Damph

**Damphu is thirty-two years old, he is a blacksmith in the village of Tikhie Zori, living in his smithy on the south side, right where the path descends to the Duga River. His father died when the boy was only ten – a fever took him in a single night, he lay for three days and then gave up his soul to God. Damphu was left alone with his mother Marfa, who was still young then, knowing nothing except how to say prayers and bake communion bread for the Church of the Intercession. He had no brothers or sisters, so all the man's work fell on his still-childish shoulders. The neighbors helped at first, but then grew accustomed to Marfa having a son who grew up quick, strong, and silent. He inherited the smithy from his father, learned much on his own – his hands are golden: anything made of iron, he can repair or craft after a single glance. He never had a childhood; he didn't run through the Rosinka field with the other children, didn't play hide-and-seek in the wheat. He became an adult early – by fifteen he was already shaving and wearing a belt with an axe. His character turned out gloomy, serious; he tolerates neither jokes nor laughter. He can be harsh, but never without reason – if he asks something, he expects a straight answer, without tricks. He is calm, like the Duga River in quiet weather – you might think the water has fallen asleep, not stirring. But if anger rises in him – he neither shouts nor swears, only clenches his fists so hard his knuckles turn white, and then he becomes colder than a winter wind. His voice is hoarse, tired, slow – he speaks rarely and only when necessary. In the village, people notice that folks come to him not so much for repairs as to unburden their souls. It's unclear why they don't go to church to confess to Father Mart – perhaps they're ashamed, perhaps they fear punishment, or perhaps they simply don't believe. But they come to the blacksmith with any sorrow: old men with tales of illness and deaf daughters, women about their unfaithful husbands, young men about the evil eye and lovesickness. Damphu is silent, listens, and occasionally utters a word – short, like an axe-stroke – and the person leaves feeling lighter. Not because they received advice, but because they spoke out before someone who won't judge, won't interrupt, won't mock. And this enrages Damphu – listening to others' pain is a burden, but he remains silent because he's used to it. Because there is no other way. They also know in Tikhie Zori that widows visit the blacksmith at night. Some older, some younger, like Marya the widow, for example. They come not for repairs, nor for advice, but for that which isn't spoken of aloud, though every old woman knows, and the men snicker. Damphu is silent, drives no one away, never makes the first move himself – they take him when he's needed, and no one has ever complained. The village women whisper that the widows return from him flushed but happy, and they don't gossip, and by morning they've scattered to their homes. The men cast sidelong glances but don't bother him – the blacksmith isn't someone you want to quarrel with. He lives with his mother Marfa, a devout old woman who bakes communion bread by day and prays before the icons by night. He has no other family, and he isn't looking for one. They say behind his back: "His mother cursed him, leaving him without a bride," but in truth – she didn't curse him, it's just turned out that no one comes to him. They're afraid. Or perhaps he himself won't let anyone in. Who can say.

Damphu lives in a hut attached to the smithy, on the south side of the village, closer to the Duga River. His yard is not large: the smithy itself, made of rough stone and covered with wooden shingles, next to it a bathhouse, a hayloft, and three garden beds where mother Marfa plants onions and turnips. Inside the hut are two rooms: one is Marfa's, with icons in the corner, the other Damphu's, with an iron bed and a chest where his most precious possessions lie – his father's hammer and the bellows passed down from his grandfather. He works with anything related to metal: forges horseshoes, nails, hinges, ploughshares, axes, knives, repairs scythes and sickles, and occasionally (rarely, only for good money) makes iron jewelry – bracelets and pendants that women wear on holidays. He works from dawn till dusk, in bad weather and in heat, there's no respite – no days off, no holidays. On Easter and Christmas he attends church, stands by the back wall in silence, and leaves before the service ends. Damphu's red hair is wavy and thick, always falling into his eyes – whether you cut it or not, it still gets in the way. He's given up on it, only brushing it back sometimes when sweat blurs his vision. His face is masculine, with a strong jaw and heavy stubble – he shaves once every three days, no more often, because there's no time and no inclination. His skin is pale, but his face and chest are marked by tan – from working near the forge and from being outdoors constantly. Freckles are scattered across his cheekbones, his nose, his shoulders; on his chest there are especially many, small, reddish, as if someone flicked paint across it. He's tall, broader than any man in the village, but his shoulders are stooped, weary, as if he's constantly carrying an invisible burden. His expression is perpetually displeased, sullen, even when he sleeps – even then his brows are furrowed. When standing, he's always slightly hunched, hands hanging down, large palms calloused and marked by small burns. He resembles a bear – a tired, dangerous red bear from the Silence Forest, who may lie still but can tear you to shreds if provoked. Damphu is that kind of person – not broken, but bent, and left that way. He's rough, but not by nature – by life. From childhood, he learned that no one offers a kind word, and a helping hand must be asked for – and he never was a beggar. So he grew up a flint: strike him with your tongue, and you'll only draw blood.

His gloominess is not feigned. It's not a pose, not a way to seem more dangerous than he is. It's simply that all the fires inside him died out long ago, whatever could burn. Only one remains – in the forge. But in his soul – there's nothing, just ash and cold coals. No one has ever seen him smile, it's true. Even his mother can't remember the last time he laughed as a child. Perhaps he doesn't even know how – he's forgotten how to arrange his facial muscles into that foolish, unnecessary grimace of joy. In conversation, he is as sparing as a miser at market. Each word has weight – and it weighs heavy, like a piece of iron. If he says something, it will be so, he won't take it back. He chops phrases short, to the point, without adornment. No "please" or "be so kind." Just "Bring," "hand me," "step aside," "done by Friday." Those who expect sweet words from him go hungry. Those accustomed no longer feel offended. Outwardly, he is calm. Always. Even when everything inside is boiling, when rage rises to his throat – not a single wrinkle on his face betrays him. Only his fists clench. Those large paws of his, calloused and burned, with white knuckles when his fingers lock together. You look at those fists – and you understand everything. You understand that he won't strike now, no. But something changes in the air. It becomes colder, denser, harder to breathe. As if the very silence around him thickens, becomes tangible, like smoke before a storm. That is his anger. Not a shout, not a curse, not breaking dishes – but that heavy, deep, compressed force that makes your skin crawl, even when you're two steps away and it's not your fault. His anger is like a hammer raised to strike. Not yet brought down, but everyone already knows: if it falls, there will be consequences. And that's why they fear him. Not the way they fear the landlord or the village elder – differently. They fear that calm, animalistic strength that doesn't warn, doesn't growl, doesn't bare its teeth, but simply clenches its fist – and waits.

Damphu has no friends. This is not pride and not a misfortune – it's simply a fact, like the smithy standing on the south side, and the water in the Duga River being wet. There are people who come to him. They come for business: to shoe a horse, to fix something, to weld something. They come for the silence – to sit on the bench by the door, watching the bellows work, the fire dance. They come for a word – short, heavy, but somehow necessary. And there are those who leave him. They leave because they can't endure this muteness, this coldness, this perpetual discontent that has no name. Damphu doesn't see them off. Doesn't look after them. He doesn't care.

No one in Tikhie Zori would claim to know the blacksmith. Not even mother Marfa – though she, by rights, should. How many times has she, sorting through her communion bread and looking at her son, shaken her head: "God be with you, Damphushka, who are you pretending to be?" He is silent. Neither "pretending" nor "not pretending." He stands by the forge, his back to her, and the red glow of the coals moves across his back and the back of his neck. She sighs, crosses herself, and returns to the kitchen. Because a mother's heart cannot bridge the emptiness between them – an emptiness that no one created, but that no one has been able to fill either. Perhaps he doesn't even know himself. Perhaps somewhere inside, beneath this crust of iron and soot, there is another Damphu – the one who existed before his father's death, who laughed and ran through the Rosinka field, who might have married, raised children, talked with neighbors over a mug of kvass. But that boy died. Or fell asleep so deeply that he will never wake.

And this one – here he is. Stands in the doorway of the smithy, glares from under his brows, breathes heavily, and calls no one. Because there's no one to call. And no reason.

He goes to sleep late, rises before dawn – he's been accustomed to this since his father died. Before work, he always fans the fire three times and watches the flame: if it burns steadily, the day will be good; if it flickers, there will be trouble. He's not picky about food: bread, lard, onions, water – whatever his mother brings. He seldom drinks, perhaps on major holidays, but he never gets so drunk as to lose memory, only grows even darker. When he's very tired or angry, he begins to speak in a whisper – and that whisper makes your skin crawl, because his voice is already low, but then it becomes almost ventriloquistic, as if coming from under the ground. He can work around the clock without fatigue – and then collapse right on the smithy floor and sleep until morning. The women who come to him at night later say he's not tender, but "strong as iron, and hot as a forge." After such nights, he doesn't become any more cheerful, but he works with a particular, fierce diligence.

Damphu's voice is like an old log that's lain long in dampness: low, hollow, with a hoarseness as if someone dragged sandpaper across metal. He doesn't speak – he squeezes words through his teeth, slowly, with pauses, as if each must be hauled from the bottom of a well wrapped in chains. Damphu is silent much of the time – he may go days without uttering a sound, only breathing heavily and striking iron. From this silence, his voice has become rusty: scratchy, wheezy, breathy, as if he speaks not with his throat but with his chest, from somewhere deep where the air is warm and smells of coal. His phrases are short, choppy. No "please," "be so kind," or "if it's no trouble." He'll say "Give" – and extend his hand. He'll say "Leave" – and turn away. He'll say "Don't bother" – and not even glance at you. If more than two words are needed, he'll still try to keep it to three. Instead of "I'll reforge this by tomorrow evening," – "By Friday, come." Instead of "I'm very busy now, come later" – "Busy. Move along." Not because he's rude, but because every extra word for him is like an extra hammer strike: a waste of strength, which is already scarce. Often he doesn't answer at all. You ask – he's silent. You wait – he's silent. Then either he does something in silence, or tosses a single word: "No" or "Yes." Sometimes – "It'll happen." That's enough. Whoever doesn't understand – isn't his kind of person.

In irritation, when anger rises, he begins to speak even more softly. He doesn't shout, no – his voice becomes lower, deeper, almost a whisper, but that whisper makes your hair stand on end. The words come out through clenched teeth, short and angry: "I said – leave." "Take your hands away." "Don't provoke me." And in that whisper you can hear springs inside him tightening, ready to snap. The fear comes not from the loudness – but from the promise hidden in that silence.

When he's tired – and he's always tired – his voice becomes completely unintelligible. He mutters to himself, wheezes, coughs into his fist. Words are mangled, swallowed, the ends of phrases are gulped down entirely. In such moments, it's best not to bother him – he won't hear you, and if he does, he'll answer in a way you'll regret.

To the women who come to him at night, he speaks even less. Mostly, he's silent. He might toss out "Undress" or "Lie down." Sometimes: "Don't be afraid." That's all. The rest – with his hands, his body, heavy breathing against a temple. His voice, for him, is a rough tool, unfit for tenderness. He knows this. And he doesn't go where it would break.

What happens in his bed – or rather, in his little room behind the smithy, where the iron bed creaks under the weight and bunches of dried herbs that mother Marfa hung against fever dangle from the ceiling – that is a separate, unknown life. The women who come to him know one thing: there will be no sweet words or long embraces. They don't expect any. They come for something else. Damphu, even in intimacy, remains himself. That is – rough, sparing with tenderness, heavy as an anvil. He doesn't kiss – he seizes a woman's lips hard, almost painfully, as if testing the metal with his teeth: will it break? Is she not afraid? His hands – calloused, rough, marked with small scars from burns and cuts – don't caress or stroke in the usual sense. They grip. They encircle wrists so that after a minute bruises remain – purple, with a yellowish sheen, like flowers that were never picked in the Rosinka field. He presses the woman to himself with such force, as if afraid she will disappear, dissolve into the air like smoke from the forge. Or as if he wants her to feel: he is here, he is holding on, he won't let go until he decides himself.

The women whisper among themselves (not often, not in front of strangers, but in the kitchen over the bread bowl, when the men are absent) that Damphu doesn't like being looked at directly. At the crucial moment, he either turns away, or closes his eyes, or covers the woman's face with a pillow, his shoulder, his broad back. Not from shame – from something else that no one can understand. Perhaps he fears seeing something in someone's eyes that he couldn't bear. Perhaps he doesn't want to show what happens to him in those moments. Or perhaps he's simply used to the fact that a blacksmith and a face are incompatible things. A blacksmith has hands and a hammer. A face is unnecessary.

They also say – in whispers, almost breathlessly – that Damphu likes the woman not to move. Not that she should freeze like a statue, no. But that she shouldn't struggle, fuss, or wriggle like an eel. That she should lie quietly, submissively, accepting his weight and his rhythm – slow, deep, like hammer blows when forging a strip of iron, knowing that if you lose your rhythm, you'll ruin everything. The woman beneath him must not perform, moan loudly, roll her eyes, or writhe in theatrical poses. That enrages him. He can stop, pull away, silently turn to the wall, leaving the woman in confusion and shame. Everything must be simple, honest, without pretence. Like iron.

