Act XV, Hyperpolia (Part 7)

seven

Yakov found a stick in the woods, flattened the end with a knife, made a simple little shovel, and handed it to Yubi. "Dig here." He found a patch of soft soil by the river and pointed it out to Yubi. "At this time of year, the *** will burrow into the ground to hibernate."

"Really?" Yubi looked up at him. "How deep? Should we dig deep or shallow?"

“Your sense of weight is different from mine.” Yakov patted his fur hat. “Just dig.”

Yubi made up his mind, plunged the shovel head deep into the mud, and then flipped it up again—"There really are some!" he exclaimed in surprise, reaching out to grab them and putting them in his pocket, "And there's more than one!"

Soon, the former nobleman's hands were covered in river mud and slime, his fingernails filthy. Yakov had worried that he would suffer from the cold, or be disgusted by his appearance, but seeing his happy, childlike expression, he felt relieved and didn't say anything. "I've finished teaching him. Go find ten yourself," Yakov said, crossing his arms. "I'm going to do my own thing."

Yubi had already dug several more shovelfuls along the riverbank. "Go ahead!" he said without even turning his head.

Before Yakov had even reached the old mill, he heard Grikly rushing towards him, shouting. "I've got an idea!" the farmer yelled. "You said you wanted the steam to stay in the house longer, and I've got it!"

Yakov was pulled by him to the edge of the pit where the river mud was being stirred. Grikry picked up a stalk of grass and drew a maze-like pattern on the mud. "Look," he said, "we build walls in the stove, then make a hole to let the smoke through, give the smoke a path, and the bed will be warm, and the smoke will go away, right?" Grikry gestured for the spikes of foxtail grass to move along the winding path, then pointed to the smoke hole Yakov had made in the cabin the day before. "We'll build walls here, here, and there, horizontally. If we build several layers, the fire won't just roast us alive. Right?"

The pattern vaguely reminded Yakov of the Greek sewers and Saracen manholes—he had never been a craftsman and knew nothing about this, so he couldn't understand it. "...Maybe it'll work, give it a try." He went into the house, grabbed an axe and rope, and carried them with him. "Can you do this yourself?"

“It’s possible, but it will take several days.” Grikley stared in surprise as he walked back into the forest. “Aren’t you going to lend a hand?”

"Do a good job." Yakov waved his hand. "I'm going to hunt some rewards for you. I won't be back today."

When he returned to the swamp, Yubi was no longer there. Yakov thought that he must have already caught all ten lobsters and rushed back to the warm Chud hut. That was a good thing, as it allowed him to concentrate fully on being a proper hunter.

Yakov paced around, found a secluded muddy slope, covered himself with wild grass, and wrapped the soles of his shoes in moss. His view was just right to take in the entire open body of water, waiting for the precious beavers to surface again.

It was bitterly cold all around, the long hibernation making the chill even more intense. Yakov waited until dusk, when a thin layer of frost settled on his wool cloak. As he examined the surroundings, he counted in his palm: there were four beavers living there, a male and a female, and two cubs. They were thrashing about on the thawing water, their paws clutching their bellies, repairing a sturdy dam further north, blocking the stream—clearly, this was how the swamp came to be. This way, the river could flood the semi-circular nest within, blocking the two exits with water, allowing only the beavers themselves to swim freely.

Beavers are intelligent animals that are difficult to hunt. Yakov had never hunted one, but he had heard of their wisdom—though it couldn't be any smarter than a human's. Yakov noted the slopes they liked to take when entering the water, and made a loop of string around his neck. Under the cover of night, he draped the knot over a stick and placed it where they would inevitably enter their nests. Then, Yakov swaggered to the intricate dike, chopped a large hole in it with an axe, and let the swamp water gush out.

The hunter returned to his usual hiding place and waited relatively leisurely. As he expected, the collapsed dam had indeed annoyed the agile little creatures. They had to carry grass and twigs to work there throughout the night, repeatedly traversing the ramp leading into the water. Yakov, by the moonlight, kept a close eye on the traps along the path. It was too dark for him to see clearly; he could only catch glimpses of their darting shadows.

After an unknown amount of time, he was pleasantly surprised to hear struggling and growling sounds coming from the trap. It seemed that it wasn't that beavers were difficult to hunt, but rather that most hunters were simply incompetent. Yakov thought arrogantly to himself, and lit a torch to check on the trap.

He was shocked to discover that his trap had been too small; he had only caught a cub. Its parents stood nearby, confronting him, their long yellow teeth poised to bite off his fingers.

"These beasts are huge!" Yakov had thought beavers were not much different from large water rats, but the two before him were practically wild boars. He nervously tried several times to untangle the snare, almost succeeding once. Just as he was about to check whether the baby beaver was male or female, and how big its genitals were, its parents grabbed his boots with their long teeth and dragged him into the water—the muddy ground was slippery and difficult to traverse, and Yakov immediately fell into the unknown depths of the swamp. The icy water soaked through his clothes and reached up to his face.

In the murky haze, Yakov had to reach for his knife at his waist and stab the smooth fur. By the time he scrambled out of the swamp, soaked to the bone and dragging his wet clothes, the little beaver he'd been holding had escaped, and his carefully laid trap was torn to shreds. Yakov raised his hand: several bloody teeth marks from the long fangs were swollen and red. The icy river water still made his fingers tremble uncontrollably.

