Build A Fire by Paya Frank

                        

DAY HAD BROKEN cold and gray, exceedingly cold and gray, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail and climbed the high earth-bank, where a dim and little-travelled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland. It was a steep bank, and he paused for breath at the top, excusing the act to himself by looking at his watch. It was nine o'clock. There was no sun nor hint of sun, though there was not a cloud in the sky. It was a clear day, and yet there seemed an intangible pall over the face of things, a subtle gloom that made the day dark, and that was due to the absence of sun. This fact did not worry the man. He was used to the lack of sun. It had been days since he had seen the sun, and he knew that a few more days must pass before that cheerful orb, due south, would just peep above the sky-line and dip immediately from view.

“The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice.”

The man flung a look back along the way he had come. The Yukon lay a mile wide and hidden under three feet of ice. On top of this ice were as many feet of snow. It was all pure white, rolling in gentle undulations where the ice-jams of the freeze-up had formed. North and south, as far as his eye could see, it was unbroken white, save for a dark hair-line that curved and twisted from around the spruce-covered island to the south, and that curved and twisted away into the north, where it disappeared behind another spruce-covered island. This dark hair-line was the trail—the main trail—that led south five hundred miles to the Chilcoot Pass, Dyea, and salt water; and that led north seventy miles to Dawson, and still on to the north a thousand miles to Nulato, and finally to St. Michael on Bering Sea, a thousand miles and half a thousand more.

But all this—the mysterious, far-reaching hair-line trail, the absence of sun from the sky, the tremendous cold, and the strangeness and weirdness of it all—made no impression on the man. It was not because he was long used to it. He was a newcomer in the land, a chechaquo, and this was his first winter. The trouble with him was that he was without imagination. He was quick and alert in the things of life, but only in the things, and not in the significances. Fifty degrees below zero meant eighty-odd degrees of frost. Such fact impressed him as being cold and uncomfortable, and that was all. It did not lead him to meditate upon his frailty as a creature of temperature, and upon man's frailty in general, able only to live within certain narrow limits of heat and cold; and from there on it did not lead him to the conjectural field of immortality and man's place in the universe. Fifty degrees below zero stood for a bite of frost that hurt and that must be guarded against by the use of mittens, ear-flaps, warm moccasins, and thick socks. Fifty degrees below zero was to him just precisely fifty degrees below zero. That there should be anything more to it than that was a thought that never entered his head.

As he turned to go on, he spat speculatively. There was a sharp, explosive crackle that startled him. He spat again. And again, in the air, before it could fall to the snow, the spittle crackled. He knew that at fifty below spittle crackled on the snow, but this spittle had crackled in the air. Undoubtedly it was colder than fifty below—how much colder he did not know. But the temperature did not matter. He was bound for the old claim on the left fork of Henderson Creek, where the boys were already. They had come over across the divide from the Indian Creek country, while he had come the roundabout way to take a look at the possibilities of getting out logs in the spring from the islands in the Yukon. He would be in to camp by six o'clock; a bit after dark, it was true, but the boys would be there, a fire would be going, and a hot supper would be ready. As for lunch, he pressed his hand against the protruding bundle under his jacket. It was also under his shirt, wrapped up in a handkerchief and lying against the naked skin. It was the only way to keep the biscuits from freezing. He smiled agreeably to himself as he thought of those biscuits, each cut open and sopped in bacon grease, and each enclosing a generous slice of fried bacon.

He plunged in among the big spruce trees. The trail was faint. A foot of snow had fallen since the last sled had passed over, and he was glad he was without a sled, travelling light. In fact, he carried nothing but the lunch wrapped in the handkerchief. He was surprised, however, at the cold. It certainly was cold, he concluded, as he rubbed his numb nose and cheek-bones with his mittened hand. He was a warm-whiskered man, but the hair on his face did not protect the high cheek-bones and the eager nose that thrust itself aggressively into the frosty air.

“At the man's heels trotted a dog, a big native husky, the proper wolf-dog,...”

At the man's heels trotted a dog, a big native husky, the proper wolf-dog, gray-coated and without any visible or temperamental difference from its brother, the wild wolf. The animal was depressed by the tremendous cold. It knew that it was no time for travelling. Its instinct told it a truer tale than was told to the man by the man's judgment. In reality, it was not merely colder than fifty below zero; it was colder than sixty below, than seventy below. It was seventy-five below zero. Since the freezing-point is thirty-two above zero, it meant that one hundred and seven degrees of frost obtained. The dog did not know anything about thermometers. Possibly in its brain there was no sharp consciousness of a condition of very cold such as was in the man's brain. But the brute had its instinct. It experienced a vague but menacing apprehension that subdued it and made it slink along at the man's heels, and that made it question eagerly every unwonted movement of the man as if expecting him to go into camp or to seek shelter somewhere and build a fire. The dog had learned fire, and it wanted fire, or else to burrow under the snow and cuddle its warmth away from the air.

The frozen moisture of its breathing had settled on its fur in a fine powder of frost, and especially were its jowls, muzzle, and eyelashes whitened by its crystalled breath. The man's red beard and mustache were likewise frosted, but more solidly, the deposit taking the form of ice and increasing with every warm, moist breath he exhaled. Also, the man was chewing tobacco, and the muzzle of ice held his lips so rigidly that he was unable to clear his chin when he expelled the juice. The result was that a crystal beard of the color and solidity of amber was increasing its length on his chin. If he fell down it would shatter itself, like glass, into brittle fragments. But he did not mind the appendage. It was the penalty all tobacco-chewers paid in that country, and he had been out before in two cold snaps. They had not been so cold as this, he knew, but by the spirit thermometer at Sixty Mile he knew they had been registered at fifty below and at fifty-five.

He held on through the level stretch of woods for several miles, crossed a wide flat of niggerheads, and dropped down a bank to the frozen bed of a small stream. This was Henderson Creek, and he knew he was ten miles from the forks. He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. He was making four miles an hour, and he calculated that he would arrive at the forks at half-past twelve. He decided to celebrate that event by eating his lunch there.

The dog dropped in again at his heels, with a tail drooping discouragement, as the man swung along the creek-bed. The furrow of the old sled-trail was plainly visible, but a dozen inches of snow covered the marks of the last runners. In a month no man had come up or down that silent creek. The man held steadily on. He was not much given to thinking, and just then particularly he had nothing to think about save that he would eat lunch at the forks and that at six o'clock he would be in camp with the boys. There was nobody to talk to; and, had there been, speech would have been impossible because of the ice-muzzle on his mouth. So he continued monotonously to chew tobacco and to increase the length of his amber beard.

Once in a while the thought reiterated itself that it was very cold and that he had never experienced such cold. As he walked along he rubbed his cheek-bones and nose with the back of his mittened hand. He did this automatically, now and again changing hands. But rub as he would, the instant he stopped his cheek-bones went numb, and the following instant the end of his nose went numb. He was sure to frost his cheeks; he knew that, and experienced a pang of regret that he had not devised a nose-strap of the sort Bud wore in cold snaps. Such a strap passed across the cheeks, as well, and saved them. But it didn't matter much, after all. What were frosted cheeks? A bit painful, that was all; they were never serious.

“They were traps. They hid pools of water under the snow...”

Empty as the man's mind was of thoughts, he was keenly observant, and he noticed the changes in the creek, the curves and bends and timber-jams, and always he sharply noted where he placed his feet. Once, coming around a bend, he shied abruptly, like a startled horse, curved away from the place where he had been walking, and retreated several paces back along the trail. The creek he knew was frozen clear to the bottom,—no creek could contain water in that arctic winter,—but he knew also that there were springs that bubbled out from the hillsides and ran along under the snow and on top the ice of the creek. He knew that the coldest snaps never froze these springs, and he knew likewise their danger. They were traps. They hid pools of water under the snow that might be three inches deep, or three feet. Sometimes a skin of ice half an inch thick covered them, and in turn was covered by the snow. Sometimes there were alternate layers of water and ice-skin, so that when one broke through he kept on breaking through for a while, sometimes wetting himself to the waist.

