Short Fiction Vladimir Korolenko (best motivational novels .TXT) 📖

will not take long,” replied the driver, and the master added, in an impatient tone of voice:⁠—

“What’s the hurry? You know the saying, ‘Haste makes waste.’⁠ ⁠… Plenty of time yet.⁠ ⁠…”

While the driver was making his preparations behind the partition, the master continued his instructions, in the quavering voice of an old man, and I took the chance to doze awhile beside the oven.

“Well, my lad,” I heard the master say to him, outside the door, “tell the ‘Slayer’ to make haste.⁠ ⁠… You see, he is in a hurry.”

Presently the sound of galloping was heard. The last words of the old man had dispelled my sleepiness. I seated myself before the fire, and gave myself up to anxious thoughts. The dark night, the unfamiliar surroundings, the strange faces, the unintelligible conversation, and finally the fatal word.⁠ ⁠… My nerves were evidently unstrung.

An hour later, the rapid tinkling of a bell was heard, and the troika stopped before the door. I put on my wraps and went out.

The sky had grown clearer. The clouds swept hurriedly along, as though in haste to reach their goal. It had ceased raining, but now and then a large drop fell from the clouds that scurried along in the rising wind.

The master came out with a lantern to see us off, and by its light I scrutinized my new driver. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, and powerful man⁠—quite a giant, in fact. The expression of his face was calm and stern⁠—impressed, so to speak, with the stamp of some past sorrow never to be forgotten, and his eyes had a steadfast and obstinate gaze.

I must admit that for a moment I was overcome by a strong temptation to dismiss this giant driver, and spend the night in the warm and cheerful chamber of the Molokán. It lasted, however, but for a moment. Clasping my revolver, I seated myself in the cart, while the driver fastened the apron and slowly and deliberately took his seat on the box.

“Look out, ‘Slayer!’ ” was the old man’s parting injunction. “Look sharp! You know how it is likely to be!⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, I know,” replied the driver, and we vanished into the gloom of the stormy night.

As we drove past the huts which were scattered at intervals along the road, an occasional light flashed forth, and here and there against the dark background of the woods a grayish smoke, mingled with sparks, curled up into the air, and melted in the darkness. Finally we left the last dwelling behind, and the solitude of the black forest and the gloom of the night deepened around us.

The horses, trotting evenly and swiftly, carried me on toward the fatal hollow; it was now about five versts away, and there was time enough to brood at leisure over my situation. As often happens in moments of unusual excitement, I had the keenest realization of it; and when I recalled the marauder-like figures of the cormorants, the mysterious merchant who accompanied them, and the unusual pertinacity with which they followed me, I came to the conclusion that some sort of an adventure awaited me in the hollow. But the part that my gloomy driver was to play remained for me like the riddle of Oedipus.

However, the solution was near at hand. Presently, the mountain-chain came in sight, outlined against the background of the clearing sky. Its summit was covered with a forest growth, and at its base one discerned, through the darkness, a flowing stream, over which hung a projecting rock, known as the “Devil’s Finger.”

The road skirted the river at the foot of the hills. Beneath the Devil’s Finger it receded from the mountain-chain, and at this point it was entered by a crossroad, leading from the valley. This was the most dangerous spot, famous as the scene of many daring exploits on the part of the knights of the road in Siberia. The narrow, rocky road prevented rapid driving, and the bushes might serve to hide an ambush. We were nearing the hollow. The Devil’s Finger began to loom up before us, the darkness adding to its actual size, until the clouds, as they passed over it, seemed to graze its summit.

The horses slackened their pace, and the middle horse, as he trotted carefully along, watched the road intently, while the side horses, snorting loudly, pressed more closely against the shafts. The musical sounds of the tinkling bell echoed beyond the river and died away in the sensitive air.

Suddenly the horses stopped; with one abrupt jerk the bell sent forth a tinkling peal and was silent. I rose in my seat. Beside the road, the dark bushes were shaken by the movements of some dusky object.

The driver had reined in his horses just in time to avoid the attack. Still, the situation was critical, for it was impossible either to turn aside or to retreat. I was just about to fire a random shot, when the tall form of the driver, rising from the box, shut from me the road and the bushes. The “Slayer,” as he stepped to the ground, quietly handed the reins to me, saying, as he did so: “Do not fire, but hold the reins.”

His tones were so calm, yet so impressive, that it never occurred to me to do otherwise than as I was bidden; my suspicions in his regard were dispelled. I took the reins while the solemn giant advanced towards the bushes. The horses slowly and intelligently followed their master, without any further order.

The rattling of the wheels on the stony road prevented me from hearing what was going on in the bushes. When we came to the place where we had seen the moving object, the “Slayer” stopped.

Nothing was to be heard except the sound of the rustling and cracking branches at a short distance from the road, in the direction of the mountain. Somebody was evidently pushing his way through, and the man in advance seemed in a hurry.

“It is that rascal Kostiúshka, running ahead,” said the “Slayer,”