Mykhailo Kotsiubyns'kyi SHADOWS OF FORGOTTEN ANCESTORS Ivan was the nineteenth child in the Hutsul family of the Paliichuks. The twentieth and last was Annychka. Who is to say whether it was the eternal roaring of the Cheremosh River and the complaints of the mountain streams filling the lonely cottage on the bare high peak, or whether it was the sorrow of the black fir forests that frightened the child? Whatever the reason, Ivan wept constantly, cried out in the night, grew poorly, and looked at his mother with such a profoundly wise and ancient gaze that she would turn away from him in consternation. Sometimes she would even think with a shudder that he was not her child. The midwife had failed to utter the proper charms during labor, or to fumigate a corner of the house, or to light a candle, and a crafty she-devil had managed to exchange her own child for the human one. The boy grew poorly, and yet he did grow, and before his mother had noticed, it was time to sew trousers for him. But the boy was still strange. He would stare ahead, seeing something unknown and distant, or he would yell without reason. His breeches slipping down, he would shut his eyes tightly, open his mouth, and scream. Then his mother would remove the pipe clenched in her teeth, wave it at him, and angrily call out, “Fie on you, changeling! May you vanish in the lake or the woods!” And Ivan would vanish. He would roll through the green hayfields, small and white, like a dandelion puff, and fearlessly make his way into the forest, where firs nodded their boughs overhead like bears waving their paws. From there he would gaze at the mountains, the nearer and farther peaks outlined against the azure sky, at the black fir forests that cast off a blue breath, and at the emerald-green hayfields that twinkled like mirrors in a frame of trees] The cold Cheremosh seethed in the valley below. Isolated farms dozed in the ( sunlight on distant hills. All was sad and still, and the black firs ceaselessly lowered their sorrow into the Cheremosh, which carried it away. “Iva-a-a-n! Hey!” the folks would call from the house, but he would not listen and would continue to pick raspberries, make whistles, and blow on blades of grass, trying to imitate the bird calls and the other sounds that he heard in the forest. Barely visible in the verdure, he would pick flowers to decorate his broadbrim straw hat and then, when he was tired, lie down under the hay drying on a dead fir, and the mountain streams would lull him to sleep and then wake him with their peals. When Ivan turned seven, he looked at the world with different eyes. He already knew many things. He could find such useful herbs as valerian, deadly nightshade, mandrake, and sanicle. He understood the kite’s weeping, and he knew where the cuckoo comes from. When he talked about these things at home, his mother would glance at him uncertainly: perhaps it was speaking to him? He knew that evil forces rule the world, that the evil spirit of the aridnyk reigns over all, that the woods are full of forest demons who graze deer and hares like cattle, that the merry chuhaistyr—who rends wood nymphs from limb to limb—roams about, inviting passers-by to join him in dance, and that the sound of the ax lives in the forest. Higher up, on the distant waterless peaks, wood nymphs dance endlessly, and the shcheznyk (“the Vanisher”) hides in the cliffs. Ivan also knew about the water nymphs who emerge onto riverbanks on clear days to sing songs and make up tales and prayers, and about the drowned men who dry their pale bodies on river boulders after sunset. All manner of evil spirits inhabit the cliffs, forests, ravines, cottages, and enclosures, lying in wait to harm Christian folk or cattle. Waking at night, surrounded by a hostile silence, Ivan would often lie trembling with horror. The world was like a fairy tale, miraculous, intriguing, and yet Mykhailo Kotsiubyns'kyi. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors 2 frightening. By now he had been given chores and was sent to graze the cows. He would drive Godly and Blue into the forest, and when they were immersed in waves of grass and young firs and the mournful peal of their bells seemed to be emerging from under water, he would sit down, on a slope, take out his flute, and play the simple tunes that he had learned from his elders. Yet this music never satisfied him. He would cast aside his flute in annoyance and listen to the faint and elusive melodies that dwelled within him. The dull clamor of the river would rise toward Ivan from the valley below and flood the mountains, and the pellucid ringing of the cow bells would echo like drops of falling water. The sorrowful mountains would peer from behind fir boughs, imbued with the sadness of the shadows cast by the clouds, which obliterated the pale smiles of the hayfields. The mountains were always changing their mood: when the hayfields smiled, the forest would frown. Difficult as it was to peer into the mountains’ changing visage, it was just as difficult