Hromylo and Little Motria

Cockfights? Easy! And it all started when Panas slammed his fist on the counter so hard the bottles rattled: - My Hromylo's no rooster, he's a warrior! He's beaten seven, the eighth was a goose, and the wolf... the wolf ran off all by himself, out of pure fright. I was wiping a mug and blurted out without thinking: - Well then, tomorrow we'll see whose rooster is master of the street. I meant the crowing: whichever one tears his throat open first.

But the inn went quiet, as before a storm. Somebody was already running for the door. That's when I should have bitten my tongue. But the mug was so smooth, and I was so clever. In the morning I come out to open the inn, and in front of it stands an arena: poles dug in, sand strewn about. A crowd like at a wedding. Svyryd the scribe is sitting on the cooper's barrel, still smelling of the steeped herbs from under the pickles, writing out the rules of the cockfight.

Three sheets, each stamped with a seal cut from a raw potato. - Svyryd, - I say, knowing full well where all this had sprouted from, - I was talking about crowing! Whichever one crows first! - Too late, Ivan. Next clause: the judge is the one who announced the tournament. And that is how my own tongue elected me judge.

The bets were collected at my inn, naturally - where else. People brought eggs, salo, a sack of grain, a bundle of firewood and varenyky wrapped in a kerchief. Old Okhrim staked one boot and swore an oath: the second he'd hand over after the victory. - And if you lose? - Then it's not far to limp. The women placed their bets in silence, without a word, and somehow none of it went on Hromylo.

I still tried to call the whole thing off, but Hnat the blacksmith had already forged a medal out of an old cauldron lid and punched a hole through it. And against a hole in metal, good people, there is no arguing. Panas readied Hromylo like a lad for the matchmakers. Kneaded his wings loose, poured him choice grain, whispered battle instructions into his comb. Meanwhile Hromylo hopped up onto the table and stole a heel of bread right from under Okhrim's nose.

- He's building up his fighting strength, - Panas explained. - He's a little thief stealing my bread! - said Okhrim, and reached for the varenyky. Hromylo swallowed it down and showed no remorse. A warrior, what can you say. Svyryd introduced the contestants like generals home from a campaign. Tymish's Riabko he christened the Terror of the Entry Hall, Khoma's bobtailed one - the Lightning of the Back Yard.

And Panas brought Hromylo out to a song, leading him himself, singing himself. - Hromylo! - Svyryd thundered. - Terror of every henhouse from our dam to the county seat itself! Hromylo puffed out his chest like the bellows in a forge and strutted a full circle, as if choosing which fence to knock down first. The medal lay on a pillow. Somebody had staked the pillow too.

And then across the square comes Palazhka with a basket - she was coming to me for salt, hadn't heard a whisper about any tournament. The basket tipped, the cloth slid aside, and out onto the sand hopped a little grey hen, Motria. She shook herself off. Looked around. And quietly, like the mistress of the place, walked straight into the ring. - Get that hen off the arena! - shouted Svyryd. - She's not on the lists! Palazhka only shrugged:

- Then catch her yourself, you servant of quill and inkblot! I've worn myself out enough in my own yard. The hen stood and looked at Hromylo. And the terror of every henhouse in the county deflated like dough in a draught. The chest sagged, the comb slid sideways. Hromylo backed away, backed away - and whisk, under the bench, only his tail sticking out. - He's not scared! - shouted Panas. - He's inspecting the arena from below! It needs checking down there too!

It got so quiet on the square you could hear the batten thumping on the loom in Odarka's house across the road. From under the bench - not a sound. The inspection was thorough. Motria took a step. One. Hromylo screwed himself under the bench so hard the plank lifted. The Terror of the Entry Hall hid behind Tymish's boots, the Lightning of the Back Yard flashed clear behind the inn. - It's a strategic withdrawal! - Panas wouldn't give up. - He's luring her in!

Saving his strength for the final! And anyway, Hromylo doesn't fight women, he was raised properly! - But Motria used to run over the fence into your yard, - said Palazhka, - and he backed into the henhouse in a fright then, too. The hen calmly stood in the middle of the ring and set about pecking the scattered grain. The square roared with laughter so hard the sparrows rose off the inn. People stamped their feet: - Pay out on the hen! - The hen's not on the lists!

- Svyryd defended himself, then took up his quill and added at the bottom of the third sheet: ABSOLUTE WEIGHT CLASS. NO RESTRICTIONS BY SEX. Old Okhrim looked at his boot sitting in the stakes, sighed, pulled off the second one and set it alongside: - Let them stand as a pair now, seeing as I'm left without both anyway.

As judge, I acted by the rules: I hung the cauldron-lid medal around Motria's neck. She immediately set to pecking at the ribbon - a medal is a medal, but the ribbon tastes better. Palazhka scooped her up under her arm like a jug of milk: - Come along, Motria. Half the yard's still unfed. And off she went.

With her salt, her hen and the medal. - Hromylo didn't lose, - Panas said into the silence. - He acknowledged his superior in the yard. And you know, good people - that was Panas's first truth of the whole tournament.