Tatyana Tolstaya - The Slynx

One time Benedikt dropped in to see the old man, and he was sitting and sucking on a spoonful of yellow glue, the kind you see dripping down the trunks of elfirs. "What're you up to, Nikita Ivanich?"

"Eating honeycomb."

"Hummycum?"

"What bees make."

"Are you crazy?"

"Just try it. You people eat mice and worms, and then you're surprised to see so many mutants."

Benedikt got scared, he froze and finally left feeling a bit queasy, in a fog. It was frightening: the old man had gone by his own self and messed with the bees in the tree hollow… Then, of course, Benedikt told the others. They only shook their heads. "Sure. The bee shits, and we're gonna eat it?"

And One-and-a-Half-he has one and a half faces and a third leg-said, "What's Nikita Ivanich up to, egging us on to do things like that? And him a Stoker… Remember how he used to take the fellows to Murka's Hill, he wanted them to dig up the ground… He said there were mustardpieces buried there. And stone men, humongous white Rowmans and Creeks. We got plenty of our own rowmen, and only one river anyway."

That's right, he did take them. He said that in Oldener Times there used to be a Moozeeum on Murka's Hill, and there were shameful white stones buried in the earth. They were carved like men and women, with nipples and everything. It would be interesting to take a look, of course, but what about Freethinking? And you'd never finish digging there. And what do you need stone women for when there's plenty of live ones? The old man was playing tricks. For a long time kids ran after him and teased him: "Old Man Ivanich, wonders why his pants itch; takes them off at night, puts them on first light."

Nothing came of it.

Benedikt sighed, flicked a fleck of dust off his writing stick, and quickly finished copying the tale of the Golden Goose. He left space for Olenka to draw a goose. Then the booklet would be taken to market and traded for mice. You could trade a string of mice for a booklet. There's only government trade, though, don't dare copy anything yourself-if they find out, you'll get a thrashing.

They also say… but wait till Vasiuk the Earful moves away. They also say that somewhere there are Oldenprint books. Who knows if it's true, but there's a rumor. Those books, they say, were around before the Blast.

And they tell other lies: that in the woods there's a glade, and in the glade there's a white-hot stone, and beneath that stone there's a treasure. And on a dark night, when there's no moon or stars in sight, if you come to the glade barefoot, walking backward, and say, "I won't take what isn't found, but only what is underground," and when you get to the place, you turn three times, blow your nose three times, spit three times, and say, "Earth, don't conceal yourself; treasure, now reveal yourself," then a dark fog will come down and you'll hear a squeaking and a creaking from the woods, and that white-hot stone will roll back and the treasure will appear.

And that's where the books are buried. They glow like the full moon. But don't grab more than one, and when you've got one, run for your life, and if you do it wrong, then, they say, a veil falls over your eyes, and when you wake up you'll be sitting on the roof of your izba with empty hands.

And they also say these books have been seen at people's houses.

The bell rang: lunch. It was too far to go home, so Benedikt went to the Food Izba. For two chits you could have a lunch of two dishes. Not as rich as at home, though at home the soup wasn't that thick anyway. But it wasn't far. Olenka ate at home, they sent a sleigh for her. The sweetheart.

Varvara Lukinishna latched on to Benedikt. She'd been keeping an eye on him for a long time. Are you going to the Food Izba? I'll go with you. And the fringe on her head quivers. If we're going, then let's go. Doesn't take long to lick your finger and put out the candle, does it?

There was such a crowd at the Food Izba! Benedikt nudged Varvara Lukinishna up to the counter with the bowls so she'd get in line, or else another bunch would come in. He rushed to a table and grabbed two places. He put spoons down: these places are taken. And he blocked them with his leg, so no one could push in. And he spread his elbows out wide and made threatening faces: it helps.

If a stranger ran up to steal a place, he'd take one look at Benedikt, and if he was a weakling, he'd turn away: Who needs to cross someone with a face like that, he'd think, God forbid; I'll sit in the corner, farther away… You have to know how to go about everything in its own way.

Smoke floated in the air. The bowls steamed, the spoons thudded, the candles crackled. It was hot. The cooks screamed with bloodcurdling voices, "Whoever's smoking rusht in the hut -get out! We can't breathe!"

No one moved, of course.

Varvara Lukinishna made her way over with the bowls. She didn't spill too much, even though there was a lot of pushing.

So. Mouse soup again. Governmental food, of course, is no match for homemade. The mice are the same, but the taste isn't. It's watery. There were so many worrums plunked down in the soup it could curdle your cheekbones. They don't begrudge the worrums. The soup's too salty. You stir it with your spoon-and all you get is a mouse tail. Well, maybe some eyes. Couple of ribs.

You can understand the cook. He probably hides the carcasses, takes the best pieces home to his kids.

Anyone would do the same. It's one thing to cook for strangers: Who knows what kind of people they are? But it's another to cook for your kids. Some people say you should cook the same for everybody. But who ever does that?

A stranger is a stranger. What's so good about a stranger? If the stranger's not a woman, of course. What's so good? Maybe he doesn't even get that hungry. Maybe he'll manage without. Change his mind about eating.

But one of your own-he's cozy. His eyes are different. You just look at him and you can see he wants to eat. You can feel his stomach grumbling. One of your own is almost like you.

Varvara Lukinishna sighs. "I see they're not gutting the mice."

"They say there's not enough people to do the job."

"I understand, but still. Come and visit me, Benedikt, I'll treat you to some good soup."

"Thank you, Varvara Lukinishna. I'll definitely do that sometime."

Poor thing, that cockscomb just sticks straight out of her eye. Hard to look at it.

"I've been meaning to ask you, Benedikt. I'm copying poems by Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe. And I keep coming across the word 'steed,' 'steed.' What is a steed, do you know?"

Benedikt thought for a moment. Then another. His face even reddened from the effort. How many times he'd written that word himself, and had never thought about it. "It must be a mouse."

"What makes you think that?"

"Because 'Don't I take care of you, don't I fill your trough with oats?' That's it, a mouse."

"Well, then, what about 'The steed races, the earth trembles'?"

"It must be a big mouse. Once they start running around, you can't get to sleep. You remember, Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, also wrote, 'Life, you're but a mouse's scurry, why do you trouble me?' It's a mouse, that's for sure."

"Still, it's strange. No, you haven't convinced me."

Varvara Lukinishna knows a lot of poems by heart. And she's always wanting to understand something. Who can count all the hard words! Someone else would shrug it off, but she needs to understand. Go figure. And she talks like a book. That's the way Mother talked. Or Nikita Ivanich.

Varvara Lukinishna lives alone. She catches mice, takes them to market, and trades them for booklets. Reads all the time.

"You know, Benedikt, poetry is everything to me. Our job is pure joy. And I've noticed something. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glory-he, he's different at different times. Do you understand what I mean? It's as though he speaks with different voices."