The Maya Pill

by German Sadulaev

  I used to get carsick. But I had to put up with it when we went to Zarechnoye. We drove all the way through Chechnya and Dagestan, to the Cossack settlements. Along the road we would see rows of gypsy encampments out on the steppe. We would drive down alleys full of ancient trees, lime trees, and every time he saw them my father would tell us that those lime trees had been planted during the reign of Catherine the Great.

  For some reason he thought this was a big deal.

  But then we would emerge from the dark forest, and a marvelous vision would open out before us: on both sides of the road the fields were covered with scarlet flowers in full bloom, opium poppies, mak, like my name; they were like a fire blazing, filling the whole steppe, flames as far as you could see!

  And of course we would stop and gather big armfuls. And my mom wouldn’t scold us when we brought the poppies into the car and when they shed their petals, messing up the seats. She loved the flowers, and the color red.

  Grandma always knew exactly when we would arrive. She would be outside standing at the gate, holding up her palm as a sunshade over her wrinkled forehead, looking into the distance. How did she know that our dusty, rattling old Moskvich had already reached Zarechnoye? Did the birds tell her?

  She didn’t stand out there like that all day long, did she?

  Inside the hut the air was hot and steamy from two days of baking: fish pies, potatoes and meat, salad, fruits. And a bottle of homemade red wine would stand on the table, waiting. Grandma had a vineyard—twenty sotki big! How did she manage it all?

  Everything is so delicious! The grownups are lazy; they’ll just sit around gossiping, eating, and drinking the whole afternoon. But we have things to do. We grab some pie, drink a glass of wine each—like the grownups—and take off running.

  To the Terek.

  I could find the path with my eyes closed. Along Grandma’s fence to the end, then across a ditch and a field, and then a ravine and some woods, and finally there it was: the Terek! The river is big, smooth, deep. It wasn’t like the stream in our village, which only comes up to your waist, and only up to the grownups’ knees. No, the Terek has a strong current, and you shouldn’t swim out too far or you’ll be caught in a whirlpool and that’ll be the end of you. The vodyanoi demon will drag you all the way down to the bottom. My sister kept a close eye on me. If I tried anything, she yelled at me. She’s the older one. We’d splash around for a while, then make our way back to the hut.

  It was dark at night on the farm. Keep your eyes peeled. Though why would you want to peel your eyes? I never got that.

  Jackals howled on the other side of the garden, down by the Terek. If a traveler came across them at night, he was done for; they’d surround him and tickle him to death. And when they howled, it sounded like little kids crying, or else laughing really hard. Try and make sense of it. Maybe they had someone in their clutches out there.

  I got to sleep in Grandma’s room, on a trunk. They’d already made my bed. I loved the trunk! Grandma told me that it was her hope chest; she brought her trousseau in it when she married Grandpa. Her family was rich—the trunk was huge! It used to belong to her mother, and before that, to her mother’s mother. Made of oak, with metal bands around it, and decorated with silver trim.

  We went to bed. Grandma prayed to her icons first, and then got into her bed with its ornate cast-iron frame. I lay down on my trunk. But I didn’t want to go to sleep! I wanted Grandma to tell me stories.

  “Tell me a story, Grandma!”

  “What do you want to hear?”

  “About the old days!”

  “What is there to tell? I don’t remember anything!”

  Grandma dissembled, delayed. That was part of the ritual; she did it every time. She would eventually tell a story, though, however much she protested, and when she did, she would talk and talk until after midnight.

  First, for a warm-up, she’d tell about how the Reds came to the settlement. They stabbed Great-Grandpa to death with their sabers, right there in the bed where he lay wounded from battle. Before that, when Great-Grandpa was healthy and able to ride his horse, there was no way the Reds could have gotten into the settlement. Great-Grandpa was the ataman!

  But then the Reds came, a shabby, rough sort of bunch—they said there’s no tsar anymore, and no God either!

  They went around to all the huts and the church, gathered up the icons, and took them to the public square, where they piled them up and set fire to them. They put pots over the fires with the icons and tried to make watermelon honey. But the bottoms of the pots melted through and all the honey leaked out. They tried using different pots, but the same thing happened. And every time they tried a new pot, it would leak when they put it over the fire made of holy icons! So they couldn’t make their watermelon honey.

