Anatoly Rybakov: THE BRONZE BIRD

They walked away with a waddling gait, chewing sunflower seeds. Stunned by what he had just heard, Misha watched them in bewilderment. Could Senka have lied to him?

But the Fly murmured dismally:

"It's all true. Nikolai's been arrested and they've taken him away to town. In a cart."

Misha told Slava to take the troop into the club and ran to Longshanks' home.

Only now did Misha notice the excitement in the village.

People were standing in groups and there was a big and noisy crowd near the co-operative shop. By the general animation it was obvious they were discussing the murder. People found it hard to believe that the murderer was Nikolai. There was something mysterious about the whole business. They felt that this kind and friendly young man could not have killed Kuzmin. Misha had seen Nikolai and Kuzmin only a few hours ago and had spoken to them. In his mind's eye he saw them now: Nikolai in the old strapless army greatcoat, Kuzmin in his worn boots pushing off with an oar. The morning had been so peaceful, with the first rays of the sun, a fresh breeze on the river, lilies between green leaves... Misha was sure that Nikolai was not guilty. It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. Nikolai certainly could have had no motive for killing Kuzmin. Misha could not believe it. He remembered how Senka Yerofeyev had gloated over the words, "All activists are bandits."

The Ribalins lived on the edge of the village in a rickety hut with a thatched roof. The ends of the thin rafters stuck out criss-cross over the roof. Two tiny windows gave out on a mound of carried earth. The door, made of boards roughly nailed together, led into a cold passage where hung yokes and bridles although the Ribalins, the poorest of the poor peasants, had neither a horse nor a cow.

"Good morning," Misha said, entering the hut.

Longshanks' mother, Maria Ivanovna, a thin woman with an emaciated face, was lighting a fire in the stove on which stood a black, cast-iron pot. Without straightening up, she turned her head at the sound of Misha's voice, gave him a blank stare and again gave her attention to the stove.

Longshanks also gave Misha an apathetic glance and looked away.

The hard-packed earthen floor bore traces of a broom. The rough deal table was marked with white lines left by the knife it was scraped with. Along the walls there were dark, worn, smooth benches, which had seen service for many a decade. A small, faded icon with two dry twigs beneath it hung in the front corner. On the opposite wall were a portrait of Lenin and a placard depicting a Red Army soldier running his bayonet through all the Whiteguard generals at once: Denikin and Yudenich, Baron Wrangel and Admiral Kolchak. The soldier was a giant of a man, while the generals were puny and evil-looking and they dangled crazily on the bayonet.

"Why aren't you at the club?" Misha asked, sitting down beside Longshanks.

Longshanks looked at his mother and made no reply.

"Let's go," Misha said, indicating the door with his head.

"Our Nikolai's been arrested," Longshanks said, his lips trembling.

"So I heard," Misha replied. "I saw Nikolai and Kuzmin this morning. They were getting into their boat."

Maria Ivanovna, who had been turning the pot with oven prongs, suddenly said:

"They might have quarrelled for all I know. But I don't believe Nikolai killed him. He never harmed a fly. And they had nothing to quarrel about. Nikolai never had a revolver."

She let the oven prongs drop on the floor and covered her face with her hands to hide her tears.

"He was in the army for four years. Just as life was picking up... And now this terrible thing, this terrible misfortune."

Shaking with grief, she repeated, "This is terrible, terrible."

"You must go to town and see a lawyer," Misha said.

Maria Ivanovna wiped her eyes with her apron.

"Lawyers cost money. Where are we to get it from?"

"You don't need money. You can get free legal advice in town. At the House of the Peasant. Besides, I'm sure Nikolai will be acquitted. You'll see."

Maria Ivanovna sighed heavily and again turned to her pots and oven prongs.

Misha gazed at her hunched back, the thin, weary back of a woman farm labourer, at the silent Longshanks, at the humble furnishings in the poor hut, and his heart contracted with pity and compassion for these people who had been struck unexpectedly by such terrible grief. Although Misha did not for a moment doubt that Nikolai was innocent and that he would be released, he realized how difficult it was for Maria Ivanovna and Longshanks. They were alone in the world, ashamed to face the people in the village.

"The militiaman," Maria Ivanovna said, "asked Nikolai, 'Did you kill him?' 'No, I didn't.' 'Who did?' 'I don't know.' 'Strange you don't.' 'I don't, that's the truth. We measured the meadow and then I left.' 'Why did you go off alone?' 'Because Kuzmin went on to the Khalzan.'"

"What's this Khalzan?" Misha asked.

"A small river," Longshanks explained. "More like a creek. And the meadow is called Khalzin."

"Well, and Nikolai," Maria Ivanovna continued, "says to him, 'Kuzmin went on to the Khalzan. He's got some fish-baskets there. I had almost reached the village when I saw people running to fetch me. They said Kuzmin had been killed. I ran back with them and indeed there was Kuzmin lying dead.' 'Who shot him?' 'I don't know.' 'Where's the boat?' 'I don't know.' And instead of finding out what's what the militiaman says, 'You're clever at making up stories.' "

Misha tried to picture the meadow, the dead Kuzmin, Nikolai, the crowd milling round them, the militiaman. Perhaps bandits were lurking in the woods. Misha thought of Igor and Seva. Had they been killed too? He put the thought out of his mind.

Misha did not want to leave Longshanks and Maria Ivanovna alone, but Korovin and his headmaster had probably come from the station already. He had to return to the camp.

"The main thing is not to worry," he said, getting up, "everything will clear up. Nikolai will be back in a day or two. I'm sure he was only taken to town as a witness."

"No," Maria Ivanovna sighed, "you won't prove the truth so quickly."

The headmaster of the children's home, Boris Sergeyevich, turned out to be quite a young man. Tall, round-shouldered, he was in a Red Army tunic, cavalry riding-breeches and dusty brown boots. But what surprised Misha was that a military-looking man like him should wear glasses. That jarred somehow.

The glasses made the young headmaster appear stern, even crusty, He cast a sidelong and, as Misha thought, disapproving glance at the tents, as though he did not like the camp and everything about it. That touched Misha to the quick. His appointment as leader had made him testy. It seemed to him that adults treated him with a patronizing manner and not at all as though he were a real troop leader. Avoiding Boris Sergeyevich's eyes, he went on reprimanding Zina for allowing her section to be late with the dinner. Boris Sergeyevich might be a headmaster, but he, Misha, was a leader, the leader of the troop and the head of this camp.

On the way to the manor, Misha became convinced that nothing the headmaster saw here pleased him. Boris Sergeyevich missed nothing and his silence was so meaningful that Misha felt as if he were to blame for the neglected state of the manor grounds.

They saw the "countess" the moment they turned into the central walk. She was standing motionless on the porch, her head held high, in the same poise Misha and Korovin had seen her when they had watched her from the stables. She seemed to be waiting for them and it certainly required nerve to go up close to that statuelike figure.