Anatoly Rybakov: THE BRONZE BIRD

A tall, thin old woman in a black dress and a black shawl was standing at the top of the staircase. Her grey head was bowed, her face furrowed by long wrinkles, her sharp hooked nose bent like the beak of a bird. In the deathly stillness of the neglected estate there was something dismal and weird about this black, motionless figure.

The boys stood as if rooted to the ground.

Finally, the old woman turned, took a few slow steps as though she walked without bending her knees, and disappeared into the house.

"See that?" Misha whispered.

"I could almost feel my blood freezing," Korovin replied, breathing heavily.

The whole troop was assembled when Misha and Korovin got back to camp. The search had been fruitless.

Disappointed, anxious about their lost comrades, tired and worn out, they sat down to a cheerless supper. On top of everything, Kit announced that their food supply was running out and that he doubted if there was enough for the next day.

"Don't judge by your own appetite," Genka remarked. "You can check for yourself," Kit said in a hurt tone of voice. "There's practically no butter left. Nor biscuits. Cereals..."

"Don't worry," Misha said. "Genka and the Bleater will go to Moscow in the morning and bring back supplies."

This time it was Genka who spoke in an injured tone: "Why should I do all the donkey work? You think I like dragging a sackload of provisions in this heat: Besides, the stuff's got to be begged from parents! Some mayn't be at home, others mayn't have prepared anything."

"I'm sending you because you've got experience." "You can bet your boots I have," Genka said with a self-contented grin, stuffing porridge into his mouth. " 'Your Yura's putting on weight. He's got a wolf's appetite. Yesterday he chewed the tail off the landlord's sheep!' That's the kind of approach that makes them cough up. Oh, hell, if only we could have some rich patron! Say a confectionery."

"I'd prefer a sausage factory," Kit sighed with visions of sausages sizzling on a frying-pan. He even screwed up his eyes at the thought.

After supper everybody remained sitting round the fire. Those on kitchen duty were washing the dishes. Moving his lips, Kit was counting the packets of flour and slices of bread. There was a preoccupied look on his face as was always the case when before him there were edibles he could see and feel. Genka and the Bleater were getting the sacks ready for the provisions. To be more exact, the Bleater was doing the work and Genka was issuing instructions and at the same time examining his famous brief-case. Although badly battered, it was real and made of leather with numerous partitions and with shining, nickel-plated locks. Genka was very proud of it. He always took it with him when he went to Moscow for supplies because he thought it impressed the parents he went to see. To make that impression stronger, he would put it on the table while he spoke and keep clicking the locks with an important air.

"Works like magic," he said. "If it weren't for this brief-case, the troop would have died of hunger long ago."

On these expeditions to Moscow, Genka confined himself to swinging his brief-case, while his companion had to carry the sack.

"Look here, Genka," Misha said, "say nothing to Igor's and Seva's parents, but try and find out diplomatically if they have been to Moscow."

"I'll find out, don't worry."

"Only be careful or you'll alarm the parents."

"I told you not to worry, didn't I? I'll ask incidentally like."

"How will you ask?"

"I shan't even do that, but sort of say: your Igor was planning to come home."

"What for?"

"To go to the baths."

"Who'll believe you?"

"You think so? Then I'll say he was planning to come to Moscow for books."

"That's better."

"What if he should be in Moscow," Genka continued, "and his mother says that he's at home? I'll pretend I'm surprised and say that he must have got there before me. If she tells me he's playing in the yard, I'll thank her, of course, but I'll go out and give that Igor a punch he'll remember for a long time."

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Slava remarked.

"No, of course not," Misha agreed, "but they'll have to be taught a lesson. I would have gone myself but," he gave Slava a withering look, "there's nobody I can trust to remain in charge here. So let Genka and the Bleater go."

"I'll go," the Bleater suddenly declared, "but I'm warning you that if Genka makes me carry the sack while he goes about waving his brief-case, I'll chuck everything and come back. So there! I'm telling you straight."

"When have I ever made you carry anything without helping you?" Genka demanded hotly.

"That's always your game!" shouted everyone who had ever gone to town with Genka.

"Not so much noise," Misha said. "You'll carry the sack by turns. Only see that you don't miss the train. Tomorrow," he continued, addressing the troop, "we'll all go to the village. Time we finished the club."

For some time nobody spoke. They were all tired after the excitement of the day.

The dry branches crackled and burned brightly, throwing up sparks that lost themselves in the darkness.

"Listen!" Zina whispered suddenly.

Everybody fell silent and turned in the direction of the woods.

A branch cracked. There was a movement in the trees as though a breeze were rustling the leaves. A deep sigh was heard.

Signing to the troop to remain seated, Misha got up and peered into the darkness of the woods, listening to the strange sounds.

Had Igor and Seva finally returned?

But it was neither Seva nor Igor.

The lad who approached the fire was Vaska Longshanks. He was wearing a white shirt and narrow hempen pants that barely reached his thin, angular knees. He was tall for his age, very thin and scraggy. He lived with his mother and elder brother, Nikolai, in a ramshackle hut on the very edge of the village. His father had been killed in the German war.

Of all the boys in the village, Longshanks was on the friendliest terms with the Komsomols. And in their turn they liked him. He was kind and always ready to lend a helping hand. True, he believed in devils and stuff like that, but he knew the woods and the river and could tell fascinating stories. His elder brother was a carpenter and was helping the troop to fix up the club.

"Oh, it's you," Misha drawled with disappointment.

"It's me, all right," Longshanks said, sitting down by the fire with a good-natured grin.

In. the dancing shadows cast by the fire, the fair, unevenly cut locks (they must have been cut with blunt scissors) on his big head looked even more entangled than usual. He raked up some coals with a twig and said:

"In the village they're saying that two of your Young Pioneers have disappeared."

"Rubbish," Misha replied with forced indifference, "they'll turn up."

Longshanks shook his head doubtfully.

"I wouldn't say that. They might never come back if they've wandered into the Goligin Brushwood Road."

Their interest aroused, the children crowded closer round the fire. "What's this road you're talking about?" Zina asked. "It's a path in the woods made of brushwood. Sometimes you get log-paths," Slava explained. "And they're usually laid across swamps."

"That's right," Longshanks said. "This one was laid across a swamp, too. Only that was long ago and nobody uses it now."

"What was it you wanted to say about this brushwood road?" Genka asked impatiently.

"The Goligin road? Only that if your chaps have gone there they may never come back."

"You mean they'll drown?" Zina Kruglova asked.

"No," Longshanks shook his head, "but they'll see the old count and die."