Ольга Токарчук - Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead

As usual, I laid a stone on the grave. There were already quite a number of these stones in my graveyard. Here lay: an old Tomcat, whose carcass I found in the cellar when I bought this house, and a She-Cat, semi-feral, who died after giving birth along with her Little Ones. A Fox, killed by forest workers who claimed it was rabid, several Moles and a Deer from last winter mauled to death by Dogs. Those are just some of the Animals. The ones that I found dead in the forest, in Big Foot’s snares, I merely moved to another spot, so that at least someone could feed on them.

From the graveyard, nicely situated by the pond, on a very gentle hillside, I think the entire Plateau was on view. I’d like to lie here too, and take care of everything from here, for ever.

Twice a day I made the effort to go on a tour of my estate. I had to keep an eye on Luftzug, as I had agreed to do so. I would go in turn to each of the houses left in my care, and finally I’d climb the hill as well to take in our entire Plateau at a single glance.

From this perspective, things could be seen that weren’t visible at close range: round here, in winter, the prints in the snow documented every move. Nothing could escape this register – as diligently as a chronicler, the snow recorded the footsteps of Animals and people, and immortalised the infrequent tracks of car wheels. I’d carefully inspect our roofs, in case a cornice of snow had formed that might later tear off a gutter or – God forbid – come to a halt against the chimney, get stuck at some point and slowly melt, letting water trickle under the roof tiles and into the house. I’d carefully inspect the windows to check they were intact, and that I hadn’t neglected anything during my previous visit, or left a light on, perhaps; I’d also monitor the yards, doors, gates, sheds and wood stores.

I was the caretaker for my neighbours’ properties while they devoted themselves to winter jobs and amusements in the city – I spent the winter here for them, protected their houses against the cold and damp, and minded their fragile possessions. In this way I relieved them of taking part in the Darkness.

Unfortunately, my Ailments were once again making their presence known. In fact they always intensified as a result of stress and other unusual occurrences. Sometimes all it took was a disturbed Night’s sleep for everything to start tormenting me. My hands would shake, and I’d feel as if a current were coursing through my limbs, as if an invisible electric net were wrapped around my body and someone were inflicting minor Punishments on me, at random. And then a sudden, painful cramp would seize my shoulder or my legs. Now I could feel my foot going entirely numb, stiffening and tingling. As I walked, I dragged it behind me, limping. And there was more: for months my eyes had never ceased to water; my tears would flow for no reason, out of the blue.

I decided that today, despite the pain, I’d go up the slope and survey the world from above. Everything was sure to be in its place. Maybe that would calm me down, loosen my throat, and I’d feel better. I wasn’t at all sorry about Big Foot. But as I was passing his cottage from afar, I thought of his dead hobgoblin’s body in the coffee-coloured suit, and then the bodies of all my acquaintances came to my mind, alive and happy in their homes. And I thought of myself too, of my foot, and of Oddball’s thin, wiry body; it all seemed shot through with appalling sorrow, quite unbearable. As I gazed at the black-and-white landscape of the Plateau I realised that sorrow is an important word for defining the world. It lies at the foundations of everything, it is the fifth element, the quintessence.

The scenery that opened before me was composed of shades of black and white, and of trees woven together in lines along the boundaries between the fields. In places where the grass had not been cut, the snow had failed to blanket the fields in a uniform plane of white. Blades of grass were poking through its cover; from a distance it looked as if a large hand had begun to sketch an abstract pattern, by practising some short strokes, fine and subtle. I could see the beautiful geometric shapes of fields, strips and rectangles, each with a different texture, each with its own shade, sloping at different angles towards the rapid winter Dusk. And our houses, all seven, were scattered here like a part of nature, as if they had sprung up with the field boundaries, and so had the stream and little bridge across it – it all seemed carefully designed and positioned, perhaps by the very same hand that had been sketching.

I too could have sketched a map from memory. On it our Plateau would have the shape of a fat crescent moon, enclosed on one side by the Silver Mountains – a fairly small, fairly low range that we share with the Czech Republic – and on the other, Polish side, by the White Hills. There is only one settlement on it – ours. The village and the town lie below, to the north-east, just like all the rest. The difference in levels between the Plateau and the rest of the Kłodzko Valley isn’t great, but it’s enough for one to feel slightly higher up here, looking at everything from above. The road climbs laboriously from below, and fairly gently from the north, but the descent from the Plateau on the eastern side ends quite steeply, which in winter can be dangerous. During harsh winters the Roads Authority, or whatever that agency is called, closes this road to traffic. And then we drive down it illegally, at our own risk. Assuming we have good cars, of course. In fact I’m talking about myself. Oddball only has a moped, and Big Foot had his own two feet. We call this steep stretch the Pass. There’s also a stony precipice nearby, but anyone who thinks it’s a natural feature would be mistaken, for it’s the remains of an old quarry, which used to take bites out of the Plateau and would surely have consumed the whole thing eventually in the avid mouths of its diggers. They say there are plans to start it up again, at which point we shall vanish from the face of the Earth, devoured by Machines.

Over the Pass, a dirt road that’s only drivable in summer leads to the village. To the west our road joins another, bigger one, but not yet the highway. On this road lies a village that I like to call Transylvania, because of its general atmosphere. There’s a church, a shop, some broken ski lifts and a youth club. The horizon is high, so eternal Dusk prevails there. That’s my impression of the place. At the very end of the village there’s a side road as well, leading to the Fox farm, but I prefer not to go in that direction.

Past Transylvania, just before the slip road onto the motorway, we have a sharp bend on which accidents often occur. Dizzy named it Ox Heart Corner, because he once saw a box of offal fall off a lorry coming from the slaughterhouse that belongs to a local bigwig, and cows’ hearts were spilled across the road; or so he claims. I find it rather a gruesome story, and I’m not convinced that he didn’t just imagine the whole thing. Dizzy tends to be oversensitive on some topics. The surfaced road connects the towns in the Valley. On a fine day, from our Plateau the road is visible, and so are Kudowa and Lewin threaded along it, and far off to the north you can even see Nowa Ruda, Kłodzko and Ząbkowice, which before the war was called Frankenstein.

Now that world is far away. I usually drove my Samurai to town across the Pass. Beyond it, one could turn left and drive up to the border, which meandered capriciously, making it easy to step across it without noticing. I have often crossed it inadvertently when out that way on my daily rounds. But I also liked to cross it on purpose, deliberately stepping to and fro. A dozen times, or several dozen times. I’d amuse myself like that for half an hour, playing the game of crossing the border. It gave me pleasure, because I could remember the time when it wasn’t possible. I love crossing borders.