Oles Honchar (V) — Shore of Love

Later there will again be moonlit nights without the summer's heat, the first storms of autumn will again buffer at the shore, an unknown force that seemed to come from the far reaches of the universe driving foaming mountains of water onto this shore open to all the winds, where on a sandy rise, on a seaside dune, one can just make out the lonely figure of a girl.

The girl stands there in a thoughtful pose while the sea roars ("plays" as the folk song says), and there is something magical and incomprehensible for us in its eternal unrest, in the endless waves glinting in the transparent moonlight.

On such nights, when the whole shore is sunk in dreams, rocked by the rhythmic and boundless music of the surf, and when the solitary moon burns amazingly brightly in the sky while sparse white clouds scattered over the sea shine like silver and appear to have a light source of their own within them, then two common-or-garden geese-Ovid's maybe or Korshak's-come out to meet the surf, to meet the thunder of the waves and the glinting light. They spend their days quietly sitting somewhere but at night... The sea needs only to start playing, and they are already out on the shore. What attracts them there, what force drives these domestic birds from their cosy goosy shelter to the thundering noise of the waves onto this deserted and autumnally harsh shore? Are they guarding something or are they disturbed? Or is it perhaps an ancient instinct that prevents them from sleeping, a vague memory of the times when they could fly, when they, too, knew the tense rhythm of the flying wing, the delight and ecstasy of flight? There is no telling what is it in the thundering surf, the clouds shining over the sea, and all the bright magic of the night that enchants those birds which were raised amidst the tall reeds.

The geese walk side by side along the shore. They stand on the spot where Yagnich's ark looms over the sea - the "pirates"' tavern, silent at this time of year, and empty except for the old-fashioned lanterns which burn quietly on its deck: dim lights like these once winked in the winding alleys of the medieval port-towns which gave shelter to the sailing fleets. The mermaid in the moonlight excites one's imagination even more strongly. She truly does look like a smiling bird flying from the prow of the ship, straining forward with all her heart to the bright and movement-filled expanses.

Herds and droves of waves roll along in the moonlight, endlessly renewed, where in the summertime Ovid's lunar path shone serenely.

The white birds waddle slowly along the shore, leaving the weird prints of their webbed feet in the sand. People will see them in the morning. From time to time the geese gabble a few words to each other in their own language, comprehensible to them alone.

They reach the place and stop-two balls of snow stand out white before the dune. As if asking, on seeing the human figure:

"And who might you be?"

They stand, gabble some more, and move off. There is something mysterious, something unnerving in their nightly outings from their cosy habitat amidst the reeds of the wind-swept shore, to the roar of the surf. What unknown force sends this wise pair of birds here? Who do they protect the whole night long? Why do they listen so alertly to in the unencompassable expanses of eternity?

There is thunder all around and the light is bright. In front of every dune one fancies he hears the question:

"And who might you be?"

Meanwhile, over the hills and far away, the Orion sails in the blinding tropics on the wings of the winds, all sails hoisted, heading back to its native, its beloved shores.