The Slynx

GLAGOL

So nikita ivanich went and put his poles all over the place, and Benedikt kept banging his head on them. Lumps would pop up. That was too bad. The girls would probably giggle and whisper. They might stick their tongues out at him. Or shout from behind the gates and tease him: "Lumpy Bumpy!" One of them might run ahead on the path, stop right in front of him, raise her skirts and show him her bare ass. It was so insulting you could cry. Others, hiding in the izbas, laughed and squealed like harpies: there would be a shrieking and screeching all around, and you couldn't see who was doing it even if you turned your head, ears, or what-have-you to all sides. From those izbas where all the racket was, the shriek would up and jump to other izbas in the back row, and from there it would go to the third row, and from there out around the whole settlement. That's the way it always goes, spreading like a plague, like a fire when the wind blows the flames from yard to yard, God forbid. You could go stick your head into any house, push the door open with your boot, and shout in a furious voice: "Whaddya squawking about like a bunch of sick goats? Whasso funny?"-and they couldn't tell you. They don't know.

So just go to hell, you insulting bareass you. Sometimes, of course, it was fun to look at bare bottoms: they gave you all sorts of ideas, your heart pounded, and you didn't notice the time flying by. Yes, other times it was fun, but times like this it wasn't. Why was that?

Well, it's because the bareass was set against you, to put you in your place-you're lower than low, and don't go getting any ideas. If someone laughs at you, it's like he's showing his power over you, and you, boy, are down in the ditch.

That's something to think on. But if it's so simple, why is it that the Lesser Murzas, who are there to watch us, never laugh? Why do they stare at you like you've been dished out of the out- house with a ladle? They talk through their teeth like they've got something valuable in their mouths, like it might fall out, and you're gonna grab it and take off. And the look in their eyes: they make them go all muddy like they're not moving. But they still cut straight through you. And then… but no, no, that must be Freethinking. No, no, I mustn't think. No.

… So then the pesky old man puts up all these posts, God forgive him, and Benedikt gets stuck with a nickname for his whole life: Lumpy. Other Golubchiks get nicknames: Rotmouth, or Gooseshake, or something else, depending on what he has coming, what stubborn habit or especially nasty Consequence he has. Benedikt didn't have any Consequences, his face was clear, he had ruddy cheeks, a strong torso, you could marry him off any time you liked. His fingers-he counted and he had just the right number, no more no less, no webbing or scales on them or on his toes. His nails were pink. He had one nose. Two eyes. An awful lot of teeth, almost three dozen. White. A golden beard, darker hair on his head, and curly. On his stomach too. On his nipples too. His belly button was where it should be, right smack in the middle. His private business also in the middle, lower down. Nice-looking. Just like a forest marshroom. Only without spots. You could take it out and show it off anytime.

And just where did Nikita Ivanich put that post? Right by the Work Izba. Wasn't that Freethinking? The sleighs wouldn't be able to turn around! Benedikt grabbed a handful of snow, held it to his lump, and stood there, reading the inscription: "Pioneer of Printing: Ivan Fyodorov." Hunh. Fancy shmancy. Come on now, let's pull it out. Benedikt grasped the stupid thing, strained, yanked, and pulled it out. He threw it down. Kicked it. Looked around. No one. Too bad Olenka or the other girls didn't see how strong he was.

There were sooooo many people in the izba. Tons and tons. Sweetie-pie Olenka was there. Sitting, blushing, her eyes lowered. But she did glance at Benedikt. Good. And Varvara Lukinishna was there, talking to Olenka, talking their girl talk. And Ksenia the Orphan. And Vasiuk the Earful.

Soon they'll announce it: time to start working. Good that he wasn't late. Being late doesn't matter, but people start to look and whisper: has he fallen ill, God forbid, God forbid. Knock on wood. True, as far back as Benedikt can remember, no one in their izba has ever fallen ill, knock on wood. Someone might get a scratchy throat or a headache-but that's not Illness, God forbid, God forbid. A finger might break, or you might get a black eye-that's not Illness either, God forbid, God forbid. Sometimes the hiccups get ahold of you-but that's not Illness, God forbid, God forbid. If the hiccups get you, you say three times:

Hiccup, Hiccup, Go see Jacob, From Jacob to John, From John on and on.

They'll go away. If you get a sty on your eye, then you need a stronger spell so it'll last. You blow three times, spit three times, stand still on one leg, grab your other leg with your hand, hold it, and God forbid don't fall. And say:

Sty, sty,

Fly out of my eye.

Strap, strap,

Don't fall in the trap.

Fig, fig,

You'll ne'er buy a pig.

