Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

Our town, our home sweet homeland, is called Fyodor-Kuzmichsk, and before that, Mother says, it was called Ivan-Porfirichsk, and before that Sergei-Sergeichsk, and still before that Southern Warehouses, and way back when- Moscow.

When he was small, Benedikt's father taught him all kinds of handiwork. Making a stone ax was a chore. But he could do it. He could build an izba-dovetailed, beveled, any old way you like. He knew how to build a bathhouse and heat the stones. True, his father didn't like to wash. Bears, he'd say, live just fine without any baths. But Benedikt liked it. He'd crawl into the bathhouse, into the warm insides, splash egg kvas on the rocks for the smell, steam up some elfir branches, and give his backside a good thrashing.

Benedikt knew how to dress skins, cut a rabbit into rawhide strips, stitch a cap-he was good with his hands. But just try catching one of those rabbits. By the time you're ready to throw a stone at her- poof! She's flown away. So most clothes are made from mouse skins, and that's not as good. Everyone knows that you can cut something from a big piece, but you can't keep your teeth warm with a mouse skin.

In short, he could do anything around the house. And that's how it should be. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, had declared: "Household Work Is Everybody's Business-Figure It Out Yourself." Benedikt's father chopped timber right up to his death throes and was thinking about setting Benedikt up in the trade. But Benedikt wanted to try for the Stokers. It was tempting. A Stoker is honored and respected, everybody takes off his hat to a Stoker-but he doesn't bow to anyone himself, he just walks on by, all proud and conceited.

And how can you argue? Where would we be without fire? Fire feeds us, fire warms, fire sings us songs. If fire dies out, we might as well lie down on our beds and put the stones on our eyes. They say there was a time when people didn't have fire. I low did they live? They just did, crawling around in the darkness like blind worrums. It was Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, who brought fire to people. Oh, Glorybe! We would be lost without Fyodor Kuzmich, whew, we'd be goners! He fixed up or invented just about everything we have. That smart head of his is always worrying about us, thinking thoughts for us! Fyodor Kuzmich's terem rises high, covers the sun with its dome. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, never sleeps, he just paces back and forth stroking his fluffy beard, fretting about us Golubchiks: do we have enough to eat, are we drunk, are we upset or hurt? We have Lesser Murzas, but Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, is the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live. Who thought up sleighs? Fyodor Kuzmich. Who got the idea to carve wheels out of wood? Fyodor Kuzmich. He taught us to make stone pots, catch mice and make soup. He gave us counting and writing, letters big and small, taught us to tear off bark, sew booklets together, boil ink from swamp rusht, split sticks for writing and dip them in the ink. He taught us how to make boats-scrape out logs and put them on the water-he taught us to hunt the bear with a spike, to take out the bladder, stretch it on spikes, and then cover the windows with it so there's light in the window even in winter.

Only don't try to take any bear skins or bear meat for yourself: the Lesser Murzas keep watch. A simple Golubchik has no business wearing bear skin. You have to understand: How can a Murza ride in a sleigh without a fur coat? He'd freeze solid. But we run around on foot, we're warm, if you don't watch out you'll go and unbutton your coat, you're so steamed up. But silly thoughts sometimes get stuck in your head and dig in. I'd like to have a sleigh too, and a fur coat, and… And that's all Free-thinking.

Yes, Benedikt really wanted to try for the Stokers. But Mother was against it. It was the Scribes and nothing else for her. Father was pushing him toward timber, Mother pushed the Scribes, and he himself dreamed of swaggering down the middle of the street, his nose in the air, pulling a fire pot behind him on a string with sparks spilling from the holes. It wasn't heavy work: you get the coals from the Head Stoker, Nikita Ivanich, drag them home, light the stove, and then sit and stare out the window. In no time a neighboring Golubchik comes knocking, or someone from the Outskirts far off comes wandering by: "Father Stoker, Benedikt Karpich, let us have a bit of fire! That idiot over there wasn't watching, and my stove went out. And we were just about to fry up a batch of pancakes, what can you do…"

So you frown, grunt a bit like you just woke up, take your time tearing your rear end away from the bed or the stool, stretch out sweet-like- stre-e-e-e-etch! -scratch your head, spit, and pretend to be mad: "That's the way everything goes with you! Assholes. Can't tend a fire… Can't keep enough coals around for all of you Golubchiks, you know that? Know where you have to go for coals?… Aha… there you have it… These are my own two legs here. You people, you people. Someone else would just give up, wouldn't give you the time of day. You keep coming and coming. Don't have a clue yourselves, why it is you keep coming back… Well then, what is it you need? Coals?" You ask that way, as if you couldn't see for yourself what he needs, and you look stern, and you make a face, as if his breath stinks and you're about to puke. That is your job. That's what the job is.

The Golubchik starts whining again: "Benedikt Karpich, Faaaather, help us out, will you? I'll never forget it… Here, I… some hot pancakes… I brought them… they've only cooled off a little… Forgive me, don't…"

At this point you need to growl under your breath, "Pancakes…" but you don't take them yourself, God forbid-the Golubchik knows, he'll put everything quietly in a corner, and you keep on saying "Pancakes… hmmph"-mean-like, but don't overdo it. So that the voice goes down, into a grumble. And then slowly, taking your sweet time, you scrape up some coals with a shovel and over your shoulder to the Golubchik you say, "Did you bring your pot?"

"Of course, of course, Father, you've really saved my skin," -and then you give him a little bit.

When you've got the governmental approach to things you get respect from people-what a strict Stoker, they say, that's our batiushka, our father, for you-and then there's always little surprises after people leave. As soon as the door closes, you check in the window: Is he gone? And go straight to the package. I wonder what he brought. It might really be pancakes. Maybe lard. A baked egg. Another guy, if he's poor, might have just picked some rusht. It comes in handy too.

Ay, gone off dreaming again! It all ended the way Mother wanted. She got stubborn: there were three generations of intel-lyjeanseeya in the family, she said, I won't allow trodishin to be stepped on. Ay, Mother! She would run to Nikita Ivanich to whisper, and she'd drag him by the arm to the izba so they could both work on Father together, and she'd wave her hands about and set to screeching. Father gave up: ayyy … go to hell all of you, go on and do what you want… Only don't come complaining to me later.

So Benedikt now goes to work in the Work Izba. It's not bad work either. You come there and it's already warm, mouse-lard candles are already burning, the trash is swept away-heaven. They give him a bark notebook, a scroll to copy from, and they mark it: from here to here. You just sit tight in the warmth and make a clean copy. Only leave room for pictures. And that sweetie Olenka will draw the pictures in later with her white hand: a chicken or a bush. They don't much look like chickens or bushes, but still, they're nice to look at.

And Benedikt copies what Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, writes: fairy tales, or teachings, sometimes poems. Fyodor Kuzmich's poems turn out so good that sometimes your hand starts shaking, your eyes go all dark, and it's like you've just gone and floated off somewhere, or else like there's a knot in your throat and you can't swallow. Some poems make sense, every word of them, and some-you could get dizzy trying to figure them out. The other day, for instance, Benedikt copied this one: