The Slynx Read online

  I tell you. That big. And you talk. I'll have you know when my old man scratched his head, he'd shake off a half-bucket of dandruff."

  "Come on, now," we piped up. "Grandpa, you promised to tell us about monsters."

  But the old man wasn't joking, he was really mad. "I'm not saying another word. If you come to listen… then listen. Don't go butting in. It ruins the whole story. She must be one of them Oldeners, I can tell by the way she talks."

  "That's right," said our people, throwing a side glance at Mother. "One of the Oldeners. Come on now, Grandpa, go on."

  The Chechen also told us about forest ways, how to tell paths apart: which ones are for real and which are a figment, just green mist, a tangle of grasses, spells, and sorcery. He laid out all the signs. He told how the mermaid sings at dawn, burbles her watery songs; at first low-like, starting off deep: oooloo, oooloo, then up higher: ohouuaaa, ohouuaaa-then hold on, watch out, or she'll pull you in the river-and when the song reaches a whistle: iyee, iyee! run for your life, man. He told us about enchanted bark, and how you have to watch out for it; about the Snout that grabs people by their legs; and how to find the best rusht.

  Then Benedikt spoke up. "Grandfather, have you seen the Slynx?"

  Everyone looked at Benedikt like he was an idiot. No one said anything, though.

  They saw the fearless old man off on his way, and it was again quiet in town. They put more guards on, but no one else attacked us from the south.

  No, we mostly walk out east from the town. The woods there are bright, the grass is long and shiny. In the grasses there are sweet little blue flowers: if you pick them, wash them, beat them, comb and spin them, you can plait the threads and weave burlap. Mother, may she rest in peace, was all thumbs, everything tangled up in her hands. She cried when she had to spin thread, poured buckets of tears when she wove burlap. Before the Blast, she said, everything was different. You'd go to a deportmunt store, she said, take what you wanted, and if you didn't like it, you'd turn up your nose, not like now. This deportmunt store or bootick they had was something like a Warehouse, only there were more goods, and they didn't give things out only on Warehouse Days-the doors stood open all day long.

  It's hard to believe. How's that? Come and grab what you want? You couldn't find enough guards to guard it. Just let us in and we'll strip everything bare. And how many people would get trampled? When you go to the Warehouse your eyes nearly pop out of your head from looking at who got what, how much, and why not me?

  Looking won't help any: you won't get more than they give you. And don't stare at another guy's takings: the Warehouse Workers will whack you. You got what's yours, now get out! Or else we'll take that away too.

  When you leave the Warehouse with your basket you hurry home to your izba, and you keep feeling around in the basket: Is everything there? Maybe they forgot something? Or maybe someone snuck up from behind in an alley, dipped in, took off with something?

  It happens. Once, Mother was coming home from the Warehouse, they'd given her crow feathers. For a pillow. They're light, you carry them and it's like there was nothing there. She got home, pulled off the cloth-and what do you know? No feathers at all, and in their place, little turds. Well, Mother cried her eyes out, but Father got the giggles. What a funny thief- he not only took off with the goods but thought up a joke, with a twist: here's what your feathers are worth. How d'ya like that!

  The feathers turned up at the neighbor's. Father started bugging him: Where'd they come from? The market. Whaddya trade them for? Felt boots. Who from? All of a sudden the neighbor didn't know this, didn't know that, I didn't mean, I didn't, I drank too much rusht-you couldn't get a thing out of him. That's how they left it.

  Well, and what do they give out at the Warehouse? Mouse-meat sausage, mouse lard, wheatweed flour, those feathers, then there's felt boots, of course, and tongs, burlap, stone pots: different things. One time they put some slimy firelings in the basket -they'd gone bad somewhere, so they handed them out. If you want good firelings you have to get them yourself.