Buy an ax and laugh

Chop the strap in half.

That sty will go right away. That isn't Illness.

And what it is, Illness, and when it comes, and what happens then-no one knows. They don't talk about it. And if they do, they whisper. And if they whisper, then only when Vasiuk the Earful isn't around.

Everyone knows that he eavesdrops. That's the way it is. He's got so many ears you can't count them: on his head, and under his head, and on his knees, and behind his knees, and even in his boots. All kinds: big, little, round, long, and just plain holes, and pink pipes, and something like smooth slits, with hair-all kinds. You ask him, "Vasiuk, what do you need so many ears for?"

"They aren't ears."

"Then what are they?"

Just for a laugh someone will stick a piece of bone or a rusht butt or some other kind of rubbish in one of his ears. But the main ears, the ones he eavesdrops with, grow under his arms. When he's at work, he spreads his elbows wide so it's easier to listen. Then he almost moans in frustration: what kind of secrets can he hear, when anyone can see that his elbows are spread, so he must be listening.

Varvara Lukinishna also has an affliction: she's a terrible sight, even with your eyes closed. Only one eye, not a hair on her head, and cockscombs growing all over it, waving back and forth. There's one growing from her eye too. It's called cock's fringe. But it isn't Illness either, God forbid, God forbid. It's a Consequence. She's a nice woman all the same, and she writes beautiful and clean. And if you run out of ink, she'll always give you some of hers.

And fringe isn't Illness, God forbid, God forbid. And the Saniturions don't need to come, no, no, no.

They hit the clapper: work time. Benedikt sat down at his table, arranged the candle, spat on his writing stick, raised his eyebrows, stretched out his neck, and looked at the scroll: what did he have to copy today? He got Fyodor Kuzmich's Tales.

"Once upon a time," Benedikt wrote, "there was a goose who laid a golden egg." There you go, another Consequence. Everyone has Consequences! Take Anfisa Terentevna, she had a lot of grief from her chickens last year. And what chickens they were: big, beautiful, choice. They laid black and marble eggs-you couldn't find better! Kvas made of those eggs went straight to your head. You drain a pitcher of that kvas, and right away- bam! You feel like showing your stuff. You look around-everyone's double. A girl passes by-and it seems like there's two of her. You shout, "Girls! Come on over and fool around with me" -and she runs off. You roll over with laughter! You look at Anfisa Terentevna-and there's two of her too. But don't try to fool around with her, or Polikarp Matveich will come out, and there'll be two of him, and that's no joke, one of him is scary enough.

How those chickens would sing in the summer when the twilight fell and the moon rose in the sky, the sunset smoldered, the dew began to gather, and the flowers smelled sweet! Fine young fellows and fair maids would sit out in the yard, munching pickled nuts, chewing firelings, sighing, or chatting and pinching each other. As soon as the first star rolled out in the sky, the chickens would begin to sing. At first they'd crackle like kindling, then you'd hear a trrrrr, trrrr, then croo-croo-croo, and then when they got going, they'd roll out such thundering roulades, it'd warm your heart, as if you were flying off somewhere, or running down a mountain, or remembering some strange poems by Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe:

On the black sky-words are inscribed- And magnificent eyes are blinded… And we fear not the mortal bed, And for us the lounge of passion isn't sweet. Writing-in sweat, working-in sweat! We know a different fervor: Light fire dancing over curls- A little breath-and inspiration!

And when autumn came with its rains and winds, all the fowl in the whole settlement headed south. Their owners would come out to see them off, sad and glum. The head hen would move in front, stick one leg out, flap her wings-and they'd all belt out a last, farewell song. They'd soar to the skies, take a turn around their homes, stretch out into a line, and fly off in pairs. You'd wave a kerchief, and sometimes the women would start wailing.

But then those chickens just went plain mad. They stopped flying, stopped singing, autumn passed, winter was just around the corner, all the other birds had headed south, and these crazies stayed put. Anfisa Terentevna shooed them with a switch broom, but they balked, ruffled their feathers, and even seemed to start talking like people. "Walk, talk, balk, whoo, whoo, whoo?" they asked, laughing at her. And they took to laying big, scary-looking white eggs. The poor woman near to lost her mind with fright. Benedikt rushed to help her and together they smothered those evil birds. They left one egg as a curiosity. Benedict showed it to Nikita Ivanich. The old man-he's never afraid of anything-cracked the egg open on the edge of a bowl, and inside-Lord save us!-there was a yellow ball that looked like it was floating in thick water, and there wasn't any kvas malt at all… Lord Almighty! The old Stoker jumped up and shouted "Where are the others?" in a terrible sort of voice. We reassured him, sat him down: Don't worry, Nikita Ivanich, we know, we're not children. We got rid of the whole foul flock, cleared the coop with birch smoke so nothing evil would sprout up, and brought Goga the Fool to cast a spell: North, south, east, west, under the green sea, under the flaming oak, under the hot stone, under the stinking goat-hey, hey, fly away fly; blow left, spit right, eins, zwei, drei. It's a strong spell, tried and true, it should last.

