Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

They made it back to the izba. Ugh… What a vision he'd had… and his little izba wasn't exactly a terem, to put it mildly. The serf put the baskets down in the snow. He laughed. Benedikt unfastened his pay: a string of mice. Disrespect showed on the serf's face, he was sure of it. And right away the conversation went sour.

The serf said: "Who do you serve?"

Benedikt gnashed his teeth. "Serve, what do you mean, serve? I'll give you serve! I'm a state worker. And I don't serve."

The serf replied: "Who's the food for?"

Benedikt: "Who for? Me! I've got my own place! I'm going to eat now!"

The serf: "Yeah, sure. It's all yours."

He took the pay, blew his nose on the snow, right next to Benedikt's boot, and walked off.

What can you expect from a serf? A serf is a serf!!! He should catch him, take back the mice, sock him in the nose, kick him for good measure, for the Freethinking!… The swine!!! Benedikt was about to take off, but he was afraid to leave the baskets alone: Golubchiks had begun coming over to look at the food. Ugh. He spat, and lugged the baskets into the izba.

That rat, that cockroach turd, he hinted that Benedikt wasn't Benedikt, but someone's serf like him, that he didn't buy all that food for himself, but for his master, and his izba wasn't an izba, but a little shack, a cage. Some kind of storage hut… That his dreams were empty. So you want a sleigh for yourself, do you? No, he couldn't leave it be! Catch the bastard quick, give him a kick in the ass. Benedikt ran out on the street and looked around. The serf was gone, like he'd never been there… Maybe he'd just imagined him?

He went back into the cooled, chill twilight of the izba. How time had flown. What with one thing and another, the sun was already setting. He felt the stove: it was cold. But it shouldn't be, right? He opened the damper-so that was it… Thieves had been there. They'd gone and filched his coals. Nothing but cold ash. What can you do…

Suddenly everything was dull and boring. He didn't want any of it anymore. He sat down on the stool. He got up. He opened the door, stood there, leaning against the door jamb. Something sour rose in his chest and he felt weak. It was already dark. The middle of the day and it was evening; that's winter for you. The pale sunsetting sky, tree branches etched against it like you drew them with coals. The nests looked like tangles of hair. A rabbit flitted by. Below, the sad blue of the snow ridges, hillocks, drifts. The dilapidated black pickets of the fence sticking up like an old comb. It was still visible, but when the sunset went out you wouldn't be able to see anything at all in the pitch dark. The stars would come out, their milky, feeble light would pour across the vault of the sky as though someone were mocking him, or didn't care, or these heavenly lights weren't meant for us: What can you see in their dim, dead twinkling! That's it, they're probably not meant for us!…

That's the way it always is! Like someone went and cut a tiny little sliver of boundless nature out for us, for people: here you go, Golubchiks, a little bit of sun, a bit of summer, some tulip flowers, a tiny bit of greengrass, a few small birds thrown in for spare change. And that's enough. But I'll hide all the other creatures, I'll wrap them in the night, cover them in darkness, stick them in the forest and under the ground like a sleeve, I'll bury them, starlight's enough for them, they're just fine. Let them rustle, scamper, squeak, multiply, live their own lives. And you, well, go and catch 'em if you can. You caught some? Eat your fill. And if you didn't, do the best you can.

Benedikt sighed deeply. He even heard his own sigh. There it goes again. A kind of splitting in his head again. Everything was just fine: simple, clear, happy, he was full of all kinds of nice dreams, and then suddenly it was like someone came up behind him and scooped all the happiness out of his head… Like they plucked it out with a claw…

It must be the Slynx, that's what! The Slynx is staring at his back!

Benedikt felt sick with fear from the evil, from the feeling of something rising in his throat. He slammed the door shut without waiting until the sun went down, without inhaling the raw, blue, evening air; he hooked the door in a hurry, shut the bolt; slipped in the dank dark of the izba on the curds he had bought; and even forgot to cuss. He made it to the bed and lay down quickly, his legs numb.

His heart was pounding. The Slynx… that's what it was. That's what. Not any of this feelosophy. The old saying is right: the Slynx is staring at your back!

It's out there, in the branches, in the northern forests, in the impenetrable thickets-it wails, turns, sniffs, lifts one paw at a time, flattens its ears, picks… and it has chosen!… Softly, like a terrible, invisible Kitty, it jumps from the branches, treading delicately, crawling under the storm kindling, under the heaps of sticks and thorny branches, leaping over the gray, overgrown moss, the dry rot piled up by blizzards! Crawling and leaping, lithe and long; it turns its flat head from side to side so's not to miss or lose the trail: far away in a poor izba, on the bed, filled with blood warm as kvas, Benedikt lies and trembles, staring at the ceiling.

Closer and closer to the house… Out there where snow blankets the land, dusts the ravines, where the blizzard stands like a wall, where a snowy whirlwind rises from the fields, there it is: it flies in the blankets of snow, twists in the blizzard! Its paws won't leave a trace on the snow, it won't frighten a single courtyard dog, nor trouble any household creatures!

Closer and closer-its invisible face grimaces, its claws quiver. It's hungry, famished! It's tormented, tormented! Slyyyy-nnnxxx!

Now it creeps up to the dwelling, closes its eyes, the better to hear, now it will pounce on the rickety roof, on the chilled chimney; now it has tensed its muscles…

There was a sudden knocking and rapping at the door. Knock, knock, knock. Benedikt leaped up as though he'd been hit with a stick, and screamed out loud: Nnnnooooooo!

"Oh, are you busy, Golubchik? Then I'll come by later," said a wonderfully familiar voice from behind the door: Nikita Iva-nich. The Lord sent him… the Lord sent him!

Benedikt lay in bed with a fever for a week-shamed and chagrined. Just like a little kid. The old man tended the fire for him, baked the sweet rolls, and gave him hot water to drink. Together they ate up all the food. So much for the New Year Holiday. It came and went as though it never happened. What a pity, they missed everything! The Golubchiks had a grand old time, they danced and sang songs, lit candles like the Decree said, and drank rusht. After the holiday, as usual, there were more injuries and cripples in the town. You'd walk along the street and you could tell right away: there had been a holiday and a lot of merrymaking. Here a guy knocked about on crutches, there another had a black eye or a huge bruise on the side of his head.

Recuperated now, Benedikt pined: life had passed him by. That's the way it always was! What a shame, it was so disappointing. Hadn't he prepared, hadn't he used his brain to approach the whole affair? Hadn't he caught mice and traded them for provisions? He'd lived in anticipation of the bright, joyous event for two whole weeks: guests, candles, music!

What is life made up of, anyway? Work and cold, the wind whistling in the trees! Right? How often does a holiday come along?

But he had to go and catch a cold. Maybe he overdid things. Or maybe it was hunger, or something he ate in the Food Izba- who knows?-and he fell into a fever, and where have those golden days gone now?

But Nikita Ivanich said that Benedikt had a newrottick. Well, whatever. Maybe he's got one and maybe he doesn't, maybe it's rotten and maybe it isn't, but what can you do-some people just never have any luck. Only it's so frustrating it makes you want to cry.