— What about the monks?
— What about them? — The gray-haired man turned to his partner, giving him a bewildered look.
It felt as though they were continuing an interrupted conversation, even though the old man hadn’t breathed a word about monks. The younger man looked sheepish.
— Well, you mentioned a monastery on an island the other day. Do monks live there?
The old man smirked into his mustache.
— You’re a funny one, Yurka. What do you need them for? Who are you? You, Yurka, are a scavenger. Your job is to go out and haul goods back home. That’s what I’m teaching you. Now, when we go to Barnaul… that’s the place… there’s plenty to find there. — The man rolled his eyes dreamily.
— Uncle, you said yourself that nothing’s left of Barnaul. What’s there to gather? Just charred stones. Life only survived in the mountains. Our community, for instance…
— You’re right about that. If we find anything, it’ll be in the mountains. You want me to tell you a story?
Yurka fidgeted impatiently on his rock.
— I see you do.
The older man rolled a cigarette and lit up. The pause stretched on, until Yurka hesitantly prompted him:
— The story…
— I was young then, just a bit older than you. It was a terrifying time. Right after the Strike, nature seemed to go mad. Storms, nothing but snow. That’s when it happened. I was coming from the city.
— From Barnaul?
— If you keep interrupting, I won’t tell you a damn thing. From Barnaul, of course. Where else? How I survived is a story for another time. Но I realized right away that I had to head for the mountains. Where else would anyone be left alive? And then, all of a sudden, as if by a wave of a hand, the sky cleared and a low rumble echoed… I went face-down into the snow. “That’s it,” I thought, “those bastards launched a rocket just for me, to finish off the last man standing.” I’m lying there, looking at the heavens. And there’s a ball of fire flying across the sky… with a trail of smoke behind it. It disappeared behind the mountains…
The old man took a drag and fell silent. Yurka couldn’t help himself.
— And then?
— That’s it… end of story.
— But what was it?
— How should I know? There was no explosion. So, it wasn’t a rocket. Maybe a UFO—aliens coming to look at the mess we made—or maybe a meteor burning up. I didn’t care much back then. I stayed alive, and for that, I was grateful.
— And after that?
— What about after that? I had other things to worry about. Who’d be interested in that? Except maybe the monks, they’re the ones who collect all sorts of tall tales.
— So there are monks?!! — Yurka practically jumped.
The old man grunted, embarrassed that he had let it slip.
— Yes, there are monks, there are… You think our medic goes to the mountains for nothing? Well, yes, for medicinal herbs. Но where does he get them? From the monks. There’s an island on the river up in the mountains; that’s where they live.
This conversation lodged itself in Yurka’s restless head and wouldn’t budge. It wasn’t just the lure of uncharted distances and untrodden paths filled with mysterious beasts—that was the curse of an entire generation already tethered firmly to the community—but now, there was a secret. Why were the elders hiding it? A whole secluded community of monks living on a remote island in the middle of a river. Why live so isolated? And why did everyone know about them but keep it quiet?
These questions had kept Yurka awake for three nights now. He tossed and turned on his hard bench that served as a bed, occasionally lifting his head from the pillow to make sure his uncle was deep asleep, snoring loudly and snuffling.
“No, I can’t take this anymore.” He sat up on the bench, dangling his long, spindly legs. Yurka considered himself a very experienced scavenger. True, every run he had under his belt had been done under his uncle’s watchful eye, but there had been nearly twenty of them, which was no small feat. He could even take pride in a couple of outings where he’d pulled his more experienced partner out of a jam. Of course, he modestly remained silent about how many times his uncle had pulled him out of whatever mess he’d stumbled into—usually thanks to a certain “sharp itch” in his backside that kept him from living a quiet life. Ultimately, if his uncle didn’t talk about it, then it didn’t count.
Having convinced himself of his own mastery, Yurka decided he was ready for a solo run. He wiggled his bare toes in the chill air, as if the movement confirmed it was time to go. He had long ago decided where to go—the Monastery. Since it was his run, the choice of route was his too. Yurka even smirked in the dark, feeling his own importance. Visions danced before his eyes: him returning in glory from the monks with a backpack full of medicinal herbs for the healer; and more importantly, the admiring, slightly bashful gaze of Katka, the prettiest girl in the community…
These thoughts chased Yurka out of bed. There was nothing left to ponder—he was an adult now and had the right to be his own master. He quickly pulled on his trousers, wound his footwraps, and shoved his feet into oversized kirza boots. He stomped once, then turned toward his uncle in a panic. But the man slept on, breathing peacefully under the blanket. Risking no further noise, Yurka crept into the entryway, grabbing his canvas jacket and a rucksack from a nail on the wall. He paused by the gun cabinet, tempted by his partner’s Kalashnikov, but decided his familiar double-barreled shotgun was more reliable. He took it along with a bandolier stuffed with shells. That was it—all that was left was to step out into the forest!
At that thought, Yurka froze on the threshold, looking around in confusion. The village was enclosed by a two-meter-high palisade. The fence had served them well, more than once protecting the community from over-curious wild beasts and desperate men. Yurka still remembered the bandit raid the adults had fought off five years ago. Of course, he could have easily scaled the fence from the inside, but he felt it was beneath his dignity to flee the village like a naughty schoolboy. With this firm conviction, he headed confidently toward the gates.
He was in luck. Grandpa Mityay was on guard duty today. Not a particularly old man, but possessed of a shaggy gray beard, Mityay loved to fuss over the children in his spare time, telling them stories of life before the war. The nickname the kids had given him stuck like glue. Now even the adults older than Mityay occasionally called him that.
Yurka approached the gates and sat down beside the guard with a sigh, resting the butt of his shotgun on the ground.
Mityay glanced at the young scavenger. — You’re up early today…
Yurka shrugged, as if to say he was shocked himself but it wasn’t his fault, and let out another heavy sigh.
Grandpa Mityay gave a knowing smile. — What, did they drag you out of bed but forget to wake you up? — He ruffled Yurka’s messy hair. — Where’s your partner?
— Getting dressed. — Yurka looked at the fence with a bored expression. — Grandpa Mityay, let me out the gate. While I wait for my uncle, I’ll go pick some raspberries.
Outside the walls, the palisade was heavily overgrown with wild raspberry bushes. The brambles served as a decent substitute for barbed wire, so the patch was never cleared. Moreover, during the day when the gates were open, children were often allowed to pick berries under the watchful eye of the guards. It was a rare treat. Yurka knew this and had made it the cornerstone of his escape plan.
— You crazy? — Mityay tapped his temple. — It’s too early. I can’t open the gates yet.
— Yeah, it’s early, — Yurka agreed, sighing heavily again.
Grandpa Mityay squinted at the sun rising over the forest. — Fine, you’ve got your gun. But stay right by the gates. I’ll keep the doors ajar… if anything happens, fire both barrels immediately.
— What do you mean, “if anything”?
— Nothing specific… a bear, for instance. Or don’t you want to go?
— No, no, I do! — Yurka jumped up and grabbed his shotgun. — I’ll be right here, right by the gate. I’ve got a full bandolier. — He slapped his belt for emphasis. — I could take down a whole herd of bears.
— Get going then, — Mityay laughed, — before I change my mind.
He groaned as he stood up from the stump that served as his bench and slid back the heavy wooden bolt. Peering outside, he grunted. The forest edge was shrouded in a damp mist.
— I don’t know why you’re so keen at this hour… — Yurka didn’t stay to hear exactly what he was keen for. He slipped through the gates and vanished into the nearest thicket of raspberries.
There it was—freedom! Intoxicating and dizzying.
Yurka ran down the path as if being chased. The main thing was to get far away from the community; then no one could interfere with his plans.
“Plans… Do I even have a plan? Where am I running?” This thought stopped the guy more effectively than a concrete wall. He was breathing heavily, looking around. “I need a plan. I could run all the way to Barnaul like this, but I wouldn’t get any closer to the monks. What did Uncle say? In the mountains, on a river island, where the medic went.” Yurka stepped off the path and pulled out his map. A river? The nearest river was the Chemal to the south; to the east was a huge lake, but that was too far—the medic wouldn’t have returned so quickly, he’d been absent from the community for about three days. So, it had to be the river. It was only about ten kilometers away, but a river is a river; you can go both with the current and against it… And Yurka didn’t know these route details. “Might as well go back.” The boy looked doubtfully at the path leading back to the community. No, if he returned, he could forget about the expedition forever, and about scavenging too. They wouldn’t let him outside the fence again. He looked at the map one more time. “Alright, I’ll get to the river, then I’ll figure out the direction. If the medic went to the monks alone, it can’t be that far. Maybe I’ll find his tracks.” The thought calmed him. He, a seasoned scavenger, could give the medic a head start in forest travel—surely he could manage?
Having decided on his direction, Yurka didn’t hesitate for another second. The morning forest breathed freshness and squelched with moss underfoot. Fog settled on the leaves in large drops that, rolling down, loudly splashed onto the brown wet bark, dispersing into a watery spray, only to collect again on the level below. A heavy drop hit Yurka on the crown of his head and rolled down his closely-cropped neck, getting under his collar. The boy cursed, trying to reach the runaway somewhere around his shoulder blades. It was no use. The cold water droplet quickly reached his lower back. Shuddering from the unpleasant sensation, he cursed again, pulled the hood of his jacket over his head, and quickened his pace. The moss beneath his boots squelched loudly, greeting the traveler, and the trees sheltered him from the gloomy heavens, which ceaselessly shed moisture. The forest was weeping, it always wept. As Uncle used to say: the taiga is our sad neighbor. “He came up with a strange name for the forest, taiga. As far as I’m concerned, a forest is a forest even in Africa. Although, if Uncle is to be believed, this forest stretches north for thousands of kilometers, to where there’s nothing but solid, never-melting ice.” Yurka tried to imagine how far several thousand kilometers was, but even Lake Teletskoye, less than a hundred kilometers from the village, seemed like it was on the other side of the world.
