Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

“So Grandma, if they were werewolves, then why couldn’t they just jump into the carriage and grab you?”

“They weren’t really alive, that’s why! Remember this, my dear: Spirit creatures can’t enter our world completely. They have to trick people into letting them in. All it takes is for you to say just once, ‘yes, all right.’ And that’s it, you’re done for. They’ll drag you to their lair, they’ll swallow your soul! So don’t get into conversations with strangers, don’t open your door to anyone at night, and don’t give rides to people you don’t know. Those are the three rules.”

“Now tell me about Grandpa!”

“Oh, dearie…” Grandma fell silent. She was probably crying. “I loved my husband. He’s the only man I ever had. He gave me three children, and I stayed faithful to him my whole life, even after he died. And I was a good-looking girl, the Collective Farm Chairman himself came courting. He was one-eyed and ugly, like the devil. And he said, ‘Stepanida, here I am, the last man left in the settlement. Who else is there for you to marry? I’m a good man. I’ll take you, kids and all. And if you don’t marry me, I’ll bring up your White Guard past and ruin you. You’ll rot in prison, you and your kids along with you.’”

“What did you say?”

“I was raking hay at the time. So I poked him in his fat belly with my pitchfork and told him, ‘It is said: Your first husband is from the Lord, the second from man, and the third from the devil. I had Volodenka, and he was from the Lord, and he died in the war. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Now I don’t need anything from man, much less the devil. And you’re a one-eyed devil at that! Do whatever you want, harass me, try to hurt me, but make no mistake about it, I’m the ataman’s daughter, and I fear nothing except the Lord’s wrath. I’ll scoop your guts out with this pitchfork!’”

“So then what?”

“Nothing. He stopped bothering me after that, the monster.”

We lay there quietly and thought to ourselves. A moth beat against the window, attracted by the light inside.

“ Ba , tell me about how Grandpa died.”

“We don’t know the details, dear. I got a death notice, that’s all. It said he died a hero’s death, at such and such a village, on such and such a day, and that was it. After the war I went to the village where they said it happened and tried to find his grave. Couldn’t find a thing. Anyway, I already knew that he hadn’t been given a proper funeral and burial. And he was a Christian, yet! He’d been baptized! Wasn’t some commie.”

“How do you know that he wasn’t buried?”

“If they’d given him a proper burial, would he have wandered the earth after he died? Would he have come to see me?”

“What do you mean, ‘come to see you,’ Grandma? Didn’t you say he was killed?”

“It happened the usual way. I got the death notice and was sitting in the hallway crying. And my friends came over, all of them already widows, and they told me how to handle it. ‘Stepanida,’ they said, ‘your sorrow is great, but what can you do, it’s war. Cry, grieve, but don’t bring on God’s wrath. Your Vladimir died—that was God’s will. And it’s not proper for the dead to walk the earth before the Judgment Day. We have our world, they have theirs. The dead don’t belong among the living, and the living don’t belong among the dead.’ That’s what they told me. And now I’m telling you the same, vnuchek , and don’t you forget it!”

“What do you mean?”

“At first I didn’t understand either. But they explained: ‘Some soldiers who weren’t given a proper Christian funeral rise from the fields and walk back home. Their soul is far away, mind you, awaiting God’s judgment. But their body finds its way home, by habit. Finds its way by the stars and by the smell. And it comes and stands outside your door and asks you to open up and let it into the hut. Only at night, though. If you get one of these visits during the day, it’s more likely to be a deserter than a dead man. Deserters can sneak by while the sun’s still out. But dead men hide during the day, lurk behind bushes and in ditches, shunning the light. That’s how you can tell the difference. He’ll come at night, but all the same, don’t let him in! Remember, it’s not really your Vladimir, it’s a dead man, just an empty body! Your beloved Vladimir, his Christian soul, is at peace—one hopes—in Heaven. Be strong, sister, don’t open that door. Remember what happened to Nikitishna; she disappeared a month after she got the notice about Ivan. They found her body out in the woods; the wolves had eaten all the flesh off her bones. It’s the living dead—they’ll call and beckon, they’ll lure you away to the riverbank or into the woods, and leave you there for the wild animals to eat. It always happens that way. And now Nikitishna’s two little children are orphans—no father, and no mother either.’”

“So Grandma, did Grandpa come to visit?”

“He did. Ten days after I got the news. It was a dark night. I put the children to bed, and I was sitting there doing the mending. And I heard a scratching at the door, a voice saying ‘Stesha, open up! It’s me, your husband Vladimir!’ And it was definitely his voice. My Volodenka! I jumped up, beside myself, was about to rush to the door and fling it open. But I held myself back, sobbing, and said, ‘If it’s really you, Volodenka, and you’ve deserted your unit and are still alive, then go hide in the barn for now, and when the sun comes up, come back in daylight and knock again. Then I’ll let you in. And I’ll help you hide from the authorities: I won’t tell a soul!’ But he kept saying the same thing: ‘Open up, Stesha! Open up right now! I’m tired, I’ve missed you. I want to hold you in my arms, make love to you while the children are asleep.’ And I was trembling all over! I’m a woman, after all, I need loving! But I looked at the children, and I answered, ‘No, Volodenka, I can’t! If it were just me, then I’d let you take me anywhere you wanted, to the river bank, or to feed me to the wolves, if only so I could touch your hand one more time! But we have three children, and if you kill me, who will take care of them? They’ll starve to death. If you’re dead, go away, don’t torment my sinful soul!’ But he wouldn’t leave. He kept on scratching at the door till the sun came up. And when morning came, he disappeared.”

“Maybe you dreamed it, Grandma?”

“No, vnuchek . It wasn’t a dream. I was sewing, remember, so I pricked my finger with the needle on purpose, just to see if it was all for real. I didn’t wake up, and in the morning my finger was still covered with blood. But, you know, that wasn’t the end of it—he came back again and again. He came every night. Our hut was outside the village. And after midnight I’d hear it again, the scratching at the door, or else he’d be peeking in the window, and he’d keep calling out to me, begging. And there I was crying and praying. It was so hard for me—I have feelings, vnuchek ! I would have gladly rotted out there with him! But the thought of my children kept me back.”

“So how did it end, Grandma?”

“On the fortieth day from when they’d said he died, I asked for a service in the church, and we had a funeral. And after that he stopped coming. He was at peace.”

I was too amazed to ask any more questions. I had never before, nor have I since, heard a story about a stronger and more terrible love.

But now I really couldn’t get to sleep. And though it was long past midnight and time to stop talking, I kept after her, hoping to hear a story, a fairy tale:

“Grandma, tell me about the rusalki !”