Hunting, that delicate thing, proved more difficult and complex than wrestling with a man. Yakov, his teeth chattering, took off his clothes, pulled out his flint, and immediately started a fire, piling up firewood. The campfire was finally lit, keeping his hands, feet, and mind from freezing. While warming himself by the fire, Yakov recalled the risk of hypothermia with lingering fear. But his work wasn't finished; he couldn't give up halfway. So the hunter pulled out some damp rye bread from his pocket, dried it over the fire, and ate it again—it had acquired a strange, astringent taste and was now inedible.

As he watched the smoke rising from the campfire, he thought of the dark ceiling of the old mill and had a second idea.

Yakov went around to the riverbank overgrown with water plants, grabbed a large handful of cattails, and carried them back to the camp. He then returned to the forest, found some willow trees, and cut off several long, straight, tender branches. Next, Yakov cut off the tops of each cattail, let the stems dry by the fire, and then used a knife to cut off the tops of the willow branches, skillfully extracting the entire inner core from the bark. After repeating this process several times, he obtained several hollow tubes and many flexible cattail stems.

By the firelight, Yakov wrapped cattail stems around bark poles, tied them tightly together with rope, bundled them into a single tube, sealed the ends with mud, and baked them over the fire until half-dry—a sturdy, lightweight, waterproof tube was thus made. He tried sinking the tube into the swamp, lit the cattail tip, and pushed the smoke into it: bubbles immediately rose to the surface, their white light shimmering in the biting wind.

Yakov moved his stiff fingers and immediately moved the pipe to the underwater exit of the beaver's den. Then, he drew his longsword and stood guard at the other exit.

A short while later, thick black smoke billowed from the top of the nest in the middle of the swamp, like a broken furnace in an old mill. Yakov couldn't help but laugh at the smoke. These animals were actually suffering from human smoke one day! He saw tiny bubbles beginning to appear on the water's surface, one by one approaching his feet, and his sword almost trembled with excitement—but the bubbles disappeared before reaching the shore. Yakov didn't see a single beaver.

Suddenly, something bit down hard on Yakov's wool cloak from behind. Could this den have more than two exits? Startled, Yakov grabbed the cloak and yanked it forward. Using his strength, he flung the heavy, fat beaver forward, sending it thrashing about on the muddy, icy ground. A perfect opportunity! Ignoring the ripped cloak, Yakov seized the moment, intending only to plunge his sword deep into the beaver's neck—though he wasn't entirely sure where the neck was, and was worried about damaging its precious fur—the sharp blade nearly slipped past the thick fur, embedding itself in the flesh, drawing no blood despite his efforts. The powerful, fin-like tail slammed against the blade, and before Yakov could react, the beaver he had just captured darted into the water like a slippery eel, disappearing without a trace.

Back by the campfire, Yakov angrily threw the sword to the ground. He should have traded it for a spear, a bow and arrows, or even a net and a grappling hook—that would have been much more practical. This mighty sword, Zashchtytnikov, could kill vampires, help him win duels in the Roman Colosseum, and aid him in slaying enemies on dusty battlefields; but when it came to settling down and living a peaceful life, there was nothing more useless than this killing weapon.

Just as he was looking down dejectedly at the flames, the sound of flapping wings rang out above his head. "Why didn't you sleep in the house tonight? Why did you have to spend the night in the wild?" Yubi landed beside him in surprise, looking at his messy wounds. "I searched for you for ages before I found you."

"We'll need to hunt something to buy food this winter," Yakov said, secretly hiding the beaver bite mark in his palm. "You don't need to worry about it."

But none of his little movements escaped Yubi's eyes—in the blink of an eye, the vampire had healed all his wounds completely. "Even I know beavers are hard to hunt," Yubi said, leaning closer to him. "It's dark, but I can fly and find it. I'm not afraid of the cold, I'm not afraid of pain, and I'm not afraid of it biting me. I'll go catch one for you now."

“How can I be so useless that I can’t even hunt as well as you?” Yakov said helplessly, pushing him away. “It just takes a little more effort, but I can still catch one.”

“Okay, I just wanted to put your mind at ease. And…” Yubi sat down by the fire and suddenly pulled out two grains of grain for him. “Help me take a look. Which of these two is oatmeal, and which is rye?”

Yakov glanced at him and smiled. "You can't even tell the difference between oats and rye." He pointed to Yubi's palm and explained, "Oats are more yellow, and rye is darker. If you're unsure, just feel it. Oats have fuzz and a husk that crumbles easily; rye is smooth and has grooves."

"Which one is for chickens, and which one is for humans?"

“Shumer used to drink oatmeal, remember? But if chickens eat oatmeal, their eggs break easily. We should feed them rye instead,” Yakov replied. “Why are you asking that?”

"Grandma Vanella told me to divide the oats and rye in a basket..." Yubi sighed in distress, "She told me to divide them and then cook them separately tomorrow to feed the chickens..."

Was this considered bullying Yubi? Yakov thought for a moment, but found that doing this in the warm house was much more comfortable than hunting beavers in the frigid swamp, and even seemed quite leisurely. "Then you can help her with this work," Yakov said, "but don't complain too much."

"When will the stove be fixed?" Yubi clung to his arm, putting on a pitiful look. "When can I go home?"

Home—that cold, dark, dilapidated wooden house—was Yubi already calling it home? "It'll be done soon." Yakov chuckled and touched his hair. "If it's not fixed by now, I'll borrow money to go to town and find a blacksmith."

“Okay.” Yubi’s teeth were aimed at his neck again. “Then I’ll wait a little longer.”