Zuleikha Read online

  Zuleikha stops for a moment and places a large basket on the ground. She looks around anxiously – Murtaza really shouldn’t have gone this far.

  “Is it much further, Murtaza? I can’t see Sandugach through the trees anymore.”

  Her husband doesn’t answer; he’s up to his waist on the untrodden path, forging his way ahead, pushing his long poles into snowdrifts, and trampling brittle snow with his broad snowshoes. Small clouds of frosty steam puff up over his head. He finally stops near a tall, straight birch with a magnificent growth of chaga and approvingly slaps its trunk: This one.

  First they trample down the snow around the tree. Then Murtaza tosses off his sheepskin coat, grabs the curved axe handle very firmly, points the axe at the gap between trees (we’ll fell it there), and begins chopping.

  The blade glints in the sun and enters the side of the birch with a short, resonant chakh sound. “Akh! Akh!” answers the echo. The axe chops at the thick bark, intricately engraved all over with black ridges, then pierces the pale-pink woody pulp. Wood chips spatter like tears. An echo fills the forest.

  It can be heard in the urman, too, Zuleikha thinks, uneasy. She’s standing waist-deep in snow a little further away, clasping the basket, and watching Murtaza chop. He raises the axe high, pulling it back slightly, supplely bends his torso, and smoothly swings the blade into the white chip-filled crevice on the side of the tree. He’s a strong man, large. And he works ably. She was given a good husband; complaining would be a sin. She herself is small, barely coming up to Murtaza’s shoulder.

  Soon the birch begins shuddering more and groaning louder. The axe wound in its trunk resembles a mouth wide open in a silent scream. Murtaza tosses the axe, shakes the twigs from his shoulders, and nods at Zuleikha: Help me. Together they press their shoulders into the rough tree trunk and push, harder and harder. There’s a sharp cracking noise and the birch collapses to the ground with a loud groan of farewell, raising a cloud of snowy dust into the air.

  Husband straddles the conquered tree and lops off its fat branches. Wife snaps off the thin branches and collects them in the basket, along with smaller kindling. They work silently for a long time. Zuleikha’s lower back aches; exhaustion weighs on her shoulders. Her hands are freezing despite her mittens.

  “Murtaza, is it true that in her youth your mother went into the urman for several days and came back all in one piece?” Zuleikha straightens her back and bends at the waist, resting. “The holy man’s wife told me about it, and she heard it from her granny.”

  He doesn’t answer; he’s measuring the axe against a gnarled, crooked branch sticking out from the trunk.

  “I’d die of fear if I ended up there. My legs would probably stop working right away. I’d be lying on the ground, my eyes shut tight, and praying nonstop, as long as my tongue would move.”

  Murtaza strikes hard and the branch springs off to the side, humming and quivering.

  “But they say prayers don’t work in the urman. It’s all the same – you die whether you pray or not. What do you think?” Zuleikha lowers her voice. “Are there places on earth that Allah’s gaze doesn’t reach?”

  Murtaza draws his arms far back and drives the axe deeply into a log. The sound rings in the cold air. He takes off his shaggy fur hat, wipes his reddened, blazing, bare skull with his hand, and spits on the ground, savoring it.

  He sets to work again.

  The basket is soon full. It can’t be lifted so it can only be dragged away. The birch has been stripped of branches and chopped into several logs. Long branches lie in neat bundles in the snowdrifts around them.

  They haven’t noticed darkness is falling. When Zuleikha looks up at the sky, the sun is already hidden behind ragged shreds of cloud. A gust swoops in; the drifting snow whistles and swirls.

  “Let’s go home, Murtaza; it’s getting stormy again.”

  Her husband doesn’t answer as he continues winding rope around fat bunches of firewood. When the last bundle is ready, the storm is already starting to howl between the trees like a wolf, drawn-out and mean.

  He points a fur mitten at the logs: Let’s move those first. There are four logs with the stubs of their former branches, each longer than Zuleikha. Grunting, Murtaza heaves one end of the fattest log from the ground. Zuleikha takes the other end. She can’t manage to lift it immediately and dawdles for a while, adjusting her position.

  “Come on, woman!” Murtaza cries out impatiently.

