Alexandr Keldyushov
She-bear
Having lost themselves, people lost the meaning of life.
Painful and bitter. It was painful to remember the past, and it was bitter to live in the present. The dull present had no place for anything good, for joy, for hope, and all the dreams were buried alive.
The old man looked at the neighbour’s houses with sad eyes and sighed heavily. Once blooming, now the street was a pitiful sight. The paths, leading to the gates, now were overgrown with grass and weeds. The vivid images of their location popped up out of memory. They were wide and narrow, lined with Baikal pebbles or boards. But every visible path sort of implied that it was still there, that somebody was still walking on it, leaving an immutable track every day. Here the owner returned in a joyful state of mind, humming something. He was not walking but flying, not touching the ground. Having forgotten about the current affairs, he was mentally in another dimension. At some holiday. The neighbour invited to the birthday party, and the man got out of the wardrobe the former wedding suit and the lacquered shoes, which he was wearing for all occasions. The prints of black shoes were rare, one could count them on the fingers during the year. But they left a bright clear trace. This was the trace of happiness and joy. Rapidly dissolving seconds of the fleeting happiness in the solid grey mass of ordinariness. Unique, memorable event. It was a pity that it would not last forever. The next day, he would feel sad and would go slowly, rapt in contemplation. Life went on, it did not stop in one place. Everything was on schedule. On weekdays: he was rushing to work early in the morning, and in the evening he was almost running back home to have time to go into the forest to pick mushrooms or berries before dark. On weekends: having put on the waders, he was going fishing, or out with friends to Baikal to have a drink. Sometimes, he was combining these things. In rainy autumn weather, he was kneading mud with kersey boots, in winter – with valenki. Each footwear was marked with the stigma of the weather. And the cleaned carpet – with a broom or a shovel. There were women’s, children’s, and men’s prints. Familiar and strange. If there were a lot of them, it meant that the family was large and hospitable. If there was one type of prints, it meant that the owner was a loner and preferred solitude. But he/she was not always sitting indoors, rarely leaving his/her lair.
Who needed now these disembodied ghosts of people lost in time? Was there anyone interested in their life philosophy, the way of life, the role in society, political correctness? What would they teach others? And did they leave an indelible mark in history that would be an example for the next generations? Or did they come and leave traces by simply bringing dirt and dust, making a thorough general cleaning necessary? After this cleaning, there would be no mention of their existence. There would be only a pit dug in haste, the farewell words spoken in a hurry, and a nameless grave. No fence. No monument. In a year, the ground would collapse, the wooden cross would fall down, grass would grow on the ploughed ground, and nothing would remind of the human burial.
– Vanity of vanities, – the old man shook off the ashes and took a deep puff again. – Everybody is rushing somewhere, making enthusiastically grandiose plans for the future. But when one looks back, it turns out that there is nowhere to rush. Regardless the efforts to reach the horizon, they still did not come any closer. All our ‘achieved’ goals – only the visibility of success, nothing more than the usual rat race.
Having leaned on the fence exhaustingly, he wearily covered his watery eyes and turned back to his memories. So many years passed, and he clearly remembered the events of the past years in details, like it was yesterday. He remembered sitting on the bench and using the new TV set with Semyon and Varya. He remembered celebrating the wedding of the neighbour’s son, and a year later – of his daughter. And now, the family house, after their death, was put up for sale by their children. But time was running, and the new owners were not coming. The announcement on the plywood burned out, the paint cracked, the phone number could not be disassembled, only from the close distance. But it was still hanging lonely on the wall, hopefully watching the rare passers-by go, often weeping out of despair and loneliness together with the rain. It was consumed by resentment at the people, who grew up in this house, but did not pay a visit for several years.
