The Red Scarf

by Kate Furnivall

  SOFIA flicked open her eyes. Her head hurt like hell. As though a splinter of iron were stuck in her brain. The air seemed as gray and warm as squirrel’s fur, and for a moment she couldn’t make out where she was.

  “Mikhail,” she murmured.

  At once his head bent over her and his lips touched her temple. “Don’t move, my love. You’ve taken a bad knock on the head.”

  Slowly things came to her, thought by thought, and she realized she was lying on her side, her head on Mikhail’s lap. He was sitting with his back against a pine tree, one hand holding her, the other holding the gun. Above them he’d rigged up a canopy of canvas, and under it he’d lit a small fire that hissed and popped when a splash of rain blew into it. She rolled onto her back, and gazed up at him. His eyes were full of concern.

  “Help me up,” she said.

  “No, my sweet, you must stay where you are. You have to rest.”

  “I’ve rested enough.”

  He didn’t argue further. Just sat her up and held her steady while the world swooped and danced around her. He placed a metal cup of hot tea in her hands and sat quietly while she sipped it.

  “Where are they?” she asked at last, leaning against him.

  “Over there.” He gestured off to the left.

  “Who were they?”

  “His henchmen. Come to retrieve the money and the horses.”

  “You’re not hurt?”

  “A bruise or two, nothing much.”

  He spoke in short bursts, barely in control of his anger. “They’re dead. Both of them.”

  She nodded, chilled by her own indifference.

  When she was ready, he helped her stand, and she insisted on going over to check on the bodies of their attackers because only seeing them with her own eyes would convince her that she and Mikhail were safe. For now, anyway. With Mikhail’s arm around her waist she stared down at the two corpses in the mud. The one with the ragged hair had a hole in the center of his chest and stared back at her with sightless eyes; the other was the ox-man with the scarred face from the hardware store. His throat had been cut in a livid slash and the rain was washing his clothes pink.

  She nodded, satisfied. Together they threw a few branches over the bodies and left them to the wolves, and then they struck camp, mounted their horses, and rode on.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  THEY rode the rest of that day and most of the night. At times they walked, allowing the horses a break, ears alert for sounds of pursuit and of the wild creatures that rustled and scampered among the trees just out of sight in the dusky gloom of twilight. Throughout the night the sky never grew totally dark above them, but under the canopy of the forest the path they picked over the pine needles was barely visible.

  They talked, but not much, careful of secrecy. To navigate, Mikhail used a small hand compass, but most of the time the terrain forced them to travel in single file with the packhorse trailing behind Mikhail’s mount, which meant they were too far apart to whisper any conversation, so they slid into silence and into their own thoughts. But just before dawn when the new morning was nothing more than a blush of gold on the topmost branches of the trees, Mikhail called a halt.

  Sofia looked reluctant to stop.

  “Enough,” he insisted, and he started to unsaddle his horse. It whickered softly when he lifted the weight from its back and nuzzled his shoulder.

  “Is it safe?” she asked.

  “We have to sleep, my love, and the horses need rest. We’ll do best to hole up here for two or three hours.”

  “No longer.”

  Her impatience to keep moving was always there. Mikhail walked over to her and slipped an arm around her waist, and he loved the way her immediate response was to lean the whole length of her body against him. What was it that gave this extraordinary woman such strength? He recalled what Rafik had said about her ancestry and wondered whether that was where she drew her inner core from. Gently he stroked her hair, but later, when they were stretched out on a blanket under the tall columns of the trees, there was nothing gentle about their lovemaking.

  It had a wildness to it, a fury that drove them to clutch at each other’s bodies. Her kisses came with teeth, his caresses came with a crushing force. When she finally threw back her head with a shout, and a deep moan tore from his throat, they collapsed into each other’s arms and lay like that, limbs entwined, exhausted and breathing hard. Both knew the anger was not meant for each other. It was meant for the world out there.

  MIKHAIL.”

  They had both slept.

