Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [4]
‘What can you expect from a poor Mordvinian?’
It was bearable, but her own family made it harder. Both her parents had died the previous year, leaving only her and a younger brother. And it was he who had made her weep the day before.
He meant no harm. But he was always in trouble with the village elder. His broad, slightly foolish face was always smiling, even when he was drunk, and he seemed to have only two desires in life – to hunt and to please his little nephew.
‘Kiy doesn’t need you,’ she would tell him, ‘and nor do I if you won’t obey the elder.’ But it was useless. He hated the work in the fields, would disappear for days into the forest without permission – while the villagers muttered about him angrily – and then she would suddenly see his strong, square form come striding back, with a dozen pelts hanging from his belt and his habitual, foolish smile on his face. The elder would curse him and her mother-in-law would look at her with renewed disgust, as if it were her fault.
And now, that day, with complete foolishness he had promised the little boy: ‘Next time I go hunting, Little Kiy, I’m going to bring you a baby bear. You can keep him tied up outside.’
‘But, Mal,’ she reminded him, ‘the elder said you’ll have to leave the village if you disobey him again.’ As a punishment because of his absences, the elder had already forbidden him to go hunting any more that year.
But her brother only bowed his big, fair head, still smiling foolishly, and said nothing.
‘Why don’t you take a wife and stop this nonsense?’ she shouted at him, wretched.
‘As you command, Sister Lebed.’ He bowed his head, grinning.
He said it to exasperate her for almost no one in the village was addressed by their full name. The little boy, whose name was Kiy, was usually called by a diminutive, Little Kiy. Her own full name, Lebed, was seldom used. Since childhood she had always been known by an affectionate nickname – Little Swan. Mal had a nickname too, which people used when they were angry with him – they called him Lazy-bones.
‘Lazy-bones!’ she countered angrily. ‘Settle down and work.’
But Mal would never do that. He preferred to live alone in a small hut with two old men who were no use for anything, nowadays, but a little hunting. The three of them would drink mead together, hunt and fish, while the women treated them with a mocking tolerance.
She had gone to him twice more that day in the fields, the second time in tears, trying to make him forget his stupid plan. Though he brought her nothing but trouble, she loved him. It would be lonely if he were sent away.
And each time, though there were tears in her eyes, he had only grinned at her, the sweat trickling down his big, broad face, as he carted the bales of hay to the stack.
Which was why, at the end of the day, it had taken her a long time to get to sleep; and when at last she had slipped into unconsciousness, her mind had still been full of foreboding.
But now, night had washed her mind to a state of blankness. Under her coarse, plain shirt, her breasts rose and fell regularly. Softly the breeze from the window stirred her thick hair and the fair hair of the child.
Nor did anyone awake when the dog by the doorway sat up expectantly as two shadows glided past. No one, that is, except the little boy, whose eyes briefly opened. A sleepy smile appeared on his face, and had his mother been awake she would have felt the suppressed tremble of excitement go through his body. He closed his eyes again, still smiling.
Soon, he knew.
Softly the wind moved over the land.
But where were the hamlet, the river and the forest?
In order to explain the significance of the magical place, a few words are needed.
Geography, by convention, has long divided the huge landmass of Eurasia into two parts: Europe in the west, Asia in the east. But this convention is misleading.