for the boy to catch the whimsical melody that fluttered its little wings by his ear and yet could never be caught. Once Ivan abandoned his cows and climbed to the very peak. He rose higher and higher along a barely visible path, through thick growths of pale ferns and prickly blackberries and raspberries. He leaped lightly from stone to stone, clambered over fallen trees, and pushed through thickets. The eternal roar of the river rose after him; the mountains grew around him, and the blue vision of Chornohora appeared on the horizon. Now long weeping grass covered the slopes; the cow bells echoed like distant sighs, and large rocks cropped up ever more frequently, until at the very peak they formed a chaos of shattered boulders, covered with lichen and strangled in the snakelike embraces of fir roots. Each rock under Ivan’s feet was covered by soft and silky reddish moss. Warm and gentle, it preserved the sun-gilded water of summer rains and caressed his feet like a feather pillow. The bushy green cranberries and whortleberries had sunk their roots deep into the moss and sprinkled over it a dew of red and blue berries. Here Ivan, sat down, to rest. The boughs of fir trees rustled gently overhead, the sound blending with the roar of the river. The sun filled the deep valley with gold, making the grass green; the blue smoke of a bonfire wound its way upward, and velvety peals of thunder rolled over the hills from beyond Ihryts Mountains. Ivan sat listening, completely forgetting that he had cows to tend. Suddenly he heard in the resonant silence a quiet music that sinuated by his ear so long and so elusively that it was almost painful. Frozen motionless, his head tilted forward, he listened to the strange melody with joyous anticipation. He had never heard people playing in this manner. But then who was playing? Not a single person could be seen in the forest around him. Ivan glanced back at the rocks and was petrified. There, astride a rock, sat the Vanisher, his pointed beard twisted, his horns bent down, and his eyes shut, playing on a floiara. “My goats are gone, my goats are gone!” the floiara echoed sadly. Then the horns were raised, the cheeks filled with air, the eyes opened wide, and joyful sounds leaped forth. “My goats are back, my goats are back!” And Ivan saw to his horror that bearded billy goats had emerged from a thicket and were shaking their heads. Unable to flee, Ivan sat rooted to the spot, shouting inwardly in mute terror. When he finally found his voice, the Vanisher disappeared into the rock, and the billy goats turned into roots of windblown trees. The boy dashed down headlong, blindly fending off the treacherous embraces of blackberry Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature Mykhailo Kotsiubyns'kyi. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors 3 bushes, breaking dry branches, rolling over slippery moss, and sensing with horror that something was pursuing him. Finally he felly He did not know how long he lay there. When he came to and recognized familiar places, he calmed down a hit. Still shaken, he listened for a while. The song seemed to be echoing within him. He took out his dentsivka. At first he could not get the hang of the melody. He started over and over, straining his memory and trying to recreate the sounds. When he finally found what he had been seeking for a long time, what had given him no rest, a strange, unfamiliar tune floated through the forest. Joy filled Ivan’s heart, flooding the mountains, forest, and grass with sunlight, gurgling in the streams, and lifting Ivan’s legs. Hurling his flute into the grass and placing his arms akimbo, he broke into a whirling dance. He leaped, squatted, pattered his bare feet in spinning steps, and stood on his hands. “My goats are back, my goats are back!” something sang within him. In the sunlit meadow surrounded by the gloomy realm of firs, the little blond boy leaped up and down, flitting like a butterfly from one blade of grass to another. His two cows poked their heads through the branches, eying him in a friendly manner as they chewed their cud and jangled their bells in time to the dance. Thus Ivan found in the forest what he had been looking for.. At home, Ivan often witnessed strife and woe. During his lifetime, the trembita had twice echoed by the house, announcing to the mountains and valleys that death had come: once when his brother Oleksa had been crushed by a falling tree in the forest, and once when his brother Vasyl, a fine young lad, had been cut to pieces by broadaxes in a fight with a hostile clan. The enmity between Ivan’s family and the Huteniuks was of long standing. Although everyone in the family seethed with rage at the devilish Huteniuks, no one could tell Ivan exactly how the feud had started. He, too, burned with a desire for revenge and would grasp his father’s hatchet, which was still too heavy for him, ready to dash into battle. Although Ivan was the nineteenth child and Annychka the twentieth, the family consisted only of the parents