The Travelling Man in a Russian Winter

Long ago in a Russian winter...

         A man came to the southern town of Verkhoyansk, his worldly belongings tied in a sack and slung over his crooked back. His wool-felt valenki boots left deep grooves in the snow as he walked along the winding pathway leading into the town.

         The Angel of Death walked at his heel, His skeletal frame bent and sickly, and his scythe as sharp as Russian tin. The man never once turned around to behold his travelling companion, focusing instead upon the road that lay before him. He was starved, his bones showing through his skinny flesh, and he was tired from his long journey from the north.

         Upon entering the town, the traveller visited each and every house in turn, knocking on each wooden door and waiting with trembling, half-frozen hands on the front step until the door was answered.

         “I am a traveller from the north, and I have not eaten for twenty-two days,” he would say to each homeowner in turn. “Can you spare bread or water for me, so that I might reach the border for the turn to spring?” And though his plea was sincere, and he was truly wasting away, each and every homeowner saw the figure of Death standing at the traveller’s back, and each and every one shut their door, sliding bolts across and tucking their loved ones up in their beds.

         So the traveller moved on, deeper into the town, stopping at every door along the way to recite his plea. And at every door, the faces that greeted him turned ghostly pale at the sight of his companion, and the traveller was denied even the smallest amount of bread for his journey.

         His fate was so throughout the town, seeing him pass from one side to the other without any hope of food or water.

         At last, he reached a small cottage towards the outskirts of the settlement, where a family of woodcutters and log scalers lived. It was the mother, named Sayiina, who answered their door to the travelling stranger. “I am a traveller from the north, and I have not eaten for twenty-three days,” he recited. “Can you spare bread or water, so that I might reach the border for springtime?”

         The man’s plea moved Sayiina, but she happened to gaze upon the spectre that hung like a shadow over the man’s hunched back, and she gave herself pause. She recognised the figure as that of the Grim Reaper, and knew that His presence would bring bad luck to her household: But Sayiina, like her husband and two children, had been brought up to be respectful to strangers, and to always offer food or shelter to those without either.

         “I can give you bread and water, stranger, and I wish you well on your travels,” she said, knowing that her husband would say the very same. She went indoors to fetch a bowl of bread left over from supper and a small flask of water, and returned with both to the traveller.

         Tears welled in the elderly man’s eyes, and he shook Sayiina by the hand. “Thank-you! Thank-you!” he declared, “you are most generous! May the spirits bless your house!” And with these words, he took up the bowl and the flask, and went on his way towards the border. Sayiina watched the crooked little man go, and with him the Angel of Death, following ever closely behind.

         In the heart of the Russian winter, Sayiina’s oldest son, Elley, came down with influenza, and passed away on his bed before November was out. The family buried Elley’s body under the snow in the yard, and wept for him. The youngest son, who was named Aytal and was now feeling very alone without his brother, committed suicide a week later, drowning himself in a freezing pond. Him was buried alongside Elley, and their parents wept. Sayiina knew that the Grim Reaper had taken her two handsome sons, and she feared that her husband would soon be taken as well.

         Sayiina died a week before the start of spring, having caught a chill while carrying logs for the fire from the woods at the edge of the town. Her husband, Nyurgan, buried her in the hard earth next to their two children, finding no reason to the suffering brought so suddenly upon his household. He went mad in the last week of winter, and died in a most violent fit on the doctor’s bed. He was buried with his family in the yard of their empty home.

         The travelling man reached the border of the Yakutia Republic at the end of spring, and travelled on into the oblast territories; Death followed behind him with every step, and where he trod, the last of the snowfall melted under his feet.