Anatoly Rybakov - THE BRONZE BIRD

Some two kilometres farther, their path was blocked by a big rock.

It was a lonely rock, a huge boulder unexpectedly sticking out in this comparatively flat countryside. Big, moss-overgrown stones lay at its base, but immediately beyond it, the stream disappeared as though it had gone underground.

The boys scrambled up to the top of the rock. In the darkish haze of the misty day they saw before them the monotonous and dreary panorama of a boundless plain. There were fields whichever way they looked. Even if they were to assume these fields were a steppe, there was nothing in them that could be described as a kurgan.

"There must be a kurgan somewhere here," Genka declared emphatically.

"Not that I can see," Slava said.

"That means we've got to push on."

Slava pointed to the foot of the rock.

"Look, the stream ends there. Perhaps the Khalzan flows from under this rock and has its source here. Where then are we to go?"

For a few moments, the boys stood silently on the top of the rock. The wind fell now and then only to rise again, howling and whistling.

Finally, Misha said:

"You're wrong, Slava. I've looked at a map. The Khalzan's source is much farther. Evidently, it grew very shallow here or flows under the ground and comes to the surface somewhere behind this rock."

Genka seized at the idea:

"That's right. Perhaps the treasure is buried close by."

"But where's your kurgan?" Slava asked.

"That's a boner. I forgot all about it."

"If we push on," Misha continued, "we'll definitely strike the Khalzan again. But... but the trouble is that the former Karagayevo estate ends here, at this rock. Remember the map at the museum? According to it, the count's lands lay between the Utcha and the Khalzan. Obviously, he buried the diamond in his own land. But there's not a single kurgan on the estate. That is the trouble." Then Misha sadly added, "Slava's right. There's no point going any farther."

Feeling uncomfortable because he had proved to be right, Slava suggested:

"It's quite possible that the count meant a burial-ground and not a burial-mound eagle."

But no cemetery could be seen from the top of the rock.

The failure disheartened the boys. Had they been mistaken about the eagle as well? Tuesday was coming to a close. The man in the green suit would arrive tomorrow and they had found nothing.

There was news for them at the camp. Boris Sergeyevich had come from Moscow bringing with him an order authorizing the transfer of the estate to the commune. He was accompanied by Korovin and two other boys-future members of the commune-from the children's home.

This was exciting news! They had won the estate after all! Misha ran to find Boris Sergeyevich. But he only found Korovin. Boris Sergeyevich was at the Village Soviet.

Korovin and the two boys with him were measuring one of the sheds with a tape measure.

"So you got the place in spite of everything?" Misha said, greeting them.

Korovin sniffed, then replied:

"Naturally. We've taken it over and that's all there is to it. The Commissariat for Public Education gave the order."

"What about the house?"

"It's ours as well. Only the old woman asked Boris Sergeyevich to wait until Thursday."

"What for?"

"She's probably got some reason. She asked Boris Sergeyevich to wait, that's all I know. Boris Sergeyevich agreed. He offered her a job in the commune. Said, let her work."

'"What did she say to that?"

"Nothing."

"Will she stay?"

"Where would an old woman like her go?"

"Why did she ask to put off the transfer until Thursday?" Misha said, pressing his question.

"I don't know." Korovin shrugged his shoulders. "Come on, fellows, pull that tape. We've got to finish with the sheds today and start measuring the land tomorrow."

The orphanage boys resumed their work.

Misha knew very well why the old woman was delaying the transfer of the house. She was waiting for Karagayev to ask his advice: perhaps something of value had to be smuggled out of the house.

But Misha said nothing about his suspicions either to Korovin or to Boris Sergeyevich. All he asked Boris Sergeyevich, when the latter returned from the Village Soviet, was:

"How did you manage to get the better of Serov?"

"Oh that fellow Serov!" Boris Sergeyevich shook his head. "Awl!"

"What awl?"

"The one who wrote about you in the papers."

"So it was him?"

"None other. Just an ordinary grafter. The kulaks were opposed to the commune. They realized they would have to return the land they had seized and so they bribed Serov. For a bribe he issued a safeguard for the manor-house although it has no historical value whatever. He's been thrown out of the Gubernia Department of Public Education."

"So that's it!" Misha drawled. "It was all Yerofeyev's doing. I suspected the 'countess.'"

Boris Sergeyevich shrugged his shoulders.

"The 'countess'... She too had an interest in that. Evidently she wanted to keep the manor-house for her former master. She brought Yerofeyev and Serov together. The point is that Serov's wife is her sister."

Only now did Misha realize who Serov's wife had reminded him of. The "countess"! They were as like as two peas. Only one was older and the other younger.

How lucky for him that he had not given in to Serov's persuasions and threats. If he had he would only have been helping the kulaks and the former landowners. But he had sized up Serov immediately, had felt his insincerity and animosity. That showed that he, Misha, had political intuition. Hadn't he sized up Yerofeyev as well and hadn't he at once realized what the kulaks were after? Of course, it was all much more complicated than he thought. There was a chain here: Serov, Yerofeyev, the "countess," the boatman, Karagayev... Possibly each had a purpose of his own, but they were united by common interests. And, obviously, all this had a connection with Kuzmin's murder and with the charge against Nikolai Ribalin.

Ought he to tell all this to Boris.Sergeyevich?

It was important for Boris Sergeyevich to know that the former owner of the estate had reappeared. But what if the man in the green suit was not the count's son, was not Karagayev? The boys had made so many mistakes already. Misha was afraid of making any more mistakes, of having people think he was talking nonsense. The best plan would be to wait until tomorrow and make sure the man was really the count. He could inform Boris Sergeyevich after that.

"Don't forget," he said, "that Yerofeyev and the other kulaks will never reconcile themselves to the commune."

Boris Sergeyevich laughed.

"We're not counting on their sympathy. We don't need it. And we're not afraid of them. It is they who are afraid of us. They know perfectly well that they will have to part with what they had seized by means of various unlawful transactions. We shall not allow them to throw their weight about in the village. They know that and that is why they are and will continue resisting. If you like you can watch them for yourself today."

"What's on today?"

"There will be a meeting this evening. Come and bring your troop. You'll learn something about the class struggle."

The troop arrived at the meeting in full strength. Everybody was interested. Besides, the meeting was taking place in the club, which, they felt, was theirs to some extent. They had built it.

Ordinarily only men attended the meetings, but this meeting attracted the entire village: men, women and children. It was stuffy in the club, but many of the people wore their sheepskin jackets and felt boots. A cloud of blue tobacco smoke hung beneath the wooden rafters. There was no ceiling. Actually, it was nothing but a big shed.