Someone’s near, sweet-sounding voice answered him:
“You are upon the earth, not in Paradise, and we have no need of wings—we fly wingless.”
They captivated, bewitched, and caressed him. They showed him all the wonders of the wood under the tree-stumps, the bushes, the dry leaves—little wood-sprites with rustling little voices, with spider-webby hair, straight ones and hunchbacked ones; little old men of the wood; the shadow-sprites and little companion spirits; bantering little sprites in green coats, midnight ones and daylight ones, grey ones and black ones; little jokers-pokers with shaggy little paws; fabulous birds and animals—everything that is not to be seen in the gloomy, everyday, earthly world.
Egorka had a splendid time with the quiet children. He did not notice how a whole week had passed by—from Friday to Friday. And suddenly he began to long for his mother. He heard her calling him at night, and as he woke in agitation he called:
“Mamma, where are you?”
There was stillness and silence all around him—it was an altogether unknown world. Egorka began to cry. The quiet children came to comfort him. They said to him:
“There’s nothing to cry about. You will return to your mother. And she will be glad, and she will caress you.”
“She may whip me,” said Egorka, sobbing.
The quiet children smiled and said:
“Fathers and mothers whip their children.”
“They like to do it.”
“It seems wicked to beat anyone.”
“But they really mean well.”
“They beat whom they love.”
“People mix everything up shame, love, pain.”
“Don’t you be afraid, Egorushka—she’s a mother.”
“Very well, I’ll not be afraid,” said Egorka, comforted.
When Egorka took leave of the quiet children Grisha said to him:
“You had better not tell your mother where you have passed all this time.”
“No, I won’t tell,” replied Egorka vigorously, “not for anything.”
“You’ll blab it out,” said one of the girls.
She had dark, infinitely deep eyes; her thin, bare arms were always folded obstinately across her breast. She spoke even less than the other quiet children, and of all human words she liked “no” most.
“No, I shan’t blab anything,” asserted Egorka. “I shan’t even tell anyone where I have been; I shall put all these words under lock and key.”
That same evening when Egorka left with Grisha, his mother suddenly missed him. She shouted a long time and cursed and threatened; but as there was no response she became frightened. “Perhaps he’s been drowned,” she thought. She ran among her neighbours, wailing and lamenting.
“My boy’s gone. I can’t find him anywhere. I simply don’t know where else to look. He’s either drowned in the river or fallen into a well—that’s what comes of mischief-making.”
One neighbour suggested:
“It’s most likely the Jews have caught him and are keeping him in some out-of-the-way spot, and only waiting to let his Christian blood and then drink it.”
This guess pleased them. They said with great assurance:
“It’s Jews’ work.”
“They are again at it, that accursed breed.”
“There’s no getting rid of them.”
“What a wretched affair!”
They all believed this. The disturbing rumour that the Jews had stolen a Christian boy spread about town. Ostrov took a most zealous share in disseminating the rumour. The markets were filled with noisy discussions. The tradesmen and dealers, instigated by Ostrov, bellowed loudly their denunciations. Why did Ostrov do this? He knew, of course, that it was a lie. But latterly, acting on the instructions of the local branch of the Black Hundred, he had been engaged in provocatory work. The new episode came in handily.
The police began an investigation. They looked for the boy, but without success. In any case, they found a Jew who had been seen by someone near Egorka’s house. He was arrested.
It was evening again. Egorka’s mother was at home when Egorka returned. There was a radiant sadness about him as he walked up to his mother, kissed her and said:
“Hello, mamma!”
Egorka’s mother assailed him with questions:
“Oh, you little wretch! Where have you been? What have you been doing? What unclean demons have carried you away?”
Egorka remembered his promise. He stood before his mother in obstinate silence. His mother questioned him angrily:
“Where have you been? tell me! Did the Jews try to crucify you?”
“What Jews?” exclaimed Egorka. “No one has tried to crucify me.”
“You just wait, you young brat,” shouted his mother in a rage, “I’ll make you talk.”
She caught hold of the besom and began to tear off its twigs. Then she stripped the boy of his light clothes. Still wrapt in his radiant sadness, Egorka looked at his mother with astonished eyes. He cried plaintively:
“Mamma, what are you doing?”
But, already seized by the rough hand, the little body that had been washed by the still waters began to struggle on the knees of the harshly crying woman. It was painful, and Egorka sobbed in a shrill voice. His mother beat him long and painfully, and she accompanied each blow with an admonition:
“Tell me where you’ve been! Tell me! I won’t stop until you tell me.”
At last she stopped and burst out into violent crying:
“Why has God punished me so? But no, I’ll yet beat a word out of you. I’ll give it to you worse tomorrow.”
Egorka was shaken less by the physical pain than by the unexpected harshness of his reception. He had been in touch with another world, and the quiet children in the enchanted valley had reconstructed his soul on another plane.
His mother, however, loved him. Of course, she loved him. That was why she beat him in her anger. Love and cruelty go always together among humankind. They like to torment, vengeance gives them pleasure. But later Egorka’s mother took pity on him; she thought she had flogged him too hard. And now she walked up quietly to him.
Egorka lay on the bench and moaned softly, then he grew silent. His mother smoothed his back awkwardly with her rough hands and left him. She thought he had gone to sleep.
In the morning she went to wake him.
