Герман Садулаев - The Maya Pill

“What can I say? I’ve never seen one.”

“Who has?”

“My grandpa shot the last rusalka in the orchard, with a flintlock rifle.”

“What was she doing in the orchard?”

“What do you mean? Stealing apples of course. For her children.”

“You mean they had children?”

“Of course! They had everything people do: husbands, wives, children. But they would go around naked and they didn’t speak our human language. They were big and strong and had strong hands. But other than that, you couldn’t tell the difference between one of them and a normal person.”

“What do you mean, Grandma? The fairy tales say that rusalki are girls with fish tails instead of legs.”

“That’s just in the stories. But I’m telling you the way it really was. Fish tails! What will they think of next? The only fishy thing about the rusalki was that fish paste of theirs.”

“What fish paste, Grandma?”

“Fish paste! They used to follow our fishermen around and gather up fish guts. The men would go out onto the Terek and catch fish, and they’d clean them right there on the riverbank and toss the guts into the bushes. And the rusalki would be waiting out there. They would grab the fish guts and drag them away.”

“What did they use them for?”

“Hold on, silly! I’m telling you. They collected poppies, too, mak . And they would make paste by mixing the mak with the fish guts. They would boil it and then lick it. But woe to anyone who tried to eat it—it was highly toxic. Every once in a while one of our Cossacks tried some of the fish paste and immediately started acting crazy. He wouldn’t cover his shame, would stop going to church, would give up working in the fields. And he stopped caring about anything but sucking on the paste. Worse than a drunk! He’d become like a rusalka himself. Or would leave and go to the city.”

“Wow! And where did the rusalki come from?”

“From nowhere. They’d always lived here, they were here before we were. We’re the ones who came from somewhere else. Some from Russia, others from Ukraine. Our ancestors came and attacked the rusalki , they wiped out the whole tribe. They were strong, but they had no religion, and they had no weapons. Naked as junkies.”

“Monkeys, Grandma.”

“What?”

“You said junkies. What kind of a word is that? You need to say it right: naked as monkeys.”

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself! Correcting your Grandma! As though your Russian’s so perfect. Don’t forget your father was named Raul!”

“So what if I’m Raulevich? I got an A in Russian! And in literature, too!”

“Well, if you’re so smart, I won’t tell you any more stories, since you know everything already.”

Grandma would act offended, but it was just for fun. She loved my father, actually. And my father adored her. Not at all like in those mother-in-law jokes.

“Look, Grandma! I was just saying. It’s just a funny thing to say, that’s all, junkie. It’s not a mistake, just an idiom, I guess.”

“You’re getting too big for your britches. ‘Idiom’—I bet you made that up.”

Grandma sounded like she was complaining, but obviously she was proud of my erudition. She would give it some thought, then conclude:

“The old folks used to say that at one time those rusalki had their own villages and farmlands, and cities with big bazaars. It was a powerful land! But the fish paste destroyed them. Whenever a person licked some of the paste, whatever he imagined seemed real to him. It was like witchcraft.”

“How did it work, Grandma?”

“Here’s how. Let’s say someone wants some nice new clothes. He can sit down and sew some. But if he licks some paste, he’ll imagine that he’s all decked out in brocades and silks. He looks in the mirror and admires himself. And the people around him, those who didn’t have any of the paste, see that the man is naked. Or say he wants a horse—he’ll eat some paste, and he’ll imagine that he has a horse. He’ll take a switch and gallop around the fields, swatting at his own heels with it. Even food—all it takes is one whiff of the paste, and he’ll imagine that he’s full, that he’s had a big meal of fish, and meat, and fresh bread, and wine. He’ll puff his belly out and stagger around! But you can’t fool yourself forever. When you don’t eat anything at all, and just rely on the paste, eventually you’ll swell up from hunger. The only rusalki who survived were the ones who ate apples and wild fruits. But they stopped plowing their fields and building houses. They even forgot how to catch fish! All they did was keep on mixing their paste—that was one art they didn’t lose, and they never passed it on.”

“How could they have told it to anybody if they couldn’t talk?”

“It was only later on they didn’t know how to speak, but they used to be able to. How could they have maintained their great state without language? Anyway, the rusalki kept the secret of their fish paste to themselves. And that gunk ruined them. They died from malnutrition, from exposure, from wars. One of them would eat some paste and suddenly think he’s holding a sword in his hand, and he would wave his hand around in the air, and some Cossack just looks on and laughs, then goes up and stabs him to death.”

“Were the Cossacks really that mean?”

“What else would they be? Those rusalki were just taking up space, doing nothing. They scared off the livestock, destroyed orchards, and even started harassing good Christian people in disgusting ways.”

“How did they… harass them?”

“You’re too young to know about that.”

“Tell me, Grandma. Just skip over the details.”

“Well, let’s say, for example, that the rusalka was a male. He’d go out and stand in the street, right in front of our girls. And he’d start strutting around, making crazy faces. He would think that he was decked out in his finest clothes, with striped trousers, a Circassian coat with an ammunition belt, a fur hat, a saber in a scabbard, and that he was mounted on a fine horse to boot—but he’s just a stoned rusalka ! Had too much fish paste. And what the girls see is a naked man out there in the road, and his shame is poking right out at them, saints alive! The girls take off running, and he chases after them, just like that, without a stitch on! And now the Cossacks come out of their huts, the girls’ fathers, brothers, and fiancés, that is, and of course they hack the shameless infidel to death.”

“Wow!”

“And if the rusalka was a female, then she’d go up to the Cossacks when they were hauling in their nets or were busy with some other gainful employment, and start striking poses! It would be obvious that she’d licked some paste—she’d look into the water and see her reflection: an elegant princess, pure as the driven snow, all in silks and pearls, her face veiled like an innocent bride’s. But in fact, she has no more shame than the so-called horseman—she’s naked and dirty. The Cossack men, at least the ones who were weak of faith, licked their chops. So the Cossack women kept a close watch on them. They would slap the men in the back of the head, and would flog the she-devil with pokers and drive her out into the Terek, into the middle, where it’s deep, and drown her.”

“That’s so cruel!”

“No it’s not, vnuchek . That’s life. And that’s how come there aren’t any rusalki anymore.”

“Grandma, your stories are amazing! There’s nothing like them in any books! Especially the ones about the rusalki . They’re more like the abominable snowman! So why do you call them rusalki ?”