We regained consciousness back in the same tent. Fer lay nearby. I was dressed in work boots, pants made of deerskin, and an old sackcloth shirt torn at the elbows — Fer had bartered the basket, belt, and knife for them. The light in the tent was dusky and the Evenki were sleeping. I moved my arm, sat up. My body was tired from the crying and didn’t move well. But in my heart all was
very
calm. It had purified itself. I woke Fer cautiously. She looked at me as though seeing me for the first time. Then her heart
remembered
me. And mine
responded
. The Light fluttered in them. And shone
quietly
. It hadn’t left our hearts. We didn’t even need to embrace and press our chests together. We simply looked in each other’s eyes. After lying there a bit longer, we stood up carefully. And, supporting each other, we left the tent.
The sun was rising over the taiga. As though especially for us, the sunrise went on endlessly. The deer and dogs looked at us.
Our hearts had calmed down. I understood that Fer would
never
abandon me. And she, too, understood that I would
never
leave her. I unstuck my lips: “We have to go.”
“Where?” asked Fer.
“Where the heart leads us.”
My heart was drawing me to the west, to people. And so we slowly walked west.
The sun rose and shone brightly. The dead taiga surrounded us. Here, in this place, there was more toppled forest than burned trees. Over the rotting, mossy trunks you could see young larch and pine. Birds occasionally called out amid the greenery.
We walked for a long time without speaking, without making out the road. Then my lips spoke to Fer.
“Are you from around here?” I asked Fer.
“Uh-huh. From Katanga,” she nodded.
“Why are you here, with the Evenki?”
“I ran away.”
“From whom?”
“My father.”
I had difficulty remembering what a father was. Then I remembered what a mother was. And it felt
very
strange to think that I had had a mother and father. That had all happened to someone else, not me. I recalled the language of people. Then I told Fer about my life. And I told her about the Ice. When I spoke about the Ice, my heart also began
to speak
about it. New words
flowed and glowed
. And Fer’s heart listened. And filled. And answered. And sang. And
the words
of the heart were stronger than human words. The lips stammered, the tongue grew stiff. The paltry human words sounded dully. But in our hearts the Primordial Light shone. Fer’s face swam nearby against the background of the dead landscape. And it shone with happiness. The sunlight shone radiantly in her blue eyes.
As we walked Fer began to tell me her story. She grew up in Angara in a fishing village, in a large, hardworking family. They were well-off, the men hunted and fished for a living. Then her father had a falling out with his brothers and took the family off to Katanga. There, ten versts from Vanavara, they built a homestead and began to live. Soon afterward her mother died. Her father brought an Evenka woman into the house. Fer was ten years old at the time. The Evenka woman raised her. Her father began to drink. He would get drunk and beat everyone he could get his hands on. Three nights ago her drunken father had beaten Fer because she cried out in her sleep. She had had a very strange dream: she dreamed that her deceased mother sent her to fetch water; Fer took the yoke and two buckets and was walking to the Angara river; it was a hot summer all around; she ran to the river and suddenly saw — the Angara had frozen, not simply like in winter but
entirely
, to the very depths; the whole thing had become ice; Fer descended from the cliff to the river and stepped barefoot onto the ice; it felt good, good as never before; she felt that the icy Angara was moving, that it had its own current and that it was completely
different
; the frozen Angara was flowing backward into a completely different country, and this country was
enormous and all white
. It enticed Fer and frightened her; she was standing on the moving ice and didn’t know what to do; fear won out, she left the ice for the shore and watched the ice flow away to a
huge
,
white
country, and she cried from disappointment.
When her father fell asleep, Fer realized that she could no longer live with him. She got on a horse and galloped off. Traveling for a day, she met the Evenki. They were newcomers, outsiders, from Vilyui, otherwise they would never have stopped in the dead forest. She sold them her horse, in order to make it to the Angara and sail to Krasnoyarsk. There Fer planned to get work at the brick factory. She had turned sixteen in May.
She was illiterate — she could read syllable by syllable, but didn’t know how to write at all. On the other hand she spoke the Evenki language well. Fer told me that she could do anything if she wanted to — hunt, fish, take care of children. She was tongue-tied by her
new
happiness. Our happiness. I held her firmly by the hand. We walked and walked, paying no attention to the road. Then we again embraced and fell to our knees. And once again our hearts
began to speak
. And again the Light flared. And the Universe opened wide. And time stopped.
This repeated itself many times. Speaking their own language, our hearts learned new words. Our hearts grew stronger. They matured and grew. And they became freer and stronger. Each heart conversation shook us deeply,
tearing us away
from time and earthly life. But afterward we were also stronger, like our hearts. We became calmer and more focused. The joyous madness increased our strength and certainty. We began to understand that together
we could do anything
. And we changed rapidly. We walked, gathering berries and eating them, then we slept, embracing, on the mossy ground, then we spoke with our hearts, then again slept and again walked. We didn’t notice the cold of the Siberian earth, which awoke at night. Mosquitoes and midges kept away from us. It took four days for us to reach Katanga. There we found a winter hunting lodge, built on the banks of the river between Vanavara and the farm of Fer’s father. The winter lodge was used only during the winter hunting season. Fer was certain that there was no one there. And she was not wrong. In the little log house we slept our fill and recuperated completely. And my heart
told
Fer all about the Ice again. Her face shone with excitement, her heart fluttered, and her lips whispered, “I want to see it.”
“You will see it,” my lips whispered.
Fer grabbed me fiercely by the shoulders. “I want to see it!”
“You will see it!” I said, shaking her.
Our heart rapture soon became a desire to
search
. It was so strong that it literally pushed us in the back. We had to search for sisters and brothers. And this feeling was stronger than the
excitement
of heart conversations about the Ice. We had become wise in these few days. Our hearts
understood
that the Ice — was simply a bridge to other hearts. The Ice — was an aid. But we needed brothers and sisters.
In the morning we washed in the river, ate our fill of wild strawberries that grew thick on the small grassy glades along the steep riverbank, and set off for the farm of Fer’s father. In order to
search
amid the world of people, we had to be
like everyone else
. That meant — having money, clothes, food, arms. Fer’s father had all of this. We approached the homestead cautiously and hid in the forest. Fer knew that her father was looking for her and the lost horse. She was counting on him not being home, and her Evenka stepmother wouldn’t hinder us. But Fer’s heart told her: her father was at home. We sat in the forest and waited for him to leave the homestead. According to Fer, in midafternoon, after dinner, he might go to get alcohol in Vanavara. But her father didn’t leave the house then. Finally he came out. And immediately a woman’s crying could be heard. Her father was already drunk. He went off along the riverbank in the direction of Vanavara. We waited a bit and entered the hut. The stepmother threw herself at Fer, swearing, but I brandished my walking stick at her, and she crawled under the table with a cry. The same swearing soon sounded from under the table. Then the stepmother looked out timidly. And suddenly, seeing her pretty, slant-eyed face and her small fist threatening us, I felt with my heart that there was no difference between the table and this woman. I was being cursed by a TABLE! I started laughing. Fer also looked at her stepmother attentively. And we
saw together
for the first time, with our hearts. Under the table was a person WITHOUT A HEART! Instead of a heart in the woman’s chest there was a pump for the transfer of blood. Besides the Evenka stepmother, two of Fer’s younger sisters were in the hut. Blond and blue-eyed like Fer, they looked at us with interest. Their small blood pumps industriously moved their young blood through their bodies. Fer and I looked at each other. And began to laugh. The stepmother stopped swearing and stared at us, frightened, from beneath the table.
“Anfiska, don’t worry, I won’t say nothing to Pa,” said the youngest sister, smiling.
“Pa’ll flog ya to death,” said the older sister. “Why’d ya take the horse?”
