I heard him get down from his horse and throw the reins over the wrought-iron fence of one of the graves. His footsteps drew nearer, but then he suddenly halted before reaching the edge of the pit.
“Grab hold,” he shouted as a rope came whirring down through the air and landed in the pit beside me. As I grabbed hold of it, I suddenly remembered the goat, which was standing silent and forlorn in his corner. After a moment’s reflection I wound the rope around his neck in a double loop and cried up:
“You can start pulling!”
As the rope grew taut, the goat began jerking his head and rising up on his hind legs. In order to prevent the rope from biting into his neck, I grabbed hold of his hind legs and began pushing up with all my strength. But just as his horned head appeared in the moonlight above the pit, the man suddenly let out a howl in what seemed a goatlike voice, dropped the rope and took to his heels. The goat came crashing down beside me and I cried out in pain as one of his hoofs landed on my foot. My tears must have been close to the surface since now I began crying in earnest — from weariness and frustration as well as from the pain. I kept on crying till I could cry no longer. But then, just as I was cursing myself for not having warned the man about the goat, it suddenly occurred to me that the man’s horse was still tied to the fence and that eventually he would have to come back for it.
And sure enough, about ten minutes later I caught the sound of footsteps creeping up in the distance. Obviously he intended to untie his horse and take off as quickly as possible.
“That was a goat,” I said in a loud but calm voice.
Silence.
“Mister, that was a goat,” I repeated, trying to maintain the same tone of voice.
I sensed that he had halted and was listening.
“Whose goat?” he asked suspiciously.
“I don’t know, he fell in before I did,” I answered, realizing that my words did not sound very convincing.
“You don’t seem to know anything, do you?” he remarked. “And how are you related to Meksut?”
Too excited to make any sense, I began explaining our relationship (in Abkhazia everyone is related). I felt he was beginning to believe me, and hoping to inspire his confidence even further, I went on to explain the purpose of my visit. But the more I talked, the more I realized how difficult it is to justify oneself from the depths of the grave.
Finally he made his way up to the pit and cautiously leaned forward. His unshaven face looked strange and unsavory in the moonlight, and it was obvious that he would rather have been anywhere but here at the edge of this pit. I even had the impression that he was holding his breath.
I threw up the end of the rope which had fallen back into the pit and tried to help him from below as he grabbed hold and began pulling. The goat foolishly resisted, but after hoisting him up halfway, the man managed to seize hold of his horns and with ill-concealed aversion hauled him out of the pit. He was obviously disgusted by the whole business.
“Goddamned beast!” he muttered, and I heard the sound of his foot kicking the goat. The goat bleated in pain and must have darted off, for now the man began swearing in earnest. But apparently he seized hold of the rope in time, and seconds later I heard the goat being dragged back again. Now the man knelt down by the edge of the pit and, planting one hand on the ground, seized my outstretched hand with the other and angrily began pulling. I tried to make myself as light as possible, not wanting to get the same treatment as the goat. He quickly hoisted me up over the edge of the pit and set me down beside him. He was a large, heavy-set man, and my hand ached from his grip.
After looking me over in silence, he suddenly flashed a smile and patted me on the head, “You gave me quite a scare with that goat of yours. There I was, thinking there was a human at the other end of the rope, and out comes that horned creature…”
I immediately felt better. We walked over to the fence where his horse stood motionless and clearly visible in the moonlight. The goat trailed behind us, still tied to the rope.
From the horse came the sweet smell of sweat, saddle leather and corn. Probably he’s just left some corn off at the mill, I thought, remembering that the rope too had smelled of corn. The man now lifted, or rather threw, me into the saddle, whereupon the horse tossed back its head and tried to bite me. I drew up my leg just in time. Suddenly I remembered my walking stick, but didn’t dare ask permission to go back for it.
The man loosened the reins from the fence, tossed them over the horse’s head and climbed heavily into the saddle — all the while holding the goat by his tether. The horse sagged under his weight and I myself was squeezed uncomfortably between his body and the saddlebow.
The horse set off briskly, kicking up its heels and trying to break into a trot. It was full of energy and obviously resented having to drag the goat along behind it.
Lulled by the dull reverberation of the horse’s hoofbeats and by its gentle, rocking gait, I dozed off.
Suddenly the horse came to a halt and I awoke. We were standing by a wattle fence behind which could be seen a well-tended yard and a large house set high on wooden pilings. A light was burning in the window. It was Uncle Meksut’s house.
“Hey! Where’s the master of the house?” shouted my companion as he lit up a cigarette. Not bothering to get down from the saddle, he carelessly slung the goat’s tether around one of the fence pickets.
The door of the house opened and someone called out, “Who’s there?”
The voice was bold and sharp and seemed to indicate a readiness for any encounter. Such is the tone of voice in which people in our parts respond to an unfamiliar cry at night.
It was Uncle Meksut. I immediately recognized his short, broad-shouldered figure. He came down the steps and started toward us, peering intently into the darkness and chasing off the dogs which crowded around him.
I can still remember the astonished and even frightened look on his face when he finally caught sight of me.
“It’s a long story,” said my rescuer, lifting me out of the saddle and trying to pass me over the fence into Uncle Meksut’s arms. But I refused to be passed, and catching hold of one of the pickets, I climbed down on my own. My companion began to unwind the goat’s tether from the fence.
“Where did the goat come from?” asked Uncle Meksut, now even more astonished.
“It’s quite a story, quite a story!” the horseman gaily replied, casting a conspiratorial glance in my direction.
“Leave your horse and come on inside!” said Uncle Meksut, grabbing the horse by the bit.
“Thanks, Meksut, but I’m afraid I can’t,” answered the horseman, suddenly preparing to leave, though up to now he hadn’t seemed in any hurry. As dictated by Abkhazian custom, Uncle Meksut tried long and hard to persuade him to stay — first acting offended, then pleading, and finally even making fun of the alleged obligations which prevented him from accepting his hospitality. As he talked, Uncle Meksut kept glancing back and forth between me and the goat, apparently sensing that the goat was somehow connected with my arrival, but just how, he could not for the life of him figure out.
Finally the horseman rode off, dragging the goat behind him. Uncle Meksut led me into the house, clicking his tongue in astonishment and scolding the dogs as he went.
The front room was filled with guests. They were seated around a large table covered with fruit and refreshments, and their faces were clearly illuminated — more by the flaming hearth than by the light given off by the kerosene lamp. Mama was there too, and even in the crimson glow of the flames I could see the color slowly drain from her face as she caught sight of me.
The other guests jumped up from their seats, gasping and groaning in astonishment. Upon learning the purpose of my visit, one of my city aunts began to topple backward as if in a faint. Having little experience in such matters, none of her country relatives came to the rescue and she was forced to catch herself awkwardly in midfall.