Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 41

The Scythians were eating in silence, as though performing a sacred ritual. Varkan greeted them in a loud voice. All six Scythians raised their heads simultaneously and, recognizing Varkan, greeted him cordially in turn and invited him and his companions to share their meal. Varkan asked whether the strangers would like to stop for a while and join these people at their meal.

“Thank you for the invitation,” said Ivan Semenovich. “Unfortunately we’ll have to decline the invitation as we are pressed for time. Besides we’ve already had lunch. Thank you all the same.”

Dmitro Borisovich said pensively:

“Hospitable people, these Scythians! By the looks of them, these six men must be quite poor. I don’t think they eat meat very often, and yet they invited us to share their meal…”

Artem noticed that both the men and women they met on their way stared at Lida more than anybody else. No doubt, all the stranger men got their share of attention — the victory over Dorbatay that was still very fresh on people’s minds made the strangers the focus of interest. But the strange girl was by far the one who excited the greatest curiosity. Once in a while, a Scythian would stop dead in his tracks, gaping and staring at Lida, ignoring the rest of the company. Evidently, the reason for this was not that Lida was mounted: horsemanship of Scythian women was not inferior to that of men. So what was it that made the Scythians stare?

Artem told Lida about his observations. The girl’s reply was instantaneous:

“Oh, I believe it’s quite simple. The Scythian women always wear their hats or whatever you call them with the edges turned up, and I’m bareheaded.”

“So what?”

“In their eyes, my silly Artem, that’s like a good Moslem seeing an unveiled woman in the street. It’s unprecedented, don’t you see?”

“In other words, you look indecent, and that makes them mad. That’s not a good idea, Lida. Why don’t you put on a scarf or something? Or perhaps you don’t want to hide your golden curls from view, but would rather display them to their full advantage, eh?”

“Aren’t you silly! Why should I observe their stupid customs? I hate wearing anything on my head. Let them stare!”

Heavy, ringing sounds of metal striking against metal that grew louder as the cavalcade approached a small smithy stopped all the talk. A huge Scythian, naked to the waist and wearing a wide leather apron was hammering at a red- hot ingot.

It was a pleasure to watch his precise, measured and powerful movements. Reflections from the furnace played on his face, dripping with sweat. The tight rounded muscles bulged rhythmically under the shiny dark skin of his arms. There was a pile of small ingots by the furnace. The smith went on working, not paying the slightest bit of attention to the strangers.

Varkan was somewhat perplexed at the unusual interest the strangers exhibited toward the smith and his work which, in his eyes, could hold nothing that was worth paying attention to. His perplexity grew when Ivan Semenovich, evidently not satisfied with just watching, leapt down from his horse and went into the smithy. He walked over to the forge and picked up a cold ingot from the ground. He turned it in his hands, examining it in silence for some time. Then, nodding to the smith, who had stopped swinging his hammer and was staring in amazement at the strange visitor, Ivan Semenovich put the ingot down and walked back to his horse under the questioning gazes of his friends.

Ivan Semenovich leapt onto the horse with surprising agility, took the reins into his hand, looked at his companions, and said:

“I recalled our conversation about the insides of the Sharp Mount and the possibility of using the archeological evidence, related to the Scythians to determine whether the mount had any ore deposits. I have now discovered, Dmitro Borisovich, that those ingots are good bronze. It would be very useful to find out where the Scythians get their ore. If the deposits are anywhere nearby…”

“Yes, I’ll ask him right away!” the archeologist said and turned to Varkan with his question. Then he said hastily:

“Yes, the Scythians get their ore from a place not far from here. Varkan even suggests that we go there. If we wish, he’ll show us the mine.”

“Gladly,” the geologist said, gesturing for the Scythian to lead the way. Varkan turned his horse abruptly, leaned closer to its neck, and spurred it to a gallop. The explorers followed, having some problems keeping pace with him.

They galloped through the entire camp. Varkan was probably bored a little at having to wait all the time while his companions had stopped watching people at their everyday chores. Now he was glad to make up for it by riding fast.

