Glory to the Heroes

Перевод рассказа "Слава героям"

Genie and I stood on opposite shores of the lagoon, which had turned into a lake that autumn, because the water level in Lake Balkhash had dropped, and the shallow channel connecting the lagoon to the bay had dried up, becoming a long, dusty isthmus.

Genie fired only occasionally. After each shot came the splash of footsteps—he was retrieving his game. But nothing came my way. Not that there were no ducks. A few flocks did fly over the decoys, but I either missed the right moment or shot too early, from an awkward angle. In short, I burned through nearly a full cartridge belt over mornings and didn’t bring down a single bird.

At breakfast, I told Genie I was going for a walk around the area. I couldn't go home empty-handed, I thought. He just rolled over and went back to sleep.

I circled the lake without the faintest sign of any game and now trudged gloomily along the dry bed of a narrow bay, surrounded on three sides by tall reeds. Our tent was nearby, wisely hidden in those very reeds.

Suddenly, completely out of the blue, a flock of ducks burst out of the reed wall, speeding toward the water. They hadn't seen me from behind the reeds and couldn't veer off now, even if they wanted to. Reflexively, I raised my shotgun and fired both barrels at the fleeing birds. Two ducks hit the sand with a wooden thud. Maybe I didn’t hear the wooden sound, but I’m sure it was there.

A pair of mergansers, big and hefty. That broke my dry streak! My gloom vanished instantly. With a spring in my step, I headed to the tent and tossed the ducks behind it, into the reeds.

- Don’t be so down, - Genie said from inside the tent when he heard me return, - You’ll get lucky. We still have time.

He hadn’t seen my ducks, but he had heard the shots. And what did he think?

Oh, is that so? I didn’t say anything to him and went off walking again. I was crossing the isthmus when I saw a flock flying out toward the open water. I immediately crouched so they wouldn’t recognize my human shape. As they passed overhead, high above, I aimed at the one on the end and fired. The distance was extreme, so I wasn’t surprised when the bird flew on, though I thought I saw it flinch. The flock vanished behind the wall of reeds.

I headed for the point. Ducks often gathered there, and I had taken advantage of that many times. The point was covered in reeds, but a narrow path ran through the center, allowing you to sneak close to the water without being seen. I spotted ducks on the point from afar and took a wide detour through the dunes to avoid walking along the shore. Unseen, I reached the tip of the point and stepped out of the reeds. The ducks immediately took to the air.

I fired both barrels. One duck fell into the water before it could gain altitude and bobbed on the waves like nothing had happened.

I reloaded my shotgun slowly and took aim to finish it off. That’s when I realized the wounded duck had been swimming away this whole time, increasing an already extreme distance. I fired once, then again—but the black silhouette kept drifting away. No way I was letting it escape.

I plunged into the shallow water, reloading as I ran.

Last year, I’d shot a duck that had swum out of the reeds right into my sights. Its strange behavior puzzled me. When I picked it up, I was shocked by how thin it was. Its breastbone protruded through the skin like it would tear out. When I opened it to gut it, I found not organs but a soupy mess. Genie and I decided it had been someone else’s cripple. A pellet had pierced it through, not killing it outright. It broke from the flock, stayed in the reeds, swam around, and slowly died. My shot ended its suffering. It didn’t try to escape because it didn’t care anymore. I didn’t want the same fate for this one.

I ran through the shallows, matching the speed of the crippled duck. The water reached my knees, then higher. Running got harder. Splashes flew into the tops of my waders and soaked my pants. I wasn’t afraid of depth. We had explored this bay all summer while casting spinning rods. There were no spots deeper than waist-high.

I kept firing. The water frothed behind the duck in ellipses, just barely missing it. I couldn’t go as fast anymore. Give up the chase? Not a chance. I had already spent five or six shells. I fired again.

The duck vanished from the surface. It dove. I kept walking, expecting it to resurface somewhere unpredictable. But there was nothing. Then I saw a black dot ahead, leaving ripples behind it. It was moving underwater with its nose up, like a German submarine using a snorkel. But it was going just as fast as I was.

Water was now right up to the tops of my waders, and my legs were soaked. Time to turn back. Anyone else would’ve. But I kept going. Otherwise, what was the point of any of it?

I held back from shooting now — low on ammo, and the hike back was long. Who knows what might come up. I decided it was now a matter of stamina. And I had more of it. I walked on, and the water grew deeper. Then the moment came: water poured into my waders. I marked that moment in my mind as dramatic but didn’t stop.

