MINYASKA
I sit here and sometimes
think - like some doleful
Russian novelist, I should
be writing dark stories of the
human condition. Those
weighty tales of the dense
and the dark: Very rustic, as
the horse is brought in to the
house, to live with the peasant
family, which owns and treasures
it, through the brutal cold stretch
of weather. Six, maybe ten, days
of horse-sitting and household
tasks together. Yes, to our ears
now it sounds bizarre, but truly
one had to live this to understand.
Valkov comes in, swearing, in those
oblong Russian words they swear
with, as the candles blows out
from the wind he lets in. The horse
faint whinnies from its now-black
corner, unsure if it has ever seen
a night such as this before. Malya
stirs in the corner, afraid now of
Valkov's wrath....It goes like that;
you stretch it out, add the fire and
the stove, the cooking and the smells,
some sound of gunfire distant and
off. Ishnakoff comes racing in, the
horse now rises with a noise. 'We must
go, now! Leave. The Guryash Faction
is entering the Cleavanth Woods. If
they find us out, we are dead!
Get the horse and let us go!'
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