The Green Field
by
Hrant Matevossyan
Translated by Diana Hambardzumyan
The lightning struck the rock with a dry crackle. It
ricocheted, and buried itself in the green ground. The rock was hard; the
lightning could sever no more than a few tiny pieces of stone from it. The
green ground under the rock was the cemetery of all the lightning bolts that
cracked in that valley: all summer and spring lightning bolts were buried under
the rock, and the nearby oak tree was terrified by each crack of lightning and
expressed its oak-like gratitude to the rock; after all, the rock was absorbing
all the lightning bolts that fell into the valley and burying them, thus saving
the oak from incineration.
A minute ago, as the lightning circled over the valley
and the hills, thinking about cracking but not yet, the foal’s mother summoned
the little foal with a gentle neigh. His mother knew that the lightning was
bound to crack and would frighten the foal. The little foal thought that his
mother was calling him to suckle. He pricked up his ears, moved them around,
and began to listen to himself, trying to decide whether he wanted to suckle or
would rather smell the grass and flowers and get to know them one by one. And
it was exactly at that moment that the lightning cracked. The foal was
frightened and tried to run to his mother, but he was too frightened to see
where she was and instead ran in the opposite direction. His mother wanted to
go to him, but the rope around her neck prevented her. And she neighed again to
the little foal.
The foal was one month old. This was his first
experience of lightning in his month-long life. He sheltered himself under his
mother’s breast. From this vantage point he pricked his ears and listened to
the rain drumming on the oak leaves. He gazed at the rock, then at the wild
rose bush, then at the oak tree. He blinked his eyes and forgot all about his
fear of the lightning crack, as if he had come to his mother to suckle. Shaking
his curly black tail, the foal went under his mother’s belly. The old mare put
her leg back and loosened the milk veins so her foal could suckle freely until
he had enough.
He was a star-spangled foal: covered with starlets
like grains of frost. His legs were thin and long. His rear right shin was
white. His body seemed covered in frost, his rear right leg with snow. His neck
was also thin and long. His head was small; there was a round blaze on his
forehead, like an aster. Deer, kids and lambs, and the mare, too, who had had
many foals, came to drink from the brook in the valley, but this foal was the
most beautiful creature in the green field. His mane and tail were black. It
was impossible to tell what kind of eyes he had, as he always shied when we
approached him. It is safe to say, though, that the foal’s eyes were extremely
beautiful: horses’ eyes are always beautiful, and reflect their surroundings.
The oak tree, the flowers, the wild rose bush, his red mother, and the entire
green valley were now mirrored in the foal’s eyes.
He was a bit skittish, and was skittish because he was
still tiny. A raindrop rolled down between his legs; this frightened him, and
he ran away from his mother. She did not call him back. The rain had stopped.
No more lightning would crack, and the sun had come out.
The green field gleamed in the sun. The rich, moist
light glinted off the only oak tree in the valley, the wild rose bush, and the
mare’s wet back. The brook that flowed from the gray rock and disappeared
through the green valley glittered as well. The brook reeked of lightning, and
the foal was a bit scared. The wild rose also smelled of lightning: the foal
leapt once or twice, then was scared and stopped. He gazed at the wild rose and
ran over, one leg behind the other, to smell it once again.
The mare knew all the scents and aromas of the valley.
She knew the scents of all the valleys and hills, but she knew best the
fragrance of this valley, as she was often tied up here and had examined her
surroundings. The lightning flash was momentary, displaced by the sun, and now
it would vanish with the dew. The fragrance of
thyme did not really belong to this valley; the wind had borne it down
from the hills. The mare grazed and smelled wet sheep wool. She thought the
sheep grazed on the other side of the hills; this meant that there would also
be sheep dogs.
On the other side of the hills the sheep were grazing.
The wet valley grass is tasty. The water of the brook is tasty too. The old
mare kept thinking: the sun is getting warmer, the foal is frightened, but
he’ll grow up in the kindly warmth of the valley.