– The time is merciless, – the old man uttered aloud and opened his eyes, – both to people and the houses. No matter how many times you were fixing the house, it would not become new. And the same thing happens to people. Despite attempts to fix their health and beauty, they do not become any younger. And nobody needs this lopsided peasant house, without windows and doors, with cracks, thick as a finger, between the logs, and with a slate roof reminiscent of a large sieve. It will not save from the rain and will not shield from the wind. The tottering barn, which is standing next, with black, due to the mold, boards, would be useful only for the firewood. The lopsided fence, reminiscent of a gap-toothed mouth of a toothless old man, was still retaining the faded and cracked colours of the old paint in some places. And it turns out that only a plot has a price, and the rest is just a free addition. And they write in the advertisement ‘house for sale’, which will be cheaper to be demolished than to be repaired. And around… Visible peace, resembling the atmosphere of the cemetery. Tranquillity of the soul, in which vanity receded into the background. In reality – lifeless desolation. The real burial ground of civilization. Withered grass up to the waist. Lopsided benches. And the road asphalt, creeping away into the distance like an atrophied snake, mangled up with potholes and pits, survived after the massive bombing as if by chance. Having escaped from the hustle and bustle of the city, one could not enjoy peace and solitude. The apocalyptic view of the village was only adding more depression and despondency.
The gate abruptly hit the fence, caught unexpectedly by a gust of the wind, twisted, and sank heavily, resting its lower corner on the ground. The old man sighed heavily and shook his head helplessly. He would have fixed it, ‘God damn it’. Thank God, he was still able to hold a hammer and would not hit past the nail. But it was not about his hands. He needed construction material. He needed to get new hinges and, most importantly, to replace the columns, which eventually had turned into dust. But buying the necessary things was an acute problem. He did not have enough available funds. Living on a pension, he could not afford himself much. He had to choose: ‘to leave things as they were’ but to eat well, or to buy lumber but to stay hungry. At his age, the choice was obvious. He smiled, but the smile turned to be sad. During the war, when he was a child, he went through the hunger, and today he did not want to experience that feeling again. A pensioner – a person living in poverty. Certainly, if you were not a deputy or an underground millionaire. Pension is a wake-up call for a ‘citizen’ that his/her time went out, the state ‘expelled’ him/her to the well-deserved rest. In plain language, the state got rid of the citizen, throwing him/her to the backyards of the society, having solemnly paid the last ‘well-deserved monthly payment’ in the amount of the minimum subsistence level. And the person could live at his/her leisure. But the leisure could fit in the amount of some coins, less than a rouble. Overseas, pensioners enjoyed life, travelled, rested by the seas, and here people were only fighting for their lives, surviving on bread and water. But he did not complain about his fate. It was somewhat tragic but happy. That was a shame that the state rated so low his long-term work and health ruined for the prosperity of the country. Today, paradoxically, he was ‘not exactly a beggar’. ‘Not exactly’ because he had a house and a loaf of bread, so he should be proud of his poverty. And the loud statements of politicians that the pension increased by three per cent were very annoying. It was enough to make a cat laugh. Well, they added three kopecks to three rubbles, but that did not make life easier. One needed to save many kopecks to a full rouble. For years. And the products cost over a hundred. So, one kopeck was the most useless thing at the present time. Yes, he was retired. For a long time. Since the forestry stopped its work. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, it was replaced by the CIS, but it did not function for a long time. Nobody wanted to share the stolen property, and it was better to be a king of one’s own state than a noble vassal of a wealthy lord. So, Russia remained in bitter loneliness, presenting a tempting ‘sweet cake’. What a great scale for enrichment! Here the local elite began to act. It began plundering the national economy. Its appetite grew, and the number of places, where one could ‘reap’ the benefit, became less. Russia turned to be not such a big country, and its wealth was not that never-ending. And then the greedy eyes turned to the people: ‘to get even a flock of fur from a outbred dog’. Nothing personal. Just business. And all hell broke loose. The idea of privatization was accepted ‘as smooth as silk’. ‘Without a hitch’. They took away everything from people, leaving without the last shirt, but with a voucher. The authorities implied that the owner of the ‘precious papers’ was almost the owner of the business, where he/she was working. There were assuring that a person, as a shareholder, was entitled to solve any problem of his production. A person did not even need to work but to live on the income from the interest. One could sit in front of the TV on the couch and get the dividends. People got the wings, not realizing that the wings were ghostly. They could not fly. ‘The first step was the hardest’. Six months without a pay check… and the vouchers were sold for a song to those, who had arranged this whole monetary collapse. To senior management. People tried to rebel, but the authorities quickly pacified them, clearly demonstrating the dissatisfied ones, as in the couple: with ‘bird cherry tree’ and a rubber bludgeon, professionally interacting police arbitrariness. And those, who did not get everything from the first time, the judicial system began its work, grinding out its fifteen-day verdicts. The slogan ‘Russia for the rich’ flourished. And these ‘celestial beings’ indulged in every pleasure. Respectable mansions. Luxurious yachts. Fashionable apartments. Exclusive cars. Platinum chains. Diamond necklaces. Sable fur coats. The avid elite gathered into the predatory pack, obsessed with greed for gain. And they began to ‘rule’. They were spitting ‘from a high bell tower’ on the illegality of their criminal deals, which gave them millions in profits. They were flouting the law. Wolves in human appearance sort of enraged, trying to outdo each other. In luxury and intrigues. They were ‘generously’ inculcating ‘the former workers and farmers’ with progressive western values.
