Зима: …
Зима: Please ... don't ... follow me again ...
He turns around to leave, beginning to regret his refusal of Mr. Medvedevich's earlier offer.
The chickadee crouches on his shoulder, keeping a black, seedy eye on the journalist.
Journalist: Sir, I have no other choice.
Journalist: When I arrived here, the boatman told me that it would be at least 14 days before the barge next docked.
Journalist: Until then ... I really have nowhere else to go.
Зима: …
Зима: So, head south ...
Journalist: I'll probably die from hopelessness and exhaustion before I ever make it.
Journalist: You see, all these things I have with me are just like my life—completely useless!
Journalist: To be honest with you, I've come all the way here and found nothing! Absolutely nothing! I'm totally clueless.
Journalist: Even if I manage to return alive, I'll be laughed out of the room by my peers. Every part of this horrible trip will have been a total waste of time.
Journalist: But if I follow you, and if luck is on my side, I might discover something new.
Зима: …
Journalist: You seem like a kind-hearted person—
Зима: ... I'll ask ... my friend. I'll ask him to lead you to where ... humans gather ...
The chickadee jumps with dissatisfaction. It seems to be very much against this suggestion.
Зима: Alright, alright.
Зима: …
He thinks hard, trying to find a way to satisfy everyone.
Does it usually take this much energy to deal with humans? Maybe he should not have answered any questions in the first place.
Зима: What ... do you want?
Journalist: … sigh!
Journalist: You still don't get it, do you? All your problems would be solved if you just agreed to let me collect some of your poems and stories!
Journalist: Look, if you agree to this, I'll have the motivation to leave the island. No need to worry about what comes afterwards.
Journalist: I'll go back to minding my own business. No more following you around—
Зима: Is ... that so?
Journalist: Yes!
Зима: Then ... Ahem, ahem. I ... agree. Take them ...
Journalist: …!!!
Journalist: Thank you so much! I'll retain your right of authorship.
Зима: I don't need ... credit.
Journalist: But the author must always be named. Otherwise, what will the readers call you? "The Poet of Devil's Island?"
Зима: ... Actually ...
He makes eye contact with the chickadee on his shoulder. A name slips off its tongue.
Зима: ... "зима" is good.
"The poet gave the journalist permission to take the sheets of parchment."
"But just when he thought that life would return to normal—"
Sonetto: ... "thought"?
Sonetto: So, it didn't then ...
Sonetto: Oh, my goodness ...
"More people embarked on the path to the island, paved with blood and stone, in search of his poetry, his stories, and him."
The island has never been more crowded.
The forest is filled with masses of people. They swell and separate, bumping and shoving into each other like live sardines writhing in an open can.
Tourist I: Is this what the papers were talking about? Stones engraved with poetry and fables?
Tourist II: It must be. This place is just like the frozen wasteland near my hometown. If you don't work the land until your hands are riddled with frostbite, then nothing comes of the place. It's amazing that зима can continue to create here ...
Tourist III: It's more than just amazing ... It's downright unbelievable. I heard that зима has been stranded on the island for so long that he can communicate with animals. He's almost a savage.
Tourist I: ... If someone who can write poetry as great as his is considered a "savage," then doesn't that make the rest of us all the more primitive?
Tourist III: Maybe he survives by gathering fruit and hunting?
Tourist II: The first person to report on "The Poet of Devil's Island" was the now-editor-in-chief of "The Truth" newspaper, Suvorin. He certainly didn't say anything about that.
Tourist II: But ... Ha. He got the sheets of parchment with зима's poetry and was promoted from investigative journalist to literary editor as soon as he returned.
Tourist II: Last month, he sent all the sheets of parchment to an exhibition. I saw them at Mikhailovsky Castle. They were written in French and Russian, and something that looked like Latin ...
Tourist I: So, what you mean to say is that зима can write in three languages and therefore cannot be a true savage.
Tourist III: He's a cultured savage.
Tourist I: What an oxymoron ...
Tourist I: Nonetheless, I've been getting more and more curious. His collection of poems has been out for so long, but has anyone actually seen зима in person?
Tourist III: Are you implying something? Do you think this is some kind of elaborate hoax?
Tourist II: I don't see why anyone would set up a hoax to increase tourism to, uh, this place ...
Tourist II: Besides, the poems on the parchment and on the stones in front of us all seem so real, don't they?
Tourist II: Anyway, I hope this is all real. I traveled here so that I might see him in person.
Tourist II: Chekhov's "Journey to a Distant Island" already seems like a hoax to me at this point. The conditions here are much worse than the book described.
Tourist I: Did you forget about the war ...?
Tourist II: Well, зима doesn't mention that in his works.
The sound of their discussion echoes through the forest.
The echoes reach the ears of a neatly uniformed duo, a little way away. They are approaching.
Investigator II: The person living on this island must be quite eccentric. I mean, engraving words on rocks by the sea ...
Investigator II: Traces of arcane skills on the beach ...
Investigator II: Heh, we even found writing on the cliffs in places where a pigeon couldn't perch.
Investigator II: Although the traces are obvious, they are totally irregular. Interesting.
Investigator II: Oh, maybe this time we'll encounter a bear with several doctorates and serious social anxiety ... like Mr. Mishka.
Investigator I: Don't make such arbitrary guesses. Especially about such boring nonsense.
Investigator I: Quit contemplating and focus on the mission.
Investigator I: There are even more arcane skill fluctuations here than on the cliffs ...
Investigator II: That proves we're on the right track. Where are these fluctuations?
Investigator I: …
Investigator I: On those rocks up ahead.
