Yegorushka sat up and looked around. The distance was noticeably darker and more than once every minute it winked at him with a pale light. The darkness was swerving to the right, as if pulled by its own weight.
‘Grandpa, is there going to be a storm?’ asked Yegorushka.
‘Oh, me poor ole feet, they’re frozen stiff!’ chanted Panteley, not hearing him and stamping his feet.
To the left a pale phosphorescent streak flared and went out, as if someone had struck a match on the sky. From a long, long way off came a sound as if someone were walking up and down over an iron roof – probably barefoot, for the iron gave a hollow rumble.
‘We’re in for a real soaking!’ cried Kiryukha.
Between the far distance and the horizon on the right there was such a vivid flash of lightning that it lit up part of the steppe and the point where the clear sky met the darkness. In one compact mass, with big black shreds hanging from its edge, a terrifying rain cloud was unhurriedly advancing. Similar shreds were piling up against each other and massing on the horizon to left and right. The tattered, ragged look of the cloud gave it a drunken, rakish air. There was a very distinct clap of thunder – no longer that hollow rumble. Yegorushka crossed himself and quickly put on his overcoat.
‘I’m proper bored!’ Dymov’s cry carried from the leading wagons and his tone of voice showed that he was getting angry again. ‘I’m bored stiff!’
Suddenly there was a squall so violent that it almost snatched Yegorushka’s bundle and mat out of his hands. Wildly flapping and tearing in all directions, the mat slapped the bale and Yegorushka’s face. The wind raced over the steppes, whistling, frantically whirling and raising such a din in the grass that neither the thunder nor the creak of wagon wheels could be heard above it. It was blowing from the black thundercloud, carrying with it dust clouds and the smell of rain and damp earth. The moonlight grew hazier, dirtier as it were, the stars frowned even more and the dust clouds and their shadows could be seen scurrying back somewhere along the edge of the road. By now, most likely, eddying and drawing dust, dry grass and feathers from the ground, the whirlwinds were soaring to the very height of the heavens. Close to that same black thundercloud clumps of tumbleweed were probably flying about – how terrified they must be feeling! But nothing was visible through the dust that clogged the eyes except flashes of lightning.
Thinking that it would start pouring that very minute, Yegorushka knelt and covered himself with his mat.
‘Pantel-ey!’ someone in front shouted. ’A. . a…’ came in broken syllables.
‘Ca-an’t hear!’ Panteley loudly chanted.
Once again those broken syllables.
The thunder roared angrily, rolled over the sky from right to left and then back again, dying out near the wagons at the front.
‘Holy, holy, holy, Lord of Sabaoth,’ whispered Yegorushka, crossing himself. ‘Heaven and earth are filled with Thy glory.’
The black sky gaped wide, breathing white fire; immediately another thunderclap followed. Barely had it died away when there was such a broad flash of lightning that Yegorushka could suddenly see the whole wide road into the far distance, all the drivers and even Kiryukha’s waistcoat. The black shreds on the left were already soaring upwards and one of them – rough and clumsy like a paw with fingers – was reaching towards the moon. Yegorushka decided to keep his eyes tightly closed, to pay no attention and to wait until it was all over.
For some reason the rain was a long time coming. Hoping that the thundercloud might pass over, Yegorushka peeped out from his mat. It was terribly dark and he could see neither Panteley, nor the bales, nor himself. He looked sideways where the moon had just been, but it was as pitch black there as on the wagon. The lightning flashes seemed even whiter and more blinding in the dark, so that they hurt his eyes.
‘Panteley!’ called Yegorushka: there was no answer. But now the wind gave a last tug on the mat and raced away somewhere. There was a steady, gentle sound and a large cold drop fell onto Yegorushka’s knee; another trickled down his hand. Noticing that his knees were uncovered he wanted to rearrange the matting, but just then came the sound of pattering and tapping on the road, on the wagon shafts, on the bales: this was the rain. It appeared to have struck some kind of understanding with the matting and they started a conversation – rapid, cheerful but most irritating, like a pair of chattering magpies.
Yegorushka knelt – rather, squatted – on his shoes. When the rain started pattering on the mat he leant forward to shield his knees which were suddenly wet, but within a minute he felt a penetrating, unpleasant wetness from behind, on his back and his calves. He took up his former position, stretched out his knees under the rain and wondered how he could rearrange the matting that was invisible in the dark. But already his arms were wet, water ran down his sleeves and behind his collar, and his shoulderblades grew cold. So he decided to do nothing but sit still and wait until it was all over.
‘Holy, holy, holy,’ he whispered.
Suddenly, right over his head, with a fearful, deafening crash, the sky broke in two. He leant forwards and held his breath, expecting fragments to shower down on his neck and back. Inadvertently he opened his eyes and saw a blinding, intensely brilliant light flash five times – on his fingers, his wet sleeves, on the little streams flowing from the matting, on the bale and down on the ground. There was a fresh clap of thunder, just as loud and terrifying. The sky was no longer rumbling or crashing, but producing dry crackling sounds, like trees splintering.
‘Crash! Bang! Crash!’ the thunder distinctly articulated as it rolled over the sky, stumbled and collapsed somewhere over by the wagons or far behind with a spiteful, staccato crash.
Earlier, the lightning flashes had been merely frightening, but with thunder such as this they were truly menacing. Their eerie light penetrated his closed eyelids and sent a cold shiver all over his body. How could he avoid seeing them? Yegorushka decided to turn his face backwards. As if afraid someone was watching him, he cautiously went down on all fours, sliding his palms over the wet bale and turning round.
‘Cra-ash!’ went the thunder as it swept over his head, collapsed under the wagon and exploded.
Again his eyes happened to open and he saw a new danger: behind the wagon three enormous giants with long pikes were striding along. The lightning flashed on the points of their pikes, very clearly illumining their figures. These people were of vast dimensions, their faces covered, heads bowed and they were treading heavily. They seemed sad and despondent, and lost in thought. Perhaps they were not following the wagons with the intention of doing harm, but still there was something horrible in their being so close. Yegorushka quickly turned forwards. Trembling all over he shouted, ‘Panteley! Grandpa!’
‘Crash! Bang! Crash!’ replied the sky.
As he opened his eyes to try and see if the drivers were still there, lightning flashed in two places and lit up the road into the far distance, the entire wagon train and all the drivers. Little streams of water were flowing along the road and bubbles were dancing. Panteley was walking near the wagons, his tall hat and shoulders covered with a small mat. His figure expressed neither fear nor anxiety, as if he had been deafened by the thunder and blinded by the lightning.
‘Grandpa! Look at the giants!’ Yegorushka shouted at him, sobbing.
But grandpa did not hear. Yemelyan was walking further ahead, covered in a large mat from head to foot which gave him a triangular shape. Vasya, who was completely uncovered, walked in his usual clockwork soldier fashion, lifting his legs high without bending his knees. In the brilliance of the lightning flashes the train did not appear to be moving, the drivers seemed transfixed and Vasya’s upraised leg benumbed.
Again Yegorushka called out for grandpa. Receiving no reply, he sat quite still and no longer waited for the storm to end. He was convinced that the thunder would kill him, that his eyes would open inadvertently and that he would again see those fearsome giants. No longer did he cross himself or call out to the old man or think of his mother, but only grew numb from the cold and the certainty that the storm would never end.