The Bull Man Commeth
NO MATTER WHERE IN the world the farmer tills, the very earth becomes a part of him. Its consistency becomes the expectation of his hands, when he runs the soil through his fingers. It must feel right to be tilled, right to be planted. The smell of his land lingers in his nostrils and sits in his clothes. He knows when the soil becomes poor and needs rest, when he has to augment it, when it is prime. Without fail he knows the right moment to prepare the ground, knows what seeds will thrive and which will sicken, and so he plants accordingly. However, once he has entrusted his treasures to the ground he can only hope and pray; for control of such circumstances as heat and frost, rain and draught are in the hands of God and the nature He designed.
Often Martin had preached long sermons about soil augmentation to anyone who cared to listen. Unfortunately, of his many listeners, there were few who followed his advice. “The dumb oxen must have noticed that their gardens are ten times more bountiful than their fields,” he complained to Christoph. “Don’t they understand that the kitchen refuse and the manure from the stalls produces these wonderful crops? Now why do they refuse to manure their fields?”
“Because the fields are twenty versts away, Papa, and they have enough to do already during the planting and harvesting season.”
“But one could do it in winter, with sleds,” Martin persisted with stubborn argument. The Meiningers had hauled manure to their fields before and been the laughing stock of the village for their troubles. Their crops had been better, but not sufficiently so to change anyone’s mind. To take his father’s mind off his favorite topic, Christoph changed the conversation.
They were driving along a rutted road through the meadows. Their destination was their own grazing ground, where they intended to collect their four beef cows, for it was time to breed them. They raised bull calves and the infertile or ill-favored females for slaughter, but bred healthy females.
The bull man had announced that he would come during the following days to the village and breeding would commence. Because bulls were very dangerous livestock, hard to keep, requiring strong pens and strong fencing in the pasture, few people in the village kept bulls. If a bull got loose in a village filled with children and older folks, tragedy followed. Another aspect was the cost of such animals. Good breeding bulls were worth a fortune. Therefore, it was reasonable to just rent the needed services provided by the bull man’s stock. Their need for breeding stock had developed the business of the traveling man.
He came to the villages, riding in his large, heavy wagon, drawn by three powerful horses. His vehicle was laden with fodder and sundries for his animals. Behind the wagon, safely attached to an iron bar, walked six fine bulls. They looked tame enough. Metal rings, pushed through the septum of their noses and attached to chains, kept them striding behind the wagon, closely keeping up the pace. Any inattention caused a yank on their noses and instant pain.
The bull man’s animals were not purebred by any means, but resembled favorite breeds closely, and their offspring was well thought of. One of the animals, a black and white one, was huge. His horns had been shaved down and tipped with metal. He was a favorite sire for the milk cows. Another, a brown beast, was compact, with a shorter face and shorter legs than the first and evoked instantly in the farmers the thought of meat on the hoof.
The third was a mean-looking yellow creature. In size he ranked between the two first mentioned. He was well muscled; an enormous dewlap covered his chest, and his withers were as high as those of the black and white one. Despite his threatening appearance, many farmers liked him best and bred their cows to him. Besides these three, the others were of lesser stature. One pure black and compact beast was rather small but well liked for his offspring. The other two were brown, longhaired cattle, not much to look at, but famous for their ability to survive very cold temperatures.
The owner of these bulls was a large florid man dressed in leather clothing, with the exception of a loose-sleeved, ocher cotton shirt and a blue neckerchief. His clothes did not betray the fact that he was a Don Cossack, although his thick black hair and fiery eyes hinted at these genes. They called him Ivan because that was one of the few Russian names they were sure of. Whatever his real name was did not matter – he responded to Ivan. He, in turn, pointed his finger at them, giving them funny Russian names. Needless to say, they loved Ivan. He did not charge too much for his sorely needed service. Inbreeding was always a problem, and so a constant exchange of breeding bulls and studhorses had to take place.
For many years Ivan had tended the herds on Field Marshall Apraxin’s estate, a largesse given to the great man by a grateful Tsar. There, Ivan saw that the farmers came from far away with their cows to breed them to Apraxin’s bloodstock, paying a hefty price for the privilege. The idea sprouted in his head that he should open his own business and work for himself.
The bull man’s presence always brought an instant carnival atmosphere to the village. Immediately upon his arrival a crowd surrounded the big wagon. The children drew close, but respectfully gave the bulls a wide berth, as the animals, standing docile behind the cart, were freed from the iron bar. The villagers called out to the big man, jesting with poor Russian vocabulary. He, remembering many of their names, teased them in turn.
Meanwhile the bulls were taken, one by one, to the Anger in front of the church. There, widely separated, they were staked out to graze.
Next, pens were found for each bull, and then the business of procreation could begin. A mottled line of eager customers formed. They carried the necessary kopeks in their fists, talking and smoking with their neighbors. When their turn arrived, they put their money in Ivan’s fist and indicated the bull they wanted their cow bred to. Ivan had an interesting way of making the money disappear into the huge pockets of his pants. The money almost slid there by itself, no obvious gesture was ever noted.
The moment the small transaction was completed, the cow was brought to Ivan, who leisurely led her to the pen with the chosen bull, so that nature’s work could commence.
Ivan’s stay always turned into a holiday for the village. Many families clamored to feed him at night. He, in turn, paid for his supper when sated, by pulling out an interesting instrument he called a Tcheng. They understood that the Tcheng’s origin lay in China, but many Russian tribes loved the instrument. Martin, of course, had to inspect it in great detail. It was a box with a flutelike mouthpiece. Inside the box Martin found resonator pipes, so constructed that the reeds vibrated freely.
The little children’s eyes shone the moment Ivan began to play. His tunes were haunting, wild, yet often as sweet as the night wind cooling the hot steppe. Oh, and his tunes were so different from any songs the Germans knew.
Ivan always played as long as he desired to hear his own creations, or as long as the householder filled his beer glass. Once he wanted no more of either, his tunes or the beer, he climbed into the back of his wagon to sleep. There, in a nest of fresh hay, under a warm fox fur, he slept the sound sleep of a happy man.
After a few days, his services completed, Ivan collected his bulls, tying them behind his wagon. He always left to the waving of many hands and many uttered blessings for his safety. With him gone, the humdrum days of the village began again.
In this manner Ivan came for many years, and then one season, when he was eagerly expected, he failed to appear, throwing the village into instant panic. Cows needed to be bred for a new crop of calves in March and there were not enough bulls available.
Die Gemeinde, the community, decided quickly that the problem had to be remedied at once. For one, the population of people and cattle had rapidly multiplied and more breeding stock had to be procured. At once a group of villagers was sent into the countryside to purchase bulls. They purchased, with community funds, six healthy looking animals, to be held in common for the poorest brethren.