Today is warm, almost hot, said Arseny. We can wash some of our clothes and they will dry before evening.
After gathering some birch bark and branches, Arseny began starting a fire. He got a steel and flint out of his bag. He got tinder he had made from a bracket fungus, which was wrapped in a separate cloth. He struck the flint on the steel until one of the sparks lit the tinder. He noticed this because of a small plume of smoke. Then a barely perceptible spot of smoldering appeared on the tinder and began broadening. Arseny placed dried pine needles and the thinnest layers of birch bark on it. He began fanning the flame with a wide piece of birch bark. Once it had flared up, Arseny placed some thin branches on it. Then some fatter branches.
All we have to do now is wait for the wood to turn to ash, said Arseny. We need the ash for laundering.
Ambrogio was still standing in the water. His hands were tracing two frothy semicircles on the water.
Jump in here, he shouted to Arseny.
After wavering a bit, Arseny undressed and jumped into the river. He sensed the water as if it were someone’s touch. A gentle, cool touch upon his entire body, all at once. Arseny felt happiness and was ashamed of it, for Ustina could not come into the Dvina’s waters with him. He went on shore. Embarrassed at his nakedness, he wound himself in a wide sash he was not planning to launder.
After some of the branches had burned down, Arseny raked the ashes to the side and poured on water. He spread a rag on the ground and arranged the ash on it. He tied the ends of the rag then tested it. The little bundle had come out tight. He noticed a rock jutting out of the water and brought over the items that had been designated for laundering. Ambrogio had difficulty taking off his wet caftan after coming out of the water. He added some of his clothing to the caftan and placed it all on the heap Arseny had collected.
After thoroughly wetting the clothes and linens, Arseny rubbed them on the rock with the bundle of ashes. He was crouching. The ducats sewn into the caftans dully knocked when they touched the rock. Ambrogio rinsed what had been laundered and hung it on low tree branches. He hung it on rosehip bushes and pine saplings that bent under the weight of their wet medieval clothes.
Arseny lay down not far from the water. He felt the heat of the sun on his back and the softness of the grass on his stomach. Each of them was curative for his body. He himself became the grass. Small nameless creatures crawled along his arms. They conquered the tiny hairs on his skin, cleaned their little paws, and pensively flew off. Ducks beat their wings in the water. The wind stirred in the tops of the oaks, turning the leaves inside out. Arseny fell asleep.
When he awoke, he discovered he was already lying in shade. The sun had gone behind him and hidden beyond the trees. Sometimes, when the wind gusted, the sun made an appearance in openings in the crowns of the trees. The wind caught ashes from the fire, onto which Ambrogio had laid two dried-out birch trunks crosswise. The tree trunks burned slowly and dimly but dependably: the wind could not put them out. Ambrogio had managed to take the linens off the branches and was now feeling the caftans. They were all still damp.
I think we will stay here and spend the night, said Ambrogio.
We will stay, nodded Arseny.
He wanted to stay here forever but he knew that was impossible.
It grew cool at dusk. They brought some dry branches from the forest and laid them by the fire. Clouds began floating along the sky and then it finally darkened. The moon and stars were gone. The forest and river were gone. All that was left was the fire and what little it illuminated. A misshapen pyramid of logs. Two sitting wayfarers. Many-armed shadows on the trees.
Is it true there are many-armed monsters? asked Arseny.
I have not heard of them, answered Ambrogio, but one of my countrymen saw monsters when he was traveling east from Rus’, and they had only one arm, and it was in the middle of their chest. Plus only one leg. Because of their peculiarities, it took two of them to shoot with one bow. But they got around so quickly the horses could not keep up with them even though they hopped on just one leg. When they got tired, they walked on the arm and the leg, turning somersaults. Can you imagine?
Ambrogio sat so his head was thrown back and his face was not visible. Based on the Italian’s voice, Arseny thought the other was smiling. Arseny was serious. He was staggered by the huge, black world that was sprawled out behind their backs. That world contained much that was unknown, that hid dangers, murmured its foliage in the night wind, and agonizingly creaked its branches. Arseny no longer knew if that world existed at all, at least for now, in that shaky time when the world dwelled in darkness. Had the forests, rivers, and cities been removed for the dark time of the day? Was nature taking a rest from its own orderliness so it could gather its strength and transform chaos into cosmos once again in the morning? The only one who had not betrayed himself in this strange time was Ambrogio, and Arseny felt a warm gratitude toward him for that.
They reached Orsha a few days later. Their supplies proved to have diminished considerably during their journey and now they did not need the pack horses. Two horses were sold in Orsha. It was easier to consider water routes with only the two remaining horses. Two days later they found a vessel bound for Kiev and boarded.
The Dnepr River was not yet wide in Orsha. It was no wider than the Velikaya, whose very name even spoke of greatness. Arseny and Ambrogio surmised, though, that it would broaden: they had heard the Dnepr truly was great, unlike the river in Pskov. Ambrogio showed some interest in learning more about this river but the boatmen turned out to be gloomy and did not keep up their end of the conversation. They knew they were being paid to carry people and cargo. And apparently surmised that they were not being paid for conversation.
They did not even converse when they gathered in a tight circle in the evenings and shared some sort of murky drink. Neither Arseny nor Ambrogio knew what, exactly, these people were drinking, only that the drink did not make them cheerier. Their backs got even more hunched. Sitting, these people brought to mind large, unattractive flowers that close up for the night. Every now and again they would begin singing something in low voices. Their songs were as joyless and murky as what they drank.
Lots of Russians are gloomy, said Ambrogio, sharing an observation.
It is the climate, nodded Arseny.
Three days later, they docked in Mogilev. Neither the city nor, particularly, its name, sounding almost like the grave itself, improved the boatmen’s mood. That evening they drank more than usual but did not go to bed. A cart pulled up to the pier at around midnight. Someone whistled from the cart. The boatmen exchanged looks and went ashore. They returned with tightly tied sacks. People from the cart helped them drag the sacks onto the ship. With the curiosity and openness of one from abroad, Ambrogio wanted to ask them what was in the sacks but Arseny put his finger to his lips.
Arseny approached one of the boatmen after the ship had set sail. He took him by the neck with two hands and asked: