arms twisted around the rope, flying, swaying over the tower like a monstrous pendulum.
Makar came up the stairs with the spotlight, dragging, like a snake rustling against the steps, a long wire that connected it with a dynamo in the room below. He stood still, terrified. Comrade Fedossitch yelled, swinging, twisting the rope:
“They’ve got to hear! They’ve got to hear!”
Across the sea, at the coast guard station, the moving searchlight stopped suddenly.
“Do you hear?” asked a soldier who wore a peaked khaki cap with a red star.
“Funny,” said his assistant. “Sounds like a bell.”
“Can’t be coming from anywhere but hell, perhaps.”
“It’s from Strastnoy Island.”
And as they stood, listening, peering into the darkness, a bright tongue of light flashed far out on the horizon, like a lance slashing the black sky, and the wound quickly closed again.
“Trouble,” said the soldier in the peaked cap. . . .
Comrade Fedossitch was signaling his message to the mainland. He crouched by the spotlight, on his knees, pressing it feverishly to his chest, as a precious child which he had to shield from the wind, which he could not let go, clasping it with fingers stiff as pliers. He clawed his chest, trying to warm his fingers, tearing his shirt, without feeling the wind on his naked throat. He laughed. His laughter rolled a long howl of moans and coughs and triumph into the wind, following the streaks of light that flashed as darts shooting straight into the breast of an unseen enemy far away in the darkness.
Makar stood, paralyzed, but for one hand that made quickly, fearfully, the sign of the cross.
The soldiers at the coast guard station knew the code. The white streaks beyond the sea panted slowly, letter by letter:
“C-O-M-M-A-N-D-A-N-T C-O-N-V-I-C-T W-I-F-E E-S-C-A-P-E.”
From under eight hoofs eight spurts of snow dust flew up like coils of steam; out of the horses’ nostrils steam flew up like spurts of snow dust. The whip in Commandant Kareyev’s hand whirled over their heads and sank into the horses’ heaving ribs.
Under them the white earth rolled backwards as if streaming like a waterfall down into a precipice under the sleigh. By their side snow and tree stumps melted into a long white belt. Above them huge pines slowly swam past, carried immobile on a speeding ground.
The horses bent into arcs; their fore and hind legs met under their bodies; then they sprang into straight lines, flying over the ground, their legs stretched out, immobile.
Joan’s eyes were fixed on the whip that whistled as if in the hand of the executioner on Strastnoy Island; as if beating the darkness ahead. She could feel the speed with her lips, the wind pounding against her teeth. Michael’s arm held her tightly, his fingers sinking into her coat.
Through miles of forest, where the pines seemed to close, meeting across the road ahead, and the road, like a white knife cut them apart in its flight; through clearings and plains where the black sky swallowed the white snow into one ball of darkness and the road seemed a gray cloud carrying them over an abyss; over ruts, and snow heaps, and fallen logs they flew through the night, every mile and every hour a victory.
“Are you cold, Joan?”
“Button your collar, Frances. It’s open.”
When the lights of a village sparkled ahead through the fog of snow dust, Commandant Kareyev turned abruptly and sent the sleigh bumping through narrow side roads. As they flew past they could see, at a distance, the gleaming cross of the church over the low roofs, and the dark flag—red in the daytime—over the house of the village Soviet. Commandant Kareyev did not look at the flag; only his whip bit ferociously into the horses’ ribs.
Down the dark village streets, dots of lanterns were hurrying, gathering in twinkling groups, rushing away. A bell was ringing, as a long, tremulous, alarming call.
“Hold on to Joan, Volkontzev! Sharp turn!”
The moon had set and clouds, like a black fog, swam slowly up, swallowing the stars. A light down of snow fluttered lazily.
“Look at that snow, Frances,” said Michael. “We won’t see any for a long, long time. This is our farewell to Russia.”
“This is a farewell,” said Kareyev, “for two of us.”
“Yes,” said Michael, “for two of us.”
Ahead of them, a faint white thread, whiter than the snow, cut the sky from the darkness of the earth.
“Tomorrow, at dawn, we’ll be far away at sea,” said Kareyev, “and the boat will be flying towards a new country for Joan.”
“. . . where she can forget all about Strastnoy Island.”
“. . . and all that brought her to it.”
“No matter what the future,” said Joan, “I’ll never forget some of the past. One of us will need this. I want him to remember it.”
“One of us,” said Kareyev, “will not need it. The other one may not want it.”
Joan’s head dropped back. The snow down caught on her eyelashes.
She started with a cry; she jumped up, but the speed of the sleigh threw her down again.
“There . . . there . . . look!”
