They took him away. They deprived him of life. For a brief moment, the look, burning with the fierce hatred, got warmer when she imagined him rubbing against her leg, wheezing happily, clinging to the mother’s breast. But then the pain came back again, forcing her to moan of anguish in the realisation of a terrible truth. It was not going to happen again. Her baby was dead and quietly buried under a pile of fallen leaves. His motionless eyes, filled with pain and the silent reproach, were fixed on her. She did not save him. She did not protect him. She-bear began to shake her head desperately, banishing the painful delusion, and when she raised her head, her unblinking eyes reflected only wild rage. Having uttered a dull roar, she rushed forward. She did not see anything around, having focused only on the target, as if this man was responsible for the death of her bear-cub. She did not even notice how she ran the distance separating her from the killer. She thought that she only blinked and he was already in front of her. The fisherman did not even have time to turn around and realise what was behind his back. His death materialised like some ghost. The flash-like stroke of the pad was followed by the sweeping blow. One could hear the piercing crunch of the cervical vertebrae. And the man, like a rag doll, fell to the ground, motionless, with his face buried in the grass. But she had to give vent to her rage. The heart, tormented by pain, demanded retribution. And she began to tear the man, writhing in agony, furiously to pieces. Sharp claws tore up his flesh, leaving deep, bleeding wounds. Fangs easily crushed the bones, ripping the tendons. She was obsessively rolling the man on the grass, turning him with her pads. She was tearing and biting him. And she calmed down only when the man stopped showing signs of life. Looking intently into the pale blood-stained face and sniffing cautiously the motionless, lifeless body, she made sure that the enemy was not pretending. He was dead. Therefore, her revenge was accomplished, and another enemy was defeated. She began to grumble angrily, showing bloody fangs, and slowly went deep into the cedar forest, warily looking back. She won, but for some reason, it did not bring her peace, only short-term relief. It was a momentary unconsciousness and excitement of a duel. But it was all over, and memories of loss returned. And it brought her severe heartache. And then she decided: she would not leave the path of revenge and would pay back people for the caused sufferings in full until her last breath.
Introduction
The opening gate creaked plaintively and fell forward, being barely held by the rusty hinges. The old man carefully held it back and leant it gently against the lopsided fence. Hardly moving the legs stiff from rheumatism, he got to the bench, which was made of a single rotten plank. He shook his head annoyingly and sat down on the edge of the bench wearily.
– Holy Jesus. – He sighed heavily, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his shabby jacket. – Complete devastation.
Like everything around. It was late in the evening, and the smoke did not rise from the chimneys of all the houses. About thirty years ago, it was not like this. People happily stoked the ovens, preparing dinner and heating the house overnight. Children’s laughter and cheerful voices of adults could be heard in the rooms. These voices were full of joy. There was confidence in the future. The air was filled with the resinous scent of the wood burning in the furnaces, sending blazing sparks of fireworks through the chimneys. But today.
He got a light from a match and took a deep puff. He gloomily raised his weathered face and somewhat blindly squinted. Today, the blank windows were greedily staring at him. It looked as if the houses swallowed their owners, but killed themselves too. There were broken windows, removed doors and window frames, grey cluttered rooms, and sooty walls. He could not even remember the last time there was some holiday in the village. Or rather, he remembered that it was long time ago. Very long time ago. The world seemed simple and people seemed kind. It was in that stagnant time.
– ‘Stagnant time’. – The old man angrily grunted. – How did they dare call it?! And it turned out that now we have peace and grace in our country. So, when everything was building and working, it was stagnation, and when the plants were closing, pension and salary were not being paid for months, it was progress. Democracy distorted everything. It replaced the concepts of good and bad. In fact, it was pretty simple: the authorities were the enemies of the people, who were robbing the country. They were stuffing their pockets. They were dancing to someone else’s tune – American. – And he angrily spat. – Stalin would quickly bring order to the country.
Nothing could convince him that considering the USSR the period of stagnation was not a deliberate invention of the democrats, who tried to justify the ruin of the country and to hide their involvement in the theft. No matter how hard they tried. He had no doubt that now was the notorious ‘stagnation time’, and long ago everything was different – the life was in full swing. Lips involuntarily stretched in a smile and, plunging into the memories, the old man’s face smoothed, brightened. Wan look filled with the brilliance of the youth again, and naughty lights of happiness and serenity began to dance in his grey eyes. He felt like he got into the past and saw his house at the end of construction. It looked like it was ready for people to come in and live, but there were still some flaws to be fixed. Having straightened his shoulders and pumped air into lungs, he instinctively rubbed his dry palms; his hands seemed to be filled with former strength and to remember every hammered nail, every cut made by an axe and a plane. Chips flew happily, it smelled paint and a freshly felled tree. Work was progressing well, and happiness was on every face. Pyotr, Mishka, Seryoga, Volodya. They helped to build the house, fending off fatigue with jokes and rhymes. They were friends from the bygone times. Now they only look at him from the photographs on the gravestones. All of them left him along the bitter trail, disappearing in a dark mist of nothingness. There were shadows that retained their former earthly appearance only in his heart and memories. They were alive there. Nobody shied away from work. They helped as much as they could. And they never refused. They were so young and were not afraid of difficulties. The past was like a breath of fresh air, a breath of light breeze. It would soothe and caress, gently relieving of the burden of years, poverty, and hopelessness. It would take away sorrow and wash away the pain.
Tears flowed from the eyes of the old man, but he sort of ignored them, motionlessly contemplating the distance of the past days.
Sturdy cedar walls, carved freshly painted shutters, well-tended garden, in which the wife planted flowers every spring. Crowds of children going to school, joined by his son and daughter. Favourite work in forestry. He was a senior forester, a chief, who never pulled rank. And all the former friends were his subordinates. They worked and spent vacations together. And then…
Wet optically challenged eyes of the old man were covered with pain and anguish.
There was darkness. And he, as if for real, went back to the past. The years turned into a second. A moment. A deep groan. He and his wife, discussing his work day, usually sat on the couch and turned on the TV to see breaking news. He carefully covered her with a blanket and absently turned around… He was listening to the speaker. The news about the conflict between the Parliament and the President struck like thunder. Reports showed crowds of angry people, frozen tanks, strained faces of the soldiers, and ‘the White House’ blackened by soot. Back then, he did not realise that this was only the beginning of the bloody show. The Soviet Union was hit by the hammer, splitting a united, strong state into independent republics, and the greedy little hands of foreign speculators were reaching out for the wrecks of a great empire in anticipation of winning a big jackpot. And they were naive, ordinary workers and anxiously worried about the fate of the Motherland. These were the days of tension. They were full of rumours and speculation. At work, they were arguing until they got hoarse. Young people sided with the new government, taking for granted the colourful speeches on the indispensable coming of the Golden Age. And politicians, who had sold themselves, were happy to try ‘to sing like a nightingale’ to butter up the path to the hearts of the people with illusory freedom, cheap vouchers, and American chewing gum. The elderly people, having learned from bitter experience, did not want to change anything, arguing that the western innovations would lead to no good. They were proving that there was no such thing as a free lunch. And they were right. And time proved it… The puppeteers became obsessed. People