And for some of them, under the triumphant howling of trumpets, the century of ‘the golden calf’ began, but the country dipped into darkness.
It was democratic Russia, where there was no place for the common people. Actually, some place was chosen, though, far from prosperity. Like for dogs, their independence was indicated by the size of the aviary. And to be on the safe side, they would be chained. It would even stop them from thoughts of escape. And a dog was sitting on the chain, absurdly wasting time. There was the desire for freedom, but there was no enough strength. The chain was made of a robust metal, the rings were thick and forged. The collar was not simple, but the timber-hitch with sharp spikes. The links strained but did not tear. The dog went round in circles, pulled the chain, made sure of its strength, hopelessly lied down, and closed the eyes humbly. And there were a bowl of slops for the dog not to die of starvation and a whip, in case if the animal would go mad and try to attack the master. And so people lived. Different strokes for different folks.
– I am too grumbling today, – the old man said mockingly, enjoying stretching his legs. – Looks like I am getting old.
He threw his head, exposing his face to the warm night breeze, somewhat blindly considering the low starry sky. His look froze mechanically on the Big Dipper, then moved to the Little Dipper. Absently looking at these constellations, he felt how painfully his heart sank, and tears flowed from his eyes, a flood of memories about the tragedy of the past years echoed with mental anguish. He was instantly transferred to the past.
Chapter 1
The sloping edge, lurking in the depths of a virgin forest, covered with fern and blueberry bushes, seemed to just emerge from the Russian folk tale, and if one went deep into the midwood, one would suddenly stumble on a lopsided wooden hut of Baba Yaga on the chicken legs. People said about such places that leshy would break a leg, as there was a solid windbreak. In the depth of taiga, there were few things that reminded of the presence of civilised people. Only occasionally, one could hear the roar of jet engines, coming from the sky, and the heavy crackle of rotating propellers of the flying helicopters with hunters. And the rest remained unchanged as many centuries ago. This was the domain of Mother Nature with its own rules and laws.
Wet ground hovered, absorbing the warmth established by the weather. But even the ubiquitous sunny spring rays could not break through the thick veil of centenary giants, whose dense branching crowns propped up the firmament. Hiding in the twilight shadows and being inaccessible to the ravage of the sun, there were the pitiful remnants of the passing winter – grey slush. But spring was taking its toll. From day to day, the sun was burning harder and harder and the air was making people drunk with the intoxicating aroma of the vegetation, waking up from hibernation. Taiga was waking up. On the blue sky, the snow-white flocks of swirling clouds slowly floated, lazily driven by the light spring breeze. They were reflected on the rough surface of the mountain river, like ghostly shadows. The young osier-bed, which was close to the river, enthusiastically began to make a noise. Playful breeze fell upon flexible branches as if trying to flirt with tiny green leaves hatched out of swollen buds. In the grass, whose sharp-pointed shoots triumphantly made their way from the heated soil, grasshopper excitedly chattered, rejoicing at the arrival of early spring. The shrill chorus of ubiquitous flies echoed him, having settled on the bright blossoming buds of spring flowers that emitted a fragrant aroma. All the valley, adjacent to the river, resembled a procumbent orange carpet, woven from Siberian globeflowers – the first flowers of taiga. As soon as the first snow melted, Siberian globeflowers, caressed by the warmth of the sun, jumped out of the ground, happily spreading lush buds. The forest was delightfully ringing, getting rid of hibernation, filled with happiness and life.
