Descendants of the Scythians - Страница 7

Dmitro Borisovich was lost in thought. Actem was looking at him, still entertaining some hopes that the archeologist would find a solution any minute now, would do something decisive about it. And they would return to inform the rest of a remarkable find. Lida would raise her eyebrows in envious surprise… She did it so charmingly… It was worth painting a picture of… But wait, what did Lida have to do with all this? It was much more important to evoke the interest of Ivan Semenovich! Then he would stop objecting to their archeological pursuits… Or, in the words of Dmitro Borisovich, to “the archeological line” of their work… Those eyebrows… they arched such perfectly straight lines above Lida’s green eyes… And my, how they sparkled! Again Lida was on his mind! There were serious matters awaiting his attention… Maybe they were on the verge of some extraordinary discovery, so why he should be thinking about Lida all the time?… Soon Dmitro Borisovich would come up with a solution, and then… and then…

But Artem’s hopes fell. Dmitro Borisovich put his lamp on the ground with an abrupt gesture of resignation.

“I don’t know,” he said with a sign. “I’ve never come across anything of the kind before and have never heard of anything like this being encountered by other archeologists. We need to think it over, discuss it, and avoid unnecessary haste. That’s probably the most important thing in such situations, Artem — avoid haste! Yes, that’s the thing. Now, young man, we’ll start back,” he said with determination. “Take this envelope. Collect samples of dust, first, at this wall, then at that one. I’ll take samples in the center.”

“And what purpose can that dust serve?”

Artem’s voice was brimming with bitter disappointment. It had all begun so promisingly — only to end so miserably! Dust indeed! A very valuable find, a lot to be proud about on coming back…

“Ah, young man,” said Dmitro Borisovich with a condescending smile, “you’ll never make a true, committed archeologist, no, no way. You’re after treasures, gold and valuables, aren’t you? Your mood would be much improved if you chanced upon any, correct? My young friend, dust can also be of great help to an archeologist. Don’t you understand how? Go ahead, collect it, and while you’re doing it I’ll prove the point, and you’ll have more respect for this modest gray dust. Back in the lab, we’ll examine this dust minutely, we’ll subject it to analysis. Maybe this analysis will reveal that the dust is partly composed of, say, rotten pieces of clothing, grain, bread or something else. And then it’ll be quite easy to answer the question which now seems so complicated: that will mean the mysterious walled-off recess was used by the ancients as a storing place for clothing or as a granary. Everything will fall nicely into place and explanations will be easily available. Do you understand now of what significance this despicable gray- dust can be?”

“Oh, yes, it’s quite thrilling,” Artem muttered, disconcerted. “If it is as you say, it wasn’t worth the trouble of getting in here. We’ve just dirtied our clothes for nothing. And the lecture you’ve given me I could’ve listened to in comfort at home.”

“What you’ve said is, my friend, first, discourteous and second, balderdash if you ask me. Science needs all possible kinds of evidence. Every little bit of new knowledge is important. Archeology, by the way, is based almost entirely on such tiny bits of evidence. All you have to do is look hard and see what you can see, examine whatever you find, and systematize. The abilities and qualities of a true archeologist are revealed through his attitude to such tiny bits of knowledge. Yes, my friend, in his attitude, and not in vociferous enthusiasm, not in clamorous interjections over an ancient artifact, even a very valuable one!”

Artem listened to this spontaneous lecture and methodically collected dust into envelopes. No matter what Dmitro Borisovich said about these bits of knowledge, it would be so much more exciting to find a pottery shard or even a bronze vessel, not to mention the crown of some Scythian tribal chief… Oh, that would be really terrific!

All of a sudden Artem stopped short, his eyes riveted to a spot at the foot of the wall just two steps away. It might be just another protruding stone, but it looked a bit different from the rest… like an artificial stone cube covered with dirt and dust… What kind of stone could it be? Artem glanced briskly back at the archeologist.

Dmitro Borisovich was pouring some dust into the envelope with great concentration and could not see what Artem was doing, so the younger man immediately set about removing dirt and dust from the rectangular protrusion. The surface was hard and rough… no, it wasn’t a stone and… not just a protrusion either… Artem’s heart began to race. He worked in a mounting frenzy.

