Children of the Cave

by Virve Sammalkorpi

  Anna replied that she was not being silly.

  The girl raised her eyebrows, which were narrow and very dark. ‘Can’t you speak?’ she asked, pursing her cherry-red lips.

  ‘I can,’ Anna said, feeling hot tears prickling her eyes. Something was going horribly wrong between her and the pretty little girl, whom Anna badly wanted to have as a friend.

  ‘You speak just like a baby,’ the girl insisted.

  ‘But I’m five already,’ Anna protested.

  ‘What?’ the girl asked, bending closer. ‘Have you got a potato in your mouth?’

  Anna opened her mouth to show that there was no potato there; she had a tongue and teeth just like the girl, who had started to seem disagreeable. Anna was feeling annoyed that she had struck up a conversation with her.

  ‘Oh!’ The girl was horrified. She raised her hand to her face. ‘Something’s happened to your tongue.’

  Anna was startled. ‘What?’

  ‘It got caught in a door.’

  Anna didn’t remember anything like that ever happening, but the girl seemed to know what she was talking about.

  ‘That’s why you can’t speak properly,’ the girl said.

  She was convinced that was how things stood. To Anna, this information came as a shock. But she had no chance to argue because someone was calling the girl in an angry voice.

  ‘I’m not supposed to come here,’ the girl whispered, frightened. ‘I’ve got to go.’ She turned and began running.

  Anna was about to go after her, but Auntie held her back. ‘Come here, dear child,’ she said, and Anna saw tears in her kind brown eyes.

  Anna threw herself into Auntie’s lap and burst into tears. Auntie tried to comfort her, saying she spoke perfectly well, but nothing she said could make Anna any less inconsolable, now that she had learned that she was different from the perfect little girl who lived beyond the hedge. Anna was not part of that world.

  Agolasky added an illustration of Anna’s tongue to her story; the shaky sketch shows that Anna’s tongue closely resembled that of a parrot, being thick but soft.

  NIKOLAI

  Sex: male

  Age: around 10–12

  Animal trait: fur covering the body

  Narrators: Nikolai and Anna

  Recorder of the story: Iax Agolasky (me)

  ‘We can’t manage without Anna.’ Those were Nikolai’s first words when he sat down for the interview. I could understand him, but his speech was unclear; all the same, without his dense fur, he would be no different from an ordinary boy. He kept glancing around nervously and he watched me from under his brows, avoiding eye contact. He had a strong forehead, deep-set brown eyes and a nose with wide nostrils. I assured him that I would not harm Anna. He relaxed a little and began sucking a small bone. I asked him how he had got to the cave. He said he remembered a horse, and a man who would not address him and kept him in a cage, feeding him as if he were an animal and hitting him if he spoke.

  ‘Do you remember your parents?’ I asked.

  A sad expression crossed his face. ‘I remember Mother,’ he whispered. ‘I remember Mother running a high temperature. Mother was taken away and she never came back.’

  ‘What happened then?’ I asked, and my heart was gripped by fear.

  And Nikolai told me. He spoke about an aunt and an uncle, who fetched him from home. Nikolai waited for them in the drawing room, wearing his best clothes. He bowed, shook hands and greeted them, trying to make as good an impression as possible. Auntie and Uncle marvelled at what a big, fine boy he was, and took Nikolai with them. They travelled for two whole days, spending the night in a rattling carriage and finally arriving at a large house surrounded by a splendid garden. It was dark and Nikolai was hurried to bed. He lay down in a bed with curtains and fell asleep straight away.

  ‘In the morning, a vat was brought in and filled with a mixture of cold and boiling-hot water,’ Nikolai said softly. I began to fear the worst. ‘Auntie came into the room and told me to undress,’ Nikolai went on. His voice had become smaller and more blurred.

  ‘Your auntie realized you were hairy all over,’ I suggested, as gently as I was able to.

  He nodded sadly, and I heard the depth of his heavy sigh.

  ‘I had always thought I was a perfectly ordinary boy,’ he said. ‘Mother never said there was anything wrong with me.’

  I waited, but he did not continue. Nikolai stood up abruptly and left me there alone.

