Yegorushka, who had long hated Dymov, suddenly felt that he was choking to death in that unbearably humid air and that the camp fire flames were scorching his face. He wanted to escape as quickly as possible to the darkness by the wagons, but that bully’s evil, bored eyes drew Yegorushka to him. Longing to say something extremely insulting, he took a step towards Dymov.
‘You’re the worst of the lot!’ he gasped. ‘I can’t stand you!’
After that he should have escaped to the wagons, but he felt rooted to the spot.
‘You’ll burn in hell in the next world!’ he went on. ‘I’m going to tell Uncle Ivan about you! Don’t you dare insult Yemelyan!’
‘Ooh, ’ark at ’im!’ laughed Dymov. ‘Little piggy’s still wet behind the ears and thinks he can lay down the law! Fancy a clout on the ear-’ole?’
Yegorushka felt unable to breathe; suddenly he started shaking all over and stamped his feet – something that had never happened to him before.
‘Hit him! Hit him!’ he shrieked.
Tears spurted from his eyes. He felt ashamed and he ran staggering to the wagons. What impression his outburst had made he did not see. Lying on the bale weeping, he jerked his arms and legs and whispered, ‘Mummy, Mummy!’
The men, the shadows around the camp fire, the dark bales, the lightning that was flashing in the far distance every minute – all this struck him as hostile and terrifying now. Yegorushka was horrified and he asked himself in despair how and why he had come to this unknown land, in the company of terrible peasants? Where were Uncle, Father Khristofor and Deniska? Why were they taking so long? Had they forgotten him? At the thought that he had been forgotten and left to the mercy of fate he felt chilled and so frightened that several times he felt like jumping off the bales and running headlong back along the road without looking behind him. But the memory of those dark, grim crosses which he was bound to pass on the way and the distant flashes of lightning stopped him. Only when he whispered ‘Mummy!’ did he feel a little better, it seemed.
The drivers must have been frightened, too. After Yegorushka had run away from the camp fire they first said nothing for a long time and then spoke in hollow undertones about something, saying that it was coming and they must hurry to escape from it. They quickly finished their supper, put out the fire and started harnessing the horses in silence. From their agitation and broken phrases they were clearly expecting some disaster.
Before they set off Dymov went over to Panteley.
‘What’s his name?’ he quietly asked.
‘Yegorushka,’ replied Panteley.
Dymov put one foot on the wheel, gripped the cord that was tied around a bale and hauled himself up. Yegorushka saw his face and curly head. His face was pale, tired and serious – but no longer spiteful.
‘Hullo, little boy!’ he said softly. ‘Come on, hit me!’
Yegorushka looked at him in amazement. At that moment there was a flash of lightning.
‘It’s all right – hit me!’ Dymov repeated.
And without waiting for Yegorushka to hit him or speak, he leapt down and said, ‘God, I’m bored!’
Then, swaying from one foot to the other and moving his shoulders, he idly sauntered along the string of wagons, repeating in a half-plaintive, half-irritated voice, ‘God, I’m bored! Now, don’t get the needle, Yemelyan,’ he said as he passed him. ‘What hopeless, wretched lives we lead…!’
Lightning flashed to the right and immediately flashed again in the distance, like a reflection in a mirror.
‘Here, take this, Yegory,’ Panteley shouted, handing up something large and dark.
‘What is it?’ asked Yegorushka.
‘Matting. Cover yourself with it when it rains.’
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 u
nderstanding 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.
But suddenly he heard voices.
‘Yegorushka! Are you asleep?’ Panteley shouted from below. ‘Come on, get down!… The silly boy’s gone deaf!’
‘That was a storm and a half!’ said some deep, unfamiliar voice, grunting as if the owner had just downed a goodly glass of vodka.
Yegorushka opened his eyes. Down below by the wagon stood Panteley, the triangular Yemelyan and the giants. The latter were now much shorter and on closer inspection Yegorushka could see that they were just ordinary peasants carrying iron pitchforks and not pikes on their shoulders. In the space between Panteley and the triangle was the lighted window of a small, low hut. So the wagons must have stopped in a village! Yegorushka threw off the mat, picked up his bundle and hurried down from the wagon. Now that there were people talking nearby and that there was a brightly lit window he no longer felt afraid, although the thunder still rumbled and crashed as before and lightning streaked the entire sky.
‘That was a fine old storm, not bad at all, thank the Lord,’ muttered Panteley. ‘Me feet have gone a tiny bit soft from the rain, but it don’t matter. Are you down yet, Yegorushka? Well, go into the hut… it’s all right.’
