BIGFOOT

I

The red July sun touched the brown peaks of the Caucasus mountain range. Sharp cliffs’ spires, being red hot from the heat of the day, were ablaze with the sun torches throwing the blinding glow on the wet pebble of the Terek River.
The yellowed tarpaulin tent of the camp was quivered by the breeze making sound over the riverbank.
Two families piddled around the camp joking and having fun. Two little children, washed and licked clean by the fresh swift stream, warmed by the southern sun, folding miniature hands on the chests chattered at the water’s edge. Their tiny completely naked bodies shimmered with drops of water after daring swimming.
The boy beamed with a dark as if a black diamond suntan. The girl shone with the northern whiteness of snow and birch-trees. Both were under ten years old. Both could barely understand each other.
The sun was setting. The children gazed at the beauty of the evening color, mountains and the river, warming themselves in the beams of the setting sun. The girl shamefully and curiously looked at the little buddy, appraising the naked diamond, then looked at herself and then at him again and a made surprising conclusion:
— Really, Chechens and Russians are so different!
The sun ran against the highest mountain peak which threw a massive shadow on both sides of the river. The car, hot from the sun stopped glittering. The campers packed their stuff in the trunk and got inside.
— It is so beautiful here in the Caucasus, — said the red haired man, stretching himself with satisfaction.
Let’s go…The driver with a soot-dark skin frowned and snapped the wheel as if a snow leopard  was displeased.
— Shoot, buddy, we forgot the pot! My father’s pot!
He turned the car around on the narrow mountain road and drove through a red light, raised his index finger and said with a smile:
—“ Dzhigit” will always go through a red light!
As we were driving down to the river another crossing sign glittered — this time with a green light. The Caucasian suddenly hit the brakes, the passengers shook violently in the car. Satisfied with the effect of the mischief he twisted his thick as if tarred moustache:
— Huh! That’s in case there is another “dzhigit» like me around the curve, — he explained.
The men got out of the automobile where they had set up the tent before to find the lost pot. The sun had long disappeared behind the beaky horizon, the shadow, however, did not make it too dark. The lost utensil was nowhere to be found — neither at the fireplace nor on the tree next to it. The water bickered in the river singing mountain songs which valley’s inhabitants don’t understand. It also little by little was hiding itself in the night apparel.  Soft breeze whispered among the leaves of the growing nearby scrubby cherry plum trees. All of a sudden something clinked in the bushes. The men both the black and the red crept to the noise moving apart the thorny branches to get to the one, who stole their kitchenry. Their careless moves and the noise they had made, however, scared away the stranger, — there was a crack in the bushes somewhere in the back — somebody, swift-footed and invulnerable to the prickly plants headed for the nearby woods on the hill. Going after the stranger, the men found themselves on a tiny forest, full of  littered huge human bones, which were clean like licked  and  the lost pot was lying there.

