with his head throbbing and his side aching with every step. Perhaps he had fallen in with a precocious lad who sincerely knew he needed a scoundrel and a gambler to protect him (which he was not doing outstandingly well, but leave that aside)—or, most incredible, with a poor boy so taken in by his manners that the lad cultivated him as a gentleman of potential help to him.
I think you mistake me, Pyetr would say if Pyetr were totally a fool.—You must have mistaken me for an honest man, Sasha Vasilyevitch.
— Except he can surely see what I am. We hardly met under the best of circumstances.
— So why, then, be a fool? Pyetr thought as they walked beneath the dry, laced branches. Mind your manners, Pyetr Kochevikov! The lad's half-mad, so give him his fairyfolk and don't torment him with the truth. He's over all kinder than sane folk know how to be.
— And somewhere, when we're through this—when we reach Kiev, and civilized men, I should teach him to protect himself.
At least… from other, less scrupulous scoundrels.
The sun lent them some comfort in the morning, but the road descended by afternoon into the very depths of the winter-barren forest, where branches raked and closed about the road, where the trees eventually locked their branches overhead and turned day to dusk.
"Eat," Sasha insisted, while they were resting on a fallen log in a little spot of sun, and while they had water from a little ghost of a brook to wash down the grain they had. He gave Pyetr the most of what he had gathered; and after a little selfish consideration on the matter, and knowing how cold the wind was: "Here. Put on my coat again…"
Because he grew more and more worried about Pyetr, about the tremor in Pyetr's hands and the paleness of Pyetr's skin and the listlessness which took him from time to time. Aunt Henka would say that a healing man needed proper food and a warm bed to rest in; and there was nothing of the sort in his power to produce, nor looked to be, and Sasha felt—he could not help it—that if aunt Ilenka was in the habit of blaming him for everything that happened in The Cockerel, Pyetr should surely have a heavy claim to lodge against him—counting that, if not for bad luck, Mischa and a mud puddle, Pyetr might have left The Cockerel more rested, warmly dressed, and better-provisioned. But Pyetr insisted not to blame him for his misfortunes, and gave him a grateful clench-jawed nod for the loan of the coat.
Which touched Sasha in a strange way—the more so because Pyetr himself seemed to realize his danger from the cold, but had never asked him for the coat; and because he might truly
be
responsible for Pyetr's condition, if only for failing to snatch up the blankets, and Pyetr had never once cursed him or blamed him for it. Pyetr's only word on it was a gibe or two about his luck when he rallied, foolhardy jokes that worried him more than they stung—and worried him most for Pyetr, who, weak as he was, challenged far more than the sweep of aunt Ilenka's broom or the sturdiness of uncle Fedya's porch, and dared far less patient things than the lazy Old Man of The Cockerel's stable.
Certainly, Sasha thought, if he might be responsible for Pyetr's bad luck, he also must be responsible for things nature had not equipped Pyetr Illitch to feel or see—since perhaps the Field-thing heard Pyetr Illitch no better than Pyetr Illitch heard the Field-thing; and no better than Pyetr Illitch felt the chill in these woods which had nothing to do with the remaining snowbanks; and no more than Pyetr Illitch understood that, by all the talk that drifted around The Cockerel's kitchen hearthside—eastward was not a good direction to travel.
"I've heard," Sasha said while they rested on that fallen log, at that stream side, "—I've heard there used to be farms this way. I've heard there used to be travelers and towns and all, but things stopped coming from the east, and the
I think you mistake me, Pyetr would say if Pyetr were totally a fool.—You must have mistaken me for an honest man, Sasha Vasilyevitch.
— Except he can surely see what I am. We hardly met under the best of circumstances.
— So why, then, be a fool? Pyetr thought as they walked beneath the dry, laced branches. Mind your manners, Pyetr Kochevikov! The lad's half-mad, so give him his fairyfolk and don't torment him with the truth. He's over all kinder than sane folk know how to be.
— And somewhere, when we're through this—when we reach Kiev, and civilized men, I should teach him to protect himself.
At least… from other, less scrupulous scoundrels.
The sun lent them some comfort in the morning, but the road descended by afternoon into the very depths of the winter-barren forest, where branches raked and closed about the road, where the trees eventually locked their branches overhead and turned day to dusk.
"Eat," Sasha insisted, while they were resting on a fallen log in a little spot of sun, and while they had water from a little ghost of a brook to wash down the grain they had. He gave Pyetr the most of what he had gathered; and after a little selfish consideration on the matter, and knowing how cold the wind was: "Here. Put on my coat again…"
Because he grew more and more worried about Pyetr, about the tremor in Pyetr's hands and the paleness of Pyetr's skin and the listlessness which took him from time to time. Aunt Henka would say that a healing man needed proper food and a warm bed to rest in; and there was nothing of the sort in his power to produce, nor looked to be, and Sasha felt—he could not help it—that if aunt Ilenka was in the habit of blaming him for everything that happened in The Cockerel, Pyetr should surely have a heavy claim to lodge against him—counting that, if not for bad luck, Mischa and a mud puddle, Pyetr might have left The Cockerel more rested, warmly dressed, and better-provisioned. But Pyetr insisted not to blame him for his misfortunes, and gave him a grateful clench-jawed nod for the loan of the coat.
Which touched Sasha in a strange way—the more so because Pyetr himself seemed to realize his danger from the cold, but had never asked him for the coat; and because he might truly
be
responsible for Pyetr's condition, if only for failing to snatch up the blankets, and Pyetr had never once cursed him or blamed him for it. Pyetr's only word on it was a gibe or two about his luck when he rallied, foolhardy jokes that worried him more than they stung—and worried him most for Pyetr, who, weak as he was, challenged far more than the sweep of aunt Ilenka's broom or the sturdiness of uncle Fedya's porch, and dared far less patient things than the lazy Old Man of The Cockerel's stable.
Certainly, Sasha thought, if he might be responsible for Pyetr's bad luck, he also must be responsible for things nature had not equipped Pyetr Illitch to feel or see—since perhaps the Field-thing heard Pyetr Illitch no better than Pyetr Illitch heard the Field-thing; and no better than Pyetr Illitch felt the chill in these woods which had nothing to do with the remaining snowbanks; and no more than Pyetr Illitch understood that, by all the talk that drifted around The Cockerel's kitchen hearthside—eastward was not a good direction to travel.
"I've heard," Sasha said while they rested on that fallen log, at that stream side, "—I've heard there used to be farms this way. I've heard there used to be travelers and towns and all, but things stopped coming from the east, and the
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