To the catch - a short story

Mid-April, and Easter would be soon be upon them once again; first the Catholic one, and then – unusually that year – only a week later, the Orthodox one. Both Igor and his younger brother Borislav experienced the anticipation of this period of great joy most intensely. The snows had finally retreated, melting to flood the Pripyat Marshes to their fullest extent, the sun was now shining strongly, rising earlier, setting later, that warmth and light so yearned for during the cold grey months that had just passed. The vigour of the earth flourishing around them stirred their souls, and at this time of day, just before dawn, that familiar smell of returning life filled their smiling nostrils.

They had just set off from their wooden house, situated on edge of the small settlement where they lived with their aging mother. Both men were tall though sparsely built. Each carried a shotgun, a heavy bag and a dense tangle of fishing nets. They wore leather boots, still damp and heavy from wading in the floodwaters the previous day, pulled up over rough woollen trousers, loose cotton shirts hanging down over their hips and shapeless woollen jumpers, and faded, navy-blue peaked caps pulled down over their foreheads.

Their weather-beaten faces, high cheekbones and sky-blue eyes suggested the men to be Polyeshuks – the indigenous inhabitants of Polesye, people who defined themselves as tutejsi – the people from here. Neither White Ruthenian, nor Ukrainian, nor Polish nor Russian – they were the people of the Pripyat, the vast expanse of wetland that split the trade routes crossing central and eastern Europe's borderlands. Mistrusting those neighbours who did not live in the endless cycle of freeze, thaw and flood, the Polyeshuks lived as their ancestors had, fishing and fowling in this watery landscape. Neither did these people define themselves by faith; they'd go to the Catholic church for holy days, and to the Orthodox one for its holy days, remembering how to cross themselves in each, and not to engage in theological discussions with anyone, avoiding eye contact with priests.

Igor and Borislav passed between the silent houses, along a muddy lane between unpainted wooden fences. Here and there a dog would bark, chained to a post. Frogs were croaking in the reedbeds behind the houses. At the settlement's end the path broadened, rutted with cart-tracks, studded with hoofprints, on either side silver birches in new leaf and pinetrees. A moon, almost three-quarters full, was setting as the men walked up to the edge of the swollen river, and clumped along the planks of a rickety wooden platform to which was moored their boat. A light mist hung over the water, an encouraging sign that the day should stay fair. Saying little to one another, the brothers put their equipment into their flat-bottomed, sharp-prowed vessel, untied it and cast off into the mist.

Their day would be a long one; with God's grace, their catch would be bountiful; then they would punt or paddle north east through the flooded marshlands and on, up the Pina river, towards Pinsk, another two full days ahead of them, during which they may catch more fish. On reaching Pinsk, they would steer their vessel into the crowded river market, and hopefully realise a good price for their catch. For the money, they'd buy provisions for themselves, for the house, for their mother.

This is a journey they'd done often times before; both men fondly remembered their many journeys to Pinsk with their father, who'd taught them everything they knew about catching fish, shooting waterfowl and trading in the market. He'd been dead twelve winters long now, but spirit was with them, it was in the boat he'd built, in the guns that he'd saved up to buy his sons.

A rich sunrise delighted their souls as they propelled the boat towards the best fishing grounds where perch and carp swam in abundance. And ducks – they would be keen to ambush a flock or two before the sun rose too high. Stealthy propelling their boat through the reeds, heads down low, between the partially-submerged silver birches, they knew that at this time of year, at this time of day, they could easily bag a dozen or more ducks at rest on the floodwaters. And for the money... and the fish they'd catch! Pinsk would have much to offer the brothers.

Pinsk – the biggest town they'd ever seen in their lives. So many buildings, made of brick and stone; churches, stores, wagons, bridges, factories, a railway line! So many attractions – so much to buy, to look at – and the crowds, Russians, Poles, Jews, Germans... the elegant women... both knew the success of their journey to Pinsk would be determined by the size of their catch and the money they could raise by selling it. But before they could get to enjoy the town, they would need to get there.

The concluding Part II of this short story will be posted tomorrow night...

This time last year:
Eternal Warsaw

This time three years ago:
From the family archives