Beyond the Shadow of Night(3)

“Is your papa angry?” Mykhail said after a few minutes’ silence.

Asher shook his head. “Not angry. Just very serious. As if I’ve done something wrong.”

“My papa shouts a lot about seeds and crops and things, usually when he’s complaining about the Russians.”

“My papa says we should be grateful, that many people are dying in the towns and cities.”

Mykhail shook his head. “My papa says we should fight the Russians, that they’re deliberately destroying our country and our people. He says we’re Ukrainians and will never be Russians.”

Asher said nothing to that, and the boys turned their attentions back to fishing, watching the slow-drifting river, flinching every time a rod twitched.

A lot of time passed by—perhaps three hours, judging by the movement of the sun. And they were good hours by recent standards: seven fish were now wrapped up in one of Asher’s threadbare old shirts.

“Shall we go?” Asher said, getting to his feet. “I’m so hungry.”

Mykhail shook his head. “We need another fish. One for each person. Papa will be upset if we go home with less.” He showed Asher a serious frown. “That’s only fair.”

Asher sat down again.

A few minutes later, they saw figures approaching from the direction of the sun, and then heard voices breaking through the burbling of the river.

They exchanged glances.

Their parents had told them to be careful—and not just today. People were desperate in these times.

“We should go,” Asher said.

Mykhail grabbed the rods, leaving Asher to pick up the shirt and the fish wrapped inside it. They turned and started walking.

“Not too fast,” Mykhail said. “And don’t keep looking behind.”

They walked on casually, and a few minutes later heard a shout from behind: “Hey you!”

“Ignore it,” Mykhail said.

They quickened their pace despite Mykhail’s words.

“Hey! You two boys!”

Mykhail cursed and turned back; Asher too.

There were three of them—all grown men, all bony and sunken-chested, one much older than the other two. They must have been walking quickly to have gotten so close.

“Do we run?” Asher whispered to Mykhail.

Mykhail squinted at the men, then turned to Asher. “We could outrun the old one, but . . .”

Asher gulped. “They might just be lost, wanting directions.”

“Yes. That’s probably it.”

They waited while the men sauntered over to them. Asher hid his hands—and the day’s catch—behind him.

“How long have you been fishing?” the biggest man asked.

“Not long,” Mykhail said. “They aren’t biting today.”

“You didn’t catch anything?”

Mykhail shook his head.

The man stepped toward Asher. It was man to boy, but nevertheless the man stretched himself up to his full height. “You,” he said, his lips smiling but his eyes too focused to join in. “What have you got behind your back?”

“Just my shirt.”

“Let me see.”

“No!” Mykhail shouted, pulling Asher away. “Go away. Catch your own fish.”

The man laughed, then turned to the other two men, who grinned like cats. He looked directly at Asher again, then stopped laughing, his face suddenly taking on a grim appearance. “Come on.” He fluttered an upturned hand toward the boy. “Let me see.”

Asher shook his head.

The man took a step closer. Asher stood firm, but saw a flash, heard a crack, then his world spun around and his head thumped the earth. He felt grainy dirt on his face and smelled blood. He turned and looked up to see the man wiping the blood from the back of his hand. Then he saw a blur, and after that, nothing.

As the man bent down to pick up the shirt, Mykhail took a run and barged into him.

The man stumbled, but still picked up the shirt, glancing at the fish inside.

Mykhail tried again, but the man held him at bay with his free hand and shoved him down onto the ground. “And stay there, you little scarface,” he said. “Or I’ll knock you out too.”

Mykhail stayed.

“Good catch,” the man shouted back to his friends. He gathered the corners of the bundle up so no fish would fall out, then joined them. They left, walking away slowly with an occasional glance back at the boys.

Mykhail sneered as he watched them leave, then scurried over and knelt down next to his friend.

Asher was motionless, the lower half of his face now encrusted with dirt turned red.

“Asher!” Mykhail shook him. “Wake up, Asher!”

Nothing.

He tried again and looked back toward the men, briefly considering asking for their help getting Asher home. “Don’t be stupid,” he muttered to himself.

He lifted Asher’s head off the ground, and held his ear to his friend’s mouth.

Yes, there was a rhythmic rush of air.

He lifted Asher’s arms up, grabbed his torso as best he could, then heaved him over his shoulder. With two long grunts, he pushed himself up onto one foot, then the other, thanking God he was a little bigger and stronger than his friend.

But bigger than Asher or not, it was a struggle, each step a wild stamp, each breath a gasp. Ten yards became twenty, but a few staggers later he lurched and stopped, exhausted, and stared ahead. They were still some way from home, and he would collapse if he tried it all in one go, injuring them both, so he laid his friend’s body down on a grassy mound.