II

Soon the sun  set. It  rose  in the morning  and it set in the evening. It continued to repeat the same for  three hundred and sixty five times a year, until the long dead dark night fell  to the mountains  and then the second long night  and finally  the last night.
A short stature, red-haired man stood on a woodless hill. A narrow mountain’s valley, lost in darkness, surrounded by dark walls of mountain ranges, clad in white felts was unfolded before him. Fresh night breeze curdled tender wounds on his back. He admired the view of the valley and of the raging fire, engulfing a field stack and  a dozen of shadows trying to put out the flame. He murmured something in his obscure Russian and took to heels.
…The dawn came out of the peaks, filling the Caucasus with color. The night, however, was only starting. Two black-bearded men sat silently at the Terek River for fishing and not moving a bit. Scary cold sneaked up under their sheep coats as grey fog settled on their hair.
— At night a giaour ran away from Attayev. Set the hay stack on fire, — said one quietly.
The fog started to slowly disappear. Beneath it spread as if a curtain in front of the whirlpool of the stream and above a lonely crag shone. It shone and then disappeared in the darkness again. In the mountains fog is thick as milk and as unstable as Chechen’s happiness.
Steps rustled in the back. A young man, still without moustache, emerged from the thick bush and as if singing and he  said in a ringing voice:
— Guys, do you have shashlyk?
The black-bearded men sat still. The boy didn’t give up. Finally one of them nodded reluctantly: “No”…The lad disappeared in the thicket.
There was more light, although the dawn did not foretell of the new day. From the aul familiar sounds started to come — wailing of mullah, crows of roosters, barking of dogs, bleating of sheep. All of a sudden the moustacheless lad jumped on the bank and shouted in the same ringing voice again:
— Guys, I brought you some shashlyk!
— Son of a jackass! — cursed the first angler. You are going to scare all the fish! Get out of here!
The young Caucasian smelled as if a night fire. His faced blackened while his eyes grew even darker.
— If you are a man, stand here!
Silence rang over the mountains again. Those living down in the valleys will never understand this kind of silence. The wind died down. Parachutes of fluff swayed over the water — summer airborne force of dandelions, northern guests  at the banks of the Terek.
From at the foot of the mountain, from the thicket rustling appeared. Somebody wiggled there; strange hubbubing as if made by some animal could be heard: “Hub-bub-bub”…The black-bearded men listened closely. Then from the side of the aul, from the bushes quietly and proudly a mob of mountaineers appeared, the moustacheless lad was leading the way.
— That one! — he said pointing at one of the fishermen.
The river valley was wide, so the short hot-spirited conversation echoed over the swift stream. The outcome of the confrontation was almost traditionally just threats, zesty gestures and ended as quickly as it started. The anglers were alone again.
— So you say a giaour ran away? — said another bearded gentleman. — Infidel!
— There is something there, said the first man pointing to the bushes at the foot of the mountain.
They put away their fish rods. Like swift wild cats they sneaked. Now nothing suspicious could be heard from the thicket — only sparrows chattered as if competing with one another.
— You go to the left, — said the first man, waving his hand.
This very moment somebody mumbled; this time it was a scary mumbling. The thick woods rustled and the newfangled fishermen were left with nothing.
They made their way through blackberry and blackthorn bushes and willows and…were struck dumb. Attayev’s giaour, covered with dirt and in blood lay there with his face up — his body half  eaten, bitten all over, torn to pieces.

