The Ball. Volume#1. “Kuluangwa”. Michael Ouzikov

      …One hundred and twenty-seven… one hundred and twenty-eight… one hundred and twenty-nine… one hundred and thirty… forgive me, I can’t go on. Allow me to rest… just like yesterday, and maybe two days ago, or three… and, most likely, two hours ago. Who can keep track of this stalled time? And my path, stalled in these blizzards… After all, we’re only people. And people are not sand – we can go against the wind while we have strength. I’m philosophizing again. Just shut up and move… one hundred and thirty-one, one hundred and thirty-two… A little more to one hundred and forty steps… and to sleep…

      Dressed in overalls resembling a diving-suit made of papier-mâché, the man was trudging through a violent snowstorm, through the drifts, the bitter cold and impenetrable darkness, muttering under his breath words understandable only to himself. Not looking ahead or to the sides, he walked as if on a tried and tested path. The wind tore away loose scraps of feathers out of his suit.

      One hundred and thirty-three…

      The man paused wearily. Kuluangwa, let’s agree that tomorrow I will walk seven more steps than today. Right now, I must lie down, I just have to…

      Turning away from the wind, he clumsily fell sideways into a snowbank and tucked his knees in, firmly bracing himself with his hands as if dreading to fall apart. The cyclone immediately began to cover his whole body with snow – his shoulders, his head in an odd, baggy hood, his legs in shapeless pants torn at the knees, and his odd-looking leather bag that was caught around his back by straps of leather.

      One hundred and thirty-four…

      With his ice-cold hands, the man ripped his paper suit at his chest and pulled out a black ball of thread. Or was this a coconut? No, this sphere was neither an object of folk art nor an exotic fruit. It was a black, slightly formless… football? Someone clearly had a bite of it. On its sides were grooves that could’ve originated from an invasion of diligent field mice. Also, there was a small round stamp with the image of a strange dancing man fringed by a braid of obscure characters. These kinds of stamps are used to sear cattle and horses before they join a herd.

      One hundred and thirty-five…

      The spherical object lived its life in the stiff hands of the traveler. It seemed as if it exuded hot air. The snow melted before it could reach the tired man, enveloping his chest, face, and weathered hands with white steam. The drifter threw his head back, releasing it from underneath the hood and revealing an emaciated face dried-up to the bones, a ragged beard, and colourless hair glued to his forehead. However, his sunken, discoloured eyes were full of light. With the fumbling fingers of his right hand, he sent a pinch of stinging snow to his mouth. He coughed. Once again, throwing his head back, he suddenly hit his neck on something hard and muttered, «…one hundred and thirty-six…» Turning abruptly with all his strength, the man began to dig out the snow behind his head. Quickly, his fingers came upon the black basalt. Grabbing the ball with both hands, he pressed it against the cold stone and whispered, «Kuluangwa, my brother, look! We’ve come, my dear! You were right! This is your Big Land! I did it, just like you wanted – I did it! You did it!»

      One hundred and thirty-seven… one hundred and thirty-eight… one hundred and thirty-nine…

      Tightly clenching the ball, he pressed his back to the basalt and wept. Meanwhile, a storm carrying masses of snow from the Chukchi Sea continued to form a snow-den around the traveler. Only his head and hands holding the ball on his chest remained uncovered. The ball continued to melt the snow around him. With a detached look, the wanderer investigated the snowy whirlwind over his head, in what was once the sky. His parched lips whispered, «You know what, tomorrow I will not go anywhere, brother Kuluangwa. The next one hundred forty paces you’ll have to roll yourself.» The wanderer sagged again and was coughing, but now from barking with laughter. Thank you, my dear, for bringing me to this boulder… as Alexander Pushkin would say, «That’s where my grave lay…» A gust of wind tore holes in the hood, releasing gray fuzz. Mingled with the snow, the fluff descended onto the surface of the black ball and suddenly became sparks in a blue flame, like mosquitoes over an old kerosene lamp.

      Burning right through the soaked-through paper-suit, the ball slowly melted into the traveler’s chest and pulled off the dry skin with

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