and five children. The other fifteen were buried in the churchyard. The family was devout and liked to visit church, especially for parish fairs. There they could meet distant relatives who had settled in neighboring villages, and opportunities would occur to repay the Huteniuks for Vasyl’s death and for the blood that the Paliichuks had shed so often. They would take out their finest clothes, their new wool breeches, their embroidered jerkins, their nail-studded leather belts and wallets, their aprons, their red silk kerchiefs, and even the snow- white mantle that mother carefully carried on a walking stick across her shoulder. Ivan received a new hat and a long shoulder bag that swung against his legs. The horses would be saddled, and the grand procession would set out, garlanding the green upland track like red poppies. The festively clad people stretched out along peaks and vales. The green hayfields seemed to blossom; a multicolored stream sailed along the Cheremosh, and high above, against (the black cloak of the fir forest, a red Hutsul parasol glinted in the early morning sun. Ivan soon saw a meeting of the feuding clans. The family was returning from a parish fair, where father had had a bit to drink. All at once a commotion arose on the narrow road between the mountain and the Cheremosh. Wagons had stopped, and men and women, both on horseback and on foot, had gathered in a crowd. Hatchets flashed in the fierce uproar that sprang up, and the Huteniuks and Paliichuks clashed like flint and steel. Before Ivan could figure out what was happening, his father brandished his hatchet and struck someone across the forehead. Blood gushed Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature Mykhailo Kotsiubyns'kyi. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors 4 over the man’s face, shirt, and fancy jerkin. The womenfolk cried out and ran to pull the wounded man back. His face as red as his breeches, he struck at his foe with his hatchet, and Ivan’s father fell like an undercut fir. Ivan dashed forward. He did not know what he was doing. But the adults stepped on his feet, and he could not make his way through to the fight. Flushed and furious, he ran straight into a little girl who was shaking with fear beside a wagon. Aha! This must be Huteniuk’s daughter, he thought and , without hesitating struck her in the face. She grimaced, clutched her shirt to. her breast, and ran off. Ivan caught up with her near the river, seized her by the shirt, and tore it. New hair ribbons fell out, and the girl lunged with a cry; to save them, but Ivan jerked them away and threw them into the water. Then the girl gave him a penetrating look with her limpid black eyes and said calmly, “That’s all right. I have other ribbons, much better ones.” She seemed to be consoling him. Surprised by her gentle tone, the boy remained silent. “My mother bought a new apron for me... and moccasins... and embroidered stockings and....” He still did not know what to say. “I’ll dress up in my beautiful clothes and be a fine young lady.” He felt envious. “And I can play the flute.” “Our Fedir made himself a fine floiara. When he plays it....” Ivan frowned. “I’ve seen the Vanisher.” The girl looked at him incredulously. “Then why do you fight?” “And why were you standing by the wagon?” She thought for a moment, uncertain of her answer, and then started to look for something inside her shirt front. Finally she pulled out a long sweetmeat. “Just look!” She bit off half the sweet and extended the other half with a grave and trusting motion. “Here!” Ivan hesitated, but then took the gift. Soon they were sitting side by side, oblivious of the screams of the fight and the angry roaring of the river. She told him that her name was Marichka, that she was tending sheep, that a one-eyed woman named Martsynova had stolen their flour, and other things that were interesting and familiar to both of them, as the gaze of her limpid black eyes softly pierced Ivan’s heart. The trembita announced a third death in the lonely cottage on the high peak: old Paliichuk died the day after the fight. Hard times came for Ivan’s family after the master’s death. Disorder took root; the possessions disappeared; one hayfield after another was sold, and the livestock melted away like mountain snow in the spring. But his father’s death made less of an impression on Ivan than the friendship with the little girl who had so trustingly given him half a sweet after he had wrongly hurt her. A new current flowed into his old and causeless sorrow. It drew him into the mountains, carrying him to neighboring peaks, forests, and valleys in search of Marichka. He found her, finally, when she was grazing lambs. Marichka greeted him as if she had been expecting him: they would graze the sheep together. Of course! Let Godly and Blue ring their bells and bellow in the forest. He would graze Marichka’s lambs. And how they grazed them! Clustered together in the shade of a fir, the white yearling ewes watched with dull eyes as the children rolled on the moss, their laughter ringing in the silence. Tired, they would climb onto the white boulders and fearfully peer into the abyss below, from which the Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature Mykhailo Kotsiubyns'kyi. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors 5 black apparition of the mountain sharply rose into the sky, shimmering with an azure that would not melt in the sunlight. A stream rushed through a crevice in the mountains, shaking its gray beard on the rocks. The age-old silence sheltered by the forest was so warm, lonely, and frightening that the children could hear their own breathing. Their ears sought out and magnified every sound in the forest, and sometimes it seemed to them that they could hear mysterious footsteps, the dull thud of an ax, and a heavy, panting breathing. “Ivan, can you hear it?” Marichka whispered. “Why shouldn’t I hear it? Of course I do.” They both knew that the invisible ax was wandering through the forest, thumping on trees and gasping for breath in exhaustion. Fear would send them scampering down to the valley, where the stream flowed more calmly. They would make a deep hole in the stream, strip naked, and splash about in it like forest creatures that had never known shame. The sun would glint on their fair hair and beat into their eyes, while the icy water would nip their limbs. Marichka would be the first to feel cold and would set off in a run. “Stop!” Ivan would call out. “Where are you from?” “From Ya-vo-riv,” Marichka would reply, her teeth chattering. “And whose daughter are you?” “The blacksmith’s.” ”Fare you well, blacksmith’s daughter!” Ivan would pinch her and dash after her until exhausted, but warm, they would collapse in the grass. In the quiet stretch of the stream, where wolfsbane shimmered and monkshood berries hung down like blue slippers, frogs croaked sadly. Ivan would bend down to the stream and ask a frog, “Godmother, godmother, what have you cooked?” “Beet borsch, beet borsch, beet borsch,” Marichka would croak. “Beets, beets, beets!” they would both shriek, their eyes tightly shut, forcing the frogs to fall silent. Thus they grazed the sheep, often losing them completely. Their games changed when they grew older. Ivan was now a young man, as tall and robust as a fir tree. He dressed his hair with butter and wore a wide leather belt and a fancy straw hat. Marichka braided her hair with ribbons, signifying that she was ready to give her hand in marriage. They no longer grazed sheep together and met only on Sundays and holidays, by the church or in the forest, so that the feuding families would not know that their children were in love. Marichka liked to listen to Ivan playing his flute. Lost in thought, he would fix his gaze beyond the mountains as if seeing something others could not see, place the carved flute to his full lips, and a strange tune that no one had ever played would waft over the fir-shaded hayfields. The frost nipped at Ivan and Marichka, and the first whistling sounds sent chills down their spines. The winter-clad mountains seemed dead. But then the sun-god rose from beyond the mountains and placed his head on the ground. Winter was overcome; the waters awoke, and the earth rang with the song of the streams. The sunlight scattered like flower pollen; wood nymphs slipped through the hayfields, and the first green grass sprang up under their feet. The fir trees breathed with greenery; the grass sounded a green laugh, and the whole world consisted of only two colors: all green the earth and all blue the sky. And down below the Cheremosh drove the noisy, restless green blood of the mountains. Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature Mykhailo Kotsiubyns'kyi. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors 6 “Turu-rai-ra...” a trembita echoed. “Turu-rai-ra....” The shepherds hearts quickened, and the sheep bleated as they caught wind of the fresh fodder. The sedge rustled in the cold upland pastures, and from his lair in a thicket the bear rose on his hind paws, trying out his voice and casting about a sleepy eye for food. Spring rains fell; the mountain peaks roared with thunder, and a chill evil spirit blew from Chornohora. Then suddenly the sun—the right side of God’s face—appeared and glinted against the scythes that were mowing hay. From peak to peak, from stream to stream, a kolomyika flitted, so light and transparent that the flutter of its wings could be heard. A white ewe came running From the upland herds. I love you, my sweetheart, And your beautiful words.... The boughs of the firs rang quietly; the forests whispered their cold dreams of summer nights; the bells of the cows pealed mournfully, and the mountains ceaselessly sent down their sorrow to the streams. A felled tree flew down with a crack and a cry into the valley; the mountains sighed in response, and again the trembita wailed. This time for death. A life of ceaseless labor had ended. A cuckoo sang out on a mountain crest: now someone’s gone to eternal rest.... Marichka