Fer stopped laughing and looked at her sisters intently. She looked at them not only with her eyes. And Fer’s heart
didn’t see
sisters in them. They were also part of the hut, like the stove or the bench. Fer turned away from them and turned to me. I was her true brother. And she — was my sister. We embraced. Then we began to take everything we needed from the house. We took the hunting knife, a small ax, a fishing spear, clothes, guns, bullets, Fer’s birth certificate, an Arctic fox pelt, but of the food — only onions and carrots. The other food seemed inedible to us. There wasn’t any money in the house. I took a silver bracelet off the stepmother, and a necklace of jasper beads, and tore the silver and turquoise earrings from her ears. Her wailing didn’t stop me. Fer’s former sisters cried. Descending along the path to the river, we untied the largest boat and sailed down the Katanga. Fer sat in the prow with an oar, and I sat in the stern with another. We rowed, helped by the current. The river carried us smoothly. The rocky banks, overgrown by the taiga, followed along. The hot sun of the Siberian summer warmed our backs: we were sailing west. Our lips, speaking in the language of people, didn’t ask each other: Where are we going? Our heart knew the route. The banks of the Stony Tunguska were completely uninhabited. There was no sign of people. Only birds circled over the shallows, and fish played in the water. Not until evening approached did two lone log cabins appear on the cliff. Smoke came from the chimney of one of them.
“A fugitive village?” said Fer.
The river began to turn smoothly to the right. And on the bank amid the dark taiga greenery some huts appeared. The settlement, as Fer suspected, consisted of former prisoners who had escaped and settled here permanently. They acquired families, hunted, and fished. Boats were moored at wooden docks. Three women were rinsing clothes. They shouted to us. We didn’t respond and floated past them. They looked at us, using their hands to shade their eyes from the glare of the setting sun. We passed another turn and saw three large boats ahead moored on the shoals. A campfire burned above on the bank and people sat around it.
“Runners?” Fer said in surprise.
Unexpectedly for ourselves, without discussing it, we began to turn toward the shoals. We
didn’t need
to avoid these people. While we rowed over and moored our boat, Fer quickly told me what “runners” were. Each summer nine Angars came to Katanga, acquired three boats, and
ran
them down with the current to the Yenisei River. Along the way they bought pelts from the local people. They always paid in gold dust and paid more than Gostorg. For that reason the locals held back the best pelts until the runners came. On reaching the Yenisei, the runners would abandon the boats and load their take on the steamship that sailed to Krasnoyarsk; there they’d sell their goods and live until spring; when spring came they would buy horses and travel to a gold stream whose whereabouts only they knew; they’d pan for gold, then make their way to Katanga, where, in exchange for the horses, the locals would build them three large boats. Fer said that the runners were tough people, very stern. The locals treated them with caution; they only sold them goods and grub. The Evenki were afraid of them. The runners never stayed over in the villages.
We moored our boat. And approached the campfire. Nine bearded men sat around it eating moose meat boiled with onions from a cauldron. We greeted them. They nodded silently and continued eating, looking at us. There was no threat in their manner, but neither was there any welcome. Then one of them recognized Fer.
“Ain’t you that drunk’s daughter?”
Fer nodded.
“The drink’s got your pa good. He only give us three pelts.”
Fer nodded again.
“Drank up the lot, did he?”
Fer nodded again.
She didn’t look at the runner speaking to her but at another — a blue-eyed blond with a thick red beard. I also looked at him. My heart
clenched
. Fer’s heart did too. The red-bearded fellow held a piece of steaming meat in his left hand and a knife in his right. He bit into the meat with his strong white teeth, cut it off with his knife, chewed, and swallowed. Suddenly he froze and stopped chewing. He looked at me, then at Fer. And paled.
“What now, took a fancy to the young fellow?” a gray-bearded, hook-nosed runner with a broken collarbone asked Fer. “He’s a new one. So till we’re at the Yenisei — he cain’t noway. But aftern that — he’s all yours for always, as you please!”
Two of the runners laughed halfheartedly, the rest continued eating. It seemed that the gray-bearded fellow had long since bored them with his jokes.
“Want some chow?” a stocky, strong-armed runner asked us gloomily.
But the cauldron with steaming meat didn’t awake any desire in us. We
looked
at the red-bearded young fellow. And we
saw
him. He sighed deeply, straightening out his wide, strong shoulders, threw the uneaten piece back in the cauldron, pulled on the collar of his shirt.