‘Holy, holy, holy…’ Yemelyan said hoarsely. ‘The lightning must’ve struck somewhere… Are you from these parts?’ he asked the giants.
‘No, from Glinovo… Yes, from Glinovo. We’re working on the Plater estate.’
‘Threshing, eh?’
‘We does all sorts of jobs. Just now we’re getting in the wheat. Cor, what lightning, what lightning! Ain’t seen such a storm for many a long year!’
Yegorushka went into the hut and was greeted by a lean, hunch-backed old woman with a sharp chin. She was holding a tallow candle, screwing up her eyes and heaving lengthy sighs.
‘What a storm the Lord’s sent us!’ she said. ‘And our lads are out on the steppe at night. They’ll be having a nasty time of it, poor dears! Now, take your clothes off, young sir.’
Trembling with cold and shrinking squeamishly, Yegorushka pulled off his drenched overcoat, planted his legs wide apart and stood there for a long time stock-still. The least movement brought a disagreeably damp and cold sensation. His sleeves and the back of his shirt were soaked, his trousers stuck to his legs and his head was dripping.
‘Why are you standing like that – bandy-legs!’ the old woman said. ‘Come and sit down.’
Keeping his legs wide apart, Yegorushka went over to the table and sat on a bench near someone’s head. The head moved, emitted a stream of air through its nostrils, chewed for a moment and subsided. From the head a mound covered with a sheepskin stretched along the bench: it was a peasant woman lying there asleep.
Sighing, the old woman went out and soon returned with a large water melon and a small sweet melon.
‘Eat up, young sir… I’ve nothing else to give you,’ she yawned, then rummaged around in a table drawer and produced a long sharp knife which was very similar to the type used by robbers to cut merchants’ throats at inns. ‘Please eat, young sir!’
Feverishly trembling, Yegorushka ate a slice of the sweet melon with some black bread, which made him feel even colder.
‘Our lads are out on the steppe tonight,’ sighed the old woman as he ate. ‘Mercy on us! I ought to light a candle before the icon, but I don’t know where Stepanida’s put them. Come on, sir, eat up.’
The old woman yawned, reached backwards with her right hand and scratched her left shoulder.
‘Must be nearly two o’clock,’ she said. ‘Soon it’ll be time to be getting up. Our lads are out on the steppe tonight. Soaked to the skin they’ll be, I dare say!’
‘I’m sleepy, grannie,’ Yegorushka said.
‘Well, lie down young sir, lie down,’ sighed the old woman, yawning. ‘Lord Jesus Christ! There I was sleeping and suddenly I thought I could hear someone knocking… Then I woke up and saw it was a storm sent by God. I ought to have lit a candle, but I couldn’t find one.’
Talking to herself she pulled some rags off the bench – probably her bedclothes – unhooked two sheepskin jackets from the nail by the stove and started making up a bed for Y
egorushka.
‘That storm’s not letting up,’ she muttered. ‘Who knows, it could even start a fire somewhere… and our lads have to spend the night out on the steppe. Now, lie down young sir and go to sleep. Christ be with you, child. I’ll leave the melon here – you might feel like a bite when you get up.’
The old woman’s sighs and yawns, the regular breathing of the sleeping woman, the dim light in the hut and the patter of rain on the window all made Yegorushka feel sleepy. He was too shy to undress in front of the old woman, so he removed only his boots, lay down and covered himself with the sheepskin.
‘Has the lad gone to bed?’ came Panteley’s whisper a minute later.
‘Yes he has,’ whispered the old woman in reply. ‘Mercy on us! It just keeps thundering and thundering, no end to it.’
‘It’ll soon pass,’ wheezed Panteley as he sat down. ‘It’s getting quieter now… The lads have gone off to the huts and two have stayed with the horses… the lads, like… they’ll have to stay there… or them horses might get stolen… Yes, I’ll sit down for a bit and then take me turn… I’ll have to go or them horses’ll be stolen…’
Panteley and the old woman sat side by side near Yegorushka’s feet and spoke in sibilant whispers, punctuating their words with sighs and yawns. But Yegorushka just could not get warm. Although he was covered with a warm, heavy sheepskin, his whole body shook, his arms and legs were convulsed with cramps, his insides shuddered. He undressed himself under the sheepskin, but even this did not help. The shivers grew worse and worse.
Panteley went off to relieve the men and then came back, but Yegorushka still could not sleep and was shivering all over. Something was pressing down on his head and chest and crushing him. What it was he could not tell – was it the old people’s whispering, or the strong smell of the sheepskin? The melons had left an unpleasant, metallic taste in his mouth. What was more, fleas were biting him.