  Finally, she’s done it. She’s embracing the log with both arms, pressing her chest into the pink-tinged whiteness of fresh wood that’s bristling with long, sharp chips. They’re moving toward the sledge. They walk slowly. Her arms shake. I cannot drop it, Almighty, I cannot drop it. If it fell on her foot, she’d be a cripple for the rest of her life. It’s getting hot and there are warm little streams running down her back and belly. The precious band under her breasts is soaked through – the pastila will taste of salt. That doesn’t matter, she just needs to take it today …

  Sandugach is standing obediently in the same place, lazily shifting from hoof to hoof. There aren’t many wolves this winter; Allah is perfect, so Murtaza isn’t worried about leaving the horse alone for a long time.

  Once they’ve dragged the log onto the sledge, Zuleikha falls alongside it, tossing off her mittens and loosening the shawl around her neck. It hurts to breathe; it’s as if she’s run through the entire village without stopping.

  Murtaza strides back to the firewood without saying a word. Zuleikha crawls down from the sledge and trails along behind him. They drag over the remaining logs. Then the bundles of fat branches. Then the thin branches.

  Once the firewood has been stacked on the sledge, a heavy winter dusk is already covering the forest. Only Zuleikha’s basket remains by the freshly hewn birch stump.

  “Fetch the kindling,” Murtaza tells her and starts securing the logs.

  The wind has begun blowing in earnest, angrily whipping up clouds of snow and sweeping away the tracks they’ve trampled. Zuleikha clasps her mittens to her chest and rushes along the disappearing path into the forest’s darkness.

  By the time she reaches the familiar stump, the basket has already been covered with snow. Zuleikha snaps a branch from a bush and starts wandering around, poking at the snowdrift with the switch. She’ll be in for it if she loses the basket. Murtaza will scold her and then cool down; but the Vampire Hag – she’ll quarrel to her heart’s content, ooze venom, and remind Zuleikha about that basket till the very day she dies.

  And there it is, the dear thing, lying there! Zuleikha pulls the heavy basket out from under a layer of drifted snow and exhales, relieved. She can return. But which way? The blizzard dances fiercely around her. White streams of snow are rushing up and down in the air, cloaking Zuleikha, swaddling and entangling her. The sky sags between the sharp tops of the spruces, like a huge piece of gray cotton wool. The trees around her are merging into the darkness and now all resemble one another, like shadows.

  There’s no path.

  “Murtaza!” shouts Zuleikha, as snow pelts her mouth. “Murtazaaa!”

  The blizzard sings, peals, and whistles in response.

  Her body is weakening and her legs are growing limp, as if they’re made of snow, too. Zuleikha sinks to the stump with her back to the wind, holding the basket with one hand and gripping the collar of her sheepskin coat with the other. She can’t leave this spot or she’ll lose her way. It’s best to wait here. Could Murtaza leave her in the forest? Now that would make the Vampire Hag happy. And what about the pastila she’d got hold of? Could that really have been for nothing?

  “Murtazaaa!”

  A large, dark figure in a shaggy fur hat emerges from a swirl of snow. Firmly grasping his wife by the sleeve, Murtaza pulls her through the snowstorm behind him.

  He won’t allow her to sit on the sledge: there’s a lot of firewood and the horse won’t make it. And so they walk, Murtaza up front, leading Sandugach by the bridle, and Zuleikha f
ollowing, holding the back of the sledge, feebly lifting her unsteady feet. Her felt boots are crammed with snow but she doesn’t have the strength to quickly shake them out. She needs to keep stride with the sledge. Plod along, left, right, left, right … Well, come on, Zuleikha, you pathetic hen. You know you’re done for if you fall behind. Murtaza won’t notice. You’ll freeze to death in the forest.

  Even so, what a good person he is to have come back for her. He could have left her there in the thicket. Who’s to care if she lives or not? He could have said she lost her way in the forest, he couldn’t find her, and a day later nobody would even remember her.

  It turns out she can stride along with her eyes closed, too. That’s even better because her legs are working but her eyes are resting. The main thing is to keep a firm hold of the sledge.

  Snow is beating painfully at her face, getting inside her nose and mouth. Zuleikha raises her head and shakes it off. She’s lying on the ground and the back of the sledge is disappearing ahead of her; the white whirling blizzard is all around. She stands, catches up to the sledge, and grasps it tightly. She decides not to close her eyes until they reach their house.

  It’s already dark when they arrive in the yard. They unload the firewood by the woodpile for Murtaza to split tomorrow, unharness Sandugach, and cover the sledge.

