Roberto the Lion King sat next to me by the fire. He wanted to discuss the world outside the cave. He said he was bored and longed for adventures. I, in turn, said I was tired of adventures. He laughed and poked me with his elbow; he did not believe a word of it. Then he, the hairy Tom Thumb, stood up on a rock, thumped his chest with his fists and shouted out that he yearned for excitement. I thought of Cook and Fist and the excitement they could provide us.
I surprised Nikolai today licking his leg. It was wounded. I asked if he wanted help and he merely shook his head, smiling. How could I help him? He is stronger, more cunning and capable than I. He has also grown; when he stood up, I saw he was taller than I. His fur-covered chest has become broader, too. He is no longer a boy, but a man. To cap it all, he is clever. I caught myself thinking he would be the perfect partner for Anna. I was stung by jealousy, I must admit. Suddenly I felt both old and weak. An unprepossessing male.
The boy called Durak sits on a ledge at the back of the cave by day. He puts his arms round himself, closes his eyes and rocks himself to sleep. I asked Anna to tell me about his background. Anna shrugged, smiled sadly and said it was the same old story. Durak was born covered with feathers, abandoned by the road in a basket and picked up by a strange old man, who reared him in his peculiar zoo. When the man died, the animals starved to death in their cages and pens, but Durak managed to escape. Anna extracted this tale from Durak over a long period. He does not like talking; also, his speech is poor, and were it not for the old man’s little girl, he might never have learned to speak. She spent hours by Durak’s cage, telling stories about her miserable life. She also recounted what she had heard about Durak from her father. The basket in which he had been placed as a baby was quite ordinary, but the animal fur he had been wrapped in was very fine and the man had been able to sell it for quite a bit of money. I wondered who among the nobility of my homeland had given birth to a feather-covered baby and was capable of leaving it by the road at the mercy of wolves and robbers. I also wondered what happened to the little girl in the story. And how Durak had ended up among the children of shadows, deep in the forest.
At night, Durak climbs down from the ledge and goes hunting. He returns with moles and mice tucked under his belt – these he skins deftly to eat for his evening snack. He is ominous, somehow, in his silence. I also abhor his way of twisting his head and looking at the rest of us from his height, where he lives like a hermit. Poor people, him and me. All of us.
I like to sleep with the children who gather together at night. Their breathing is calm and even. They trust the darkness of the cave; they feel safe in it. I cannot get to sleep myself. I am startled by cracks coming from the forest. I dream of Cook and Fist approaching the cave with torches, armed with sabres, swords and carbines. Their minds are poisoned with terrifying stories and, in their view, they are tasked with performing a service to the whole civilized world. They have forgotten only one thing: they themselves are outside the civilized world. But they do not hesitate to obey the order. Torchlight glints in their unfeeling eyes. They are bloodthirsty and vengeful. Humiliation is their pleasure.
I have nightmares in which Fist sits on me, capturing me between his strong thighs. Then he – I wake up from the dreams soaking and feeling sick. Fear gnaws away at my humanity.
Today I was walking in a nearby clearing. I saw deer, hares and a stoat. The sun was shining and I allowed myself to sit by a rock, in its heat. Suddenly, I was roused by the certainty of being observed from the forest. I leapt up, seized by a cold terror. I was more afraid than perhaps ever before on this trip that has turned into a nightmare and I began to run as fast as I could, away from the cave. I ran until I tasted blood in my mouth and my lungs were stinging. I fell and couldn’t get up. I heard the forest rumbling as the group of men approached. They were panting and swearing. The ground trembled – they would find me soon. But once my breath had steadied, I heard only the usual forest noises: birds, branches snapping and a light breeze. I was alone and lost. It was night-time before I found my way back to the cave. I did not want to go in and frighten the children. I hid outside in a small depression and curled up to try and get warm. Anna found me in the morning. Now I am drinking hot water, which she has brought to alleviate my ague.
Anna watching me, thinking I am unaware of her gaze. What could be stirring behind those thoughtful eyes? How does she perceive me?
She touched me today. Her hand was light and comforting. Before I had time to say anything, she turned her back and –
I understand her. Her life is in the cave and with these children. Come what may. I am an outsider.
SEPTEMBER, MAYBE OCTOBER IN THE YEAR 1822
I have no ink left. I see this as a sign of some kind. I have been running away for too long and have eschewed making decisions. When I encountered the bottom of the ink bottle I had brought from camp, I woke up to my abasement. I am no help in the cave, but rather a hindrance, because through ineptitude I led Cook and Fist to the children’s hideaway.
I think it is now the end of September, or perhaps we are into October. The weather has become variable, the trees have begun to shed their leaves and an iron smell, harbinger of death, rises from nature. I shiver in my tattered clothes. My concern about Anna and the children grows. Living in the cave makes me see how hard it is for them. Maybe the men and I have had a difficult time in the camp, but in a different way. Our baggage is depleted, but we have enjoyed the security of the prospect – or the hope, at least – of a return to the outside world. Anna and the children do not have that luxury.
