“It’s within shouting distance—just a stone’s throw away,” said the man as he started off. He seemed to be thinking out loud and rejoicing at my good fortune.
The dog rushed ahead, the man’s footsteps faded away, and I remained alone in the darkness.
I made my way along the path, which was overrun with hazel and blackberry bushes. In some places the bushes had locked together above the path, and I had to separate them with my stick. I passed through them as quickly as possible, but even so, the branches sometimes lashed at me from behind and I would shiver from their cold, tingling dampness. I walked along like this for some time until gradually the bushes began to thin out and all of a sudden it grew much lighter. Several minutes later I came onto a clearing and there, stretched out before me, was a cemetery gleaming brightly under the full white moon.
In my fright I recalled that I had once walked past this cemetery, but then it had been broad daylight and I had thought nothing of it. I had even knocked down several apples from a tree. And now as I spied this same tree off to one side, I tried my best to return to the carefree mood of that earlier summer day. But in vain! The tree looked completely different, hulking in the moonlight with its dark-blue foliage and pale-blue apples. I quickly stole past it.
The cemetery resembled a city of dwarfs. Its wrought-iron fencing, the green mounds of its graves, its small benches, and its tiny palaces with their wooden and metal roofs—everything in it was of miniscule proportions. Perhaps the cemetery’s inhabitants had themselves grown smaller after death and now, more furtive and malevolent because of their diminished size, they continued to live out their quiet, sinister lives right here.
I noticed several small stools on which food and wine had been placed. On one of the stools there was even a candle burning inside a glass jar. I had heard of the custom of offering up food and drink to the dead, but nonetheless the sight of these stools frightened me all the more.
The crickets continued their chirring and the moon cast its white light on the already white gravestones, making their black shadows look even blacker as they lay on the earth, heavy and immobile like slabs of rock.
I stole past the graves as quietly as I could, but my stick made a hollow and slightly terrifying sound as it tapped against the ground. I drew it up under my arm, but now the night became so still that I was even more frightened. Suddenly I noticed a coffin lid leaning against the wrought-iron fence enclosing one of the graves. Next to this grave was a new, freshly dug plot which had not yet been fenced in.
At the sight of the coffin lid a quiver of icy cold shot up my spine, painfully contracted the skin on the back of my neck, and actually made my hair stand on end. But I kept on walking—my eyes fastened on the coffin lid, which cast a reddish glow in the moonlight.
According to Islamic custom the coffin of the deceased is lowered into the grave without any lid, apparently to facilitate the dead man’s ascent to heaven. Once inside the grave, the coffin is covered over with loose boards which perform the same function as a lid.
But I knew nothing of this custom at the time and assumed in my ignorance that the dead man had come out of his grave, rested his coffin lid against the fence, and was now wandering around somewhere in the vicinity. Or perhaps he was hiding behind the lid, just waiting for me to turn my back on him and start running. But I continued to walk, not moving one extra muscle and not accelerating my steps, knowing that I must keep my eyes on the coffin lid, no matter what. At the sound of grass rustling beneath my feet, I realized that I had strayed from the path, but I kept on walking, not letting the lid out of sight. Suddenly I felt myself falling.
I caught a momentary glimpse of the moon streaking across the sky and then plopped onto something white and hairy which immediately shot out from under me. I fell back onto the ground, apparently at the bottom of a large pit. As I lay there with closed eyes, awaiting my fate, I sensed that he, or rather it, was somewhere beside me and that I was completely in its power. And now there began flashing through my mind scenes from stories I had heard shepherds and hunters tell of graveyard happenings and strange encounters in the forest.
I lay there terror-stricken and utterly helpless, but for some reason the apparition made no move in my direction. Finally, when I could stand the suspense no longer, I summoned up the courage to open my eyes.
It was as if I had flung open a door into a pitch-black room. At first I couldn’t see a thing, but then I noticed something whitish moving in the darkness. I could feel that it was watching me, but more frightening than this was its strange swaying motion.
I have no idea how many minutes went by, but gradually I began to regain the use of my senses. First I recognized the smell of freshly dug earth still warm from the heat of the day; then I detected some other, very familiar and almost reassuring smell which somehow reminded me of home. Still swaying and white, the apparition remained in its corner, but my horror, which had seemed to last an eternity, had finally spent itself. I now became aware of a pain in my leg and felt a need to stretch it out full length. I had apparently sprained it during my fall.
For a long time I kept my eyes fastened on the wavering white spot. Suddenly it began to take on a familiar shape, and seconds later it turned into a male goat with horns and a beard which were clearly discernible even in the darkness. Having long known that the devil often assumes the form of a goat, I felt somewhat reassured, since at least this much was clear. One thing I hadn’t realized, however, was that the devil would also smell like a goat.
I cautiously extended my leg, but this seemed to put the goat on his guard. He stopped chewing his cud and merely continued to sway back and forth in his strange fashion.
I immediately froze in position and once again the goat went back to his cud. Summoning up my courage, I raised my head and now was able to see the edge of the pit, sharply etched in the moonlight, and a translucent strip of sky, in the middle of which gleamed a small bright star. A tree rustled in the distance, and it was strange to be able to sense from down here the breeze that was blowing up there. I looked up at the tiny star and noticed that it too seemed to sway slightly in the breeze. Suddenly there was a hollow thud. An apple had fallen from the apple tree. I gave a start, now realizing for the first time that it was growing chilly.
Some boyish instinct told me that inaction is never a sign of strength. And since the goat continued to chew, gazing right through me as if I didn’t exist, I decided I would try to escape. I stood up cautiously and extended my arm, only to discover that the edge was too high for me to reach even by jumping. My walking stick had remained up above, but probably it wouldn’t have helped me much anyway.
The pit was quite narrow, and I decided I would try to scale it at an angle, pressing my arms against one wall and my legs against the other. Groaning from the strain, I managed to raise myself a few short feet, but then one of my legs—the bad one—slid from the wall and once again I landed on the ground. As I fell, the goat jumped up in fright and shied to one side. This was very careless of him, since now I grew bolder and even approached him. As he backed into his corner without making a sound, I cautiously extended my hand. He touched the palm of my hand with his lips and I could feel his warm breath. Then obstinately shaking his head, he began sniffing and snorting in goatlike fashion.
I was now fully convinced that this was no devil but merely a goat which had landed in the same mess as I. I had often noticed when tending my uncle’s herd that goats have a habit of getting stuck in spots which they’re unable to get out of.
I sat down on the ground next to the goat, putting my arms around his neck and pressing close to his body. I tried to make him lie down so that I could get the full benefit of his warmth, but he stubbornly continued to stand. He did, however, begin to lick my hand—cautiously at first, then ever more boldly. His strong, supple tongue ran roughly along my palm, licking the salt from it. I enjoyed the prickly sensation and did not remove my hand. The goat was enjoying himself too and had already b
egun to fasten his sharp teeth on the edge of my shirt. I quickly rolled up my shirt sleeve and let him move on to fresh territory.
As he continued licking my arm, I realized for the first time in my life how comforting the presence of another living creature can be. It now occurred to me that even if the ashen blue face of the dead man were suddenly to peer over the top of the pit, I would not be too frightened but would merely press closer to my goat.
After a while the goat grew tired of licking my arm and lay down beside me of his own accord. Here he remained, peacefully chewing his cud.
The night was as still as ever, only the moonlight had grown more limpid and the tiny star had moved to the edge of the strip of sky. It had also grown chillier.
Suddenly I heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats, and my heart began pounding madly. The hoofbeats became more and more distinct, and at times I could even hear the metallic clicking of the horse’s shoes against the stones. I was afraid the rider would turn off to the side, but the hoofbeats kept coming closer and closer and already I could hear the horse’s breathing and the squeaking of the saddle. I was too excited to move, and only when the hoofbeats had passed almost directly overhead did I finally jump up and start shouting, “Help! Help! I’m down here!”
The horse came quickly to a halt and in the silence I could distinguish the bonelike crunching of its teeth against the bit. Then a male voice asked hesitantly, “Who’s there?”
I lurched forward in the direction of the voice and cried out, “It’s me! A boy!”
The man was silent for a moment and then I heard, “What boy?”
The man’s voice was hard and suspicious. Apparently he feared some sort of trap.
“I’m a boy from the city,” I said, trying to sound as much like a living person as possible, which only made my voice sound strange and unnatural.
“What are you doing down there?” the voice asked gruffly. The man still suspected a trap.
“I fell in by accident, I was on my way to Uncle Meksut’s,” I quickly replied, afraid that he would ride on before I could finish.
“To Meksut’s? You should have said so.”
I heard him get down from his horse and throw the reins over the wrought-iron fence of one of the graves. His footsteps drew nearer, but then he suddenly halted before reaching the edge of the pit.
“Grab hold,” he shouted as a rope came whirring down through the air and landed in the pit beside me. As I grabbed hold of it, I suddenly remembered the goat, which was standing silent and forlorn in his corner. After a moment’s reflection I wound the rope around his neck in a double loop and cried up:
“You can start pulling!”
As the rope grew taut, the goat began jerking his head and rising up on his hind legs. In order to prevent the rope from biting into his neck, I grabbed hold of his hind legs and began pushing up with all my strength. But just as his horned head appeared in the moonlight above the pit, the man suddenly let out a howl in what seemed a goatlike voice, dropped the rope and took to his heels. The goat came crashing down beside me and I cried out in pain as one of his hoofs landed on my foot. My tears must have been close to the surface since now I began crying in earnest—from weariness and frustration as well as from the pain. I kept on crying till I could cry no longer. But then, just as I was cursing myself for not having warned the man about the goat, it suddenly occurred to me that the man’s horse was still tied to the fence and that eventually he would have to come back for it.
And sure enough, about ten minutes later I caught the sound of footsteps creeping up in the distance. Obviously he intended to untie his horse and take off as quickly as possible.
“That was a goat,” I said in a loud but calm voice.
Silence.
“Mister, that was a goat,” I repeated, trying to maintain the same tone of voice.
I sensed that he had halted and was listening.
“Whose goat?” he asked suspiciously.
“I don’t know, he fell in before I did,” I answered, realizing that my words did not sound very convincing.
“You don’t seem to know anything, do you?” he remarked. “And how are you related to Meksut?”
Too excited to make any sense, I began explaining our relationship (in Abkhazia everyone is related). I felt he was beginning to believe me, and hoping to inspire his confidence even further, I went on to explain the purpose of my visit. But the more I talked, the more I realized how difficult it is to justify oneself from the depths of the grave.
Finally he made his way up to the pit and cautiously leaned forward. His unshaven face looked strange and unsavory in the moonlight, and it was obvious that he would rather have been anywhere but here at the edge of this pit. I even had the impression that he was holding his breath.
I threw up the end of the rope which had fallen back into the pit and tried to help him from below as he grabbed hold and began pulling. The goat foolishly resisted, but after hoisting him up halfway, the man managed to seize hold of his horns and with ill-concealed aversion hauled him out of the pit. He was obviously disgusted by the whole business.
“Goddamned beast!” he muttered, and I heard the sound of his foot kicking the goat. The goat bleated in pain and must have darted off, for now the man began swearing in earnest. But apparently he seized hold of the rope in time, and seconds later I heard the goat being dragged back again. Now the man knelt down by the edge of the pit and, planting one hand on the ground, seized my outstretched hand with the other and angrily began pulling. I tried to make myself as light as possible, not wanting to get the same treatment as the goat. He quickly hoisted me up over the edge of the pit and set me down beside him. He was a large, heavy-set man, and my hand ached from his grip.
After looking me over in silence, he suddenly flashed a smile and patted me on the head, “You gave me quite a scare with that goat of yours. There I was, thinking there was a human at the other end of the rope, and out comes that horned creature…”
I immediately felt better. We walked over to the fence where his horse stood motionless and clearly visible in the moonlight. The goat trailed behind us, still tied to the rope.
From the horse came the sweet smell of sweat, saddle leather and corn. Probably he’s just left some corn off at the mill, I thought, remembering that the rope too had smelled of corn. The man now lifted, or rather threw, me into the saddle, whereupon the horse tossed back its head and tried to bite me. I drew up my leg just in time. Suddenly I remembered my walking stick, but didn’t dare ask permission to go back for it.
The man loosened the reins from the fence, tossed them over the horse’s head and climbed heavily into the saddle—all the while holding the goat by his tether. The horse sagged under his weight and I myself was squeezed uncomfortably between his body and the saddlebow.
The horse set off briskly, kicking up its heels and trying to break into a trot. It was full of energy and obviously resented having to drag the goat along behind it.
Lulled by the dull reverberation of the horse’s hoofbeats and by its gentle, rocking gait, I dozed off.
Suddenly the horse came to a halt and I awoke. We were standing by a wattle fence behind which could be seen a well-tended yard and a large house set high on wooden pilings. A light was burning in the window. It was Uncle Meksut’s house.
“Hey! Where’s the master of the house?” shouted my companion as he lit up a cigarette. Not bothering to get down from the saddle, he carelessly slung the goat’s tether around one of the fence pickets.
The door of the house opened and someone called out, “Who’s there?”
The voice was bold and sharp and seemed to indicate a readiness for any encounter. Such is the tone of voice in which people in our parts respond to an unfamiliar cry at night.
It was Uncle Meksut. I immediately recognized his short, broad-shouldered figure. He came down the steps and started toward us, peering intently into the darkness and chasing off the dogs which crowded around him.
> I can still remember the astonished and even frightened look on his face when he finally caught sight of me.
“It’s a long story,” said my rescuer, lifting me out of the saddle and trying to pass me over the fence into Uncle Meksut’s arms. But I refused to be passed, and catching hold of one of the pickets, I climbed down on my own. My companion began to unwind the goat’s tether from the fence.
“Where did the goat come from?” asked Uncle Meksut, now even more astonished.
“It’s quite a story, quite a story!” the horseman gaily replied, casting a conspiratorial glance in my direction.
“Leave your horse and come on inside!” said Uncle Meksut, grabbing the horse by the bit.
“Thanks, Meksut, but I’m afraid I can’t,” answered the horseman, suddenly preparing to leave, though up to now he hadn’t seemed in any hurry. As dictated by Abkhazian custom, Uncle Meksut tried long and hard to persuade him to stay—first acting offended, then pleading, and finally even making fun of the alleged obligations which prevented him from accepting his hospitality. As he talked, Uncle Meksut kept glancing back and forth between me and the goat, apparently sensing that the goat was somehow connected with my arrival, but just how, he could not for the life of him figure out.
Finally the horseman rode off, dragging the goat behind him. Uncle Meksut led me into the house, clicking his tongue in astonishment and scolding the dogs as he went.
The front room was filled with guests. They were seated around a large table covered with fruit and refreshments, and their faces were clearly illuminated—more by the flaming hearth than by the light given off by the kerosene lamp. Mama was there too, and even in the crimson glow of the flames I could see the color slowly drain from her face as she caught sight of me.
The other guests jumped up from their seats, gasping and groaning in astonishment. Upon learning the purpose of my visit, one of my city aunts began to topple backward as if in a faint. Having little experience in such matters, none of her country relatives came to the rescue and she was forced to catch herself awkwardly in midfall.
The Goatibex Constellation Page 6
