"Black raven, black raven,
Why do you fly above me?
Black raven, oh black raven,
Leave me alone. I am not your prey."
Soothing, threatening, feminine inflections pounded his temples. They followed the shape of his body, the channels of his eyes, the hairs on the back of his neck. Who was she? A spirit, a demon, Russia? The woman kept singing and he could feel his arms moving. The voice finally penetrated his fingers. "Is she singing to me? Yes," he thought with a smile, "she's singing to me”. The smell of rotten flesh invaded his nose. Bodies were piled up on the steppe over which he was flying. All the dead soldiers moved their lips at the same time: "Black crow, why are you flying over me?”. He wanted to silence that voice. As he tried to raise his head, nothing moved. "Black raven", sang the voice. His stomach burned terribly. "Black Raven, leave me". He opened his eyes suddenly. Tverskov was holding his head, and an old man bent a pot over his face. Sometimes his eyes opened and the dim light of an oil lamp cast rays on the figures around him. They moved quickly, whispering amongst themselves. An icon, whose holy face had been eaten by some insects, looked right over his bed. On a table underneath a closed window, a large saber was hanged. He was about to speak when a young man rushed over with a steaming mug. Kolya and the old man disappeared to make way for the young man who seemed to know better.
"I am not your prey," the voice sang one last time in his head.
The General leaned against the iron bedhead, trying to get up on his own. The violence of the pain had suffocated him. Every movement he made betrayed his suffering. The room was cramped, stuffy, and smelled like an old farmhouse. A shadow appeared at the door. He saw the eyes first. A look of accusation. His hair was held up by a piece of cloth to protect him from the sun as he worked in the fields. Damaged jet-black hair
covered his eyes. He glanced warily at the General as he tried to walk across the room.
— Find Nikolai Sebastianovitch
— He's in the village.
— Damn," he spat out, groaning.
He felt the judging gaze linger on him, but he still couldn't get up. Bent over, panting, humiliated, the General finally asked for help. Gesturing angrily, he
allowed the boy to put his arm around his waist.
— Take me for a piss.
As he limped shamefully, leaning against the boy, the smell of freshly dewed grass tickled his nose. It was, indeed, a farmhouse. A Cossack stanitsa. Never did he imagine being held in Cossack land. They rarely welcomed outsiders. No other houses were on the horizon. A stable, as narrow as the cabin, was built on the descending hill. Two horses were grazing undisturbed. Fields stretched for miles under the setting red sun of the steppe. Far to the east, a wild woodland covered the heights of the mountain.
“What do you call this place?"
“It belongs to the old Fiodr Semionovich."
“What village?"
“No village on this side of the woods. Two days walk to Ouvarovo."
The Cossack boy had limpid, dark blue eyes. His face was hollow but seemed to hide the cleverness of his thoughts. As if he had already been around soldiers and was used to their abrupt speeches. His features were frozen in a neither impressed not frightened expression. Upon being questioned he answered as his duty commanded and helped his host as hospitality ordered. The General fidgeted on his feet, uncomfortable as the boy continued to stare at his face. The accusing, defensive look of someone who had his pristine peace troubled for the first time.
“I will come back with a stick. For walking."
With an agile and light stride, he finally ran down the hill to the stables, followed by a bony dog. Soon an old man wrapped in a mutton cloak came limping up the path. He had no left leg, and instead a steel rod supported his weight. A piece of freshly slaughtered animal meat was dripping from under his arm. He didn't flinch when he met the General's intense gaze. Still strong in his constitution, Fiodr Semionovich could have easily slit the General's throat.
Indeed, he himself had witnessed the Cossacks' strength on the front. Snow and wind, they feared not. From afar, on the other side of the front, he saw their shadows in the night while the rest of the army lingered in their tents. Even when snowdrops whitened the plains, they would sleep on their carts under a thin cloak. It was Cossacks sabers they had to face on the front line of the white army. At times, he had had a desire to rally them to the cause. Such warriors would have gladly carried the fate of Russia on their shoulders for their hearts could burn like no other. And their faith, ah their faith! It was the purest, most delicate part of their soul. Cossacks! Such splendor could have adorned your foreheads! But they remained isolated, ignorant, and faithful to those who regarded them as nothing more than wild animals. “Ah Cossacks, my poor brothers.” he thought as Fiodr Semionovich walked towards the house, “We are enemies, yet you remind me of Tyutchev’s lament,
“Such sorrow, such passion showed
in that deep gaze
that laid life bare,
such depth, such sorrow!”
The boy reappeared a few hours later, a thick branch sawn into a cane in his hand. With a gesture of pride, he made no attempt to hide, he handed his work to the General. There was no sign of fear in his face, scorched by the sun. Just pure and utter contempt.
Biting his lips, he looked like he was about to say something.
“Now you can leave," he finally declared before running away.
The box landed on his legs, forcing him to open his eyes again. His head was still hazy from sleep. Cigarettes! The time they spent at Grostky's seemed endless, but the General's wound had only partially healed.
“It's been ages since I smoked a real cigarette," Tverskov grumbled, moistening his lips with a fresh one.
He pulled out a small stool from beside the General's bed. The first puffs were silent, heavy with meaning.
“How many days have you carried me?"
“Enough days, my General."
He stared at him for a few seconds, then nervously turned his attention back to the landscape outside.
