He didn’t go anywhere yesterday; he lay on his bunk the whole day, resting. Now the persistent chirruping has woken him, stirred him up, and forced him to hope again. What if he manages to kill one of those birds? He has to get up now and go hunting.
Ignatov throws his feet off the bunk and an icy crust crunches on the floor; the water’s been running for a long time, ever since the snow started melting a little. He finds his revolver at the head of the bed and rummages around in the sack for a long time, groping for a cartridge. It’s the last one. What did Kuznets say when he was leaving? Enough for all the wild beasts in the taiga? It’s ended up not being enough. But that’s funny, so he should laugh, laugh to his heart’s content at what turned out to be Kuznets’s hilarious practical joke, though he somehow lacks the strength. He’ll have a laugh later, when he gets back from hunting. He just can’t let himself forget it, that joke. Ignatov flings the empty sack away, has trouble opening the drum, and inserts the cartridge. Coping with the revolver has also become difficult of late; it’s too heavy. Just like the obsessive thought in his head that he absolutely has to go hunting and bring something back.
He leans his hands against the edge of the bunk and comes to his feet. His head spins and the air disappears from his lungs. Ignatov is standing with his hands propped against a vertical support log and he’s waiting for the walls to stop rocking. He adjusts his vision and breathing, then walks toward the door.
The exiles are lying on the bunks in tight bunches, embracing. They’re not moving. Maybe they’re sleeping. He ordered those on watch to check people in the mornings. If there’s a corpse, bring it outside immediately. They should probably make the checks more frequently, twice a day.
A small mound of tatters stirs weakly by the stove: it’s Gorelov. He spits, occasionally tossing firewood into the stove. He’s on watch today. There’s not much firewood, only enough for a half-day, and that’s all that remains of the magnificent woodpile stacks that were once so tall. They’ve been heating frugally lately, a little at a time, and supplementing the firewood with woven baskets and snowshoes. They’ve burned everything they wove in the autumn, even Ikonnikov’s Suprematism, after cleaning off the soft birch bark, which they pounded, boiled, and drank beforehand. The firewood went quickly even so; it practically melted away. The indifferent thought that flashes is: We’ll freeze to death at night.
Konstantin Arnoldovich’s invention, the sawed calendar, is on the log by the door. Half of August, September, October, November, December, January, and even February were applied by a firm, stubborn hand. In March, the marks became irregular, uneven, and not very noticeable, and by April they completely went missing. It doesn’t matter now since April is probably over.
Ignatov makes his way under the elk hide, which is as rigid as tree bark and has been mercilessly slashed by a knife. They cut leather off many places and boiled it for a long time but couldn’t eat it anyway because it was too tough. They ate both bast curtains, though, and needles from the boughs they’d used to cover their bunks for softness. As well as the medicinal herbs Leibe had prepared.
Ignatov rests the top of his head against the outside door, pushes, and crawls outside: fresh air and the pattering thaw splash through the gap that’s opened up. The clearing is in front of him. It’s spacious and bundled in snow in some spots but already breathing reddish brown earth in others, and there are black circles made of river rocks, the remnants of the foundations for the woodpiles. The forest is quiet and transparent in the distance, with delicately gray trunks of spruces that have frayed over the winter, occasional black-and-white birch trees with branches like thin hair, and the brittle, reddish lace of juniper bushes.
The earth’s thick, fusty fragrance makes his head spin again. Still crouching by the entrance to the house, Ignatov rests and scrutinizes the darkening Angara below through his half-closed eyes. The river frightened them all winter, making its way toward the knoll with its ice standing on end. Then it began glimmering in places, large gray spots appeared, and the river started sparkling in the sun. A few days ago it suddenly thundered, breaking into angular pieces of blindingly white ice that floated away. You tried, but you could not defeat me, Ignatov thought then, observing the rapid, menacing flow of ice chunks along the swelled river. Now it has already calmed, darkened, and eaten up all the ice. It’s as blue and shining as last summer.
Ignatov strides into the taiga to hunt, shuffling his feet in boots that have fallen apart and lost all form, and holding his revolver in his outstretched hand. From their stakes, the skulls bare their teeth behind him – there are his old comrades the elk and the lynx, a couple of toothy wolverines, and a badger with a flat forehead.
And there’s the chirping, up above. Something’s ringing, singing, and murmuring where thin branches swollen with buds and shabby spruce boughs cross. Ignatov looks up as spots of light blue, reddish-brown, and shades of yellow swing, hop, and fly. The birds are so high he can’t discern or reach them. He’ll need to tear off the buds on his way back, though, for supper.
Ignatov slowly pushes forward, into the depths of the forest, holding onto tree trunks and branches as he walks around puddles with motionless black water and snowdrifts that have melted a little on the sides. His feet are leading him somewhere on their own, and he’s submitting to them, walking. He makes his way across a brook that recently thawed and now jangles deafeningly on the rocks. He walks up along gray land with lumps from last year’s pine cones and between pine trunks that burn with reddish fire. The taiga beckons. Soon, soon there will be prey.
He leans his back against a tall old larch, breathing loudly. His chest is heaving and his legs are buckling, folding in half because he’s unaccustomed to walking so much now. And he’s gone a long way. Will he make it back? Ignatov closes his eyes partway and there’s an unbearable ringing in his ears from the babbling birds. Apparently the taiga is deceiving and enticing him, not allowing him to go back.
There’s a sudden rustling beside him. A squirrel is on a branch right next to Ignatov’s face: it’s thin, dirty gray, with scanty white fluff, yellow cheeks, and long scampish tassels for ears. Meat! A shining brown eye darts and – zoom! – it’s up the tree trunk. Ignatov’s shaking hand reaches upward with the revolver but it’s instantly way too heavy to hold. A shabby tail like a miniature broom flashes mockingly up above, teasing as it blends in with brush-like branches, layers of bark, and needly sunbeams, before disappearing. The sky suddenly starts spinning faster and faster, and then everything’s spinning, the treetops, the clouds…
Ignatov shuts his eyes tightly and his head droops. Turn back? The birds call up ahead, chirping and promising. Ignatov walks forward, half-squinting, lowering his gaze, and not looking at the sky gone mad. He stumbles on a pine root and falls. Why hadn’t he figured out before that crawling is easier? He moves ahead on all fours, looking only at the ground.
A delicate little pink back flashes and a pair of curious eyes sparkle very close, between knotty pine roots: a large jay is busily hopping somewhere. So that’s who’s been singing the whole time! That’s who lured him here! Ignatov aims an uncertain hand at the jay. Whoosh! It’s flown away. Ignatov’s gaze follows but quickly looks down after seeing the spinning firmament again.