Bending low over the horse’s neck, he rode at full speed. Ivan Semenovich gave his horse the rein with great pleasure; his mount not wanting to lag behind, also took off in a gallop. The other horses did the same without being urged by their riders. Truth to tell, Artem was a little apprehensive at first, but he was ashamed to show any signs of fear in front of his friends so he entrusted himself to his horse. Lida bit her lip, held fast to the reins, but did not try to slow down her sprightly mare.

It was only after some time that they realized Dmitro Borisovich had disappeared. They had already travelled far from the Scythian camp into the steppe with its pinkish- yellow grass high enough for a man to hide himself easily. Where indeed was Dmitro Borisovich? How had he managed to get lost?

“Varkan! Varkan!” Artem called out at the top of his voice. “Hold it!” He was short of breath after the swift gallop that made his flesh creep.

The Scythian reined in his horse, and as he turned his face presented a picture of vitality and joy. His eyes asked: what’s the matter?

“We’ve lost Dmitro Borisovich!” Artem shouted.

“Where is he now?” Ivan Semenovich said, looking around.

Varkan searched the steppe with his eyes, but the archeologist was nowhere to be seen.

“Dmitro Borisovich! Dmitro Borisovich!” they chorused.

In a moment, a hardly audible reply came:

“I’m over here…”

“Where is here?” Artem shouted at the top of his voice.

“Here… in the bloody steppe!”

“Come join us!”

“I can’t!”

’’Why?*’ Artem shouted peering in the direction from which the voice came. But there was no sign of the archeologist: only the flat plain with the grass, growing high and thick, undulating in the breeze.

“You’d better come to me!” Dmitro Borisovich called out again.

Artem turned to the geologist as if asking permission; Ivan Semenovich nodded his head to give the go ahead. Artem immediately turned the horse around and galloped back in the direction they had come from. What was the matter with the archeologist?

The first thing that Artem discerned in the high grass was the head of the archeologist’s mare. It appeared for a moment above the grass, looked at the approaching rider, and was gone again. The grass was so high that even a horse could be hidden entirely from view! In a moment, the face of Dmitro Borisovich himself popped into view. It was an angry face. When he began speaking, he sounded very much annoyed, giving Artem a piece of his mind.

“So that’s how you respect your elders?! You galloped away with no regard for what happened to me!”

“Dmitro Borisovich, I wasn’t the only one…”

“Oh, keep quiet when I’m speaking! This damned beast is not at all as placid as you tried to convince me. I wanted to stop her because she was going at neck-breaking speed. But do you think she gave any heed to my appeals? Not at all! She kept going after you like mad. I tried to stop her. I pleaded with her to calm down. I pulled on the reins with all my might… or maybe it was she who was pulling the reins… I can’t tell for sure now…”

Artem felt he was about to burst out laughing, but he realized that if he did not control himself, Dmitro Borisovich would take it as a great personal offense. That is why Artem, with great effort, preserved a serious face. The archeologist continued hotly:

“I did everything imaginable to stop her! I tried to slow Jier down by pressing her flanks with my legs, shouted to her to stop! But nothing happened! The damned beast was going like a thing possessed, and besides, she wanted to throw me off, she did! The whole time!”

“She did not want to throw you off, she was just.galloping!”

“Silence, young man! I know perfectly well what galloping is, I’ve seen lots of horses do it… in the movies.

Galloping is when a horse is moving at a measured pace and the rider moves rhythmically up and down in time with it in the saddle. Yes, I know these things well enough! But in this case, the brute was not galloping at all! How could I post rhythmically when the monster was trying the whole while to throw me over her neck? I tell you, she was!”

Artem had to turn away as he did not want the archeologist to see his face contort in his efforts to keep from laughing.

“At last I managed to get my hands around her neck, but to do it, I, naturally, had to let go of the reins! I didn’t think I needed them anyway. Then I lost the blanket that is used instead of a saddle here… There’s nothing funny.about it, Artem! It’s quite unmannerly and disrespectful, by the way, to laugh when somebody’s telling you about such an unfortunate experience!”

“I… am… not… laughing, Dmitro Borisovich! I’m listening to you with the greatest respect… It’s just that I’m short of breath after a fast ride, you know.”