APRIL – IN THE YEAR 1822
I returned to the camp a moment ago from a visit to the cave. It was quiet, and there was no indication that Anna and the children had returned. I felt relieved. Still, the fear that they might walk straight into Fist’s trap drove me to despair. I sat on a stone nearby and burst into tears – I, a grown man. I do not seem able to control myself but sob like a child at the slightest emotion. Crying, I began to sense that I was not alone. As if, while living in the forest, I had acquired a new instinct that would enable me to detect a human standing silently a couple of metres away. I grew quiet and calmed myself down. I listened. A shape like a human being had appeared in the silence of the surrounding nature. My hackles rose, my ears twitched and my mouth twisted into a grin; I was ready to fight for my life. Then a barely discernible, familiar sound, a sigh perhaps, soothed me. My heart went on galloping wildly, but for other reasons.
I whispered Anna’s name. No reply. I added my name, I said it was me, and only then did she dare answer. Her voice sounded small and tired. She said she would not come to me, but instead stay in the dark. I understood her: as a child, if I were frightened in the forest, the darkness would serve as a blanket to wrap around myself.
I asked how they were. Anna said she was fine, but the younger of the Vodkins was ill and would soon die. The elder brother was heartbroken. The news pierced my heart. I thought of the pair, recalling the insistence with which the elder Vodkin had demanded I seek help for the younger. Too late now. I comforted Anna, promising to return. I made her swear she would stay hidden. She said they would not return to the cave until after our departure.
Several pages are again missing from Agolasky’s diary. The story about The Spider seems to have been penned by Agolasky and could have been written at a time of confusion in the camp, while Moltique was ill and Fist was growing in dominance and looking for Anna and the children.
THE SPIDER
Once upon a time, far away, in the middle of a forest, there was a cave inhabited by a group of unusual children, and probably it is still there today. Some of them could see in the dark, navigate with their hearing or identify danger by smell alone. Some of them had fur that changed colour in winter, or grew limbs to replace damaged ones, or varied hue to match their surroundings. They were astonishingly fine evidence of the capacity of nature to transform and mould a creature in accordance with the requirements of the environment. Some of the same children could play a melody by ear, draw what they saw and speak many tongues. In the forest, nobody asked them to play or draw or speak many tongues. They had been brought there and forgotten about.
These magnificent children, different in different ways, had one thing in common: none had a family – no father, no mother, nor any other relatives. They had only each other – and a girl called Anna, who was as beautiful as a fairy, as brave as a soldier, as magnanimous as a prince and as wise as all three Magi from the Orient: Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar, all put together. But still, she was only a girl, a girl so small that anyone could throw her down, walk over her clad in boots, crush and abandon her. These children and the wicked world, and this girl in between, a fragile wall, a delicate guard. Because of a shortage of strength, cunning was needed in compensation. The girl remained alert, and she emphasized alertness to the other children, and when danger threatened, they fled and hid in the shadows. In the dark, hidden from light and eyes, they were safe; as long they were not visible, they could not be harmed. The main thing was to be still and silent. Panic and fear reduced their chances of survival – a single false move or reckless act could imperil them all. Living in fear is hard; it ages you rapidly. In the civilized world, people rely if not on each other then on God. The children of the cave either had not heard of God or, if they had, did not consider Him a significant source of support. You could not blame them; those who abandoned them at the cave mouth talked about God, prayed to God, blamed God or cursed Him. God did not greatly impress the children of the cave. But fortunately, there was The Spider.
Everyone knew that The Spider was one of them. He, too, had spent his childhood in a cave, grown up, developed and finally left. He travelled round the world to rescue the weak and the downtrodden. It was said that when he encountered evil, he was ruthless. The Spider walked, ran, jumped and climbed at breakneck speed; he was able to scale vertical walls and hang upside down with equal facility. His hands and feet – eight in number – had sharp nails which enabled him to cling to any surface. With his webs, he could cover long distances, cross abysses and fords and drop down safely on his target. In short, The Spider was supreme in his cunning and vindictiveness. The Spider also had poison glands. By deploying the stingers on his chin, he could paralyse his victim, wrap it in his web and leave it to die.
In times of greatest trouble and despair – as now, hiding from wicked men who had strayed into the forest – the children derived strength from The Spider. They relished the thought of him coming, to leap from a branch on top of the men with his sticky web, wrapping them up in tight parcels and leaving them to kick. When the last of the baddies was too tired and thirsty to call or even whisper for help, too exhausted to move a muscle and too desperate even to cry, The Spider walked out of the forest on its four hairy legs – and whispered… The men in the web pricked up their ears. What did it say? they slurred, tongues dry with terror. What did it say?
The Spider said: I’m hungry.
