The Randomness of Life Chapter 20~ for A Little Drabble Do Ya

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

A series of half-drabbles inspired by lines from a Yeats poem. This one tells part of a story from Illya's past.

 

Prompted by:  Under Ben Bulben~William Butler Yeats

Swear by those horsemen, by those women

Illya Kuryakin stood smiling as he watched the riders speed past, doing their fancy tricks as they bounced off the ground, alighting to their saddles  The grace and beauty of the old Cossack ways stirred his soul.

“Come boy, we will teach you!”

He grabbed the horse’s reins eagerly. “Da!”


Now they ride the wintry dawn

Cossack horses were sturdy animals; one had to show them who was boss, otherwise you’d be thrown from their backs like an unwanted guest, tossed out on the snow.

His horse was of the Don, the oldest Cossack breed. It was not Kubanian, or Budenny, but would do, they said.

Whether man die in his bed

Illya sat atop the beast, feeling a sense of freedom, with the wind blowing through his blond hair.

He balanced himself as he rose in the stirrups, standing straight, using his knees to hold himself up, releasing the reins.

If he died this moment, he would die a happy man.

  Sharp their spades, their muscles strong.

The men sang as they worked, the strong Kubanskiye Kаzaki, building their shelters. These were the Cossacks who survived the persecution of the Bolsheviks and the onslaught of the Nazis.

Illya worked alongside them, learning their ways, sitting beside their campfires...sneaking off with their daughters.

 Life was good.


Something drops from eyes long blind,

Yet Illya knew there were few such men as these left. Stalin had seen to that. Clinging to their traditions, yet could not see their ways were slowly killing them.

He would learn as much as he could, preserving their collective memories so they would live.

Life on the steppes...


With some sort of violence

He watched from the shadows as the squads of soldiers invaded the camp of these men who’d remained loyal to the Red Army. Some from the 94th Beloglisnky, 152nd Rostovsky and 48th Belorechensky regiments fought to their death at the encirclement of Belostok.

Illya sadly shook his head in dismay...


Make him fill the cradles right.

They trampled the women, killed precious children, hoping the Kubanskiye Kаzaki, would die out.

Illya knew there was nothing he could do, and he left in the night feeling like a skulking dog.  It was time to report for duty at Severomorsk, on board the Zulu class sub, Moskva.


On the Sistine Chapel roof,

Illya found a miniature icon dropped by someone, and hid it close to his breast. Not for worship, but a reminder of the day, though he’d never forget it.

He did not understand this at all as he passed the carcass of his beautiful horse...all the horses were dead.


Flowers and grass and cloudless sky,

He took a long last look at the outside world, soon it would be only grey waters and grey skies that would  surround him for six months. Yet the blood was everywhere, tainting the beauty of the grass of the steppes and its wild flowers.

He slowly bowed his head.


That heavens had opened.

A flash of lightning, a long, rolling rumble of thunder heralded an approaching storm.

The snow came, making the land white.

Illya pulled his wool coat tightly about him; finding shelter in a nearby village and told them of the massacre.

They were not Cossack and looked on with indifference.


Their unremembering hearts and heads

He cursed his Soviet masters for their ruthlessness, yet he too wasat their mercy, just as the Kаzaki had been.

Illya Kuryakin had no choices in life. He did as he was told, if not, death was the alternative.

Unmerciful, not caring for him.

He was not ready to die.


Porter-drinkers' randy laughter;

Life onboard a nuclear submarine was tense as they patrolled the Barents and Norwegian Seas, the Arctic and Atlantic Oceans. They were responsible for the defense of northwestern Russia.

The endless hours of boredom, playing cards, reading, and fending off unwanted advances with his knife made for a tense existence all at the age of seventeen.

And he daydreamed of Cossack horses running on the steppes.


That we in coming days may be

He slept fitfully, adding that gruesome sight to the memories that haunted him from his childhood; the ghosts of his family...the faces of the walking dead in the concentration camp.  

He heard the desperate Cossack voices and the pained cries of the horses.

And yet he dreamed of riding...


Long years ago, a church stands near,

The Moskva anchored near one of the many islands in the White sea, and they went ashore for fresh water.  

Silhouetted on a hill near a ruined monastery stood a chestnut horse, its mane and tail blowing in the wind.

Shaking its head, as Illya watched; it called to him.


Horseman, pass by!

“Fresh meat!” Someone cried out. “Get it!”

“You Kuryakin, you know horses, go catch it and we’ll have meat to eat for a month.”

His stomach knotted as he approached it, hoping it would flee.

“Yah!” He called in a low voice.

Watching it run; he dreamed of Cossack horses.



note: There will be a longer fic based on this drabble story coming soon, called: “Zaporoche.”

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Glad you liked it. I think this is one of my favorites. Lots of research went into this mini fic. The longer story will do it justice though, and maintains the feeling of this piece. Some details are filled in, but still, not everything.