Nikita Ivanich sat slumped over the table. He squeezed his eyes shut, clutched his jaw, and just sat there. Then he asked what the chickens had eaten before they went mad. How do we know? He went to see Anfisa Terentevna to ask, and thought about it for a long time. And that yellow ball, the one in the egg -he fried it and ate it. Honest to God, he ate it!!! And nothing happened to him.

Come to think of it, he never eats like people do. He won't touch worrums. They made Mother sick too, for that matter. But Benedikt learned how to find them as a child. He'd be playing in the streams and puddles with the other kids-there are a lot of clay-filled streams in the town-and he'd always feel around in the water and find worrums. Worrums are blind, stupid. You can catch a couple of dozen, put 'em on a stick, dry 'em out, and then pound 'em into a powder. They're so salty! The best flavoring for mouse soup. Father praised Benedikt, and he caught worrums himself, but Mother always made a face and pushed them away. Once Benedikt gave Nikita Ivanich a whole stringful. They just hung there on that string, the old man never touched them. A neighbor dropped by to ask for some fire and couldn't believe it: valuable goods were going to waste. Nikita Ivanich just gave them to her, each and every one of them. And it's so much work to catch them, you have to sift through a lot of mud till you feel the worrum, and then it wiggles around, nips at your fingers. Just try digging for them yourself! You won't go giving them away to neighbors.

One time Benedikt dropped in to see the old man, and he was sitting and sucking on a spoonful of yellow glue, the kind you see dripping down the trunks of elfirs. "What're you up to, Nikita Ivanich?"

"Eating honeycomb."

"Hummycum?"

"What bees make."

"Are you crazy?"

"Just try it. You people eat mice and worms, and then you're surprised to see so many mutants."

Benedikt got scared, he froze and finally left feeling a bit queasy, in a fog. It was frightening: the old man had gone by his own self and messed with the bees in the tree hollow… Then, of course, Benedikt told the others. They only shook their heads. "Sure. The bee shits, and we're gonna eat it?"

And One-and-a-Half-he has one and a half faces and a third leg-said, "What's Nikita Ivanich up to, egging us on to do things like that? And him a Stoker… Remember how he used to take the fellows to Murka's Hill, he wanted them to dig up the ground… He said there were mustardpieces buried there. And stone men, humongous white Rowmans and Creeks. We got plenty of our own rowmen, and only one river anyway."

That's right, he did take them. He said that in Oldener Times there used to be a Moozeeum on Murka's Hill, and there were shameful white stones buried in the earth. They were carved like men and women, with nipples and everything. It would be interesting to take a look, of course, but what about Freethinking? And you'd never finish digging there. And what do you need stone women for when there's plenty of live ones? The old man was playing tricks. For a long time kids ran after him and teased him: "Old Man Ivanich, wonders why his pants itch; takes them off at night, puts them on first light."

Nothing came of it.

Benedikt sighed, flicked a fleck of dust off his writing stick, and quickly finished copying the tale of the Golden Goose. He left space for Olenka to draw a goose. Then the booklet would be taken to market and traded for mice. You could trade a string of mice for a booklet. There's only government trade, though, don't dare copy anything yourself-if they find out, you'll get a thrashing.

They also say… but wait till Vasiuk the Earful moves away. They also say that somewhere there are Oldenprint books. Who knows if it's true, but there's a rumor. Those books, they say, were around before the Blast.

And they tell other lies: that in the woods there's a glade, and in the glade there's a white-hot stone, and beneath that stone there's a treasure. And on a dark night, when there's no moon or stars in sight, if you come to the glade barefoot, walking backward, and say, "I won't take what isn't found, but only what is underground," and when you get to the place, you turn three times, blow your nose three times, spit three times, and say, "Earth, don't conceal yourself; treasure, now reveal yourself," then a dark fog will come down and you'll hear a squeaking and a creaking from the woods, and that white-hot stone will roll back and the treasure will appear.

And that's where the books are buried. They glow like the full moon. But don't grab more than one, and when you've got one, run for your life, and if you do it wrong, then, they say, a veil falls over your eyes, and when you wake up you'll be sitting on the roof of your izba with empty hands.

And they also say these books have been seen at people's houses.