campfire was burning; there were no longer any flames, just red embers glowing. She could hear horses munching. Two carts stood out against the darkness—one with a barrel, the other, slightly lower, with sacks—and two men: one was leading a horse in order to harness up, the other stood motionless by the fire, his hands behind his back. A dog growled near the cart. The man leading the horse stopped and said:
“Seems like somebody’s coming down the road.”
“Quiet, Sharik!” the other shouted at the dog.
And from his voice it was clear this other was an old man. Lipa stopped and said:
“God be with you!”
The old man approached her and replied after a moment:
“Good evening!”
“Your dog won’t bite, grandpa?”
“Never mind, come on. He won’t touch you.”
“I was at the hospital,” said Lipa, after a pause. “My little son died there. I’m taking him home.”
It must have been unpleasant for the old man to hear that, because he stepped away and said hastily:
“Never mind, dear. It’s God’s will. You’re taking too long, lad!” he said, turning to his companion. “Get a move on!”
“Your yoke’s gone,” said the lad. “I don’t see it.”
“You’re unyoked yourself, Vavila!”
The old man picked up an ember, blew it to flame—lighting up only his eyes and nose—then, when the yoke was found, went over to Lipa with the light and looked at her; his eyes expressed compassion and tenderness.
“You’re a mother,” he said. “Every mother feels sorry for her wee one.”
And with that he sighed and shook his head. Vavila threw something on the fire, trampled on it—and all at once it became very dark; everything vanished, and as before there were only the fields, the sky with its stars, and the birds making noise, keeping each other from sleeping. And a corncrake called, seemingly from the very place where the campfire had been.
But a minute passed, and again the carts, and the old man, and the lanky Vavila could be seen. The carts creaked as they drove out onto the road.
“Are you holy people?” Lipa asked the old man.
“No. We’re from Firsanovo.”
“You looked at me just now and my heart softened. And the lad’s quiet. So I thought: they must be holy people.”
“Are you going far?”
“To Ukleyevo.”
“Get in, we’ll give you a ride to Kuzmenki. From there you go straight and we go left.”
Vavila sat on the cart with the barrel, the old man and Lipa on the other. They went at a walk, Vavila in the lead.
“My little son suffered the whole day,” said Lipa. “He looked with his little eyes and said nothing, he wanted to speak but he couldn’t. Lord God, Queen of Heaven! I just kept falling on the floor from grief. I’d stand up and fall down beside the bed. And tell me, grandpa, why should a little one suffer before death? When a grown man or woman suffers, their sins are forgiven, but why a little one who has no sins? Why?”
“Who knows!” said the old man.
They rode for half an hour in silence.
“You can’t know the why and how of everything,” said the old man. “A bird’s given two wings, not four, because it can fly with two; so a man’s not given to know everything, but only a half or a quarter. As much as he needs to know in order to live, so much he knows.”
“It would be easier for me to walk, grandpa. Now my heart’s all shaky.”
“Never mind. Just sit.”
The old man yawned and made a cross over his mouth.
“Never mind …” he repeated. “Your grief is half a grief. Life is long, there’ll be more of good and bad, there’ll be everything. Mother Russia is vast!” he said, and he looked to both sides. “I’ve been all over Russia and seen all there is in her, and believe what I say, my dear. There will be good and there will be bad. I went on foot to Siberia, I went to the Amur and to the Altai, and I moved to live in Siberia, worked the land there, then I began to miss Mother Russia and came back to my native village. We came back to Russia on foot; and I remember us going on a ferry, and I was skinny as could be, all tattered, barefoot, chilled, sucking on a crust, and some gentleman traveler was there on the ferry—if he’s dead, God rest his soul—he looked at me pitifully, the tears pouring down. ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘black is your bread, black are your