III

The night was in high gear. The second night. Time-out between wars was over.
In the dirty and wet dug-out hut was lighted only by a stinky earthen  night-light, sand fell from the ceiling again and again. It was cold and almost dark there. Silhouettes of three Caucasians could be barely recognized in the darkness. They were leaning against the wet wall and as if were hanging on tight slings of their gun machines draped around their necks, dozing. Across the room a slight young man slept rolled in a ball. He was clenching a book in his hand as he wheezed in a very childish way. A cold and cheap suit he wore wasn’t a good protection from the January’s cold. He didn’t wear a hat either. The sand started to pour down from the ceiling more and more as first the feet and then the whole body of another Caucasian squeezed through a hole. The sound of bombings could be heard from the outside; the smell of something burning was felt. The fighter put down his weapon, helped the other one, who was still outside and to get inside of the hut their critically wounded friend, carelessly bandaged all over his body. All three of them barely moved. Without a word they laid him on the pile of brushwood in the corner and being tired they flopped on the floor.
— Who is that? — said the one who got in first, pointing at the slight boy.
— We caught a priest, — said one of the dozing men.
The sand did not stop pouring down. Only sometimes it would stop only to rush down even more after a moment of silence.
— A Ukrainian, he says, — agreed the other one.
Shooting seemed to increase. Rugged faces of weeks long unshaved fighters listened closely. Suddenly the noise seemed to have died down. The restless sand, resembled to yellow stripes hanging from the ceiling  was putting everyone to sleep by its rustling.
—We have many from your people, — said one of those, who just came, — but you are a priest…
The mountaineer looked at the tender cold and hungry young man, who appeared worthy only of sympathy. However, it is no good looking for sympathy in bloodshot eyes used to looking at the world with different views.
— I have been there…Where are you from? — he said in broken Russian — the only language they both understood.
— From Volhynia, — was the answer.
— Oh! Is it where they make bagpipes? — said another dozer, when he heard familiar name.
— No, — said another. Bagpipes are made in the same country where collies are bred. The dogs, you know?
Gunfire ceased. It is probably already dark up there on the mountain. Rebel fighters straggled off to their huts to end the day with prayer as normal. Nobody was praying in this jail yet.
— Are you a priest or what? — said the one who was already resting and remembered dogs, rubbing his hands.
The captive looked the fighters over and gathered his strength, as they say in the North, but didn’t have time to say anything as somebody started to speak sooner:
— He hasn’t stopped harping on about his Christ from the moment we captured him.
The sand stopped pouring from the ceiling and it became deadly silent. The earthen night-lamp was dying out. Its stench was becoming unbearable. Even these people who seemed to have gone through everything in life, except for death, squinted.
— I am telling you about the Lord’s love, — the captive finally managed to say.
His words hung strangely in the air among the insurgents, bombings, blood, hunger and cold. The boy did not notice that and so continued to speak:
— I came here, surrounded by wars, to bring to you the message of salvation and of God’s love.
The Chechens laughed as one, even the one, critically wounded. And the one, who came in last of all started to wave his hands in front of the preacher’s face and growled as a shot bear:
— Listen you, infidel! Go to your little brothers Slavonians and tell them about love!
The men agreed with the guy.
— Why did they come here? — he said, giving vent to the pain in his heart. — We were fine without them here! What do they want? Our land? Our oil? Our mountains? Is this what your Christ told them to do?
The captive was silent, waiting for the mountaineers to calm down. He already had some experience of talking to the hot-tempered people of this nation.
— Your enemies only call themselves Christians. However, they do not follow a single command or precept of the Lord Christ.
— Wah! — exclaimed one of the rebels. — Try to explain it to Islambek, — he pointed at the wounded man, — they murdered his entire family. Just because they said they were a den of terrorists.
— What if he tries to forgive… — answered the captive.
— What?! — said the man on the floor, coughing.
Suddenly the sand started to pour down again. Something exploded nearby. The Caucasians cursed in their language, remembering all, who among the red-haired wasn’t a widow yet.
— Yes, forgive, — continued the preacher after a small pause. — How far can a person hating an entire nation go?
— We have nowhere else to go, — said one of them, wailing. — We want what belongs to us.
The sand stopped pouring down. It was quiet again. The silence was depressive. Awakened by the conversation the fighters did not sleep.
—Only God’s love can set a man free from unforgiveness…
—Shut up!.. — roared the critically wounded, grabbed his gun machine and pointed at the boy. — Or you are a dead man!..
The silence little by little took the heat off. Sleep crept into the dug-out hut. And in perfect silence somebody started to rustle outside above the group of resting men, looking for something. The fighters grabbed their weapons.
— The villagers, — whispered one of them, — that a Bigfoot appeared in the mountains, and it moans and eats people.
Suddenly somewhere near appeared: Hub-bub-bub! Hum, hum!…Everybody sat still.
— If it’s an animal, we can shoot it, — proposed one of them.
— No, wait! — said the rest, — What if it’s shaitan?
Chechens although being brave are very superstitious like priests. Silence. It served as a healing — alleviated tension among the scared men. Everybody fell asleep…
…The morning was cold, dirty and grey. It was snowing. Five insurgents stopped in front of an Orthodox chapel that survived during the war. Beside there was a wooden crooked cross stuck in the ground — too strange a view for a Muslim town. Without saying a word they broke the figure of Christ off the cross with the gun-butts and nailed the preacher to it instead, despite his bawls and pleas. Spitting on the cracky asphalt they sat down on a fell pine tree to smoke. The day did not start with a fight so the fighters were just hanging around. They had fun as they could and rested.
— You know, we had a sniper girl, from the same country as he, — said one of the men, pointing at the crucified preacher hanging on the cross unconscious. — During the first war she lost three fingers on her right hand, but the index finger remained. So she continued to fight. She did not do it because of money, just out of some convictions. Then she went bugs. Since then nobody ever seen her.
— Enough talking! — said one of them, standing up. — Let’s go bury Islambek, shooting will start soon.