MAY 1ST IN THE YEAR 1822
Today I visited Moltique. He was lying with his eyes closed. Both hands and feet were wrapped in grey bandages, which I knew Rufin had torn off our sheets and boiled before use. He was doing his best, but Moltique looked as if he were dying rather than recovering. His face was sweaty and pallid, and his colourless lips were moving. I bent closer to hear his words. He spoke rapidly and indistinctly, and in such a weak voice that it was hard to tell what language he was using. He smelt bad, sweet and sour at the same time, and I was disgusted by the white froth that had dried round his mouth. I sank into my thoughts for a moment and did not notice Moltique opening his eyes. He looked at me, pupils enlarged, nostrils twitching. He groaned, ‘I am a crocodile who dwells in terror, I am a sacred crocodile, I destroy.’* Then he croaked and sank back into his stupor, which would be his end, or a new beginning.
* Moltique was citing the Book of the Dead, also known as the ‘Papyrus of Ani’, part of the so-called Theban texts. This was discovered in Thebes only in 1888. Researchers have wondered how it was possible for Moltique to be familiar with the texts in 1822, two years before the French researcher Jean-François Champollion published his Précis du système hiéroglyphique des anciens Égyptiens – and as much as sixty-seven years before the ‘Papyrus of Ani’ was discovered. It is known that Moltique’s circle of friends and admirers included some of the major Egyptologists of the time, but there is no record of a trip by Moltique to Egypt. It is a pity that Agolasky was not able to wonder at Moltique’s knowledge; it might have made him have faith in this unique and frightening employer, whom Agolasky regarded only as a wretched fraudster for the rest of his days. The allusion to the Book of the Dead demonstrates that Moltique had travelled further and wider than anyone knew and that he had collected information from different fields without bias. Maybe his claim about the snowman was also true.
MAY – IN THE YEAR 1822
The weather has quickly become more temperate and now feels almost summery. Nature is still new and there is something still innocent about the leaves of the trees, greenery that does not yet know it is green. The ground is white with wood anemones; marsh marigolds flower by the brook. But this paradise contains a snake with the head of Cook and the body of Fist. Those two are working tirelessly to find the children and, after a day with no luck, they grow angrier and more venomous. Paul and I try to meet, so I can learn what the men talk about among themselves. I know I am being followed: the men think I shall lead them to the children. I do not know how long they will have the energy to continue this nerve-
racking game of hide-and-seek, and what will happen if Anna is more cunning than they. I am struck by a horrible thought, and I hope Fist will not have the same idea: what if they decide to use me as bait? To tie me, battered, somewhere close to the cave? I force myself to think of something else, because fear gnaws at me the same way gangrene is destroying Moltique’s body.
I hope to know more once I have met Paul.
MAY 27TH IN THE YEAR 1822
Night again. A northern spring night, pale and clear, like milk diluted with water. At a different moment, in a different life, this night would play upon my soul. I recall distantly what it feels like to be happy. The memory blinks in my mind and then vanishes. Nostalgia rises like mist upon the nearby marsh. In the silence of my quarters, I shiver and sweat, cry and laugh. I say farewell to myself. Farewell to myself as I am today, and as I was before. I know now I shall not survive this adventure. I do not matter. I am only sorry that I shall have to see Cook and Fist assaulting Anna and the children, killing those of no use to them and capturing those they intend to transport to Paris. I have no reason to doubt Paul’s information.
MAY 29TH IN THE YEAR 1822
Paul has disappeared. I have been so deep in my thoughts that I have only just noticed his absence. I went round the whole camp today, asking everyone where he was, and he is definitely not here. I wonder what could have happened to him; I fear that Cook and Fist have forced him to talk. It would not take a lot. Even at their most benign, they are frightening, and Paul, for his part, is a big-mouthed sycophant and a coward to boot. If Paul has blabbed, Cook and Fist will know that I have misled the men with my tall tales of a research station and keeping Moltique’s condition secret. They’ll know I have warned Anna and the children. And they’ll no doubt imagine I am trying to turn other men than Paul against them. Put simply, I am an enemy. There is only one thing for it: hide.
JUNE IN THE YEAR 1822
I am unclear about the date. It is June, I know that much. I fled the camp six or seven or even eight nights ago; I have lost count. I do not know if single days or nights even have any meaning any more. The sun rises, the sun sets, flowers open, flowers close, for a while the day-birds sing and then it is the turn of the night-birds. Nobody in nature counts the days, weeks, months, years, the defeats or the victories. There is only one reason to exist: life itself.
I cannot sleep, but on occasions, when awake, I notice I have fallen into a state you could call sleep. During those states, I ponder over the past and the future, right and wrong, big questions, people who are close to me but far away, and distant people close to me. I do not feel rested after these spells, but rather refreshed in a strange, excited way.
I think it is a new day. I fell asleep in the early evening and when I woke up it was light. I decided to take some exercise. I dare not walk long distances because I am afraid of getting lost and not being able to find the way to the camp or the cave. Though I do not know when I will venture back. Shall I ever? And what will happen if I do return? And what will become of me if I do not return? The uncertainty and indecision are vexing me. I am like an imbecile, I rave, I talk to myself and I vomit frequently. I have stomach ache and, though my provisions are running low, I cannot muster up any worry about my nourishment; I do not feel hunger. My mouth is permanently dry and I can feel my lips bleeding.
