1931.08 В камышах - In the Reeds

 

1931.08 В камышах - In the Reeds

(Fergana Region)

by Leonid Solovyov (1906-1962)

The reeds stretch for tens of miles. Among the reeds, scattered in sparse patches, like enormous, frost-whitened mirrors, are swamps, lakes, and streams.

We move cautiously, feeling our way with our poles. The one in front is tied down with ropes, just in case.

A small clearing appears. In the middle is an artificial hill, and on it, like a reed cap, is a hut.

"Nema-kiryak?" comes from the hut, and through the low opening, lazily, on its belly, crawls the occupant of this dwelling.

"Ah! Salamat! Come here."

The owner of the hut is a small, red-bearded Uzbek. He lives here, in the wilderness, alone, and catches fish with snare traps and ducks with snares.

"I catch some and then go back to the village, and the villagers sell them in the city."

"How much do you earn a month?"

"About 20 rubles."

Half an hour later, we see this reed dweller struggling to survive.

Undressed, he begins to wade through the icy water, covered with a thin film. For half an hour, he watches for fish in snare traps and ducks in snares.

Walking in the water, he shouts to us:

"Make the fire hotter! I'm going to warm myself..."

His legs are wounded by ice and reeds. Blood oozes from his wounds in a thin stream, mixed with drops of water.

He cauterizes the wounds with ash. The bleeding won't stop. I give him iodine.

“Here, light it.”

“What is this?” he asks.

"Don't be afraid. It will hurt at first, but it won't hurt afterwards."

He cauterizes, winces, but then, seeing that the blood has subsided, he is surprised:

"How fast! Life is easy for you Urus. You have everything. You're not afraid of disease or anything. But we, the peasants..."

In the evening the fisherman is in the water again.

Afterwards he timidly asks, pointing to the bottle with iodine:

“Master, could you give me some?”

I give it to him. He's as happy as a child. He wants to dilute it with water so there's more...

It's getting chilly. Evening freezes the water. The water rings distinctly. A bloody, molten sunset falls quietly into the reeds.

"My father was a fisherman, too. And I'm a fisherman. It's hard, but what can you do?"

At night the owner coughs dully and lingeringly, whispering in between:

“Allah... Allah...”

The cough drowns out dully in the dense darkness.

In the morning, before dawn had even broken, the fisherman was already in the water again.

A cloudy steam rises from the water, enveloping the tops of the reeds in whitish stripes.

There was a frost last night. There was frost all around.

At sunrise we leave the hut along an inconspicuous path, known only to one inhabitant of the reeds.

 

[500 words]