  I heard the end of the story – or was it the end? – from Anna.

  ‘Nikolai had the same thing happen to him as I did,’ Anna said.

  Nikolai was locked in the outside cellar for several months before the dog-catcher came to fetch him. Then he was brought to the cave, left next to a spruce, and that is where Anna found him.

  THE TWINS HUGH AND PUGH

  Sex: male

  Age: under 2

  Animal traits: fur like a feral cat’s on the back, long whiskers, tail-like fur on the lower back

  Narrator: Anna

  Recorder of the story: Iax Agolasky (me)

  There are two delightful small boys among the cave dwellers. Anna, Nikolai and Katya call them Hugh and Pugh. They are small, light, very playful and very hairy on their backs and faces. Nobody knows their story because they were discovered in a potato crate outside the cave in the spring of the previous year. They were asleep in the box, curled against each other. They were thin and sickly and their fur was unkempt. Anna cleaned, fed and took care of them till they got stronger and began to grow. They do not speak but understand when spoken to. They like being stroked, scratched and cuddled. They push their noses against other children’s necks, snuffling softly all the while. Anna and Nikolai wait eagerly to see if they will learn to speak. Each new day erodes their hope a little, but they have not yet given up.

  I am sitting on the cave floor and Hugh and Pugh are busy around me. They have shiny white, sharp canines. They look happy and healthy, and I wonder what will happen to them if they are discovered. Would they receive more sympathy than in their lives up to now? I fear not.

  ROBERTO THE LION KING

  Sex: male

  Age: if he is to be believed, at least 15 and maybe 20; but in reality 10–12

  Animal traits: fur like a feral cat’s on the back, long whiskers, tail-like fur on the lower back

  Narrator: Roberto

  Recorder of the story: Iax Agolasky (me)

  Roberto the Lion King toured with Signor Battagia, who touted miracle cures. Roberto had lived and travelled with him for as long as he could remember, but Signor Battagia was not his father.

  ‘I’ve had many women,’ Signor Battagia would boast, ‘dozens and dozens, dark and fair, from Naples to Florence, but children – no. I’ve always quit before a woman has started dreaming about a family, a field and a house in the middle of an orchard. These things I cannot offer. I have only my cart, my medicines, my sleights of hand and Roberto. Come and have a look at Roberto the Lion King. He speaks Italian, Russian, Arabic and, of course, the language of lions! Is he human? Is he an animal? Who knows? He’s marvellous! Throw coins, bread or fruit into the hat, or leave a bottle of wine by the cart. You can pay with anything for this peculiar child, who’ll never grow up!’

  Roberto seemed to remember Signor Battagia’s speech word for word; he puffed up his chest, grew taller than his real height, lowered his voice and slapped his thighs. I kept on writing, enchanted and amazed, though I do not know whether to believe half of what he says he saw and experienced.

  Roberto was happy with Signor Battagia. Sometimes they ate well, sometimes badly; at times they were treated like welcome guests, at other times they fled for their lives.

  ‘I’ve got to be at least fifteen, maybe twenty,’ Roberto assured me. I did not say anything, though I could see his body was thin and small, like that of a child. ‘Signor Battagia let me drink wine, smoke a pipe, kiss a girl and stay up till morning playing the mouth organ. Rosa said only gro
wn men live like that.’

  And when asked who Rosa was, Roberto waxed lyrical: ‘Ah, Rosa! She’s Signor Battagia’s great love. She isn’t a beauty but she has lovely round arms, soft shoulders, plump lips and she smells nice. How does she smell? Like a sandwich. She travels with us, cooks us porridge and macaroni, fries sausages and sometimes steals chickens.’

  I do not have the heart to ask what happened to them and where they are now, Signor Battagia and Rosa. Roberto looks happy when he shows me how he picked pockets for coins; how he and Rosa ran, fresh loaves stolen from a baker under their arms; how he roared in his cage, waving his hands as if they were big paws; and when he demonstrates how Signor Battagia healed ague-sufferers and the blind, and turned unfaithful wives into goats.

  ‘Roberto, are you happy?’

