… The March wind groaned in the treetops, rattled the bare twigs and the rabbit nests, and something else unknown-who knows what's up there moaning, what awakes in spring? A gust of wind blows-it whispers, it whines in the trees, it scatters raindrops on your head. There might be a savage cry up above, from the branches: startled, you race for the closest fence… Maybe it's a woodsucker bird.

The bladders twinkle faintly in the windows, the Golubchiks have lighted their candles, they're slurping down soup… They exchange glances: maybe they too have Oldenprint books hidden under their beds… We'll lock the doors and take them out… Read a bit… Maybe everyone has one, who knows… In that izba… and this one… and in that one over there, where a pale light flickers-is it a candle smoking, or people pacing the rooms, blocking the feeble fire with their mortal bodies, trying the bolts to make sure they're firmly shut? Out from under the mattress, from under a moldy pile of rags, filthy human rags, they take a booklet… a book… a book… and he's the only one who's acting like a frightened fool… The only one in the whole town… The letters are so black, so teensy… it's scary even to think about it…

Up above everything roared and groaned. The wind flew into his sleeve, cutting straight through him. Benedikt stood at an unfamiliar fence, thinking. The baked mouse had only teased his appetite. He wanted to eat. But at home in his izba there was no fire: he'd put it out when he left to go visiting. He didn't think he'd need it. Should he go back and get some coals? She'd give them to him, she's kind… No. Go back? The squeaking door… the warmth… the white, happy pancake of her face, the trembling cock's combs, the hurried whisper: this way, this way, I have some art… One minute, I'll just wipe the mold off… And the candle by which… full of alarm and deceit! What incredible fear! "Fear, noose and ditch," Fyodor Kuzmich wrote… No, they say, not Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe… Full of alarm

… And deceit… Not Fyodor Kuzmich… Someone else, unseen, old, with a hidden face… Probably big, pale and white, ancient, extinct, as tall as a tree, with a beard down to his knees and horrible eyes… Terrifying, he stands amid the trunks, motionless, just turning his face, and his eyes look straight through the March twilight, he rolls them so that he can see Benedikt in the gloom: Where is that Benedikt? Why did he hide? Why did he run for the fence?-and Benedikt's heart is pounding in his neck, floating up to his tongue, roaring in his ears-where is Benedikt? Come here now, I want to tell you something-his hand will reach out and he'll hook a gnarled finger under Benedikt's rib, and with the frightful cry of the woodsucker, scream: Eeeeeeeeeeahhhhhhhhhhaaauuuuu!

There was a knock on the door of the strange izba. An ordinary, homey knock; plain, everyday life knocked on the door, drunken talk and laughter could be heard in the twilight. So someone has guests, it's a holiday and they went out on the porch-to take a leak or just to go out and breathe the fresh air, to live life or sing a song, or just to kick the cat!

They didn't notice Benedikt slinking along the fence, no one could see him. The frightful, ancient inhabitant, who read, or wrote, or maybe just hid a book full of deceit in rags, didn't notice him either; just as he'd appeared, he vanished, and he was gone.

Home. It was dark in his izba, it smelled of ashes, and the wedding was a long way off.

MYSLETE

Oldeners look just like us. Men, women, young, old-all kinds. Mostly old people. But they're different. They have a Consequence-they don't get any older. That's it. They live and live and they don't die from old age. They do die from other things once in a while, though. There aren't many Oldeners left.

They sit in their izbas or go to work, and some have made it into the bosses-same as with us. Only their talk is different. If you run into a Golubchik stranger on the street, you could never say whether he's one of us or an Oldener. Until you ask him the usual: "Who are ya? How come I don't know you? What the heck you doin' in our neck of the woods?" An Oldener doesn't answer like other people do: " Whassit to ya, tired of lugging that mug around? Just wait, I'll rip it offa ya," or something like that. No, they don't answer so's you can make sense of it, so to speak: You got muscles and I got muscles so don't mess with me! No, sometimes you'll get an answer like: "Leave me be, you uncouth hooligan!" Then you know for sure the guy's an Oldener.

And when one of them does die, the others bury him. But not like we do. They don't put stones on the eyes. They don't take out the guts and stuff the insides with rusht. They don't tie the hands and feet or bend the knees. They don't put anything in the grave, not even a candle or a mouse, no dishes, no pots, no spoons, no bows and arrows, no little clay figures, nothing like that. They might tie a cross together from twigs and stick it in their corpse's hands, or draw an idol on bark and also put it in his hands like a portrait. But some of them don't even do that.

One of their old ladies died recently. Nikita Ivanich dropped by to see Benedikt, all gloomy: he was unhappy that an Oldener lady died.

"Benya, our Anna Petrovna has gone to meet her maker. Please, as a friend, do me a favor and help us carry the coffin. The thaw has made all the roads muddy. We won't be able to manage it."

What else could he do. He went to help. It was even interesting to see how they did things different than other people.

The crowd was small, about a dozen. Most of the people were elderly. No cussing, nothing. Just quiet talk. They all looked upset.

"Who's the master of ceremonies?"

"Viktor Ivanich."

"Viktor Ivanich again?"

"Who else? He's very experienced."

"But he couldn't arrange any transportation."

"They wouldn't give him any. Said the garage was closed for inclement weather."

"They always have excuses."

"As if you didn't know."

"They're just mocking us."

"Not as though you haven't had time to get accustomed to it."

Viktor Ivanich, their master of ceremonies, was fairly young. He had short, blond hair, combed to the side. He looked annoyed. Red threads were wound round his sleeve so you could see him from far away. Not a Murza, but sort of like one, so just in case, Benedikt bowed to him. His eyebrows twitched: he accepted the bow. He said to Benedikt: "Don't crowd around."

They put the coffin on the ground next to the hole. Someone put a stool nearby and placed a pillow on it. They stood by in a sparse half circle and took off their hats. Viktor Ivanich chose two of them and pointed.

"You and you. Please. Form the honor guard."

He looked over the heads of the crowd and raised his voice sternly.

"I declare the civil memorial service open. I shall begin!"

The Oldeners said to him: "Begin, begin, Viktor Ivanich. It's cold."

Viktor Ivanich raised his voice and began: "Are there any relatives, close friends? Move up front, please!"

No one stepped forward. That means she didn't have any relations, just like me, Benedikt thought. It means she caught her own mice.

"Co-workers?"

No one. One Golubushka stepped up: "I'm her neighbor. I looked after her."

Viktor Ivanich spoke to her angrily, in his everyday voice: "Don't get ahead of things! I haven't called you yet."

"But I'm freezing. Hurry up."

"If you are going to be obstreperous, I'll have to ask you to leave the premises!" said Viktor Ivanich rudely. "Order must be observed!"

"That's right!" a few shouted from the crowd. "Order has to be observed, so let's observe it! Or it'll be a disaster. As always. We're just wasting time!"

Viktor Ivanich used his other voice: elevated and sort of ringing, as if he were calling out to someone in the forest: "Neighbors, housekeepers?… Take your place in the first row…"