The Bracken Bloom (1) Crackling harshly, the bonfire demanded more nourishment for its insatiable flesh. After some wood was added and the flames expressed their gratitude by sending a few flocks of merry sparks into the ebony height of the night, Andrew went on with the story that all his companions seated round the fire had been carefully listening to. "On Ivan Kupal's Day, people poured water over each other. For that purpose they used pails, jars, pots, buckets - whatever they could find at hand. Then everybody came to the nearest river, where the young girls let beautiful flower garlands float away and the lads kindled a big fire on the bank and displayed their deftness by jumping over the high flame. It used to be the funniest folk holiday. Ivan Kupal is the folk name of John The Baptist who baptized Christ in the waters of the Jordan. But I guess they started celebrating this kind of holiday in the old heathen days, long before Christianity came to this land. The most interesting thing about the holiday has nothing to do with Christ's teaching. The ancient belief says that the fern can bloom one night a year and it's only possible on the night of Ivan Kupal's Day. And those who are lucky enough to see a fern flower are going to be happy for all the rest of their life. Nowadays people keep on celebrating this holiday. They especially like to throw water over their friends, but I guess nobody now believes in the fern flower and its magic power." "Why, it's so exciting and mystic!" exclaimed Nina. "I wouldn't mind spending a couple of hours in the dark woods in search of good luck." "Well, we all can do it tomorrow," said Andrew. "Ivan Kupal's Day is celebrated on the seventh of July. Tomorrow's the sixth. The very time to look for good luck." "But, darling," intervened Oksana, Andrew's wife, "Tomorrow's my birthday and we're going to have a little party." "Yeah, but after the party, at midnight, we could drive to a nearby wood and try to find our fortune." "Great, a nice idea," Boris said joyfully, "and now let's drink to the fern flower." In a matter of moments the bottle of vodka was picked up off the ground, its last contents were poured into the four glasses which were then clashed together over the fire where they flew asunder. "Andrew," said Nina as she put her emptied glass down on the trampled grass, "can you say what kind of happiness the fern flower brings?" "It depends. Everybody's got his own idea of good luck. Someone may want to get something which another guy needs to get rid of." "Well, Andrew," Oksana took hold of her husband's hand, "maybe we'll go to the tent. I guess it's time to turn in." "Yeah, you're right, hon," assented Andrew. "I'm gonna get up early tomorrow. I'll try fishing a bit. And Boris, don't forget to put the fire out before falling asleep." "We're not going to linger on, either," Nina, following the first couple's example, rose to her feet. "Okay, Boris, let's go to our tent, too." "You can go, darling, but I'll take first a little swim. Just got a slight headache - hope that'll help me. I'll be with you in a couple of minutes, dear." "Just don't take too long then. I'll be waiting for you," Nina smiled and headed for one of the two tents pitched not far from the fire. Once alone, Boris got up, took off his jeans and shirt and went to the edge of the pond on the bank of which they had set up their picnic camp. He slowly entered the water to find it warm, tender and affectionate. He dived, appeared on the surface again, turned over and with measured strokes swam on his back, his gaze directed into the infinity of the starlit sky. He was enjoying the sensation of bliss given to his flesh by the water, the wonderful substance that made the law of gravitation lose all its significance, no matter whether it was an endless ocean or this small pond, similar to thousands, or maybe millions of ponds scattered all over the Ukraine. Boris was grateful to his friend Andrew who'd made him and Nina get out of the noisy and smoky St Petersburg and spend a week of their vacation in Andrew's native place - Tulchin, a small and quiet Ukraine town. Having reached the reed bank on the opposite side of the pond, he turned around and swam back to the camp. On getting out of the water, he noticed a lonely angler sitting on a log, "Any luck?" cried out Boris. "Not a bite," was the reply, "the fish have gone to sleep." "Why are you fishing then?" "Insomnia. Only that makes me sit here." "Surely you live not far from here?" Boris walked closer to the man. "Yeah, quite near." "Then let me ask you something. You see, our liquor's gone, but I'd like a little bit more to relax finally. So, maybe you know a place where I can get something at this hour?" "Yeah, I know such a place. You guys probably drove here from town." "Yes, we did." "And did you see a cemetery close to the woods?" "Yeah, I saw it." "There must be a gravedigger there. His name's Grigory. I suppose he's got something for you." "It's late, I guess he's sleeping now." "Don't worry, he'll be glad to see a guest. But wait, look there," the angler pointed at the nervously twitching float. With an abrupt jerk of the rod he extracted a small perch out of the water. After the catch was hurled into the creel, Boris witnessed a worm being ruthlessly put on the hook and sent into the black depth of the pond to finish its life as mere bait for the angler's next victim. "Thank you for the advice and good luck," Boris turned round and walked up to the dying fire. He picked up a towel from the strewn belongings, rubbed himself, pulled on his clothes and tennis shoes and hurried away from the camp. The route was not a long one, about