responded to the flute like a wood pigeon hen to a cock by singing songs. She knew a multitude of them. She could not have said where they came from. They seemed to have rocked in the cradle or splashed about in the bath with her. They were born in her breast the way wild flowers spring up in a hayfield or firs grow on mountain slopes. No matter what her eye rested on, no matter what happened—a sheep strayed, a lad fell in love, a girl was unfaithful, a cow took sick—everything was poured into a song, as light and simple as the mountains in their primeval life. Marichka could also compose her own songs. Sitting on the ground beside Ivan, she would embrace her knees and quietly rock with the tune. Her rounded, sunburned calves were visible from the hem of her skirt to her red leggings, and her full lips curved sweetly as she began: A cuckoo small and gray now sings for me, A bright new song for the village is ringing. Marichka’s song would relate a well-known, but nonetheless fresh event: Paraska had enchanted Andrii, who was dying from her spell, and was warning other men not to love married women. Or her song would tell of the sorrowing mother whose son had been crushed to death by a tree in the forest. The songs were so sad, simple, and fervent that they tugged at the heart. Marichka usually finished them with a couplet: The cuckoo warbled for me by the stream. Who composed this little song? Ivanko’s Marichka. She had been Ivan’s since the age of thirteen. What was so strange about that? Grazing the sheep, she had often seen the billy goat covering a doe or the ram coupling with a ewe. Everything Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature Mykhailo Kotsiubyns'kyi. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors 7 was so simple and natural, so little changed since time immemorial, that no impure thought ever clouded her heart. Yes, the goats and sheep did become big with young, but people could be helped by a sorceress. Marichka was not afraid. Around her waist, next to her skin, she wore a clove of garlic over which a sorceress had whispered, and nothing would harm her now. At the thought of this Marichka would smile slyly and embrace Ivan by the neck. “My dear Ivanko! Will we always be together?” “God willing, my sweet.” ”Oh no! Our parents bear a great hatred for one another in their hearts. We will never be married.” Ivan’s eyes would cloud over, and he would sink his ax into the ground. “I don’t need their approval. They may do what they will, but you shall be mine.” ”Oh my, my! What are you saying?” “Exactly what I mean, my love.” And as if to anger their parents he would swing the girl about at dances so violently that her moccasins would fly off. But events did not take the course that Ivan expected. His farm was falling apart. There was not enough work for everyone, and Ivan would have to hire himself out. He was torn by worry. “I must go to the uplands, Marichka,” he announced sadly. “Well, then, go, Ivanko,” she replied with resignation. “Such is our fate.” Marichka wove a wreath of songs for their parting. She was sorry that their meetings in the quiet forest would cease for a long time. Embracing Ivan by the neck and pressing her flaxen head to his face, she sang in his ear: Think of me, my sweetheart, Twice a day, And I will think of you Seven times an hour. “Will you think of me?” “I will, Marichka.” ”It’s all right,” she comforted him. “You’ll be a shepherd, my poor darling, and I’ll mow hay. Ill climb on a haystack and look at the upland ranges, and you’ll play the trembita for me. Maybe I’ll hear it. When fog settles on the mountains, I’ll sit down and cry because I cannot see where my lover is. But when the stars come out on a clear night, I’ll look to see which star is shining over the high pasture. That will be the one my Ivanko sees. I’ll only stop singing.” “Why? Don’t stop singing, Marichka, don’t be sad. I’ll soon come back.” But she only shook her head sadly in reply and sang: My sweet little songs, What shall I do with you? Perhaps I’ll scatter you Over the mountains and valleys. Then she sighed and added even more sadly: Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature Mykhailo Kotsiubyns'kyi. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors 8 Oh you’ll fly o’er the mountains, My sweet little songs, And I will wash my face With my tears. If fate is kind, Then I’ll gather you together, But if my fate is evil, Then I’ll abandon you. Ivan listened to the thin girlish voice and thought that Marichka had long since sowed the mountains with her songs, that the forests and the hayfields, the peaks and the pastures, the streams and the sun were all singing them. But the day would come when he would return to her, and she would gather her songs for their wedding. Ivan set out for the upland pasture on a warm spring morning. The forest was still casting a chill; the mountain waters roared over the rapids, and the highland path joyously ascended past the wattle fences. Although he found it difficult to leave