‘We had a very strong grandfather who lived right here, in this clearing. His name was Porpey Ira. Do you know what that means?’

‘No, what?’

‘Man of the spirits,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘Do you realise who he was?’

‘A tetypy, a shaman.’

‘Yes,’ she said, nodding.

At the head of the bed lay a rolled-up checked blanket. She reached for it and covered herself up to the neck, making herself invisible.

‘In the local forests they feared him like the plague. Worse! That’s why they gave him a nickname. Do you know what it was?’

‘Pyungeze – the Giant,’ I guessed.

She was amazed.

‘He said he was immortal. He could stick a knife in his own chest and go on laughing and talking.’

‘But he died?’

‘Yes.’ She hesitated, as if she’d wanted to add something but thought better of it.

‘Those were his things? The items you took to the museum ten years ago?’ I asked quietly. Matriona exploded.

‘Awful things! Complete shit! What the hell? You saw for yourself what junk it was! A chipped cup, a leaky saucepan, some torn rags and some beads. And a piece of wire. All in a moulding old bag hanging by…’

‘By his grave?’

‘Where else?! No drum, no costume, nothing. Do you know what a hard time I had persuading that stupid woman in charge of the cultural department that those things had any value? That they were sacred? Unique items! Only my brother knew where it was. Over there, in the gully.’

She waved towards the window.

‘He took us there. Afterwards he regretted it.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

She turned her head away.

‘There weren’t even any figurines. Like your ones. Or any other devils. Nothing. And you’re asking me what those figurines of yours are? I’ll tell you now, officially: fuck knows! Did you really think you’d learn that from me? I don’t know, I’m a nurse by training. What did you expect? Did you think I was omniscient? Man, look around you, we don’t know that sort of thing anymore. We’re civilised people. I studied in Saint Petersburg! They taught us how to recognise spies there.’ […]

‘We haven’t any water. I’ll go and get some,’ I said, and grabbed a bucket.

Snow was getting into the vestibule through gaps between the boards, covering everything in there in a coat of white dust. I pushed the warped door. Outside there was far more of it. I felt as if I had crossed into another room, just a bigger one. Dense but fine snow was falling. The torchlight softly dissolved among the snowflakes and was gone without encountering any obstacles. I couldn’t see a thing, just a black void whichever way I looked. No sign of our arrival here. No marks left by sledges, caterpillar tracks or anything you could follow to get out of here. And not get lost.

This could be useful advice for anyone: before you bid farewell to someone who has spent the past two days driving you across the forest by snow scooter, make sure of two things: first of all that the householder you’ve come to visit is at home, and secondly that the person who took you there will be back to fetch you in a couple of days’ time. Otherwise he goes off, thinking everything’s all right. The whole world will think everything’s all right, and no one will look for you.

I bent down to pick up an axe resting against a chopping block. It was rusty, with a broken handle. A piece of trash. I was led to the stream hidden behind a clump of bushes by pure instinct and the memory of a well-trodden path I had noticed just after arriving. The stream ran at the bottom of a shallow dip, now covered, like everything else, by a shapeless coating of snow and ice. But in the middle was a blowhole. Frozen over. When was the last time anyone had fetched water here? Three, four or five days ago? I whacked the ice with the axe head, cursing aloud, until there was a splash of black water. As I filled the bucket, I felt uneasy; now and then I looked up, as if afraid that at any moment somebody would loom over me and ask: ‘Who gave you permission to drink from my stream? Hand over your soul in exchange!’ or something of the kind. But there was no one. Even so, I wanted to be indoors right now, as if the tumbledown shack with the crooked door was sure to guarantee me protection. At least it would shield me from the snow and the cold. And that was something.

Translated by Antonia Lloyd-Jones