  Because there is a God. The time will come when those godless men who sold Christ and their own eternal souls will weep bitter tears.

  I’d heard the story countless times before, but I do not interrupt. It got more interesting from there.

  “Ba! Tell about how it was after the war!”

  “Oh, vnuchek! It was a terrible time! So many soldiers lay dead on the fields— there was no one to give them a funeral and a proper burial. And the wolves came and multiplied! Fed on the carrion. Only there was something strange about those wolves. The people were strange, too. Everything went to support the war, and famine spread over the villages and cities—people ate one another to survive. It got so you couldn’t tell the difference between wolves and men.”

  “Grandma, you’re scaring me! But those were just rumors, right?”

  “What do you mean, rumors? I saw it myself.”

  “Saw what, Grandma?”

  “Well I’ll tell you. I was on a carriage going out of town. We used to work on the collective farm during the week, just to get our work credits. But to earn money to buy bread for the children, your mother and her sister, and their brother, I used to sell melons at the market. So I’m coming back from the market one night. And two Cossacks are walking along the road, strangers. They say, ‘Give us a lift, sister Cossack, take us to the station!’ but I really don’t like the look of them. They were dragging their feet, and their shoulders looked cramped, somehow, like they were wearing someone else’s shirt. Or like they were wearing someone else’s body. And their voices had a hollow sound to them. I didn’t say anything, just flicked the mare with the switch, giddyup, let’s get a move on. She was a good horse, and she took off at a gallop. But the devil made me turn and look back, and I saw two wolves skulking along behind the carriage, green eyes gleaming. No Cossacks in sight. I nearly died of fright. Barely survived. I kept praying and crossing myself the entire way home. That’s what saved me!”

  “So Grandma, if they were werewolves, then why couldn’t they just jump into the carriage and grab you?”

  “They weren’t really alive, that’s why! Remember this, my dear: Spirit creatures can’t enter our world completely. They have to trick people into letting them in. All it takes is for you to say just once, ‘yes, all right.’ And that’s it, you’re done for. They’ll drag you to their lair, they’ll swallow your soul! So don’t get into conversations with strangers, don’t open your door to anyone at night, and don’t give rides to people you don’t know. Those are the three rules.”

  “Now tell me about Grandpa!”

  “Oh, dearie . . . ” Grandma fell silent. She was probably crying. “I loved my husband. He’s the only man I ever had. He gave me three children, and I stayed faithful to him my whole life, even after he died. And I was a good-looking girl, the Collective Farm Chairman himself came courting. He was one-eyed and ugly, like the devil. And he said, ‘Stepanida, here I am, the last man left in the settlement. Who else is there for you to marry? I’m a good man. I’ll take you, kids and all. And if you don’t marry me, I’ll bring up your White Guard past and ruin you. You’ll rot in prison, you and your kids along with you.’”

  “What did you sa
y?”

  “I was raking hay at the time. So I poked him in his fat belly with my pitchfork and told him, ‘It is said: Your first husband is from the Lord, the second from man, and the third from the devil. I had Volodenka, and he was from the Lord, and he died in the war. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Now I don’t need anything from man, much less the devil. And you’re a one-eyed devil at that! Do whatever you want, harass me, try to hurt me, but make no mistake about it, I’m the ataman’s daughter, and I fear nothing except the Lord’s wrath. I’ll scoop your guts out with this pitchfork!’”

  “So then what?”

  “Nothing. He stopped bothering me after that, the monster.”

  We lay there quietly and thought to ourselves. A moth beat against the window, attracted by the light inside.

  “Ba, tell me about how Grandpa died.”

  “We don’t know the details, dear. I got a death notice, that’s all. It said he died a hero’s death, at such and such a village, on such and such a day, and that was it. After the war I went to the village where they said it happened and tried to find his grave. Couldn’t find a thing. Anyway, I already knew that he hadn’t been given a proper funeral and burial. And he was a Christian, yet! He’d been baptized! Wasn’t some commie.”

  “How do you know that he wasn’t buried?”

  “If they’d given him a proper burial, would he have wandered the earth after he died? Would he have come to see me?”

