Page 6 of Spinning Silver

Stepon didn’t look at Sergey. He watched me the whole time almost without blinking.

I wanted to slap him, or chase him away with my stick.

What good had either of them ever done me that I owed them anything?

I stopped trying and stood with my hands made into fists, and then I said, the words tasting like old rotten acorns in my mouth, “Pick up his legs.”

Sergey was not so big yet that we couldn’t carry him together.

I pushed him onto his back and I took him under the arms, and Stepon put Sergey’s ankles onto his thin shoulders, and together we carried him slowly out of the forest all the way to the edge of our fields, all the way to the white tree.

I was angrier when we got there than when we began.

I fell down three times in the forest, walking backwards with his weight dragging at my hands, falling over roots and slipping in half-frozen mud.

I bruised myself on a stone, and covered myself in dirt and crushed poison berries I would have to wash out of my clothes.

But that was not what made me angry. They had taken her from me, all of them: Sergey and Stepon and the rest of those dead boys in the dirt.

They had taken my mother. I had never wanted to share her with them. What right did they have to her?

But I didn’t say anything out loud. I let Sergey’s shoulders drop to the ground by the white tree in a heap, beside our mother’s grave, and I stood there by the tree and I said, “Mama, Sergey is sick.”

The air was still and cold. Beyond us the rye was just barely up in a long half-green field going away, the plants much smaller than they should have been, and I could see the smoke from our house going up in a straight grey line.

Our father was not in sight. There was no wind blowing, but the white tree sighed and its branches shivered, and a little piece of its bark sprang off at one end.

I took hold of it and peeled it off the trunk, one long strip.

We picked Sergey up and carried him the rest of the way to our creek, and I sent Stepon to the house to bring me back a hot coal and a cup.

I pulled dry dead grass and twigs and raked it into a pile, and when Stepon came I lit it into a small fire, and boiled a tea from the bark.

The water turned cloudy ash, and a smell like earth came from the cup, and then we held up Sergey’s head and made him swallow some of it.

He shuddered all over like a beast shaking off flies in summer.

I gave him another swallow, and a third, and then he turned over and began to vomit, again and again, a heap of steaming raw red flesh coming out of him onto the dirt, stinking and awful.

I scrambled away not to be sick, too. When at last he stopped he crawled away from the pile himself, crying a little.

I gave him some water to drink, and Stepon buried the heap of raw meat that had come out of him.

Sergey wept a little longer, gasping. He looked gaunt and scraped-thin, as if he had been starving, but at least he was there again.

He had to lean on me when we stood up. We went along the creek to the rock where the goats drank, and they were there, grazing and mumbling at the leaves along the bank.

The oldest goat wandered over to us, ears wagging forward, and Sergey put his arms around her neck and pressed his face against her side while I milked a cup and gave it to him to drink.

He swallowed every drop and licked the cup clean, and then he looked at me, wary.

Our father paid attention if one of the goats did not give as much milk as she should, and we would all be beaten for it, if he did not know who had taken it.

But I took the cup from Sergey’s hand and milked another for him, and gave it to him again.

I don’t know why I did it. But I did, and then in the morning when my father came in from the milking pails and began to shout, I stood up and said to him loudly, “Sergey needs more food!”

My father stared at me, and so did Sergey and Stepon.

I would have stared, too, if I were outside myself.

After a moment he slapped me and told me to keep my mouth to myself, but then he went back out, and that was the end of it.

Sergey and Stepon and I all stood inside the house, half waiting, but he didn’t come back.

There was no beating. Sergey looked at me and I looked back at him, and we didn’t say anything.

After a minute more, I took my kerchief and my sack and left for work.

My clothes were still dirty and hard with mud.

I wouldn’t have time to wash them until washing-day.

When I came home at midday, Sergey had brought out the washing-tub and Stepon had filled it from the creek.

They had even boiled some water to make it hot, so the clothes would wash easily.

I looked at it, and then out of my pocket I showed them the three eggs I had gotten from the moneylender’s wife.

She had asked me what had happened. When I told her my brother had been sick with something he ate, she said that the best for a bad stomach was fresh raw eggs and gave me three.

I ate one, Sergey one and a half, and Stepon the last half.

Then they cut our own small cabbages for me while I washed my clothes, and when I was done, I made dinner.