Ismayil Shikhli

The Golden Snake

That night he again thrashed about in his bed as if he was drowning, felt that something cold had wound around his ankle, then revolving, it went up turning into a knot. It slithered on its back and chest, twining around his body and pressing it, then fell onto his neck like a claw. He tried hard but couldn't get away, the coldness twinning around his neck cut off his breath. When he held out his hand his wrist became numb. He thrashed around, trying to escape from the cold clammy feeling and tossed in his bed with anxiety. Suddenly he opened his eyes and looked up at the ceiling and then out of the window. After the horror of the dream had passed, he realized that he was in his bedroom in his house. He touched his forehead with his hands. It was damp with sweat. His body was dripping with perspiration. The blanket over him had weighed heavy on his chest like a heavy stone. Pressing the button he switched on the light. Pushed away the blanket and gazed out in deep thought. The coldness of the snake that had twined around his body had still not left his soul. He thought that the snake had slipped off the bed and was hiding under it. It will return as soon as the light is switched off he thought. He put on his slippers and went into the corridor with the window. He noticed the nursery which was illuminated by a faint light that fell in through the room window. In the light he saw that one of the boys was sleeping on his stomach, well tucked in his blanket in the middle of his bed. But the other boy had his knees bent up to his stomach, and was sleeping just the way he had gone to bed the evening before. He stood there, gazed at his children with envy but without ill will. He knew that if nobody woke them up they would sleep like this till the afternoon. He went to his workroom and felt a little better. First he opened the window and noticed the city lights were switched off and that the weather was clear. The waves of the sea were sparkling. The lighthouse beacon near Nargin was twinkling as usual. The trees along the shore were still having their forty winks as nothing broke the silence of the night besides a slight murmur of the early morning traffic speeding along the road ...

He used to dream in his childhood and the dreams of those days were not like the ones he had now. He dreamt of either flying off the endless cliffs, floating on the water like a liquorice root, or chases deer on horseback, or flies among the clouds in the claws of an eagle, or dive down into noisy and fast running water. Perhaps it was a call of his forefathers that took him to the past – a period they used to live in caves. He wasn't sure but realized one thing - that these dreams were different. They took him back not to the distant past but to more recent times like yesterday, the day before yesterday and so on.

He would return to the village from the city to visit his old father and mother for a few days, but couldn't return to the city. He noticed that his father was exhausted and though he was of small stature before he had now turned into a wreck shrinking even smaller than before. The light in his eyes had become fainter, his clothes were worn out and threadbare. Having leaned on his elbows on a mutakka1 he had to rest on the bed in a hot room, to play with his grandchildren and bid his sister-in-law. His mother too had become weaker. Though she tied a woolen shawl around her stomach up to the shoulders to keep warm, she couldn't get rid of the cold in her chest. Both his parents could live somehow in spring-summer time, but they had great difficulties in the winter when even the wood for the stove was not available at times. The ground floor of the house was cold as its window had been covered with newspaper instead of glass. He saw all these things which caused him great anxiety and mental anguish. He wanted to take them to the city with him, to take care of them so in their old age they could eat their son's bread. But he had nowhere to take them to. It had become hard to live in these times in a permanent dwelling as he was still living in hotels and rented homes.

On leaving the army he wanted to return to his village to work near his parent's home so as to take care of them, and to look after the land they owned. However, his father didn't agree: "I have lived my life badly or well, and will end my life somehow, but you don't have to stay here. Go and finish your school, I have confidence in you. You are my only son – the apple of my eye. And I know that if you will continue your education you will be successful. Our time was different. We worked for the people but didn't think of our own future".

His own mother had encouraged him to leave the village and so he thought he would live permanently in the city, build a house there and bring his father and mother to live with him. He never thought that the years would pass so quickly and that his wishes would be unfulfilled.

When the son's dreams made him return to the village, he observed the deteriorating condition of the raw brick houses and worried that they could easily collapse after heavy rains. It was quite possible in this remote location that his old parent's house could be swept away due to torrential rain and no one would know the better. He trembled with fear of these confused thoughts and felt guilty that he moved to the city leaving them alone at home.