  ‘I’ll stay here until Signor Battagia comes and gets me,’ Roberto answered me. ‘Nikolai’s a good fellow. The others are a bit odd, but Katya sees in the dark, so I’m sure Signor Battagia can use her one way or another – I’ll take her with me.’

  KATYA

  Sex: female

  Age: 12

  Animal trait: sees in the dark

  Narrator: Katya

  Recorder of the story: Iax Agolasky (me)

  Katya can see in the dark. She announces this in the same way someone else might say they can read. Apart from seeing everything, she also has a superior sense of smell and can remember her whole life from the moment she was born, surprising listeners with her tale of how she felt upon arriving into the damp heat of the sauna; being lifted up, washed and swaddled; the taste of the first mouthful of warm, sweet mother’s milk. She knows her date of birth: 2nd July 1808. She is the daughter of the Kalatozovs; her father’s name is Mihail, her mother’s, Anja. Father is a teacher and the family live in a village close to the Finnish border. Anja is Finnish. Katya says all this in a soft, fragile voice. Appearing matter-of-fact and sharp, she explains that she sees her parents now and then. Disguised as pedlars, they come to see how she is, bringing utensils. Katya cannot go to her home village, for people there are afraid of her: the women mumble prayers as she approaches and the men try to work out ways of getting rid of her. At the age of nine, Katya was stuck in a sinkhole for a week, forced to live on earthworms and rainwater. She would undoubtedly have died had her parents not found her. Then Anja, or Anjuska, as her family called her, heard about the so-called dragon children, and a cave where they could live in safety, and she started making arrangements. She taught Katya survival skills, hunting and fishing, and she pointed out edible plants and plants with medicinal properties. She forced Katya to do exercises, run, carry heavy objects, break birds’ necks and make a fire by striking two stones together. Katya never asked how come her mother knew so much and was so capable. And when Mother decided Katya was ready, the girl vanished from the village. Then, three days after the disappearance, Katya’s scarf was found in the river. No villagers came to extend their condolences to Anja and Mihail. They were pleased about the departure of the strange little girl who told weird stories and whose eyes glinted green in the dark. Anja and Mihail did not have to pretend they were heartbroken; they were genuinely frightened for their child, because that first winter was severe, there was a great deal of snow and they couldn’t get to the cave to see how she was. They did not know if Katya and the other children were even alive. When spring finally arrived, they appeared at the cave mouth, bringing sweets, clothes, food and candles for their daughter. They were horrified by how animal-like she looked.

  ‘I’ve been following you.’ These are Katya’s first words to me when Anna brings me into the cave. She adds, ‘At night. You haven’t noticed. You live with those men over there. You shot Buutje and cut him up. You put him in jars. Where are you taking Buutje?’

  I look at the girl whose presence I have sensed. She appears to be a perfectly ordinary girl, although her eyes are slightly slanted. She has blonde curls, a small face and a pendant that indicates that somebody somewhere still cares about her.

  ‘It’s my mother’s,’ Katya says, lifting her hand to her neck. ‘It belonged to my grandma, whom I never saw. She was Finnish.’

  She asked where we were taking Buutje. I felt that old familiar terror. Where are we taking Buutje? Where will these children end up?

  BUUTJE

  Sex: not known

  Age: not known

  Other info: see notes concerning research specimen 1/1820

  Animal trait: resembles a wild boar

  Narrator: Katya

  Recorder of the story: Iax Agolasky (me)

  ‘Buutje would have been a fully-fledged wild boar had he not walked on two legs. He couldn’t speak, sing or play games, but he loved to curl up between the others, press his snout against something and fall asleep while someone was scratching him. I loved Buutje. Buutje followed me around wherever I went,’ Katya said evenly, without a trace of bitterness, sorrow or hatred. ‘When I moved into the cave, Buutje lay down next to me the very first night.

  ‘You were there,’ she went on. ‘You were there and you saw Buutje being shot. You recorded and described everything after Buutje’s death.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Buutje wouldn’t have lived long in any case,’ Katya said. They all knew it.