About two hours later, he found the right trail, which snaked between trees, disappearing into bushes and reappearing between the thick trunks of cedars and firs. The well-trodden earth was more suitable for hiking than the springy moss, and Yurka quickened his pace. The shotgun tugged at his shoulder, the strap constantly slipping, pulling down the rucksack strap with it, forcing him to keep adjusting them. Finally, the boy couldn’t take it anymore and carried the weapon at the ready. The forest didn’t inspire fear. Of course, hungry predators occasionally wandered in here, but even they knew that the territory belonged to humans, who were still the most dangerous in this world, and that the desire to feast on human flesh could cost them their lives. Wolves and lynxes roamed the vicinity, and bears rarely wandered in. But wolves were only dangerous in winter when they gathered in packs and hunger drove them towards any danger. Lynx were very cautious themselves. A massive cat, dangerous and stealthy, it could take off a head with one powerful swipe of its paw. To see one meant to certainly bid farewell to life. Yurka was very afraid of this beast, but thankfully, they lived further north, closer to the contaminated territories. Yurka had never actually seen a bear. Uncle said that this giant lived somewhere beyond the river in the mountains, in caves… and hadn’t appeared near the village for the last five years.
Yurka trotted along the path. His tracker’s gaze noted the tracks of wild boars and roe deer. “There’s a wolf paw print… And this one…?” Yurka didn’t know whose track it was. It looked like… a bird’s, three-toed, but the size of a hand. Sharp claws had dug up the soil, as if the creature was chasing someone or, conversely, running away itself. Yurka straightened up and looked ahead. The trail was clearly an animal one, but people used it too: here was a print from a kirza boot on a moss-covered fallen tree across the path, and there—a wool thread caught in the branches. Yurka remembered that the medic’s knitted hat was exactly that color. So, he was on the right track. Cheered, he continued on. The path again disappeared into dense bushes; the boy pushed aside the branches with the barrel of his shotgun and found himself in a small forest clearing. In the middle of the open space, clear of thickets, stood an enormous black moose, its broad, branched antlers, about a meter and a half long each, turned threateningly towards the uninvited guest. Yurka froze in his tracks. It seemed the beast occupied the entire clearing, surpassing a tall man in height at the shoulders—it turned its muscular neck and stared at the scavenger with intelligent, brown, and for some reason, sad eyes, thoughtfully chewing the succulent grass for which it had wandered into this forest meadow. The staring contest lasted about five minutes, and the moose was the first to break. It snorted loudly and stomped a long leg, as if saying it wasn’t going to give up its dinner table to anyone, not even a man with a shotgun. Yurka slowly backed away. The shotgun, pressed against his chest, seemed like a small twig that would do this forest giant no harm. The moose watched its guest with a stern gaze, and as soon as he disappeared into the branches, resumed its interrupted meal.
Circumventing the meadow, Yurka with difficulty found the desired trail and, like a frightened rabbit, scurried along it. He only stopped after about five minutes. Breathing heavily, the boy looked back. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the gaze of the moose king was still boring into the back of his head.
From then on, Yurka walked cautiously and no longer rushed ahead thoughtlessly like a madman. One lesson from her majesty the taiga was enough, for instead of a peaceful moose, it could have been a wolf, or a cat, or even the master of the forest—a bear.
By the time the sun, painted as a bright spot on the thick clouds, was overhead, the boy finally emerged from the thicket onto a road marked on his map with the meaningless words “Chemal – Uozhan.” The old road, when he stumbled upon it, almost disappointed him—perhaps in old times it had a smooth surface, but time, neglect, and wild vegetation spreading with greedy force had utterly broken and shattered it. Nevertheless, for someone who had never seen asphalt before, it was a miracle. People once drove on it, hidden in iron machines. Yurka knew this; he had seen photographs of such machines at home, and on his scavenging trips with his uncle through abandoned villages, he had more than once come across rusty hulks on deflated rubber wheels. As if rejoicing, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, illuminating the road and painting the forest with bright colors. Yurka stood on the roadside, unsure which way to go. The path to the left was no better than the path to the right, and the old asphalt bore no tracks like those the medic left on the trail. Somewhere below, the river roared. Yurka crossed to the other side and peered into the ravine from which the sound of splashing water came. The river wasn’t wide, only about ten meters. A turbulent current rushed over wet stones at furious speed, disappearing around a bend. It was hard to imagine an island here where monks would live. All that was left was to walk along the river until it became wide enough. Yurka looked at the map again. The river, winding among the rocks, ran to the northwest, and a road accompanied its bank. Like two friends, one living and one fossilized, they disappeared beyond the edge of the map—what lay beyond, Yurka did not know. He had never ventured so far.