Suddenly, the heedless din stopped and the air got filled with breathless expectation. The jay screamed shrilly, alarmed by the emergence of an experienced predator, but calmed down then, seeing nothing dangerous in his presence. The heavy voice of taiga crow echoed her. The vole flashed by, like a grey shadow, and took refuge in its hole. Frightened by the cry of the feathered watch, speckled grouses took wing from the ground and sat on a nearby pine, like bunches, twisting the sides of their heads with bewilderment.
From the side of the thick bush, surrounding the clearing like an impenetrable hedge, one could hear a faint rustle and a muffled snort. The broken branch creaked loudly, warning of something big and terrifying, the honeysuckle bushes parted and a seasoned she-bear came into the clearing, warily looking around. She looked like an armed spring, ready to act immediately. Her muscles were tense and showed up under the ruffled skin like relief mounds. She suspiciously looked around the surrounding area, sniffing the subtle scents, listened with her ears standing upright, trying to identify the lurking danger with sensitive hearing. But, having not detected any threat, she uttered a muffled roar. And as if on cue, a small brown ball rolled out of the tall grass. Bear-cub promptly ran into the mother and clumsily fell on his back, funnily waving his short, thick pads in an unsuccessful attempt to rise. She-bear gently pushed the blunderer with her pad and, having turned a somersault through the head, he ridiculously stretched out on the abdomen, confusedly looking around. But confusion quickly passed, bear-cub quickly jumped on his pads and tottered to his mother, playfully biting her fur on her abdomen and being under her pads. She-bear stopped and, busily sniffing the brown climbing stem with yellow stains on the broad leaves, began to dig. She pulled out a rough tuber with the shaggy skin of the size of a potato, hidden deep in the ground, brushed away the adhering dirt, and plunged her teeth into a juicy pulp with a satisfied rumbling. The plant was nothing but the root of life – batata, which would stimulate digestion after a long winter hibernation. Being pleased, she sat down on the warm ground, stretching out her hind pads like a human being. Bear-cub spun around, curiously looking into the mouth of the mother, but she-bear only peevishly turned away from the insistent claims of her son. He was still too young to eat food that was hard to digest. Bear-cub aggrievedly began to sniff, unhappy with the dismissive attitude, but his offence quickly went south. And he playfully dug his small sharp teeth into the pad of his mother sitting nearby, beginning to pull about excitedly the seized tuft of fur. Funnily snarling, he playfully bounced off the pad and re-attacked. But this could not go on forever. Although the teeth were small, they still caused some sense of discomfort, as they resembled sharp needles. She-bear quickly grabbed the mischief-maker and, pressing a pad to the chest, carefully licked the sharp little face of the bear-cub, who spun like a whipping top and tried to catch her nose. But the mother only mockingly growled, deftly avoiding the snapping teeth, firmly holding the wanton with the mighty pad. Despite the old days, he seemed to her the most favourite, the best bear-cub in the world; it happened so in the past and so it would be in the future, but already with a new baby. She would not hesitate to sacrifice her own life for the safety of her children. For them, she was ready to fight any opponent, even if the chance to win was negligible. Her life did not matter to her if this would keep the baby unharmed. Past. Present. Future. Everything mixed up. Only the feeling of love remained unchanged. Once she was thoroughly licking the soft skins of the former children, smelling of the mother’s milk. And now she did not even remember how they looked like. Now they were not children but real adult bears, able to stand up for themselves. But once there, in early childhood, she carefully watched over them, protecting from all life’s earthly woes. She passed on her experience, due to which they became strong hunters, skilled trackers, and therefore survived. And so would be with him, with a small ‘silly little chap’, who did not even know what insidious traps this life had set for him; those death traps, from which one could not always come out as the winner. But she would teach him how to avoid danger, how to endure hardships with courage. She would teach him how to be strong, cunning, enduring. And he would grow a real experienced animal, ready for any trouble. She-bear pushed her son and, funnily waving pads, he rolled on his stomach on the grass, having driven his nose into an ant hill at full speed. Ants, taking a warlike posture, met the intruder with a friendly volley of searing fire. Bear-cub, getting a portion of caustic acid into the