  The pile of notes that comprise The Children of the Cave: Life Stories is thick. Some of the stories are so grim we will not publish them here. At the same time as compiling these accounts, Agolasky was making notes daily in the camp. From the extracts that have survived, we can conclude that the occupants of the camp were suffering from exhaustion. Moltique had also forbidden the shooting of the cave dwellers, so we can imagine that the men, bent on excitement and adventure, were frustrated.

  APRIL 6TH IN THE YEAR 1821

  – I do not like their talk. I hear snatches of talk that tell me they are ready and willing to harm the children, and are just waiting for a sign –

  APRIL 7TH IN THE YEAR 1821

  I surprised one of them, the giant known as Fist, in the act of stalking Hugh, one of the twins; he was crouching behind the bushes, boulder in hand. Hugh did not appear to sense his stalker’s proximity and I wondered, momentarily worried, if my presence had accustomed the children to strangers and made them forget the caution that was necessary for survival.

  I cleared my throat and Fist turned, dropping the stone casually behind his back. I did not reveal that I had seen what he was up to. Instead, I said Moltique had asked me to come to the cave to check that everything was in order. I stressed Moltique’s name and the words ‘in order’. Fist swore and spat. I did not avoid eye contact, though I still remember how he enjoyed getting the chance to beat me with that thick branch back in winter, at the specific request of Moltique.

  Then he left, but as he was passing he whispered something that made my hair stand on end –

  APRIL 10TH IN THE YEAR 1821

  Moltique seems irritated; I assume this is because he has not yet discovered a theory for the metamorphosis of the children of the cave, famous though he is for his swift conclusions and for the daring manoeuvres he has performed in support of his theories. His lack of friends in the Parisian scientific world is compensated for by his large number of admirers, this state of affairs being justifiable.

  He may also be bothered by the fact that he has not managed to get close to the children but has to be content with my observations and unsatisfactory notes. He is doing everything to prevent me from seeing how my position… what? Arouses envy in him? Scientific jealousy? And perhaps something else? It is as if he is annoyed by the fact that just as I was experiencing my breakthrough in finding the cave entrance, he was wasting time on Bruno Papart, whose fate was sealed from the start.

  I continue to suspect that Moltique has his own plans, which he is not sharing with me. Sometimes I wonder if he is really as interested in metamorphoses and the magic that causes them as he claims, or if he is misleading me on purpose. My father taught me that man is fundamentally
good. Would that then mean that Moltique, being a man, is also good? I try to remember my father’s teachings, but it is hard, here in the middle of the forest; my thoughts disintegrate, like a reflection on water, and I cannot keep up with them. I wish I could talk about all this with my father!

  UNDATED

  I am confused. Anna makes me confused. She and her… But no. It is best I do not say it aloud, or write it, or think it. I will, however, note down this: her eyes are green. More precisely: forest green, almost brown, and a golden-yellow circle surrounds the pupil. Her hair is dark brown, like a pine trunk; reddish and yellow hairs are interspersed among the darker ones. This has now been recorded. I go to sleep, shivering with cold.

  APRIL 15TH IN THE YEAR 1821

  I had a strange dream last night. Everything I watched turned into pictures, even sharper than any drawn by Jean-Victor. Odd, because I have never seen anything more lifelike or detailed than Jean-Victor’s drawings of Parisian streets and cafés, dancing girls and old men napping on park benches. When he occasionally borrowed my small room to draw scantily clad women, I fled, embarrassed, and found it hard to look at the sketches my friend proudly showed me – they were so lifelike. I never tired of marvelling at the way my friend could depict the smoothness of skin, the wild movement of hair, the flutter of thick eyelashes – and this using charcoal alone.

  But in my dream, I had no charcoal or brush, just my eyes. I met each child of the cave separately. I looked at them long and hard in order that I would remember every detail of their singular appearance: fur descending beautifully from the cheeks towards the neck, curved whiskers, a black tip of a nose, a furry or feathery covering on shoulders or back. Then I blinked and everything I had seen transferred itself onto paper. It was magic, sleight of hand, delirium, dream. Could it be possible? I would have liked to ask Roberto the Lion King if Signor Battagia had performed such tricks. But no, how could that be?