Volodimir Vladko - Descendants of the Scythians

Dmitro Borisovich illustrated his story picking up the pencil, the lamp and the pickaxe from the ground with deft, swift movements. Artem watched him, not quite comprehending what the archeologist was driving at.

“So, he grabs one thing after the other, runs his fingers over it, makes many other hurried movements, quite in accordance with his effusiveness. He puts the sword back so that he can enjoy examining the jug, then he puts the jug aside when he thinks of the even greater beauty of the vase. At last, he chooses the most valuable thing of all… or even decides to take all of them to impress his friends even more. He returns and then it occurs to him that besides the things themselves, the very order in which these things were lying could be of a significant scientific interest. It is a well-known principle that the original arrangements of things in a find can tell the archeologist much more than the things themselves. It can reveal details of the ancient people’s everyday life, the meaning they attached to different things, plus much more. But in our case, unfortunately, the original arrangement of the things has been altered… It happened right at the moment when the young man began picking up the valuable vase… What’s more, in his excitement, he has trampled into the ground all sorts of shards and other tiny but important details. If they had been studied, they might have revealed a few more details about the ancients’ everyday life…”

Dmitro Borisovich gave Artem a sideways glance. The young man lowered his head abjectly, and was staring at his boots in dejection. Now he understood only too well what the archeologist was driving at!

“Dmitro Borisovich! I’ve found nothing! I’ve disarranged nothing! I’ve trampled nothing into the ground,” the young man made a feeble attempt at putting forward an excuse.

“Oh, I’m amazed, Artem, I’m amazed at how perceptive you are! I haven’t uttered a word that could suggest that it was you I had in mind describing a rash young man. And you’ve been so quick in making the right guess. Bang — and there you are. Oh, yes, you are right in saying that you’ve found nothing, that you’ve trampled nothing into the ground, that you’ve violated nothing… except discipline. Yes, I grant you that. But what if you had found something? Wouldn’t you have acted in the way I’ve just described? Can you, my dear friend, be absolutely sure you woudn’t? Be honest now!”

“No, I’m not sure,” Artem had to admit.

“That means?”

“That means that it could have happened just the way you described. Or rather, I’m almost sure it would have happened that way.”

“I appreciate your honesty.”

“But, Dmitro Borisovich, I haven’t found anything, really, except, maybe for…”

Artem stopped mischievously. The archeologist looked up.

“Except for what?”

’’Except for this stone wall.”

“What?”

The archeologist sprang to his feet.

“Where? Which kind of stones?”

Artem pointed silently to the rough masonry and shone the lamp on it. Jagged outline of roughly hewn stones with barely visible joints emerged from darkness.

“The wall? Yes, that’s a wall, no mistaking it. The masonry probably dates back to antiquity,” Dmitro Borisovich muttered to himself, his excitement mounting as he ran his fingers over the stones. A profound change had come over him: he was a different man. His lecturing stance disappeared, and the quiet composure of an accomplished scholar was gone now! He alternately stood on tiptoe, squatted, leaned this way and that, examining the joints, and then, as if remembering something, he would step back suddenly to get an overall look at the stones, shining his lamp on them.

Artem looked at the archeologist at first with respect, then with bewilderment, and finally, in amazement, even mixed with scorn. After a while, the young man chuckled slyly and screwed up his eyes: his turn had come at last! He began speaking, carefully weighing the rhythm of his words:

“And now this overzealous, but no longer… er… young man has found something… or maybe somebody else has pointed out this ‘something’ to him. It doesn’t really matter. The main thing is — he has seen something interesting,” Artem went on, mimicking the archeologist’s mocking voice of a short while ago. “He is excited, this not very young, or rather quite elderly man. He examines the find, a wall, for instance. He touches it here and there, almost dancing in his archeological rapture. And note, that in his mindless dancing this elderly but overactive man tramples the ground all around the find, quite oblivious of the fact that in the ground there can be some very important… Ouch! Dmitro Borisovich! Please! I won’t do it any more! Just a little joke! Please!”

Artem was writhing in an attempt to free the ear that had suddenly been caught in the vice-like grip of the archeologist’s strong fingers.

“Dmitro Borisovich, I’ve stopped, you hear? Let go!”

“All right, I’ll forgive you, but only because you’ve shown me this wall. All the same, Artem, you’re much too impudent! How dare you mimic your elders? It’s not at all appropriate! Obviously, Ivan Semenovich hasn’t taught you anything about discipline. But in the present circumstances there are more important matters to discuss. This wall is quite extraordinary! Why don’t you tell me about it straight away? Why not? Answer me!”

“Dmitro Borisovich, it was you who kept talking, all I could do was keep my mouth shut and listen,” Artem said, carefully massaging his sore ear.

“Now you’ve got the cheek to blame me for not letting you talk?”

“No, it’s not that… just didn’t get the chance…”

“It’s no good, I repeat, no good. But we’ll talk about it later. Now, take the lamp and shine it over here.”

For some time Dmitro Borisovich ran his agile fingers along the joints between the stones. One was reminded of the sure, deft movements of a surgeon during an operation. At last, the archeologist whistled triumphantly, stopped his search and gave the young man a meaningful glance.

“Artem, this wall promises a lot of discoveries. I’m quite sure of it. Now we’ll try to get to the other side, just you and I. You’ve earned it. We’ll start in a moment!”

Artem held his breath — was this really happening to him? But the archeologist added:

“Before we do anything else, we must photograph the wall the way it is now. You can’t touch it before it’s photographed.”

Then, his composure restored, the archeologist prepared his small camera, equipped with a flash. After taking pictures from various angles, he approached the wall again.

“Now,” he said with satisfaction, “we can try to dig through it.”

Artem looked at the archeologist apprehensively:

“Dmitro Borisovich, you won’t be charged with having committed archeological sacrilege, will you?”

“Why should I be?”

“Well, they’ll say you’ve started digging through the wall without special permission. It was you yourself who told me that once.”

“Yes-yes-yes, I did tell you!” Dmitro Borisovich interrupted the young man. “What kind of archeologist would I be if I didn’t have a valid archeological license with me for the duration of the vacations?”

“What kind of license?”

“An authorization granted by the state to carry out any archeological excavations I see fit. See? And I’ve got the permit right here in my pocket. So now, young man, get your pickaxe ready,” ordered the archeologist curtly.

“Yes, sir. I’m not sure though I’ll be able to remove any of these stones. This mortar or whatever it is must have hardened into stone…”

“All right, we’ll see. Shove the pointed end under this stone…”