Walking along the stony road was physically easier, yet somehow more taxing: Yurka felt as exposed as a man naked in a bathhouse—open and defenseless. Constantly looking back and jumping at every sound from the forest, he had to force himself not to break into a run. Sometimes he would step to the edge of the cliff if an inconspicuous path seemed to lead that way, but he saw no more of the medic’s tracks. The river rushing below remained just as narrow, noisy, and fast. There wasn’t even a sign of an island. Well, there were tiny islets, of course, but only a single monk could fit on them, provided he made no sudden movements that might send him tumbling into the rapids.
But what weighed on Yurka most was a strange sensation, like a heavy burden resting on his shoulders. If the forest lived its own life and accepted the boy as part of itself, the road was dead. Perhaps that was what kept him from relaxing—he felt like an intruder upon it. A living man was not meant to be among the dead. More than once, he caught himself wanting to bolt back into the saving canopy of his native thickets. There, everything was clear: yes, you might be eaten, but your fate was in your own hands. But here… The houses standing by the road were just as lifeless, watching the lone traveler with the empty eye sockets of their windows. He reflexively quickened his pace, trying to outrun that dead stare.
Only once did Yurka veer from his path. Two identical rivers merged into one, forming a narrow peninsula. A turnoff led there from the main road—which the boy was thoroughly tired of—and a faded billboard, where the face of a blonde beauty could still be discerned, read: “Sunny Haven Resort.” Yurka couldn’t resist. His legs were already throbbing from the long journey, and the phrase “resort” amplified the exhaustion weighing him down.
A short path led him to a parking lot in front of a two-story building. The house itself was a ruin of ash: skeletons of crumbling brick walls with rusted iron roofing sheets fallen inward, eaten away like an old coat by moths. Yurka lingered near the ruins, looking hopefully at a couple of cars parked there, but their condition was little better than the resort’s, so he went on his way. His desire to rest vanished instantly. From then on, he ignored the beckoning billboards that appeared more and more frequently, passing them by and even picking up his pace. Along the road, he was now constantly met by old ruins where the forest was already reclaiming the territory once cleared by men.
Yurka felt he was approaching his goal. The flow of water to his left grew larger and deeper, until finally, the young scavenger reached the bank of a wide river into which the Chemal flowed. The day was already tilting toward sunset—Yurka hadn’t noticed it ending. The journey had swallowed the day like a hungry wolf, gulping it down before even tasting it. The high bank offered a magnificent view of the river: somewhere to the right, barely a kilometer away in the middle of the water, stood a rocky island where buildings could be seen. The monotonous, mournful tolling of a bell drifted across the surface of the water.
— I made it, — Yurka said aloud, not realizing he’d spoken.
As if someone on the island had heard him, a small boat appeared from behind the bushes. A black silhouette inside worked an oar skillfully, switching from side to side. The boy suddenly felt a prickle of anxiety; this approaching, silent monk, wrapped in a strange black shroud, looked far too unlike an ordinary person. But this was why he had come—to see the peculiar inhabitants of this secluded island hidden on the river. He began hopping down the rocks toward the water.
— Hello, — Yurka said politely to the stranger in the hood.
— And greetings to you, young man. — The monk peered out from the black fabric as if from a burrow. His thick gray beard and mustache twitched as if in a smile. — You aren’t the medic… and you don’t look like a stranger, either. Why have you come?
— For herbs. I was, uh… sent.
— Oh, you’re a healthy liar, boy! Lying is a sin. No matter, get in anyway; a sinner as great as you won’t sink the boat.
Yurka jumped from a rock into the flat-bottomed boat, nearly capsizing it, but the old man, used to handling his craft, easily steadied the tilt and pushed off from the shore with his oar. Waves lapped against the sides. The traveler huddled fearfully in the stern, not so much because of the unfamiliar movement over the water, but because of the monk’s gaze, which had become invisible once more. The shadow of the hood hid his face, leaving only the tip of his beard in the light. The strange clothes and words unsettled the boy.
— Why do you wear such a robe? — The long habit, belted with a rope, looked uncomfortable, but its owner didn’t complain; it was clear he was used to it.
— It’s warm, and what else does an old man need? I suppose I could put a windbreaker over it; the wind is always blowing on the river. Look under the bench, there’s one there. Put it on, or you’ll catch a cold. You were running, weren’t you?
Yurka, who had been sweating profusely, didn’t feel cold, but he didn’t want to wrap himself in someone else’s rags. He turned his head, watching the receding shore and the high island looming overhead like a dark giant. The remnants of a suspension bridge that once connected it to the world still jutted over the cliff like laundry piers. Yurka shivered. From the thickets on the island’s shore, the sad stone face of a woman holding an infant looked down at him. The boy shifted on the roughly hewn wooden seat.