At last, I noticed the distance between us shrinking. Duck was tiring; I was not. I’d already left a vast stretch of water behind me. I was nearly in the middle of the bay. Too late to turn back. Duty drove me forward.

The duck’s body surfaced, and I fired at once. The shot hit. She dove again. The pursuit continued. The shore was half a mile behind me. I reloaded like it was my last stand against a mortal enemy. Her body surfaced again—I fired.

Bingo! Shot splashed around her. But the duck still moved, only slower. I was now waist deep. Thankfully, my ammo belt stayed dry. The gap kept closing. I decided to stop wasting shells. I’d catch up anyway. Maybe use one more, at most. The distance closed to normal range. As soon as it surfaced again, I shot—and felt everything change. It was still alive, but her escape slowed dramatically.

I approached with my gun at the ready. The duck stopped fleeing but still moved, with its nose above water. Finally, I caught it. I saw it clearly through the water: a battered duck, its wings shredded in many places, trailing like fringe. It was spinning in place. One leg had been broken by the last shot. That’s why it could no longer swim straight. I watched its whirl in helpless circles.

Then I lifted it from the water. It thrashed in my hands. Remembering what to do, I struck its head against the barrels. It went limp. I looked around. The far shore was now closer than the one I’d come from. I decided to press forward, even though there might be deeper water ahead.

But there wasn’t. Once ashore, I poured the water from my boots, stripped down, wrung out my clothes, and lay in the sun to dry. Then I walked the one mile back to camp barefoot, carrying my boots and pants over my shoulder, shotgun in hand. The duck hung from my belt.

Suddenly, I felt something twitch against my bare thigh. The duck—supposedly dead—was trembling. It was still alive, shot through countless times, its bones shattered, skull cracked. Maybe it was just agony—but still. Such endurance! I thought. If only I could be like that. I couldn’t bear it. I struck its head against the barrels several more times. The metal turned red. The duck’s trembling didn’t stop right away, and I physically felt the moment it finally died.

After that, I walked more calmly. In the middle of the isthmus, I saw a dark shape on the sand. As I approached, I saw another dead duck. By all signs, it had died recently, and judging by everything, it was the one I shot at an hour ago. Mortally wounded, it had flown another hundred yards and collapsed in the open. And how many of my wounded ducks had fallen into the reeds and vanished forever? No answer.

I returned. Genie had already crawled out of the tent. I asked, laying out my game:

—You said something before I left, but I didn’t quite catch it.

Genie smiled and said:

— You looked so gloomy this morning, I just wanted to cheer you up.

— And my nose wasn’t dripping while you did? — I asked sarcastically, pulling the earlier mergansers from the reeds.

— Oh! — Genie laughed, — well, forgive an old man.

We sat down to lunch and then went for the evening hunt. I don’t remember whether I got anything after that or not. Maybe I did, but that duck chase pushed everything else out of my memory.

I felt that my victory over that poor bird was… unclean.

It was obvious this wasn’t something to brag about in the company of hunters. But why? What was wrong?

I fired at the limit of my range? It's bad, but it's not such a big deal. It happens to everyone.

I jumped into the water and chased after her? The rules say you can't let a wounded animal get away. I did the right thing.

Should I have given up the chase when I saw that I would have to go deep into the water? It's just a matter of pride. You can go back to shore if you want, or you can catch up. Some people would have gone back, but for a rational person, the answer is clear.
 
Did I brutally beat its head against the barrels to finish it off? What choice did I have? Leave it to suffer?
 
No matter how you look at it, everything was done right. But I felt that I had nothing to be proud of. Hunters will understand me, but they won't approve, I know that. What could I have done to avoid this situation?

The right answer is, don't pick up a gun if you can't foresee the consequences, brother. Don't shoot!

Unlike hundreds of others, I never forgot that duck, admiring its heroism. Did a stray pellet break its wing? After that, it was doomed to die, and no resistance would have saved it. But it began to flee from me, using all its resources. I showered her with pellets that broke her bones and pierced her insides, but she ran away. From the first shot, her behavior lost all meaning except one: not to let the man with the gun triumph. He can go to hell. I'll give my life at a high price. Let him at least get his feet wet and use up all his ammunition. And after that, let him remember how a dying, trembling body thrashed against his side.

From then until the end of my life, which is not so far away, this has been an example for me of how to behave.

That is how I try to live.

In my old age, knowing that nothing can be changed, I can say: eternal memory to you, brave, heroic, nameless duck!

And disgrace to your killer.