half a kilometre. The narrow, dusty track cut its way to the horn-beam woods through the tall and thick formation of a corn field. Before long Boris came to rest against the dark bulk of the nocturnal forest, which murmured in the strange language of rustling leafage. The cemetery was a hundred steps to the left, between the woods and the highway. In a short while Boris was striding along beside the iron fence, looking for the entrance. The space where the local residents were supposed to find their last refuge was peacefully sleeping, snugly clung to the woods and covered with the hush of the Ukraine night. Having come through the open wicket, he halted and looked around. The moonlight was bright enough for him make out the only building - a low hut, driven into the corner by the disorderly crowd of gloomy tombs and crosses. The lighted window indicated the host was awake. Boris walked over to the hut and knocked on the door. There was some noise inside, then heavy steps drew near and the door swung open. "Who's that?" In the doorway stood a well-built man of about forty, dressed in pants soiled with fresh earth and a faded shirt, which could not hide the bulging strength of his brawny arms. "I beg your pardon," Boris started timidly, "Are you Grigory?" "Yes, it's me." "I've been told I can get some liquor from you." "Well, come in. This way, please. Here's my chamber." If it had not been for a worn sofa and a shelf with kitchen utensils, Boris would have called the room a cluttered shed rather than a chamber. "Take a pew," Grigory motioned the guest to a wooden stool. "And by the way, what's your name, Mr Unexpected Visitor?" "Boris." "And how much booze d'you need, Boris?" "I guess a bottle will do," Boris, having seated himself on the stool, continued surveying the modest interior. "Excuse me, but d'you really live here?" "Course not - this is my office," Grigory smiled. "I live in town, got a pretty good house over there. This graveyard serves a few nearby villages. Sometimes when the job needs it I stay over here, but not too often. The villages are small, the population not too large, not so much work for me. I've just finished the grave for Fedor the beekeeper. He was eighty-two. Tomorrow's his burial." Grigory walked up to a large chest standing in the corner, lifted the lid and started rummaging inside. "Grigory, and what can you offer me?" asked Boris. "The only thing I have - gorilka." With those words Grigory dragged an enormous bottle out of the chest. "Gorilka?" "And what d'you expect in a place like this, champagne, or French wine?" Grigory smirked and set the bottle on the table. "But I guess it's too much for me and to be truthful I can't remember if I ever tasted this kind of beverage." "Never mind, I'm gonna take no money from you. Are you alone?" "Not at all, but..." "Okay, just keep me company for a while, then you may go wherever you want. I, as well as you, need a drink tonight." "But I won't be able to drink neat gorilka." "Need a chaser? No problem." Soon on the table there appeared two tumblers, a jar of water, a loaf of bread, a wisp of spring onions and half a sausage. "In the jar there's spring water, very healthy. The sausage is home-made, my mother makes it. Well, what d'you say to all that now?" Boris thought for a few seconds, then waved his hand: "Okay, let's have something of a party. Hope gorilka's worth tasting." "Good lad." The gravedigger joined Boris at the table, uncorked the bottle and filled the glasses. "So, let's go ahead." Grigory lifted his glass and emptied it in one gulp. Boris, having done the same, let the tumbler fall from his hand as soon as the last drop of the burning liquid had migrated into his mouth and straightaway pounced upon the jar, endeavouring to quench the fire in his throat with greedy swallows of the cold water. "How d'you find it? I distil it myself, therefore I guarantee the quality. Well, try it," Grigory broke off a piece of sausage and offered it to Boris. "Yeah, it's got it," mumbled Boris, chewing his snack. The drink really proved to be of high quality and it did not take him long to perceive that his attitude of mind was becoming somewhat different. Grigory took a noisy swallow from the jar, "I see you're a stranger here." "Yeah, a friend of mine invited me to spend my vacation here." "And where d'you come from?" "St Petersburg." "A nice city. My daughter's studying there. A beautiful girl, eighteen years old." "Where does she study?" "I can't remember what they call it exactly, but she's gonna be a musician, a piano-player." "You mean a pianist?" "Yeah, I guess that's the proper name." "Strange, I used to think that at such places they educate children whose parents..." "Whose parents what?" Grigory suddenly interrupted, "Please go on! Whose parents don't dig graves? Is that what you mean?" "No, not at all," Boris felt awkward, "I didn't actually mean that." Grigory thumped the table. "Yeah, you did mean that. But what d'you know of people like me?" "I'm sorry, but believe me I didn't wanna say anything offensive." "Okay, now I'll explain to you," Grigory's voice became much calmer. "You think I'm a nobody, a gravedigger, a dung-beetle. But you're terribly wrong. I'm the most important person on this planet. Tell me, what does distinguish you from an animal?" "I've been taught that labour made Man out of the ape. Engels seems to be the first who said so." "Bullshitter, that's the name for your Engels. The beaver works building the dam and the ant, too, works hard and the bee works all day long, but still they are all unintelligent creatures. But what actually distinguishes you from a beast of the woods is that when