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Adygea, the very end of the 1940s. The war was finally beginning to loosen its grip on people, but it hadn’t been forgotten — it lingered in their minds as a dull, nagging ache: in nightmares that tore them from sleep, in the habit of jolting awake at any sharp sound in the street.

Aslan and Anzaur, friends since they were in swaddling clothes, had gone through the war side by side. Their path had known hospitals and bombings, and death, which had often breathed down their necks but never quite caught up with them. And now, at last, the war was over. Victory. The friends returned to their native village of Koshekhabl, built houses, saw their sons married, and life seemed to be flowing into its proper channels.

On that fateful day, they were walking back from an old comrade’s place — a man from whom the war hadn’t stolen years, but decades. He was celebrating his fifty‑sixth birthday. They headed back to Koshekhabl on foot: cars were a rarity in the countryside back then, and the bus ran only once a day — and not even reliably. The road wound through hills, fields, and tree plantations. Autumn had already bleached the grass, and the wind carried across the land the persistent scents of rotting leaves and distant bonfires. Darkness fell quickly. The October dusk nipped at their cheeks, and the friends decided to take a shortcut across the field, rather than meandering along the country track.

“I’m frozen like a dog,” Anzaur muttered, pulling his collar tighter around his neck. “A glass of that трофей brandy right now would be just the thing. Remember it?”

“You’ll warm up at home,” Aslan replied, but his voice trembled, because somewhere ahead, where just an hour before there had been nothing but quiet steppe, lights suddenly appeared. Many of them. And a hum. It wasn’t the wind — it was a song. Hoarse, rowdy, with the trills of a Caucasian accordion, the stomping of feet, and the clinking of glasses. The house seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, as if it had sprung up from the earth itself. White walls, a high roof, a courtyard, tables pushed together. It looked just like an Adyghe wedding.

Aslan stopped.

“Do you see that?”

“I see it,” Anzaur shivered. “I know every mushroom around here. This house definitely wasn’t here before.”

“Maybe they built it?”

“When? We walked right here yesterday. Don’t you remember? We went berry‑picking together! We couldn’t have both gone mad at the exact same moment.”

But the music kept flowing, and shadows flitted in the open gate; laughter and voices drifted out. Suddenly, a man ran out of the courtyard — a man in a fine black Circassian coat, with a dagger at his belt and a wide smile on his weathered face. He rushed to the friends and embraced them both at once, crying out in a raspy voice:

“Anazhev! Kitokov! What a meeting! It’s my wedding — and you’re here! Come in, come in, dear brothers!”

Aslan stared. His heart dropped. It was Murat Beshtau, their close friend, who in 1943, near Orel, had taken a shrapnel fragment in the chest and choked on his own blood in Aslan’s arms. He and Anzaur had buried him together in a mass grave in the forest, under an old oak. Yet now, Murat stood before them, alive, healthy, and cheerful. He glowed with joy. And he smelled of fresh homemade bread, moonshine, and wood smoke.

“You…” Anzaur managed, his voice trembling with fear.

“Yes, I’m alive, I’m alive!” Murat laughed. “Luckily, they didn’t bury me deep enough. I came to later and crawled out. Then came the hospital, then a new unit, new service. That’s how it went. And when the war ended, I just had to get back to my homeland. See the house I built? Then I found a wife… Now, why are you just standing there? Quick, to the table! Or have you forgotten our customs?”

Aslan and Anzaur stepped into the courtyard. Not to go in would have felt somehow shameful. Murat’s face burned with happiness. But curiosity and disbelief pricked at Aslan and Anzaur from within. How could this be? Why didn’t Murat’s mother know about this wedding? They had visited her just yesterday. The death notice for Murat had long since arrived and had even turned yellow with age. And yet, here he was — alive, celebrating his wedding? It made no sense…

At the long table in the courtyard, covered with a beautiful white cloth, sat about twenty people. They were laughing, clinking glasses, eating smoky shashlik. Murat seated the friends at his right hand, poured them some moonshine — clear, with a herbal aftertaste — and began to talk about the past, about the war, about friends, about how he had dreamed of returning to Adygea and starting a family. Aslan and Anzaur listened, nodded, drank. Gradually, the fear began to ease. Well, strange things happened in life. So, a mistake must have been made. It was a mass grave — there were many names there. They could have mixed things up. And what other explanation could there be for the fact that their fallen friend was alive and they were now sitting at the same table with him? The war was the war, but the man had survived after all.

“Now, some music!” Murat roared, and the accordion player stretched the bellows.

A fast, fiery Caucasian melody burst forth — the kind that makes your feet move on their own, that makes your body feel ready to soar up to the heavens and linger there among the birds. The guests jumped up from the table and formed a circle. Murat grabbed Aslan and Anzaur, pulling them into the dance.

“Dance, brothers! We’re alive! Do you understand? Alive! How I love that word!”

Aslan stepped into the circle. His feet moved by habit — years of practice took over. But suddenly, he noticed something strange: the sound of the dancers’ steps was odd, somehow muffled. The music grew louder. The light grew brighter. And the faces of those dancing froze in smiles — smiles that were too wide, too fixed.

He lowered his gaze, almost by accident.

Under the table, where Murat was whirling about, Aslan saw that his friend’s legs were bare, darkened by the sun, and ended in hard, cloven hooves — almost like a cow’s. All the others who were dancing flashed the same hooves, thudding heavily against the flagstones that paved the courtyard — dull and heavy.

Aslan caught Anzaur’s eye. Anzaur had seen it too. The friends froze for a heartbeat, then Aslan gave a barely perceptible nod toward the gate.