  Right at the edge of the town to the east are elfir woods. Elfir is the best tree. Its trunk is light, it drips resin, the leaves are delicate, patterned, paw-shaped, they have a healthy smell. In a word-elfir! Its cones are as big as a human head, and you can eat your fill of its nuts. If you soak them, of course. Otherwise they're disgusting. Firelings grow on the oldest elfirs, in the deep forest. Such a treat: sweet, round, chewy. A ripe fueling is the size of a person's eye. At night they shine silver, like the crescent moon was sending a beam through the leaves, but during the day you don't notice them. People go out into the woods when it's still light, and as soon as it's dark everyone holds hands and walks in a chain so as not to get lost. And so the firelings don't know there's people around. You have to pick them off quick, else the fueling will wake up and shout. He'll warn the others, and they'll go out in a flash. You can pick them by feel if you want. But no one does. You end up with fakes. When the fake ones light up, it's like a red fire is blowing through them. Mother picked some fakes and poisoned herself. Or else she'd be alive right now.

  Two hundred and thirty-three years Mother lived on this earth. And she didn't grow old. They laid her in the grave just as black-haired and pink-cheeked as ever. That's the way it is: whoever didn't croak when the Blast happened, doesn't grow old after that. That's the Consequence they have. Like something in them got stuck. But you can count them on the fingers of one hand. They're all in the wet ground: some ruined by the Slynx, some poisoned by rabbits, Mother here, by firelings…

  Whoever was born after the Blast, they have other Consequences-all kinds. Some have got hands that look like they broke out in green flour, like they'd been rolling in greencorn, some have gills, another might have a cockscomb or something else. And sometimes there aren't any Consequences, except when they get old a pimple will sprout from the eye, or their private parts will grow a beard down to the shins. Or nostrils will open up on their knees.

  Benedikt sometimes asked Mother: How come the Blast happened? She didn't really know. It seems like people were playing around and played too hard with someone's arms. "We didn't have time to catch our breath," she would say. And she'd cry. "We lived better back then." And the old man-he was born after the Blast-would blow up at her: "Cut out all that Oldener Times stuff! The way we live is the way we live! It's none of our beeswax."

  Mother would say: "Neanderthal! Stone Age brute!"

  Then he'd grab her by the hair. She'd scream, call on the neighbors, but you wouldn't hear a peep out of them: it's just a husband teaching his wife a lesson. None of our business. A broken dish has two lives. And why did he get mad at her? Well, she was still young and looking younger all the time, and he was fading; he started limping, and he said his eyes saw everything like it was in dark water.

  Mother would say to him: "Don't you dare lay a finger on me! I have a university education!"

  And he'd answer: "I'll give you an ejucayshin! I'll beat you to a pulp. Gave our son a dog's name, you did, so the whole settlement would talk about him!"

  And such a cussing would go on, such a squabbling-he wouldn't shut up till his whole beard was in a slobber. He was a hard one, the old man. He'd bark, and then he'd get tuckered; he'd pour himself a bucket of hooch and drink himself senseless. And Mother would smooth her hair, straighten her hem, take Benedikt by the hand, and lead him to the high hill over the river; he already knew that was where she used to live, before the Blast. Mother's five-story izba stood there, and Mother would tell about how there were higher mansions, there weren't enough fingers to count them. So what did you do-take off your boots and count your toes too? Benedikt was only learning his numbers then. It was still early for him to be counting on stones. And now, to hear tell, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, had invented counting sticks. They say that it's like you run a hole through a chip of wood, put it on the sticks, and toss them back and forth from right to left. And they say the numbers go so fast your head spins! Only
don't you dare make one yourself. If you need one-come on market day to the market, pay what they tell you, they'll take burlap or mice, and then you can count to your heart's content. That's what they say. Who knows if it's true or not.

  … So Mother would come to the hill, sit down on a stone, sob and cry her eyes out, soak herself with bitter tears, and remember her girlfriends, fair maidens, or dream about those de-portmunt stores. And all the streets, she said, were covered with assfelt. That's like a sort of foam, but hard, black, you fall down on it and you don't fall through. If it was summer weather, Mother would sit and cry, and Benedikt would play in the dirt, making mud pies in the clay, or picking off yellers and sticking them in the ground like he was building a fence. Wide-open spaces all around: hills and streams, a warm breeze, he'd wander about-the grass would wave, and the sun rolled across the sky like a great pancake, over the fields, over the forests, to the Blue Mountains.

  Our town, our home sweet homeland, is called Fyodor-Kuzmichsk, and before that, Mother says, it was called Ivan-Porfirichsk, and before that Sergei-Sergeichsk, and still before that Southern Warehouses, and way back when- Moscow.

