About People of Glass and Stone Sergey Gerasimov
Now his main concern was to find water. He knew he couldn’t survive long without water. Once he saw a heavy cloud with gray, swollen teats hanging down from its belly, but it soon dissipated without rain. In early mornings, when the air was icy cold, columns of fog walked between tree trunks. But still, the forest around him was as dry as tinder. Vlas felt at home in the forest. So many years had passed, but city streets still felt foreign to him. Born in a taiga village, nursed by the taiga, he was in love with its mysterious twilight; he loved its echoless silence and the comforting crunch of pine needles underfoot. Being here, in the world of towering pines, he felt peace and tranquility as if he had found his real home at last. But now, he had to do something about water. When it got dark, he used a trick his father had taught him once: he raised his head to the sky and howled, imitating the wolf’s call. He listened, and listened, and listened. The air was quiet, without a hint of breeze. Then somewhere, very far away, at the edge of hearing, a dog’s barking answered him. Dogs meant people. Probably it was a remote settlement of Tunguses. Or, who knows, a labor camp zone, surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by shepherd dogs. Searchlights. Guards with tommy guns, sitting in their nests like black storks. Sleeping and dying people who mumble and wheeze on their wooden bunks, with paralyzing fear in their skulls instead of dreams. Tilting his head back, he imitated another long howl and waited again. No, the barking he heard wasn’t the voice of brainless shepherd dogs guarding a camp. Only watchdogs could bark like that. They guarded a house and the kind, peaceful people who lived in it. At least, it was what he wished to believe. 12
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