“For as long as there is a word, there is life.”
The old folks say: in the steppe, silence is deceptive. On a clear day, it seems to hum—in the wheat, in the breath of the wind, in the river shimmering between the willows. But the moment foreign dust rises on the horizon, that silence grows heavier than the boom of a cannon: it’s as if the very air squeezes your chest. That’s exactly what happened on that summer day when our steppe changed its rhythm.
The sun hung low that day, blazing and blood-gold, like an ember tossed into the endless plains. The air was thick, hot, saturated with the smell of dust and dry grass. Even the larks fell silent, and the quiet was so oppressive it felt like the whole world was holding its breath, waiting.
We sat with the Cossacks in the shade by the river, where just a few days earlier Grandpa had spotted tracks of unfamiliar hooves. Sure enough, word had already spread through the village: the Tatars were gearing up for a raid. So the village head called for the osavul from the nearest settlement. His name was Mykhailo Kryvenko—a burly man with a scar across his cheek and a sharp gaze, looking like the very embodiment of Cossack valor. He’d come from the Sich to check on old comrades and warn us that a raiding party was sneaking through the marshes. He brought along a dozen Cossacks to bolster our village’s defenses.
“Folks!” the osavul called out, standing on the church steps, his voice low and steady, without a hint of panic. “We set up camp on the open field. Wagons in a circle. Front line at the ford. Right flank by the river—Old Semen and his crew. Left flank—Stepan the blacksmith. Musketeers, two per direction. Archers in the center. No reckless heroics: we’re a wall. A wall doesn’t run; a wall stands.”
“And what about the young ones?” Grandpa interjected, nodding toward me.
The osavul sized me up from head to toe. A faint smile flickered across his face.
“The kid’s gotta learn sometime. He’ll grow up faster in battle than in years of peace.”
My heart pounded harder. I felt a fire ignite in my veins: I wanted to prove I wasn’t handed a saber for nothing.
Under his command, everything snapped into order. Wagons rolled into place, axles greased with tar, wheels creaking low; iron caltrops from the blacksmith’s storeroom, rusty but usable, were dragged under the sides; stakes and poles driven into the ground to tighten the perimeter. Women formed a chain, passing barrels of water, setting out buckets, hauling wet blankets to cover gunpowder kegs and hot spots. Someone brought honey cakes for the wounded, hot kvass, garlic, and wormwood—for spirits and wounds alike. Even the little kids pitched in: running with rope, flat stones for hot cauldrons, dragging bundles of reeds.
“Ivan,” Grandpa Semen said, resting a hand on my shoulder. “Right corner’s ours. You’re with me. Hold your saber tight, and if it comes to close quarters, remember: don’t watch the blade—watch the shoulders. Intent starts higher than the hand.”
I nodded. The lessons he’d drilled into me over the years now became my backbone. Fear was there—like a dog on a chain. The question was, who was leading whom.
As we set up camp, the air smelled of pitch and tar, fresh earth from the newly dug trench, and garlic from the kitchen sacks. On the horizon, the sky still glowed blue—whose sky, ours or theirs, who could say. Somewhere in the distance, herds lowed as they were driven closer to camp to keep them from becoming loot. Near the church, the priest read the Psalm of Protection, blessing us with the sign of the cross. Ulyana, Stepan the blacksmith’s younger daughter—sturdy and weary—slipped between the wagons and pressed a small viburnum-wood cross into my belt. “I blessed it for good luck. Wear it.” I nodded—and suddenly knew I would.
The sun dipped lower. The wind shifted. From the south rolled the scent of smoke. The blacksmith’s dog growled low. Without looking, Grandpa said, “They’re coming. Within the hour—they’ll be here.”
I sat beside Grandpa, gripping a short saber that felt as heavy as a log. A real Cossack weapon, though old. My palms sweated, my heart thumped dull and fast, and one thought hammered in my head: this isn’t a game, not training, this is real battle.
“Don’t be afraid of trembling, Ivan,” he said. “Anyone who claims they didn’t shake their first time is either a liar or a corpse. Fear’s no shame. Shame is bowing your head.”
“See, grandson,” Grandpa went on, mentoring me. “When the steppe gets too quiet, know this: a wolf is creeping. Tatars don’t come without a plan. Every move they make is a wicked scheme.”
“What if I get scared?” I asked quietly.
Grandpa looked at me—his eyes reflecting the sunset and the weary wisdom of a long life.
“If you’re scared, it means you’re alive. Only a stone feels no fear. But the difference is, a Cossack moves forward even with fear. Fear’s a wild horse: either you tame it, or it throws you off.”
I gripped my weapon tighter and swallowed hard, trying to imagine I wasn’t holding cold iron, but pure confidence.
The village braced for battle. Old Granny Hanna carried water and bundles of wormwood to ward off evil spirits. Women hurriedly hid children in cellars, whispering prayers under their breath. Men repaired rifles, greased wagon wheels, and piled sandbags atop them. The air was thick with the smell of tar, smoke, and human tension.
