“It’s your turn, Gurka, isn’t it? Get up there!” He turned back to the old man and said, “That Lukashka of yours has turned into quite a good hunter. He’s just like you, roaming the woods, never staying in his quarters! You should have seen the beast he bagged the other day!”
7
The sun had set, and the shadows of night were spreading from the woods. The Cossacks finished what they were doing around the checkpoint and gathered in the hut to eat supper. Only the old man remained beneath the plane tree, holding his falcon by a string tied to its leg as he waited for the hawk to appear. There was a hawk in one of the trees, but it did not swoop down upon the chicken that the old man was using as bait. Lukashka was humming tunes as he set out nooses to catch pheasants in the thickest brambles. Though he was tall and had big hands, it was clear that anything he put his mind to, whether fine or rough, responded to his touch.
“Hey, Luka!” Nazarka’s shrill voice came from nearby in the underbrush. “The men have all headed back for supper!”
Nazarka pushed his way through the brambles out onto the path, holding a live pheasant under his arm.
“Where did you get that bird?” Lukashka asked him. “From one of my traps?”
Nazarka was the same age as Lukashka, was his friend and neighbor in the village, and like him had only joined the company that spring. He was an ugly young man, thin and sickly, with a piercing voice that rang in one’s ears. Lukashka was sitting cross-legged like a Tatar among the weeds, setting out the traps.
“I don’t know whose bird this is, it must be yours.”
“If it was behind the pit by the plane tree, then it’s mine. I set the trap yesterday.”
Lukashka got up and looked at the pheasant. He stroked the bird’s dark blue head, which it stretched out in terror, its eyes rolling.
“Let’s make a pilaf with it. Go kill and pluck it,” he said.
“Should we eat it ourselves or give it to the sergeant?”
“Why give it to him?”
“I don’t know how to butcher these things,” Nazarka said apprehensively.
“Then give it to me!”
Lukashka drew a knife. The bird fluttered up, but before it could spread its wings, its blood-drenched head slumped and quivered.
“That’s how it’s done!” Lukashka said, dropping the bird on the ground. “It’ll make a good pilaf!”
Nazarka looked at the bird and shuddered.
“Just watch that devil send us out again tonight to lie in ambush!” he said, picking up the pheasant. (The devil he was referring to was the sergeant.) “He sent Fomushkin to get some Chikhir wine the night it was his turn, and so we always end up being sent out there! It’s us every night!”
Lukashka walked toward the checkpoint whistling a tune. “Here, take that noose trap with you!” he shouted. Nazarka took it.
“I’ll give him a piece of my mind, I swear!” Nazarka continued. “We should tell him we won’t go, that we’re tired out, and that’s that! Though I guess maybe you should tell him, he listens to you.”
“That’s enough,” Lukashka said absently. “Who cares, anyway? If we were being sent out of the village, I’d be the first to speak up. In the village you can drink and have fun! But out here? If you ask me, being inside the hut all night or lying out in ambush is all the same! You’re just—”
“Will you be coming back to the village with us?” Nazarka asked.
“I’ll be going back for the festival.”
“Gurka says that your Dunaika has started seeing Fomushkin,” Nazarka said suddenly.
“She can go to the Devil!” Lukashka replied, his white teeth flashing, but not in a smile. “You think I can’t find another girl?”
“Gurka said he went to her house and her husband was out, but that he found Fomushkin there, eating a pie. He stayed for a bit, but as he left he passed by the window and heard her say, ‘Thank God that idiot is gone! Won’t you finish the pie, darling? You can stay the
7
The sun had set, and the shadows of night were spreading from the woods. The Cossacks finished what they were doing around the checkpoint and gathered in the hut to eat supper. Only the old man remained beneath the plane tree, holding his falcon by a string tied to its leg as he waited for the hawk to appear. There was a hawk in one of the trees, but it did not swoop down upon the chicken that the old man was using as bait. Lukashka was humming tunes as he set out nooses to catch pheasants in the thickest brambles. Though he was tall and had big hands, it was clear that anything he put his mind to, whether fine or rough, responded to his touch.
“Hey, Luka!” Nazarka’s shrill voice came from nearby in the underbrush. “The men have all headed back for supper!”
Nazarka pushed his way through the brambles out onto the path, holding a live pheasant under his arm.
“Where did you get that bird?” Lukashka asked him. “From one of my traps?”
Nazarka was the same age as Lukashka, was his friend and neighbor in the village, and like him had only joined the company that spring. He was an ugly young man, thin and sickly, with a piercing voice that rang in one’s ears. Lukashka was sitting cross-legged like a Tatar among the weeds, setting out the traps.
“I don’t know whose bird this is, it must be yours.”
“If it was behind the pit by the plane tree, then it’s mine. I set the trap yesterday.”
Lukashka got up and looked at the pheasant. He stroked the bird’s dark blue head, which it stretched out in terror, its eyes rolling.
“Let’s make a pilaf with it. Go kill and pluck it,” he said.
“Should we eat it ourselves or give it to the sergeant?”
“Why give it to him?”
“I don’t know how to butcher these things,” Nazarka said apprehensively.
“Then give it to me!”
Lukashka drew a knife. The bird fluttered up, but before it could spread its wings, its blood-drenched head slumped and quivered.
“That’s how it’s done!” Lukashka said, dropping the bird on the ground. “It’ll make a good pilaf!”
Nazarka looked at the bird and shuddered.
“Just watch that devil send us out again tonight to lie in ambush!” he said, picking up the pheasant. (The devil he was referring to was the sergeant.) “He sent Fomushkin to get some Chikhir wine the night it was his turn, and so we always end up being sent out there! It’s us every night!”
Lukashka walked toward the checkpoint whistling a tune. “Here, take that noose trap with you!” he shouted. Nazarka took it.
“I’ll give him a piece of my mind, I swear!” Nazarka continued. “We should tell him we won’t go, that we’re tired out, and that’s that! Though I guess maybe you should tell him, he listens to you.”
“That’s enough,” Lukashka said absently. “Who cares, anyway? If we were being sent out of the village, I’d be the first to speak up. In the village you can drink and have fun! But out here? If you ask me, being inside the hut all night or lying out in ambush is all the same! You’re just—”
“Will you be coming back to the village with us?” Nazarka asked.
“I’ll be going back for the festival.”
“Gurka says that your Dunaika has started seeing Fomushkin,” Nazarka said suddenly.
“She can go to the Devil!” Lukashka replied, his white teeth flashing, but not in a smile. “You think I can’t find another girl?”
“Gurka said he went to her house and her husband was out, but that he found Fomushkin there, eating a pie. He stayed for a bit, but as he left he passed by the window and heard her say, ‘Thank God that idiot is gone! Won’t you finish the pie, darling? You can stay the
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