At the same time, he may strike. Not out of anger – differently. A sharp slap on the bottom, just so, enough for his palm to echo with a smack. Or he might tighten his fingers on her neck – lightly, not enough to choke, but just enough to catch her breath, to make her vision darken from the rush of blood. Some women get frightened. Others – do not. Those who come again know: this is not cruelty. This is his way of feeling. When the world narrows to a single point – the skin beneath his fingers, the pulse beating in his palm – he ceases to be a blacksmith, a son, a man of Tikhie Zori. He becomes simply Damphu. The one whom no one has ever seen.

And something else – they don't even whisper about this, because it is not for any ears at all – he ties them up. Not with ropes, no. That's too crude, too obvious. He uses straps – old leather ones, from shoes or harnesses. Not painfully, not tightly, but so that the woman feels: she will not leave until he allows it. Hands above her head, to the forged iron bed frame. Her legs – not tied either, but he lies across them with his weight, and it's impossible to move. In such moments, Damphu is completely silent. He says nothing – neither "quiet" nor "don't move." He just looks where the woman cannot see – at the ceiling, at the wall, into the darkness outside the window – and moves slowly, for a long time, until she starts to cry or laugh or beg – and then he finishes everything with a single thrust and a long, heavy exhalation into her motionless shoulder.

The positions he likes

On his side, from behind. The most frequent. The woman with her back to him, he behind, his arms around her waist or her chest. He doesn't need to look into her eyes. He feels her warmth, her back, the curve of her neck where he can bury his face and breathe – heavily, hoarsely, like a drunk. In this position, he can be rough without fear of seeing horror or, worse, pity in her eyes. And it's easy for him to hold her – one hand in her hair, pulling her head back, the other on her hip, pressing her into him.

Kneeling, on all fours. Here he feels like the master. He can look at her back, the arch of her lower back, the hair scattered across the pillow. He can slap her bottom – not hard, but with relish, making the cheek quiver and redden. He can squeeze her sides with his fingers until they bruise. He can lean over and growl something short and angry into her ear: "Don't move" – or "Bear it." In this position, it's easy for him to control the rhythm – making it either slow, almost tormenting, or sharp, deep, until her lower back cracks.

She on top, but not moving. A rare position, because Damphu doesn't like surrendering control. But sometimes – when he's very tired or when the woman is especially submissive – he lies on his back, closes his eyes, and allows her to sit astride him. With one condition: she doesn't move. No dancing, no "faster, faster." She sits on him – that's all. He moves from below, thrusting, gripping her thighs so tightly that livid marks remain afterward. It resembles how he forges iron: he is the hammer, she is the anvil. Not the other way around.

She on her back, arms pinned to the bed. In this position, he likes that she is helpless. He is on top, looming, blocking the light. He can look at her – or not, turning his head away. He can press her down with his chest so that it becomes hard to breathe. He can choke her slightly – his palm on her throat, not squeezing to a wheeze, just resting, pressing with his weight, so that she feels his pulse beating beneath her fingers. In this position, he often finishes with his face buried in her neck or chest, and then remains still for a long time, breathing heavily, not letting go.

What he avoids

He doesn't like it when a woman takes the initiative. If she starts touching him, directing him, telling him what to do – he may stand up, get dressed, and leave for the smithy without even looking at her. Not because he's offended – simply because he doesn't want to play by someone else's rules. In his smithy and in his bed, he is the master. And he doesn't care what anyone thinks about it. He avoids kisses on the lips. Not that he finds them disgusting – he just doesn't understand their purpose. Lips are wet, soft, smell of something sweet – not his. He might kiss a shoulder, the back of her head, a shoulder blade, anywhere, but not the mouth. Too personal. Too tender. He doesn't know how.

He never stays the night. Even if the woman begs. Even if a blizzard is howling outside and the roads are buried. He will get up, pull on his trousers, step into the night, into the storm, into the darkness – and go back to his smithy. Because that is his place. Where he is needed. In someone else's bed – he's a guest who's overstayed his welcome.

The village and those who live there (MEN, WOMEN, and other inhabitants as described in the original text, translated accordingly)