— Do not fear, lad. Our Guardian will not harm you, — the monk said with a broad gesture, crossing himself toward the miraculous image emerging from the rock.
A wooden staircase with rope railings led upward from the pier. The monk climbed it with practiced ease—the steps creaked, and the wind pressed him against the rock as if supporting him to prevent a fall. Yurka froze, looking around with hungry curiosity.
— Why are you standing there? Come in, since you’re already here. — The old man was putting his fishing gear into a small shed. It seemed he had been just about to leave, which was why the boat had come so quickly after the bell signaled a person on the bank.
From the height, the view of the river and the forest opened up—endless, thick, and green. From here, the way back through it was impossible to discern. The enchanted Yurka had to be pulled away from the edge to finally face the skete. There they were, the herbs… Small garden beds were tufted with greens; he recognized carrots and beets, but the rest weren’t grown back home. Two figures in black robes stood in the garden, carefully pulling weeds. A wooden chapel, old and blackened by time, stood near the living quarters, glowing softly from within with candlelight and the glint of icon frames. The door was open, and an elder with a staff stood on the threshold.
— We have a guest, brothers. What is your name?
— Yurka… — the boy introduced himself hesitantly.
— Come in, Yuri, servant of God, to the refectory. We shall feed you whatever God has provided.
The food was hearty; a pile of roach fried in vegetable oil lay on a platter. But the scavenger hadn’t come for dinner, and it felt strange to sit at a table with these brothers in black robes. He hadn’t yet found the moment to state the true purpose of his journey. The elder, as ancient as the oak tree outside his community’s palisade, looked sternly from under bushy gray eyebrows.
— It is the wrong season for herbs. But take a small bag of chamomile with you regardless; it is good for poultices on wounds, and so as not to suffer from the stomach.
— Well, I… people say that you don’t just collect herbs, but stories too.
— They speak the truth. But for that, you must see the chronicler… Finish your meal, and you will be taken to him.
No one even wanted to hear the story of the fireball in the sky! Yurka didn’t understand it, but he had to follow the familiar monk-boatman into the far rooms. The scent of wax candles and oil lamps permeated everything: the walls, the furniture, and the inhabitants themselves, who called their home by a strange name—the Obitel (the Cloister). Perhaps it was only right; monks couldn’t live like everyone else. Icons of saints hung in the corners, looking at Yurka as if with reproach: Have you come on worthy business? Do you disturb the peace of the cloister for nothing?
The chronicler lived as if in a stone cave: a cellar had been carved into the rock, where the scavenger was led. There were so many books in the room that Yurka didn’t immediately notice the man among them. The monk was short but broad-shouldered, and seemed younger than the other brothers, though just as graying. His gaze reminded Yurka of the head elder—piercing and all-knowing. Would someone like this even need a fireball story? He probably wouldn’t even believe it. Having read so many books, he must already know everything in the world. And yet, Yurka began his tale.
The hermit’s face first darkened, then cleared, and he listened with a strange smile, as if he had already known about it yet had never seen such a miracle himself. He opened a large notebook and wrote something down with a pencil. Yurka exhaled with relief, having finally fulfilled his plan to the end.
— Why do you write it down?
— Do you know the word “obedience”? Not in the sense that you are quite disobedient yourself, by the looks of it. Did you come here without the permission of your elders? Don’t pretend, I can see it; otherwise, you would have come with the medic.
What strange people these monks were! Now the young scavenger saw that they were completely different, extraordinary in some way. Their herbs grew like nowhere else, and they lived on an island for some unknown reason.
— Why do you live so far away? It’s hard to reach you… You could live with us; it’s more convenient together.
— “You are not of the world, but I have chosen you out of the world…” Or to put it simply: be in the world, but not of it. Did you understand any of that?
— Nope, — Yurka shook his head.
— We deliberately withdrew from people, but not into exile—that is, not to be away from you, but to be closer to God. And if we find Him here, then so be it. It means He Himself willed it, and it is not for us to argue with Him…
— Is God closer to the island? Why is He hiding from people? — Vague concepts of religion learned in childhood stirred in his head, but his knowledge was clearly insufficient for theological debate. Especially since that wasn’t what Yurka wanted to talk about at all. It felt as though a game was being played with him, a test, and he had to see it through to the end. Like how he overcame his fear on the road, or how he decided to come here in the first place. It was terrifyingly interesting! He didn’t regret a single adventure; even this conversation with the hermit felt like part of it all.
— God is everywhere, but everyone has their own path to Him. As for the place… we didn’t choose it. He showed us the place Himself. Did you see the image of the Mother of God on the rock? Anyway, that’s not why you’re here. Thank you for the story. I didn’t know people had seen such a thing, and now the chronicle will preserve your words.
