Blood Red Snow White

by Marcus Sedgwick

  Until, finally, he walked into this story and into the heart of the Tsarina.

  * * *

  Now the Tsar was more worried than ever.

  Rasputin was wild. He was illiterate, he was unwashed and smelled like a goat, and a dirty one at that. He dressed in a peasant’s baggy trousers and loose shirt, and his greasy beard was always speckled with bits of food, or crusted soup. His only redeeming feature, it seemed, were his eyes, which could still a room of a hundred voices.

  The salons and drawing rooms of the wealthy were already drenched in bizarre practices, occult dabblings, theosophy, and spiritualism. Séances were all the rage; the Tsar even suspected the Tsarina had toyed with a Ouija board in an attempt to obtain supernatural aid for her son. And now a wild monk had set up home under his very nose, and there was nothing he could do about it, for Alexandra insisted that God had sent Rasputin to cure her son, as no one else had been able to do.

  And even the Tsar had to admit that there was something in it. Whenever the boy grew ill, or hurt himself, Rasputin was called for, and the bleeding would stop, or slow much quicker than usual.

  On one occasion, when Rasputin was out of the city, Alexei was injured by a bumpy carriage ride, and a painful tumor grew in his leg. The court doctors told the Tsarina to prepare for the worst; he was going to die. In desperation Alexandra sent a telegram, begging Rasputin to return to the palace. Rasputin did not return, but instead sent a telegram of his own, telling the Tsarina that the tumor would disappear at six-thirty that evening.

  At six-thirty that evening, the tumor disappeared. Rasputin’s reputation was sealed, and nothing that the Tsar, or anyone else, could say would change the Tsarina’s mind about him.

  INCIDENCES OF THE BIZARRE

  STORIES TWIST AND TURN and grow and meet and give birth to other stories. Here and there, one story touches another, and a familiar character, sometimes the hero, walks over the bridge from one story into another.

  This was something that Arthur, the young writer, had learned. He read his fairy tales in Russian, and saw the same figures pop up here and there, first in this story, then in another. That’s why, when he came to write the stories into English, for English children to read, he created three characters who walk through the forest of the whole book, as guardians and guides to every tale. We’ve met them already. In creating them, they became real, and their names are Peter, the grandfather, and Vanya and Maroosia, his orphaned grandchildren.

  As in fairy tale, so in real life, and this is how it was with Arthur, too, for he himself was about to walk from one place, and one story, into another.

  * * *

  One day, Russia went to war.

  It had been several years since the Tsar last went to war, and it had ended badly that time. But the Tsar’s cousin, the Kaiser, had declared war on the countries surrounding his own. So here was another Caesar flexing his muscles, and the Tsar had to send his troops out to stop him.

  The Kaiser’s men sat in the middle, and the Tsar’s armies fought him on the East, and the armies of the Tsar’s other cousin, George, on the West. And for years it stayed that way.

  The soldiers sat in long holes in the ground, and pointed their rifles over the top from time to time, and sometimes would even try to attack each other, but apart from that nothing very much happened. The soldiers were good soldiers, and did what soldiers usually do, which is to say they made friends with each other, squabbled a bit, got very bored sometimes and very scared other times, and died when they were supposed to.

  The young writer knew all about this, and wondered whether he should go and join the soldiers fighting the Kaiser. His brother had already gone, and was somewhere fighting and killing, but Arthur was already in Russia, and had been given an important job, one that meant he didn’t have to fight.

  Instead, it was his job to report on the war to the people at home, and every day he would find out what he could about what the Tsar’s soldiers had been doing, and send a telegram to England, so that people could read about it in their newspapers over breakfast.

  But Arthur worried, and decided he needed to talk to a friend, a friend who lived in another city, a day’s train journey away.

