Yaroslaw's Treasure. Myroslav Petriw

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СКАЧАТЬ for treasure. He had dismantled and packed his favourite mountain bike for this trip, thinking it would provide him with an easy way of getting around. Shimano in the land of Sturmey-Archer – the thought made him smile. He could already picture himself riding the narrow trails far below in that forest that stretched eastward on both sides of the Prypyat River.

      This reverie was interrupted by the heavily accented voice of the plane’s captain speaking English, the international language of air transport.

      “On ze eastern horizon, some hundred and fifty kilometres from us, lies ancient town of Chornobyl′. In April 1986, an accident and fire in Block Two of ze Chornobyl′ nuclear power station resulted in ze largest peacetime release of radioactive contamination …”

      Yarko did not hear the rest of the captain’s words. His thoughts and attention were again focused on that eastern horizon. He remembered the prophetic words of the nineteenth-century bard, Taras Shevchenko: “In flames, and plundered they will wake her.”

      Somehow as he returned to a deeper sleep his mind unconsciously formed the words “Flaming Vengeance.”

      In his mind, he could again see the red embers and wind-whipped flames of the burning fortifications of Iskorosten′. He could see dark figures of warriors with swords and shields, their faces blackened by soot, as they battled desperately in this fiery hell. He could even smell the smoke of this imagined conflagration. Spontaneously, he whispered the phrase, “It smells of history.”

      * * *

      And truly, the soils of Ukraine were soaked in the scents of ancient memories of mankind. The relics and traces of ages past had long been destroyed by countless wars. This distant past was crushed and plowed deep into the depths of its fertile land. Artifacts of the early ancestors had been plundered and scattered to the four corners of the earth. Their blood had long since soaked into the soil of this land, which drowned all their traces in an endless black sea.

      But the depths of this fertile soil gave birth to generation after generation of peoples. Wave after wave, they spread to all parts of Europe and Asia. This was the prehistoric homeland of the Indo-European language group. It was the land of the master potters of the Trypillian culture that had built cities of multi-level homes some two millennia before the Egyptians even dreamt of pyramids.

      It was also the land of those who had first tamed the horse. For countless generations of steppe dwellers, a horse was to the endless plains what a boat is to the sea. It was the means to conquer the otherwise unconquerable vastness of the steppes. And so the waves of peoples spread farther still. The mysterious Tocharians of the Chinese hinterlands; the Hittites with their chariots on the borders of biblical Egypt; Greeks and Latins; Celts and Germans; Balts and Slavs: all spread from these lands. It was the land of the Cimmerians, of Conan the Barbarian comic book tales. It was home for centuries to the warlike Scythians who defeated King Darius, fascinated Herodotus, and battled the great Phillip of Macedon. It was a land known by many names: the biblical land of Gomer, the Scythia of the Histories, the Sarmatia of the Romans.

      It was more recently known as the historic Rus′, an empire that brought Christianity and the written Church Slavonic language to the Finnish tribes of the future Muscovy. Much later, an expanding Muscovy appropriated Rus′, in its Greek form, as its own name, in order to lay claim to the storied past of Rus′. The people of the Rus′ nation began to favour their word for country, Ukrayina, as the new name of their land and, eventually, as the name of their nation.

      The constant throughout millennia had been the land and the people who worked it. But the recent manifestation of the Muscovite Empire, the Soviet Union, was to change even that. In a planned famine-genocide known as the Holodomor, it eliminated some seven million Ukrainians. Millions more were deported to Siberia, or ground to dust as cannon fodder in the great battles of the Second World War. Now only the land remained constant. Yet it still breathed with the scent of its ancient past.

      * * *

      Yarko woke with a start as his head flopped onto his right shoulder. His eyes opened wide when he glanced through the window. Gone was the forested terra firma. All he saw was sky. The plane had banked sharply to the right and was beginning its descent. Soon the clear sky was replaced by the grey fog of cloud as droplets streaked horizontally on the outside of the glass. Minutes later, through wisps of the grey fog, he made out individual trees, bushes, buildings, and roadways. The wet ground rose to meet them as Yarko readied for the inevitable impact of landing. He braced his feet on the floor, tightened his stomach muscles, and gripped the armrests more tightly, trying not to let any of this anxiety show on his face.

      It was raining. This reminded him of his Vancouver home, where such drizzly rain continued for weeks. The plane seemed to taxi forever on its way to the gate.

      Yarko was remembering the various pieces of advice he had been given, as well as the strange mission that he had chosen for himself. Fresh worries crowded into his head. Treasure hunting in the basement of someone’s home now seemed like a totally ridiculous idea. In any case, he’d need help. But how would he find a friend who would agree to such a task? Who could he trust in this land where wolves lived among the sheep in the same flock? The current police force was composed of many of the same communists who had served previous masters. The streets were filled with thieves of every stripe. For an American dollar or two they would perform any service, or they could simply kill you. Maybe in a church he could find some honest people, but certainly not of the kind who would agree to the risky adventure that he had in mind. This could certainly be some adventure.

      Yarko reviewed the details of the challenge. He needed to locate a certain house. He had to enter its basement. And by some old furnace or stove he had to dig up a treasure that had been buried there a half-century ago. Then he had to get whatever the treasure was to a safe place. Somehow, he would have to do this under the nose of the very people who would be living in that home today. It was unlikely anyone would agree to this challenge without demanding a piece of the action.

      He still didn’t know what this family treasure could be. His father had explained to him that his grandparents were teachers. Long before the war they also had a little bookstore. Nobody got rich in that kind of business. So the family treasure could consist of nothing but photographs, documents, perhaps a little jewellery – things that could not be safely taken with them, but could also not be left behind. And then there was his grandfather’s precious ancient find mentioned in the letter. In his imagination, Yarko was Ali Baba, and as for the forty thieves, they certainly would never be hard to find in the streets of Lviv. “Both sheep and wolves,” he mumbled under his breath. “I’m sure we’ll have wolves in sheep’s clothing. Those I’ll have to watch out for.”

      Pushing these thoughts from his mind, Yarko looked about him to find the last of the passengers slowly filing up the aisle to the exit at the front of the plane. He snapped to his feet and grabbed his knapsack from the overhead storage bin. He caught up to the last passengers as they filed through the exit door. Leaving the plane, he heard a fragment of the conversation of the captain and his crew. He couldn’t understand a word of the Russian they were speaking. The badge on their tunics showed a yellow trident lying on its side, looking like a falcon in flight.

      Yarko climbed down the stairway and onto the wet tarmac, bracing himself against the cold wind and rain as he hurried towards the doorway of a grey, colourless building. Only then did he notice that on both sides of him stood soldiers wearing the green uniforms of Ukraine’s border troops. Neither their uniforms nor their comical oversized officers’ caps had changed since the days of Gorbachev. For Yarko, these hats and uniforms symbolized the bloodthirsty Empire that was no more. Yet here, in a free and independent Ukraine, its troops still wore the hideous dress of their former masters.

      Without realizing it, Yarko broke a sarcastic smile at the thought of the СКАЧАТЬ