THE SACRIFICE

Simon Novicov, who was living in Oats Ford with his brother Nicon,—Nicon of the withered arm,—was burned out in midsummer, about the fast of St. Peter. The brothers decided to divide their property, and Simon, intending to leave the Ford, was putting up a hut for himself near the great highway.

On the evening before Elijah’s Day the carpenters had asked for leave to go home. After supping with the large family of his brother, in the midst of flies and the clamour of children, he lit his pipe, put on his short sheepskin coat, and said to his folks:

“It’s stuffy in here. I’m going to the building,—I’ll sleep the night there. I’m afraid the tools might be stole.”

“You ought to take the dogs with you, at least,” one of the women counselled him.

“Get along with ye!” said Simon, and went out.

There was a full moon out that night. What with his thoughts of his future household, Simon did not even notice how he had climbed up hill by the broad path to the pasture lands that led out of the village, and, after putting about a verst behind him on the big road, had come right up to his hut, which had a ceiling but was, as yet, unroofed. It stood at the edge of the fields of grain, in the midst of an empty field. Its sashless windows gaped blackly, and it was dully glistening against the light of the moon with the ends of its new corner-beams, with the tow sticking out of its joints, and the sticks and shavings about its threshold. The aureate July moon, which had risen far beyond the ravines of the Ford, hung low and was turbid. Its warm glow was diffused over everything. The ripe grain glimmered whitely ahead,—dully, sombrely, like stretches of sand. But toward the north the sky was altogether overcast,—a cloud was gathering there. A soft breeze, blowing from all sides, would at times gather strength and run fitfully over the rye and oats,—and they would rustle crisply, disquietingly. The cloud toward the north appeared immovable, but it was frequently shot with an eerie, fleeting, golden sheen.

Simon, stooping at the threshold through habit, entered the hut. It was dark and stuffy within it. The yellow moonlight, looking in at the unglazed windows, did not blend with the darkness, but only intensified it. Simon threw down his short sheepskin coat upon the shavings in the middle of the hut, directly in the path of one of the rows of light, and lay down on his back. After drawing at his extinguished pipe for a space, he put it in his pocket, and, after thinking for a little while longer, fell asleep.

But now the wind began blowing in at the windows, and, by way of the entry, through the door. The thunder began muttering dully in the distance. Simon sat up. The wind increased—it was now running over the feverishly murmuring grain without cease, and the light of the moon had become still dimmer. Simon walked out of the hut, and, turning the corner, was among the crisp and sultry swishing of the oats, which were as pallid as a shroud. He glanced at the cloud,—the colour of dark slate, it had taken up half the heavens. The wind was blowing straight in his face, tugging at his hair and tangling it, interfering with his vision. The flashes of lightning, too, interfered with his vision and blinded it, as they flared up, more and more ominous and fiery. Simon, making the sign of the cross, got down on his knees: in the distance, in the midst of the sea of oats, standing out against the bank of the cloud, a small throng was advancing toward him. Their heads were bared; in white girdles, in new short sheepskin coats, they were with difficulty bearing a seven-foot altar-piece, painted by some ancient master. The throng was mistily-spectral, but the image was very plain,—an awesome, severe countenance, showing red upon a black panel, which was burnt by candles, dripped over by wax, and bound at the edges by old, blue-coloured silver.

The wind had parted the hair upon Simon’s brow, pleasantly blowing it back, and Simon, in fear and joy, bowed down to the ground before the image. When he finally did raise his head, he saw that the crowd had halted, awkwardly supporting the image, which was majestically leaning backward; while upon the cloud was limned, as in a church picture, a towering, enormous visage: the mighty, hoary-bearded Elijah himself, clad in chitons of fire, and sitting, like God-Sabbaoth, upon the lifelessly-blueish tiers of the lower clouds, while two greenish-orange rainbows were flaming above him, against the slate-coloured background. And, flashing his lightning-like orbs, blending his voice with the distant rumble of the thunder, Elijah spake to Simon:

“Stand up straight, Simon Novicov. Hearken, ye princes and peasants! I am about to judge him, Simon Novicov,—a peasant tenant of the Eletz province, of the Predtechev District, of the little village of Oats Ford.”

And the entire field, glimmering as white as sand all around, with all its ears of grain together with the tares darted forward, bowing down before Elijah, and amidst their murmur Elijah began to speak:

“I was wroth with thee, Simon Novicov,—I wanted to punish thee.”

“Wherefore, Father?” questioned Simon.

“It is no fitting thing for thee, Simon Novicov, to be questioning me, Elijah. Thou art the one to make answer.”

“Well, forgive me; let it be as thou dost will,” said Simon.

“Summer before last I did kill Pantelei, thy eldest son, with a stroke of lightning; wherefore didst thou bury him in the ground up to his waist, bringing him back to life through black magic?”

“Forgive me, Father,” said Simon, bowing, “I felt sorry for the young lad. Judge for thyself,—why, he would be the one to give me food and drink in my old age.”

“Last summer I did mow, I did trample down thy rye with hail and with whirl-winds: why didst thou get knowledge of it beforehand, and sell this rye while it yet stood uncut?”

“Forgive me, Father,” said Simon, bowing. “My heart felt a forewarning; need did force me to it.”

“Well, was it not I that burned thee out but just now, at St. Peter’s fast? Wherefore dost thou hasten to build anew, to divide thy goods with thy brother?”

“Forgive me, Father,” said Simon, bowing. “My brother of the withered hand is unlucky; I thought all the misfortunes were coming from him.”

“Shut thy eyes. We shall ponder, we shall take counsel, as to thy punishment.”

Simon shut his eyes; he bowed down his head. The wind was noisy,—under cover of its noise he was trying to eavesdrop, on the sly, what Elijah and the peasants were whispering together about. But there came a heavy peal of thunder near at hand,—not a thing could he hear.

“No, we can’t think of anything,” said Elijah with all his voice. “Thou thyself must counsel me.”

“And may I open my eyes?” asked Simon.

“There is no need of that. A blind man thinks all the surer.”

“Thou art a queer fellow, Father,” Simon smiled thoughtfully. “Well, what is there to think about? I shall place a three-rouble candle before thee....”

“Thou hast not the wherewithal. Thou hast spent everything on building.”

“Well, in that case I shall go on a pilgrimage to Kiev, or to Belgorod,” said Simon, irresolutely.

“That’s just loafing, and a waste of shoe-leather. Who’s going to take care of the household?”

Simon went into deep thought.

“Well, then, slay my little girl Anphiska. She’s just going on three. The girl, to tell the truth, is a kind-hearted, endearing little creature,—we will all feel sorry for her; but then, there’s no help for it.... One can’t get everything with just a little!”

“Lend ear, ye faithful,” said Elijah loudly. “I agree.”

And the cloud was rent by such a flame that Simon’s lids almost caught fire, and the heavens were split by such a peal that all the earth quivered beneath him.

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God-Sabbaoth!” whispered Simon. “Heaven defend us!”

When he came to, opening his eyes, Simon beheld only the dust-laden cloud, the deserted, agitated grain, and himself, standing on his knees in the midst of its ears. The wind was whirling in a pillar over the road, and the moon had grown entirely dimmed.

Simon jumped up on his feet. Forgetting all about his short coat, about the axes and the planes, he started off for home, for the village, braving the whirl-winds. The heavy rain caught him out on the common. The dark clouds had piled up above the darkened ravines. The red moon was sinking beyond them. The village was in heavy slumber, but the cattle in the yards were stirring uneasily, the roosters were crowing in alarm. And, running up to his old, half-burned-down hut, Simon heard the wailing of women within. Nicon of the withered arm was standing at the threshold, in his sheepskin coat and without a hat; scrawny and wrinkled beyond his years, he was looking about dully and confusedly.

“There’s been a calamity at your house,” he said, and one could tell by his voice that he was not yet thoroughly awake.

Simon ran into the hut. The women-folk were running about in the darkness, screaming, looking for the sulphur matches. Simon snatched a small box of them out from behind the image, and lit a tallow-wick. The cradle, which was hung near the oven, was swinging from side to side,—the women had been striking against it when they were running about. And within it lay the little girl, dead. She had turned all livid, and a quilt work cap was smouldering on her head.

Simon has been living happily, ever since.

1913.