Volodimir Vladko - Descendants of the Scythians

All of a sudden Artem stopped short, his eyes riveted to a spot at the foot of the wall just two steps away. It might be just another protruding stone, but it looked a bit different from the rest… like an artificial stone cube covered with dirt and dust… What kind of stone could it be? Artem glanced briskly back at the archeologist.

Dmitro Borisovich was pouring some dust into the envelope with great concentration and could not see what Artem was doing, so the younger man immediately set about removing dirt and dust from the rectangular protrusion. The surface was hard and rough… no, it wasn’t a stone and… not just a protrusion either… Artem’s heart began to race. He worked in a mounting frenzy.

“Once again I must remark that you’re prone to lapses of discipline, my dear young man,” Artem heard the archeologist’s voice coming as though from afar. “Did I tell you to take samples at that spot? I must say, you’re very inattentive, my friend, yes, you are, and very undisciplined too!”

Artem swiveled around. Dmitro Borisovich was holding the envelope, packed with dust, and looking at him in disapproval.

“And why are you wearing such a perturbed look on your face?” the archeologist went on to say. “As though you’re contemplating some neck-breaking stunt… or maybe you’re not quite all right and can barely stand?”

Artem took a deep breath and was again able to control himself. But his voice broke when he began to speak:

“Dmitro Borisovich, the thing is… I’ve found one tiny bit of knowledge here. Only I’m afraid it’s a little too big to fit into the envelope…”

Dmitro Borisovich did not suspect anything unusual hidden behind Artem’s seemingly inaffected, even indifferent voice.

“What tiny bit? Which envelope? What kind of claptrap is that, young man?”

“You’ve been talking all the time about some tiny bit of knowledge, right? And here, one such tiny bit has presented itself. It’s rather outsized, though. A sort of a box or something.”

In a twinkling, Dmitro Borisovich was at Artem’s side.

“What? Where? What box?”

“Right here, see for yourself.”

Artem pointed to the mysterious object which he had just been cleaning up. What had emerged was a small square chest, crudely made, embossed with an ornamental design. It was half-hidden in a niche. The bright white light of the lamps revealed the dark, greenish bronze under the dust. Artem looked at Dmitro Borisovich in triumph: what would he say now?

But the archeologist was oblivious of Artem, of his precious envelopes, of all the world. Now only the chest existed for him. He squatted beside it and touched its top as though he were afraid it was hot enough to burn his fingers. His hands trembled; his lips were moving, shaping inaudible words. He was evidently very agitated and overexcited, and Artem sensed it was not the right time for taunting him. It would be sacrilegious.

“Dmitro Borisovich, it’s a real big find, isn’t it? Is it valuable?” he asked in an undertone, feeling the excitement spread through him, too.

It was hardly worth asking since just one look at the archeologist was enough to tell the whole story. He tried hard to control himself but was not very successful. His efforts at constraint were easily visible. Dmitro Borisovich did everything that had to be done, that his long years of archeological experience had taught him to do, but he seemed merely to be going through the motions; his movements were mechanical, almost like that of an automaton. He took his camera out, photographed the chest from various angles, the same procedure as before the stone wall, but the mere fact that he almost dropped the flash twice, stumbled on the even floor, and did not comment his own unusual awkwardness allowed Artem to deduce that he was in a state of extreme agitation and tension. Artem, who kept his eyes glued to the archeologist, said eagerly:

“Can I help you?”

But Dmitro Borisovich did not even hear Artem. He lifted the chest off the ground and held it at the arms’ length as one holds a basin filled to the brim with water. After holding it in this manner for a few moments, he carefully lowered it back to the ground. Then he approached the chest from the other side. His hair was dishevelled; his spectacles lop-sided. But he didn’t see anything or hear anything; he was heedless of everything except for the chest…

Artem could make out a few words Dmitro Borisovich was muttering as though answering some questions he had silently put to himself:

“Yes… by the looks of it… dating to the Scythians… why only bronze?… strange, there’s no iron… hidden away for no one to see… a relic… extraordinary!… a real hiding place!…”

“So you think it’s Scythian?” Artem asked timidly.

But the archeologist was still quite inaccessible. He walked around the chest once again, bending his neck to one side like a hen that is aiming to peck at a seed it has just discovered. He looked at the chest first with one eye, then with the other, half-closing them at times. Then, suddenly rousing himself from his trance, he turned to Artem as though the young man had just appeared.

“Artem, my dear boy, this is quite extraordinary!” he cried out, grabbing the young man by his sleeve. “What stroke of luck brought you here? How did you guess the chest was hidden in precisely this corner?”

Artem shrugged his shoulders, embarrassed: what could he say really? He had just happened upon it; that was all…

But Dmitro Borisovich did not wait for him to answer. He went on speaking with ardor:

“My dear friend, you’ve surely got the luck of the devil on your side! It is doubtless of Scythian origin. And it is equally clear that the chest was placed here on purpose… As to who did it, I’d rather avoid making conjectures at this stage… It was hidden here, and then this recess was sealed off by a stone wall. I believe that solves the mystery of why the wall should be here! Do you follow me? It’s as clear as the fact that we’re standing here and now!”

Now Artem looked at the chest with more than mere curiosity. Other thoughts flooded the young man’s excitable mind.

Long centuries passed, days and nights inexorably following one another. Generations succeded each other. And all this time, the small chest had rested peacefully in the tightly sealed recess of the cave. Many centuries of time had enshrouded the chest; utter stillness had guarded it, and along with that, had lain the secret it concealed. Now, this relic of remote past has been discovered. It would be taken to the surface, and in the bright sunlight, the mysterious chest would yield up its secrets…

“Dmitro Borisovich, what do you think is inside?”

“Inside this chest?” The archeologist glanced at the chest once again and spread his hands in the gesture of helplessness. “I reckon your question could be answered here and now only by a clairvoyant, but even he, in my opinion, wouldn’t be able to make a very definite statement. What’s inside, really? It could be anything. Jewels, or… No, it’s no good racking our brains over it. All the more so, that I, no matter how hard I try, cannot recollect any similar finds made or described in archeology. Some very interesting and important discoveries have been made in the barrows — the ancient burial mounds — finds made during the excavation of ancient settlements. But never anything like this chest…” Dmitro Borisovich stroked the lid gently.

“To find such a bronze chest sitting all by itself in a cave, sealed by a stone wall — no, I’ve never heard of anything like that. Well, all right, soon we’ll know everything. Let’s get moving.”

The archeologist lifted the chest with great care and headed for the hole they had made in the wall.