When the sun set, an anxious darkness settled over the steppe. The moon rose slowly, white as a blade, spilling cold light across the land.
And then we heard it—faint at first, then clearer: the thud of hooves, the clank of weapons, shouts. A Tatar cavalry unit surged forward like a black current, torches flaring in the distance like the eyes of a beast.
Night exploded suddenly. From the darkness came the pounding of hooves, cries, the flash of torches. It all happened in an instant. The Tatars charged the village, shouting “Allah!” Their horses raced like a whirlwind, sabers glinting like lightning. The ground trembled, and a chill gripped my chest.
“Strike!” roared the osavul.
The Cossacks met the enemy with a volley of rifle fire, the darkness torn apart by fiery bursts. Then came the twang of bows. Shouts mingled with the neighing of horses, the clash of steel.
Fire ripped through the night, and the first enemy ranks faltered. But there were so many. Too many. They surged toward the wagons, the fences, leaping through flames like black shadows.
I saw a Tatar charge straight at me on horseback. A predatory fire gleamed in his eyes. His saber flashed in the moonlight.
I don’t know what gave me strength—Grandpa’s shout or the blaze in my heart—but I dodged to the side and struck the horse’s legs. It snorted, staggered, and the rider wavered. In desperation, I drove my saber into his arm, leaving a bloody gash. The raider dropped his weapon and tumbled to the ground.
“That’s it, Ivan!” Grandpa yelled, shielding me. “Hold steady!”
Another Tatar’s horse barreled along the wagon line, searching for a gap. My hands moved before my mind could catch up: I thrust a pole under its hooves mid-stride. The horse stumbled, the rider flew off, hitting the ground chest-first. His scimitar slipped from his grasp, and I lunged for him, my blade piercing his chest. I watched life drain from his wound—and in that split second, I felt the breath of death as another rider charged at me.
“Don’t freeze!” Grandpa’s shout snapped me back to reality. I dove low, letting the enemy’s strike pass over me, then countered with my own—low, under the ribs. Blood coated my hand as another foe fell.
Everything blurred into one terrifying roar: fire, blood, unfamiliar faces. I could hear my own heart pounding in my temples. Several times, it felt like the end was near. But each time, someone’s shout, someone’s hand, someone’s shoulder was there beside me. We stood together, like a single wall.
The fight raged fiercer. Shouts, the clang of metal, the stench of smoke and blood—it all merged. I saw our men and theirs fall, a house at the village edge burn, clouds of smoke obscuring the starry sky.
It felt like the world had turned upside down. Every moment was either death or another desperate step forward.
How much time passed, I don’t know. An hour? A moment? In battle, time doesn’t walk—it either races or freezes. All I know is that when their drawn-out “Uaaa!” echoed, my chest swelled with joy. It was the signal to retreat. An old tactic: if we broke ranks, they’d lure us into an ambush. Mykhailo raised a hand, and we held. We held despite the burning ache in our calves, despite the hunger to pursue. We held because we were a wall.
And suddenly—silence.
“Hurrah!” rang out from the right flank. “Hurrah!” answered the left and center. And the silence between the cries retreated, just like my own fear.
The Tatars, having lost a dozen riders, withdrew into the steppe. Only the groans of the wounded and the crackle of burning thatch remained after that hell.
When the dust settled, the sounds changed: instead of clashing, whispers; instead of shouts, sighs. Women brought buckets, cloth, vodka for wounds. Mom cleaned my shoulder, applied a fresh bandage, made the sign of the cross, and muttered something I couldn’t make out, though I recognized it as a prayer. Ulyana called me over for porridge: millet, cracklings, bay leaf, black pepper—a simple dish that smelled so much of home my eyes stung. Prokip, a young Cossack and our neighbor across the yard, scratched nose and all, looked happy and exhausted as he flipped flatbreads by the fire. Grandpa sat silently, coughing up soot, but a calm strength grew in his eyes: we’d been tested—and hadn’t crumbled.
We laid our fallen under an oak—five of them. Covered them with homespun cloth, placed embroidered kerchiefs with crosses on their chests, and set their caps by their heads. Someone slipped a copper coin into a hand—so they wouldn’t lack on the long journey. The priest stood over them, reciting a prayer for the departed, each word falling like a clump of earth—heavy, warm.
We didn’t abandon the enemy dead either. Dragged them beyond the trench, covered them with rough fabric. Come morning, we’d bury them proper. The osavul only said, “We’re not them. The earth is one. It takes us all.”
At midnight, the survivors gathered by the fire. Flames cast red glints on tired, soot-streaked faces. Some bandaged wounds, others stared at the ground in silence. Women wept quietly, carrying water and bread.
The night swirled above the fire. The stars hung low, like viburnum berries. A kobzar, stranded with us on his travels, stepped forward with his instrument, brushed the dust off the strings as best he could, sat by the embers—and the strings sang. Not loud—low, along the ground, past our feet, straight to the heart.
