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

I began to fidget restlessly, as the priest continued.

‘Here in our church, the beautiful chapel of Saint Hubert occupies one nave. There is already a holy figure on the altar, and soon the chapel will also be adorned by two stained-glass windows. One will show the stag with the radiant cross that, according to legend, Saint Hubert met while hunting. The other window will show the saint himself.’

The congregation turned their heads in the direction indicated by the priest.

‘And the people who initiated this new chapel,’ the priest went on, ‘are our brave hunters.’

All eyes now turned towards the front rows. Mine too – reluctantly. Father Rustle cleared his throat and was plainly getting ready for a very solemn speech.

‘My dear brothers and sisters, hunters are the ambassadors and partners of the Lord God in the work of creation, in caring for game animals, in cooperation. Nature, among which man lives, needs help in order to flourish. Through their culls the hunters conduct the correct policy. They have built and regularly stock’ – at this point he took a discreet peep at his notes – ‘forty-one feeding racks for roe deer, four storage feeders for red deer, twenty-five scatterers to feed pheasants and one hundred and fifty salt-licks for deer…’

‘And when the Animals come to feed they shoot at them,’ I said aloud, and the heads of the people sitting nearest turned reprovingly in my direction. ‘It’s like inviting someone to dinner and murdering them,’ I added.

The children were looking at me with eyes wide open, in terror. They were the same children whom I taught – class 3B.

Busy with his oration, Father Rustle was too far away to have heard me. He stood in the pulpit, tucked his hands into the lacy sleeves of his surplice and raised his eyes to the church vault, where stars painted long ago were starting to peel.

‘In the current hunting season alone they have prepared fifteen tons of concentrated feedstuff for the winter period,’ he went on. ‘For many years our hunting association has been buying and releasing pheasants into the environment, for the purposes of paid shoots for tourists, which supplements the association’s budget. We cultivate the customs and traditions of hunting, with a selection process and oath-taking for new members,’ he said, and there was a note of pride in his voice. ‘We conduct the two most important hunts of the year, on Saint Hubert’s Day, today, and on Christmas Eve, according to tradition and with respect for the rules of hunting. But our chief desire is to experience the beauty of nature, to nurture the customs and traditions,’ he ardently continued. ‘There are still a lot of poachers, who disregard the laws of nature and kill animals in a cruel way with no respect for hunting law. You observe that law. Nowadays, fortunately the concept of hunting has changed. We are no longer seen as people who just want to shoot everything that moves, but as people who care about the beauty of nature; about order and harmony. In recent years our dear hunters have built their own hunting lodge, where they often meet to discuss the topics of culture, ethics, discipline and safety while hunting, and other issues of interest to them…’

I snorted with laughter so loud that now half the church turned to look at me. I was almost choking. One of the children handed me a paper tissue. At the same time I could feel my legs starting to stiffen, and the nasty numbness coming on, which made me move my feet, then my calves – if I didn’t do it, in seconds a terrible force would blast through my muscles. I thought I was having an Attack, and it also occurred to me that it was a very good thing. Yes, quite, if you please, I’m having an Attack.

Now it seemed clear to me why those hunting towers, which do after all bear a strong resemblance to the watchtowers in concentration camps, are called ‘pulpits’. In a pulpit Man places himself above other Creatures and grants himself the right to their life and death. He becomes a tyrant and a usurper.

The priest spoke with inspiration, almost elation: ‘Make the land your subject. It was to you, the hunters, that God addressed these words, because God makes man his associate, to take part in the work of creation, and to be sure this work will be carried through to the finish. The hunters carry out their vocation of caring for the gift from God that is nature consciously, judiciously and sagaciously. May your association thrive, and may it serve your fellow man and all of nature…’

I managed to get out of the row. On strangely stiff legs I walked almost right up to the pulpit.

‘Hey, you, get down from there,’ I said. ‘That’s enough.’

Silence fell, and with satisfaction I heard my voice echoing off the vault and naves, becoming strong; no wonder one could be carried away by one’s own oration here.

‘I’m talking to you. Can’t you hear me? Get down!’

Rustle stared at me with his eyes wide open, terrified, his lips quivering, as if, taken by surprise, he were trying to find something suitable to say. But he couldn’t do it. ‘Well, well,’ he kept saying, not exactly helplessly, nor aggressively.

‘Get down from that pulpit this instant! And get out of here!’ I shouted.

Then I felt someone’s hand on my arm and saw that one of the men in uniform was standing behind me. I pulled away, but then a second one ran up and they both grabbed me firmly by the arms.

‘Murderers,’ I said.

The children were staring at me in horror. In their costumes they looked unreal, like a new half-human, half-animal race that was just about to be born. People began to murmur and fidget in their seats, whispering to each other indignantly, but in their eyes I could also see sympathy, and that enraged me even more.

‘What are you gawping at?’ I cried. ‘Have you fallen asleep? How can you listen to such nonsense without batting an eyelid? Have you lost your minds? Or your hearts? Have you still got hearts?’

I was no longer trying to break free. I let myself be calmly led out of the church, but right by the door I turned and shouted at all of them: ‘Get out of here! All of you! Right now!’ I waved my arms. ‘Go away! Shoo! Have you been hypnotised? Have you lost your last dregs of compassion?’

‘Please calm yourself. It’s cooler here,’ said one of the men once we were outside. Trying to sound threatening, the other one added: ‘Or we’ll call the Police.’

‘You’re right, you should call the Police. There’s an incitement to Crime going on here.’

They left me and closed the heavy door to stop me from coming back into the church. I guessed that Father Rustle was continuing his sermon. I sat down on a low wall and gradually came to. My Anger passed, and the cold wind cooled my burning face.

Anger always leaves a large void behind it, into which a flood of sorrow pours instantly, and keeps on flowing like a great river, without beginning or end. My tears came; once again their sources were replenished.

I watched two Magpies that were frolicking on the lawn outside the presbytery, as if trying to entertain me. As if saying, don’t be upset, time is on our side, the job must be done, there’s no alternative… Curiously they examined a shiny chewing-gum wrapper, then one of them picked it up in her beak and flew away. I followed her with my gaze. They must have had a nest on the presbytery roof. Magpies. Fire-raisers.

Next day, although I had no classes, the young headmistress called and asked me to come to the school that afternoon once the building was empty. Without being asked, she brought me a mug of tea and cut me a slice of apple cake. I knew what was in the wind.

‘I’m sure you understand, Janina, that after what happened…’ she said, sounding concerned.