They turned. The snow plain stretched like a gray fog behind them. Through the fog, far down the road they had passed, a black spot rolled toward them. It looked like a beetle with two long legs clawing the snow. But it moved too fast for a beetle.
Commandant Kareyev’s whip rose straight up in the air, and the sleigh jerked as it fell.
“That’s nothing,” he sai
d. “Some peasant going to town.”
“He’s going pretty fast for a peasant,” said Michael.
Kareyev’s eyes met his over Joan’s head, and Michael understood.
“Nothing to worry about,” said Kareyev.
The horses were exhausted. But the reins tensed like wires in Kareyev’s hands. They flew faster.
As they flew, two things grew slowly, ominously, running a silent race: the white line ahead and the black spot behind them.
“Don’t look at it, Joan!” The whip swished down in Kareyev’s hand. “You’re making yourself nervous.” The whip swished down. “It’s nothing. We’re faster than they are.” The whip swished down. “They can’t . . .”
A shot rang through the silence where hoofbeats drummed like a heart.
Michael seized Joan and threw her brutally down on her knees in the straw on the bottom of the sleigh, bending over her, covering her with his body, holding her down.
“Michael! Let me get up! Let me get up!”
She struggled frantically. He pressed her down roughly.
“That’s it!” shouted Commandant Kareyev. “Keep her down, Volkontzev! Keep her down!”
Commandant Kareyev had jumped to his feet. His tall body swayed, bent forward, his arm one with the tense reins. His whip flashed like a circle. Red streaks tore the horses’ ribs.
“Stop!” came the distant cry. “Stop in the name of the law!”
Michael drew his gun.
“Don’t, Volkontzev!” cried Kareyev. “Save your bullets! They’re too far away! We’ll escape!”
Two more shots ripped the darkness behind them. Joan heaved up convulsively against her living armor. Standing, Kareyev pressed one knee into her back to keep her down.
The road shot straight into a growth of pines and made a sharp turn. They whirled around the corner, Kareyev’s body swaying perilously and straightening again. They lost the white thread in the forest; and the black spot lost them.
A winding side lane branched off the road, disappearing into the wilderness of pines; not even a lane, but a forgotten clearing barely wide enough for a sleigh, leading nowhere. With a quick movement of his whole body, Kareyev pulled the reins and sent the sleigh straight into the side lane, swiftly, as if his body, more than the worn-out horses, had thrown it forward.
They raced blindly through the snow and the pines. They soon lost all trace of a lane. They wound their way between tall, red trunks, tearing through bushes, knocking against trees, their slides cutting into the bark; diving into hollows, crashing and whirling off tree stumps. Low branches flogged them. Joan’s fur cap was torn off. A branch hit Kareyev across the eyes; he shook the snow and pine needles out of his hair, red drops rolling down his temple.
The horses snorted; their ribs heaved; their nostrils quivered in terror. The whip, tearing their flesh, forced them forward; the whip was in the merciless hand of the Beast from Strastnoy Island.
One horse stumbled and fell. For a moment, they heard the silence of the forest, a silence of deep snow and trackless wilderness.
Commandant Kareyev jumped into the snow. His feet were not steady on the ground. He staggered to the horse. He brushed the hair out of his eyes. He looked at the red on his hand, felt his temple; he took a handful of snow and washed the temple; he flung the pink snow away.
Michael waded to him. They pulled the horse to its feet. The whip whistled again.
“Don’t be afraid, Joan. They won’t get us.” Commandant Kareyev’s voice rang clear, vibrant. “One night, many years ago, I was carrying priceless documents for the Red Army. Three horses were shot under me. I delivered the documents. My charge is more precious—tonight.”
——VIII——
When they stumbled out into a clearing, the horses could barely move. Commandant Kareyev’s whip was broken. A bare, wide plain stretched to the black line of another forest. Beyond, the clouds were torn off a broad band of glowing pink.
An old, crumbling shack leaned against the last pines of the forest, its unpainted boards black from age and weather, its roof caved in, one window staring like an empty socket—without glass.
Commandant Kareyev knocked at the door. No answer came. He kicked the door. It was not locked. He went in, then called:
“It’s all right. Come in.”
Michael followed, carrying Joan in his arms.
There was an empty stone hearth, and an old wooden table, and snow under the broken roof, and pine needles on the floor.
“We’re safe here—for a while,” said Kareyev.
The two men looked at each other. Commandant Kareyev’s leather jacket hung in strips. He had lost his muffler. His shirt was torn at the throat. Michael’s head was a tangle of black hair and pine needles. He smiled, flashing sparkling teeth, young and vibrant, a trim, healthy animal in the joy of his first real battle.
“Great work, Commandant,” said Michael.
