The Slynx

LIUDI

The February blizzards had passed. The March storms blew in. Heavenly streams poured down, piercing the snow. It looked like someone had punctured it and blackened it with stone nails. The earth showed through in some places. Last year's rubbish surfaced on all the streets, in all the yards. Swift rivers flowed, foamy and murky, carrying the rubbish from the hills to the flats, bringing out the stench from the settlement. Then, suddenly, up high, blue showed through. Clean, cold clouds ran rapidly across it, the wind blew, bare branches swayed, hurrying spring along. It was raw and bright; if you didn't tuck your hands into your sleeves they'd turn all red from the cold. But Benedikt felt fine and happy.

The earth underfoot squelched. The clay was impassable. You can't travel in a sleigh or a cart, but the Murzas still want to ride, don't they? They'd not be caught walking on foot-it doesn't suit their rank. You see the Degenerators kneading the clay mud with their felt boots, hauling the sleighs; they pull with all their might, cussing up a storm, but the sleighs won't budge. The Murza lashes them: Pull! They curse him. Such a hullabaloo. In short: spring!

Then it would freeze up again, there'd be a piercing cold day; a fine snow would fall, and the bladders in the windows would be covered with hoarfrost.

And while Benedikt lay in bed with a fever, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, wrote a new decree:

DECREE Now hear this. Since I am Fyodor Kuzmich Kablukov, Glory to me, the Greatest Murza, Long May I Live, Seckletary and Academishun and Hero and Ship Captain, and Carpenter, and seeing as how I am constantly worrying about the people, I command:

Oh, and there's something else I remembered, I'd completely forgotten it since I was so busy with state affairs:

The Eighth of March is also a Holiday, International Women's Day.

This Holiday isn't a day off.

That means you have to go to work, but you can take it easy.

Women's Day means like a Woman's Holiday.

On this day you have to honor and respect all women since they are Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls and respect all of them.

On this Holiday don't give them a thrashing or a licking, they don't have to do all the usual things, but Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls should get up earlier in the morning and bake pies, pancakes and all sorts of things, wash everything clean, sweep the floors and polish the benches, carry the water from the well, wash out the underwear and outerwear, and whoever has rugs or mats they should beat them all well or else I know you, there'll be so much dust in the izba you'll have to hold your nose. She should chop wood for the bathhouse, light the fire and scrub herself all over. Set the table with bliny and a mountain of all kinds of snacks. Maybe there's some leftovers from New Year's you can put out on the table.

When you get to work congratulate every Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls with International Women's Day.

Say: "Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls I wish you happiness in life, success in work, and a peaceful sky over your head."

And every woman you meet, even your Neighborlady, say the same polite words.

Later on, drink and make merry, eat what you want, have a good time, but within reason.

Kablukov

Just as Benedikt thought, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, was a real ladies' man. The women at work were happy: no one could say a harsh word to them, or kick them, or pull their ears, or whack them upside the head, everyone congratulated them. Varvara Lukinishna wore beads around her neck. Olenka was all in ribbons. Even Ksenia the Orphan braided some kind of rose from rough threads and fastened it at her temple. They were all so beautified-you could just drop your britches and start the joking right now.

They thought up something else too: they picked willow branches and stuck them in a pot with water. It was warm in the izba and the leaves opened up. Maybe this was Freethinking, but it was their day, and that was it. They wanted to put a pot of branches on Jackal Demianich's table too, but he threw it on the floor: the Decree didn't say anything about willows.

Jackal Demianich knows all the decrees by heart and loves them. Even old ones, from ages ago: for instance, that Sunday is a day off. Everyone knows anyway that Sunday is Sunday and no Golubchik is going to work for love or money no matter what you do to him. You'd think: Why do you need a decree, why waste the bark? Noooo, that's not the governmental approach.

The governmental approach is to decree very strictly, so that God forbid the day off didn't fall on Saturday, nor, God forbid on Friday or Thursday, or Wednesday, or Tuesday, or Monday. They decree it and that's the way it will be, because that's what the state is for, that's its power and glory and authority on earth, for all time, amen.

No one likes Jackal Demianich much. Who could like a Murza? Maybe his woman and, well, maybe his little kids, but no one else. That's not what a Murza is there for, to like or not. He's there to keep things in order. To keep an eye on the lists of workers. To hand out ink. Yell. Dock you for absences, for drunkenness, or to give you a whipping-that's what he's for. You can't get by without a Murza, without him we'd get everything mixed up.

