Fate & Fortune

by Michaels, Fern

  The commotion woke Yuri. He arose from his bed, opened the door, and listened.

  “The Cosars are ours! Volin is no more!” shouted the men.

  Yuri couldn’t believe what he heard. His mind reeled as he tried to think. “Katerina, I must go to Katerina . . . she can’t be . . . I must get dressed.”

  Within moments, he was outside his host’s hut looking for a horse.

  “Ah! Yuri, my friend, I see you have heard the good news,” shouted Gregory above the din.

  “I must have a horse!”

  “A horse? You shall have one and anything else you may want this night,” exclaimed Gregory happily, as he motioned to a Terek to bring a horse.

  “Before I go—”

  “Go where?”

  “You must tell me what happened at Volin. What do they mean, Volin is no more?” Yuri asked hesitantly, afraid to hear the answer.

  “I am a hero now comrade. You have shared the hut of a Terek legend this summer,” Bohacky boasted.

  Impatient, Yuri lost control. “I demand you tell me what happened at Volin!”

  “I’ll gladly tell you. We took the Dons, slaughtered all the people, and burned the village to the ground. The Tereks are proud Cossacks now.”

  “Proud? You slaughter a village and you’re proud? What of Katerina? Did you kill her, too? You knew how I felt about her, how could you do this? She was all I had left. Your hospitality is no longer needed by me.”

  He jumped on the back of the waiting horse and disappeared into the night, the words of Gregory echoing in his head.

  Still seated atop his stallion, Bohacky laughingly mocked Yuri’s words and said, “Bah, women! Tonight’s victory is all we’ll ever need.” He turned from the darkness and looked at his village and watched as shuttered windows flew open and candlelight peeped out at the night. Heads appeared in windows and hands rubbed away the sleep.

  The Tereks quickly donned their tunics as the women scurried for their sarafans, and within minutes the men were out in the village circle, throwing wood on the campfire to brighten the area. Gregory ordered the women to prepare poppy cakes and kasha and sausage, and to ready a sheep and a goat for roasting on the spit. “Bring on the vodka, beer, and forty-year-old mead.”

  The handful of women in Khortitsa worked feverishly to cook the food for the carousing men, knowing that when they finished they would be allowed to return to their huts. Once inside, they would whisper among themselves of the night’s events, not venturing outside until the men had fallen into a drunken stupor.

  Khortitsa was a village of men. The women who were allowed to stay were middle-aged, forgotten and old before their time, forsaken by their husbands for the saber and life of the Cossack. Other tribes whispered about Khortitsa and its savage breed of Cossacks, the misfits of life: the killers, robbers, escaped prisoners, rapists, and political escapees. Khortitsa was a stewpot of vicious, cunning men. Cossacks who lived for the saber and the horse. There were no rules in the village. Rules were made for others, not for the Terek. Freedom was their motto, their life.

  The few daughters born in the village were quickly sent off to the Crimea for safety, the threat of rape and death hanging over them if they were allowed to stay, but when a male child was born a celebration was held which lasted for three days. When a boy reached eight, a saber was thrust into his hands and his training as a Cossack began in earnest. At the age of twelve, he was expected to perform as well as any man, and when he reached eighteen he was given his fighting outfit—wide trousers of pleats and folds, drawn in with a golden cord, boots of morocco leather, a Cossack coat of bright crimson cloth, and a sash, gaily patterned, into which went an embossed Turkish pistol and a saber. His hat was a black, gold-topped astrakhan cap. In his battle attire he was a Cossack to be feared, and his forging would come in the fires of his first battle.

  Campfires burned brightly along the roads of the village as the men ate, celebrated, and drank. The guards watched enviously, knowing their turn would come to join the merrymaking when some of the men sobered. For now their only concern was the safety and well-being of the Cosars in the compound, under heavy guard. They could eat till they burst, but they couldn’t drink.

  That night, and for several nights thereafter, the Terek celebrated the capture of their golden treasure—the Cosar horses—every pound worth its weight in gold.