  Nevertheless, he got on a train and went to visit his friend, whose name was Robert. They talked for a long and serious time about the war, and whether Arthur should fight, or whether he should stay and write about it. Arthur found himself wanting to write more fairy tales, but he didn’t say anything about that. Instead, he listened to Robert, who was also not a soldier, but had a job that meant he didn’t have to fight either. As Acting Consul-General he looked after the British people who lived in Russia, seeing that all their concerns were answered, and that they were safe. He explained to Arthur that some people had to do the sort of jobs that they did, and that it may as well be them as anyone else.

  After they had finished talking, Arthur still felt uneasy about it, and to try and cheer him up, Robert suggested they go out. That evening they went to a restaurant, a dining club called the Yar. It was a favorite of Robert’s, because it was a gypsy place, and Robert had a great fondness for gypsy songs and dances.

  The Yar was wild that night, as wild as ever.

  Arthur had never seen anything like it, not even in his young days when he met Ivy, but Robert seemed at ease, and that made Arthur relax, too. They had something to eat, and drank a bottle of wine. The restaurant had a large open space between the tables, and here the dancers would whirl and leap, athletic men in shiny black boots and lithe girls with olive skins. Around the sides of the room were cabinets. Small rooms hidden by thick red velvet curtains, where you could dine with a touch more privacy and a great deal more licentiousness. A dancer might be lured into one of these cabinets with the offer of some money, and not reappear for a very long time.

  Wine flowed and food was gobbled. Songs were hurled to the rafters, and then a rumor started to buzz around, spreading from one table to the next, whispered by waitresses with wide eyes and loose tongues.

  Rasputin was in the restaurant, having walked from one story into another.

  By now, his fame had spread far and wide. There were many, many stories about him, about the appalling things he was supposed to have done. He seemed, despite his hideous smell and frightful appearance, to exert some almost hypnotic power, especially over women. It was known that several ladies of the aristocracy had allowed themselves to be debased by him, and his drunkenness and lewdness knew no bounds. He was said to be a great lover, and it was even rumored that he was having an affair with the Tsarina herself.

  Arthur and Robert looked at each other with excitement as they heard the news. Neither of them had ever seen the man in the flesh, and they knew the stories, though there was one story that no one knew, no one outside the palace, that is. Rasputin’s miraculous healing of the Tsarevich had been kept secret, known only to the members of the court closest to the Tsar and Tsarina.

  A waitress leaned close to Robert and Arthur.

  “He’s in there,” she hissed, nodding at a curtain on the far side of the room, “with two men, and three…”

  Here she leaned even closer and whispered even more quietly.

  “… prostitutki.”

  There was a crash of glass and a series of loud shrieks from behind the curtain.

  Even the whores had had enough of the beast. The curtain flew open for a second as one of them ran from the restaurant cursing and shouting. The other diners froze, forks halfway to their mouths, as they caught sight for a brief moment of Rasputin, his trousers round his ankles, waving his penis at them.

  The curtain swung shut. Police were called, doors continued to bang and swing open. The police arrived, but when they heard who they had been sent to arrest, they refused to do anything. More calls were made, to higher and higher powers, until finally the Chief of Police came. He personally led the absolutely inebriated and docile Rasputin out of the club and away to a prison cell.

  The following day,
however, the Tsar ordered not only the release of Rasputin, but the dismissal of the Chief of Police as well.

  Arthur and Robert, like everyone else, were speechless, but then they didn’t know the secret of Alexei and his blood. All they saw was the Tsar making inexplicable decisions.

  * * *

  It went like this:

  There was blood in the boy, Alexei. Tainted blood.

  Only Rasputin could temper the disease, and therefore the Tsarina forgave him anything, because she knew he was a gift from God, and the Tsar could do nothing but agree with the Tsarina’s wishes.

  “Better Rasputin,” he said, sadly, “than my wife and child should suffer.”

  And Rasputin’s word went undisputed.

  So when Rasputin told the Tsar that his army would only be victorious if he were at its head, the Tsar left the palace, and went off to the war, leaving Rasputin alone with his wife and child.