— You should come visit us too! Well, if you can, of course… — Yurka glanced at the ceiling, as if expecting guiding instructions from above to descend immediately.
— Perhaps we will, — the hermit smiled. — I haven’t been in the world for a long time. And I was once further from it than anyone else among the living.
His detached dark eyes seemed to swallow the light of the rushlights, and again it seemed the chronicler differed from the rest of the brotherhood—and not just because he was slightly younger. After the frail elder and the brisk old fisherman, this man more closely resembled the village hunters—strong and unbroken by the passing years, tempered and hardened by the forest like bog-oak.
— In the meantime, I’ll see you out. The elder has probably already gathered the herbs. And there will be food for the road. You’ll leave in the morning; you’ll spend the night with us. Who would let you into the forest at night?
The hermit stood up. Yurka’s gaze darted across the bookshelves. Taking advantage of his host’s preoccupation, he snatched a small notebook wedged between the books. Not to keep forever—he would definitely return it. In the morning. He had to stay the night anyway…
Brother Ioann—as the young scavenger now knew the old man with the boat was called—took away the rushlight, wishing him peaceful dreams and blessing him with the sign of the cross. Yurka settled by the small window and examined the cover of the notebook. It had some kind of picture on it: it looked like a globe, like the ones in school, and next to it was a strange thing that looked like either an unusual airplane or a weather vane made of grids, like the one installed on the roof of the village headman’s hut. Rather than guessing at the unknown, the boy opened the notebook carefully so as not to crease it. On the yellowed pages, things were written in ink, in the same clear, legible handwriting—easy to read, for the night was bright. The entries turned out to be quite short; evidently, they had once been marked with dates and headings, but those were now carefully crossed out and renamed…
Three days before the Day…
Finally, the station. How can I describe this sense of space after the cramped cabin of the Soyuz? It’s as if you were tied up and stuffed into a tiny crate, with two other fellow sufferers squeezed in beside you. Of course, later on, the ISS modules will feel like wide-open fields. It’s a good thing the docking followed the short six-hour, four-orbit program… I don’t understand how they used to fly for two or three days to rendezvous. I wouldn’t have made it. The short two-week program is far too packed, and the “hosts” give the rookies no peace. I never would have thought that hazing flourished in space. It’s understandable that they’re bored with the monotonous work after three months—but for us, and especially for me as a first-timer, everything is a wonder. Zero gravity turns ordinary movements into an intricate game, but what struck me most was the Earth. That enormous blue sphere, majestically turning beneath you… And though I like to think I’m educated on the gravity of celestial bodies, for some reason I find myself wanting to look for the string that this sphere hangs from. I never tire of looking at it. The Commander has already dragged me away from the porthole a couple of times. And yet he himself, despite always having mountains of work, would freeze, watching the white tufts of cyclones spin their carousel, while on the night side, restless people wove a glowing web of electric lights.
Two days before the Day…
Our tight-knit group now consists of three Russians, two Americans, and a Canadian. The old crew of two Americans was led by our Commander; the new expedition brought the Canadian. And although de jure he didn’t belong to the glorious United States, the astronauts immediately hauled him off to their module. What can you say: a “relative,” however distant. Even though we’ve been flying together for over ten years and speak practically in a mixed Russian-English, we never truly became friends. There were always secrets and things left unsaid. On those rare occasions when our cosmonauts managed to get into the American module, they—smiling sheepishly—would put their tablets with documents into the safe and cover the panels with some plastic clip-folders. On our Zarya, we have nothing to hide—look as much as you want. You won’t figure it out anyway. After the Great Union of United North Americans withdrew, the Commander laughed and told us how he had intentionally left a formula on the monitor with an indecent word plugged into it—using an X, a Y, and another Slavic letter quite incomprehensible to them. He laughed quietly as the astronaut, looking around like a spy, copied it onto his tablet. There’s almost no time for boredom, but in those rare moments, everyone amuses themselves as best they can.
One day before the Day…
The astronauts have locked themselves in their module. At first, it was amusing. The Commander said this happens to them when secret data comes in from their MCC. It’s a shame that when they have a connection, we are out of range, and we have to wait another fifteen minutes until we fly into our sector. The Canadian appeared once, looked at us as if we were lepers, and crawled back behind the airtight hatch of the Unity; we only heard the latches click. I have a persistent feeling they are being “friends against us.” When will our MCC respond? Finally… the call signs echo through the enclosed space of the module. The duty officer’s voice is anxious. He speaks of escalating global tensions, of a possible war. It’s clear the Americans have started moving—what’s a war without them? A finger in every pie, as they say. Fine, let them sit there; it’s quieter for us without them. Who knows, maybe they’ll start “Star Wars.” If they do, we’ll organize a local guerrilla war for them on an orbital scale, complete with combat sorties—we’re used to it.