  The windowpanes on the Vampire Hag’s side are dark and coated with thick frost but Zuleikha knows her mother-in-law senses their arrival. She’s standing by the window now, alert to the movements of the floorboards. She’s waiting for their jolt when the front door slams, after which they’ll tremble pliantly under the master’s heavy footsteps. Murtaza will undress, wash after the trip, and go to his mother’s quarters. He calls this “our little evening chat.” What can you talk about with a deaf old lady? Zuleikha doesn’t understand. But these chats are long, sometimes lasting for hours. Murtaza is calm and tranquil when he returns from his mother’s house; he might even smile or joke a little.

  His evening meeting plays into Zuleikha’s hands today. As soon as her husband puts on a clean shirt and goes to see the Vampire Hag, Zuleikha throws her sheepskin coat – which hasn’t even dried – on her shoulders and runs out of the house.

  The blizzard is covering Yulbash with heavy, coarse snow. Zuleikha trudges down the street, bending low into the wind and leaning forward as if she’s praying. Small windows of houses lit with the cozy yellow light of kerosene lamps barely peek out in the darkness.

  And there’s the edge of town. Here, under the fence of the last house is the home of the basu kapka iyase: the edge-of-town spirit. Zuleikha hasn’t seen him herself but people say he’s very angry, peevish. And how could he be otherwise? That’s his line of work – sitting with his nose toward a field and his tail toward Yulbash, chasing evil spirits away from the village, not allowing them beyond the edge of town. He’s the intermediary for helping villagers who have requests for the forest spirits. It’s serious work so he has no time for merriment.

  Zuleikha opens up her sheepskin coat and feels around in the folds of her smock for a long time, unwinding the damp band at her waist.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you so often,” she says into the blizzard. “If you could just help me once again? Please don’t refuse me.”

  It’s no easy matter to please a spirit. You have to know what each spirit likes. For example, the bichura living in the entrance hall isn’t picky. If you set out a couple of unwashed dishes with leftover porridge or soup, she’ll lick them off during the night and be satisfied. The bathhouse bichura is more finicky: give her nuts and seeds. The cowshed spirit loves foods made from flour, and the gate spirit prefers ground eggshell. But the edge-of-town spirit likes sweets. That’s what Mama taught Zuleikha.

  Zuleikha brought candy the first time she came to ask the basu kapka iyase for a favor, which was to request that the zirat iyase – the cemetery spirit – look after her daughters’ graves, cover them warmly with snow, and chase away evil, mischievous forest spirits. She later took nuts in honey, crumbly light pastries, and dried berries. Now, she’s bringing pastila for the first time. Will he like it?

  She pulls apart the stuck-together sheets of pastila and tosses each one in front of her. The wind catches them and carries them away into the field, where it will twirl and swirl them for some time, bringing them to the basu kapka iyase’s lair.

  Not one sheet returns to Zuleikha, so the edge-of-town spirit has accepted the treat. This means he will grant her request by having a talk with the cemetery spirit and convincing him. Her daughters will lie in warmth and calm, right up till spring. Zuleikha has been rather afraid of speaking directly with the cemetery spirit. After all, she’s a simple woman, not a wisewoman.

  She thanks the basu kapka iyase – she bows low into the darkness – and quickly hurries home before Murtaza leaves the Vampire Hag’s. Her husband is still at his mother’s when she runs into the entrance hall. She thanks the Almighty – she fans her face with her hands – for He truly is on Zuleikha’s side today.

  Exhaustion immediately envelops her in the warmth. Her hands and feet are like lead and her head is like cotton. Her body demands one thing: rest. She quickly rekindles the stove, which has cooled since morning. Sets a place for Murtaza at the wide sleeping bench, tossing some food on it. Runs to the winter shed and rekindles the stove there, too. Feeds the animals, cleans up after them. Brings the foal to Sandugach for an evening feed. Milks Kyubelek, strains the milk. Takes her husband’s pillows down from the high storage shelf and plumps them (Murtaza likes sleeping on high pillows). Finally, she can go to her area behind the stove.

  Usually it’s children who sleep on trunks; grown women are entitled to the small part of the sleeping bench that’s separated from the men’s quarters by a drape. But the fifteen-year-old Zuleikha was so short when she came into Murtaza’s home that the Vampire Hag said on the very first day, boring into her daughter-in-law with eyes that were then still bright, yellow-tinged hazel, “This shorty won’t even fall off a trunk.” And so they settled Zuleikha on a large, old pressed-tin trunk covered with shiny protruding nails. She hadn’t grown since then, so there’d been no need to resettle her elsewhere. And Murtaza occupied the whole sleeping bench.