For example. If we're talking simple. The May Holiday-it happens in May, and so you'd think the October Holiday is in October. Right? Well, you're wrong! The October Holiday is in November! If we didn't have Murzas, you see, all the Golubchiks, all of Fyodor-Kuzmichsk, would be drunk and rolling around the whole month of October!

A lot of people can't understand: How come it's called the October Holiday if it's in November? They just don't understand the governmental approach! It's in November because in October the weather is usually good, there's no snow either. The air is strong, it smells of fallen leaves, the sun shines late, the sky is so blue. The Golubchiks, whichever ones can walk on two feet, go outside on their own without any Decrees. Some go off to gather rusht, some bring in brushwood from the forest, some dig up the last turnips. It's just beautiful. Nature is clear.

But in November the rains start falling and just keep on and on and on-eeeeee! Everything is murky between heaven and earth, and your soul is clouded over too! The roof leaks if it's thin; cold and damp blow in through the cracks. You cover the window with rags, you slump closer to the stove, or doze on the stove bed, and something inside cries, and just keeps on crying!

The beauty of summer has passed, you can't bring it back- it's like life itself is gone, and joy has blown away with the dust rising from the road! You take the rag off the window to look- and there's nothing, nothing at all, only rain running down and beating on the puddles. Torn bits of clouds. Even the dumbest Golubchiks won't stick their nose out the door of their own free will in that kind of weather. On that kind of day, when everyone's here, at home, no one's going anywhere, there's no one left in the forest, or in the fields-on a day like that they have the October Holiday. All the Golubchiks, healthy and crippled, are ordered to leave the house and go to the main square where the watchtower is, and march by it, six in a row, singing. The Murzas watch the Golubchiks from the watchtower and take a head count. Because we have to know how many people we have, and how many chits to cut out for payday and how much to give out on Warehouse Day, and how many people can be called for roadwork, if they aren't crippled. Stuff like that. As the saying goes: Count your chicks in autumn. And when you've counted them all, then of course you can go back home, drink and make merry, have a good time, do what you want, but within reason. That's the governmental approach for you.

But the bosses have to figure out exactly when the October Holiday should be-that's what bosses are for. They sit in the terems looking at the sky, observing the weather and discussing it. Yesterday, they say, was a bit early, but tomorrow-who knows, it might be late, whereas today, they say, is the very day. Get everybody out there for the count.

Jackal knows all this business, that's his job.

He told Benedikt about the Decree: "Congratulations."

Benedikt memorized the congratulations: he read them, and then reread them; he repeated them gazing at the ceiling; then he checked against the bark, then he squeezed his eyes shut and whispered them again, so he'd know them for sure. He congratulated Varvara Lukinishna politely: "I wish you Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls happiness in life, success in work, and a peaceful sky over your head."

Vasiuk the Earful spread his elbows and listened alertly from his corner to make sure Benedikt was saying everything right, like it was in the Decree.

Varvara Lukinishna blushed red all over: she liked hearing those words. "Oh, thank you, my dear. Come by and visit me this evening: I've made soup."

"Today? I don't know…"

"There are still some nuts… I'll bake a mouse."

"Well, I'm not sure…"

"The mouse is fresh as can be."

Benedikt hesitated.

"Do come… I'll show you something… in secret."

What an insistent woman. She's looks enough of a fright in a dress, but if she took off her clothes and showed her secret, it'd probably be really scary: grab your hat and run for the door. But it's tempting, of course. Who knows…

"Please, do come by… We'll talk about art… I know that you are capable of delicate feelings… I think your potential is enormous."

She batted her lone eye. My oh my, what a… Benedikt even started sweating. What suggestive conversations… and right at work…

"Well, it's not too small… No complaints in that department

… And I do feel everything… How do you know? What kind of pudential did you say I have?"

"Now then, you can't hide that sort of thing…"

"Someone blabbed?"

"Well, we often talk about your… in our circle, you know… we have our opinions… Everyone agrees: you are developing in a marvelous direction…"

"Oh!"

"That's right. We expect a lot from you."

"Hmm… What kind of circle is this of yours?"

"Our own close group of… like minds. You and a number of acquaintances."

That's just what he thought. Women!… They sit down in a circle and gab about the woman's business. Who, with whom, and when. And they talked about Benedikt! They praised him!

"… We tell each other our little secrets," Varvara Lukinishna whispered. "We share."