  “What is it, Sofia?”

  He respected her instinct for danger and lifted his head quickly from the blanket but could see nothing but a haze of insects hanging lazily in the warm air. He flicked away a komar that was gorging itself on Sofia’s naked shoulder. Her eyes were half-closed.

  “Did you know,” she asked, “when we set off for the Krokodil display, that we would fly north in the airplane?”

  “I intended to try, but I wasn’t certain it would happen. That’s why I said nothing to you.”

  She rested her head on his bare chest. “Did the captain agree to help us for money?”

  “No.”

  “Why then?”

  “I used to work with his brother Stanislav at the aircraft factory in Moscow. He got into trouble once and I helped him. That’s all.”

  She nodded, a lock of her hair tickling his chin.

  "Thank you,” she whispered and set herself astride him.

  WHAT kind of man would do this? Risk his life for someone he didn’t know.

  Sofia sat on the riverbank, her feet trailing in the strong current, and watched Mikhail splash water over himself as fiercely as if he believed it could wash away his sins. She was naked and letting her skin dry in the sunshine. They had traveled relentlessly for ten days and were stealing an hour of rest before moving on. The yellow dog ambled past her on the grass, brushing its wet pelt against her shoulder, and went to lie in the shade.

  “What kind of man are you, Mikhail?”

  He looked over his shoulder at her, surprised. He smiled at her. “A fortunate man,” he said at last.

  “Really? Is that what you believe?”

  “Yes, with all my heart.”

  “Mikhail, for heaven’s sake, think straight! Here you are in the middle of a forest, no home, no job, no travel permit, with your life in danger every moment. So why say a fortunate man?”

  He scooped up a double handful of sparkling river water and emptied it over his head. To Sofia, with his hair slicked back and his muscular figure waist-deep in the water, naked and powerful, he looked like a sea god who had taken a wrong turn and swum up the River Ob by mistake. His whole body gleamed and glistened in the sunlight, the bruises muted now.

  “Fortunate because I have you, my angel. You’ve granted me a second chance.”

  “What kind of second chance?”

  “A chance to right a wrong.”

  “You mean . . . when you killed Anna’s father.”

  She’d said it. She had finally dragged the words from their hiding place and shaken them loose in the bright golden air.

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “And Fomenko? What about your killing of his mother? Is that a wrong you intend to right as well?”

  A pulse ticked in Mikhail’s jaw and he smacked his palm on the surface of the water sending up a rainbow of droplets, but when he spoke, his single word was calm.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he put a knife in my father’s throat. Tell me how I forgive that.”

  “I see. So when I asked what kind of man you are, maybe you should have answered a vengeful one.”

  He looked at her solemnly. “How can I be vengeful, my love, when Fomenko allowed us to take his mother’s diamond ring to rescue Anna?”

  Sofia buried her toes in the grass. “So when we’ve done this”— she tossed him a blueberry from the clutch in her ha
nd, and he snatched it from the air with ease—“will you stop hating yourself?”

  She watched the intake of breath rather than heard it, saw his stomach muscles tighten and his chest expand.

  “You know me too well, Sofia.”

  She laughed, and before she knew it he was charging at her through the river, sweeping sun-bleached waves in every direction as he rushed at her in a roar. She shrieked with astonishment and leaped to her feet, but he was too fast. His hand caught her wrist, sending the last of the blueberries skittering down the bank, and he pulled her to him. His wet body pressed hard against hers, his lips finding her mouth.

  Behind her the dog barked, two sharp high-pitched notes.

  “Quickly.” She threw herself into the water, dragging Mikhail with her.

  “What is it?”

  “Danger.”

  “Wolves?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Together they let the current sweep them rapidly downstream, and then they struck out for the shore at a spot where bushes reached down to the river. They crouched there, listening.

  “Our horses,” Sofia grimaced.

  “I tethered them for shade where the trees are thickest. If it’s a wolf, they’d already be panicking.” Mikhail brushed a strand of wet hair from her face. “What warned you of danger?”