The mare raised her head: the oak tree stood
still, the rock stood there as if it were sleepy, and the foal was smelling the
wild rose. The sun was getting warmer, the grass was tasty; it was a good time
to graze. The mare lowered her head to eat; she tore off a couple of mouthfuls
of grass, but something was not right, and she raised her head.
Standing still in the green valley, holding her head
high, the old red mare surveyed the valley for a long time and listened to its
silence. Everything was exactly as it had been before: the oak was standing
still, the rock was dozing, and the foal was gamboling near the wild rose. And
it was a good time to graze, but the red mare did not lower her muzzle to the
ground. She threw up her head suddenly, whinnied, and pricked up her ears to
catch all the secret voices of the valley. Widening her nostrils, she drank in
the strange fragrances of the dale. Butterflies were fluttering, bugs were
singing, the brook was babbling, and the foal was stretching his neck as he
chased butterflies around the wild rose. The old red mare wanted neither to
hear those voices nor to see those sights. But a danger lurked in the valley.
No omen of that peril was in the air, nor it was seen in the dale. The smell of
that danger was not borne by the wind, but the mare was unable to graze.
The old red mare started to get angry. She was getting
angry because there was an adversary in the vale, but the enemy was neither
felt, nor heard, nor seen.
Standing in the green valley, the gray rock, the
luxuriant oak, the old red mare, and the wild rose bush watched, and listened
to the silence. For the rock there was no danger in the green valley, because
there would be no more lightning that day. The oak remained vigilant, but
everything seemed to be all right for the tree: again because there would be no
lightning and the sun was warm. It was all right for the wild rose, too,
because the foal’s muzzle did not reach beyond one or two flowers. And the old
red mare sweated with tense expectancy.
The valley was betraying the mare: there was an enemy
in the valley, but the valley was not giving up the enemy’s voice or the
enemy’s smell. The old red mare dared not move towards the foal. She was afraid
of covering over the secret sounds of the enemy with the noise of her own
footsteps. The old red mare dared not breathe. She was afraid of covering over
the cautious breathing of the enemy with the noise made by her own lungs. The
old red mare did not blink her eyes. She was afraid that the enemy would jump
from place to place as she blinked, and she would not see him move.
They stood so still in the green valley: the rock, the oak, the wild rose,
and the mare. The rock was dozing. The acorns of the oak were filling with
juice, safe within their armor, and everything was all right for the tree. The
wild rose had opened its calyxes to the sun and was lapping up the sun, and the
old red mare was quivering with anger. Never, not even once, had the valley
betrayed her in such a way. Perhaps it was the lightning that prevented the
mare from smelling the whereabouts of the enemy somewhere nearby, and the
enemy’s scent was hidden behind the burnt smell of lightning.
The foal looked at something and turned to his mother.
His mother did not see what he was looking at; it could not be seen from where
she was. The foal looked again at whatever it was and again turned his head
towards his mother, who was standing with her head high, her eyes burning.
The foal stretched his neck, raised his muzzle, and
walked towards the thing. Just then his mother smelled the detestable stench of
a wolf. His mother neighed and lurched towards the foal as she saw the wolf
detach itself from the ground in a long, smooth leap.
The short, nervous whinny of the mare was heard on the
other side of the hills. On the other side of the hills, close to the sheep,
the sheep dogs became all ears for a moment, waited a bit to catch other
voices, and then calmed down.
The red mare dashed to the foal; she recklessly hurled
herself towards the wolf and foal, but fell. She was an old mare; she had fallen
many times before, but never so unexpectedly. She fell, but stood up
immediately. Her fall was caused by her own powerful rush and by the rope. The
rope throttled her and prevented her from flying to her baby.
The foal escaped somewhere, far from the wild rose.
The foal wanted to return to his mother. Making a long circle, the foal strove
to get to his mother, but the wolf always barred his way, forcing him to go
farther and farther away. The rope was strangling his mother. The foal jumped
over the wolf to get to his mother, but the wolf caught him by his hind leg.