That was why he had shied in such panic. He had felt the give under his feet and heard the crackle of a snow-hidden ice-skin. And to get his feet wet in such a temperature meant trouble and danger. At the very least it meant delay, for he would be forced to stop and build a fire, and under its protection to bare his feet while he dried his socks and moccasins. He stood and studied the creek-bed and its banks, and decided that the flow of water came from the right. He reflected awhile, rubbing his nose and cheeks, then skirted to the left, stepping gingerly and testing the footing for each step. Once clear of the danger, he took a fresh chew of tobacco and swung along at his four-mile gait. In the course of the next two hours he came upon several similar traps. Usually the snow above the hidden pools had a sunken, candied appearance that advertised the danger. Once again, however, he had a close call; and once, suspecting danger, he compelled the dog to go on in front. The dog did not want to go. It hung back until the man shoved it forward, and then it went quickly across the white, unbroken surface. Suddenly it broke through, floundered to one side, and got away to firmer footing. It had wet its forefeet and legs, and almost immediately the water that clung to it turned to ice. It made quick efforts to lick the ice off its legs, then dropped down in the snow and began to bite out the ice that had formed between the toes. This was a matter of instinct. To permit the ice to remain would mean sore feet. It did not know this. It merely obeyed the mysterious prompting that arose from the deep crypts of its being. But the man knew, having achieved a judgment on the subject, and he removed the mitten from his right hand and helped tear out the ice-particles. He did not expose his fingers more than a minute, and was astonished at the swift numbness that smote them. It certainly was cold. He pulled on the mitten hastily, and beat the hand savagely across his chest.

At twelve o'clock the day was at its brightest. Yet the sun was too far south on its winter journey to clear the horizon. The bulge of the earth intervened between it and Henderson Creek, where the man walked under a clear sky at noon and cast no shadow. At half-past twelve, to the minute, he arrived at the forks of the creek. He was pleased at the speed he had made. If he kept it up, he would certainly be with the boys by six. He unbuttoned his jacket and shirt and drew forth his lunch. The action consumed no more than a quarter of a minute, yet in that brief moment the numbness laid hold of the exposed fingers. He did not put the mitten on, but, instead, struck the fingers a dozen sharp smashes against his leg. Then he sat down on a snow-covered log to eat. The sting that followed upon the striking of his fingers against his leg ceased so quickly that he was startled. He had had no chance to take a bite of biscuit. He struck the fingers repeatedly and returned them to the mitten, baring the other hand for the purpose of eating. He tried to take a mouthful, but the ice-muzzle prevented. He had forgotten to build a fire and thaw out. He chuckled at his foolishness, and as he chuckled he noted the numbness creeping into the exposed fingers. Also, he noted that the stinging which had first come to his toes when he sat down was already passing away. He wondered whether the toes were warm or numb. He moved them inside the moccasins and decided that they were numb.

“He strode up and down, stamping his feet and threshing his arms...”

He pulled the mitten on hurriedly and stood up. He was a bit frightened. He stamped up and down until the stinging returned into the feet. It certainly was cold, was his thought. That man from Sulphur Creek had spoken the truth when telling how cold it sometimes got in the country. And he had laughed at him at the time! That showed one must not be too sure of things. There was no mistake about it, it was cold. He strode up and down, stamping his feet and threshing his arms, until reassured by the returning warmth. Then he got out matches and proceeded to make a fire. From the undergrowth, where high water of the previous spring had lodged a supply of seasoned twigs, he got his fire-wood. Working carefully from a small beginning, he soon had a roaring fire, over which he thawed the ice from his face and in the protection of which he ate his biscuits. For the moment the cold of space was outwitted. The dog took satisfaction in the fire, stretching out close enough for warmth and far enough away to escape being singed.

When the man had finished, he filled his pipe and took his comfortable time over a smoke. Then he pulled on his mittens, settled the ear-flaps of his cap firmly about his ears, and took the creek trail up the left fork. The dog was disappointed and yearned back toward the fire. This man did not know cold. Possibly all the generations of his ancestry had been ignorant of cold, of real cold, of cold one hundred and seven degrees below freezing-point. But the dog knew; all its ancestry knew, and it had inherited the knowledge. And it knew that it was not good to walk abroad in such fearful cold. It was the time to lie snug in a hole in the snow and wait for a curtain of cloud to be drawn across the face of outer space whence this cold came. On the other hand, there was no keen intimacy between the dog and the man. The one was the toil-slave of the other, and the only caresses it had ever received were the caresses of the whip-lash and of harsh and menacing throat-sounds that threatened the whip-lash. So the dog made no effort to communicate its apprehension to the man. It was not concerned in the welfare of the man; it was for its own sake that it yearned back toward the fire. But the man whistled, and spoke to it with the sound of whip-lashes, and the dog swung in at the man's heels and followed after.

The man took a chew of tobacco and proceeded to start a new amber beard. Also, his moist breath quickly powdered with white his mustache, eyebrows, and lashes. There did not seem to be so many springs on the left fork of the Henderson, and for half an hour the man saw no signs of any. And then it happened. At a place where there were no signs, where the soft, unbroken snow seemed to advertise solidity beneath, the man broke through. It was not deep. He wet himself halfway to the knees before he floundered out to the firm crust.

He was angry, and cursed his luck aloud. He had hoped to get into camp with the boys at six o'clock, and this would delay him an hour, for he would have to build a fire and dry out his foot-gear. This was imperative at that low temperature—he knew that much; and he turned aside to the bank, which he climbed. On top, tangled in the underbrush about the trunks of several small spruce trees, was a high-water deposit of dry fire-wood—sticks and twigs, principally, but also larger portions of seasoned branches and fine, dry, last-year's grasses. He threw down several large pieces on top of the snow. This served for a foundation and prevented the young flame from drowning itself in the snow it otherwise would melt. The flame he got by touching a match to a small shred of birch-bark that he took from his pocket. This burned even more readily than paper. Placing it on the foundation, he fed the young flame with wisps of dry grass and with the tiniest dry twigs.

He worked slowly and carefully, keenly aware of his danger. Gradually, as the flame grew stronger, he increased the size of the twigs with which he fed it. He squatted in the snow, pulling the twigs out from their entanglement in the brush and feeding directly to the flame. He knew there must be no failure. When it is seventy-five below zero, a man must not fail in his first attempt to build a fire—that is, if his feet are wet. If his feet are dry, and he fails, he can run along the trail for half a mile and restore his circulation. But the circulation of wet and freezing feet cannot be restored by running when it is seventy-five below. No matter how fast he runs, the wet feet will freeze the harder.

All this the man knew. The old-timer on Sulphur Creek had told him about it the previous fall, and now he was appreciating the advice. Already all sensation had gone out of his feet. To build the fire he had been forced to remove his mittens, and the fingers had quickly gone numb. His pace of four miles an hour had kept his heart pumping blood to the surface of his body and to all the extremities. But the instant he stopped, the action of the pump eased down. The cold of space smote the unprotected tip of the planet, and he, being on that unprotected tip, received the full force of the blow. The blood of his body recoiled before it. The blood was alive, like the dog, and like the dog it wanted to hide away and cover itself up from the fearful cold. So long as he walked four miles an hour, he pumped that blood, willy-nilly, to the surface; but now it ebbed away and sank down into the recesses of his body. The extremities were the first to feel its absence. His wet feet froze the faster, and his exposed fingers numbed the faster, though they had not yet begun to freeze. Nose and cheeks were already freezing, while the skin of all his body chilled as it lost its blood.

But he was safe. Toes and nose and cheeks would be only touched by the frost, for the fire was beginning to burn with strength. He was feeding it with twigs the size of his finger. In another minute he would be able to feed it with branches the size of his wrist, and then he could remove his wet foot-gear, and, while it dried, he could keep his naked feet warm by the fire, rubbing them at first, of course, with snow. The fire was a success. He was safe. He remembered the advice of the old-timer on Sulphur Creek, and smiled. The old-timer had been very serious in laying down the law that no man must travel alone in the Klondike after fifty below. Well, here he was; he had had the accident; he was alone; and he had saved himself. Those old-timers were rather womanish, some of them, he thought. All a man had to do was to keep his head, and he was all right. Any man who was a man could travel alone. But it was surprising, the rapidity with which his cheeks and nose were freezing. And he had not thought his fingers could go lifeless in so short a time. Lifeless they were, for he could scarcely make them move together to grip a twig, and they seemed remote from his body and from him. When he touched a twig, he had to look and see whether or not he had hold of it. The wires were pretty well down between him and his finger-ends.

All of which counted for little. There was the fire, snapping and crackling and promising life with every dancing flame. He started to untie his moccasins. They were coated with ice; the thick German socks were like sheaths of iron halfway to the knees; and the moccasin strings were like rods of steel all twisted and knotted as by some conflagration. For a moment he tugged with his numb fingers, then, realizing the folly of it, he drew his sheath-knife.