?!?! Whoa! So that's what they're up to! Sure… What can you do, they're lonely…

"Are there a lot of you? In the circle, that is?"

"Oh, a small group, maybe six people… We don't manage to get together very often, but the conversation is very intense, we're so close…"

"With six of you it would be close… Are you all on the floor or what?"

"Why, everyone's where they like."

"Then how do you…"

"How do we fit? Well, my izba is miniscule, to be sure. I can't deny it, it's true. When everyone gets together, as you might expect, we're sometimes literally sitting on top of one another!"

"Uh huh… I'll come," Benedikt said quickly. "I'll come, wait for me."

So!… He had to get home right away and heat up the bath, wash, and then grab a jug of rusht-he couldn't go visiting with empty hands. Then… then he'd see. Oy, what were they going to do! Now he had to congratulate everyone and head home; Jackal wouldn't say anything-it was decreed: work, but take it easy. Benedikt bowed to Ksenia the Orphan:

"I wish you Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls happiness in life, success in work, a peaceful sky over your head."

She was thrilled.

"I've heard it so many times today already, but it's so nice! Every day should be like this!"

Jackal raised an eyebrow at her from his corner: that was Freethinking, that was. But he couldn't object: today they were only supposed to congratulate, not insult or anything. He'd probably let her have it tomorrow.

"Come for some of my pancakes this evening."

"I'm busy."

"Oh, what a pity. My pancakes are so fluffy!"

"I'm sure they are."

And that was a hint too. Her pancakes, she says, are so fluffy!… What if he went to both places?… Burn the candle at both ends? Olenka was looking at him from her stool… He should congratulate Olenka. With the others it was easy, but he was sort of scared with Olenka: he felt all shy and weak in the knees. He sat down next to Olenka and muttered: "I wish you Wife and Mother and Grandmother and Niece and any other Little Girls happiness in life, success in work, a peaceful sky over your head."

But Olenka laughed softly. "I'm not your wife, am I?…"

"But in the decree…"

"And without the decree?…"

Benedikt started sweating again: here it was, Women's Day, Woman's Holiday, that's what it was all about… Oh, that Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe… Just wait, next thing she'd be inviting him for bliny…

"… And without the Decree you mean there's no happiness in life?"

"Olenka… Olenka, I want happiness in life without the decree…"

"Well then?"

"I offer you my hand, heart, and pudendal," whispered Benedikt. He didn't expect such fine, frightening words from himself: they just leapt out of him.

"I accept," whispered Olenka.

"You accept?!"

"I accept… I accept it all…"

They sat in silence for a moment… What else was there to say… His heart was jumping… Oy, he did it!… He did it! What a day!

Glorybe to Fyodor Kuzmich!

So it's farewell to the bachelor life! You didn't sow your wild oats for very long, Benedikt Karpich! But that's just fine! Time to settle down. Benedikt ran home: it was still early, the coals in the stove hadn't gone out, he had to collect them and fire up the bath… Whew! He hadn't bathed since last year! In the new style, that is. January first used to be the New Year, but now they'd moved it, it turns out… He ran, nodded to women he met along the way-not his habit, but today you had to. He shouted out congratulations. He wished them all happiness in life. Nikita Ivanich trundled by, lugging a log-and Benedikt shouted to him, jokingly: "A peaceful sky above your head, Nikita Ivanich! No rain, nothing!" The old man jerked, turned around, and spat on the ground. Aha, he's thinking Benedikt took him for a woman!… But it was just a joke!

Olenka lives in a different settlement… not in ours… We're way over here, and she's right there. They agreed that he'd visit her on the May Holiday to meet her parents. Let's hope the weather will be good, bright… A peaceful sky overhead!… Not like today: lots of mud and a freezing rain…

He ran past a sleigh stuck in the mud: hopeless to travel in this weather. Three furry Degenerators stood on the roadside: a troika. They were resting with their boots off, smoking rusht, grinning at the Golubchiks. When they saw Benedikt they burst into laughter. "Running away from a heart attack, are you?…"

"If he don't catch up, at least he'll warm up!"

"Faster, faster, they'll close the garage!"

Shameless beasts. They harass people. But it's not worth paying them back in kind: they swear a sight better than we do. No one gets involved with them, not with Degenerators.