  BUKI

  When he was small, Benedikt's father taught him all kinds of handiwork. Making a stone ax was a chore. But he could do it. He could build an izba-dovetailed, beveled, any old way you like. He knew how to build a bathhouse and heat the stones. True, his father didn't like to wash. Bears, he'd say, live just fine without any baths. But Benedikt liked it. He'd crawl into the bathhouse, into the warm insides, splash egg kvas on the rocks for the smell, steam up some elfir branches, and give his backside a good thrashing.

  Benedikt knew how to dress skins, cut a rabbit into rawhide strips, stitch a cap-he was good with his hands. But just try catching one of those rabbits. By the time you're ready to throw a stone at her-poof! She's flown away. So most clothes are made from mouse skins, and that's not as good. Everyone knows that you can cut something from a big piece, but you can't keep your teeth warm with a mouse skin.

  In short, he could do anything around the house. And that's how it should be. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, had declared: "Household Work Is Everybody's Business-Figure It Out Yourself." Benedikt's father chopped timber right up to his death throes and was thinking about setting Benedikt up in the trade. But Benedikt wanted to try for the Stokers. It was tempting. A Stoker is honored and respected, everybody takes off his hat to a Stoker-but he doesn't bow to anyone himself, he just walks on by, all proud and conceited.

  And how can you argue? Where would we be without fire? Fire feeds us, fire warms, fire sings us songs. If fire dies out, we might as well lie down on our beds and put the stones on our eyes. They say there was a time when people didn't have fire. I low did they live? They just did, crawling around in the darkness like blind worrums. It was Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, who brought fire to people. Oh, Glorybe! We would be lost without Fyodor Kuzmich, whew, we'd be goners! He fixed up or invented just about everything we have. That smart head of his is always worrying about us, thinking thoughts for us! Fyodor Kuzmich's terem rises high, covers the sun with its dome. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, never sleeps, he just paces back and forth stroking his fluffy beard, fretting about us Golubchiks: do we have enough to eat, are we drunk, are we upset or hurt? We have Lesser Murzas, but Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, is the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live. Who thought up sleighs? Fyodor Kuzmich. Who got the idea to carve wheels out of wood? Fyodor Kuzmich. He taught us to make stone pots, catch mice and make soup. He gave us counting and writing, letters big and small, taught us to tear off bark, sew booklets together, boil ink from swamp rusht, split sticks for writing and dip them in the ink. He taught us how to make boats-scrape out logs and put them on the water-he taught us to hunt the bear with a spike, to take out the bladder, stretch it on spikes, and then cover the windows with it so there's light in the window even in winter.

  Only don't try to take any bear skins or bear meat for yourself: the Lesser Murzas keep watch. A simple Golubchik has no business wearing bear skin. You have to understand: How can a Murza ride in a sleigh without a fur coat? He'd freeze solid. But we run around on foot, we're warm, if you don't watch out you'll go and unbutton your coat, you're so steamed up. But silly thoughts sometimes get stuck in your head and dig in. I'd like to have a sleigh too, and a fur coat, and… And that's all Free-thinking.

  Yes, Benedikt really wanted to try for the Stokers. But Mother was against it. It was the Scribes and nothing else for her. Father was pushing him toward timber, Mother pushed the Scribes, and he himself dreamed of swaggering down the middle of the street, his nose in the air, pulling a fire pot behind him on a string with sparks spilling from the holes. It wasn't heavy work: you get the coals from the Head Stoker, Nikita Ivanich, drag them home, light the stove, and then sit and stare out the window. In no time a neighboring Golubchik comes knocking, or someone from the Outskirts far off comes wandering by: "Father Stoker, Benedikt Karpich, let us have a bit of fire! That idiot over there wasn't watching, and my stove went out. And we were just about to fry up a batch of pancakes, what can you do…"

  So you frown, grunt a bit like you just woke up, take your time tearing your rear end away from the bed or the stool, stretch out sweet-like-stre-e-e-e-etch!-scratch your head, spit, and pretend to be mad: "That's the way everything goes with you! Assholes. Can't tend a fire… Can't keep enough coals around for all of you Golubchiks, you know that? Know where you have to go for coals?… Aha… there you have it… These are my own two legs here. You people, you people. Someone else would just give up, wouldn't give you the time of day. You keep coming and coming. Don't have a clue yourselves, why it is you keep coming back… Well then, what is it you need? Coals?" You ask that way, as if you couldn't see for yourself what he needs, and you look stern, and you make a face, as if his breath stinks and you're about to puke. That is your job. That's what the job is.