  Zuleikha spreads her mattress and blanket on the trunk, pulls her smock over her head, and begins unplaiting her braids. Her fingers aren’t minding her and her head falls to her chest. She hears the door slam through her drowsiness; Murtaza’s coming back.

  “You here, woman?” he asks from the men’s quarters. “Light the stove in the bathhouse. Mama wants to bathe.”

  Zuleikha buries her face in her hands. The bathhouse takes a long time. And bathing the Vampire Hag … Where will she find the strength? If only there were a couple more moments to sit just like this, without moving. Then the strength would come. And then she would stand. And light it.

  “Got it into your head you’d sleep? You sleep in the wagon, sleep at home. Mama’s right, you’re a lazybones!”

  Zuleikha leaps up.

  Murtaza is standing in front of her trunk. He has in his hand a kerosene lamp with a flickering flame inside; his broad chin, with a deep dimple in the middle, is tense with anger. Her husband’s trembling shadow covers half the stove.

  “I’m running, I’m running, Murtaza,” she says, her voice hoarse.

  And she runs.

  First clear a path to the bathhouse in the snow; she hadn’t cleared it in the morning because she didn’t know she’d have to light the stove. Then draw water from the well, twenty buckets of it because the Vampire Hag likes to splash around. Light the stove. Strew some nuts for the bichura behind the bench so it doesn’t play tricks, like putting out the stove, letting in fumes, or impeding the steaming. Wash the floors. Soak the bundles of birch leaves. Bring dried herbs from the attic – bur-marigold for washing female and male private places, mint for delicious steam – and brew them. Lay out a clean rug in the entrance. Bring clean underclothes for the Vampire Hag, Murtaz
a, and herself. Don’t forget pillows and a pitcher with cold drinking water.

  Murtaza put the bathhouse in the corner of the yard, behind the storehouse and shed. He built the stove according to the latest methods, fussing for a long time with designs in a magazine brought from Kazan, soundlessly moving his lips and drawing a broad fingernail over the yellowed pages. He laid bricks for several days, constantly referring to the drawings. He ordered a steel tank, to its specifications, at the Kazan factory of the Prussian manufacturer, Diese, and installed it on the exact protruding ledge that was designated, then smoothly attached it with clay. A stove like this both heated the bathhouse and warmed water quickly, you just had to add the logs in a timely manner – it’s not just a stove, it’s a lovely sight. The mullah himself came to have a look and then ordered the exact same thing for his own home.

  As Zuleikha deals with the tasks, her exhaustion burrows somewhere deep, conceals itself – maybe in the back of her head, maybe in her spine – and rolls itself into a ball. It will crawl out soon, cover her like a dense wave, knock her from her feet, and drown her. But that will be later. For now, the bathhouse has heated up and the Vampire Hag can be called to bathe.

  Murtaza can enter his mother’s quarters without knocking, but Zuleikha is supposed to stamp her feet loudly on the floor in front of her door for a long time so the old woman will be ready for her arrival. If the Vampire Hag is awake, she feels the floorboards trembling and the harsh gaze of her blind eye sockets greets her daughter-in-law. If she’s sleeping, Zuleikha needs to leave immediately and come back later.

  “Maybe she went to sleep,” Zuleikha hopes, diligently stamping by the entrance to her mother-in-law’s house. She pushes the door and sticks her head through the crack.

  Three large kerosene lamps in decorative metal holders brightly illuminate the spacious room – the Vampire Hag always lights them before Murtaza’s evening arrival. The floors have been scraped with a thin blade and rubbed with river sand so they shine like honey (Zuleikha wore all the skin off her fingers shining it during the summer); snow-white lace on the windows is starched so crisply it could cut you; and hanging on the walls are smart, long, red and green embroidered towels and an oval mirror so huge that Zuleikha can see her full reflection in it, from head to toe. A tall grandfather clock gleams with amber varnish, its brass pendulum slowly and relentlessly ticking away the time. A yellow flame crackles in a tall stove covered with glazed tiles. Murtaza has stoked it himself; Zuleikha isn’t allowed to touch it. A cobweb-thin silk valance on the beams under the ceiling borders the room like an expensive frame.