But before he could cut the strings, it happened. It was his own fault or, rather, his mistake. He should not have built the fire under the spruce tree. He should have built it in the open. But it had been easier to pull the twigs from the brush and drop them directly on the fire. Now the tree under which he had done this carried a weight of snow on its boughs. No wind had blown for weeks, and each bough was fully freighted. Each time he had pulled a twig he had communicated a slight agitation to the tree—an imperceptible agitation, so far as he was concerned, but an agitation sufficient to bring about the disaster. High up in the tree one bough capsized its load of snow. This fell on the boughs beneath, capsizing them. This process continued, spreading out and involving the whole tree. It grew like an avalanche, and it descended without warning upon the man and the fire, and the fire was blotted out! Where it had burned was a mantle of fresh and disordered snow.

The man was shocked. It was as though he had just heard his own sentence of death. For a moment he sat and stared at the spot where the fire had been. Then he grew very calm. Perhaps the old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right. If he had only had a trail-mate he would have been in no danger now. The trail-mate could have built the fire. Well, it was up to him to build the fire over again, and this second time there must be no failure. Even if he succeeded, he would most likely lose some toes. His feet must be badly frozen by now, and there would be some time before the second fire was ready.

Such were his thoughts, but he did not sit and think them. He was busy all the time they were passing through his mind. He made a new foundation for a fire, this time in the open, where no treacherous tree could blot it out. Next, he gathered dry grasses and tiny twigs from the high-water flotsam. He could not bring his fingers together to pull them out, but he was able to gather them by the handful. In this way he got many rotten twigs and bits of green moss that were undesirable, but it was the best he could do. He worked methodically, even collecting an armful of the larger branches to be used later when the fire gathered strength. And all the while the dog sat and watched him, a certain yearning wistfulness in its eyes, for it looked upon him as the fire-provider, and the fire was slow in coming.

When all was ready, the man reached in his pocket for a second piece of birch-bark. He knew the bark was there, and, though he could not feel it with his fingers, he could hear its crisp rustling as he fumbled for it. Try as he would, he could not clutch hold of it. And all the time, in his consciousness, was the knowledge that each instant his feet were freezing. This thought tended to put him in a panic, but he fought against it and kept calm. He pulled on his mittens with his teeth, and threshed his arms back and forth, beating his hands with all his might against his sides. He did this sitting down, and he stood up to do it; and all the while the dog sat in the snow, its wolf-brush of a tail curled around warmly over its forefeet, its sharp wolf-ears pricked forward intently as it watched the man. And the man, as he beat and threshed with his arms and hands, felt a great surge of envy as he regarded the creature that was warm and secure in its natural covering.

After a time he was aware of the first faraway signals of sensation in his beaten fingers. The faint tingling grew stronger till it evolved into a stinging ache that was excruciating, but which the man hailed with satisfaction. He stripped the mitten from his right hand and fetched forth the birch-bark. The exposed fingers were quickly going numb again. Next he brought out his bunch of sulphur matches. But the tremendous cold had already driven the life out of his fingers. In his effort to separate one match from the others, the whole bunch fell in the snow. He tried to pick it out of the snow, but failed. The dead fingers could neither touch nor clutch. He was very careful. He drove the thought of his freezing feet, and nose, and cheeks, out of his mind, devoting his whole soul to the matches. He watched, using the sense of vision in place of that of touch, and when he saw his fingers on each side the bunch, he closed them—that is, he willed to close them, for the wires were down, and the fingers did not obey. He pulled the mitten on the right hand, and beat it fiercely against his knee. Then, with both mittened hands, he scooped the bunch of matches, along with much snow, into his lap. Yet he was no better off.

After some manipulation he managed to get the bunch between the heels of his mittened hands. In this fashion he carried it to his mouth. The ice crackled and snapped when by a violent effort he opened his mouth. He drew the lower jaw in, curled the upper lip out of the way, and scraped the bunch with his upper teeth in order to separate a match. He succeeded in getting one, which he dropped on his lap. He was no better off. He could not pick it up. Then he devised a way. He picked it up in his teeth and scratched it on his leg. Twenty times he scratched before he succeeded in lighting it. As it flamed he held it with his teeth to the birch-bark. But the burning brimstone went up his nostrils and into his lungs, causing him to cough spasmodically. The match fell into the snow and went out.

The old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right, he thought in the moment of controlled despair that ensued: after fifty below, a man should travel with a partner. He beat his hands, but failed in exciting any sensation. Suddenly he bared both hands, removing the mittens with his teeth. He caught the whole bunch between the heels of his hands. His arm-muscles not being frozen enabled him to press the hand-heels tightly against the matches. Then he scratched the bunch along his leg. It flared into flame, seventy sulphur matches at once! There was no wind to blow them out. He kept his head to one side to escape the strangling fumes, and held the blazing bunch to the birch-bark. As he so held it, he became aware of sensation in his hand. His flesh was burning. He could smell it. Deep down below the surface he could feel it. The sensation developed into pain that grew acute. And still he endured it, holding the flame of the matches clumsily to the bark that would not light readily because his own burning hands were in the way, absorbing most of the flame.

At last, when he could endure no more, he jerked his hands apart. The blazing matches fell sizzling into the snow, but the birch-bark was alight. He began laying dry grasses and the tiniest twigs on the flame. He could not pick and choose, for he had to lift the fuel between the heels of his hands. Small pieces of rotten wood and green moss clung to the twigs, and he bit them off as well as he could with his teeth. He cherished the flame carefully and awkwardly. It meant life, and it must not perish. The withdrawal of blood from the surface of his body now made him begin to shiver, and he grew more awkward. A large piece of green moss fell squarely on the little fire. He tried to poke it out with his fingers, but his shivering frame made him poke too far, and he disrupted the nucleus of the little fire, the burning grasses and tiny twigs separating and scattering. He tried to poke them together again, but in spite of the tenseness of the effort, his shivering got away with him, and the twigs were hopelessly scattered. Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out. The fire-provider had failed. As he looked apathetically about him, his eyes chanced on the dog, sitting across the ruins of the fire from him, in the snow, making restless, hunching movements, slightly lifting one forefoot and then the other, shifting its weight back and forth on them with wistful eagerness.

“He got

on his

hands and knees

and crawled toward the dog.”

The sight of the dog put a wild idea into his head. He remembered the tale of the man, caught in a blizzard, who killed a steer and crawled inside the carcass, and so was saved. He would kill the dog and bury his hands in the warm body until the numbness went out of them. Then he could build another fire. He spoke to the dog, calling it to him; but in his voice was a strange note of fear that frightened the animal, who had never known the man to speak in such way before. Something was the matter, and its suspicious nature sensed danger—it knew not what danger, but somewhere, somehow, in its brain arose an apprehension of the man. It flattened its ears down at the sound of the man's voice, and its restless, hunching movements and the liftings and shiftings of its forefeet became more pronounced; but it would not come to the man. He got on his hands and knees and crawled toward the dog. This unusual posture again excited suspicion, and the animal sidled mincingly away.

The man sat up in the snow for a moment and struggled for calmness. Then he pulled on his mittens, by means of his teeth, and got upon his feet. He glanced down at first in order to assure himself that he was really standing up, for the absence of sensation in his feet left him unrelated to the earth. His erect position in itself started to drive the webs of suspicion from the dog's mind; and when he spoke peremptorily, with the sound of whip-lashes in his voice, the dog rendered its customary allegiance and came to him. As it came within reaching distance, the man lost his control. His arms flashed out to the dog, and he experienced genuine surprise when he discovered that his hands could not clutch, that there was neither bend nor feeling in the fingers. He had forgotten for the moment that they were frozen and that they were freezing more and more. All this happened quickly, and before the animal could get away, he encircled its body with his arms. He sat down in the snow, and in this fashion held the dog, while it snarled and whined and struggled.

But it was all he could do, hold its body encircled in his arms and sit there. He realized that he could not kill the dog. There was no way to do it. With his helpess hands he could neither draw nor hold his sheath-knife nor throttle the animal. He released it, and it plunged wildly away, with tail between its legs, and still snarling. It halted forty feet away and surveyed him curiously, with ears sharply pricked forward. The man looked down at his hands in order to locate them, and found them hanging on the ends of his arms. It struck him as curious that one should have to use his eyes in order to find out where his hands were. He began threshing his arms back and forth, beating the mittened hands against his sides. He did this for five minutes, violently, and his heart pumped enough blood up to the surface to put a stop to his shivering. But no sensation was aroused in the hands. He had an impression that they hung like weights on the ends of his arms, but when he tried to run the impression down, he could not find it.