I woke up. Is it a new day or am I in the previous one? I observe a diligent bird carrying food to its nest. Incessant chirping emanates from the creature. Birds are wiser than humans. They do not desire fame or glory, they do not seek adventures, nor do they find danger appealing. The main thing is to stay alive.
These entries are written in shaky, near-illegible handwriting; the last ones are mere scrawls on the paper. There are mysterious drawings next to them.
I woke up again. Though I am not sure if I did fall asleep. The sun warms me like a large, hot hand.
I woke up, but it is night or a dark day.
I woke up. I am lonely.
I woke up. I am getting tired.
I woke up. I have to count.
I woke up. Nausea.
– light fire soft cold peace father mother apple trees anna my anna come lips I faithful
Noir are you alive still
?
I wko
I wkoed
I wo
JULY IN THE YEAR 1822
Anna presumes it is July. She does not keep a record of the days or the months. The years will pass, in any case, she says, but going by my diary, she is confident that the month has changed. July must be well advanced because willowherb is flowering by the forest. In my memories, willowherb blossoms at the point in summer when we return home from our dacha. It is nearly harvest time. I am sitting in a cart next to my mother, wearing a cap and a scarf; with us is a young crow I tamed at the dacha. It comes when I call its name – Vasili – and bows when I give it a piece of bread. Was I happy then? Was I even me? It is as if my past belonged to someone else. Who is this nine-fingered man who has retained his boyhood but lost his childish faith? Who is this bearded, sickly savage that I have become? This coward, running away from a wild bunch of petty criminals, hiding among children in the depths of a forest? This wretched, shivering, malodorous good-for-nothing, whom his own parents would not recognize? Who am I?
Anna says: you’re Iax. You’re my life. You’re the only one I’ve ever loved.
She found me in the forest. I was raving, trembling, ill. I would have died without her. I do not understand why I had not eaten or drunk, why I had drifted into a state in which I could not make decisions. Finally, I was too weak. I wonder if Moltique is still alive.
JULY/AUGUST IN THE YEAR 1822
Yesterday, we found Paul.
Today, I shall burn his name on a piece of dried wood that I found. I plan to place it on his grave, a miserable hole in peatland, deep in the forest. I only know Paul’s forename and the year of his death; I believe he was born in France, but I do not know his age. Perhaps I am the only one left behind who misses him.
As I contemplated Paul and his fate, it occurred to me that love and hate, fear and hope are not opposite emotions. Like sunlight: you see shadow in a forest, bright sunshine in an open field, but the cause is the same. Paul was my shadow and my sunshine. Though I hated and detested him as he spat on me and grinned at my pain – Moltique’s punishment for my treachery – I still trusted him enough to ally myself with him. Now that he is absent, I mourn his unhappy fate. His death was slow and painful.
I wonder what Cook and Fist are doing. The wilderness is boundless. Will they persist in looking for me? Do they think they will find me?
AUGUST IN THE YEAR 1822
For the first time, I have the opportunity to observe Anna’s and the children’s lives close up. I note that the children of the cave have divided themselves according to their characteristics. The most human of them spend time together; they decide on things and take care of the others. The friendly, sociable children frolic close to them; they understand simple rules and commands. The wildest and most unpredictable of the children like their own company, clashing occasionally. Then Anna, Katya or Nikolai get involved before anything very serious happens. Still, small injuries are unavoidable. Every now and then, someone gets pushed off a ledge, or someone is hit, bitten or strangled. Illness and death are routine among the children. I notice that not even the most human among them plans for the future, something that is otherwise routine in our society. Anna does not dream of a life outside the cave, either. She does not think about ageing, or how the children of the cave would manage if anything happened to her. She lives in the cave today, here and now. How different we are.
One day, we were lying in a sheltered place close to our cave. I was chewing a stalk of grass and the situation suddenly evoked another one, from my previous life, to such an extent that I forgot where I was. So I turned to Anna, relaxed, and placed my hand on her stomach. I realized I let slip an inanity that did not fit with our reality. I said to
Anna that I wanted a child with her. First, she stiffened. Then she removed my hand, sat up, turned her head and killed my suggestion stone-dead with her silence. How could I? I said I was sorry. I laughed. I said the sun must have gone to my head. And Anna. Anna was acting as if she could no longer hear my voice. I left her, embarrassed, shaken, hollow.
The following entries are undated. Agolasky appears to have given up trying to establish precise dates.
Let it be September. Touches of yellow in the trees. I have lost my sense of time, my past and my future. I have only the present.
I play with Katya. I hide in the dark cave; time after time, she finds me. She says I smell sweet, like rotten fruit, and at the same time pungent, like autumnal soil. She does not say it in a spirit of criticism, but I am glad I cannot smell myself. Dirt covers me, garment-like. My clothes are beginning to disintegrate. My trousers split at the knees when I bent over today. My shirt is torn at the armpits, the buttons are missing. How does a human cope without clothes?
Children of the Cave Page 10