“Let’s remember, brothers,” he said. “With word and memory. For as long as there is a word, they live.”
And he sang:
“Oh, from beyond the hill and the river’s bend,
a gray-winged eagle cried out:
‘Rise, Cossacks, rise,
the enemy’s at the gate!
Take up your saber, your musket,
for faith, for land, for kin,
for Cossack glory is eternal,
and death holds no fear for the brave…’”
Voices couldn’t hold back—they joined in softly. Some sighed, some swallowed hard, some wiped their eyes with a sleeve, unashamed. Women hid quiet sobs in the edges of their scarves, old men nodded solemnly. Vodka passed around—a small cup, a sip “for those who’ve gone” and “for those who remain.” The osavul stood a little apart, head bowed as if listening to the earth.
When the ballad faded, Mykhailo stepped into the light. Soot on his face, but his eyes shone through.
“Brothers,” he said in a loud voice. “Today we stood—not as a weak bunch, but as a band. We stood because each of us held not just for himself, but for the shoulder of his comrade. The young didn’t hide. The old didn’t retreat. The women didn’t abandon water and bandages. That’s how it should be.”
He glanced around and fixed his gaze on me. I felt that inner dog tug the chain again—not fear this time, but embarrassment.
“And I’ll say this separately,” he continued. “Among us is a young man who today acted like a grown one: didn’t falter, didn’t charge recklessly, but stood firm and fought bravely. He defeated his first enemy, stepped forward when needed, and didn’t chase when tempted. His name is Ivan, grandson of Semen. From now on, brothers, let him be called Bohun.”
Laughter and “Hurrah!” rolled through the circle, light and warm. Prokip whistled, “That’s right, Bohun! You stand like an oak in the meadows, unbreakable!”
“Bohun…” Grandpa whispered, as if testing the name on me. “Hold to this name, grandson. It’s not for pride. It’s for memory.”
The osavul approached, pulled a small mace charm from his cap—not a true insignia, just a trinket—and pinned it to my cap, not as an honor but as a jest. Then he tucked a falcon feather, long lying among the kobzar’s belongings, beside it.
“Remind yourself, Falcon-Bohun,” he winked. “Wings aren’t seen until you fly. But they grow—right here.” He tapped my chest. “And here.” He gave a light pat to my shoulder, where the wound still throbbed warm.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice suddenly hoarse.
“Don’t thank me,” Grandpa grumbled. “Remember.”
Grandpa laid a hand on my shoulder and whispered,
“Remember, grandson: it’s not a nickname that makes you a Cossack, but your heart. And today, you proved it’s true.”
We sat for a long while. The porridge cooled, the fire crackled, and the night draped over the houses like a warm coat. The osavul quietly told me about the Sich: how an osavul keeps order, how they punish a late alarm, how everyone has a place in the ranks, what signals they use on night raids. His words settled into my memory like wedges under wagon wheels—to keep me from rolling off course. Somewhere at the village edge, a horseshoe clinked—the forge was still awake, fixing a wheel rim. Women whispered over children, the priest arranged candles—tomorrow, the burial.
I sat by the fire, listening to the kobza and gazing at the sky, where the stars trembled like the eyes of those who’d passed. And I understood: from now on, my path was set.
Before dawn, a chill breeze blew in. The smoke thinned, mist drifted into the ravine. Roosters crowed—not in fear, but as always, in their place. We set a watch of two per post, replaced the wet blankets, shoveled more earth into the trench, and wedged supports under a weakened wheel. Grandpa led me to the oak where our fallen lay. The sky above them hung clear as ice, and in that clarity pulsed a silence that no longer frightened me.
“Remember their names, Ivan,” he said. “Petro, Mykyta, Danylo, Yerema, Ostap… Say them under the first rain, under the first wind. As long as we name them, they’re here.”
I repeated each name, and each became a knot on an invisible belt, tying me to this place, to this land. Fear wagged its tail, settled, and lay down. Exhaustion crept over me, covering me like a cloak. But beneath that cloak burned a small, stubborn flame. It didn’t warm more than the fire, but it didn’t go out, even as my eyes closed.
I lay down on a log by the wagons, propped my head on a mound of hay, and pressed the feather in my cap with my palm, as if reassuring myself it was still there. And I managed one thought—plain, without grandiosity or vows: we held because we stood together. And tomorrow—tomorrow I’ll do it again. And again. Until the steppe itself says “enough.”
Somewhere in the east, dawn grayed the sky. Our camp breathed slowly, in unison, like one body. The kobzar’s song still lingered in the air, like the scent of wormwood after rain. And from that scent, I felt: better death than a desert in the heart. Better a fresh, painful scar than a warm, quiet betrayal. Because freedom isn’t a shout; freedom is the order in your chest that keeps you from turning away.
And I fell asleep.
With fingers on the feather,
with the names of my brothers,
with a quiet “we” where once stood a lonely “I.”
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*Chambul (from Turkish "çapul" — robbery, raid) — a mobile unit of Tatar (Horde) cavalry.