The Day…
Flashes of white fire are visible even from here—tiny, like spots on a dark surface, resembling drops of whitewash on a wall. Then they darken, and the flames, as they cool, take on a red color—threatening, alarming—and then everything is blanketed by a black suspension. It rises up, completely hiding what is happening below. There are dark spots, so many of them… The blue surface is turning gray. I am trying to grasp what I am seeing, and I cannot.
Everyone is pressed against the portholes, not believing their own eyes. It is impossible to believe! This doesn’t happen! It shouldn’t be. Never. But I see it, and I still hope that I am having a nightmare. A hallucination isn’t collective, even in space. They don’t send people here who are capable of seeing things that don’t exist in reality.
Smoke and dust spread out, encircling the Earth—or is it the rotation creating this effect? She tries to shake it off, to rid herself of it, but the gloom envelops the planet in almost even bands. We can still see gaps—nuclear mushrooms don’t grow on peaceful lands. But I fear the blue sphere below will soon turn completely gray. Only the poles are clean and white, as they were before us. And as they will remain after. All right, the jokes are over.
This was Day One. The first day…
Day Two…
Not long ago, it seemed our eyes were deceiving us, but now our hearing confirms it: we are alone. Silence on the airwaves; the Center is silent. No one answers our queries. If there are survivors left below, they cannot help us. They themselves are calling out to the heavens for help right now… and here, there is only us, even more helpless and lost.
The American module has opened its doors. They too want to be near other people; it is so terrifying to be left alone in the middle of infinite, black, cold space. We all share the same burden now. And we do not know who is to blame. What does it matter now, when there is nothing left below but smoke and dust? Houston Control shows no signs of life either. We are in the same boat—perhaps together it will be easier to come up with something. The Commander glanced at the holster on the American’s belt and pointedly placed his own Makarov back into the emergency kit. We have little time as it is; there is no need to speed up the process. Unlike those who died below, where death came unexpectedly, we know exactly the day and hour when the station’s resources will run out. The onboard computer is a reliable prophet. First the water will dry up and the food will run out—there’s only enough for a couple of months—then the air, or rather the oxygen and the regeneration cartridges, and finally the fuel. Without fuel, the station will be unable to correct its orbit; it will start to lose altitude, and in a couple of years, whatever doesn’t burn up will crash onto a void earth, forming yet another crater on the surface. It is a good thing we won’t be around to see it.
Day Three…
The experiments haven’t been shut down yet—probably to give the crew the illusion of a goal. But the Commander underestimates us. I don’t know if it’s “healthy” laughter when they start calculating the caloric value of the protein in the laboratory animals and plants. In any case, people haven’t lost heart if they are still capable of joking.
I am not writing anything down on paper; I’m just trying to organize the important thoughts in my own head. Only the most important ones.
Day Four…
It seems to us that there must be survivors left below. Surely there are wild places they never even intended to bomb. Man does not yet know how to destroy entire planets.
A gray shroud has covered the Earth. If lights are still shining anywhere, they are no longer visible from here. The airwaves are silent… on all frequencies, there is nothing but the crackle of white noise. Truly, if you listen to it long enough, you begin to hear the voices of a dead world. To keep from going insane, we take turns at the radio station.
Day No…
I know what day it is, but I’m tired of counting them. They say that sometimes counting becomes an obsession. We look for signs of abnormality in ourselves and others; everyone fears the clever syndromes the doctors on Earth used to scare us with. Но aside from homesickness, which we all share, we feel nothing. And that is not a pathology—it would be strange if we didn’t feel it.
I know the onboard computer is capable of calculating landing parameters; we can do it ourselves, though no one ever thought it would actually be necessary. For that, the almighty Center existed. No one doubts the necessity of it, but we cannot choose a location. Some want to be closer to home, while others search for “clean” land. To start everything over? Is that even possible? Is it worth landing near a major city where radiation levels are off the charts? Or is it better to land in the deserted taiga, where it is now winter in the middle of the calendar summer? We have many questions, and we don’t know how to solve them. The onboard computer is no help to us here. It was not designed for such tasks.
I’ll name it after all. Day Twenty-Seven.
I haven’t written anything for a long time. It’s hard to convey what we’ve been through. But after all the arguments, our crews decided to part ways. Each on their own path… We have three ships: two Soyuzes and the American Dragon. The cargo Dragon isn’t designed for crew rescue, so we loaded it with everything of value—documents, experiment results, station blueprints. This may never be needed by anyone, but it contains our life’s work. Having calculated the orbit, we decided to land it in Antarctica, so that descendants—opening the capsule years or perhaps centuries from now—might appreciate the scale of our stupidity: that having reached such heights, we destroyed everything to the foundation with our own hands. The remaining equipment was split equally between the ships. We don’t know where the Americans are heading—they hid their landing coordinates; to be honest, we don’t care. Shaking hands and saying our goodbyes, we floated off to our respective docking ports. We calculated a landing in the Altai region—it seems no explosions were observed in that area, and if there are survivors anywhere, it will be in such remote places.