“Dmitrev's regiment must have reached Mikhailov at least two days ago."
He laughed scornfully.
“That bastard Mikhailov must be overjoyed. To have my detachment under his command, it's more than he ever dreamed of."
“The man must have puffed out his fat chest when Dmitrev came to pay his respects. 'For bien.'" Nikolai imitated, polishing his moustache in an iconic mimicry of Mikhailov.
Through the window they saw the boy carrying a bucket of fresh oats to the stables. His bony arms were outstretched under the weight, giving him the look of a bird about to break free.
“I don't trust them, Kolya.
“The old man is harmless. He knows we're not."
“A volunteer?"
Tversky shook his head.
“Nor is he a comrade. It seems to me that he stays out of these quarrels. All he cares about is his pitiful farm and his scrawny son.
At that moment the boy reappeared. This time, he met the eyes of the two men who had been watching him from the window.
“Get to know them. No one is without allegiance."
A sharp knock sounded at the door. The Cossack's son appeared.
“Nikolai Sebastianovich, my father would like to have a word with you."
“I'll go to your father," he said before Tverskov could speak, holding the boy's angry stare.
Kolya ducked under his armpit and gripped them tightly. They crossed into a narrow room in two steps. As he gazed around the main room, Tverskov pulled out a chair and helped the General to sit down. Fiodr Semionovich entered his house with a heavy sound of relief.
“The sheep were restless today. I couldn’t gather them easily. Maybe they sensed the storm coming. There will be thunder as well. Thank God, we have a home. Brace yourselves lads, the rain won’t stop pouring in all night."
Before he took off his mutton cloak, he hung the piece of meat above a tin bucket.
“It’s starting to get cold. I better close the window before the wind freezes our bones while we sleep. You seem to have not eaten in a long time. We have ham. Is it ham that you want? Go little one, go get some ham."
The boy hesitated, glancing at his father then at their peculiar hosts. Fiodr Semionovich burst into loud laughter. “You’re no man”, he said, patting his son’s shoulder with a surprising delicacy. The General thought he had noticed the boy's quivering lip, but once again he was met with nothing but hostility. There was something in this frail boy that could weaken a scornful soldier.
“That’s a nasty wound you have here. Nasty wound, Grotsky said pointing at the General’s bandage. Not a natural wound. No saber could make a man bleed that nasty. Not saber no axe. T’is a bullet wound, right?"
“It is old man. It is a bullet wound, replied Tverskov helping him taking off his heavy cloak. And we care not for your ham. Tell my master what you told me. Tell him what you saw.
“It’s nothing really. Just a vision, Nicolai Sebastianovich. A man can have visions in the steppe. Shadows of men and demons."
As he sat down at the table next to his guests, his reddish oblong face tightened as the General’s stare did not soften.
“It was him who found me carrying you. He brought us here. Go on, Fiodr Semionovich. Tell him where you found us."
“Ah nowhere and everywhere. You would not know where it was. It was outside of a glen. I swear if it weren’t for my old branch I could have run after them, he shouted patting his iron leg. I would have caught those vicious snakes! They ran away with carts, goats, and rifles. But you see my old branch forbids me from fighting these scoundrels. I leave them to God, but my old branch slows me down. Do you like tea? My boy makes tea."
“I’ll have tea Fedia. Some just like you made yesterday."
From a little drawer in the table, the Cossack brought out some bread. He pulled out a knife from his belt and cut off equal slices before handing one to the General.
“What is that place called?"
“I don’t know, Your Excellency."
“Don’t call me that."
“Forgive me, Your Excellency. I don’t know what that place is called. A man once told me that it belongs to the people. But before, another told me it belonged to the master. I call it my home, Excellence. To me it is only the house of Fiodr Semionovich Grostky and his honorable father before him."
“Why did you help us?"
“Why would I not? It is my godly duty, he said while chewing loudly. He who lives without duty is not alive. You yourself seem like a man of duty to me. You should comprehend these things. I went to seek out the doctor at Podgornoe for you, Excellence. The other one is a charlatan. Do not go to Ouvarovo to get healed. That doctor tells Fortune. Here is the ham."
With a quick gesture of his hand, he ordered his son to light the samovar for Tverskov’s tea. The boy seemed shyer in front of his father; his eyes still hidden behind his black hair. He walked timidly to the corner where the samovar was, turning his back on them. Though he seemed inoffensive, the General found himself fidgeting in his presence. As if the boy was not allowed to hear this conversation. With smoke of the samovar rising, the General glanced at the dim silhouette while Kolya and the Cossack talked. The boy was absorbed in his task, but his ears were all attentive.
“Don’t you have a wife for making tea, Fiodr Semionovich?"
“I did! She was a very pious woman. Very pious, indeed. But she wasn’t the best at making tea. If you want to drink good tea, go to Markov’s. Tima Semionovich’s wife makes good tea."
“Where do the Markhovs live? I do not see another farm next to yours."
“Nicolai Sebastianovich! Are you taking me for a liar? This place was flourishing before the requisition. My father was named after our neighbor, Semion Olegovich Markhov. He saved my grandmother from being trampled by an ox. Ah, I miss seeing old Semion Olegovich sitting on his doorstep. If he was in good spirits, he’d tell us stories and tales. Now all is lost, right? They came from all paths, reds, and whites. And they took everything. So, the Markhov moved away. And I have not drank good tea in ages."
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