Песня ольховой свирели

Hot air is shaking over the parched steppe. The hot air is whirling along the scorched road, and bending ears of wheat in the fields; unripe grain will soon spill on the cracked ground. It’s hot... A shaggy dog is breathing heavily, its tongue out, and looking at me as if I can help it. Even children, tanned to blackness, ceased running around and huddled together in the shade of the dusty mulberry tree, their dark eyes glinting. They are chirping there like sparrows.

My Yarek can be seen from afar. He is a stranger: his hair is flaxen-white and his eyes are gray. The stranger, just like a strange god on the icons in the new temple.

«Hail, Willow,» the village elder approaches me quietly and leans against the wattle fence. He is also looking at the fields from under his hand.

«Hail, Bohut. Why are you so gloomy?» I ask him just to say something. Actually, Bogut and I don’t need to talk much. We can understand each other without words.

No, I cannot see long-awaited clouds coming from behind the far hills. The sky is low and veiled. It’s hard to breathe. The silence seems evil, like a beast hiding somewhere and gathering its strength before the jump. The ashberry night is about to burst into fierce fire.

«The old gods are angry, Willow. How can they not be angry? We have humbly surrendered them to our enemies and forgotten our grandfathers’ laws.»

«You are wrong, Bogut. Our gods have not protected us, so now all we can do is to be patient.»

«Willow, are you going to talk to me about patience, like an enemy priest?!»

«This way it’s better. Otherwise, those in white cloaks will come again to tell us about their god with the help of steel and fire. Then there will be no one to gather the harvest, and there will be blood instead of rain.»

«Patience is good only as long as there is wheat in the fields. If there is nothing left to lose, then let it be blood. Not only our blood will be spilled then, but the enemies’ one as well. Then I won’t be ashamed to account for my deeds beyond the Dark River,» Bohut says thoughtfully.

«Wait a little bit, Bohut. If it doesn’t rain by morning...»

«You know better, Willow. Have it your way. Till the morning.»

I am standing where the steppe plunges into the sea with sharp rocks, where the broken old willow stretches its crooked arms toward the sky, where the shallow river barely makes its way between the stones. I am looking into the night sky. Not a rustle, not a whiff of wind: only the vicious silence, only flashes of lightning stroll in the sky, but no thunder is heard. The flashes paint the clouds with the color of ripe bunches of ashberries. The sky is ablaze with evil flame. The enemy is formidable, it is able only to kill, burn, and destroy. There is only one weapon against it. Not everyone can use it, because killing, hating, cursing is so easy; but giving birth, forgiving, healing...

Loving is hard, but it gives birth to grain, to peace and children.

My alder flute is thin, and the holes in it are like gaps into the Lower World. All you have to do is to close your eyes and bring the flute to your lips. Playing it is as simple as breathing. The silvery feather-grass sways to the rhythm of my breath, the wind cries in a thin voice, and unknown powers tinkling like tight strings listen to my flute. Where are you, oh enemy mine? I need your power and your hatred, for melting them into a new life. Hear me!

The flute sings fiercely, sharply; battle trumpets answer its call, steel clangs and flags flutter. A cloud of arrows shoots up, covering the sun. The inexorable death rushes along with the pounding clatter of hooves, and the flashes of lightning are its blades. Both stone idols and living people fall into the river, and its water turns as red as the sky above my head. Flakes of ash slowly sink on the sooted stones. The hoary harrier cries sadly over its ravaged nest.

Come to me, oh enemy mine! I need you as the earth needs rain. You have taken everything from me, so give me something in return!

«What are you doing?!» He has come, he is standing above me in the glow of the ashberry night. The red glare plays on his white cloak, on his flaxen hair, on the scales of his armor.

«Why do you keep calling me? Why don’t you let me go?» he asks in a hoarse voice, running his hand through my hair. He smells of steel, of smoke and salt; the metal of his armor is bitterly cold, but his hands are warm, and warm is his whisper in my ear, «Why?»

I will not tell you, my enemy, that only with you can I dance under this blood-colored sky, on the edge of the abyss; only your hands can keep me when pebbles fall into the gap from under my dancing feet, and the dark, hungry abyss splashes far below.

«Why did you let me go back then, why didn’t you kill me?» I ask him back.

He won’t answer me, as usual. He doesn’t know it himself. I won’t say anything either, for no words can explain this.

The sea hits the rocks harder and harder. The wind raises the waves high and throws them down in the flakes of foam. The seagulls scream. My heart beats faster and faster, unable to withstand the mad rush, it seems to burst into hot droplets spreading all over my body, to the tips of my fingers.

I haven’t heard the first sound of thunder. I just feel warm trickles running along his back under my hands: this is the soft rain pouring into the pliable, tired soil. The grass returns to life, the waves subside, and the bright flashes fade beneath my eyelids.

«You walk on thin ice,» he says, gently touching my temple with his lips. «If you get caught by my brothers, I won’t be able to save you. You’d better forget it.»

This is my destiny — wandering on the sharp stones above the Dark River, and playing my flute; and rain will fall when it listens to me, and hatred will die, grain will ripen, and children will laugh. I know that someday I will fall, I will perish forever in the darkness, and dust will cover my tracks. But I also know that this time I’m going to have a girl. Her hair will be dark, and her eyes will be as gray as yours; as gray as the stormy sky. Isn’t it worth it?