A certain fear of death, dull and oppressive, came to him. This fear quickly became poignant as he realized that it was no longer a mere matter of freezing his fingers and toes, or of losing his hands and feet, but that it was a matter of life and death with the chances against him. This threw him into a panic, and he turned and ran up the creek-bed along the old, dim trail. The dog joined in behind and kept up with him. He ran blindly, without intention, in fear such as he had never known in his life. Slowly, as he ploughed and floundered through the snow, he began to see things again,—the banks of the creek, the old timber-jams, the leafless aspens, and the sky. The running made him feel better. He did not shiver. Maybe, if he ran on, his feet would thaw out; and, anyway, if he ran far enough, he would reach camp and the boys. Without doubt he would lose some fingers and toes and some of his face; but the boys would take care of him, and save the rest of him when he got there. And at the same time there was another thought in his mind that said he would never get to the camp and the boys; that it was too many miles away, that the freezing had too great a start on him, and that he would soon be stiff and dead. This thought he kept in the background and refused to consider. Sometimes it pushed itself forward and demanded to be heard, but he thrust it back and strove to think of other things.

It struck him as curious that he could run at all on feet so frozen that he could not feel them when they struck the earth and took the weight of his body. He seemed to himself to skim along above the surface, and to have no connection with the earth. Somewhere he had once seen a winged Mercury, and he wondered if Mercury felt as he felt when skimming over the earth.

“Several times he stumbled, and finally he

tottered, crumpled up, and

fell. . .”

His theory of running until he reached camp and the boys had one flaw in it: he lacked the endurance. Several times he stumbled, and finally he tottered, crumpled up, and fell. When he tried to rise, he failed. He must sit and rest, he decided, and next time he would merely walk and keep on going. As he sat and regained his breath, he noted that he was feeling quite warm and comfortable. He was not shivering, and it even seemed that a warm glow had come to his chest and trunk. And yet, when he touched his nose or cheeks, there was no sensation. Running would not thaw them out. Nor would it thaw out his hands and feet. Then the thought came to him that the frozen portions of his body must be extending. He tried to keep this thought down, to forget it, to think of something else; he was aware of the panicky feeling that it caused, and he was afraid of the panic. But the thought asserted itself, and persisted, until it produced a vision of his body totally frozen. This was too much, and he made another wild run along the trail. Once he slowed down to a walk, but the thought of the freezing extending itself made him run again.

And all the time the dog ran with him, at his heels. When he fell down a second time, it curled its tail over its forefeet and sat in front of him, facing him, curiously eager and intent. The warmth and security of the animal angered him, and he cursed it till it flattened down its ears appeasingly. This time the shivering came more quickly upon the man. He was losing in his battle with the frost. It was creeping into his body from all sides. The thought of it drove him on, but he ran no more than a hundred feet, when he staggered and pitched headlong. It was his last panic. When he had recovered his breath and control, he sat up and entertained in his mind the conception of meeting death with dignity. However, the conception did not come to him in such terms. His idea of it was that he had been making a fool of himself, running around like a chicken with its head cut off—such was the simile that occurred to him. Well, he was bound to freeze anyway, and he might as well take it decently. With this new-found peace of mind came the first glimmerings of drowsiness. A good idea, he thought, to sleep off to death. It was like taking an anaesthetic. Freezing was not so bad as people thought. There were lots worse ways to die.

He pictured the boys finding his body next day. Suddenly he found himself with them, coming along the trail and looking for himself. And, still with them, he came around a turn in the trail and found himself lying in the snow. He did not belong with himself any more, for even then he was out of himself, standing with the boys and looking at himself in the snow. It certainly was cold, was his thought. When he got back to the States he could tell the folks what real cold was. He drifted on from this to a vision of the old-timer on Sulphur Creek. He could see him quite clearly, warm and comfortable, and smoking a pipe.

"You were right, old hoss; you were right," the man mumbled to the old-timer of Sulphur Creek.

Then the man drowsed off into what seemed to him the most comfortable and satisfying sleep he had ever known. The dog sat facing him and waiting. The brief day drew to a close in a long, slow twilight. There were no signs of a fire to be made, and, besides, never in the dog's experience had it known a man to sit like that in the snow and make no fire. As the twilight drew on, its eager yearning for the fire mastered it, and with a great lifting and shifting of forefeet, it whined softly, then flattened its ears down in anticipation of being chidden by the man. But the man remained silent. Later, the dog whined loudly. And still later it crept close to the man and caught the scent of death. This made the animal bristle and back away. A little longer it delayed, howling under the stars that leaped and danced and shone brightly in the cold sky. Then it turned and trotted up the trail in the direction of the camp it knew, where were the other food-providers and fire-providers. –

End

by @2022 Paya Frank 

Time is nothing {English Story}

 

 

                               

 

- Look for it in the guide, I think I have written it down somewhere but I don't have time to check, I'm already late. See you later dear. -

But that morning he not only looked up the plumber's number in the blessed telephone directory, he flipped through page after page, giving in to an absurd impulse.

-I didn't just stop at the L… I also called him Miriam! .-

- You did what? she asked, stunned.

-Of course I didn't make myself known, well yes but... actually I told him that it was Alejandra who was speaking and as such I dared to meet him in a candy store on Lavalle and Carlos Pellegrini.

- Laura, you are crazy, since you had the lack of common sense to date your first boyfriend, at least you would have told him who you really were! -

- Neither dreaming! I don't want problems... - Miriam's ironic look told her without words what she was already thinking -. -Okay, I'm in trouble, although he didn't suspect anything, he even seemed to really like it that it was Alejandra who invited him.      '

-From what I see he accepted-.

- Why wouldn't I? After all, he always felt attracted to her.

- What time is he expecting you? -

-I never said I would go... -resolutely she got out of bed to face the mirror on the dresser.

"No... it's true, but we both know you're going," Miriam challenged as she approached her from behind. For a few moments they held their gaze in the mirror, finally Laura gave up with a smile.

And there he was, at six o'clock, only he couldn't win the battle against the fear that seemed to run down his back in the form of cold sweat. After thinking about it, it seemed to him that the only way to deal with it was to fake a chance encounter. There was no reason for him to suspect her. Besides, if he didn't recognize her on the phone, it might be that he didn't recognize her in person either. Twenty years had passed, and time had left traces of its passage through Laura's life.

On the other hand, he... I couldn't say that he was the same, in no way! If at nineteen he was attractive, now he was irresistible. The only thing that denoted his years were those distinguished gray hairs that silvered his temples. "Even the furrows that adorned his face here and there looked good on him," he said to himself as he moved between the tables. She walked past him and sat diagonally across from him. With sweaty hands she took the menu ready to ignore Roberto, that inconsiderate man who didn't seem to remember her.

- Laura? -a voice came to her that had traveled in time to stop on this unusual Friday in 1998. Slowly her pupils began their ascent, crossing that impeccable blue suit, until they found themselves face to face with her past.

- Robert? -she managed to ask with feigned surprise.

"The same," he answered with a smile.

- But what a coincidence! What are you doing here? -

-Waiting for a person-.

-Oh, then I imagine you won't be able to accompany me, I was about to order a… -

- Gain on the rocks? - Laura nodded, evidently pleased by that memory. -And yes, I can accompany you because it is obvious that my date will no longer come.

-In that case... -he pointed to the chair in front of his.

-Laura… -Roberto sighed. -It seems incredible to have found you after so many years. When you moved I lost track of you; although I confess that I forced myself to do it because... well... I could never have been your friend, not after what we had. -Laura couldn't help the pinkness of her cheeks.

-Sorry... did I make you uncomfortable? she-she hastened to apologize. The timely appearance of her waiter managed to get her out of trouble.

"Gancia on the rocks..." he ordered, after a suggestive pause he added. -…for two. -

- And... How are things going? "She," she asked just to avoid thinking about Roberto's disturbing look and what she was making him feel.

-Very well, I graduated as an architect and I am lucky to be one of the few lucky ones who do not have to drive a taxi to survive.-

-Then you could... -

-Yes, I built it, as white and perfect as I once dreamed of. What's more, I live in it. -

- Oh Rober, I'm so happy! "She" she exclaimed excitedly as her hand followed that ancient path towards his almost without realizing it.