The Soyuz undocked from the ISS. On the opposite side of the station, the Americans’ second Soyuz was pulling away. In my mind, I wished them luck. What do we have to fight over? We aren’t enemies now—we’re victims. Every survivor has their right to luck, wherever they may be.
Second Day on Earth
Already the second… on the first day, there was so much to do that there was simply no time to sit down and make a record. The automatic landing system worked perfectly, and we descended as if onto a soft cushion. The landing spot we chose was quite successful. The valley between high mountain ranges was preserved as if there had been no nuclear strikes across the planet. A small but swift mountain river provided us with drinking water, and our food supplies should last for another week. But that, perhaps, is all the good news.
The place is absolutely deserted, and we need help more than ever. The Commander is in a very bad way—almost half a year in orbit, despite diligent training, has taken a toll on his health. He requires a long rehabilitation program in high-tech medical centers, and all we have for amenities is a parachute tent and a first-aid kit. We are not much better off—the flight engineer and I barely managed to pull him out of the descent module, after which we spent an hour hugging our native planet, unable to stand on our feet.
Now we have a campfire and a tent where the Commander lies on a pile of spruce branches. I’m no medic, but I think he has a fever. When we were pulling him from the ship, we couldn’t hold him, and he fell… Cosmic osteoporosis, damn it. I think he broke his hip… He’s breathing very heavily, maybe ribs too… Vladimir, our flight engineer, took the pistol and went downstream the river to look for people, while I stayed with the Commander.
Third Day on Earth
Vladimir has been gone for over a day now. I launched signal flares, but they are unlikely to rise above the surrounding mountains. After another flare, the Commander suddenly stirred behind my back, scaring me half to death.
— Go, Yurka, don’t sit with me. It’s over for me; I won’t make it.
For the last few hours, he had only been moaning, unconscious, and now… I turned around in surprise and met his meaningful, feverish gaze. No, I wasn’t going to leave. I had to wait for Vladimir; not much time had passed, and he couldn’t have abandoned us.
Fourth Day on Earth
The Commander fell back into unconsciousness. I, on the other hand, grew stronger each day. I no longer felt like a helpless infant. There wasn’t much to do: gather firewood and keep the fire going; it wasn’t hard work. I think the antibiotics are doing their job. The Commander started breathing steadily, and his fever subsided. Though he hadn’t regained consciousness since that moment he scared me. Vladimir is still not back. He should have returned by now—with help or without…
Fifth Day on Earth
The Commander died! I missed the moment. I must have fallen asleep by the fire, and when I approached him, he was no longer breathing. Now, nothing holds me in this valley. I buried him in his spacesuit. It took some effort to pull the Sokol suit onto the dead body, but I believe he deserves it. That’s it; I have fulfilled my duty. I am leaving this cozy corner that became a tomb for my Commander. Someday I will return here. Someday…
Eighth Day on Earth
I found Vladimir. What was left of him. A torn, bloody jumpsuit with our crew’s emblems, shapeless chunks of meat, and a ripped backpack. I hope he fell from a height, and only then did wild animals tear at his dead body. There was nothing left to bury. My supplies were replenished with a pistol and a small amount of ammunition. Thank you, Volodya, for your last gift. So, I am left alone. The last one to have seen the promised heavens.
…
I don’t know how much time has passed. Judging by my overgrown stubble, more than a month. I found my way to people! By all rights, I should have perished in the mountains: fallen into an abyss, been eaten by predators, but I made it out. I must have been delirious, because I don’t remember how I ended up here. Around me are people dressed in black chiton-like robes. Monk Eremey explained to me that I am in a monastery on Patmos Island. They found me in the forest, exhausted, at my last breath. Perhaps this is atonement—to descend from the heavens only to find myself in a monastery.
The pages that followed were blank, untouched by ink. Yurka realized that the chronicle was far from over; it simply continued in thick journals like the one he had seen before the hermit. And so, the man had remained far from the world on this holy little island—as remote and unreachable as a spacecraft—where people in total seclusion still performed work essential to all mankind, growing medicinal herbs and asking the Lord to bless all those who had survived. Not every word in the diary was familiar, but even a boy born in the depths of the taiga understood almost everything, in his own way.
Carefully closing the notebook, Yurka looked out the window. A nearly full moon shone there, illuminating the jagged silhouette of the forest and the mountains. Now he knew where the true “promised heavens” were: far, far away in the black void where the Earth looks small and the Moon large; the place man had always reached for, and where, with God’s help, the International Space Station had been able to spread its silvery wings of solar panels. And if someone has been there, they will inevitably want to go back. You only have to want it enough… and one day, you might even fly to the heavens!