  * * *

  And, just then, while the Tsar was far away, the bear began to stir, deep in the darkness of its cave.

  It opened one eye, and it was hungry.

  VLADIMIR AND LEV, THE RUSSIAN AND THE JEW

  THE BEAR HAD FORGOTTEN what it felt like to walk through the trees, padding heavily in and out of the silver birches and firs, the snow balling and clumping between his claws. He’d forgotten what it was like to swipe a salmon from the river as the fish leaped upstream to go home to spawn. He’d forgotten what it was like to rub his back against bark, and feel the North wind trying to run its icy fingers through the thickness of his fur.

  All he knew was that he was hungry, and that he had to stop this hunger.

  He lumbered out of his cave, thinking solemn bear thoughts about food, and made his first stumbling steps out into the winter morning.

  The snows were as thick as they had been for five months. Every branch was ice and crystal, and shone with the immaculate beauty of a fast hoarfrost. He remembered now what it was like, the world that he had missed during his hibernation, twelve long years of sleep. Slowly, thoughts and desires crept into his brain, but the hunger in him rose above everything else.

  It made him light-headed, and he swayed on his feet as blood began to pump in him as it had done, so many years ago.

  * * *

  Now, only a few trees ahead of him in the forest, stood two men deep in conversation. One was a Russian, the other a Jew, and they were firm friends, though they spent much of their time arguing.

  They would argue about all sorts of things, but each would listen politely to what the other had to say. First, the Jew, whose name was Lev, would argue that the people of Russia should be its true masters, and while he did, the Russian, whose name was Vladimir, would stroke his small and excellent beard. Then they would swap, and Vladimir would argue that while what Lev had to say was true, they should not forget that people need guidance from enlightened minds. And Lev would stroke his own small and excellent beard.

  Then they’d each light a pipe, and have a good long smoke, while they thought what to argue about next.

  The two men, who had both been born in Russia, had since traveled all over the world, and had discussed these questions with many people. There was never silence, wherever they went; there was always talk, talk, talk. Vladimir and Lev had spent the last few years abroad, though in different countries, and at last they were back together in Russia.

  It was now, as the Russian and the Jew stood under a tall silver birch at the edge of a clearing, smoking their pipes and stroking their beards, that the bear lumbered into view.

  Lev and Vladimir froze, but almost immediately realized that the bear had stopped in its tracks, and showed no sign of attacking them. Very quickly, because both men were very clever, they understood that the bear was confused.

  Lev winked at Vladimir, and Vladimir winked back at Lev, because they knew they had found precisely what they’d been looking for. They sauntered over to the bear, each puffing hard on his pipe to hide the fact that they were actually scared, pretending to be as nonchalant as pigs caught in the pantry. Nonetheless, Lev had one hand on the revolver in his pocket. He didn’t know how to use it, but it made him feel much better knowing it was there.

  “Good Morning, Bear,” Lev said to the animal, who, now that they were up close to it, seemed even bigger.

  “Good Morning, Bear,” said Vladimir, but the bear said nothing in reply. Lev and Vladimir looked at each other for a second, then quickly turned back to the bear. It wouldn’t do to take your eyes off such a creature for too long.

  Lev had an idea. He knew what he should say.

  “What’s wrong, Bear?” he asked.

  The bear answered him.

  “I’m hungry,” he declared, in a booming voice that made the snow tremble from the tops of the trees and flitter down around their shoulders.

  “Ah,” said Lev. “Of course you are. Of course. You’re hungry and that’s no way for a bear to be. You need food! And maybe you need more than that, too … Well, you’re in luck, because it just so happens that I, and my friend Vladimir here, are able to help you.”

  The bear slowly turned his gaze upon the Russian, who bowed so low that he was brushing the snow off his cap for weeks afterward.

  Then the bear spoke for a second time.

  “Indeed,” he said.