He seemed to notice the detail at the same time as her and that was why he was able to prevent her prudent retreat.

You are happy? -He shot her suddenly, grabbing Laura's hand in his.

"From time to time... like everyone else," she answered moved.

And one by one the memories fell on the table, accompanied by a Gancia full of nostalgia, of litany, of what could have been...

- Oops! How time passed... I have to go- Laura said looking at her watch.

- Will you call me again? -Roberto asked when he saw her stand up resolutely.

-I don't know...-Suddenly Roberto's question made its way into his dull brain.-Wait a minute, I didn't call you.:, -

- Of course! -she stated with a hint; of smile on the lips. But seeing that she was determined to argue the point, she added: -I know for sure, because Alejandra... is the witch I married. -

 

END

1995 Paya Frank @ Blogger

WHAT'S IN FRONT OF ME {Stories}

 

 

In front of me, the inert field stretched as far as the eye could see and beyond, never finding an end, for now everything was like that, desolate. I didn't expect to find anything else for miles around, no grass, no leaves, no hint of life. If I saw a cockroach I would be happy, I would have something to eat. He was starving. In my canteen I carried the mixture that my grandfather had taught me to make, with a thick, bitter taste. When I started taking it, I thought it was vomitive, but it hydrated like no other liquid, which in itself was scarce. When you can't find water for hundreds or thousands of miles, and the whole world is like that, you need to make the most of what you have. Unfortunately, my grandfather never got to see what his invention would result in or the conditions under which it would be used: he died when all this was just being cultivated. He never saw the end.

The earth creaked with my every step, with a dry, unpleasant, sometimes faint sound. I had to be careful: there were points where the floor could sink, leaving me trapped. The land had become a dangerous place. He was in a hurry to find some shelter. A chemical cloud could be seen in the distance. Still, constant in my footsteps. It wouldn't be long before he was on top of me. It was important to calculate how long I could keep running, as it was essential to reserve my energy, since food was extremely scarce, not just liquid. Lightning flashes could be seen in the distance, threatening. It was likely that the remnants of some fuel had been scattered, so the storm would start fires that would not end. If there was anything alive in these lands, there wouldn't be any more when I finished, including myself if I couldn't find a place to hide. I wondered if I would ever find a place where I could take off my gas mask: I was starting to get tired of wearing it squeezing my face all the time.

After a while of walking, with the threat almost upon me, I was able to find a shelter: it was a ruined building, which preserved almost intact one of its rooms in the west wing. I noticed the kind of building that was in front of me, because in the end, when it all happened, there were those who tried to protect themselves from the catastrophe: bunkers, walls covered with lead, steel and solid concrete, warehouses with food, medicine and vaccines, airtight rooms, among many other means of defense. This, in particular, was a room covered with protective materials: just enough to be safe. I hurried to take cover, the cloud wasn't too far away. I walked in, closed the door behind me, and turned on my flashlight. I wasn't afraid that there was something or someone dangerous inside, nothing was alive anymore. I wondered if he was the last human on Earth. Perhaps in faraway places, on other continents, or even on this very one, there could be someone in a situation like mine, even a group, even if the possibility was minimal. After all, it was almost impossible for me to stay alive.

He had planned to live in the mountains, but finding food didn't seem feasible; Wherever I moved, I could hardly find canned remains or jars that had not somehow been invaded by fungi or bacteria. In addition, he could find materials to produce Grandpa's mixture, or even insects, a rather substantial meal. Luckily, it seemed that, somewhere, some presence seemed to have heard me, and in front of me moved a small, furry creature with four legs and a small tail: it was the first mammal I'd seen in years, one associated with plagues, one that had probably had a role in human extinction. Outside of insects, this was the first form of life I saw. Perhaps it was the last specimen of its species, or even of its entire genus. I watched the curious rodent, sad, starving, looking for some bug or anything to feed on, it almost reminded me of myself in that situation. I thought for a moment that she and I were the last mammals on Earth. I wasn't sure, but it was very likely. I thought his end was a pity. No, rather a real misfortune: if I didn't survive, then mammals would have ceased to exist. It was almost certain.

That gruesome ending did not leave my mind. As much as it hurt, I couldn't let the rat escape. It didn't take me long to pierce it with my knife, and then cook it. I think it was the leanest, richest thing I'd eaten in a long time. I really tried really hard to give it a good taste and it was worth it: I really enjoyed it.

It was a sad end for the last specimen of a species. Nevertheless, it served to keep me alive, though it was likely that my end would be even worse, even more tragic. With me, an entire genus of vertebrates would have been wiped out. The term of another species, the one that had dominated the planet; A success in terms of ambition, a biological failure, since the life span of human beings on the planet had been extremely short compared to that of other species. Not satisfied, we destroy several species much more successful than ours, being victims and participants of our aberrant acts. I think until the end I acted like a human.

I went out as soon as the storm was over, satisfied and sad, with my gas mask on, still thinking about the rat. I wondered if there was anything left of us alive somewhere, knowing deep down that it wasn't.

 

The end

 

Paya Frank @ Blogger

THE OBSESSED by Alfonso Álvarez Villar

 

 

Psychiatrists classify among feelings and tendencies what they call "obsessive impulses", that is, those forces that, in a more or less irresistible way, incite us to do something that goes beyond the framework of our prejudices or moral norms, but that at the same time it falls within our habitual desires and passions.

Who has not felt the temptation - as more than one psychologist has said - to throw any person casually leaning on its curb into a well? Who has not been disturbed at some time in their life by the pathological suggestion of pressing the alarm bell, for no reason, on a train in full speed? And so in this same tone we could cite example after example, occurring in normal people, but without failing to underline the highly rare nature of this phenomenon.

Well, despite the unusual label that psychology gives to this "experience", it is so common for me that I am going to feel like a different man when Doctor X manages to remove it from my spirit (assuming he succeeds).

But, by Jupiter!, ill-considered reader, do not believe that the person who writes this is a complete madman. I swear on my honor. A little bit fantastic, yes, I am, and I also have a bit of an analytical and verbose mentality. But this is not enough reason for me to consider myself insane (I am now tempted to write some foul words here so that my readers feel offended).

And returning to our topic: it seems to me that I had said that that "demon of perversity" (that's what that other maniac Allan Poe calls him) was almost my daily bread. Temptations of this type, such as shouting in the middle of a symphony audition, or the much more gruesome one of murdering loved ones like my own parents, without, as one would expect, any motive, frequently assailed me. I can also refer to the case of that girlfriend I had two years ago, and from whom in the peak moments of our passion I was forced to separate myself from her, a victim of strange desires to strangle her. But I don't want to go into too much detail telling you the background of my "case."

Because, in fact, I must say that until just six months ago, that phenomenon would not have presented a pathological aspect, and in any case, it would have remained a mere easily repressed inclination, without translation into the external world. I think it is convenient in this regard to summarize here the medical history that Doctor X keeps in his files. Undertaking this task, then, I must tell my readers that from the age of 14 to 19 these symptoms appeared in exceptional cases, although more frequently than in the majority of people. But, in reality, this process did nothing more than follow an arithmetic progression throughout those five years. I am referring rather (and I use psychological terms because I have always been a fan of psychology) to the date on which this obsessive tendency was projected onto a real level.

My memory has failed me since then: the electroshocks applied to my brain have made me forget many of the things that have happened in recent months. I only seem to remember that then I was in a continuous nightmare. Any circumstance or any object created that pathological state in me. It was increasingly difficult for my will to veto the externalization of those impulses. This must have lasted five or six months.

I also remember, although in a very blurred and very distant way, that blasphemy (I am very religious), which I uttered at the top of my lungs in the middle of a theater full of audiences. And now I remember (one image is linked to another) that wedding in which both parties were good friends of mine. The priest had already twice asked the witnesses to the ceremony to communicate before tying the sacramental bond if they found any impediment in that union. The power of my will was already on the verge of collapsing. And indeed, when repeating the warning for the third time, I exclaimed in a stentorian voice that yes, there was an impediment. Of course I had the good idea of ​​pretending to be the victim of an epileptic seizure, so that stupidity had no consequences. The trick of the attack helped me on more than one occasion to escape with a certain decorum from other situations that were even more ridiculous.

For example, I know that the series of extravagant acts I committed at that time reached a truly alarming number. I repeat that I have forgotten almost everything, but I think I remember a certain punch I gave to a peaceful passer-by and a no less categorical hug to the Lady of Elche in the Prado Museum.