While I started testing different concoctions to replace ink, I began to devise a plan. I tried to write with a mixture made up of soot, ground charcoal and water, but the text spread under my hand. Then I had the idea of blending soot with blood I drew from a hare, with Nikolai’s help. The blood soon smelt nauseating and I did not seem to be able to draw it without help, so I returned to a mixture of soot and water. I do not know if these notes will survive, because some of the text gets smudged as soon as the sheets press against each other. I have become so used to the idea of recording memories and information that the thought of losing my notes oppresses me disproportionately. I came up with the idea of sprinkling sand over the writing, hoping that it would help preserve my entries.
Agolasky would surely have been pleased that the writing on the preserved pages of his diary, though smudged in places, was still legible. Time has not faded it. Only pages that have got wet have become an even grey, without any real text, just the odd letter discernible here and there.
Finally I have made my decision and summoned up my courage –
– Anna’s eyes are dry, her face determined.
– I took my leave of them. I cried as I stumbled towards the forest, away from the cave –
Have I forgotten the camp deliberately, so I would not find my way back?
Today it is raining. I am wet – I caught a squir – Sle –
I am cold –
– I am close –
OCTOBER IN THE YEAR 1822
I arrived at the edge of the camp today. I remained hidden in the forest to observe the situation. The camp appears suspiciously quiet. The fire in front of the shelter is dead, but the equipment is still there; the men have not yet left. I kept watch for a fairly long time but saw nobody. I drew back, hid carefully in the middle of a heap of rocks and remained there, thinking.
I have been hiding for a good while now. Dusk has fallen. It gets dark so early that I am sure we are now in October. The camp remains dark. No light burns in Moltique’s cabin. I wonder if the professor is dead or alive.
It is morning again.
I am hungry and have run out of water. I suck at the cured meat Anna wrapped up for me and lick leaves wet from the night. They taste of soil. I am cold, too. I try to stay inside the elk skin I got from the cave but I am still frozen. Shivers shake my malnourished body. I should start moving briskly to get the blood circulating in my veins, but I da
re not move more than the distance between these two heaps of rocks, one closer to the camp than the other.
I am back at my observation post near the camp. I saw that some of the dogs are still in the camp. No sign of the men, though, and there is no discernible movement in Moltique’s quarters. The dogs seem in good condition; I do not think they have been by themselves for long. They are tied up with a long string and I see them visiting their trough to eat and drink. One of them is the leader and I notice it lifting its head every now and then, looking towards my hideaway. It recognizes me, though, and does not feel the need to warn the camp of my presence.
Han –
Han –
Only a moment ago, my hands were trembling so badly I could not write. Now I am a little calmer.
The men are still in the camp. One of them, Balls, walked right past my hiding place. He stopped and I sensed he had heard something out of the ordinary. I breathed heavily. I tried to hold my breath, but it only made the situation worse. I nearly choked. When Balls finally gave up and left, I gasped for air, like a fish out of water. The constriction gripping my lungs was hard to shake off. Even now, I am inhaling slowly just because I can.
Today, I saw Balls sitting in the camp by the dogs. He was shaving off slices of cured meat, putting them in his mouth, even giving the odd one to a dog. He is close to the dog, I know. I saw him babbling nonsense to it, giving it a scratch. The dog tolerated his caressing patiently, staring at my hideaway and moving its brows. No living being could have looked more worried. Even Balls seemed finally to notice. He bent towards the dog, followed its gaze and fixed his own on the heap of stones. I tried to lie as low as possible.
Finally, Balls put the knife into the sheath, got up and scratched the enormous frontage to which his nickname corresponded, never removing his gaze from my hiding place. When he turned and began trudging to the cabin, I decided to take to my feet. It was fortunate I did, because Balls came back to my hideaway shortly after, pointing a gun. I saw him eyeing the ground suspiciously; I had, no doubt, left numerous prints behind me. Luckily, I had aroused only Balls’s suspicion; if it had been Bruno, I would not be here writing about these events. That hunter genius would have tracked me down in an instant and I would have been speared and skinned like a pig.
It snowed today. Frail stars danced slowly down. Each one thawed upon hitting the ground; the small, perfect points became water and vanished, dream-like. Those beautiful, innocent, disappearing flowers were a sign of approaching winter. Soon I would be at the mercy of snow and ice, lacking tent, kit and the support of the men. Winter in this region is severe; gales and blizzards ice the landscape, freezing it to death for months, and if not the cold then the dark will crush a man. I am ready to die. I mourn only my father, my mother, my dog – and Anna. None of them would ever learn my fate.
I fell asleep and was woken by dried tears stinging my cheeks.
I do not know what to do. I have no plan.
I am hungry, I am weak. Forgive me, Father, my stupid courage; I should not have enlisted for this journey. Forgive me, Anna, my feebleness; I cannot do anything for you or the children. Forgive me.
I am useless, Superfluous. Pitiful. I am ashamed of myself. I would like to put an end to this wretch, this shrivelling body, but I am not capable of that, either.
MOLTIQUE LIVES! HE LIVES!