  The Golubchik starts whining again: "Benedikt Karpich, Faaaather, help us out, will you? I'll never forget it… Here, I… some hot pancakes… I brought them… they've only cooled off a little… Forgive me, don't…"

  At this point you need to growl under your breath, "Pancakes…" but you don't take them yourself, God forbid-the Golubchik knows, he'll put everything quietly in a corner, and you keep on saying "Pancakes… hmmph"-mean-like, but don't overdo it. So that the voice goes down, into a grumble. And then slowly, taking your sweet time, you scrape up some coals with a shovel and over your shoulder to the Golubchik you say, "Did you bring your pot?"

  "Of course, of course, Father, you've really saved my skin," -and then you give him a little bit.

  When you've got the governmental approach to things you get respect from people-what a strict Stoker, they say, that's our batiushka, our father, for you-and then there's always little surprises after people leave. As soon as the door closes, you check in the window: Is he gone? And go straight to the package. I wonder what he brought. It might really be pancakes. Maybe lard. A baked egg. Another guy, if he's poor, might have just picked some rusht. It comes in handy too.

  Ay, gone off dreaming again! It all ended the way Mother wanted. She got stubborn: there were three generations of intel-lyjeanseeya in the family, she said, I won't allow trodishin to be stepped on. Ay, Mother! She would run to Nikita Ivanich to whisper, and she'd drag him by the arm to the izba so they could both work on Father together, and she'd wave her hands about and set to screeching. Father gave up: ayyy … go to hell all of you, go on and do what you want… Only don't come complaining to me later.

  So Benedikt now goes to work in the Work Izba. It's not bad work either. You come there and it's already warm, mouse-lard candles are already burning, the trash is swept away-heaven. They give him a bark notebook, a scroll to copy from, and they mark it: from here to here. You just sit tight in the warmth and make a clean copy. Only leave room for pictures. And that sweetie Olenka will draw the pictures in later with her white hand: a chicken or a bush. They don't much look like chickens or bu
shes, but still, they're nice to look at.

  And Benedikt copies what Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, writes: fairy tales, or teachings, sometimes poems. Fyodor Kuzmich's poems turn out so good that sometimes your hand starts shaking, your eyes go all dark, and it's like you've just gone and floated off somewhere, or else like there's a knot in your throat and you can't swallow. Some poems make sense, every word of them, and some-you could get dizzy trying to figure them out. The other day, for instance, Benedikt copied this one:

  The mountain crest

  Slumbers in the night;

  Quiet valleys

  Are filled with fresh dark mist;

  The road is free of dust,

  And the leaves are still…

  Just wait a bit,

  And you too will rest.

  Any idiot could understand that one. But:

  Insomnia. Homer. Taut sails. I've read the list of ships halfway: That long brood, that train of cranes, That once arose over Hellas…

  You could only squawk and scratch your beard. And then this one:

  Spikenard, cinnamon, and aloe Are rich in alluring fragrance: As soon as Aquilon does blow, They'll drip aromas of incense.

  Yikes! Just go and figure out what'll drip where. Yes, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, knows all kinds of words. He's a poet, after all. Not easy work. "You may extract a single word from a thousand tons of linguistic ore," says Fyodor Kuzmich. He works himself to the bone for us. And he has oodles of other things to see to as well.

  They say he thought up cutting a crooked stick from a piece of wood and bending it into a bow. We're supposed to call it a yoke. It's all the same to us, the boss is the boss, he can call it a yoke, the why and wherefore-it's none of our business. And you carry water jugs on this bow so your arms won't stretch out. Maybe they'll hand out some of these yokes at the Warehouse in the spring. First to the Saniturions, may their names not be spoken at night, then to the Murzas, and then, as soon as you know it, they'll come our way. And spring's already in the air. The streams will start running, the flowers will come out, the pretty girls will put on their dresses… What a dream! Fyodor Kuzmich himself, Glorybe, wrote: