The Leader

The Leader

Alexandr Piatkov



A gust of hot steppe wind arrived, carrying the scent of burning wood from

distant fires mingled with the aroma of a living, warm, moist womb. It forced his

back to arch into a tense curve, and his lungs tore out a powerful, rolling bark

that felt as scorching as the midday heat. The mares, grazing peacefully not far

away, bolted to the side in utter bewilderment. The very culprit of their fright—

a stately, pedigree stallion—cast a sidelong glance at them with his large,

bulging eye, lowered his head, and struck the ground with his hoof in anger.


This was all the doing of that wicked shaman whose dog sled the stallion had

outrun the previous year when they were nomadizing far up in the North. Back

then, the shaman had sharply poked the lead dog with his chortled khorey stick,

and the dog had suddenly neighed like a horse. In response, the stallion, who

proudly flung out his slender long legs in white "stockings," suddenly bared his

large yellow teeth and answered him with a ringing bark.


— Volodenka, your lamp is smoking, and dawn is already breaking. Isn't it time to

put it out? It is a long way to go for kerosene, and it isn't always available

here in Shushenskoye anyway, you know?


— Yes, yes, Nadenka, I will just write down one single formula: leaders – party –

class – masses. How does it sound to you? It has just crossed my mind. I have had

a wonderful dream, with such vivid images, symbols, and reminiscences...



Original text: proza.ru/avtor/alexanderan
© Copyright: Alexandr Piatkov, 2015
Publication Certificate No. 215042801996
Translated from Russian by AI Translator, 2026