you're dead, you won't be lying somewhere in the bush, stuck all over with flies and rotting with a terrible stench. But you will lie washed like a cucumber, dressed in clean clothes, in a nicely-made coffin and gradually decaying under a beautiful tomb, where all your children, grandchildren, the children of your grandchildren will keep on coming and speaking well of you. And who's gonna do all that? Me!" Grigory poked his finger at his chest. "Ain't that true?" "Yeah, no doubt that's true." "Alright, Boris, now tell me how long are you gonna live? Let it be a hundred years. Even such a period of time can't be compared to the world's whole history. It's just a miserable moment. But in the grave you may lie for millions and millions of years, just as long as the earth's gonna exist. See the difference - an instant and eternity; They say a doctor is the most important and noble of professions. Nonsense! You may cure a man, or not, but in any case he'll die sooner or later. Or let's take a teacher. No matter if you were perfectly taught at school or you're the most ignorant, but the only thing every one of us is doomed to is the grave. So, who's more important - doctor, teacher or me? Okay, boy, we'd better drink to my job." Boris' second tumbler went down with surprising ease and a similar easiness took possession of his mind, putting an end to such a dull and sober thing as self-control. "You, Grigory, ain't a gravedigger, you're a philosopher," said Boris after he had some sausage with onions. "Boris, I know the only philosophy there is- everybody should love their business. I've been digging graves for twenty years. It's my whole life." "Yeah, Grigory, I see you're a real master of your business. But can you, for instance, bury two people in one grave?" The gravedigger's tanned face gave a cunning smile. "If it's necessary, I'll be able to bury forty persons in one common grave." "No, I mean something else. You said you were burying somebody tomorrow and the grave's ready." "It ain't somebody, it's Fedor, the old chap. Everybody used to love him. What a nice man he was. May he rest in peace, let's have a drink in good memory of him." "Wait a bit, Grigory," Boris lowered his voice to a whisper, "now let's suppose that tonight somebody makes that grave a little bit deeper, then puts a corpse on the bottom, covers it with earth restoring the grave to its previous depth and after that, tomorrow, you bury Fedor in the grave. What do you think, will anybody be able to guess that in the grave there are two dead bodies instead of one?" "You've gotta not only restore the depth but make the bottom look its natural way." "But is it possible for you to do such a thing, Grigory?" "Why the hell d'you ask me this? You know there's nothing I can't do when it comes to my job." "Grand! In that case I suggest we drink a little bit more and then I'll tell you something interesting." The next draught of gorilka saturated Boris's flesh, dissolving the last remnants of all that could be called sobriety. "Well, what d'you wanna tell me?" asked Grigory as he put his tumbler back on the table. "You're my fern flower," pronounced Boris. "What?" "Yeah, you're my fern flower 'cause it's only you who can help me feel happy." "Can you make yourself a bit clearer?" Boris paused and then slowly uttered the words: "I need to kill somebody." "You wanna kill a man?" Grigory cried out in astonishment. Boris, pinned to his stool by the pair of the examining eyes, started to stammer: "Please, don t... I, I... Grigory... just don't get sur... surprised. Yeah, it's long ago that I decided to do it but I had no idea how to get rid of the corpse. You see, it's the main piece of evidence. But if there's no corpse, there's no murder." "And who's gonna be your victim?" "The victim, as you say, is now not far from here, sleeping in a tent." "So what?" "It's so simple, I've already explained it all to you. Now we'll go and kill "the victim" and then hide the body in the grave." "What makes you think that I'll do that?" "I'll pay you good money." "To talk of money you must first tell who you're going to" kill." "Does it matter?" "Yes, it does matter. You think you can give me heaps of money and after that I'll be able to kill anybody, even my mother." "It ain't your mother, Grigory, calm down." "Then who? Your friend?" "One does not kill ones friends." "And who is supposed to be killed by such a guy like you? "Well, it's my wife." "Your wife?" "Yeah, I gotta kill her." "Why?" "I can no longer allow that dirty bitch to keep on ruining my life." "Why don't you divorce?" "Believe me, it's far easier to kill her." "Maybe you're right and your wife's the worst bitch in the world, maybe she's the Devil in flesh, but I've never murdered nobody and not gonna do so. I just bury people after they die." "Grigory, I'll give lots of money, a great deal. I'm a successful businessman, I can afford it." "Please try to solve your family problems without my help." "Okay, let's do it this way - I'll kill her myself and you'll bury her." Grigory shook his head: "Nope, it's complicity in a crime." "Wait," Boris went on, his voice growing more determined, "it was you who just now said that you bury dead people. If the murder's discovered I won't give you away. I'll just say it was me who secretly buried the body while you were sleeping in the hut. And then, when you buried Fedor, you weren't aware of the other body n the grave. No sense in betraying you. That wouldn't change my sentence. Murder will remain murder no matter if I've hidden the corpse or not. Do you get it?" "Yeah, I got it and I think you'd better hide the body yourself."
Copyright © 2003 Gene O'div |