Marichka, the sunlight and the rustling green spaces extending to the horizon endowed him with briskness. He leaped lightly from rock to rock like a mountain stream, greeting passers-by simply for the pleasure of hearing his own voice. “Praise be to Jesus!” “Praise Him forever!” Hutsul farmhouses stained cherry-red by fir smoke and peaked stacks of fragrant hay appeared here and there on the distant hills, and in the valley below the frothy Cheremosh angrily shook its gray curls and shone with a malignant green light. Fording stream after stream and passing gloomy forests where occasionally a cow would tinkle its bell or a squirrel in a fir tree would drop the leavings of a cone, Ivan climbed ever higher. The sun was beginning to burn, and the stony track was galling his feet. Now the cottages were less frequent. The Cheremosh spread out in the valley below like a silver-thread, and its roar was not audible here. Forests gave way to full, soft mountain meadows. Ivan waded through them as if they were lakes of flowers, sometimes stooping to decorate his hat with a handful of red Iceland moss or a wreath of pale camomiles. The slopes fell away into deep black abysses, where cold streams welled up and the only denizen was the brown bear, the dreaded enemy of the livestock known as “Uncle.” Water occurred less frequently. But how Ivan fell to it when he did find a stream, a cold crystal that had bathed the yellow roots of firs and had brought here the echoes of the forest! Beside these streams a kindly soul would often leave a cup of boiled sour milk. The trail continued to rise into thickets where prickly firs, without bark or needles, moldered in piles like skeletons. These forest graveyards were sad and desolate, forgotten by God and man, and only heathcocks hissed and snakes writhed here. The severe and sorrowful silence of nature ruled over everything. Mountains were rising behind Ivan in the azure distance. An eagle ascended from a rocky point, proffering a benediction with the wide sweep of its wings. The cold breath of the upland pastures could be felt, and the sky expanded. The forests had given way to a black carpet of creeping mountain pines and firs that caught at Ivan’s feet, and moss covered the rocks in green silk. Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature Mykhailo Kotsiubyns'kyi. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors 9 The faraway mountains revealed their peaks, flexing their backs and rising like waves in a blue sea. It seemed that ocean breakers had been frozen at the moment when a storm had raised them from the depths in order to dash them against the land. The peaks of Bukovina could be seen supporting the skyline with their blue shapes; Synytsia, Dzembronia, and Bila Kobyla were wrapped in azure; Ihrets was smoking; the sharp peak of Hoverlia pierced the sky, and Chornohora crushed the earth with its weight. The upland pasture! Ivan was finally standing in the high, grass-covered meadow. A sea of stormy mountains surrounded him in a wide circle, and the endless blue ramparts seemed to be advancing toward him, ready to fall at his feet. A wind as biting as a honed hatchet struck at his chest. His breath flowed into one with the breath of the mountains, and pride overwhelmed him. He wanted to shout at the top of his lungs so that the echo would roll to the horizon and shake the sea of peaks, but he sensed suddenly that in these spaces his voice would be as insignificant as a mosquito’s buzz. He had to hurry. In a vale behind a hill, where the wind was less biting, he found a sooty shepherd’s hut. The smoke hole in the wall was cold. The sheepfolds stood empty, and shepherds were bustling about, preparing a place to sleep. The chief shepherd was occupied in making living fire. Having inserted a small log in the doorjamb, he and a helper were pulling a leather belt back and forth, making the log whirl and squeak. “Praise be to Jesus!” Ivan greeted them. The men did not reply. The log continued to hum, and the men, concentrated and severe, continued to pull the belt back and forth. The log began to smoke, and soon a small flame leaped up. The chief shepherd devoutly raised the fire and placed it in a bonfire piled by the door. “Praise him forever!” He turned around to Ivan. “Now we have a living fire, and as long as it burns neither wild beast nor evil spirit will touch either the livestock or us Christian folk. “He led Ivan into the hut, where they were greeted by the musty smell of empty casks and bowls and bare benches. “Tomorrow the livestock will be driven to us. If only the Lord helps us to return it all to the masters,” the chief shepherd remarked and then proceeded to explain Ivan’s duties. There was something calm and even stately about the speech and gestures of this master of the uplands. “Mykola!” he called out the door. “Go light the fire in the hut now!” Mykola, a thin, curly-headed fellow with a plump feminine face, brought the fire into the hut. “And who might you be, my friend?” Ivan asked with curiosity. “A