eyes, whiningly screamed. And desperately shaking his head, stumbling, he ran to his mother with a plaintive howl, hiding behind her. She-bear grinned in a good-natured manner, turned around, and embraced the tomboy enfolded in silence, who, clinging tightly to her, was cautiously glancing at the crumpled ant hill. This little adventure would be a good lesson for him, teaching him that even seemingly innocuous creature could fight back. But children were children. Children’s memory was swift passing. After a minute, having forgotten about the past troubles, bear-cub was looking at a large pine tree with keen interest. He was attracted by a great mystery, hidden in the thick branches. Curiosity spurred to action. He firmly extricated himself from his mother’s pads and, cautiously bypassing the ant hill, tottered to the tree with acute fascination. Having clasped the trunk with his pads, he nimbly climbed to the first branches and enthusiastically looked at the mother, who, from the height, seemed to him no bigger than an ant. She-bear aggrievedly growled, but the bear-cub was not paying attention to the alarmed murmurs, stubbornly climbed up, disappearing in the crown of the tree. And only when the mother nervously jumped up, emitting a loud warning roar, he moved back with extreme reluctance. But as soon as he touched the ground, his mother sternly grabbed him in her pads. And he was immediately punished for disobedience. She-bear didactically spanked the tomboy, ‘explaining’ that it was not necessary to behave recklessly and to upset her. Suddenly, she became alerted, catching the tart smell of the approaching predator. Then she nervously peered into rare glimpses between the branches of a shrub, having found the leaning grey shade near the stream. She-bear deafly roared, baring her strong fangs, her brows gloomily came close on the bridge of the nose. The fur on the nape stood on end. She did not see a direct threat of attack but decided not to risk and to chase away the grey robber, who could easily profit from her baby, as quickly as possible. She abruptly pushed the bear-cub, who instinctively obeying, quietly crouched in the grass, trying to merge with the ground. And walking quietly, she went to the hollow, trying not to lose the enemy out of her sight. The wolf, unaware of the impending danger, was slowly drinking from the stream. He lowered his heavy head, studded with broad whitish scars (the memory of past struggles for the right to have the best pieces of the prey and the fondling of the females in the big ruthless pack). There were many duels, from which he always came out the victor. He could be proud of his experience and strength, proving more than once that he did not take the leader’s place by chance. But he knew that nothing lasted forever. Soon he would grow old and would be replaced by a new leader, more agile and strong, and he would only have to sneak around to eat the pathetic remnants of a rich feast. But this would be in the future. Certainly, if only he would not be stopped by the hunter’s bullet. But today he was still the leader of the pack and would be able to prove it to any presumptuous young upstart, defending his leadership in the duel. He lapped the cool, clear water with pleasure, slaking the thirst. He was lucky to eat the unwary hare, and now he fairly purred from repletion. After each tilt, he was leaving blurred red spots on the surface of the water. Suddenly, he caught a suspicious sound behind and looked up sharply, bumping into the piercing eyes of a bear. It was an unpleasant meeting, which did not bode anything good. Alone, without the help of the pack, this enemy could not be defeated. Thoughts passed like a whirlwind. He was on the brick of death. He looked at the distance. He was lucky that he had noticed the danger at the time. Two or three steps more, and he would not be able to save his life. She-bear, realising that she had been noticed, stood up to her full height and fiercely roared, menacingly waving her front pads. The wolf quickly jumped away from the stream and, pressing close to the ground, backed into the saving bushes with haunted encolure, ferociously grinning and warningly growling in response. The fur on the back of his neck stood on end. He kept an eye open for the bear. Once again, she-bear emitted a terrible roar and rushed fiercely to the charge. There was nothing for the wolf but to cowardly tail off and to retreat hastily back home. He was not up to the restrained pride. Life was more precious. And he promptly dived into the briar bushes, ignoring the painful pricks of sharp spikes. She-bear did not pursue the fleeing enemy. Having stood for some time, waiting for the noise to cease, she came back, making the thin calling whistle. Bear-cub cautiously left the shelter and obediently tottered next to her. And they slowly headed to the highlands, where there were green shoots of young garlic on the warm slopes.