  * * *

  Yuri Zhuk lay in the thicket and knew he was dying. Never a religious man, he prayed, in his brief moments of lucidity, that his end would be quick and merciful. A wild fever raged through his body, and his dark eyes were glazed with a thin white film. The pain in his throat and neck was so intense, he began to pound the earth where he lay. He had heard of others that lived with no tongue, but he had no desire to be one of them. He blinked as pain shot up his arm. For a moment he had forgotten the loss of his fingers. Blood spurted from the severed stumps of his hands, and he wanted to cry out, but he didn’t. Instead he rolled over and crushed his face into the welcoming dirt, the brush and twigs crackling with his movements. He wanted to savor this moment of clarity before he died. He wanted to remember how it was, and he wanted to remember Katerina’s face. If God chooses to smile upon me, perhaps the pleasant thoughts will drive away the pain, he thought as his mind wandered back in time.

  What a fool he had been. The moment he rode from the Cossack camp he should have known that they would come after him. How confident, how arrogant he had felt when he had ridden out onto the steppe at the end of spring. There had only been one thought in his mind: spend the summer cementing ties with Ivan’s allies on the steppe, get back to Russia, make up some story for the Czar to explain his failure, and return for Katerina.

  He knew he was being followed even now, months later, though he heard no sound. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and that was all the warning he needed. Making camp for the night at the first sign of dusk, he was certain that eyes watched him. Only once in the short time he waited for the Cossack did he have any feeling of panic. He had been trained well in the Czar’s army before his advancement to his present position and he would give a good accounting of himself, of that he was certain.

  The two Cossacks had ridden boldly into his camp as soon as darkness settled. The only light was the small, flickering campfire, which threw the two riders into ghastly, eerie shadows. Yuri had waited for what he knew was coming. Oles, the young Cossack from the village, had walked over to the fire and stood looking down at the Russian. From where he lay Yuri could see the wild gleam in his eye as he made a motion for his companion to dismount. When both men stood towering over him, Yuri rose to his feet, his saber held loosely in his hand. “What do you want here at this time of night?” he asked harshly.

  Oles and his friend stared at the Russian, their faces cold, dark, and forbidding. Yuri felt a twinge of fright. One man he could handle, but two Cossacks was something he hadn’t planned on. They would fight by their own rules, not the rules he had been trained under.

  “The Kat ordered your death. We were selected to carry out the order. You crept into our camp and tried to steal our secrets and then ravaged the hetman’s daughter. Your death is to be slow and painful. The secrets of our village will never find their way to Moscow and that lunatic Czar you serve under. We have finally succeeded in tracking you after all these weeks. Your tongue is to be removed and then your hands,” Oles said coldly.

  “Secrets be damned!” Yuri shouted. “It isn’t Katerina that is making you do this. I didn’t ravage her; she came to me of her own free will. I don’t expect you to believe me, but she didn’t tell me any secrets, and if she had, I wouldn’t divulge them to the Czar. I love her and want to marry her. My plans are to return to Moscow and settle things, and then I am coming back for Katerina.”

  “You lie; all Russians lie. The Kat said you lie, and that is all we need to know. Even if you somehow managed to escape us and return to Moscow, you would be too late. We leave for the mountains on the last d
ay of August. There is no way you could find your way into the Carpathians once the snows come. You were doomed from the moment you rode into our village.”

  So intent were the three men on their conversation that they heard nothing until a wild whoop split the soft, dark night. Yuri backed away from the flickering fire as a dozen men converged into the semidarkness with sabers drawn and evil smiles on their faces, Oles swiveled and immediately brought up his saber as he danced around the tiny fire. Iron clanked against iron as the three men fought for their lives. They were outnumbered, and Yuri watched as the valiant Cossacks lost their heads with wicked sweeps of the strangers’ sabers. He threw down his saber and waited.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Your executioners.” One of the men laughed. “Surround him,” the leader ordered his men, “and lash him to the horse. Throw those heads into a sack so they can be returned to Gregory.”