If you want to make a better life for yourself, you must walk in bare feet like your parents and not forget that how they had suffered while bringing you up. They worked until exhaustion, they kept you warm in the winter when there was no fire to heat the house and the blankets were too thin. They gave you their own food to eat, even though they themselves went hungry, and even now they were ready to make sacrifices for you so that you may be safe and successful. They were prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice for you.

With such thoughts rushing through his mind, he wanted to remain in the village and to forsake his life and job in the city. He would take a teaching job locally and be on hand to help his aged parents in their time of need. However, his parents rejected this idea and persuaded him to return to the city. The return to the city did not make him feel good and his dreams reminded him of this discomfort and the urge to return to his home in the village.

He came to the village as his mother's illness had become complicated. He imagined before buying a ticket for the train and leaving the city. That his mother was crying by herself while patching up old clothes. She was in mourning; she used to do that after her brothers in the Army were killed in the war. She was either crying looking at the photos she kept in the chest or sobbing bitterly having remembered something else. She used to love her brothers very much. Perhaps just the pain and longing for the brothers made her sick and not recover.

When he entered the house, he saw his mother was lying in her bed which was next to the window. The weather was gloomy with drizzling rain which made the golden autumn leaves sparkle. The tracks through the yellow soil had become slippery. People visiting their neighbors along the fences took their shoes off. Children would take the veal calves to the village centre; it appeared as though their mothers' didn't take care of them.

His mother was gazing at the crow's nest in the bare branches of the tree now devoid of leaves. His father who was adding wood to the stove to keep the house warm remained silent. He didn't want to disturb his mother while she was deep in thought. Her lips quivered and her jaw trembled; she was crying inconsolably with tears running down her cheeks. Perhaps his mother felt the gloominess outside. She looked over at him and wanted to get up to hug her son whom she had not seen for some time but reluctantly hesitated. God knows what she was thinking about but a ray of optimism shone in her face, the sadness disappeared and her expression livened up.

"My darling! How nice of you to have remembered us. I was thinking about you with all my heart for some days and was afraid my desire may not be fulfilled to see you before I passed away", "Your illness is not so life threatening?" – interrupted the son.

"That may be so, but I 'am not sure. I have thousands of thoughts in my head and it is a frail world we live in."

The lady fell silent. She took her turbid eyes from her son and looked outside. She turned to lie on her side; perhaps she did not want her son to see her tears. And stared out of the window at the hoard of crows perched on the bare branches of the trees.

He slept near his mother that night, and didn't let the fire go out. He checked regularly to ensure the blanket covering her was in place and that she was comfortable. At times he checked her temperature by putting his hand on her forehead. She felt alright but her breathing was difficult. Then he looked at his father who had fallen asleep resting his head on the table.

Mother and son did not sleep well that night. They were watching out for each other, keeping an eye on their breathing. The boy wanted his mother to fall asleep but the mother was also worried. Sometimes he fell into a light slumber and saw that his mother was stroking his hair. He said nothing; then his mother fell asleep having taken a deep breath. It was getting lighter outside, revealing it was a gloomy, misty morning with a light drizzle.

Next day his mother felt a little better and even wanted to cook something for her son when he got up. But they didn't let her. Her son corrected the pillow for her, and covered the blanket over her. The woman turned round and looked out of the window and looked at his son's face. Her pale lips moved slowly.

"I want an apple, if there were any for me to eat."

Her son got up immediately. When he was about to go out of the door his father said, "Where are you going, my son?"

"I want to see if anyone has any apples."

"My son, don't worry, nobody has any apples." His son looked at him surprised. The man could understand the question in the boy's eyes. "My dear, we don't harvest fruits in our gardens any more ..."

They remained silent. The boy went out. He pulled up the collar of his waistcoat and looked at the bare plane tree. The crows were cawing together perched on the branches near their nests. Ensuring he wasn't followed by his father he went to the back of the house and lit a cigarette. Really there were very strange laws enforced locally which either reduced the excess land allocated after measuring the size of the gardens or instructed the people to keep cattle or imposed taxes on every fruit tree. He remembered about some gardens with so many fruit trees that it was impossible to see from one side to the other. One could enjoy the fragrance of the flowers of the fruit trees. The flowers on the branches protruding over the fence were fallen on the road. With their bags in their hands the children were walking to school over the flowers strewn under their feet and under the branches that were like an umbrella over their head. The fruit from this village was very famous. The pears and apples from these parts were most famous all over the country. However with increasing taxation on ownership of fruit trees, the trees were cut down and a lot more were lost due to neglect during the war.

