candlelight dancing its way around the flaked paintwork on the boards, the gnarled iron of the latch. The light glowing then as it did now, softly vibrating around its edges.
When the hour hand finally nudges into position, Artyom rises and gathers his clothes and creeps into the kitchen. He pulls his pants over his underwear, laces his boots, drops some small logs into the stove, poking it back to life, and walks to the well outside.
Springtime. A freshness in the air. Everything growing, all around, everything feeling alive, blossoms and birdsong, all things paled in their coat of morning dew. He drops the bucket down and hauls it back up and cups the cold water under his armpits and over his chest, with its newly acquired trails of hair, and, leaning over the well, pours the rest of it around the back of his neck, so that it parts over his head then joins upon itself once more, falling back to its origin in one sinuous length.
He stands and wipes the water from his eyes, smearing it down his cheeks, and shakes out his head, the cold of the water charging through his skin.
He opens his eyes and the sky floods his retinas, a sky of the deepest crimson. It looks as if the earth’s crust has been turned inside out, as if molten lava hangs weightless over the land. The boy looks into the depth of the sky, looking further than he ever has before, seeing through to the contours of the universe.
Artyom can hear muffled conversation from the pathway and sees steam rising over the hedgerows. He moves back inside to the kitchen, where his father laces his boots. The boy covers himself with a shirt and rubs it against his body, so it soaks up the remaining drops of water clinging to his skin. He slides into a woolen sweater and wraps himself in a coat and hat and folds his hands into a pair of fingerless gloves.
“Wait until you see the sky,” he says to his father. “What a sky.”
“It’s the same sky we’ve always lived under. It’s just in a different mood.”
Artyom takes the large jug of milk from the fridge and pours it into two bottles, then seals and wraps them in wet rags before placing them in his satchel. His father hands him a box of cartridges and the shotgun, which he has already cracked open for safety, so that its two ends droop over his father’s arm as if winded. His father gives him a nod, which is a silent reminder of the safety practices they have discussed: keep the gun open unless loaded; keep the cartridges dry and in their box; never point a loaded gun anywhere but at the sky or the target.
They join the men in silence, footsteps crunching across the packed earth. He has known these men all his life, known them at times to be loud and funny and full of song, but on these mornings they pay respect to the repose of the land, smoking in unison, opening their mouths only for a quiet greeting or a suggested change of direction or when a bird is spotted.
The boy walks a little further back from the men, trailing the huddled bulk of the group. He likes to open and close the gun, enjoying the reassuring twock that comes from the closure of finely engineered metal. He pushes aside the clasp and opens the shaft and closes it again, the sound of something fitting as it should. He’s sure his father would look disapprovingly at such a habit and so he keeps his distance, keeps the pleasure his own.
They take the same route as other mornings, turning left past the Scherbak home, crossing a small stile over the drain, and heading into the fields towards the pond where the grouse will have returned once more, having forgotten the deadly lesson of the previous morning.
His father had taught him to shoot only two weeks beforehand. It was a Tuesday evening when he brought the extra gun home. The boy knew he had received it from one of the other men in the kolkhoz—the collective farm—in exchange for covering some extra shifts; which in turn compelled Artyom to treat the gun with a reverence; the fact
When the hour hand finally nudges into position, Artyom rises and gathers his clothes and creeps into the kitchen. He pulls his pants over his underwear, laces his boots, drops some small logs into the stove, poking it back to life, and walks to the well outside.
Springtime. A freshness in the air. Everything growing, all around, everything feeling alive, blossoms and birdsong, all things paled in their coat of morning dew. He drops the bucket down and hauls it back up and cups the cold water under his armpits and over his chest, with its newly acquired trails of hair, and, leaning over the well, pours the rest of it around the back of his neck, so that it parts over his head then joins upon itself once more, falling back to its origin in one sinuous length.
He stands and wipes the water from his eyes, smearing it down his cheeks, and shakes out his head, the cold of the water charging through his skin.
He opens his eyes and the sky floods his retinas, a sky of the deepest crimson. It looks as if the earth’s crust has been turned inside out, as if molten lava hangs weightless over the land. The boy looks into the depth of the sky, looking further than he ever has before, seeing through to the contours of the universe.
Artyom can hear muffled conversation from the pathway and sees steam rising over the hedgerows. He moves back inside to the kitchen, where his father laces his boots. The boy covers himself with a shirt and rubs it against his body, so it soaks up the remaining drops of water clinging to his skin. He slides into a woolen sweater and wraps himself in a coat and hat and folds his hands into a pair of fingerless gloves.
“Wait until you see the sky,” he says to his father. “What a sky.”
“It’s the same sky we’ve always lived under. It’s just in a different mood.”
Artyom takes the large jug of milk from the fridge and pours it into two bottles, then seals and wraps them in wet rags before placing them in his satchel. His father hands him a box of cartridges and the shotgun, which he has already cracked open for safety, so that its two ends droop over his father’s arm as if winded. His father gives him a nod, which is a silent reminder of the safety practices they have discussed: keep the gun open unless loaded; keep the cartridges dry and in their box; never point a loaded gun anywhere but at the sky or the target.
They join the men in silence, footsteps crunching across the packed earth. He has known these men all his life, known them at times to be loud and funny and full of song, but on these mornings they pay respect to the repose of the land, smoking in unison, opening their mouths only for a quiet greeting or a suggested change of direction or when a bird is spotted.
The boy walks a little further back from the men, trailing the huddled bulk of the group. He likes to open and close the gun, enjoying the reassuring twock that comes from the closure of finely engineered metal. He pushes aside the clasp and opens the shaft and closes it again, the sound of something fitting as it should. He’s sure his father would look disapprovingly at such a habit and so he keeps his distance, keeps the pleasure his own.
They take the same route as other mornings, turning left past the Scherbak home, crossing a small stile over the drain, and heading into the fields towards the pond where the grouse will have returned once more, having forgotten the deadly lesson of the previous morning.
His father had taught him to shoot only two weeks beforehand. It was a Tuesday evening when he brought the extra gun home. The boy knew he had received it from one of the other men in the kolkhoz—the collective farm—in exchange for covering some extra shifts; which in turn compelled Artyom to treat the gun with a reverence; the fact
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