  * * *

  Katerina jumped to her feet; she had to get back to the village. Her father was right. Yuri had not come and summer was over. Had the Czar put him in prison when he failed to deliver his contract for the pure whites out of Whitefire? Had the Kat sent someone after Yuri and killed him? She would never know. Tomorrow they would go to the mountains, and that would end any remaining hopes.

  Her eyes were wild as she looked around the grassy copse and lashed out at the gnarled old tree with her booted foot. Now she would never know if he had lied or not.

  It would soon be dawn and time to start for the mountains, and still she hadn’t talked with her father. No, there was no point in trying to talk to her father now.

  It was a night made for lovers, but Katerina didn’t notice the warm, scented air or the star-filled night as the moon crept from behind its hiding place, lighting up the steppe as she trudged along the grassy field. She welcomed the indigo darkness when the moon slipped behind the cloud. The inky blackness was her ally, her confidant.

  Blinded with tears, she skirted a small outgrowth of shrubbery and raised her eyes when a high-pitched wail reached her ears. She wiped at her eyes, and for the first time was aware of the smoke on the road and around the pens. They were gone! All the horses were gone! Everyone was dead! All around the compounds and enclosures lay the lifeless bodies of the Cossacks. The buildings were burned and gutted, the stables nothing but smoldering ashes. “Father!” she screamed.

  “He’s over here.”

  Katerina whirled at the sound of the voice and ran to where an old woman, leaning heavily on a cane, pointed. She dropped to her knees and gathered her father to her, crying openly. “Tell me what happened—who did this?”

  “You know who did this!” the old woman shouted malevolently. “You are responsible!”

  “No! No! I was over by the copse. I didn’t know. I heard nothing, saw nothing. Who did this?”

  “They’re all dead! The horses are all gone. Soon I’ll die like the others.” The old crone cackled as she opened her shawl to show a large, gaping wound in her side. “They thought I was dead when they left.”

  “Who? Tell me, who did this?” Katerina screamed.

  “Your own father said you were a traitor to our people. You ask me who did this? It was the Terek Cossacks that rode into this camp, but it was your Russian that made it possible. With the horses, they could do nothing. Even with the two stallions, Snowfire and Wildfire, they could not breed, but you told the Russian the secret and now it’s over. Your heritage is gone! Your father lies dead! My husband and my three sons lie dead!” She coughed suddenly, and a bright stream of blood spurted from her dry, cracked lips. “Look around you, traitor, and see what your lusting ways have done. Bah!” she said, waving the stick she carried in the air. “He did not come for you as he promised. He will never come for you! Your father sent men after him when he left here. They were ordered to cut out his tongue and cut off his hands. Now he can never tell the secret.”

  “You lie! The children, the women, where are they?”

  The old woman cackled insanely. “Dead. All of them. I am the only one left, and soon I will die and you will be the only one alive. What will you do? How will you live with this on your soul?”

  How can this have happened? Katerina cried silently. “Where were our glorious fighters, where were all the glorious Cossacks?” she demanded bitterly of the woman. “Drunk with vodka water? Look at me!” she commanded the old woman. “They were drunk, weren’t they? Once we started the trip to the mountains, there would be no vodka during the trip and none at my father’s house. Speak the truth before you die, old woman!”

  “They fought superbly,” the woman said weakly. “There was none that did not rise to the battle. They died valiantly. And for what? To save the horses for you. For you, because you are your father’s daughter.” Suddenly she lashed out with her stout stick and brought it down on Katerina’s arm. The pain was excruciating, but Katerina made no sound as she watched the old woman fall to the ground.

  Katerina crawled over to the old woman and gently closed her eyes. “I didn’t betray my father or my people,” she whispered.

  There was a chill in the early-morning air as she waited for the sun to come up. Only her eyes moved.

  When the sun was high in the sky and the last drop of dew was scorched from the lush grass, she still sat. She stared at her father and at the others and did nothing. The pain in her arm was wild, and she welcomed it. It would keep her sane and remind her of what had happened.