From hill to hill, along the lanes, sometimes through gardens, scrambling under a fence for a shortcut, Benedikt ran all the way home, threw open the bolts, rushed into the izba, flung open the stove damper: the coals are smoldering! Smoldering, Golubchik! He made it in time! Put in a little rusht, some firewood, bark chips; blow on the fire, let it play for a while; and as soon as it catches, take it to the bathhouse. Haul the water, find the branches from last year that were in the shed somewhere. There ought to be a brand-new washcloth… it was here… Now if he were married, he'd run home from work-and everything would be ready, the spiders swept away, the branches steamed up. Yes, but married men can't really go visiting women… "Where are you going, Benedikt? It's nighttime." "Well, you see… I have to… to talk about art…" "We know your art!… Huh! A real artful one you are." And she'd take the branches and thrash him six ways from Sunday… Would he and Olenka really fight like that? Nooo. Everything would be fine between them-otherwise, what was the point?

You'd get home-everything's ready, only you wouldn't have the same freedom. Well, so what. But his wife was a real beauty! And freedom-well, what's freedom… Right now he was free, but he couldn't find the washcloth-could they really have pinched it? No, he was in luck again: he found the cloth in the bathhouse under a stone; a little moldy, but he found it. What a day today: everything is working out.

He sat and enjoyed the steam, rubbed himself all over with the washcloth, beat himself red with the branches, and inspected his body from every angle his eyes could reach: gorgeous! If a neighbor glanced in the window right now, he'd be envious. Benedikt even envied himself. No wonder the women praised him: "Marvelously developed, we expect a lot from you!" Just wait, I'll dry off and-I'm all yours. Would all six be there, or what? Never mind, God willing, I'll manage! They sit on top of each other… whew!

He scraped the coals in a pile: maybe they'd last longer that way. Probably not till morning, though. He could get some coals from Varvara. But why? In the morning he had to go to work, anyway. Oh, what a lot of fuss and bother! Benedikt scattered the coals again: God forbid there should be a fire. It was a tricky thing, fire: if it went out, you might as well lie down and die; if it flared up too much, it would burn everything right down to the ground like nothing was ever there! That's fire for you. It's skittish. It needs food, it's always hungry, just like a man. Gimme, gimme, gimme! But if you overfeed it, it'll gobble you up.

If there's a fire somewhere, the Golubchiks come running from all around, from all the settlements, sometimes from the farthest reaches. A huge crowd gathers like on the October Holiday. They surround the burning house and stand there, arms folded on their chests, watching… No one talks out loud, they just whisper: "Yikes, look at that pillar of flame…" "Look, look, over there the corner's caught!"… And the flames rush and tear about, not exactly like pillars, but like a tree, like the jeopard tree in spring-it dances and hums, twists and turns, but stays put. You turn to look at the Golubchiks: they stand there staring and the fire dances in their eyes too, it's reflected like in water, it splashes. The crowd has a thousand eyes, and water and fire lap in each and every one, like dawn rising on the river. It makes you feel strange and wild inside, no mistake, water and fire don't mix, but here they are together!

And if there's Oldeners nearby, they run back and forth tearing at their hair and shouting: "Put it out! Put out the fire!" But how? How can you put it out? You can put out a little flame with a bucket of water, but if the fire has showed its strength, that's it. All you can do is wait till it's over.

If the other izbas don't catch that's lucky. When the fire has eaten everything and starts to die down and settle, the Golubchiks move in with buckets, pots, whatever they've got, to collect coals to take home. Maybe their stove is warm, anyway-it doesn't matter. No point in letting good coals go to waste.

Sometimes a whole settlement burns. Well, you just have to start life all over again.

Spic and span and pleased with himself, Benedikt knocked on Varvara's door. She opened it, all decked out, and sweaty.

"Oh, it's you. How nice. What is this you've brought? Rusht? You needn't have gone to all that trouble…"

He looked around: there weren't any other frolickers there yet. He could wait. The table was set. There were two bowls and two spoons. A pot of soup.

"Have a seat. I'll be right there." She took a griddle of mice out of the oven. "I think they're done."

"Stick them with a splinter."

"That's it. They're done. Fresh, I caught them today."

"Great."

They poured some rusht. Took a bite.

"To your health."

They poured some more. It went down smooth.

"What lovely rusht. It has such a distinctive bouquet."

"I know where to pick it."

"And where is that, if it's not a secret?"

"In the bog. Behind the Cockynork settlement."

"Near the Garden Ring?"

"That's right."

"Gracious, how far afield you range!"

"Yeah, well, but it's good rusht."

