“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.
“My little son suffered the whole day,” said Lipa. “He looked with his little eyes and said nothing, he wanted to speak but he couldn’t. Lord God, Queen of Heaven! I just kept falling on the floor from grief. I’d stand up and fall down beside the bed. And tell me, grandpa, why should a little one suffer before death? When a grown man or woman suffers, their sins are forgiven, but why a little one who has no sins? Why?”
“Who knows!” said the old man.
They rode for half an hour in silence.
“You can’t know the why and how of everything,” said the old man. “A bird’s given two wings, not four, because it can fly with two; so a man’s not given to know everything, but only a half or a quarter. As much as he needs to know in order to live, so much he knows.”
“It would be easier for me to walk, grandpa. Now my heart’s all shaky.”
“Never mind. Just sit.”
The old man yawned and made a cross over his mouth.
“Never mind …” he repeated. “Your grief is half a grief. Life is long, there’ll be more of good and bad, there’ll be everything. Mother Russia is vast!” he said, and he looked to both sides. “I’ve been all over Russia and seen all there is in her, and believe what I say, my dear. There will be good and there will be bad. I went on foot to Siberia, I went to the Amur and to the Altai, and I moved to live in Siberia, worked the land there, then I began to miss Mother Russia and came back to my native village. We came back to Russia on foot; and I remember us going on a ferry, and I was skinny as could be, all tattered, barefoot, chilled, sucking on a crust, and some gentleman traveler was there on the ferry—if he’s dead, God rest his soul—he looked at me pitifully, the tears pouring down. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘black is your bread, black are your days …’ And when I got home I had neither stick nor stone, as they say; there was a wife, but she stayed in Siberia, buried. So I just live as a hired hand. And so what? I’ll tell you: since then there’s been bad and there’s been good. But I’m not up to dying, my dear, I wouldn’t mind living another twenty years—which means there’s been more good. And Mother Russia is vast!” he said and again looked to both sides and behind him.
“Grandpa,” asked Lipa, “when a man dies, how many days after does his soul wander the earth?”
“Who knows! Let’s ask Vavila, he went to school. They teach everything now. Vavila!” the old man called.
“Eh!”
“Vavila, after a man dies, how many days does his soul wander the earth?”
Vavila stopped the horse and only then replied:
“Nine days. My uncle Kyrill died, and his soul lived in our cottage thirteen days after.”
“How do you know?”
“There was a knocking in the stove for thirteen days.”
“Well, all right. Drive on,” said the old man, and it was clear that he did not believe any of it.
Near Kuzmenki the carts turned onto the high road, and Lipa kept on straight. Day was breaking. As she went down into the ravine, the cottages and church of Ukleyevo were hidden in mist. It was cold, and it seemed to her that the same cuckoo was calling.
When Lipa came home, the cattle had not gone to pasture yet: everyone was asleep. She sat on the porch and waited. The old man was the first to come out; he understood at once, from the first glance, what had happened, and for a long time could not say a word, but only smacked his lips.
“Eh, Lipa,” he said, “you didn’t take care of my grandson …”
Varvara was awakened. She clasped her hands and burst into sobs, and they immediately began laying the child out.
“And he was such a pretty little boy …” she kept saying. “Oh, tush, tush … One little boy you had, and you didn’t take care of him, foolish girl…”
They served a panikhida in the morning and in the evening. The next day was the funeral, and after the funeral the guests and clergy ate a great deal and with such greed as if they had not eaten for a long time. Lipa served at the table, and the priest, raising a fork with a pickled mushroom on it, said to her:
“Don’t grieve over the baby. Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”
And only after everyone left did Lipa realize properly that there was no more Nikifor and never would be, realize it and begin to weep. And she did not know which room to go to in order to weep, because she felt that, after the boy’s death, there was no place for her in this house, that she had no part in it and was superfluous; and the others felt it, too.
“Well, what are you howling here for?” Aksinya suddenly shouted, appearing in the doorway; for the occasion of the funeral she had put on all new clothes and powdered her face. “Shut up!”
Lipa wanted to stop but could not, and wept still louder.
“Do you hear?” Aksinya shouted and stamped her foot in great wrath. I’m speaking to you! Get out and don’t ever set foot here, you convict’s wife! Out!”
“Well, well, well! …” the old man started fussing. “Aksiuta, calm down, dear … She’s crying, it’s an understandable thing … her wee one’s dead …”
“An understandable thing …” Aksinya mocked him. “Let her stay the night, but tomorrow there better not be a breath of her left here! An understandable thing! …” she mocked once more and, laughing, headed for the shop.
The next day, early in the morning, Lipa went to her mother in Torguyevo.