The Cossack Scouts

Sit closer, because this is the kind of story you might not hear to the end standing up, what with the laughing. Just the other day Khoma's father came to see me, sat down, sighed and said: "Ivan, my hens haven't clucked properly for three days now - they only shriek and bolt for cover." I ask: "What happened?" And he just waved his hand and glanced sideways at his son. Khoma went red as a beet.

So I asked the boy to tell it himself - let that Cossack scout report in person on how his "secret operation" went. Uncle Ivan, I'll tell you everything, honest! It all started when Hrytsko and I decided to become real Cossack scouts. Hrytsko had been leafing through some ancient book at his grandpa's - there were Cossacks in it, sieges, ambushes and all that.

We turned the pages of that book for a whole hour and grasped the main thing: a true scout must slip unnoticed into enemy territory and bring back a trophy. Everything inside me went "oh!" - but on the outside, of course, I stood like a true Cossack. We exchanged a look. We were ready. As "enemy territory" we appointed the vegetable garden. Well, why not - there's a wattle fence, there's nettles, and Did Okhrim sometimes patrols it with a switch.

What's that if not a fortress? The trophy was to be three cucumbers from the bed. Hrytsko and I lay low in the weeds by the fence and worked out our strategic plan in whispers. Hrytsko said he was the chief otaman. I said I was an otaman too. We argued a bit, but then decided: two otamans is even better. I climbed over the fence first. Quietly, carefully, like a true scout... Almost. My trousers caught on a stake - rrrip! - and I tumbled straight into the onion bed. Sniff!

I sit there sniffing - the whole garden reeks of onion. But never mind, I didn't give up. Hrytsko climbed over after me - thump! - into the onions too. We exchanged a look. Scouts ought to smell different, but what can you do. We crawled toward the cucumber bed on all fours. The sun scorched our backs, shivers ran up our arms from fear and from the nettles. I had almost reached the first cucumber... when suddenly, behind us - "May the nettles carry you home themselves!"

It was Baba Yavdokha, who had spotted us from her window and decided that shouting was the best way to defend a garden. We both jumped - bonk! - straight into each other's heads. And what came next, I still can't work out how it happened. In our fright we bolted - straight through the henhouse. Hens in every direction, wings, feathers, shrieking! Splat-splat through a puddle, clang over a bucket, plop into some sack of rags... I ran out into the street missing one boot.

Hrytsko - with chicken feathers in his hair. We stopped. Cucumbers we had none. What we had was heaving lungs and eyes full of shame. Grandpa found us behind the barn. We were sitting quiet as mice. He looked, and looked some more, then asks: "Where are your trophies, you brigands?" I wanted to answer with dignity, otaman-style. But then Hrytsko pulled out from inside his shirt... one small crooked little cucumber. He'd managed to grab one after all.

Grandpa looked at that cucumber, looked at us, and suddenly burst out laughing - clutching his belly. "Off with you, then." We walked home in silence. Then Hrytsko says: "Listen, next time we need to plan better." I say: "We do." "And steer clear of the hens," he says. "And the nettles," I say.

We stopped and split that little cucumber in half. It was warm, a bit bitter, but it tasted like the finest victory in the world - we are Cossacks, after all. Just... still a little short on experience.