  “What do you mean, ‘come to see you,’ Grandma? Didn’t you say he was killed?”

  “It happened the usual way. I got the death notice and was sitting in the hallway crying. And my friends came over, all of them already widows, and they told me how to handle it. ‘Stepanida,’ they said, ‘your sorrow is great, but what can you do, it’s war. Cry, grieve, but don’t bring on God’s wrath. Your Vladimir died—that was God’s will. And it’s not proper for the dead to walk the earth before the Judgment Day. We have our world, they have theirs. The dead don’t belong among the living, and the living don’t belong among the dead.’ That’s what they told me. And now I’m telling you the same, vnuchek, and don’t you forget it!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “At first I didn’t understand either. But they explained: ‘Some soldiers who weren’t given a proper Christian funeral rise from the fields and walk back home. Their soul is far away, mind you, awaiting God’s judgment. But their body finds its way home, by habit. Finds its way by the stars and by the smell. And it comes and stands outside your door and asks you to open up and let it into the hut. Only at night, though. If you get one of these visits during the day, it’s more likely to be a deserter than a dead man. Deserters can sneak by while the sun’s still out. But dead men hide during the day, lurk behind bushes and in ditches, shunning the light. That’s how you can tell the difference. He’ll come at night, but all the same, don’t let him in! Remember, it’s not really your Vladimir, it’s a dead man, just an empty body! Your beloved Vladimir, his Christian soul, is at peace—one hopes—in Heaven. Be strong, sister, don’t open that door. Remember what happened to Nikitishna; she disappeared a month after she got the notice about Ivan. They found her body out in the woods; the wolves had eaten all the flesh off her bones. It’s the living dead—they’ll call and beckon, they’ll lure you away to the riverbank or into the woods, and leave you there for the wild animals to eat. It always happens that way. And now Nikitishna’s two little children are orphans—no father, and no mother either.’”

  “So Grandma, did Grandpa come to visit?”

  “He did. Ten days after I got the news. It was a dark night. I put the children to bed, and I was sitting there doing the mending. And I heard a scratching at the door, a voice saying ‘Stesha, open up! It’s me, your husband Vladimir!’ And it was definitely his voice. My Volodenka! I jumped up, beside myself, was about to rush to the door and fling it open. But I held myself back, sobbing, and said, ‘If it’s really you, Volodenka, and you’ve deserted your unit and are still alive, then go hide in the barn for now, and when the sun comes up, come back in daylight and knock again. Then I’ll let you in. And I’ll help you hide from the authorities: I won’t tell a soul!’ But he kept saying the same thing: ‘Open up, Stesha! Open up right now! I’m tired, I’ve missed you. I want to hold you in my arms, make love to you while the children are asleep.’ And I was trembling all over! I’m a woman, after all, I need loving! But I looked at the children, and I answered, ‘No, Volodenka, I can’t! If it were just me, then I’d let you take me anywhere you wanted, to the river bank, or to feed me to the wolves, if only so I could touch your hand one more time! But we have three children, and if you kill me, who will take care of them? They’ll starve to death. If you’re dead, go away, don’t torment my sinful soul!’ But he wouldn’t leave. He kept on scratching at the door till the sun came up. And when morning came, he disappeared.”

  “Maybe you dreamed it, Grandma?”

  “No, vnuchek. It wasn’t a dream. I was sewing, remember, so I pricked my finger with the needle on purpose, just to see if it was all for real. I didn’t wake up, and in the morning my finger was still covered with blood. But, you know, that wasn’t the end of it—he came back again and again. He came every night. Our hut was outside the village. And after midnight I’d hear it again, the scratching at the door, or else he’d be peeking in the window, and he’d keep calling out to me, begging. And there I was crying and praying. It was so hard for me—I have feelings, vnuchek! I would have gladly rotted out there with him! But the thought of my children kept me back.”

  “So how did it end, Grandma?”

  “On the fortieth day from when they’d said he died, I asked for a service in the church, and we had a funeral. And after that he stopped coming. He was at peace.”

  I was too amazed to ask any more questions. I had never before, nor have I since, heard a story about a stronger and more terrible love.