The foal fell down. The foal squealed and jumped up.
On the other side of the hills the sharp, shrill cry
of the foal was heard, and the sheep dogs became more vigilant; among the sheep
dogs a black-muzzled dog, Topush, grew even more watchful.
The foal squealed and jumped up, just as his mother
sprang to her feet, with all her weight and fury stretched out towards the wolf
and the foal. The rope broke and whipped his mother’s legs. His mother rushed
forward as fast as she could run, with all her strength, all her fury, and all
her love. She was a very swift mare, but in all her life she had never raced
like that, as if flying. On the other side of the hills, the muffled clatter of
her hoofs was heard. Then on the other side of the hills there was nothing more
to be heard, and consequently the sheep dogs and the little shepherd calmed
down. The mare left the foal so she could free herself from the rope without
stamping on him. As the mare began to attack, the wolf ran away a little. But
the mare kept coming, and the wolf retreated a bit more. Her muzzle pressed to
the ground, the mare approached slowly, threateningly. The mare kept coming;
the wolf was a blur on the ground; she jumped up and suddenly, as the mare
turned around, she fastened herself to the mare’s nostrils.
The mare turned around, and the wolf jumped up and
stood in front of her. Keeping the foal under her breast, the mare turned
around again, and the wolf circled with her. The wolf circled ceaselessly, and
the mare turned around ceaselessly. In two short dashes the wolf appeared under
the mare’s muzzle, but the mare managed to turn around again and kick. The wolf
took a long sprint and appeared under the mare’s muzzle, and the mare did not
manage to turn around fully. The wolf was able to scratch the mare’s nostrils,
and the mare was able to stamp on her with her front leg. The wolf stepped
back, but did not escape; she sat down and looked at the mare, and the mare
looked at the wolf. And the wolf realized that the mare would defend her foal
to the end, and the mare realized that the wolf would not leave. The mare was
covered in sweat, but the wolf was also tired. The wolf rushed back at once.
After that the wolf leaped continuously at the mare’s nostrils, and the mare
turned around continuously and kept her foal continuously under her breast.
It was already evening; their movements had slowed
down. The wolf was slowly circling the mare, almost plodding, almost crawling,
and the mare was slowly turning around where she was, with difficulty,
sometimes sliding and almost collapsing. Their eyes had darkened, and they
hardly saw each other. They had gone deaf with fatigue.
The little shepherd appeared at the top of the hills
and looked at the sunset. The sunset was red. And in the sunset only the oak
tree in the valley was beautiful – but what the little shepherd saw was so
abominable that he was unable to speak: the wolf was hanging from the red
mare’s nostrils, and the old red mare could not stamp on the wolf; the old red
mare was about to buckle.
“Hey, boy!” was heard from the opposite hills, “that
wolf is strangling that mare, hey, you there! . . . where are the dogs? Hey!”
The little shepherd opened his mouth to scream, but
was unable to make a sound. The little shepherd only waved his hands. The sheep
dogs became more focused and watched. The sheep dogs— Topush, Bob, Sevo,
Boghar, Chalak, and Chambar— saw what was happening and ran away. Black-muzzled
Topush was an experienced dog; he was used to sneaking quietly up on his prey
and catching it. Now he was running quietly. Boghar, on the other hand, was a
young dog, still a bit frightened of wolves; that is why he kept up a barrage
of barking from a distance, trying to scare the wolves away so he would not
have to fight them. Boghar continued to bark. Boghar was a fast-running
dog—sometimes he even ran ahead of Topush—but he did not dare to leave the pack
and go on alone. He stopped and barked, waiting for Topush. He ran alongside
Topush, but he soon got ahead again, and again he slowed down.