IV

In the night the snow as white manna covered both the dirt and blood as well as dead bodies, ash and iron. There were a lot of dead bodies. They were still warm as could be seen from the vapor coming up from them. The nature felt ashamed of the view. It covered the naked fruits of human hatred with white blankets. Here and there from under the white snowy manna  still gun bores, black dots of uniform jackets, fingers that turned blue and shiny tips of soldier boots emerged. The field was turning white more and more and was beginning to look like children’s blankets. Thick patches of wet cotton wool fell down one across another not disturbing the silence of the dawn.
Remains of once tall buildings as if piles of garbage towered over the field like mountains — human burlesque of a God-erected Caucasus. From under the rubble some phantom appeared as if somebody is rising from the dead. Bound by rags, with two uniform coats on– one over another — with a beat-up Russian fur cap on without a badge, someone  emerged who did not look like a human being  and all the more so as a woman. With a look of an insane person she looked around the field and sat down to dig the snow with her dry as if of a bat hands, in hope to find some food. The nature hurled itself at the woman as soon as she put her hands in the white blanket pelting her with powerful slaps. She, nevertheless, did not pay attention to it — she had long not felt anything; the lady just fidgeted and looked around.
Something roared far away. The woman rose. No thoughts could be seen in her eyes, they were glassy and did not seem to belong to her. The roar became louder. Now one could recognize the sound of a diesel engine. A moment later the dark mass of a Russian tank loomed among the white veil of winter. The woman, surprisingly quick as if a snake, slipped into the nearest hole in the rubble.
An officer with a bandaged head showed from the tank. He shouted in his language in his radio communicator. His voice drowned in the roar of the tank’s engine. The tank pulled up in front of the field which was once a usual town precinct, the engine shut down.
— I found! Yes, I found, comrade colonel! — the red-haired man shouted at the top of his lungs, apparently not noticing the engine was shut down. — What should I do?
The officer stopped speaking, his eyes rounded and the face paled.
—    What should I do? — he asked again. — Bury the dead? Comrade Colonel, even those “beasts” take their dead to bury in the ground. I beg your pardon! So, I should write “they were found missing”? There will be no governmental benefits? Take off the burden from the State? How about us?.. Who will care about us?..
The young man swallowed words, moved jaws; suddenly he stood at  attention and rapped in the communicator:
— Yes, sir! Yes, revoke talks! Yes, discharge the task!
The tank roared and together with its driver leaped out on the field powdered with snow with still warm red-haired dead bodies scattered around. It turned around and started to spin, coiling cap badges, chevrons, tabs, boots and everything else on the caterpillar. The mess turned into a multicolored burned mush. The tank spinned and spinned. It seemed it would never stop; however it lost its strength and stood still. The tanker men got out of the stuffy tank, ran some distance away from the machine to vomit. All four of them bent down, trembled and cried.
All of a sudden somebody shot a gun — one of them fell. The rest of the boys took to the tank. Another shot — another one fell with his face down into the bloody mess.
— Over there in the rubble! — chirped the officer to shoot up  and pointed at the place where the crazy woman hid but stopped shouting.
The death struck the last soldier with its scythe when he was on the turret. He didn’t manage to get inside, fell on his side and slipped off to the bottom of the blood covered tank.
The snow started to pour down like an avalanche — the former precinct was being covered by snow again. Snowstorm began to whirl. Only four spots ruined the pristine picture painted by the nature, and them alone. The dawn hid in silence again — cold and winter silence. The painter called nature turned dumb, stood still. Empty eyes of the insane woman looked from the rubble, no hatred, no smile in them.