"I should do a bit of reconnoitering myself."

The women still hadn't come. Benedikt coughed politely into his hand.

"Will the guests be coming or not, then?"

"Well, I wasn't sure…"

"But they promised?"

"I thought… you see,… I thought that I'd better reveal my secret alone first… I don't know how you'll react… I'm a bit nervous…"

"Me too, a little."

"I don't know if you'll be able to appreciate…"

"I'm able," said Benedikt, though he wasn't sure that he was.

"Well, all right, then. But it's a secret. You won't tell, of course…"

"No, no, no."

"Well then, close your eyes."

Benedikt closed his eyes. Something rustled. There was a bump. More rustling. Benedikt peeked with one eye. But it didn't seem like anything was ready yet-he could only see shadows from the candles dancing on the beams-so he closed his eyes again.

"Ready or not-here I come," sang Benedikt.

"Just a moment… How impatient you are…"

"I can't wait," Benedikt lied, letting a hint of playfulness appear in his voice. "I just can't wait."

Something fell on his lap, something not very heavy that smelled of mold.

"Here it is. Take a look…"

"What is it?"

A box-but not a box, just something shaped like it. Inside were whitish pages that looked like fresh bark, but lighter; they were very, very thin, and they seemed to be covered with dust or poppyseed.

"What is it?"

"Look closely!"

He brought it to his eyes. The dust was fine and even… like spider webs… He stared, amazed… Suddenly it was as though the web fell from his eyes and it hit him: "and the candle by which Anna read a life full of alarm and deceit…" He gasped. Letters! They were letters! Written teeny tiny, but so carefully, and they weren't brown, they were black… He licked his finger and rubbed the bark: he rubbed a hole right in it. Gosh, how thin.

"Careful, you'll ruin it!"

"What is it?…"

"It's a book… an Oldenprint book."

"Ay!!!" Benedikt jumped from the stool and dropped the poison. "What are you doing? I'll get sick!"

"No! Wait! Just wait a minute!…"

"The Sickness!…"

"No!…"

"Let me out of here!…"

"Just sit down. Sit down! I'll explain everything. I promise." Varvara Lukinishna pried Benedikt's hands away from the bolts, her cock's combs trembling. "It's completely safe… Nikita Ivanich confirmed it."

"What's he got to do with it?"

"He knows! He gave it to me!"

Benedikt quieted down and sat on the stool, his knees weak. He wiped his nose with his sleeve to stop the trembling. Nikita Ivanich. One of the bosses. And he didn't get sick. He touched a book-and he didn't get sick…

"It's safe…" whispered Varvara. "You know, he's an extraordinary old man… so knowledgeable. He explained it to me: it's completely safe, it's just a superstition… You see, when the Blast occurred, everything was considered dangerous, because of the radiation… You've heard about it… That's why it was forbidden. The books were radioactive…"

"To hear the Oldeners tell it, everything is radioactive," said Benedikt, shaking. "No, this is something else…"

"But Nikita Ivanich knows… he has… If it was truly dangerous, he would have fallen ill long ago, but you can see that he's healthier than either of us…"

"Then why do they… Why are people taken away and treated… knock on wood?"

"It's a tradition, knock on wood…"

They both knocked on wood.

… God have mercy and protect me… I'm not sick, I'm not sick, I'm not sick, no, no, no. I won't get sick, I won't get sick, no, no, no. Don't come, don't, don't, don't. The red hoods don't need to come, knock on wood. I don't want to be hooked.

"Nikita Ivanich explained it to me… It was thought to be extremely dangerous because paper absorbs other substances… You and I copy things so that they're not dangerous to the people's health… But now it doesn't matter anymore, two hundred years have passed… You and I are copying old books, Benedikt…"

"What do you mean, old? Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, wrote all those booklets…"

"No, he didn't… Different people wrote them, but everyone thinks it was Fyodor Kuzmich. I felt there was something going on… You know, after I saw him, Fyodor Kuzmich, I couldn't sleep all night… I kept thinking, thinking… Then I made a decision, I worked up my nerve and went to see Nikita Ivanich. We talked for a long, long time…"

"He never told me anything…"

"Oh, Benedikt, he's an unusual man… We talked about you… He wanted to tell you, but not right away… He wanted to prepare you… I know it's a huge blow… but I think it's better to know the truth than to live life in darkness…"

Benedikt sat on the stool, hunched over. His thoughts strayed here and there, his head felt heavy. Maybe he went back to work too soon? Maybe he still had fever? He had the chills. Or was it just the bath?… Why did he have to bathe when there was no one to kiss?