I am going, therefore, to limit myself to referring here to the decisive fact that has me locked up in this asylum cell. I also want to justify to my readers that absurd action that gave rise to so many comments in the press. It is precisely these comments that have prompted me to write these lines, because, frankly, I am already tired of seeing myself treated like an abnormality by people less intelligent than me. To hell with them!… But let's get back to the thread of our story.

Of course, I can assure you above all that it happened in one of the stations in Madrid, and around noon (these data have also been confirmed by the newspapers that have come into my hands). On the other hand, the reader did not ask me what I was doing in that place and at that time. The fact is that under a heatwave sun I was walking along the empty platforms when, suddenly, I was stopped in front of one of those gigantic electric locomotives that my readers may have seen at some point pulling an endless row of carriages. It was, in effect (so the newspapers say), the express machine prepared ad hoc destined for I don't know what Spanish city. But these last ones are reflections made after the fact. I stood still, I repeat, and as if attracted by an irresistible force, I began to carefully analyze the connecting rods, the nuts and in general the smallest mechanisms of that steel monster.

All this lasted approximately ten minutes, because when my gaze fell upon the half-open door of the vehicle, I was assaulted by the sudden and irresistible idea (which I transformed into reality) of getting inside.

Here memories fade like shreds of a fantastic dream that the lights of dawn dissipate. I guess, of course, that, victim of another new temptation, I must have started the convoy, by dint of manipulating the levers of the machinery, because all that follows is a "sensation of movement" or, to put it more precisely, a crazy race of two rails that were narrowing towards me at dizzying speed, never ending. I also seem to remember the telegraph poles that slid from one side to the other of the road, as if they wanted to flee.

I guess that the fear of falling into the clutches of the railroad employees (who must have noticed my "maneuver") prevented my hand from undoing what my obsessed mind had started, but it is no less true that "then" the wind that whipped my face when I looked out the window and the rapid procession of the tops of the pine trees that quickly followed each other to the right and left, inoculated me with a wild joy, very difficult to discover now. Then I think I got tired (I get tired of everything) and about a hundred kilometers from Madrid I abandoned the convoy in a deserted place from where I walked back.

My memories are blurring again to an even more intense degree, and furthermore I have no desire to continue this story. The vision of a Court and judges who acquitted me pass confusingly through my memory (it is known that, giving in to a new temptation, I informed the police of my "feat"). The fact is that now I am in this sanatorium (not crazy) where I am recovering.

 

END

THE ABYSS Leonidas Andreiev

 

 

The day was drawing to a close, but the young couple continued to walk and talk, paying no attention to the time or the road. In front of them, in the shade of a tree, stood the dark mass of a grove, and among the branches of the trees, like burning coals, the sun burned, inflaming the air and transforming it into glittering golden dust. The sun appeared so close and luminous that everything seemed to vanish; He alone remained, and painted the road with his own crimson tints. It hurt the eyes of passers-by, who turned their backs, and suddenly everything that fell within their field of vision was extinguished, it became the tall trunk of a fir tree that shone through the greenery like a candle

in peaceful and clear, and small and intimate. A little farther away, a short mile away, the red one set in a darkened room; The reddish glow of the road stretched before them, and every stone cast its long black shadow; and the girl's hair, bathed in the rays of the sun, now shone with a golden nimbus. A loose hair, separated from the rest, fluttered in the air like a golden thread woven by a spider.

The first shadows of dusk did not interrupt or change the course of their conversation. It went on as before, intimate and quiet; He went on to discuss the same theme: the strength, beauty, and immortality of love. They were both very young; The girl was not more than seventeen years old; Ncmovctsky had just turned twenty-one. They both wore student uniforms: she in the modest brown dress of a female school student, her companion in the elegant attire of a technology student. And, like their conversation, everything around him was young, beautiful, and pure. Their figures, erect and supple, advanced with a light, elastic step; Their cool voices, uttering even the most vulgar words with thoughtful tenderness, were like a rivulet on a quiet spring night, when the snow has not yet quite melted on the mountainsides.

They walked, rounding the bend of an unknown road, and their long shadows, with absurdly small heads, now advanced separately, now emerged together in a long, narrow strip, like the shadow of a poplar. But they did not see the shadows, for they were too absorbed in their talk. As he spoke, the young man did not take his eyes off the girl's beautiful face, over which the setting sun seemed to have left a measure of its delicate tints. As for her, she bent her eyes over the path, pushing aside the tiny pebbles with the tip of her parasol, and watched now one foot, now the other, as they emerged from under her dark dress.

The path was interrupted by a dusty ditch with footprints imprinted on them. For a moment, the two young men stopped. Zinochka raised his head, looked about him with a puzzled air, and asked:

"Do you know where we are?" I had never been here.

His companion carefully examined their surroundings.

-Yes, I know. There, behind the hill, is the city. Give me your hand. I'll help you cross.

He stretched out his hand, white and thin as a woman's, not marred by hard work. Zinochka was cheerful. She wanted to leap over the ditch by herself, and run, crying, "Get me, if you can!" But he restrained himself, bowed his head with modest gratitude, and timidly stretched out his hand, which retained its childish morbidity. Nemovetsky felt the urge to squeeze the trembling little hand tightly, but she restrained herself too, and with a slight bow she took it politely in hers and modestly turned her head when, as she crossed the ditch, the girl flashed her calf fleetingly.

And again they walked and talked, but their thoughts were filled with the momentary touch of their hands. She could still feel the dry warmth of the palm and the strong male fingers; He felt pleasure and shame, while he was conscious of the submissive softness of the tiny female hand, and saw the black outline of her foot and the little shoe that wrapped around him tenderly. He was overcome by a sudden desire to sing, to stretch out his hands to the sky, and to shout, "Run! I want to you!", that ancient formula of primitive love among the woods and the noisy waterfalls. And tears flowed down her throat from all these desires.

The long shadows vanished, and the dust on the road turned gray and cold, but they didn't notice and continued chatting. They had both read many good books, and the radiant images of men and women who had loved, suffered, and perished out of pure love stood before them. His memoirs resurrected fragments of almost forgotten verses, adorned with the melodious harmony and sweet sadness that love provides.

"Do you remember where this is from?" Nemovetsky asked, reciting: "... Once again she is with me, she, whom I love; of whom, having never spoken, I conceal all my sadness, my tenderness, my love..."

"No," replied Zinochka, and repeated thoughtfully, "All my sadness, my tenderness, my love..."

"All my love," Nemovetsky replied like an echo.

Other memories came back to them. They remembered those girls, pure as lilies, who, dressed in black, sat alone in the park, ruminating on their sorrow among the dead leaves, but happy in the midst of their sorrow. They also remembered the men who, abounding in will and pride, implored the love and delicate compassion of women. The images thus evoked were sad, but the love reflected in that sadness was radiant and pure. As vast as the world, as bright as the sun, it lifted up fabulous beauty before his eyes, and there was nothing so powerful or so beautiful on the face of the earth.

"Could you die for love?" Zinochka asked, as she looked at his childish hand.

"Yes, I might," replied Nemovetsky, convinced, and looked his companion in the eye. And you?

-Yes, me too. The girl thought thoughtfully. Dying for love is a joy.

Their eyes met. Clear, limpid eyes, full of goodness. His lips smiled.

Zinochka stopped.

"Wait a minute," he said. You've got a thread in your jacket.

The girl raised a hand to the young man's shoulder and carefully, with two fingers, grasped the thread.

-That's it! -Cried-. And, becoming serious, she asked, "Why are you so pale and thin?" You study too much...

"And you have blue eyes, with golden sparks," replied Nemovetsky, looking into the girl's eyes.

"And yours are black. No, chestnut trees. They seem to shine. There are in them...

Zinochka didn't finish the sentence. He turned his head, his cheeks flushed, his eyes took on a shy expression, while his lips smiled involuntarily. Without waiting for Nemovetsky, who was also smiling with secret pleasure. The girl started walking, but soon stopped.

"Look, the sun has set!" He exclaimed in sorrowful astonishment.

"Yes, it has been set," replied the young man with a new sadness.

The light had faded, the shadows had died, everything was pale, dying. At that point on the horizon where the sun had burned, dark masses of clouds were now silently accumulating, conquering blue space step by step. The clouds gathered, pushed each other, slowly transformed their monstrous profiles; They were advancing, as if driven against their will by some terrible, implacable force.