V

Crazy human hatred spit fire and destroyed everything around. Black down of fume hung over the country; and it was snow-break in the country which nobody noticed. The grey water of thawing snow jumped with hundreds of drops from the roofs of concrete buildings with broken eyes. Streets disguised themselves with dirt and puddles. Humid air seemed to become visible. Hatred recognized neither the snow-break nor the buildings. It did not recognize their reflection in the huge puddles. It rejoiced over the harvest. It was abundant this year. Hatred found a good soil, historical. The Caucasus — cradle of terrorism for the North and  it is leading a national liberation war for itself — was already in the throes of agony, although it still answered back by inertia, still breathed, still fought. Incomprehensible and distinctive, it stood for its right by hundreds of thousands of bullets. For the right — for everybody has his own right. And the North dictated its right by even a larger number of those same bullets. The right to rule, the right to demand, the right to judge… In the midst of these rights a five year old black haired boy sat, grieving like an adult, on the chest of his dead mom. There was no comfort for him, not at all. Engines roared — a military convoy drove up. One of the soldiers whispered through clenched teeth to another pointing at the young lieutenant:
— Look at this jerk, — they jumped off the car, — he doesn’t know the smell of powder and is already talking about some justice, mother f..r!..
The detachment fussed around the cars waiting for a command. Dirt stuck to boot soles. The wind bravely scattered masses of fume among empty street blocks. Russian swearwords did not give room to normal language while they smoke  their cigarettes.
From a basement window of the nearest five-storeyed building something flickered and started to chatter like a grasshopper. The soldiers fell plump in the dirt without waiting for a command. Dirty water splashes from the bullets left blots on their backs. The one who remembered the lieutenant gave a quick look around and noticed that same lieutenant somewhere in the left.
—You! — he said, leveling his gun machine at his chest. — Can’t you see the boys are dying? Go! Perform the same feat as Matrosov did. Hei you, don’t you are going to stay here forever, mother f..r! You don’t want the old guard die, do you? Move, fight for your posthumous medals!
He took away the gun from the young officer and pushed him as if saying: go, fast. The guy crawled to the tiny window with his face wry out of hatred and helplessness. Few steps away from it he looked back, — black snout of a machine gun was looking at him; he straightened up, cursed and threw himself at the window, screening the enemy’s gun with his body.
The squad rose up, gnarled “hurray” with their loathsome voices and committed attack.
In a moment there was silence again. Only drops of water dashed at the concrete. Then again, as the men celebrated their small victory — “bang” from one of the stories and one of the soldiers fell dead. Then again — “bang!”
— Sniper! — the soldiers started to fearfully scream, trying to quickly hide somewhere.
Meanwhile the radio operator called the base and notified about coordinates. In a moment the roar of a chopper reached the ears of the soldiers.
— Now you are going to see how we hunt for snipers, — boasted the one who just sent his lieutenant to die. — Those jerks jump from window to window like frogs, — he explained. — It’s hard to catch them, mother f…r!
Drops of water stopped falling from the roof just because it was gone, — the building collapsed as a result of the missile attack like a house of cards.
— Listen, — said the one who listened to the boasting guy, — What if there were civilians there?
— Do you feel sorry for those beasts? — the guy stared at him in surprise. He really didn’t expect such a question.
The day was declining when the crazy woman was brought to the fire the soldiers built, having rest around it.
— Here, we caught her in the basement, — said a young docked draftee. — She was sitting in the corner cleaning her sniper’s rifle.
The woman did not pay attention to the enemies — she was looking at her dry bat-like hands and quietly mumbled something to herself: “Hub-bub-bub”…. Senior warrant officer looked intently at her and said:
— This is the same Ukrainian sniper! Mother f..r! Bitch, she has sent tons of our soldiers to the skies over all these year!
— We will send her the same way now! — laughed the soldiers.
The night was black. The pale orient moon looked truly pale. A burning torch could be seen far off. It twitched, moved about on the ground and gnarled. A degraded by the war generation was jumping around it, having fun and pouring petrol on it. Hatred consumed hatred despising all rights.  Nearby a black-haired little boy fell asleep on his dead mother’s chest. Beside orphaned dogs slept. There is some invisible thread that unites boys and dogs. They are like,guarded the little one, looking around from time to time.

Author: Ihor Kozlovky