There were, as it happened, no unmarried young men amongst these Slavs in any case. The nearest to her in age was an eleven-year-old boy. As for the three Mordvinian and two Viatichi youths, although they all seemed kindly, she did not care for them.
This place is primitive, she decided. Whoever I find to marry, he certainly won’t come from here.
It was three days later that her father had made a discovery that infuriated him even more.
‘There is good land here after all,’ he told her in frustration that evening. ‘Yes: chernozem. But they won’t let me work it.’
‘Where?’
‘Over towards the village they call Dirty Place. Can you believe it? I went over there today with those damned Mordvinians.’
For nature – the retreating glaciers from the last ice age, to be exact – had here and there deposited in the region of the sandy podzols, small stretches of good grey soil. There was a large area of this so-called chernozem above Vladimir, stretching towards Suzdal. And another, much smaller deposit had been made near Russka.
‘The boyar’s keeping back that land. He’s leaving us only the poor soil.’
As it happened, this stretch of chernozem was divided into three parts. One part, somewhat to the north, was a private estate that belonged to the Grand Duke himself. The village there had been destroyed by a plague some years ago, but in time, no doubt, the Grand Duke would use it again. The part to the east was Black Land – nominally the Prince of Murom’s – but let to the free peasants.
And the nearest, smaller part, belonged to Milei the boyar.
When the boyar had encountered Yanka and her father he had said nothing of this. A single man and a girl were hardly such desirable tenants for the best land. Let’s keep them in reserve and see what turns up, he reasonably judged.
Meanwhile, he had decided to work a part of the good land for himself with some slaves he had been able to find.
‘Perhaps we could work some chernozem,’ Yanka suggested.
‘No. I already asked the steward. He only wants hired labourers like the Mordvinians. I’ll not sink to that.’
She put her arms round her father and kissed him, aware of the faint smell of sweat from his shirt and the deep lines around his neck. She hated to see him frustrated like this. ‘We can leave,’ she suggested. ‘We have money.’
The money they had brought was safely hidden under the floor.
‘Maybe. Not this year though.’
‘No,’ she agreed, ‘not this year.’ Winter was too close.
Yet despite the unsatisfactory life of the village, she felt a certain sense of peace in these new surroundings. ‘At least,’ she remarked to her father one rainy day, as she stretched lazily, ‘it may be boring, but we are a long way from the Tatars.’
The warm weather, surprisingly, continued until mid-October. Yanka became used to the quiet rhythm of the village. She went out with the villagers to collect nuts in the forest; and when the men killed an elk one day she helped the women prepare a splendid feast.
He moved along the track, letting the water pouring down from the trees settle on his fur collar or run freely down the creased back of his neck. Below him, at the bottom of the little cliff, the lucky spring burst from the bank and seeped through the ferns into the river. He did not pause except to glance across the river below. Twice he cursed out loud.
Damn the girl!
Her fresh young body – what did it smell of? Roses? The wild carnations in the woods? Nuts. Roasted nuts. Could it really smell of roasted nuts?
Damn her, doesn’t she see me? he almost said aloud. Perhaps she doesn’t know, he considered, but at once dismissed the thought. Oh, yes. She knows. They know everything, women.
So what did it mean? What did she mean by it? What did she suppose he felt in that room, alone with her, with the rain pouring off the eaves all around like a waterfall? What did she mean, arching those young breasts when she knew he was watching, and turning towards him – her whole, young body – and telling him in that soft voice that she was bored?
Is she teasing me? Does she despise me?
Pretending not to understand. That was her defence. And her weapon. She was good – oh, yes, she had been good to him. And she loved him. At least, she had once. It was as if she was his, yet not his; as if she understood everything, was ready to open herself to him, yet turned away whenever she sensed he might approach.
She was his daughter, of course.
Was that it? Of course that was reason enough, in theory. Forbidden. They both knew that.
But surely after all they had been through… They had a special bond, didn’t they? Was there not in her calm eyes that seemed to stare at the world with a kind of sad understanding – was there not a perfect understanding of how they were, he and she?
The way her mouth turned down, he thought – a little sad, a little cynical, and also, yes, sensuous: very sensuous when awakened. Those lips, those sad, obstinate lips with their hint of a pout – the pout that never developed because her strong mouth kept everything under control – were they going to refuse to part and open for him? Were they going to smile, and then open for another? The thought had become a torture to him.
He was her father. He stamped furiously down the path. He had heard of other fathers…
Besides, there was no one else for either of them. No one else in this God-forsaken place.
‘I’ll be a father to her. I’ll discipline her if she wants to play games with me,’ he muttered.
He had been so immersed in his thoughts that he had not noticed where he was going, nor realized how far from the village he had gone, until suddenly he looked up and saw a strange sight.
It was a bear. He stopped in his tracks. It was quite large. It was also very old. It was moving with great difficulty across the path ten yards in front of him. The bear saw him, but seemed uninterested. It was moving very stiffly.
And then he realized: the bear was going to die. It was only searching for a final resting place.
Cautiously he went foward.
‘Well, my Misha,’ he murmured, ‘what use can you be to me?’
The bear gave him a baleful look, but was too weary to threaten him. How old, sad and bedraggled the animal looked. The rain had soaked it; the bear’s coat was caked with mud and smelt dank. Moving closer, Yanka’s father drew his long hunting knife. A good idea had just occurred to him.
He would give Yanka a fur coat for the winter. That would please her. Not every man could say: ‘I have killed a bear for you.’
It required great skill to kill a bear. Even though it had almost collapsed, an instant’s revival, one swipe from those mighty arms, and he would be done for. But he thought he could do it.
He edged behind, paused, then suddenly leaped on to the creature’s huge back.
The bear started, began to stand up; and he ripped his long, sharp blade right across its throat.
The bear rose fully, with the man on its back, and tried to get at him. Again Yanka’s father plunged his knife into the throat, attacking the windpipe and searching for the huge veins. After a moment, he was sure he had succeeded, and leaped down into the mud, before running behind a tree.
He heard the bear gurgle. Then it came down heavily on its front legs again. Blood was pouring from its throat. The bear seemed to see him, but it did not move. It stood there miserably, knowing this was the end, and, for some strange reason, blinking uselessly. Then it crashed into the bushes and he heard it coughing.