Zinochka's cheeks grew paler and her lips redder; His pupils widened imperceptibly, obscuring his eyes. Whispered:

-I'm scared. I am concerned about the silence that surrounds us. Have we gone astray?

Nemovetsky knitted her bushy eyebrows and looked around.

Now that the sun had disappeared and the approaching night breathed fresh air, everything seemed cold and inhospitable. The grey field stretched out on either side with its stunted grass, its hills and its hollows. There were many of these hollows, some deep, some small, and full of vegetation; the silent darkness of night had already crept into them; And because of the existence of signs of cultivation, the place seemed even more desolate.

Nemovetsky crushed the feeling of insecurity that was struggling to invade him and said:

"No, we haven't gone astray. I know the way. First to the left, then through that grove. Are you scared?

She smiled bravely and replied:

"No. Not now. But we need to get home early and have some tea.

They quickened their pace, only to shorten it again at once. They did not look by the wayside, but they could feel the indolent hostility of the tilled field, which surrounded them with a thousand tiny motionless eyes, and the sensation drew them nearer to each other and awakened in them memories of childhood. Bright memories, full of sun, green foliage, love and laughter. It was as if this had not been a life, but an immense and melodious song, and they themselves had been part of that song as sounds, as two faint notes: one clear and resonant like pure crystal, the other somewhat duller but more animated at the same time, like a small bell.

Signs of human life began to appear. Two women were sitting on the edge of a hollow. One of them was cross-legged and staring into the bottom of the hole. He lifted his head, touched with a handkerchief, from which tufts of matted hair escaped. She wore a very dirty blouse with flowers printed on it, as big as apples; Her laces were loose. He didn't look at those passing by. The other woman was very close, half reclining, with her head thrown back. He had a broad, coarse face, with the features of a peasant, and under his eyes the prominent cheekbones showed two reddish spots, resembling very recent scratches. She was even dirtier than the first woman, and she looked shamelessly at the two young men. When these had passed, the woman began to sing in a strong, masculine voice:

"For you alone, my beloved, I will burst like a flower..."

"Varka, did you hear?" The woman turned to her silent companion and, receiving no answer, burst into hoarse laughter.

Nemovetsky had known such women, who were filthy even when wearing luxurious dresses; He was used to them, and now they slipped from his retina and vanished, leaving no trace. But Zinochka, who had almost brushed against them in her modest dress, felt that something hostile invaded her soul. But in a few moments the impression had vanished, like the shadow of a cloud rushing across the flowery meadow; and when, advancing in the same direction, a barefoot man passed by, accompanied by another of these women, Zinochka saw them, but paid no attention to them.

And once more they walked and talked, and behind them moved reluctantly a dark cloud, casting a transparent shadow. The darkness gradually thickened. Now, the two young men were talking of those terrible thoughts and sensations that visit man during the night, when he cannot sleep and all is silence around him; when the darkness, immense and endowed with multiple eyes, is crushed against his face.

"Can you imagine the infinite?" Zinochka asked, putting a hand to his forehead and closing his eyes.

"The infinite?" "No," replied Nemovetsky, closing his eyes as well.

"Sometimes I see it. I first noticed it when I was very young. Imagine a large number of cards. One, another, another, endless letters, an infinite number of letters... It's terrible!

Zinochka trembled.

"But why letters?" Nemovetsky smiled, though he felt uncomfortable.

-I don't know. But I saw letters. One, another... endless.

The darkness was thickening. The cloud had already passed over their heads, and standing in front of them he could now see the faces of the two young men, growing paler and paler. The ragged figures of other women like the ones they had encountered appeared more frequently; as if the deep hollows, dug for some unknown purpose, were vomiting them to the surface. Now alone, now in groups of two or three, they appeared, and their voices echoed noisily and strangely desolate in the still air.

"Who are these women?" Where do they come from? Zinochka asked in a low, trembling voice.

Nemovetsky knew what kind of women these were. He was terrified that he had fallen into this wicked and dangerous neighbourhood, but he answered calmly:

-I don't know. It doesn't matter. Let's not talk about them. We'll be home soon. We just have to go through that grove and we will reach the city. Too bad we came out so late.

The girl found those words absurd. How could he say they had left late, if it was only four o'clock? He looked at his companion and smiled. But Nemovetsky's brows continued to furrow, and, to reassure and comfort him, Zinochka suggested:

"Let's go faster." I want to have some tea. And the grove is very close now.

"Yes, we're going to go faster.

When they entered the grove and the silent trees came together in an arc above their heads, the darkness grew more intense, but the atmosphere was also more peaceful and calm.

"Give me your hand," Nemovetsky proposed.

She shook his hand, with some hesitation, and the faint touch seemed to light up the darkness. Their hands didn't move or squeeze each other. Zinochka even pulled away from his partner a bit. But all his consciousness was focused on the perception of the tiny place in the body where the hands touched. And again came the desire to talk about the beauty and mysterious power of love, but to speak without violating silence, to speak, not through words but through looks. And they thought they ought to look, and they wished they would, but they dared not...

"And there are some people here!" Zinochka exclaimed cheerfully.

On the bald spot, where it was brighter, three men sat by an almost empty bottle, silent. They looked expectantly at the newcomers. One of them, clean-shaven like an actor, laughed loudly and whistled provocatively.

Nemovetsky's heart beat with a trepidation of horror, but, as if pushed from behind, he walked on in the direction of the trio, sitting by the roadside. There they were waiting, and three pairs of eyes were staring at the passers-by, motionless and threatening.

Desirous of winning the goodwill of these idle and ragged men, in whose silence he perceived a threat, and of gaining their sympathy through his own helplessness, Nemovetsky asked:

"Is this the road that leads to the city?"

They didn't answer. The clean-shaven whistled something mocking and indefinable, while the others remained silent and stared at the pair with malignant intensity. They were drunk, hungry for women and sensual fun. One of the men, with a reddish face, stood up like a bear and sighed heavily. His companions glanced at him, and then fixed their intense gaze on Zinochka again.

"I'm terribly afraid," whispered the girl.

Nemovetsky did not hear his words, but he could sense them by the weight of the arm resting on him. And, trying to appear calm that he did not feel, though convinced of the irrevocability of what was about to happen, he went on with studied firmness. Three pairs of piercing eyes drew nearer and nearer, twinkled, and were behind him.

"It's better to run," thought Nemovetsky. And he said to himself, "No, it is better not to run."

"It's a chick!" Are you afraid of him? said the third member of the trio, a bald man with a sparse red beard. And the girl is very fine. May God grant that we may give each of us one like her!

The three men burst out laughing.

-Hey! One minute! I want to talk to you, horseman! The taller man shouted in a strong voice, looking at his comrades.

The trio rose to their feet.

Nemovetsky walked on, without turning.

-Stop when asked! The redhead exclaimed. And if you don't want to, face the consequences!

"Is he deaf?" The taller man growled, and in two strides he approached the pair.

A massive hand fell on Nemovetsky's shoulder and swung him around. As he turned, he found very close to his face the round, bulging, terrible eyes of his assailant. They were so close that he seemed to see them through a magnifying glass, and he could clearly distinguish the small red veins in the eyeball and the yellowing of the eyelids. He dropped Zinochka's hand and, sinking his own into his pocket, murmured:

"Do you want money?" I can gladly give you the one I'm carrying.

The bulging eyes flashed. And when Nemovetsky looked away from them, the tall man gained momentum and slapped the young man's chin. Nemovetsky's head was thrown back, his teeth cracked, and his cap fell to the ground; Waving his arms, the young man collapsed heavily. Silently, without uttering a single cry, Zinochka turned and ran with all the speed he was capable of. The man with the clean-shaven face uttered an exclamation that rang strangely:

-A-a-ah!

And he started running after Zinochka.

Nemovetsky sprang to his feet, but had barely regained his vertical when another blow to the back of the head knocked him down again. There were two of his adversaries, and the young man was not accustomed to physical combat. Yet she struggled for a long time, scratched with her nails like a whitewashed woman, bit with her teeth, and sobbed in unconscious despair. When he was too weak to continue resisting, the two men lifted him off the ground and pushed him out of the way. The last thing he saw was a fragment of the red beard that almost touched his mouth, and beyond that, the darkness of the forest and the light-colored blouse of the fleeing girl. Zinochka ran silently and swiftly, as he had run a few days before when they were playing marro; And behind her, with short strides, gaining ground, ran the clean-shaven man. Then, Nemovetsky noticed the emptiness around him, his heart stopped beating as the young man experienced the sensation of sinking into a bottomless pit, and finally tripped over a stone, hit the ground, and lost consciousness.