Moltique looks miserable; a bent cripple, a raving lunatic. He is… He.
I have calmed down. The Moltique who interviewed, selected and recruited me for this expedition was respected, intelligent, mysterious, courageous and aware of his own worth. During the journey, I discovered his other side – the unscrupulous and cruel one. He is only a man, after all. A vulnerable human being. A wreck; if that, even. A man reduced to a shell. I watch him dragging himself round the camp and grieve. I cannot put my feelings into words.
Futile. How futile.
Now I see Cook and Fist! They have shrunk. Even Fist. Was my memory of them false? Did I think they were bigger? More dangerous? Stronger? Faster? They look older and more tired than when I last saw them. They withdraw frequently from the other men, appearing to engage in some kind of consultation. What are they planning? What stops them from going? Is it really me they want to find, not their lives somewhere far away from the camp?
I do understand. They want their journey to yield a reward. They want the children. They believe the children will make them rich. They go on trying because they have nothing to lose.
I must not get caught. There is a risk that Anna and the children will try to rescue me – and that is what Cook and Fist want.
I moved further from the camp yesterday – today? – towards the brook. I ate a small fish. It was bony and cold, but I forced it down my throat. I do not know how long I shall survive. The winter? Unlikely. My life is measured in days… Stop it, I say to myself. Pull yourself together! I attempt to stand up but my shoulders slump. I am finished.
I have to try: I want to rescue the mad professor and flee the camp. What do I owe Moltique? My respectability.
Today I crept back to my hiding place. I settle behind the rocks and try to establish a link to the God my father taught me to know. I do not hear him. Instead, I sense Anna’s presence. It worries me. I do not see the children anywhere, but I know how skilled they are at hiding. If they have come for my sake, I hope they are quicker and craftier than Cook and Fist. Could they help me?
I thought I was used to fear. I fear more than ever. Too much to lose, and yet nothing. Life is a lightweight currency in the exchange that also deals in Death.
Anna, I whisper your name. Not a sound.
Iax, you reply. Not a sound.
I can no longer wait. I will do it today. Farewell.
The last text of the camp notes is published in the form the committee believes Agolasky intended. In the original entry, the lines are shaky, the words barely legible. But these may be Agolasky’s intended words:
The men turn like cotton reels in a massive net which glimmers among the trees. Their bodies are as light as beehives, their mouths open. Nobody hears their screams. This sacrifice will not bring back Nikolai, or Durak, or Katya or Roberto the Lion King. They were brave and quick but unarmed. Anna is not among the dead. My joy at that is small but bright.
OCTOBER 15TH IN THE YEAR 1868
‘It snowed today. Frail stars danced slowly down. Each one thawed upon hitting the ground; the small, perfect points became water and vanished, dream-like. Those beautiful, innocent, disappearing flowers were a sign of approaching winter.’
I wrote those lines and so I may use them again. Today is exactly like that day almost fifty years ago: the sky is covered in a grey-blue mass of cloud and the first snowflakes are floating gently down onto the autumnal landscape. My eyesight has grown poor, but with my magnifying glass, I observe the heavenly artist’s aspiration at symmetrical perfection. The wisp of snowy lace stays on the creeper’s red leaves for just a short while before disappearing, leaving barely a drop of itself. Was it real or a dream? Sheer madness? There, in front of my eyes, or nowhere? What is such a thing? Nothing? My notes are welcome to disintegrate as futile verbiage. I do not see my Anna in them, nor the children. A series of horrific images lives in my head, but I cannot get hold of them. Did they happen to me or did I imagine everything?
This is what happens to me more and more often: anything can take my mind back to the forest, to Anna and the children. Did I invent them? My missing finger is proof of my participation in the Expedition of All Time, as our journey was dubbed following our return:
In 1819, around ten men joined the Expedition of All Time, led by Professor Moltique, who was known for his sensational discoveries. Their aim was to find the heirs of Paphlagonia. Two of them have come back, the professor and his young assistant, Iax Agolasky, a Russian with fluent French. But what happened to the men travelling with them – or the young reporter Oliver Alleg, an enthusiast of the ravings of Jean-Baptiste Lamarck, who is said to have gon
e to track down what strange things breed in the forests of north-west Russia. Is it a curse, God’s sign to us to leave alone what He decrees?
Moltique’s representatives have informed us that the professor does not give statements to the press. He is resting in a private sanatorium in Switzerland after his demanding journey and will return to his work commitments in due course. Iax Agolasky, in turn, claims to be unable to report on the details of the secret expedition without the professor’s permission.
I was pretty imaginative. They left me alone. The press wrote about our journey for a time, unearthing all Moltique’s indisputable achievements, as well as his questionable ones, at the same time presenting arguments for and against the existence of the children of shadows. The academy did not comment; those in Parisian scientific circles did not want to become a laughing stock. I assume one of the decision-makers met Moltique and saw what I saw – euphemistically put, the professor was not well. Finally, people lost interest. Moltique was left alone in his sanatorium. Oliver Alleg vanished without a trace. Or that was the general assumption.
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