  She was hungry and thirsty, but still she didn’t move. Food would lodge in her throat and choke her, water would make her vomit.

  By sundown the pain in her arm was alive and fierce. Her lips were dry and parched from sitting in the open sun all day. Still she sat, her eyes going from body to body and then back to her father.

  At dawn the following day, the stench of the dead bodies forced her to her feet. Hobbling to the water trough, she wet her lips with her hand and smeared water over her face, wiping it on the shoulder of her dress. She had to do something about the bodies. Carefully she explored her injured arm, feeling to see if any bones were broken. She could move it, but just barely. Another day and Mikhailo would know something was wrong when the caravan didn’t arrive in the mountains. He would ride down on horseback to see if something was wrong. But the dead had to be taken care of. The bodies would have to go into a drainage pit; when Mikhailo came, he could cover it over and give the necessary eulogy. There was no other way. She bit into her full lower lip till the blood spurted. Her amber eyes went to the pit at the far side of the enclosure and back to the dead bodies. She would have to drag them one by one till they were all taken care of.

  A grim look on her face, the cinnamon eyes narrowed against the bright sun, she started her grisly chore. Her arms felt as if they were being pulled from their sockets as she dragged body after body to the pit. Her legs gave out once and she collapsed, falling onto Olga’s corpse. She screamed and quickly rolled over as a gurgling sound from the body split the quiet air around her. If there was one thing she could be thankful for it was that Stepan had returned to the mountains to alert Mikhailo of their coming.

  This is my punishment for lying with a man, she said over and over to herself as she rose to drag another friend’s body to the pit. I am guilty of nothing except lying with a man. I will pay the price because I want to live. “I’ll drag everyone to the pit if it kills me,” she said harshly as she bent to grasp a pair of feet in her hands.

  Some time later, only her father’s body remained. Katerina looked down at him, her face expressionless. How could she drag him through the road like a sack of flour? The same way you dragged the others, a voice inside her answered.

  Savagely, she bent to grasp the big man under the armpits, her injured arm sending shooting pains down the side of her body. She clenched her teeth and began to pull him down the length of the road. Tears of pain and sorrow trailed down her cheeks as she cried over and over, “I did not betray our people! I harmed no one but myself.” Ov
er and over she repeated the words until she came to the pit. “I did nothing, Father,” she said quietly as she pushed his body in with the others. “Forgive me for what you thought I did. I forgive you,” she cried brokenly as she collapsed at the edge of the cavernous hole.

  * * *

  Mikhailo, the horse trainer from the House of the Kat, found her a day later, feverish and muttering in delirium.

  He looked around the devastated village and then at the girl. He shook his shaggy gray head as he picked her up gently and laid her down beneath the shade of a tree and sponged off her dirty face. From his saddlebags he lifted a goatskin and poured a trickle of vodka into her mouth, waiting for her to swallow. Her eyes opened, and at the sight of the old, weather-beaten face she sighed and slept. Mikhailo bound the injured arm in a splint and sat back, waiting for her to wake again.

  Angry at what he did not understand, the old man made a small fire and boiled some water. Carefully he added herbs and waited for the water to boil again. When it cooled, he would give it to Katerina for her fever. More than that he could not do.

  From time to time he would lay his hand on her brow and then spoon the herb tea into her mouth. She muttered and thrashed about, then would lie still, the dark lashes like smudges of soot on her pale cheeks.

  She was sleeping peacefully, a natural sleep; the fever had broken. He walked around the village, hoping that some explanation would rear up at him. From the countless blood-crusted weapons that lay upon the bloody roads, it was evident that the village had been attacked. Who? Was it some nameless tribe? The horses and the mares were gone. Thank God Whitefire and Stepan were already in the mountains. He knew why, there was no point in asking himself that question. There wasn’t a man, a Cossack, a soldier of a Czar, that wouldn’t pay, and pay handsomely, for the Cosar horses. Men had killed and fought for the horses, and they would kill and fight again.