Page 18 of Pioneer Summer

“Yes!” “We do!” “We swear!” “Just tell us alwedy, Yuwka!”

“Somebody died here, too. They found him right here, in the next cabin over! But only one person died, because after his death the Pioneers found his journal—he’d written about all the weird things that happened at night—and read it and found out everything. The guy who died had been a troop leader ... a very young one ... it had been his first year in the camp ...”

Volodya coughed and raised a skeptical brow.

Yurka shot him a crafty glance, as if to say,Yes, indeed, this is about you, and went on: “This is how it happened. The kids in his troop slept really badly. Their leader slept badly right along with them, since he was always walking around, checking everything, worrying ... and then one night, everyone else had finally fallen asleep, but the troop leader couldn’t. His sleep schedule had gotten completely off. He was sitting there with his notebook, writing down everything that had happened that day: where he and the kids had gone, how it had been, how the kids had behaved, that sort of thing. And then in the utter silence he heard a rustle, as though fabric was dragging across the floor. The troop leader grew wary, since it was such a very weird sound: he turned off the light, lay down in the darkness, and held still. At first he couldn’t see anything, but as soon as his eyes got used to the dark, as soon as he could discern the outlines of the wardrobe and nightstand, he saw the wardrobe door swing open! All by itself, quick and quiet, as though it hadn’t opened just that moment, but had been left open instead. The leader blinked—and suddenly the wardrobe door was closed again, the way it should be! He thought he might’ve imagined it, so he turned the light on and wrote everything down. The same thing happened the next night: again he heard the rustle of fabric along the floor, again everything got quiet, and again the furniture doors opened all by themselves. And his room was completely empty, with no shadows or sounds. But as soon as he blinked, there it was: the left-hand door of the wardrobe was open ... and the next time he blinked, the left-hand door was closed, and the right-hand door was open ... and all this was happening in dead silence ...”

The exact same kind of silence reigned in the room. The boys were listening so hard they were even breathing slower and quieter. Yurka heard the clacking of someone’s teeth chattering, and snorted: at least he wasn’t hearing the “pssss” of someone wetting the bed ...

“So then the troop leader went to Horetivka and talked to the old-timers there, and one old man told him the legend about the countess and the missing brooch. And he realized that the sound he was hearing at night was the swishing of her black dress. He wanted to find out why the wardrobe doors kept opening and closing. But he never did. Because the next morning he was found dead in his bed. Strangled. With bulging eyes—”

“And a bruised neck?” Sasha could barely choke out the words.

“And a bruised neck,” Yurka replied, nodding. “The police questioned all the inhabitants of the village. When it was that same old man’s turn, he told them the same thing he’d told the troop leader. The policemen thought he’d gone off his rocker and didn’t believe his ramblings about some countess ... about how she’d wandered around her own home first, but then, when it was destroyed, she roamed the camp ... about how she wanders to this day, looking for the brooch the count gave her ... and about how, when she doesn’t find it, she gets mad and strangles the first person she sees who’s awake. Because she thinks whoever’s awake is the thief who stole her brooch. After all, he’s the only one whose conscience is torturing him so badly, he can’t get to sleep.”

While Yurka took a breath, Volodya broke in: “And that, guys, is why you have to go to sleep after lights-out.”

“That’s right,” said Yurka. “You have to lie there and be quiet so both you and your troop leaders stay safe. Otherwise you’ll hear the rustling of the countess’s dress and see her opening cupboard and wardrobe doors, looking for her brooch. And that’s where she’ll get you! And your leaders, by the way, are also awake all night: they’re worrying about you, just like the one who died.”

The story made an enormous impression on the little boys, who screwed their eyes shut, pulled their covers up to their chins, and lay silent and motionless.

Volodya and Yurka exchanged a look. They both realized that leaving the children now would obviously be a bad idea, so they each sat down in a corner of the boys’ room, Volodya by the window and Yurka by the door. They sat in silence, bored.

With nothing better to do in the shadowy room, Yurka started studying Volodya’s profile: long, straight nose, high forehead, feathered bangs,sharp chin.Volodya’s actually handsome.The thought came unbidden to Yurka’s mind.If you take a good look at him ... if you think about it ... I mean, probably ...

When he’d seen Volodya for the first time, back at the opening assembly, Yurka had thought, objectively, that if it weren’t for the glasses, you could even call Volodya classically handsome. That was true without a doubt, Yurka admitted, even feeling a twinge of envy—as well he should, given the way girls melted just looking at Volodya! But now, after peering at Volodya in the dark room, Yurka realized something else: he thought Volodya was handsome subjectively, too. In fact, Yurka felt a strange sense of gratitude. The strange part was that he didn’t exactly know who he felt gratefulto: fate or Volodya’s parents. But he did know exactly what he was gratefulfor: the chance to appreciate beauty and experience joy. Because the contemplation of beauty always brings joy. If only Volodya didn’t have those glasses, though!

A muffled whisper broke the silence: “Yuwka?”

“What?”

“Awe thewe any doows opening next to you?”

“No.”

“And you, Volodya? Any doows opening ovew thewe?”

“No. Everything’s fine. Go to sleep.”

Everything was quiet for five minutes. Then that same voice, or rather whisper, repeated: “Yuwka? Volodya?”

“What is it?”

“Go to bed. Or the countess will come again and catch you sitting thewe.”

“Are you sure you won’t talk?” asked Volodya, in what Yurka thought was an overly stern tone.

Very convincing responses rained down from all corners of the room: “We’re sure!” “We’re sleeping!” “Yes!” “Octobewists’ honow!”

Volodya got up and nodded to Yurka, signaling him to follow. As they headed to the door, Sasha reached his hand out from under his blanket and caught Volodya’s shorts: “Volodya, can Yura come and tell us scary stories again?”

“I don’t see why not, but you’d be better off asking him.”

“Yur?”

“On one condition. If you fall asleep this very minute, and if nobody gets up and goes anywhere tonight, then tomorrow I’ll come and tell you another one. But if anybody makes as much as a single peep, no dice and no story: you’ll have to just sit here staring at your navy blue curtains.”

The little boys mumbled their promises and assurances, each in his own way, while Sasha nodded joyfully and wrapped himself in his blanket all the way up to his eyebrows.

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