  “Indeed,” said Lev. “For why should a creature such as yourself, such a powerful and noble beast, go hungry? You deserve better! You should be the king of the forest, and want for nothing. And why? Because you have been starved. You must rise up and fight. We will show you how, but you must stand against the man who has taken the food from your mouth!”

  “And who is that?” asked the bear, who still seemed a little puzzled.

  “Why,” exclaimed Lev, “the Tsar, of course. He’s the one responsible. He has starved the land, and you, the great Russian bear, for too long. He must be swept away! Wipe him from the face of the earth, and you will go hungry no more!”

  “The Tsar?” said the bear. “The Tsar, the Tsar…?”

  “Yes,” cried Lev, getting angry himself now, “the Tsar, and the whole system he controls. A handful of people, unimaginably rich, who have taken everything this country has for themselves, and left you with nothing! Now you must fight to get it back! You must fight.”

  Now the bear understood and as he understood he became angry and his hunger only made his anger worse. All the time that Lev had been speaking, Vladimir had sidled out of view of the bear, and had crept around behind him. He’d pulled a frozen but stout branch from a nearby tree, and it had snapped, leaving a vicious point on the end. He looked over the bear’s shoulder, and with his eyes asked Lev a question.

  Lev nodded, ever so slightly, and with that, Vladimir shoved the spike of the branch as hard as he could into the bear’s enormous rear end.

  The bear howled and shot forward so fast that Lev had to throw himself onto his backside to avoid being trampled there and then. Before he could even get to his feet the bear was out of sight, careering away through the trees.

  Vladimir took a couple of steps forward, shouting after it as it went.

  “The Tsar! You have to destroy the Tsar! Remember! The Tsar!”

  * * *

  Lev stood up and dusted himself off.

  “Well,” he said, “Do you think that will do it?”

  Vladimir nodded.

  “Nothing will stop what we have started,” he said, “because it’s been waiting to happen for three hundred years.”

  And everything he said was true.

  * * *

  Nothing would stop the bear, and that was why, as Grandfather made his way back to the hut to see Vanya and Maroosia and tell them a bedtime fairy tale, the bear bowled out of the trees and ploughed straight toward him.

  The old man barely had time to see it coming, and the monster charged him and struck him, sending him flying through the air. The bear knew nothing about it. He was in such a blind rage that he couldn’t see, and had ju
st one thing on his mind: one person, the Tsar.

  But Vanya and Maroosia heard the noise from inside the hut, and ran out into the snow without even stopping to put their boots on. First they saw a trail of broken branches and undergrowth leading away, and then they saw a dark shape huddled in the snow nearby.

  It didn’t move.

  The children ran over, and knelt by their grandfather.

  “Oh, Grandfather,” they cried, “are you all right? Please get up and tell us you are all right.”

  But Grandfather said nothing, because he was dead.

  EXECUTION

  THAT LAST TALE WAS A SAD ONE, a very sad one. Once upon a time, more stories had sad endings than happy ones. There was more cruelty casually done than happiness lightly bestowed. Unhappily for Vanya and Maroosia, they were in one of the saddest stories of all.

  Now the children had lost not only their parents, but their beloved grandfather, too, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, the fact was that the bear didn’t mean to do it. It was just an accident. Utterly unavoidable, but somehow inevitable, too.

  The bear hurtled on through the forest, heading for the Tsar, and Lev and Vladimir followed slowly on behind, in his tracks. They picked their way through the undergrowth of the forest, stopping now and again to refill their pipes, and argue about what they would do when they got to the city.

  * * *

  Even before the bear arrived in the city, another story was reaching an end there. The story of Rasputin.

  His behavior had grown even worse, if that were possible. Not only was he molesting the women of the palace, perhaps even the Tsarina herself, but men as well. And he had engineered the situation so that the Tsar was away at war with the Kaiser. Added to that, suspicion had long ago taken root in many people’s minds that the Tsarina, who was German after all, might not want what was best for Russia. Perhaps Rasputin was a spy, sent by the Kaiser, to work with the Tsarina in plotting Russia’s downfall.