Anatoly Rybakov: THE BRONZE BIRD

The air over the river was moist and cold. The sharp-tipped, closed lily buds were sticking out of the water amid broad green leaves. The bank was wet with dew.

Misha undressed, dived into the icy water and swam to the other bank. He swam across the narrow but deep river three times before he got warm. But when he climbed out on to the bank, he felt cold again. With teeth chattering, he hopped about on one leg for a long time, trying to get the other leg into his trousers.

Looking up he saw two men approaching the river. They were Nikolai Ribalin, the brother of Longshanks, and Kuzmin, an elderly, sullen-looking, bearded peasant from the village. The men were walking to the tiny cove where a few simple village boats were resting motionless on the water.

Nikolai's face broke into a smile when he saw Misha and he gave him a friendly wave of his hand. About twenty-five years of age, tall, thin and bony, he had an old, strapless army greatcoat thrown across his shoulders. But his face, which was also thin and bony, with prominent cheek-bones, a long sharp nose, and thin, pale lips, was good-natured and friendly.

"The water's probably cold for a dip," Nikolai remarked.

"It is," Misha admitted.

For want of something better to do, Misha followed the men to the boats.

Kuzmin had some trouble with the lock. Nikolai rolled a cigarette and silently contemplated Misha. For some reason he was smiling, perhaps because he had met Misha or because the day promised to be fine.

"Nikolai," Misha said, "remember, you promised to help us today at the club."

"Yes," Nikolai said. "I'll be there, but first I have to go to Khalzin Meadow with Sevastyanovich here." "Don't let us down." Kuzmin finally opened the lock and threw the chain down on the bottom of the boat.

Nikolai got into the boat and said:

"Is there any reason why I should let you down? That wouldn't do, would it?"

Kuzmin followed him into the boat and with his foot against the seat pushed off with an oar.

Kuzmin was in a shirt without a belt, hempen trousers, and short, worn boots that resembled overshoes.

That was how Misha remembered him-a sullen-looking, bearded, dishevelled peasant with one foot on the seat of the boat, pushing away from the bank with an oar.

"We'll be waiting for you at the club," Misha called out.

Nikolai smiled again to show that he would keep his word.

After breakfast Genka and the Bleater set out for the station. Korovin went with them-to meet Boris Sergeyevich, the headmaster of the children's home.

Zina Kruglova's section, which was detailed for kitchen duty that day, stayed behind in the camp.

The rest of the children, headed by Misha and Slava, went to the village.

The village sprawled at the foot of a mountain, close to the riverside. The log houses with their board or thatched roofs stood on either side of a long, wide street. White willows grew around the gardens. The rich peasants lived in two-storeyed houses resting on redbrick foundations, while the house of the kulak Yerofeyev was built of brick. Tall, mighty oaks grew here and there in pairs or in groups of three. Yellow shavings were strewn about on the ground near the frameworks of new houses built of fresh-hewn logs.

With the bugler in front, the troop marched down the street and halted before the Village Soviet. Behind it was a long, empty shed. That was the future club.

Attracted by the bugle and the marching troop, village boys and girls came running from all directions. The older children edged in closer, the younger ones kept at a distance; sucking fingers and goggling their eyes, they watched the Young Pioneers, although this was not the first time they had seen them.

Inexplicably, Longshanks was not among them.

"Why haven't you cut any fir branches for the club?" Misha asked.

"We went to the woods in the morning, but he frightened us off with his whirring and chirring," replied a small, black-haired boy who went by the nickname of the Fly.

"Who do you mean?"

"The wood-goblin, of course."

The Young Pioneers burst out laughing.

The Fly looked about him fearfully, then said:

"Don't laugh. It's a sin to laugh."

"You're not afraid to go to the woods for firewood, brushwood or mushrooms, I suppose," put in Kit, who had had to let somebody else do kitchen duty this time.

The Fly nodded.

"But that's another matter. The wood-goblin does not get angry when we do that and keeps silent. But, you see, he won't give, that is, doesn't allow us to take anything for the club."

"We'll do it without his permission," Misha said. "Slava, take your section to the woods and bring back some fir branches, and in the meantime we'll open the library."

They were kept busy for a long time. Some of the children returned the books they had read, others ran home to fetch books, and still others wanted to borrow new books and keep the ones they had already borrowed a little longer. They took even more time choosing the books. Each leafed through his book, then through the one chosen by his neighbour and of course wanted his neighbour's book. Picture-books were in the greatest demand.

Two more boys came up. One of them, fat, big-faced, with a tiny nose, was Senka, son of the kulak Yerofeyev. The second was a tall, lumpish, sixteen-year-old lad known in the village as Blockhead Akimka. He was Senka Yerofeyev's devoted friend and flunkey although he was a poor peasant's son.

"Ah!" Senka shouted. "Young Pioneers, heads full of iron, bodies full of lead, godless devils!" Then with a smile that was at once ingratiating and impudent, he addressed Misha:

"How about letting me have something to read?"

"If you like. But not that one. Vera's taking it."

Misha coolly took the book from Senka's hands and returned it to Vera.

"Think I care, snotty-nosed little girl!" Senka sneered. Then he asked spitefully, "Why are there so few of you? Have the others run away?"

"They're in the camp," Misha replied.

"We've heard that story before," Senka said, turning to Blockhead Akimka. "I'll tell you where they are, they've gone home. You'll never get them back."

"And that makes you happy," the Fly noted reproachfully.

"You shut your mouth!" Senka snarled at the Fly. "You'd better give me back my raft or I'll tear your head off!"

"I never took your raft."

"You're lying. You and Longshanks took it. You don't have your own, so you steal other people's, you bunch of thieves!"

Beginning to guess a thing or two, Misha asked:

"What's this raft you're talking about?"

"Longshanks and the Fly stole my raft," Senka said angrily.

"They stole it, the blackguards, and won't say where they're hiding it. Thieves!"

"Why do you think they did it?"

"Who else? Longshanks is a thief. His brother killed Kuzmin. Murdered him. He'll sweat for it in gaol now."

"What brother? What Kuzmin?" Misha asked, unable to understand what Senka was saying.

With the joyful surprise of a gossip, Senka stared at Misha.

"Haven't you heard?"

"No, I..."

"Well, then, Nikolai, that is, Longshanks' brother, murdered Kuzmin," Senka said, making a terrible face. "Kuzmin was from our village. He was shot. How is it you haven't heard about it? The whole village's been there already. And the doctor came and the militia. They've been taken to town, both the dead Kuzmin and Nikolai, that bandit."

"When did this happen and where?" Misha asked with inexpressible concern.

"This morning. In Khalzin Meadow. Nikolai shot him there and hid the boat somewhere. And he an activist! All of them, activists, are bandits!"

"But where's Longshanks?"

"Search me. At home, I suppose. He's probably ashamed to look people in the eyes and is hiding at home. And you, Young Pioneers and Komsomols, don't know a thing. Come on, Akimka."