  “It was the dog . . .”

  Suddenly the sound of men’s voices reached them and the whinny of thirsty horses sighting water. Upstream, exactly on the stretch of beach where Sofia and Mikhail had been standing, a patrol of soldiers tumbled out of the forest.

  THEY rode hard the rest of the day. The pine trunks whipped past as slender shadows and the blades of sunlight sliced between them like knives. They had waited in the undergrowth by the river until their shadows had lengthened and they were certain the patrol was long gone. The soldiers missed Mikhail’s horses tucked away deep among the trees, but their clothes lying at the water’s edge must have caused some comment. Sofia and Mikhail rode in silence, wary of further patrols, but they kept up a good speed and the horses’ flanks were flecked with foam. It was almost dusk when Mikhail spotted the silver thread of another river through the trees ahead of them.

  “We’ll stop here,” he said. “The horses need a drink.”

  “My canteen is nearly empty too.”

  “I’ll keep watch.”

  They dismounted and stood still, listening hard, but there was no sound except the bickering of crows, so with Mikhail in the lead they emerged from the ragged edge of the forest, but instantly he stopped dead. A groan escaped his lips.

  “What is it?” Sofia asked from behind. Then the smell hit her and she vomited.

  It was the patrol of soldiers. They lay like rag dolls that a child had tired of playing with and tossed aside, their khaki uniforms spoiled by holes and rust-colored stains. They were dead, all nine of them. Wild animals had been gorging on their carcasses, bellies torn open by wolverines, but worse were the faces. The eyes had been pecked into black holes by crows that still perched with a stiff-legged challenge on the chests of the young soldiers. Everywhere was encrusted with a shiny moving crust of flies.

  “Stay here,” Mikhail said and handed Sofia the reins.

  The horses were stamping their hooves and rolling their eyes with nostrils flared, spooked by the odor of blood. Mikhail tore off his shirt, bunched it over his nose and mouth, and moved down the grassy slope. The soldiers were young, none more than twenty, and each body bore a bullet hole, sometimes two or three. Whoever did this, did an efficient job.

  Without hope or expectation Mikhail examined each one, but none showed any sign of life. At one point he dropped to his knees on the soiled grass beside one boy’s body and held his hand. It felt warm to the touch, and for one insane second he believed the soldier’s heart must still be beating, but it was only the sun warming from the outside what could never again be warmed from the inside. These poor young men were Russia’s lifeblood, like Pyotr would one day be, and the sight of them sickened Mikhail. He lowered his head in his hands, but after a moment was taken by surprise when a hand stroked the back of his neck with a tender touch.

  “Who would have done such a thing. Mikhail? Bandits? Subversives? ”

  “No, it’s almost certainly horse thieves out here in this wild region.” He shook his head in disgust. “Nine lives in exchange for nine horses and maybe a couple of pack animals as well. But they’ll have to move fast if they hope to get away with their miserable lives.”

  “Come, quickly my love, we must go.”

  She stooped to pick up a rifle that was lying at her feet.

  “No,” Mikhail said. “Don’t take anything. When these bodies are found, the army will sweep through this whole region like the plague, and if you possess a single item belonging to this troop you’ll be . . .”

  He didn’t say the word. He didn’t need to.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  IS she there?”

  Rafik shook his head. "No.”

  "Is she close?”

  “She’s close to death.”

  “Can you save her?”

  “No.”

  A sigh like the moon’s breath whispered around the walls of the chamber. Three faces grew pale.

  “Save her.”

  “Save her.”

  “Save her.”

  “I cannot. I am losing her down a labyrinth.”

  Blood, like wine, was poured into a copper bowl.

  “She is too far from me. I cannot disentangle the shadows.”

  White flesh, like bread, was crumbled into the blood.

  “She is alone and beyond my reach.”

  Herbs, bitter as pain, were scattered on the glistening surface.

  “How can we protect her? Tell us how.”

  “I need greater power.”