The tall man and the red-haired man, having thrown Nemovetsky into a ditch, paused for a moment to listen to what was happening at the bottom of the ditch. But their faces and eyes were turned to one side, in the direction taken by Zinochka. From there the girl's shrill cry rose, only to die out almost immediately. The tall man muttered angrily:

"The very pig!"

Then, rising up like a bear, he ran.

-Me too! Me too! His red-haired comrade shouted, running after him. He was weak and panting; He had hurt his knee in the fight, and he was furious at the thought that he had been the first to see the girl and would be the last to have her. He stopped to rub his knee; then, putting a finger to his nose, he sneezed, and ran again, crying, "Me too!" Me too!

The dark cloud dissipated across the sky, fading into the still night. The short-cut figure of the red-haired man was soon swallowed up by the darkness, but for a time the uneven rhythm of his footsteps, the rustling of fallen leaves on the ground, and the plaintive cries could be heard:

-Me too! Brethren, so am I!

Nemovetsky's mouth was full of dirt. When he came to, the first sensation he experienced was the awareness of the pungent and pleasant smell of the earth. His head was heavy, as if it were full of lead; I could barely turn it back. His whole body ached, especially his shoulder, but he didn't have any broken bones. He sat up, and for a long time looked over him, neither thinking nor remembering. Directly above his head a bush bent its broad leaves, and between them the now clear sky was visible. The cloud had passed, not dropping a single drop of rain, and leaving the air dry and exhilarating. Very high, in the middle of the sky, appeared the sculpted moon, with transparent edges. He was living his last nights and his light was cold, discouraged, lonely. Small tufts of clouds glided swiftly across the heights, pushed by the wind; They did not obscure the moon, merely caressing it. The solitude of the moon, the timidity of the fugitive clouds, the barely perceptible breath of the wind below, made one feel the mysterious depth of the night dominating over the earth.

Nemovetsky suddenly remembered everything that had happened, and could not believe that it had happened. It was all so terrible that it didn't seem true. Could the truth be that horrible? He, too, sitting on the ground in the middle of the night and looking at the moon and the patches of receding clouds, felt strange to himself, so much so that he thought he was living through a vulgar but terrible nightmare. These women, of whom he had known so many, had also become a part of the dreadful and perverse dream.

"It can't be! He exclaimed, shaking his head weakly. It can't be!"

He stretched out an arm and began to reach for his cap. When he couldn't find her, everything became clear to him; And he realized that what had happened had not been a dream, but the horrible truth. Possessed with terror, he clung furiously to the walls of the ditch trying to get out of it, only to find himself again and again with his hands full of dirt, until finally he managed to cling to a bush and climb to the surface.

Once there, he ran without choosing a direction. For a long time he kept running, circling among the trees. The branches scratched his face, and again it all began to look like a dream. Nemovetsky experienced the sensation that something like this had happened to him before: darkness, invisible branches of the trees, as he ran with his eyes closed, thinking it was all a dream. Nemovetsky stopped, and then sat down in an awkward posture on the ground, without any elevation. And again he thought of his cap, and murmured:

"This is: I have to kill myself. Yes, I have to kill myself, even if this is a dream."

He sprang to his feet, but remembered something and started walking slowly, trying to locate in his confused brain the place where they had been attacked. It was almost pitch black in the forest, but now and then a moonbeam filtered through the branches of the trees, deceiving him; It lit up the white trunks, and the forest seemed to be filled with motionless and mysterious silent people. All this, too, seemed like a fragment of the past, and it seemed like a dream.

"Zinaida Nikolaevna!" called Nemovetsky, uttering the first word aloud and the second in a low voice, as if the loss of her voice had also given up all hope of an answer. No one answered.

Then Nemovetsky found his way, and recognized it immediately. He arrived at the calvery. And when he got there, he realized that everything had really happened. In his terror, he ran, crying out:

"Zinaida Nikolaevna! Soy yo! No!"

No one answered his call. Taking the direction in which he thought the city was, he shouted with all the force that remained in his lungs:

«¡S o c o r r o o o!»

• Again he ran, whispering something as he brushed the bushes, until a white spot appeared before his eyes, like a spot of frozen light. It was Zinochka's prostrate body.

"Oh! My god! What is this?" said Nemovetsky, his eyes dry, but his voice sobbing. He dropped to his knees and came into contact with the girl lying there.

His hand fell on the naked body, which was soft to the touch, and firm, and cold, but not dead. Trembling, Nemovetsky ran his hand over her.

"My dear, darling, it's me," she whispered, searching for the girl's face in the darkness.

Then he stretched out a hand in another direction, and again came into contact with the naked body, and wherever he rested his hand touched the woman's body, so soft, so firm, seeming to acquire warmth at the touch of his hand. Nemovetsky suddenly drew her hand away, and immediately rested it again on that body, which she could not associate with Zinochka. Everything that had happened here, everything that those men had done with this mute woman's body, appeared to Nemovetsky in all its frightful reality, and she found a strange and eloquent answer in her own body. With his eyes fixed on the white spot, he raised his eyebrows like a man engaged in the task of thinking.

"Oh! My god! What is this?" he repeated, but the sound came unreal, deliberate.

Nemovetsky laid her hand on Zinochka's heart: it was beating faintly but steadily, and when the young man leaned over the woman's face he caught the faint breath as well. The girl seemed to be in a peaceful sleep. He called to her in a low voice:

"Zinochka! It's me!"

But he knew immediately that he wouldn't want to see her awake until a long time had passed. Nemovetsky held her breath, glanced furtively around, and then stroked the girl's cheek; First he kissed her closed eyes, then her lips... Fearing that he would wake up, he leaned back and remained in an icy attitude. But the body was motionless and mute, and in its helplessness and easy access there was something pitiful and exasperating. With infinite tenderness Nemovetsky tried to cover the girl with the pieces of her dress, and the double consciousness of the cloth and the naked body was as sharp as a knife and as incomprehensible as madness. Here, wild beasts had feasted: Nemovetsky caught the fiery passion in the air and dilated her nostrils.

"It's me! It's me!" he repeated like a madman, not understanding his surroundings and still possessed by the memory of the white selvedge of the woman's skirt, the black silhouette of the foot, and the footwear that so tenderly contained it. As he listened to Zinochka breathe, his eyes fixed on his face, he waved a hand. He stopped to listen, and waved his hand again.

"What am I doing?" he cried aloud in despair, and leaned back, horrified at himself.

For an instant, Zinochka's face flashed in front of him and vanished. He tried to comprehend that this body was Zinochka, with whom he had been walking and talking about the infinite, but he could not comprehend. He tried to feel the horror of what had happened, but the horror was too intense to grasp.

"Zinaida Nikolaevna! He cried imploringly. What does this mean? Zinaida Nikolaevna!"

But the tormented body remained mute, and, continuing his mad monologue, Nemovetsky dropped to his knees. He pleaded, threatened, said he would commit suicide, and grabbed the prostrate body, pressing it against his...

The body made no resistance, obedient meekly to his movements, and the whole thing was so terrible, incomprehensible, and savage that Nemovetsky sprang to his feet again and cried out sharply:

"Help!"

But the sound was fake, as if it were deliberate.

And once more she dropped upon the passive body, with kisses and tears, feeling the presence of an abyss, a dark, terrible, absorbing abyss. There was no Nemovetsky there; Nemovetsky had been left behind, somewhere, and the being who had replaced him was now shaking the warm, submissive body, and was saying with the cunning smile of a madman:

"Answer me! Or don't you want to answer me? I love you! I love you!"

With the same sly smile he brought his wide eyes to Zinochka's face and whispered:

"I love you! You don't want to talk, but you're smiling, I notice. I love you! I love you! I love you!"

He pressed Zinochka's body tighter against his, and his passivity aroused a savage passion. Wringing her hands, Nemovetsky whispered again, her voice hoarse:

"I love you! We won't tell anyone, and no one will know. I'll marry you tomorrow, whenever you want. I love you! I'll kiss you, and you'll answer me, yes? Zinochka..."

He pressed his lips to hers, and in the anguish of that kiss his reason was utterly nullified. It seemed to him that Zinochka's lips quivered. For an instant, horror cleared his mind, opening a black abyss before him.

And the black abyss engulfed him.

 

The end