Volodimir Vladko - Descendants of the Scythians

Though his eyes were still closed, Artem seemed to see the gray waves of the mysterious gas all around, surging and filling up the cave; no, they had already filled it. The waves were floating low above Artem like clouds in the mountains, the cold heavy cumululi of a gloomy, rainy day. That was probably why he had difficulty breathing.

Then he imagined he was again seeing the stalagmites, the huge conic shapes towering all around him like columns or mighty tree trunks… Why trees? In his delirium he thought he had begun hearing that dreadful hissing again, it was driving him mad. Continuous, harassing… Was the,gas coming through the opening? But now the hissing seemed no more than the rustling of leaves. Leaves here? Trees? It was funny what incongruous fantasies beset him!

The young man even made an attempt to smile but failed. Not a single muscle moved. His condition was not unlike that of a person in the grips of a grave illness: he had lost control of his body while retaining the ability to use his senses. Beyond doubt, it was rustling leaves and not hissing gas that Artem heard!

The rustling intensified and then subsided like a light breeze blowing above the forest that makes the tops of the tall trees sway… It would be so nice to wander through such a forest, treading on the soft green grass, big tree trunks all around, singing… Hey, in the forest, in the foooorest, there are two oaks, two oaks, leaning towards each other, each other, like lovers, like lovers …

Why he wanted to sing this particular song he could not say. It must have been the uneven rustling, growing in intensity that suggested the tune and the words… But wait, what kind of leaves could be found deep underground? Ivan Semenovich had said back there, in the subterranean passage, that they were at least two hundred meters below the surface. So what kind of trees could grow at such a depth? Impossible. And yet it was unmistakably leaves rustling in the wind; he could even hear some sort of song — very distant, unfamiliar, monotonous. He could not make out the words, but the tune was there all the same. What a strange phantasm! All right, he could accept that, since delirium can produce far more terrible things.

A song — savage and severe, solemn and slow, moody and monotonous — was coming from very far away. At times it was barely audible, then it could be heard much better, as though gusts of wind were carrying it to him, then dropped it along the way, only to pick it up playfully. What a strange and unfamiliar song! Artem had never in his life heard anything like it. How painfully the sharp stone was pressing into his shoulder! If only he could shift just a little, move his shoulder away just a bit…

Suddenly Artem realized that he had in fact managed to shift his body. The stone was not hurting him any longer. So…

Very slowly and carefully, as though not trusting himself fully, Artem sat up, hoisting himself from the ground with feeble hands; there was still some residual pain in his shoulder. He opened his eyes hesitantly, as one does after a prolonged fit of unconsciousness — and closed them again immediately. Was lie still dreaming? Why this strange, inexplicable light?

He opened his eyes once again, this time extremely cautiously, shading them with his hand, just in case. The light was not from any particular source, but came from all sides; it was the incomprehensible, even light of evening when the westering sun hides behind heavy and dark clouds.

Right in front of him he saw the thick reddish-brown trunk of a tall tree. The bole rose very high up in the air to branch off into boughs and eventually disappear in the wide crown of pinkish-yellow leaves whose color suggested late September and not mid-July. Lush, tall grass grew among the trees… but it was very odd grass, unreal, not at all green but also pinkish-yellow. Everything looked as though the fall had already changed the verdure miraculously into its favorite hues. All the same, even in fall neither leaves nor grass acquire such a pinkish tint! How odd! And where were the stalagmites? And the cave for that matter? Where were the rest?

Artem looked around and saw Lida lying beside him at the foot of a white cliff. She was lying motionless on her back, her eyes closed and seemingly lifeless. Further away on the same cliff, he saw Dmitro Borisovich — also motionless — and close to him, Ivan Semenovich. They seemed to be unconscious. Or… no, he couldn’t even think of the other possibility; that would be too horrible!

Only then did Artem realize that he could still hear the strange song. So he had not dreamt it? No doubt now — this monotonous, stark, moody song was still in the air. But who could be singing it here? And for that matter, where was “here”?

For the next few seconds, he listened thoughtfully to the distant song and then almost * cried out in horror when something touched his shoulder.

“Who’s that? Oh, it’s you, Diana! You sure did give me a fright!”

The dog was standing beside him. She was making sounds of joy and tried to lick Artem’s face.

“Where are we, Diana? What is this place? You don’t know? Me neither.”

The dog rushed to Lida, sniffed at her, then went over to Dmitro Borisovich and the geologist. After that, she returned to Artem and began tugging him at his sleeve as if inviting him to follow her.

uYes, Diana, I would have gone over to them long before if I only could get up! You think I’m sitting here like this for nothing? That I don’t want to know what’s wrong with them or help them? Ah, you don’t know me very well if it’s what you think. However, maybe I’ll try to get up.”

In fact, Artem didn’t feel as weak as he was just a few minutes before. His strength was returning quickly. He rose to his feet and walked unsteadily over to Lida. He stooped over her and touched her hand and forehead. Lida made an almost imperceptible movement; a quiver passed over her lips. ’

“Lida, my dear Lida, my love, wake up! Lida!”

He touched her face with his hand. An arch though weak smile brightened her face.

“My dear and my love?” she said in a low voice, without opening her eyes. “You’re much too sentimental today, my little one!”

She sat up, her movements slow. Her eyes were fastened on the young man who felt greatly embarrassed — he had not thought she would hear him. But he hadn’t said anything special, had he?

Meanwhile Lida took a quick look around and her smile disappeared from her face. She grabbed Artem’s hand.

“Why so much light! Where are we, Artem?”

“I don’t know, Lida. I’m as baffled as you are.”

“Isn’t it a wood?… leaves… and the grass is such an unusual color… It’s all beyond me, Artem!”

“The same here, Lida.”

“Everything’s yellow and pink… Maybe I’m dreaming?” Lida was looking around herself, greatly puzzled, not believing her own eyes.

“How did we get here?”

Artem only shrugged his shoulders — how could he explain anything to her if it was an absolute enigma to him?

“And where are Ivan Semenovich and the archeologist?” Artem pointed in the direction where both the men were lying.

“What’s the matter with them? We must do something!” Lida tried to get to her feet but failed.

“Oh damn!” she said under her breath.

“I was like that at first, too,” Artem said. “Don’t worry, in a few minutes you’ll be quite all right.”

“Artem, I just don’t understand…”

“Neither do I.”

He made a gesture of resignation.

“Where are we?” they suddenly heard the surprised voice of Dmitro Borisovich. “What kind of stage scenery is this? It was rather foolish to paint leaves and grass yellow and pink!”

Then Ivan Semenovich replied: