by Ian Watson
a Tungusi camp on the Chambé
River)
My most dear Masha,
We’ve left the ‘metropolis’ of Vanavara far behind. Mind you, it was hard enough getting there in the first place. Without Tolya to guide us, I’m sure it would have taken us twice the time to cover the distance.
Our compass was little use; the latitude was already too high for accurate magnetic readings. The map we had brought from Krasnoyarsk was mostly wishful thinking—so Mirek began making his own map. But the terrain was vilely confusing: such a chaos of rugged gullies and steep hills, with creeks snaking everywhere—and the larger of these still unfrozen, so that we had to plodge through them, while the smaller rivulets were iced over and camouflaged with snow, providing excellent pitfalls for us and the horses …
Yes, Tolya proved invaluable. But as our mutual comprehension improved, he started to act oddly—particularly during our stay in Vanavara itself, which Tsiolkovsky and I devoted to questioning witnesses of the explosion two years ago.
Naturally, we had already asked Tolya about the strange event; but given his bastard Russian it was hard to say exactly what his answers were. Now that we were this much closer to the area of devastation, and now that he saw us actively pursuing our enquiries, our Tungusi friend became at once jittery—and almost cloyingly coquettish. It seemed to me as if, with our camera and our theodolite and other wonderful gear, we had become a sort of magic talisman of protection for the man—a safe conduct, or lucky charm—yet one whose efficacy might fail at any moment, bringing down a terrible nemesis upon his head.
As I say, while we were in Vanavara, Konstantin Eduardovich and I interviewed a number of the more reliable local farmers and traders. Faithfully we copied down their tales of fearful thunderclaps, and a pillar of light flaring into the sky, followed by an oven-hot wind fierce enough to knock a man off his feet and bring sods tumbling from the roofs—and a black mushrooming cloud.
Countess Lydia snapped photographs of some of our informants, but then she got bored and took herself off for a snowy gallop on borrowed horses with Vershinin—supposedly to try to pot a hare—and that left the two of us to get on with the job, helped or hampered as the case may be by Sidorov and Tolya. Tolya had insisted on tagging along, though he was acting weirdly—and Sidorov also seemed to have suffered a sudden fit of nervous instability. At each additional vindication of the stories he originally related on that fatal night in the inn, our Ilya (“At your service!”) Alexandrovich would grin inanely in a way suggesting quite clearly to me that he was incapable of separating the wheat from the chaff in any scientific manner. Boiled turnip head, boiled brains—alas!
As we tramped back from an outlying farm, Tsiolkovsky fell behind with Tolya—and the two men fell into a kind of conversation, leaving me with my spaniel Sidorov; and I gained the impression, from a few paces ahead, that rapport had somehow been achieved between our Tungusi with his hamstrung Russian, and half-deaf Konstantin.
This was amply confirmed later on, in the ‘inn’.
Lydia and Vershinin hadn’t yet returned. Sidorov was staring at the notes we’d taken, as though they were the Holy Bible. Tolya had gone off somewhere—and Mirek was poring over his charts.
Tsiolkovsky leaned over Mirek’s shoulder, and planted a finger on the map about one hundred versts north of Vanavara. “From what Tolya says, the spaceship must have exploded about here.”
Masha, if you have any sort of map of this area, you’ll see that the Tunguska flows westwards from Vanavara towards its confluence with the Chambé. Our original plan was to have some more rafts knocked together, and head downstream, then somehow to haul our rafts up the Chambé—infested with rapids though we had learned it to be—until we reached the Makirta River. On the map the Makirta is a very sinuous watercourse, though Mirek surmised that the map-maker might have put in all those loops and twists just to make the river look like a river. Tsiolkovsky’s finger was indicating a spot some way beyond the headwaters of the Makirta.
“Is that what he says? So that’s where the meteor crater’ll be …”
Tsiolkovsky turned a deaf ear to Mirek’s remark. He traced a line from Vanavara directly north through a blank on the map.
“And here’s the Tungusi track that Tolya’ll show us—as far as his family’s tents on the upper Chambé. We can stay there overnight. After that, it’s up to us.”
“Hang on,” said Mirek, “this is where he comes into his own. It’s his territory—he can’t chicken out just short of the finishing post. We’d better offer him some more roubles.”
“But he’s scared—that’s what he was trying to tell me, only it’s a bit more complicated than that …”
“Is that why he stayed down south all summer? Because he’s afraid?”
“It’s partly that …”
“He promised to guide us, damn it! ‘As far as we need to go.’”
“I think he meant: as far as we ought to go.”
“I get the impression,” said I, “that while he’s our guide, equally we’re his escorts.”
“That’s it in a nutshell!” exclaimed Konstantin. “He has what you might call family problems … Ach, families!” And Tsiolkovsky got quite steamed up about it. “Families have rights over you. They make demands. You can bind yourself in slavery because of a family. It doesn’t matter how much you all love each other, and care for each other—it’s still slavery. As far as I’m concerned, true freedom and joy comes from the mind. It comes from thoughts, free of hidebound conventions! A family can cripple you …”
If I might digress here, Masha, and venture quite frankly upon a delicate topic, well, it’s perfectly true in theory that a man needs a wife, and a woman needs a husband in our society. But in practice where would I ever find a wife as attentive and understanding and ever-helpful as yourself? And where could you find a suitor whom I could fully trust to take care of you as you deserve? A suitor may have lots of attractive qualities on the surface, but if you aren’t blinded by emotional caprice or by foolish desperation—a fear that it’s all getting too late—then you’ll soon find this wrong, and that wrong. In a word, you’ll make a big mistake if you’re too impetuous.
(I suspect, Masha, that I’m not going to send these pages to you after all. Why should I confuse you unnecessarily, when you’re obviously perfectly happy with things as they are? As is your devoted brother …)
I could understand why Tsiolkovsky was all het up about the subject of the family. I’d gathered during the course of several conversations that his father was a bold and honest man—outspoken on politics and religion—and consequently he was a complete failure in life. (It’s the rogues who thrive!) Tsiolkovsky’s father was dismissed from his post as a forest ranger, which destroyed whatever home security the family had—and Konstantin had to rely on the home, since he couldn’t easily make friends outside because of his deafness and gawkiness. Then to cap it all, his mother died when he was just thirteen. His father tried to be an inventor, but of course he got no thanks from the world for that—though he encouraged his son splendidly, all be it with precious few roubles in the purse. He remembers best from his childhood the thrill when his Mother presented him with a toy hydrogen balloon …
Compared with him, we enjoyed a real family life, eh Masha? No matter that it was presided over by a blundering, narrow-minded tyrant! (I suppose you remember how cleverly our mean and bigoted father dealt with the matter of that dead rat drowned in the barrel of oil—by calling in a priest to exorcise the ratty influence, so that by the next day the news was all over Taganrog, and nobody would stop by our grocery store for weeks?) We were a resilient lot—we needed to be—and even so it took its toll. All the more reason, I submit, for keeping our surviving family as closely together as possible! Anyway, I’m straying far from the point…
“What sort of family problems has our tribesman got?” asked Mirek.
“Well, it’s all because of the spaceship exploding—”
&
nbsp; “Ah yes, the meteorite. Did it hurt his family? Kill somebody?”
“Not exactly …”
“So it’s the sickness among the reindeer—the herds dying off?”
“No! It’s all because of an ignorant, superstitious reason! Tolya’s grandfather was some kind of tribal sorcerer. The Tungusi aren’t even Christians, you know.”
“Are you? Am I?”
“What I mean is, they haven’t even got to the stage where they can reject Christianity. Tolya’s grandfather died just before the explosion, then the explosion itself scared them out of their wits—so the Tungusi all want Tolya to take over as witch-doctor, because he showed the right signs when he was a boy. He had fits or something, and frothed at the mouth and babbled. And he went through some kind of ordeal, which is secret. But he doesn’t want to be the village sorcerer now. He’s seen trading posts, he’s learned a bit of Russian …”
No wonder there had been a few moments of rapport between these two men, superficially so different in their background and beliefs. Konstantin’s feeble and lonely childhood had turned him into a genuine scientist—and Tolya’s boyish fits and foaming at the mouth had thrust him into a similar role within his society; but Tolya’s was a society which lacked any notion of science or reason. Had I even hinted at such a comparison, I suspect that Tsiolkovsky would have felt deeply insulted …
“What’s wrong with Tolya’s father?” asked Mirek. “Didn’t he froth at the mouth enough to inherit the mantle from his dad?”
“No, you see their custom is for the sorcerer’s son to provide for his father—then the grandson takes over, and his son provides for him …”
“So Tolya would have to get married quickly?”
“I think he was trying to escape his fate by staying on in Kezhma.”
“Are the women as ugly as that?”
“I mean the fate of being witch-doctor. He doesn’t want it.”
“So why’s he going back to it?”
“He really has no choice—those are his people. We Russians aren’t, and he knows it now.”
Now I understood in what way we were a talisman for Tolya. “We’re a little bit of Russia going back home with him—a bit of the civilization he wants, and can’t get to grips with: that’s it, isn’t it? The poor confused lad.”
“I don’t care, as long as he guides us!” said Mirek.
“We all have problems,” Konstantin said. “It’s a question of rising above them.”
Oh yes indeed: rising above them on a toy hydrogen balloon—or in a ‘jet-propelled’ rocket ship …
So now, dear Masha, after another strenuous and freezing trek, we find ourselves in a genuine Tungusi tent on the south bank of the Chambé, accepting hospitality overnight before pressing on into the unknown—with or without our guide. Tolya, the long-lost prodigal, is back in the bosom of his people; and in this setting he seems a different breed of fellow from the one who accompanied us hither. He’s in his proper place at last. And this place possesses him—just as I would be possessed by a little country farm with a few fruit trees and a decent angling stream …
The Tungusi camp is passably habitable, if you’re a savage. Which is another way of saying that life is no more degraded here, than your average Great Russian village. Instead of houses made of mud and wood, there are in this clearing half a dozen large conical tents sewn from reindeer hide. Instead of a church, there is … well, the mighty forest, I suppose.
These Asiatic herdsmen are amiable enough—because we have brought their lost son home; though we cannot exchange a single word with any of them, except through Tolya. But they have set a whole tent aside for our party, and they have feasted us royally on fish soup; and now it’s time to sleep.
Goodnight, dear Masha.
Twenty-eight
“IT FIGURES!”
Kirilenko asked Sergey, “How do you mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious? No sooner have you dubbed Mikhail a ‘medium’, than that Tolya fellow turns out to be a Siberian shaman—how about that, eh? Suggestible isn’t the word for it.”
“Please,” asked Osip, “what’s a shaman?”
“It’s a magician,” Sonya explained. “In a primitive tribe like the Evenki: the Tungusi, as they used to be called. Of course there aren’t any shamans nowadays. But back in 1890 there would have been—it isn’t implausible at all.”
Osip squinted. “Maybe … it’s a case of ‘Set a thief to catch a thief?”
“What do you mean by that?” There was a note of derision in Sergey’s voice.
“Well, if Professor Kirilenko says Mr Petrov’s a medium, and if that guide bloke back in 1890 is one of them an’ all—if that’s what you mean by ‘magician’, Miss …”
“Bravo, Osip! You amaze me.” Kirilenko looked genuinely pleased. “ ‘Set a thief to catch a thief, eh? A medium will be drawn to another medium … A good piece of reasoning. Ah, but there’s a snag. Mike’s supposed to be identifying himself with Chekhov, not with Tolya.”
“I’d say he’s identifying himself with every damn character in his head,” Sergey said. “Why not one more? Let’s really crowd the stage! Joe Stalin was exiled to Krasnoyarsk, wasn’t he? When would that have been?”
“Later on,” Felix said. “Stalin was born in 1879.”
“So what’s wrong with that? Makes him twenty-one in the year in question. Young firebrand like him: spent half his youth escaping from one place or another. Come on, Mike: let’s have the man of steel fleeing through the forest, and bumping into our brave band. Tolya can tell his fortune.”
“I told you, I don’t have any control over this.”
“Excuse me,” said Osip, “but in my opinion we ought to leave Joseph Stalin right out of it.”
“Very wise,” agreed Felix. “That’s irresponsible talk, Sergey.”
“Very sorry, I’m sure.”
“Anyway,” went on Osip, “if we could stick to brass tacks for a minute, we’re all in a bit of a fix, in’t we? There’s some kind of mass suggestion going on, right? What you might call a collective mesmerism? Like in a theatre, with a hypnotist up on a stage. Only, this time the hypnotist has fooled the whole audience, not just one dupe up front. What’s more, he’s hypnotised his self into the bargain. No one’s in charge any longer—and there’s no way out of the theatre, either. Nobody can see the exits.”
“Perhaps you’d like to be the usher?”
“Somebody’s got to be, but it in’t me, Mr Gorodsky.” Osip rubbed his bristly chin. “I’m just saying, who’s going to clap their hands and cry, ‘Wake up!’?”
“But we don’t want to ‘wake up’ yet,” said Kirilenko. “It’s too soon. The expedition hasn’t reached its goal, and the ship hasn’t exploded. Well, in a manner of speaking it has exploded—”
“Only it’s back in one piece again. Unfortunately,” said Felix. “For us, and for all on board, and for Anton Chekhov, and for my great-aunt Anastasia. Do make a better go of it next time, Mike! Any clever American headshrinker could tell you that a spaceship is a great big phallic symbol. This failure to explode could do awful things to your love life—right, Dr Suslova?”
Sonya blushed. “Freudianism is a—”
“Jewish bourgeois mystification, eh?” Felix chuckled.
“More to the point,” snapped Sonya, “the K. E. Tsiolkovsky doesn’t remotely resemble a phallus.”
“How do I know what Mikhail’s dong looks like?”
Twenty-nine
A JINGLING OF metal woke Anton. This, and the sound of his name being called in a strange, faraway voice. But then he realized that the summons came from quite close by, only it seemed pitched for his ears alone.
A shimmering ghost stood in the open flap of the tent. Bright moonlight on the snow illuminated it. Anton grunted in alarm at the sight, producing a noise in his throat which sounded foreign to him, more like the cry or cough of some doomed animal far away.
“Antosha,” the ghost called. “Come along with me.
”
Within the tent a single candle was still burning, though it was almost down to the stub. None of Anton’s companions stirred in their sleep. Hastily he fumbled for the tin containing his pince-nez and slipped the glasses on.
Now that he could see clearly, what confronted him was even more disconcerting than a ghost might have been. The face of the apparition was that of a metal bird, with sharp iron beak and cheek-feathers of rusty iron. Its eyes were dark holes. On its head the creature wore a felt cap with kopecks sewn around it. A caftan hung from its shoulders, decked with long ribbons upon which were sewn dozens of pieces of metal shaped into suns and moons and stars. When the figure shifted, these ribbons swayed like snakes, all the pieces jangling together. What a firmament of stars and discs! What a weight they must be! Nor was that the whole of the metal: an iron breastplate was fastened to the creature’s chest with rope …
In one hand the visitor held a little drum; and in the other a wooden staff—the head of the staff was carved into a horse head.
And none of the other sleepers woke… Obviously the monster must be one of the Tungusi, dressed up in the middle of the night like a pagan Archimandrite. Whyr fo kill them and rob them? Nobody would ever find out. There would be no justice—only murder. Anton’s thoughts raced fearfully. ‘Where the hell’s that revolver?’
“Jaroslav, wake up!” He gripped Mirek by the shoulder and shook him; but the Czech only grunted and slumbered on.
“He won’t wake,” said the visitor. “None will. Only you. I only called you.”
“Tolya, is that you? But you’re speaking Russian—quite passably!”
“A man understands all tongues when he speaks the tongue of Nature.”
“Really? Alors, parlez avec moi en français!”
“Russian’s good enough.”
“You are Tolya—that’s your voice.”
“I am Shaman.”
“Who?”
“You don’t speak Tungus’k. Never mind. Give me some tobacco and come outside.”
“So you want me to hand over my tobacco!”
