everyone and when it lifted, Romochka couldn’t stay inside. He put on all his clothes, grabbed his sack and headed for the mountain with White Sister and Grey Brother. It was a mild clear evening and the trail to the mountain was marked in the snow—man and animal had already been this way.
He was past the abandoned construction sites when he heard a faint music. He stopped. Singing, human singing, out by the mountain. The harmonies, with their dying fall, seemed to come down from the sky like snow or rain. They filled the air around him with something as faint and as lovely as the smell of spring flowers.
He would hunt later. White Sister and Grey Brother followed him unquestioning, trotting towards the forest and the fires. He liked the fires but had never been able to get near them. People here knew he was not one of them, and he guessed that he broke their rules, crossed their invisible closed paths and offended their order. Romochka was faster and more silent, and he had the dogs: he wasn’t in any real danger from anyone. But he couldn’t creep in and be friendly around a fire without being chased in earnest.
The music swelled and reeled him in. The men were lit up in orange light, roasting the hindquarters of a slaughtered dog. Its pelt and head lay on the stained snow. It wasn’t a dog he recognised, and he thought from the smell that it was probably one of theirs, not a clan dog. Someone would be wearing that golden pelt in a few days. The smell of cooking meat was very good. White Sister and Grey Brother melted into the forest, and he slipped silently to the birch trees at the edge of the circle. The fire was so warm he could feel a little of its heat seeping into him, even from so far away. Men and women stood around it, holding out their hands to the warmth, all singing. The song was sad and beautiful, and although Romochka knew all these people by sight, sound and smell, they seemed now strange, transformed and mysterious. His chest burned with a feeling like hunger but closer to his throat. He wished he had something to gnaw on.
The women’s voices rose and knotted the wild air, filling the nothingness above him with pain and longing. The men’s voices, it seemed to Romochka, tried to scramble up into the sky from the earth and fell back, weeping for their failure. The women’s voices fluttered, by choice, down the ladder set by their shifting notes and then stepped down to rest with the men in long chords, joined.
He felt he might burst with the need to scream, howl or run. But he stayed still, blended in the shadows to the trunk of the birch tree. The voices rose again in the same wild refrain and a hopeful croak or moan slipped from his own throat. A woman holding a large sleeping girl child stopped singing, turned and peered hard into the darkness. The singing continued around the fire, but he could hear from a sudden absence in the music that it must have been her voice that soared above the others. She was staring straight at him but couldn’t see him. He held himself hunting-still. Her arms clutched the heavily bundled child and he made out the torn fringe of her coat silhouetted by the fire. Her mouth sounded wide, as though smiling into the darkness. He was suddenly very afraid of her.
She took a step towards him, and he saw her face clearly. He knew her, but had never looked closely at her. She was young and beautiful and had a huge scar that split her face down the middle from forehead to chin, breaking even her nose and lips. She only seemed to be smiling—her mouth fell around the scar that way. He knew which hut she lived in and knew the sound of her screams. He knew her thin daughter too. ‘Irena! Irena! Don’t go far!’ The same voice.
He was no longer afraid. His ears still rang with the high glory of her singing. On impulse, he stepped suddenly out of the shadows and stood, legs apart, arms at his sides. He heard an intake of breath. She knew him too. Everyone here knew he
He was past the abandoned construction sites when he heard a faint music. He stopped. Singing, human singing, out by the mountain. The harmonies, with their dying fall, seemed to come down from the sky like snow or rain. They filled the air around him with something as faint and as lovely as the smell of spring flowers.
He would hunt later. White Sister and Grey Brother followed him unquestioning, trotting towards the forest and the fires. He liked the fires but had never been able to get near them. People here knew he was not one of them, and he guessed that he broke their rules, crossed their invisible closed paths and offended their order. Romochka was faster and more silent, and he had the dogs: he wasn’t in any real danger from anyone. But he couldn’t creep in and be friendly around a fire without being chased in earnest.
The music swelled and reeled him in. The men were lit up in orange light, roasting the hindquarters of a slaughtered dog. Its pelt and head lay on the stained snow. It wasn’t a dog he recognised, and he thought from the smell that it was probably one of theirs, not a clan dog. Someone would be wearing that golden pelt in a few days. The smell of cooking meat was very good. White Sister and Grey Brother melted into the forest, and he slipped silently to the birch trees at the edge of the circle. The fire was so warm he could feel a little of its heat seeping into him, even from so far away. Men and women stood around it, holding out their hands to the warmth, all singing. The song was sad and beautiful, and although Romochka knew all these people by sight, sound and smell, they seemed now strange, transformed and mysterious. His chest burned with a feeling like hunger but closer to his throat. He wished he had something to gnaw on.
The women’s voices rose and knotted the wild air, filling the nothingness above him with pain and longing. The men’s voices, it seemed to Romochka, tried to scramble up into the sky from the earth and fell back, weeping for their failure. The women’s voices fluttered, by choice, down the ladder set by their shifting notes and then stepped down to rest with the men in long chords, joined.
He felt he might burst with the need to scream, howl or run. But he stayed still, blended in the shadows to the trunk of the birch tree. The voices rose again in the same wild refrain and a hopeful croak or moan slipped from his own throat. A woman holding a large sleeping girl child stopped singing, turned and peered hard into the darkness. The singing continued around the fire, but he could hear from a sudden absence in the music that it must have been her voice that soared above the others. She was staring straight at him but couldn’t see him. He held himself hunting-still. Her arms clutched the heavily bundled child and he made out the torn fringe of her coat silhouetted by the fire. Her mouth sounded wide, as though smiling into the darkness. He was suddenly very afraid of her.
She took a step towards him, and he saw her face clearly. He knew her, but had never looked closely at her. She was young and beautiful and had a huge scar that split her face down the middle from forehead to chin, breaking even her nose and lips. She only seemed to be smiling—her mouth fell around the scar that way. He knew which hut she lived in and knew the sound of her screams. He knew her thin daughter too. ‘Irena! Irena! Don’t go far!’ The same voice.
He was no longer afraid. His ears still rang with the high glory of her singing. On impulse, he stepped suddenly out of the shadows and stood, legs apart, arms at his sides. He heard an intake of breath. She knew him too. Everyone here knew he
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