“Well, we’ve done it,” said Kareyev, “—together.”
It was only a second, but their eyes held each other in the silent understanding of their common danger, with the first, faint, hidden spark of admiration in their understanding. Then they looked at the woman who stood leaning against the open door, her blond hair hanging over one eye, the soft blond hair golden as ripe wheat in the sun, against the white desolation of snow and black pines raw in the frost. They did not look at each other again.
Commandant Kareyev closed the door and pulled an old wooden latch, locking it. He said:
“We’ll let the horses rest. Then we’ll go. The town isn’t far. Just a few more hours.”
Michael spread the fur blanket on the floor. They sat silently. Joan’s head leaned on Kareyev’s shoulder. He ran his fingers through her hair, tenderly, removing pine needles from her tangled curls. She noticed anxiously Michael’s dark eyes that were watching Kareyev fixedly. Michael removed her boots, rubbed her feet in woolen socks damp with snow. She watched Kareyev’s eyes following Michael’s movements silently, his eyebrows drawn tightly in a dark frown.
“Let’s go now,” she said suddenly.
“We can’t, Joan. We have plenty of time.”
“I hate it here.”
“You’ve gone through many things you’ve hated, Frances,” said Michael. “You’ve been brave. It’s the end, now. Think of what’s awaiting us.”
“What’s awaiting us,” said Kareyev slowly, “is for two—only.”
“Yes,” said Michael. “Only. And I hope the third one steps aside as bravely as he has been behaving.”
“I hope he does,” said Kareyev.
“It’s too cold here,” Joan complained.
“I’ll make a fire, Frances.”
“Don’t. They may notice the smoke.”
“Let me hold you close, Joan. You’ll be warmer.”
Commandant Kareyev drew her into his arms.
“Take your hands off her,” said Michael slowly.
“What?”
“I said, take your hands off her.”
Commandant Kareyev did. He put Joan aside gently and rose to his feet. So did Michael.
Joan stood between them, her eyes dark, scornful.
“Keep quiet!” she ordered. “Both of you seem to forget where we are—and when.”
“We may as well settle this now, once and for all,” said Kareyev. “He forgets that he has no more rights to you.”
“And you, Commandant,” said Michael, “forget that you never had any.”
“I bought her from you in exchange for the next fifty years of your life.”
“She wasn’t for sale.”
“I wouldn’t stand in a woman’s way after she had asked me to get out.”
“I wish you would remember that.”
Commandant Kareyev turned to Joan. He said very gently:
“It’s been a game, Joan, and a bad one. I know the truth, but you must tell it to him. You’ve been too cruel with him.”
“Oh, please! please . . .” she begged, backi
ng away from him. “Don’t. Not now. Not here.”
“Right here, Frances,” said Michael. “Now.”
She stood straight, facing them. She raised her head high. Her eyes and her voice were clear. It was not her apology. It was the proud, defiant verdict of her sublime right.
“I love—one of you. No matter what I’ve done, don’t you understand that there is a love beyond all justice?”
“Which one?” asked Michael.
“We want a proof, Joan,” said Kareyev. “One beyond doubt.”
A hand knocked at the door.
“In the name of the law . . . open this door!”
Michael leaped to the window. His gun flashed. He fired.
Shots answered from outside, the bark of several rifles.
Michael dropped his gun. His hand grasped the edge of the window. He pulled himself up to his full height, shuddered, and fell backwards, his arms swinging in a wide circle over his head.
Joan’s cry did not sound like a woman’s voice. She threw herself over his body, tearing his jacket, fumbling for his heart, blood running over her fingers.
“Come here!” she screamed to Kareyev. “Help him!”
Kareyev was pressed to the door, trying to hold it against furious blows, his gun in a crack of the wall, shooting blindly at those outside.
“Come here!” she cried. “Help him! Come here!”
He obeyed. Michael’s head fell limply over his arm. He tore the jacket, felt a faint beating under his fingers, looked at the little hole in the chest that spurted a dark stream with each beat.
“He’s all right, Joan. Just fainted. The wound isn’t serious.”
She looked at the sticky red that thickened into a web between her fingers. She pulled her collar open, tore a piece of her dress, pressed it to the wound.
She did not hear the door crash into splinters under the butts of rifles. She did not see the two soldiers who jumped in through the window, nor the two others who stood at the door.
“Hands up!” said the soldier who entered first. “You’re under arrest.”
Commandant Kareyev rose slowly and raised his arms. Joan looked up indifferently.
The soldiers wore shaggy sheepskin coats that smelled of sweat; the long fur of their big caps stuck to their wet foreheads; their boots left tracks of snow on the floor.