“Don’t go! Father told you no. I’ll call people right now!”
Zhilin started persuading him.
“I won’t go far,” he said. “I’ll just go up that hilclass="underline" I need to find an herb—to treat your people. Come with me; I won’t run away with shackles on me. And tomorrow I’ll make you a bow and arrow.”
The boy was persuaded; they went. The hill was not far by the look of it, but with shackles it was difficult; he walked, walked, and barely made it to the top. Zhilin sat down and began looking the place over. To the south, beyond the hill, he could see a hollow, a herd of horses moving about, and in the lowland another aoul. Next to the aoul, another hill, steeper yet; and beyond that hill—another. Between the hills a forest showed blue, and then more hills rising higher and higher. And above them all, white as sugar, stood the snow-covered mountains. And one snowy mountain stood higher than all the others, like a hat. To sunrise and to sunset—ever the same mountains; aouls smoked here and there in the hollows. “Well,” he thought, “that’s all their side.” He began looking in the Russian direction: at his feet was the river, his aoul, the kitchen gardens around it. By the river, like little dolls, he could see women sitting, rinsing. Beyond the aoul a lower hill, and after it two more hills covered with forest; and between the two hills, a level space showed blue, and far, far away over this level space, something like smoke was drifting. Zhilin began to recall where the sun had risen and set when he was living at home in the fortress. He saw: our fortress must be exactly in that valley. There, between those two hills, he would have to make his escape.
The sun was setting. The snowy mountains were going from white to scarlet; it grew dark in the black hills; steam rose from the hollows, and that same valley where our fortress must be burned like fire in the setting sun. Zhilin began to peer—something was hovering there in the valley, like the smoke of chimneys. And he fancied to himself that it was from that same Russian fortress.
It was already late. The mullah was calling. They were driving the herd—the cows were lowing. The boy kept urging him: “Let’s go.” But Zhilin did not want to leave.
They returned home. “Well,” thought Zhilin, “now I know the place; I must make my escape.” He wanted to escape that same night. The nights were dark—the moon was on the wane. Unfortunately, the men returned in the evening. They usually came back driving cattle with them and in cheerful spirits. But this time they drove nothing, but brought a slain man across a saddle, the red one’s brother. They came back angry; they all prepared the funeral. Zhilin also came out to watch. They wrapped the dead man in linen, without a coffin, took him outside the village, laid him on the grass under the plane trees. A mullah came, the old men gathered, wrapped towels around their hats, took their shoes off, and sat on their heels in a row before the dead man.
The mullah in front, three old men in turbans behind him in a row, and behind them more Tartars. They sat looking down, silent. They were silent for a long time. The mullah raised his head and said:
“Allah!” (that is, God). He said this one word, and again they looked down and were silent for a long time; they sat and did not move. Again the mullah raised his head:
“Allah!” and they all said, “Allah!” and again fell silent. The dead man did not stir, and they sat as if dead. None of them stirred. The only sound to be heard was that of the leaves of the plane trees turning in the wind. Then the mullah recited a prayer, they all rose, picked up the dead man, and carried him. They brought him to a hole in the ground. The hole was not an ordinary one, but dug out underneath like a cellar. They took the dead man under the arms and legs, bent him double, lowered him down carefully, tucked him under the ground in a sitting position, and folded his arms over his stomach.
The Nogai brought some green rushes, they stuffed them into the hole, quickly filled it with earth, levelled it, and placed a vertical stone at the dead man’s head. They trampled down the earth, and again sat in a row before the grave. They were silent for a long time.
“Allah! Allah! Allah!” They sighed and stood up.
The red one gave money to the old men, then stood up, took a whip, struck himself three times on the forehead, and went home.
In the morning, Zhilin saw the red one leading a mare outside the village and three men following him. They went out of the village, the red one took off his beshmet, rolled up his sleeves—such enormous arms he had—drew his dagger, and sharpened it on a whetstone. The men pulled the mare’s head up, the red one came over, cut her throat, laid the mare down, and began to skin her, ripping the skin off with his fists. Women and girls came and started washing the guts and the inside. Then they cut the mare up and took the pieces to the cottage. And the whole village gathered at the red one’s to commemorate the dead man.
For three days they ate the mare and drank bouza, commemorating the dead man. All the Tartars were at home. On the fourth day, at dinnertime, Zhilin saw that they were preparing to go somewhere. They brought horses, made ready, and left, some ten men, including the red one. Only Abdul stayed home. The moon was newborn, the nights were still dark.
“Well,” thought Zhilin, “tonight we must escape,” and he said so to Kostylin. But Kostylin grew timid.
“How can we escape? We don’t even know the way.”
“I know the way.”
“But we won’t make it in one night.”
“If we don’t, we’ll spend the night in the forest. See, I’ve stored up some flatbread. Why do you want to sit here? It’s fine if they send the money, but what if they don’t raise enough? The Tartars are angry now, because one of them was killed by the Russians. There’s talk about wanting to kill us.”
Kostylin thought and thought.
“Well, let’s go.”
V
ZHILIN GOT into the hole and dug it wider, so that Kostylin could get through; and they sat and waited until the aoul quieted down.
As soon as the people in the aoul became quiet, Zhilin crawled under the wall and got out. He whispered to Kostylin: “Crawl through.” Kostylin started crawling; his foot struck a stone and made a noise. The master had a watchdog—speckled and extremely vicious; his name was Ulyashin. Zhilin had been taming him with food beforehand. Ulyashin heard the noise, started barking, and came flying, with other dogs behind him. Zhilin whistled softly, flung him a piece of flatbread—Ulyashin recognized him, wagged his tail, and stopped barking.
The master heard him and started hushing from the saklya: “Hush! Hush! Ulyashin!”
Zhilin scratched Ulyashin behind the ears. The dog became quiet, rubbed against his legs, wagged his tail.
They went on sitting around the corner. Everything grew quiet; the only sounds were of sheep coughing in the barn and water running over pebbles below. It was dark; the stars were high in the sky; over the hill the young moon reddened, its sharp horns turned upwards. In the hollows the mist was white as milk.
Zhilin stood up and said to his comrade:
“Well, brother, aida!”
They set off; they had only gone a few steps when they heard a mullah singing on the roof: “Allah! Bismillah! Al-rahman!”2 It meant people would be going to the mosque. They sat down again, hiding by the wall. They sat for a long time, waiting while the people passed by. Again it grew quiet.
“Well, God help us!” They crossed themselves and went. They went through the yard, down the steep slope to the river, crossed the river, went along the hollow. The mist was dense but low-lying, and over their heads the stars were clearly visible. Zhilin could tell by the stars which way to go. The mist was cool and made it easy to walk, only their boots were worn and uncomfortable. Zhilin took his off, abandoned them, and went barefoot. He hopped from stone to stone and kept glancing at the stars. Kostylin began to fall behind.