When the mare was about to fall to her knees, the wolf
heard the dogs barking in the distance, as if in a dream. The wolf did not want
to believe that the dogs were coming to attack her. That would be too much for
her: her torment, which had lasted an entire day, could not be in vain, forcing
her to return to her three hungry cubs empty-handed.
When there was no longer any strength left in her and
the pain in her nostrils was beginning to diminish, when her eyes had
completely darkened and her ears had become completely deaf, the mare heard the
dogs barking in the far distance, and she thought the dogs were barking at her
and her foal. Fate could not be so cruel. Her foal could not live for only one
June. The old mare knew that the dogs were near, even though the dogs’ barking
sounded quite far because of the deafness brought on by her fatigue. The old
mare knew she should be patient a bit longer; she had to be patient just
a bit longer, until the dogs arrived. But it was so hard to breathe. What a
burden this life had become!
The dogs’ barking exploded in the wolf’s ears again,
and again the wolf did not believe that after such a tormenting success she
would end up such a failure. Her cubs hungry at home, her nipples empty . . .
Her neck was torn, her ears were torn, and the wolf let go of the mare’s
nostrils. Her paw was seized. She did not have the strength to free her paw.
The wolf wanted to sleep and sleep. She had no strength left for a fight; the wolf
wanted to die, to relax. The wolf became blurred and pressed her throat to the
ground so the dogs would not be able to seize her by the throat. The dogs were
tearing her back and neck, yanking at her ears, and she was defending her
throat and relaxing under the pack of dogs.
The wolf bit a paw, and one of the dogs jumped aside,
whimpering. The wolf stood up, and the dogs surrounded her. Standing among
them, the wolf looked at the dogs, and they were many, and it was difficult,
too difficult; it was impossible to get rid of them and plod home, where her
cubs were waiting for her. With open fangs the wolf looked at the dogs, the
dogs looked at the wolf; for a moment they looked at each other, and the wolf
did not know what she was going to do, and the dogs did not know what they were
going to do. And it made one of the dogs’ flesh creep; it hurdled itself
through the air, hit the wolf with its breast, and knocked her aside. The wolf
almost fell down, and realized that the most dangerous dog was the one with the
black muzzle.
“Hey you, boy! Who are you? Hey, you! Go help those
dogs, go help those dogs strangle the wolf! Hey, you!” they called out from the
opposite hills.
The mare was barely standing. The mare’s head was
getting heavier and drooping. The mare felt the foal suckling and could hardly
rejoice at the foal’s suckling. The mare’s head bent down, her forelegs also
sagged, and the foal was still suckling. The mare sprawled. The foal was now
standing near the mare, waiting for his mother to rise, but his mother did not
rise. The foal nudged his mother’s belly with his muzzle, but his mother did
not stand up, did not move. The foal sat near his mother’s belly, and his hind
leg ached badly, and he began to suckle. And his mother’s milk was still
flowing, was still flowing in full flood; she was suckling her foal for the
last time; he was already an orphan, her most beautiful foal, a star-spangled
foal with a curly black mane and tail, with a white shin, with a blaze on his
forehead. He was a bit foolish, but that was because he was still so young.
The wolf, at least, could escape. If she did not
escape, her cubs would become orphans, and they were completely helpless, they
would die, and the wolf was able to escape. It was not so much an escape as a
gradual retreat, step by step, leap by leap, a few leaps followed by a few more
leaps. After a few leaps, when the dogs reached her and were about to seize
her, the wolf turned around, her flesh creeping, and opened her fangs; the dogs
paused, and the wolf took a few more leaps towards safety.
The big black-muzzled sheep dog could not grab hold of
the wolf’s throat, and the wolf could not bite and frighten him, but the
black-muzzled sheep dog was not chasing her any more, as a tuft of hair from
the wolf’s neck had dropped into his mouth and the black-muzzled dog was
lagging behind, wiping his mouth in disgust, sneezing and vomiting. The
black-muzzled dog was not chasing her, and the other dogs were not dangerous,
as they were not experienced hunters.
