He wanted to take his sack and head south. To carve a big stick-for fighting off Chechens-and head for the sea. And which sea it is-who knows? You can imagine whatever you like. Three years to get there on foot, they say. Benedikt imagined it this way: he climbed a tall mountain, and from the top you could see forever. He looked down and there was the sea: a big body of water, warm and blue, and it plashed, the water played and plashed! A small wave ran along it, a curly wave, coiled white. There were islands everywhere in the sea-poking up like pointed hats. All of them were green, seething with green. Amid that green, unimaginable colored gardens grew. The lilac tree that Mother told him about grew there too. The flowers of the lilac were a blue froth of bell-like flowers hanging to the ground and fluttering in the wind. On the very tippy top of those islands were towns. White stone walls encircled them. The walls had gates, and behind the gates were cobbled roads. If you walked along the road up the mountain there would be a terem, and in the terem a golden bed. On that bed there was a girl braiding her hair, one gold hair, the next silver, one gold, one silver… Her feet had claws… She hooked you with her claw… with her claws…

Sometimes he wanted to head for the sunrise. To walk and walk… the grasses would grow higher and brighter, the sun would come up, and its light would shine through them… He imagined himself walking along, jumping over little streams, wading through rivers. And the forest would become denser and denser, like a fabric, and the bugs whirred and whirled about, buzzing. And in the forest there'd be a glade, and in the glade there'd be tulip flowers, a red rug of tulips covering the whole glade so you couldn't see the ground. And on the branches there'd be a lacy white tail that folded and spread out like a net. Above that tail its mistress, the Princess Bird, would gaze longingly, admiring herself. Her mouth is red as a tulip. And she'd say to him, "Hello, Benedikt, my fleet falcon, did you come to take a look at me?… I never harm anyone, but you already know that… Come closer, Benedikt, let's kiss…"

He didn't head south or toward the sunrise. His head felt clear and dull at the same time. He packed his sack and then unpacked it. He looked at his things: What did I put in there? The stone knife I used for carving the pushkin. Another knife. A chisel. He'd taken some wooden nails, who knows why. Why did he need nails in the south? He took them out. An extra pair of pants. Still good, almost no patches… A bowl, a spoon. He took them out. What was he going to eat with them? How was he going to make food? Without fire?

You couldn't go anywhere without fire.

Now, if he could take Nikita Ivanich along… They'd walk together, and talk. At night, they'd light a fire. Catch some fish, boil up some soup if they weren't poisonous.

Only you couldn't go far. They'd miss him and come looking. As soon as someone's stove went out, they'd come looking to find him right away. They'd run, shouting: Nikita Ivanich! Bring Nikita Ivanich here now! And they'd find Benedikt too. They'd catch up, give him the what for, twist his white arms behind his back: You're supposed to get married! Married, married!…

Maybe that's what he should do: get married. So what if she has claws? Claws can be clipped. You can clip them… That's not the point… Man isn't without defects. One has a tail, one has horns, someone else has a cock's comb, or scales, or gills… A sheep's hole and a human soul. But that wasn't the way he wanted it to be… He imagined strolling in the orchard garden, smelling the bluebells together. Talking about serious things, about life, or nature, about what you can find in it… Reciting some poetry…

But the hand behind your back is stronger The coachman's whistle more alarming, And the moon in its insanity, Is reflected in your eyes, I see.

She would be amazed and listen. Her eyes would be glued to him. And in the evening he'd catch a mouse and hide it in his hand. Playfully, he'd say: Come on now, what have I got here?… Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been? Go on, guess. Who's been nibbling at my housekin?… And she would blush: "Control yourself, fleet falcon…"

Or he could go back to work. Copying books. You stretch your neck out and copy… It's interesting… What are the people in those books doing?… They travel somewhere… Murder someone… love someone… Whew, there are so many people in books! You just keep on copying and copying. Then he'd spit on his finger, put out the candle-and go home… Autumn would come, the leaves would fall from the trees… The earth would be covered in snow… the izba would be buried up to the windows… Benedikt would light a mouse-oil candle, sit down at the table, prop his head in his hand, hunch over, and gaze at the thin flame. Dark beams would run above his head, the wail of the snowy emptiness would be heard beyond the walls, the wail of the Slynx on the dark branches in the northern thickets: Slyyyynxxx! Slyyyyynxxxx! It would wail as though it hadn't gotten something, as though its life were ended if it didn't get a drink of a live soul, as if it couldn't find peace, and hunger had twisted its innards. It would turn its invisible head, and splay its invisible paws, and scratch the dark air with its invisible claws, and smack its cold lips, looking for a warm human neck to suck on, to drink its fill, to swallow something living… It shakes its head and sniffs. It catches the scent and jumps from the branches, and it's off, crying and whining: Ssslllyyynxxx! Slyy-ynxxx! And the snowspouts rise from the dark fields where there's nary a light above your head nor a path in the impassable expanses, no north no south, only white darkness and blizzardy blindness, and the snowspouts will rush forth and grab the Slynx and a deathly plaint will fly over the town, and my faint, unseeing heart that only wanted to live will be buried under a heavy snowdrift!…

Olenka's family is getting ready for the wedding. It's set for fall. You'll come live with us, they say. You'll eat well, build up your strength, and later we'll set you up in a good business. What kind of business could they have, the Saniturions?… He didn't want to think about it…

Should he go and finish the pushkin? Old Nikita Ivanich now has two ridiculous dreams: to chop off Benedikt's tail, and to put the pushkin up on the crossroads, on White Hill. What did he need this pushkin for? He trembled over it, and he ordered Benedikt to tremble as well, like he worshipped it. He wrote a lot of poems, said Nikita Ivanich, he thought the people's path to him would never be overgrown-but if you don't weed, then it's sure to grow over. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, said Nikita Ivanich, sits there on top of those books and copies them. He's littering the people's path. Wants all the glory for himself, and what about more-allity. That's not right. You see, Benedikt, don't you, that that's not right? You and I, young man, will erect an idol on the crossroads, and that will be our challenge and our protest. Work with inspiration and devotion, and if I shout every now and then, don't pay attention to my outbursts.

When the hand and fingers showed up out of the log, Nikita Ivanich applauded. You have real talent, Benedikt, real talent! Just shave off a tad here. Let him stand, his head lowered, listening to the mice scurrying, the breeze blowing, to life hurrying somewhere, it just goes on and on, on and on, day in and day out! Day in and day out!

Summer adorned itself in luxuriant colors. The days grew longer. Pushkin's caftan was already visible. During the day Benedikt chipped away at the pushkin, in the evening he gathered the chips for kindling, heated up soup, gulped it down, and sat out on the porch to smoke. You smoke, sigh, gaze off into the distance, and your head is empty. But once again visions fill it.