The Boat Without Oars

Yesterday my seven-year-old daughter said: - Mama, did you call me from the cave in the night? - No. Mila thought a little. - All right, but the voice was yours, only truly, you don't talk like that. I never told her about the river or about the caves, yet since I was seven I truly have been dreaming the same river. Every night the boat is a little farther along than the night before. The boat moves, and in it I am always small.

Bare feet tucked up on the bench, the wet hem of my shift clutched in my fist. There are no oars. The boat steers around the stones by itself. By the side the water is motionless, even on the bends. The moon lights my knees. There is no moon in the water. All I wanted was to reach the end and wake in the morning. I never answered the voices from the caves, I taught myself not to stare into the water. And above all - I never left the boat - I felt it was better that way.

At night, when I fell asleep, I found myself in the boat again. In the moonlight two pairs of eyes glinted on the bank. One pair was too high up for a beast. I shut my eyes and counted to ten. When I opened them, those eyes were already at the water. I tucked my legs up tighter: whenever I set them on the bottom, someone below touched my heels. Near the limestone caves even the creak of the boat vanished. The moon showed the edges of the crevices, but nothing inside.

- Olenka. I'm here. Come out onto the bank. I reached for the slippery stone on the right. But Mama called me Lentsia. Never Olenka! I hid my hand under my arm. The voice called again. It had the same little sob in it and the same intake of breath. Between repetitions it did not breathe. I glanced into the water. It reflected no moon, but I could be seen whole. The one below, down there, turned her head and pointed a finger behind my back.

I didn't look around, only clutched the side and counted to a hundred. I thought that as long as I was counting, the boat wouldn't put ashore. The bottom rose slowly under my feet, as if something huge were straightening up beneath the boat. At ninety-six I woke. The hem of my shift was wet; I dried it by the stove. Mama once told me: on Makoviy, when I was seven, I really did vanish by the river.

They found me toward morning three versts away, in a stranger's boat among the reeds. There were no oars in it. People decided I had climbed in to play and the current had carried me off. I believed it too, at least by day. And the dreams I decided to keep secret. Yesterday, on the third day after Mila turned seven, I was pouring her milk; she sat by the window with her feet tucked up on the bench. - If a boat moves by itself, are you supposed to get out of it?

I set the mug down with both hands, because it suddenly began to slip. - Where did you see a boat like that? - In a dream. I pulled the bench closer and sat my daughter on my knees. Her heels were cold through her socks. - And did you answer the voice? Mila shook her head. - No, Mama, I knew I mustn't. I held her tighter. The next night I was sitting in it again. I was seven, but I remembered that I had a daughter.

There was no moon in the sky; it lay deep beneath the boat and lit the side from below. I called Mila. The forest fell silent. The caves answered: "Mama." Dozens of identical "Mama"s. All at once. I wanted to call again, but bit down on my tongue. Then I noticed the short scratches on the inside of the hull. All the marks were roughly where I gripped the side every night. I ran a finger along one. A fresh splinter was left under my nail.

The boat was slowing before a white shore. Warm light fell from one of the caves. Barefoot children stood on the rock. Water dripped from their shifts. I searched the faces for Mila. The children were looking under the boat. The smallest one put a finger to his lips: - Jump before it stops. I stood up, holding the side. The rule about not going ashore I remembered well. But when I had made it up, I couldn't recall.

The boat had almost stopped. I swung a leg over the side and jumped onto the rock. Skinned my knee. Behind me the water bulged. The hump reached the shore but did not climb onto the rock. I ran around the children and entered the lit cave. The passage narrowed between the wall and stone shelves. On them stood green jars.

In every jar the glass fogged over in some strange rhythm. Under the bottom shelf sat Mila. I crouched before her. Her mouth was open, her chest rose under her shift. Mila was breathing soundlessly. Each of her breaths sounded from the jar above her head. In - the glass fogged over. Out - it cleared. I took my daughter by the hand. Something knocked in the jar at the end. From it, my child's voice whispered: - Don't let me out, it will be quiet, so quiet.

It was my seven-year-old voice. I recognized myself by the way it said "quiet": with the front tooth missing. My lips formed the first syllables on their own: - It will be qui... I bit down on my tongue. Pressed until I felt the taste of metal. I pulled Mila toward the exit. She dug in her heels, staring at the shelf above her. I didn't let go of her hand. In the narrow passage my elbow caught the jar at the end. It rocked.

I tried to steady it with my free hand, but my fingers slid on the wet glass. The jar fell between us. The glass struck the stone. Out of the shards burst my seven-year-old "quiet". The next word answered from the tree by the entrance: - Mila. The other trees took it up too. Mila crouched and reached for the green glass. I jerked her by the hand, but she managed to close something in her free fist.

I scooped my daughter up so she wouldn't step barefoot on the shards, and carried her toward the light. Mila's heels beat against my skinned knee. The children stood on either side of the entrance, looking at the river. In the light from the cave I could see the empty boat pulling away from the rock. The water beneath it arched, like a back. I pressed Mila closer and stepped back from the water. And then the forest spoke. Every tree was calling in my seven-year-old voice:

- Mila. Mila. My daughter pressed her mouth to my ear. I stopped to hear her. She said nothing. I woke before dawn in my own bed. I went over to her bed and bent down. By her cheek I felt a warm breath. My daughter was asleep with her fist clenched. I lifted her hand and unbent her fingers. On her palm lay a green shard of glass. Along the sharp edge ran a white coating of lime. I felt my knee burning...