  But now I really couldn’t get to sleep. And though it was long past midnight and time to stop talking, I kept after her, hoping to hear a story, a fairy tale:

  “Grandma, tell me about the rusalki!”

  “What can I say? I’ve never seen one.”

  “Who has?”

  “My grandpa shot the last rusalka in the orchard, with a flintlock rifle.”

  “What was she doing in the orchard?”

  “What do you mean? Stealing apples of course. For her children.”

  “You mean they had children?”

  “Of course! They had everything people do: husbands, wives, children. But they would go around naked and they didn’t speak our human language. They were big and strong and had strong hands. But other than that, you couldn’t tell the difference between one of them and a normal person.”

  “What do you mean, Grandma? The fairy tales say that rusalki are girls with fish tails instead of legs.”

  “That’s just in the stories. But I’m telling you the way it really was. Fish tails! What will they think of next? The only fishy thing about the rusalki was that fish paste of theirs.”

  “What fish paste, Grandma?”

  “Fish paste! They used to follow our fishermen around and gather up fish guts. The men would go out onto the Terek and catch fish, and they’d clean them right there on the riverbank and toss the guts into the bushes. And the rusalki would be waiting out there. They would grab the fish guts and drag them away.”

  “What did they use them for?”

  “Hold on, silly! I’m telling you. They collected poppies, too, mak. And they would make paste by mixing the mak with the fish guts. They would boil it and then lick it. But woe to anyone who tried to eat it—it was highly toxic. Every once in a while one of our Cossacks tried some of the fish paste and immediately started acting crazy. He wouldn’t cover his shame, would stop going to church, would give up working in the fields. And he stopped caring about anything but sucking on the paste. Worse than a drunk! He’d become like a rusalka himself. Or would leave an
d go to the city.”

  “Wow! And where did the rusalki come from?”

  “From nowhere. They’d always lived here, they were here before we were. We’re the ones who came from somewhere else. Some from Russia, others from Ukraine. Our ancestors came and attacked the rusalki, they wiped out the whole tribe. They were strong, but they had no religion, and they had no weapons. Naked as junkies.”

  “Monkeys, Grandma.”

  “What?”

  “You said junkies. What kind of a word is that? You need to say it right: naked as monkeys.”

  “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself! Correcting your Grandma! As though your Russian’s so perfect. Don’t forget your father was named Raul!”

  “So what if I’m Raulevich? I got an A in Russian! And in literature, too!”

  “Well, if you’re so smart, I won’t tell you any more stories, since you know everything already.”

  Grandma would act offended, but it was just for fun. She loved my father, actually. And my father adored her. Not at all like in those mother-in-law jokes.

  “Look, Grandma! I was just saying. It’s just a funny thing to say, that’s all, junkie. It’s not a mistake, just an idiom, I guess.”

  “You’re getting too big for your britches. ‘Idiom’—I bet you made that up.”

  Grandma sounded like she was complaining, but obviously she was proud of my erudition. She would give it some thought, then conclude:

  “The old folks used to say that at one time those rusalki had their own villages and farmlands, and cities with big bazaars. It was a powerful land! But the fish paste destroyed them. Whenever a person licked some of the paste, whatever he imagined seemed real to him. It was like witchcraft.”

  “How did it work, Grandma?”

  “Here’s how. Let’s say someone wants some nice new clothes. He can sit down and sew some. But if he licks some paste, he’ll imagine that he’s all decked out in brocades and silks. He looks in the mirror and admires himself. And the people around him, those who didn’t have any of the paste, see that the man is naked. Or say he wants a horse—he’ll eat some paste, and he’ll imagine that he has a horse. He’ll take a switch and gallop around the fields, swatting at his own heels with it. Even food—all it takes is one whiff of the paste, and he’ll imagine that he’s full, that he’s had a big meal of fish, and meat, and fresh bread, and wine. He’ll puff his belly out and stagger around! But you can’t fool yourself forever. When you don’t eat anything at all, and just rely on the paste, eventually you’ll swell up from hunger. The only rusalki who survived were the ones who ate apples and wild fruits. But they stopped plowing their fields and building houses. They even forgot how to catch fish! All they did was keep on mixing their paste—that was one art they didn’t lose, and they never passed it on.”