“Once again I must remark that you’re prone to lapses of discipline, my dear young man,” Artem heard the archeologist’s voice coming as though from afar. “Did I tell you to take samples at that spot? I must say, you’re very inattentive, my friend, yes, you are, and very undisciplined too!”

Artem swiveled around. Dmitro Borisovich was holding the envelope, packed with dust, and looking at him in disapproval.

“And why are you wearing such a perturbed look on your face?” the archeologist went on to say. “As though you’re contemplating some neck-breaking stunt… or maybe you’re not quite all right and can barely stand?”

Artem took a deep breath and was again able to control himself. But his voice broke when he began to speak:

“Dmitro Borisovich, the thing is… I’ve found one tiny bit of knowledge here. Only I’m afraid it’s a little too big to fit into the envelope…”

Dmitro Borisovich did not suspect anything unusual hidden behind Artem’s seemingly inaffected, even indifferent voice.

“What tiny bit? Which envelope? What kind of claptrap is that, young man?”

“You’ve been talking all the time about some tiny bit of knowledge, right? And here, one such tiny bit has presented itself. It’s rather outsized, though. A sort of a box or something.”

In a twinkling, Dmitro Borisovich was at Artem’s side.

“What? Where? What box?”

“Right here, see for yourself.”

Artem pointed to the mysterious object which he had just been cleaning up. What had emerged was a small square chest, crudely made, embossed with an ornamental design. It was half-hidden in a niche. The bright white light of the lamps revealed the dark, greenish bronze under the dust. Artem looked at Dmitro Borisovich in triumph: what would he say now?

But the archeologist was oblivious of Artem, of his precious envelopes, of all the world. Now only the chest existed for him. He squatted beside it and touched its top as though he were afraid it was hot enough to burn his fingers. His hands trembled; his lips were moving, shaping inaudible words. He was evidently very agitated and overexcited, and Artem sensed it was not the right time for taunting him. It would be sacrilegious.

“Dmitro Borisovich, it’s a real big find, isn’t it? Is it valuable?” he asked in an undertone, feeling the excitement spread through him, too.

It was hardly worth asking since just one look at the archeologist was enough to tell the whole story. He tried hard to control himself but was not very successful. His efforts at constraint were easily visible. Dmitro Borisovich did everything that had to be done, that his long years of archeological experience had taught him to do, but he seemed merely to be going through the motions; his movements were mechanical, almost like that of an automaton. He took his camera out, photographed the chest from various angles, the same procedure as before the stone wall, but the mere fact that he almost dropped the flash twice, stumbled on the even floor, and did not comment his own unusual awkwardness allowed Artem to deduce that he was in a state of extreme agitation and tension. Artem, who kept his eyes glued to the archeologist, said eagerly:

“Can I help you?”

But Dmitro Borisovich did not even hear Artem. He lifted the chest off the ground and held it at the arms’ length as one holds a basin filled to the brim with water. After holding it in this manner for a few moments, he carefully lowered it back to the ground. Then he approached the chest from the other side. His hair was dishevelled; his spectacles lop-sided. But he didn’t see anything or hear anything; he was heedless of everything except for the chest…

Artem could make out a few words Dmitro Borisovich was muttering as though answering some questions he had silently put to himself:

“Yes… by the looks of it… dating to the Scythians… why only bronze?… strange, there’s no iron… hidden away for no one to see… a relic… extraordinary!… a real hiding place!…”

“So you think it’s Scythian?” Artem asked timidly.

But the archeologist was still quite inaccessible. He walked around the chest once again, bending his neck to one side like a hen that is aiming to peck at a seed it has just discovered. He looked at the chest first with one eye, then with the other, half-closing them at times. Then, suddenly rousing himself from his trance, he turned to Artem as though the young man had just appeared.

“Artem, my dear boy, this is quite extraordinary!” he cried out, grabbing the young man by his sleeve. “What stroke of luck brought you here? How did you guess the chest was hidden in precisely this corner?”