drink.
“What else do you want?” the woman said softly, in perplexity. “What do you want?”
A boy in a red shirt, sitting right by the water, was washing his father’s boots. And there was not another soul to be seen either in the village or on the hill.
“He won’t drink …” said Lipa, looking at the horse.
But the woman and the boy with the boots left, and now there was no one to be seen. The sun went to sleep, covering itself with purple and gold brocade, and long clouds, crimson and lilac, watched over its rest, stretching across the sky. Somewhere far away, God knows where, a bittern gave a mournful, muted cry, like a cow locked in a barn. The cry of this mysterious bird was heard every spring, but no one knew what it looked like or where it lived. Up by the hospital, in the bushes just by the pond, beyond the village, and in the surrounding fields, nightingales were pouring out their song. The cuckoo was counting out someone’s years and kept losing count and starting over again. In the pond angry, straining frogs called to each other, and one could even make out the words: “You’re such a one! You’re such a one!” How noisy it was! It seemed that all these creatures were calling and singing on purpose so that no one would sleep on that spring evening, so that all, even the angry frogs, might value and enjoy every minute: for life is given only once!
A silver crescent moon shone in the sky, there were many stars. Lipa could not remember how long she had been sitting by the pond, but when she got up and left, everybody in the village was asleep, and there was not a single light. Home was probably some eight miles away, but she did not have strength enough, she could not figure out how to go; the moon shone now ahead, now to the right, and the same cuckoo kept calling, its voice grown hoarse, laughing, as if mocking her: oh-oh, watch out, you’ll lose your way! Lipa walked quickly, lost the kerchief from her head … She gazed at the sky and thought about where the soul of her boy was then: was it following her, or flitting about up there near the stars and no longer thinking of its mother! Oh, how lonely it is in the fields at night, amidst this singing, when you yourself cannot sing, amidst the ceaseless cries of joy, when you yourself cannot be joyful, when the moon looks down from the sky, also lonely, careless whether it is spring now or winter, whether people live or die … When your soul grieves, it is hard to be without people. If only her mother Praskovya was with her, or Crutch, or the cook, or some peasant!
“Boo-o-o!” cried the bittern. “Boo-o-o!”
And suddenly she clearly heard human speech:
“Harness up, Vavila!”
Ahead, just by the road, a campfire was burning; there were no longer any flames, just red embers glowing. She could hear horses munching. Two carts stood out against the darkness—one with a barrel, the other, slightly lower, with sacks—and two men: one was leading a horse in order to harness up, the other stood motionless by the fire, his hands behind his back. A dog growled near the cart. The man leading the horse stopped and said:
“Seems like somebody’s coming down the road.”
“Quiet, Sharik!” the other shouted at the dog.
And from his voice it was clear this other was an old man. Lipa stopped and said:
“God be with you!”
The old man approached her and replied after a moment:
“Good evening!”
“Your dog won’t bite, grandpa?”
“Never mind, come on. He won’t touch you.”
“I was at the hospital,” said Lipa, after a pause. “My little son died there. I’m taking him home.”
It must have been unpleasant for the old man to hear that, because he stepped away and said hastily:
“Never mind, dear. It’s God’s will. You’re taking too long, lad!” he said, turning to his companion. “Get a move on!”
“Your yoke’s gone,” said the lad. “I don’t see it.”
“You’re unyoked yourself, Vavila!”
The old man picked up an ember, blew it to flame—lighting up only his eyes and nose—then, when the yoke was found, went over to Lipa with the light and looked at her; his eyes expressed compassion and tenderness.
“You’re a mother,” he said. “Every mother feels sorry for her wee one.”
And with that he sighed and shook his head. Vavila threw something on the fire, trampled on it—and all at once it became very dark; everything vanished, and as before there were only the fields, the sky with its stars, and the birds making noise, keeping each other from sleeping. And a corncrake called, seemingly from the very place where the campfire had been.
But a minute passed, and again the carts, and the old man, and the lanky Vavila could be seen. The carts creaked as they drove out onto the road.
“Are you holy people?” Lipa asked the old man.
“No. We’re from Firsanovo.”
“You looked at me just now and my heart softened. And the lad’s quiet. So I thought: they must be holy people.”
“Are you going far?”
“To Ukleyevo.”
“Get in, we’ll give you a ride to Kuzmenki. From there you go straight and we go left.”
Vavila sat on the cart with the barrel, the old man and Lipa on the other. They went at a walk, Vavila in the lead.