shepherd?” “No, I’m the fire keeper,” Mykola replied, showing his teeth. “My job is to tend the fire and keep it from going out all summer, because there will be trouble if it does. “He even looked around with horror. “And to go to the stream for water and to the forest for wood.” The fire outside was blazing higher. With the dignified motions of an ancient priest, the chief shepherd kept adding dry wood and green branches to it. The blue smoke rose lightly and then, blown by the wind, seized hold of the mountains, cut across the black strip of forest, and rolled over the distant peaks. The upland pasture was beginning its life with living fire, which would protect it against all evil. As if aware of this, the fire proudly wreathed like a snake and spouted ever new clouds of smoke. Four strong sheep dogs rested in the grass, thoughtfully gazing at the mountains, ready at any Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature Mykhailo Kotsiubyns'kyi. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors 10 moment to jump up, bare their teeth, and bristle their fur. The day was ending. The mountains were exchanging their blue garb for chasubles of pink mixed with gold. Mykola called out that supper was ready. The shepherds assembled by the hut and peacefully sat down at the living fire to eat their first bowl of gruel in the upland pasture. How cheerful the upland was in springtime when sheep came to it from every village! The tall chief shepherd circled the sheepfold, fire in hand, his face as grave as a pagan priest’s, his stride broad and firm, and the smoke from the glowing ember spurting after him like a winged dragon. At the gate of the fold, through which the sheep would have to pass, the chief shepherd threw down the ember and listened. He heard the gait of the upland pastures with more than his ear. He sensed with his heart how from deep valleys, where rivers seethed and ate away at their banks, from quiet farms and meadows, a wave of livestock was surging upward in response to the call of spring, and the earth underfoot sighed joyfully. He heard the distant breathing of the flocks, the lowing of the cows, and the barely audible sounds of songs. And when people finally appeared, raising high their long, sun-gilded trembitas to greet the upland pasture, when sheep bleated and filled all the folds in a noisy stream, the chief shepherd fell to his knees and raised his arms to heaven. Behind him the shepherds and the people who had brought their livestock also knelt in prayer. They were beseeching the merciful Lord to give their sheep hearts as fiery as the hot embers they were passing over and to protect Christian livestock from all evil, beasts, and accidents. As God had helped to bring the livestock together, so the worshippers hoped that He would help to return it to the owners. The sky listened kindly to the simple prayer; the Baskid frowned benignly, and the wind overhead carefully combed the grass in the pastures like a mother combing her child’s hair. Upland pasture, high wild meadow, why are you so proud? Is it because of the sheep you have just seen? “Heh-ya, hah-ya!” a shepherd cried as he drove the sheep. Bending their knees lazily and trembling on their thin legs, the sheep shook their wool. “Heh-ya, hah-ya!” Their naked muzzles opened wide with elderly expressions of boredom, revealing salivating lips, to complain to God knows who. Be-eh, me-eh.... Two shepherds led the flock. Their red breeches evenly sliced the air, and the flowers on their hats swayed with their motions. “Byr-byr!” The sheep dogs sniffed the air, keeping one eye on the sheep to make sure that everything was in order. Wool rubbed against wool, white against black; the fluffy spines trembled like small waves on a lake, and the entire flock quivered. “Ptrua! Ptrua!” The guttural cry called back the sheep at the edge and kept the flood within banks. The surrounding mountains were like an azure sea, and the wind raked the clouds across the sky. The curly tails of the sheep quivered; their heads were bent, and their flat white teeth chewed thistles and sweet crocuses down to the ground. “Byr-byr!” The high pasture spread its carpet at the feet of the flock, and the sheep covered it with a piebald moving coat. Crunch-crunch... be-eh, me- eh... crunch-crunch.... Cloud shadows wandered over the nearer hills. The mountains seemed to be moving like waves in a sea, and only the distant ones stood motionless. Sunlight flooded the wool of the sheep, breaking up into rainbows in it and spreading a green fire through the grass, and the shepherds’ long shadows trailed after the animals. “Ptrua! Ptrua!” Crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch.... The shepherds stepped silently in their moccasins; the woolly wave softly rolled over the pasture, and the wind began to play on a distant fence. “Dzzz,” it hummed on a splinter, buzzing monotonously like a fly. “Dzzz,” replied another fence, introducing a low note of sorrow. More and Electronic Library of Ukrainian Literature