Short Fiction by Leo Tolstoy (book reader for pc TXT) 📕

The old man went to Zhílin’s master to complain. The master called Zhílin, and said with a laugh, “Why did you go to the old man’s house?”

“I did him no harm,” replied Zhílin. “I only wanted to see how he lived.”

The master repeated what Zhílin said.

But the old man was in a rage; he hissed and jabbered, showing his tusks, and shaking his fists at Zhílin.

Zhílin could not understand all, but he gathered that the old man was telling Abdul he ought not to keep Russians in the aoul, but ought to kill them. At last the old man went away.

Zhílin asked the master who the old man was.

“He is a great man!” said the master. “He was the bravest of our fellows; he killed many Russians, and was at one time very rich. He had three wives and eight sons, and they all lived in one village. Then the Russians came and destroyed the village, and killed seven of his sons. Only one son was left, and he gave himself up to the Russians. The old man also went and gave himself up, and lived among the Russians for three months. At the end of that time he found his son, killed him with his own hands, and then escaped. After that he left off fighting, and went to Mecca to pray to God; that is why he wears a turban. One who has been to Mecca is called ‘Hadji,’ and wears a turban. He does not like you fellows. He tells me to kill you. But I can’t kill you. I have paid money for you and, besides, I have grown fond of you, Iván. Far from killing you, I would not even let you go if I had not promised.” And he laughed, saying in Russian, “You, Iván, good; I, Abdul, good!”

Zhílin lived in this way for a month. During the day he sauntered about the aoul or busied himself with some handicraft, but at night, when all was silent in the aoul, he dug at the floor of the barn. It was no easy task digging, because of the stones; but he worked away at them with his file, and at last had made a hole under the wall large enough to get through.

“If only I could get to know the lay of the land,” thought he, “and which way to go! But none of the Tartars will tell me.”

So he chose a day when the master was away from home, and set off after dinner to climb the hill beyond the village, and to look around. But before leaving home the master always gave orders to his son to watch Zhílin, and not to lose sight of him. So the lad ran after Zhílin, shouting: “Don’t go! Father does not allow it. I’ll call the neighbours if you won’t come back.”

Zhílin tried to persuade him, and said: “I’m not going far; I only want to climb that hill. I want to find a herb⁠—to cure sick people with. You come with me if you like. How can I run away with these shackles on? Tomorrow I’ll make a bow and arrows for you.”

So he persuaded the lad, and they went. To look at the hill, it did not seem far to the top; but it was hard walking with shackles on his leg. Zhílin went on and on, but it was all he could do to reach the top. There he sat down and noted how the land lay. To the south, beyond the barn, was a valley in which a herd of horses was pasturing and at the bottom of the valley one could see another aoul. Beyond that was a still steeper hill, and another hill beyond that. Between the hills, in the blue distance, were forests, and still further off were mountains, rising higher and higher. The highest of them were covered with snow, white as sugar; and one snowy peak towered above all the rest. To the east and to the west were other such hills, and here and there smoke rose from aouls in the ravines. “Ah,” thought he, “all that is Tartar country.” And he turned towards the Russian side. At his feet he saw a river, and the aoul he lived in, surrounded by little gardens. He could see women, like tiny dolls, sitting by the river rinsing clothes. Beyond the aoul was a hill, lower than the one to the south, and beyond it two other hills well wooded; and between these, a smooth bluish plain, and far, far across the plain something that looked like a cloud of smoke. Zhílin tried to remember where the sun used to rise and set when he was living in the fort, and he saw that there was no mistake: the Russian fort must be in that plain. Between those two hills he would have to make his way when he escaped.

The sun was beginning to set. The white, snowy mountains turned red, and the dark hills turned darker; mists rose from the ravine, and the valley, where he supposed the Russian fort to be, seemed on fire with the sunset glow. Zhílin looked carefully. Something seemed to be quivering in the valley like smoke from a chimney, and he felt sure the Russian fortress was there.

It had grown late. The Mullah’s cry was heard. The herds were being driven home, the cows were lowing, and the lad kept saying, “Come home!” But Zhílin did not feel inclined to go away.

At last, however, they went back. “Well,” thought Zhílin, “now that I know the way, it is time to escape.” He thought of running away that night. The nights were dark⁠—the moon had waned. But as ill-luck would have it, the Tartars returned home that evening. They generally came back driving cattle before them