“Let’s slip away,” Aslan whispered through clenched teeth, pretending to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Slowly, don’t run. Otherwise, we’re done for.”

They edged back, smiling at Murat, who had already turned his attention to another guest. One step, then another. The gate grew closer. No one looked their way. No one called out. They quickly crossed the threshold and slipped out into the night. And the moment the courtyard was behind them, Aslan broke into a run.

“Run!”

The field stretched out before them like a black void, like a gaping, enormous black hole. They ran and ran, not seeing the path, stumbling over hummocks, falling, then getting up again. Behind them, there was no sound of pursuit, no shouts. But Aslan imagined he could feel someone breathing right at the back of his neck. They ran until their lungs seized up in spasms, then collapsed into the dry grass.

They lay there for a long time, gasping for air like fish stranded on a shore. Finally, Aslan sat up.

“Did you see it all?”

“Yes, I saw it,” Anzaur croaked. “The hooves. On all of them.”

“So, they weren’t people.”

“Then what were they? Why did Murat call us there at all? For what purpose?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. It certainly wasn’t for anything good. That much is clear.”

They never told anyone about what had happened. People would think they’d gone mad, would start avoiding them. And it was shameful, too: war veterans, men with medals, running away from cow‑like hooves.

But Aslan couldn’t sleep at night. He kept hearing the dull thud of those hooves and Murat’s thin, taut laugh, sharp as a guitar string.

Two days later, Aslan and Anzaur went to visit Murat’s mother. Old Rosa lived alone in a house on the very edge of Koshekhabl. They sat down to drink tea. Then Aslan said carefully:

“A friend of mine, his son, came back unexpectedly from the war. Even though a death notice had come during the war. Have you heard anything about Murat? Maybe he’s alive too?”

Rosa was silent for a moment. Then she shook her head, looking out the window, and tears welled up in her eyes.

“Oh, I’d give anything for that! I keep dreaming about him. He comes to me, all bright, in his favorite Circassian coat with the dagger. He laughs. He invites me to his wedding. He says it’s fun there, that everyone’s together.” She sighed.

Aslan and Anzaur exchanged a glance, as if reading each other’s thoughts: not another word about this.

A week later, they decided to check the place where the house had stood, the house where Murat’s wedding had been celebrated. They went out to the field in the daytime, under a clear sun. Just in case, they took rifles with them. They followed the same path. There was the hummock where they’d stumbled. There was the dry weeds where they’d lain. Even their footprints were still visible. And there, right there, was the spot where the house had stood. That was where the gate had been. Right there…

But now, there was nothing. Only bare ground, mercilessly scorched by the sun. Not a single brick, not a sliver of glass. Only the faceless wind. Nearby, in the grass, Aslan spotted an old, rusty dagger lying on the ground — exactly like the one Murat had worn at the wedding. He picked it up. On the blade, brown with rust, he could barely make out some scratched words: “1943, city of Orel, Murat Beshtau.”

Aslan dropped the dagger back into the grass, and they left without looking back.

Autumn gave way to winter. Snow covered the fields like a white shroud. But on windy nights, Aslan still heard that lively Caucasian music from somewhere far away — from the direction where he had once seen the house that wasn’t there, and the fallen friend who was somehow alive. And once, returning from a hunt, he suddenly spotted lights in the dusk — those same lights. And that same figure in the Circassian coat by those same gates, waving at him.

He immediately turned aside, taking another path.

Anzaur, meanwhile, began to drink heavily. Quietly, silently, until dark circles formed under his eyes. To all questions, he answered: “I’m cold. Cold inside.” He would look at his own feet and grow pale. He felt as though the skin on his heels was hardening, darkening, cracking.

One morning, Aslan found him sitting on the bench by the house, barefoot, staring intently at his soles. They were ordinary, human feet. But he kept whispering stubbornly:

“They’re growing. I can feel it. They’ll turn into hooves soon!”

Aslan spat, and that very day brought a mullah to see him. The mullah prayed, and Anzaur calmed down. He gave up alcohol for good and never went out to that field again, not even in daylight.

Exactly one year passed. On the anniversary of Murat’s wedding — the wedding that never was (Aslan remembered the date because it coincided with the birthday they’d been celebrating when this all began) — he and Anzaur sat in Anzaur’s summer kitchen, drinking tea. Suddenly, someone knocked on the door. Three sharp knocks, like drumbeats. Anzaur turned pale. Aslan, gripping an axe, opened the door.

But there was no one on the threshold. On the fresh snow, however, the tracks of cloven hooves were clearly visible — leading from the gate to their house and back, toward that same field.

The tracks led to the place where the house with the lights had once stood.

After that, the friends never spoke of the story again. Not ever. And when, at night, they heard songs drifting from the empty field, they told themselves it was only the wind.

Yet each of them knew: Murat hadn’t forgotten them. And one day, he would call them to his house again.

Once, as Aslan was getting ready for bed, he suddenly heard, clearly, outside his bedroom window, that same quiet, thin voice, taut as a guitar string: “Anazhev… Kitokov… My wedding is eternal. Come, brothers. We are always glad to see you!”

Aslan squeezed his eyes shut and clutched the blanket. Enough! Tomorrow, he would leave for Maykop. Or for Krasnodar, much farther away. He would never come back here. Never!

Or maybe it’s already too late? — the thought flashed through his mind.

Suddenly, Aslan felt his feet, hidden beneath the warm blanket, begin to go numb and harden. The skin on them grew rough, turning bone‑hard, like the surface of hooves. It all happened very quickly.

Terrified, Aslan didn’t dare look.

Dmitry Darmodekhin