He finished smoking and looked at the branches of the non fruiting trees. He put up the collar of his waistcoat a little more and not paying attention to the rustling of the wet autumn leaves, he walked towards the village road. He searched for fruit until evening, then went to the center of the village and also to the railway station but couldn't find anything. At last he came back home empty handed.

He set off back for Baku in two days having had permission to come for fifteen days. It was written 'not permitted' on his application as he had to finish his lessons. He had no other way out. He went to the market. He went there a lot, haggled with the shop keepers in the city and bought apples for his mother. He chose different apples for his mother to eat with great pleasure and to eat as much as she wanted. He wanted to take them himself and give them to his mother with his own hands, but he had no other way than to send it through the post. Having put the apples into a wooden box they nailed its lid and having tied up with a rope sent it by post.

One day there was a knock on the door of the classroom where he was attending a lesson. He was given a telegram; he was called back to the village. He wanted to set off that night, but he didn't have the fare. There were five days for him to get his salary. Next day, having borrowed some money he bought a ticket for the train. He didn't sleep but stood by the window all night. He was reproaching himself that he had in vain returned to the city leaving his ill mother in the village.

It was drizzling. It rained on the yellowed grass and the wormwood bushes along the road. He walked to their house. When he saw a lock on the door he realized that his mother wasn't alive. It appeared that they had buried his mother before he arrived. One ought to know what conscience is. People of the village used to bury dead people quickly on the same day without waiting for any family; this was quite painful for some people.

He went straight towards the cemetery down the village not wanting to go home. He walked on the newly treed grass and saw the dark grave that was farthest away where his father was sitting in the drizzle and fog. His father appeared stupefied as he didn't even move when his son approached and sat next to him. His father was sitting staring at the grave with its earth still not flattened.

Then suddenly he began to cry, meekly and piteously for his father's loss but not for him losing his mother. He cried resting his head on his father's knee. He cried out loud like when he was a child but calmed down when he felt his father's shaking hands caressing his hair.

He didn't want to go back to the house. There was no desire that attracted him home. If there wasn't anything that would trouble him he would stay there and protect the grave. They sat there till late at night. Son and father both smoothed the grave and cleaned around it. It became horrible in the cemetery when one couldn't see anything. The boy wanted to take his father's arm to move him but he didn't move. He heard his trembling voice:

"I wonder. Is it true?"

"What?"

"That a snake eats the eyes of the dead. It is said that when a dead person is buried a snake comes and eats his or her eyes."

The boy became horror-struck. His hair stood on end. There was such pain in his heart that it felt like it was frozen. He couldn't say a word because he was sad.

His father lifted himself by the support of his elbows. He then turned around from the grave and looked about in the darkness.

"I'm waiting since the morning and haven't even seen a bird. I would have seen one if it had come."

His son moved slowly form the grave. He was afraid that, if they stayed in that place a little longer, his father could become deranged. They went further away. His father stopped and looked at the dark cemetery.

"Go home and I'll come later. I cannot leave her alone. If the snakes know that there is no one around, they will come and take her eyes."

They slept in the same bed that night. He lay next to his father and warmed him with his body. And so they waited for the seventh day after his mother's passing. With the help of their neighbors they laid a meager and simple table. Five to ten people gathered in their house. At that moment the village postman came with a wooden box tucked under his arm. He brought the apples. The apples he had sent for his mother had just arrived. This time he didn't go to Baku alone but took his father with him.

They lived together in the little flat he had rented. He took care of his father. He took him to the bathroom, put his clothes in order, went for walks together in the evening with his father and tried to entertain him. But he felt that his father wasn't satisfied, he had a yearning in his heart, a yearning for his wife he loved for more than fifty years, yearning for his wife he had lived with, the lady who had taken him under her protection in his bad days, yearning of his country, his village. He was sad that after his father retired on a pension he used to go to the school, sit in the children's classroom, play with the children during the break and come back with them in the evening. It seems only these things kept him alive. He was flapping like a bird in the city, looking out of the window, and dreaming about mountains, the lowlands when his son was at work.