"And what now?"

"Now? Nothing, simply now you know."

"What for?"

"Well, I mean, I thought…"

"Why think? I want to live."

"But what does that have… I want to, too… but I want to know the truth… if it's possible…"

"'For in much wisdom is much grief.' So you mean Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, didn't write that either?"

"Probably not."

"Then who?"

"I don't know… You'll have to ask the Oldeners."

Varvara Lukinishna picked the Oldenprint book up off the floor, placed it on the table, and stroked it with her hand. It was strange to see such a fearsome thing up close.

"Still… Why are you touching it?… If we are copying old books, then just wait till we're told to copy it… Then you can hold it…"

"But when will that be?… Maybe not soon enough. Life is so short, and I just adore art… And it's such an interesting book!…"

"What? You're reading it?"

"Why, of course… Benedikt, there are so many interesting books. I'll give it to you to read if you like."

"No!!!" said Benedikt, flinching.

"But why are you so afraid?"

"I have to go… My head is sort of-"

"Wait!…"

Benedikt tore himself away, staggered out on the porch, into the rain, into the early, raw dark. Out of sight, out of mind… His head really was sort of…

… The March wind groaned in the treetops, rattled the bare twigs and the rabbit nests, and something else unknown-who knows what's up there moaning, what awakes in spring? A gust of wind blows-it whispers, it whines in the trees, it scatters raindrops on your head. There might be a savage cry up above, from the branches: startled, you race for the closest fence… Maybe it's a woodsucker bird.

The bladders twinkle faintly in the windows, the Golubchiks have lighted their candles, they're slurping down soup… They exchange glances: maybe they too have Oldenprint books hidden under their beds… We'll lock the doors and take them out… Read a bit… Maybe everyone has one, who knows… In that izba… and this one… and in that one over there, where a pale light flickers-is it a candle smoking, or people pacing the rooms, blocking the feeble fire with their mortal bodies, trying the bolts to make sure they're firmly shut? Out from under the mattress, from under a moldy pile of rags, filthy human rags, they take a booklet… a book… a book… and he's the only one who's acting like a frightened fool… The only one in the whole town… The letters are so black, so teensy… it's scary even to think about it…

Up above everything roared and groaned. The wind flew into his sleeve, cutting straight through him. Benedikt stood at an unfamiliar fence, thinking. The baked mouse had only teased his appetite. He wanted to eat. But at home in his izba there was no fire: he'd put it out when he left to go visiting. He didn't think he'd need it. Should he go back and get some coals? She'd give them to him, she's kind… No. Go back? The squeaking door… the warmth… the white, happy pancake of her face, the trembling cock's combs, the hurried whisper: this way, this way, I have some art… One minute, I'll just wipe the mold off… And the candle by which… full of alarm and deceit! What incredible fear! "Fear, noose and ditch," Fyodor Kuzmich wrote… No, they say, not Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe… Full of alarm

… And deceit… Not Fyodor Kuzmich… Someone else, unseen, old, with a hidden face… Probably big, pale and white, ancient, extinct, as tall as a tree, with a beard down to his knees and horrible eyes… Terrifying, he stands amid the trunks, motionless, just turning his face, and his eyes look straight through the March twilight, he rolls them so that he can see Benedikt in the gloom: Where is that Benedikt? Why did he hide? Why did he run for the fence?-and Benedikt's heart is pounding in his neck, floating up to his tongue, roaring in his ears-where is Benedikt? Come here now, I want to tell you something-his hand will reach out and he'll hook a gnarled finger under Benedikt's rib, and with the frightful cry of the woodsucker, scream: Eeeeeeeeeeahhhhhhhhhhaaauuuuu!

There was a knock on the door of the strange izba. An ordinary, homey knock; plain, everyday life knocked on the door, drunken talk and laughter could be heard in the twilight. So someone has guests, it's a holiday and they went out on the porch-to take a leak or just to go out and breathe the fresh air, to live life or sing a song, or just to kick the cat!

They didn't notice Benedikt slinking along the fence, no one could see him. The frightful, ancient inhabitant, who read, or wrote, or maybe just hid a book full of deceit in rags, didn't notice him either; just as he'd appeared, he vanished, and he was gone.

Home. It was dark in his izba, it smelled of ashes, and the wedding was a long way off.