The windowless huts waved the rotting
straw of their thatch in the wind as they had done five hundred years
ago, when they had been taken down every spring to be carried further
into the forests--ever eastward--to the Chuvash tribe.
In every hut there was hunger. In every hut there was death. In every
one the fever-stricken lay under holy ikons, surrendering their souls
to the Lord in the same calm, stoical and wise spirit in which they
had lived.
Those who survived bore the dead to the churches, and went in
consternation and dread through the fields carrying crosses and
banners. They dug trenches round the villages and sprinkled the dykes
with Holy Water; they prayed for bread and for preservation from
death, while the air resounded with the tolling of bells.
Nevertheless, at eventide the maidens came to the tumulus arrayed in
their home-woven dresses, and sang their old, old songs, for it was
spring and the mating season for all living things. Yet they sang
alone, for their youths had been given to the Moloch of war: they had
gone to Uralsk, to Ufa, and to Archangel. Only old men were left to
plough the fields in the spring.
Vilyashev stood dejectedly on the crest of the hill, a solitary,
lonely figure outlined darkly against the clear blue background of
sky and distance. He gazed unseeingly into space; thought and
movement alike were suspended.
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