Wanderer

Wanderer

  Richard Cheesman

  Copyright 2011 Richard Cheesman

  Contains excerpts from a translation of 'The Poet's Death' by Mikhail Lermontov, 1837.

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  Night.

  The evening sky had turned dark, giving the camp-fire an eerie glow on the nearby ground. Grigori shuddered and shuffled forward, trying to warm himself. He turned to his left and reached out for a stick from the pile he had gathered earlier, and threw it on the fire. He adjusted his coat, making sure the the cooling air didn't get in and give him a chill and pulled the fur-lined hood over his head.

  The ruins of the city of Lermontov were to the west, tall ruins silhouetted against the fading sunlight. Clouds had started to gather as well, causing some parts of the sky to already appear black as coal. The air had finally started to cool, and Grigori looked around to pick up another stick. Soon it would be totally dark, he thought, as he glanced upwards at the darkening sky. A light wind had risen up, playing with the fire, casting flickering light on the ground, and rustling the nearby trees.

  “You gonna sit here all night, chicken?” Grigori said out loud to himself. He gave a sarcastic laugh.

  “Of course, I have nowhere to go now that the dark has fallen.”

  Grigori was used to spending time alone. He'd wandered around this region after the war, having barely escaped Nevinnomyssk before it was bombed to ruin. It was foolish to wander these lands after dark, all sorts of creatures now roamed wild, ready to pounce with ravenous hunger onto unsuspecting travellers. He hated the dark. All it presented was the ideal opportunity to be robbed, attacked or even stumble into a Hunter's trap instead of it's intended prey.

  I died there, back in Nevinnomyssk, he thought to himself, I'm not Grigori Aleksandrov any more. I'm just roaming the wastelands, trying to find food, stay out of trouble. I don't even know who I really am any more.

  For all the time he'd roamed these lands, he'd been fortunate trouble had not found him. There had been a few close calls with the gangs that now roamed. The longer he'd been wandering, the less the gangs bothered him, seeing him as a source of information instead. He could barter the information from his travels for food, clothing, even ammunition from time to time. There were very few other wanderers, roaming the ravaged wastelands, doing the same as he was.

  Today, he'd been looking around Lermontov, a town named after Mikhail Lermontov, a poet. Grigori loved poetry, reading much during his younger years, and even written some in the hope of getting it published. Lermontov's poetry was deeply ingrained for many Russians, and although not possessing a book of his works, he could recite many of the poems that had written. He started to speak softly to himself:

  “The Poet's dead! - a slave to honour -

  He fell, by rumour slandered,

  Lead in his breast and thirsting for revenge,

  Hanging his proud head!...

  The Poet's soul could not endure

  Petty insults disgrace.

  Against society he rose,

  Alone, as always...and was slain!”

  He chuckled to himself. He turned for a stick, and realised that someone was standing there, watching him. Grigori started in shock. He hadn't even heard him come up to the camp-fire.

  “Don't be afraid.” said the stranger, taking a single step forward closer, so Grigori could see him clearly.

  “Who... What do you want?” Grigori replied.

  “Just some time by your fire, if you will allow me." The stranger said, pointing toward the fire. He bent his knees, so the he came to Grigori's level. “My name is Anatoliy." He held out his hand.

  Grigori turned so he completely faced him. The stranger, Anatoliy, seemed okay. His weapon was slung, the pistol in his holster was snapped. He accepted the man's hand.

  “My name is Grigori. Some people round here just call me Wanderer." They shook hands.

  “And others call me Sunrise." Anatoliy chuckled, almost smiling in the light of the flames. He moved in closer, sitting near to Grigori and putting his hands out to the fire. Grigori could see the man clearer now, probably about ten years older than he was, with a creased face that showed the wear of time spend in the wastelands. Dark stubble covered most of his jawline.

  “What's funny about that?" Grigori asked.

  Anatoliy didn't look away from the fire. “I guess that's just what my name means. I was given it by my father, I...” He trailed off, still staring at the fire. “I didn't know my mother, but it was her wanted me to have that name, to give joy to other people as she had wanted."

  They sat for some time in silence, both just staring in to the fire. Suddenly, after what seemed like an eternity, Anatoliy turned, and looked at Grigori.

  “You were speaking poetry," he said, “was it Lermontov?”

  “Yes, it was. I'm a bit, sorry – was a fan," Grigori had turned to him, “but ever since the war turned this area into a wasteland, I've not enjoyed it the same way.”

  “Ah, so you're a poet?" Anatoliy's eyes widened. He almost seemed to come to life.

  “Was." Grigori corrected.

  “No. Once a poet, always a poet. Even when people did not have pen or paper, poetry was written, written in peoples' hearts. Even here," His hand swept, indicating the dark landscape before them, “even here, in this dark and horrible place, poetry can still shine. You were reciting 'Death of the Poet', am I correct?”

  Grigori looked intently at Anatoliy. He wondered if this man was a poet too or if not, how he knew about what Grigori had been reciting.

  “You know of it?” He asked.

  “Know of it! Ha!" Anatoliy slapped his knees hard, “I love that poem. The death of Pushkin, and the story of Nikolai Arendt. I like the part that goes:

  And they removed his wreath, and set upon his head

  A crown of thorns entwined in laurel:

  The hidden spines were cruel

  And pierced his noble brow;

  Poisoned were his final moments

  By sly insinuations of mockers ignorant,

  And thus he died...”

  Anatoliy trailed off, turning back to the fire. His eyes had darkened once more.

  “Why that part?" Grigori asked. He'd always like the part that lamented the poet, never really paying attention to the end. It just seemed to reflect his life so well.

  “Shh." Anatoliy stood and turned to the darkness, his eyes now alert, scanning back and forth looking for signs of danger.

  Above the rustling of the nearby trees, nothing could be heard, until... there! That howl, far off in the distance, like a wolf but far more disturbing. After the war, rumours had spread of new creatures, strange ones that had come from areas that had suffered nuclear fallout, or near the now disused nuclear reactors. Creatures that defied even the most vile imagination, abominations of nature. Grigori shuddered at the thought that these creatures were even in these parts. He'd always thought it was a post-war myth, a legend passed around by careless mouths.

  “Huh, it looks like we won't be having a quiet night then." Anatoliy turned back towards the fire, and sat down. “Those... those things will come when it's really dark." He looked up, and sighed. “The one night that the moon could show us everything, yet we have all this cloud to block it out. That's not good, not good at all.”

  Grigori muttered something that sounded like an agreement. He was too caught with his though
ts, especially having now heard those creatures. They sat for some minutes, neither of them saying anything, just staring into the fire. Grigori stirred first, deciding that if these creatures had caught wind of them, he was going to make sure he was ready. He turned and grabbed his pack, and turning it over, revealed his weapon, a PPSh-41 machine gun. Loosening the straps, he freed the weapon and turned to the fire, placing it on his lap. He sat and stared at it.

  “That's quite something you have there, Wanderer." Anatoliy said, looking first at the gun, then at him. “How did you chance upon something like that?”

  “It's mine." Grigori turned to look at him. “My grandfather, he fought in the last war, before this one. He helped repel the Germans from Stalingrad, and after the war, we moved away from all that, to Nevinnomyssk. It helped him recover from that horrible experience. He kept the gun as a souvenir.”

  Grigori turned back to the weapon. “Then my father then had it, it became an heirloom, I guess. When I was old enough, my father gave it to me, saying that I was carrying a great tradition. He said it was carrying the strength