The dogs lost the wolf, and then lost her footsteps,
but they were circling, running, getting frantic, and howling in the green
valley, where the rock had darkened now, where the oak tree stood still and the
wild rose had stretched forth a couple of its calyxes to collect the dew, where
the body of the old red mare was lying. The foal stood beside his mother,
worried, as if he already understood what had happened.
The whole valley was light green in the sunset, and it
was black, jet black round the old red mare. The red body of the old mare was
lying within that black circle. That black circle was the fighting ground of
the mare and the wolf; that black spot had been trampled out by the mare.
Looking at that black spot, trampled, ruined, devastated ground, one could see
how long the old mare had circled with the wolf around her.
That black circle remained black for about three
years; for about three years the grass did not grow there, and the white
skeleton of our good old mare lay in that black circle. Then green triumphed.
Green grass grew in that circle, flowers bloomed in the spaces between the
bones, the grass rose, grew luxuriant, and the green valley is now in full
green.
From the top of the hills you see the green valley
fully green, the oak tree standing majestically in the green valley, the rock
listening to the rustle of the clouds, dozing, the wild rose holding its five
calyxes to the sun, and the tethered star-spangled horse grazing in the green
field. His rear right shin is white, his legs are long, his mane and tail are
sun-burnt and dark, there is a white aster on his forehead. When he takes a
step, his rear right leg twitches a little, as if from a nervous tic, because
of the old scar.
The horse with the aster on its forehead raises his
beautiful head, and the rock, the oak tree, the blooming wild rose, the green
valley, and the white clouds in the blue sky are reflected in his eyes.
“Is that the end?”
“It is.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Say that the mare didn’t die.”
“I can’t say that the mare didn’t die, because the mare
did die. When the little shepherd ran down from the top of the hills, the mare
was already dead; the foal was sad, standing near his mother. When the shepherd
who had called out “Hey, boy!” came down from the opposite hills, the mare was
completely cold, and the old shepherd and the little shepherd sat near the old
red mare for a while and considered how they would raise the foal.
“So how did they raise him?”
“With another mare’s milk.”
“No, say that the mother didn’t die.”
“I can’t say that the mother didn’t die, because all
summer long I fed the orphaned foal with other mares’ milk.”
“Do you want to know what I wish?”
“Tell me.”
“I wish the shepherd on the other side of the hills
had been on top of the hills, and had noticed the wolf sooner.”
“The shepherd was on the other side of the hills and
noticed the wolf as soon as it appeared on the crest of the hills.”
“How did the mare die?”
“While they were sitting beside the body of the old
red mare, the old shepherd told the little shepherd that the mare’s heart had
stopped because of her fear for the foal, and disgust, and fury.”
“Was she disgusted with the wolf?”
“Yes, with the wolf.”
“I wish the dogs had strangled the wolf.”
“I can’t say that the dogs strangled the wolf, because
our black-muzzled dog had swallowed wolf hair and was about to die himself.”
“Were you the little shepherd?”
“I was, the mare was ours, and the foal was our mare’s
foal.”
“Has the foal grown up now, and is he tied up in the
green valley?”
“Yes, he has grown up, and is tied up in the green
valley.”
“Does he remember his red mother?”
“It’s possible that he remembers his red mother,
because horses can remember.”
“Well, tell the story again.”
“Lightning struck the rough rock with a dry crackle,
was thrown aside, and buried itself in the green ground. The gray rock was
tough; the lightning could not have broken more than a few small shards from
its rough surface. Only the oak tree was a little frightened, because lightning
strikes and burns oak trees, and the long-legged, star-spangled little colt was
very frightened: a boy foal is called a
colt . . . he was so frightened that he wanted to run to his mother, but
he didn’t see his mother and was running in the other direction. And the old
red mare let the foal know where she was by neighing gently . . .”
¡ all rights reserved, Hrant Matevossyan
¡all rights reserved for translation, Diana Hambardzumyan