  “Drink the blood.”

  “Eat the flesh.”

  “Swallow the herbs.”

  Rafik drank and looked at the faces gazing at him. “It’s not enough.”

  YOU’VE come.”

  The priest swept into the room, red hair ablaze, eyes rough as sackcloth. His beard gleamed like a breastplate of fire.

  “I’ve come.”

  “Your strength is needed.”

  “My strength is the strength of the Lord God Almighty.”

  Rafik rose to his feet, ghostly in his white robe. “The girl is in an abyss.”

  “All are in peril of the Bottomless Pit, all who worship the image of the Beast. It is written in God’s Word.”

  “Help us, Priest.”

  “Gypsy, if what you are doing provides food for the devil, the smoke of your torment will be never-ending and you shall have no rest by day or by night.”

  “We need her, I tell you this. She is rich in power.”

  “What are riches? God in his infinite wisdom tells us that it is when we think we are rich that we are at our most wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked. And as surely as night follows day, his wrath shall come to smite the scorpions of this earth.”

  “Priest.” Rafik’s voice rang out clearly. “This village knows too well that it is poor and wretched. Will you join with us?”

  “God will curse you, Rafik.”

  “Will you watch Tivil bleed to death?”

  “Sorcerers are condemned to dwell outside the City of God, and you are a sorcerer.”

  “Rafik.” It was the blacksmith, his blackened fingers pointing at the gypsy’s chest. “Tell the priest.”

  “Tell me what?”

  The light seemed to flicker and dart across the copper bowl as Rafik spoke slowly. “The girl has a stone, a White Stone. It has drawn help to her side already.”

  Priest Logvinov’s face grew pale as his long fingers sought the cross that hung on his chest and clung to it. “Do not blaspheme.”

  “I do not.”

  The priest shook his fiery locks. “The Lord says in the last book of his Holy Word, ‘To him that overcometh will I give to
eat of the hidden manna and will give him a white stone and in the stone a new name is written which no man knoweth saving he that receiveth it.’ ”

  “She has the stone.”

  FIFTY-NINE

  THE light was so clear and so white that at times the land looked made of bone. As they journeyed north through the taiga, the forest of pine and spruce thinned, giving way to open marshland that left Sofia feeling exposed. They were waiting for the creeping gloom of night before they crossed the flat wetland that stretched ahead, but every delay drove Sofia to distraction.

  “Patience,” Mikhail cautioned.

  He was adjusting the packs on the horses and picking burrs from their manes. The chestnut’s head hung low, its eyes half-shut, and Sofia was shocked by how weary it looked and how its ribs poked through its hide. It that how she and Mikhail looked too? She studied Mikhail as he tended the animals because she loved to see the skill with which his hands moved over them, soothing their twitchy skins the way he soothed hers. They didn’t talk much now; images of the dead patrol ousted words from their heads, and in silence her fingers ruffled the ears of the yellow dog that was resting its head against her thigh.

  “I’m not good at patience,” she said.

  Mikhail’s gray eyes skimmed over the marshland. “You’re good at other things.”

  “Anna’s out there.”

  "So are the soldiers who are searching for that patrol.”

  A thickset old man sat half asleep in the afternoon sun, leaning back against the timber wall of his solitary izba, a picture of contentment in the middle of nowhere. He wore patched trousers and a threadbare shirt, a twist of smoke rising from the carved pipe in his mouth, keeping the mosquitoes at bay.

  Mikhail greeted him pleasantly. “Zdravstvuitye, comrade.”

  “What can I do for you, comrade?”

  “My saddle girth has snapped and I need—”

  “In there.” The old man jerked a thumb at the barn beside the house, which was well built but slowly turning green with moss. “You’ll find plenty of tack hanging on the hooks. I’ve not much use for it now. Old Ivan is all I’ve got left to pull a plow.” He scratched his beard, a long gray mat that looked much older than his blue eyes. “Who’s she?” He smiled a welcome at Sofia.