The Breathing Sea II - Drowning

by E. P. Clark

  “Yes, by talking. A very inefficient method of sharing. Just like walking is a very inefficient method of moving. You humans are forced to talk and walk, but the rest of us have better means of getting our bodies and our thoughts around. Means that you could learn, young Tsarinovna.”

  “I don’t see why you want me back,” Dasha said. “First I told you yes, and then I ran away from you. If I were you, I wouldn’t want me back.”

  The domovaya fixed an eye on her. “Feeling guilty, Tsarinovna?”

  “No,” lied Dasha. “I’m not sorry for what I’ve done.” Well, that was true. She wasn’t sorry that she’d run away. She was sorry that she’d made things more complicated for everyone, but maybe the domoviye didn’t need to know that. It was the kind of thing that people liked to say was a good thing to be honest about, but even in Dasha’s very limited experience, she knew that that wasn’t true at all. Honesty was only the best course with other honest people. With those who thought they were being honest but were really being self-serving, honesty was just another arrow in the quiver they were aiming at you. But the domoviye didn’t need to know that either. “I just think you’d find me too much trouble now,” she said. “I would, if I were you.”

  “Ah, Tsarinovna, but a mother’s love is boundless.”

  “You’re not my mother,” Dasha told her. “And that’s not true in any case. Lots of mothers don’t love their children at all.”

  “Ah, but Tsarinovna…”

  “I’m not coming with you,” Dasha interrupted her. “Not yet. Maybe you’re right and there’s much you could teach me. Maybe you’re right and we’re the same, touched by the gods but of the world of women as well. But you can’t teach me when you’re so determined to do it. As long as you’re so determined to make me learn from you, there’s nothing that I can learn from you. It’s like…rape.”

  The domovaya rocked back on her heels and gazed up at Dasha, her round dark eyes even rounder and darker than usual. “Is that what you think, young Tsarinovna?”

  “It is,” Dasha told her. “You want to use me for your own ends, turn me into what you want me to be, and that makes you no different from that man at the waystation you rescued me from, or, or from Fedya, who wants to turn me into his twisted vision of what a girl should be, so that he doesn’t have to feel so bad about not being born one himself.”

  “And if the ends we’re trying to use you for are more important than you or I? If they require sacrifice?”

  “Then sacrifice yourself,” Dasha told her. “Make your own sacrifices, instead of demanding that I make them for you. Once you do that, then maybe you can teach me. But until then, it won’t be learning I’ll get from you, just enslavement.”

  The domovaya looked as if she were about to make some kind of cutting retort, but the sound of Daromila opening the outer door to the bathhouse made her cock her head, and then, as Daromila came through the inner door, disappear into the shadows.

  “What’s that?” asked Daromila, looking around. “I thought I saw something scuttle off. Was it a cockroach? We get terrible cockroaches sometimes. They don’t normally pester us here in the bathhouse, but they’re bold creatures and no mistake: the gods alone know where they’ll plague us next.”

  “Probably just the flickering flames,” Dasha said.

  “Oh, well, no doubt you’re right. Look: I’ve brought you some water, and some clean clothes. It’s just an old sarafan of mine, not nearly as fine as your clothes, but your clothes ain’t so fine any more, are they?”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Dasha.

  “Did you make ‘em yourself, or did your mother make ‘em for you? It’s fine work, either way.” Daromila fixed Dasha with a knowing gaze, and Dasha knew that she’d already guessed the truth.

  “No, seamstresses made them for me,” Dasha told her.

  “‘Course they did: anyone can see you’re a fine young lady, too fine to be making your clothes yourself,” said Daromila, nodding with pleasure at her own correct guess. “What family is you from, my dove?”

  “Ah…the Stepniye,” said Dasha.

  “The Stepniye! By all the gods! What’re you doing up here with us in the North, then, noblewoman?”

  “I, ah, I also have kin amongst the Severnolesniye,” said Dasha.

  “The Severnolesniye!” Daromila gave her a sharp look. “You must be a very fine noblewoman indeed!”

  “It’s…it’s of no matter,” Dasha said.

  “Of no matter! ‘Course it’s not of no matter! Searchers is probably running up the length and breadth of Zem’ already, looking for you, and here you is, right in our bathhouse! There ain’t going to be any trouble, is there?” Daromila asked apprehensively.

  “No,” said Dasha. “I’m sure everyone will be very grateful to you. But…”

  “But you were running away, weren’t you?” Daromila finished for her. “Running away from them and them castrates. And who can blame you? But maybe you don’t want to go back to them, do you? But that was your father, didn’t you say, noblewoman? What about your mother? Maybe you want to go back to her instead?”

  “Well…” In truth Dasha hadn’t thought that far ahead. The thought of returning home, to her mother and her bedchamber and the comforts of the kremlin, was very tempting. But that would hardly be a glorious end to her great journey, and if her mother went off to Pristanograd as she had said she might, she wouldn’t be waiting for Dasha back home anyway. “Maybe I should carry on to my kin in Lesnograd,” she said. “How far is it from here?”

  “Depends on the weather, my dove, I mean noblewoman, depends on the weather and how fast your horse is, but no more’n a few days, a week at most.”

  “That’s not so bad,” said Dasha. “I should carry on to them. They’re expecting me anyway, and it’s much closer than going back to Krasnograd.”

  “Krasnogorod! I thought you were from the steppe, noblewoman!”

  “Oh, well…part of my family is, but I was raised in Krasnograd. To, to make friends with the other princesses, and learn the manners of the kremlin,” said Dasha. It sounded feeble to her ears, and Daromila gave her a sharp glance, as if she thought it was a feeble story too, but she made no further questions, instead helping Dasha change out of her filthy clothes, wash off and bandage the wounds on her knees, and put on the old shirt and sarafan she had brought for her. It was plain work, but soft and sturdy, and fit surprisingly well. Which, since Daromila appeared enormous to her, made Dasha wonder just how big she herself really was. Then they went back into the main building and Daromila gave her some bread and jam, which Dasha fell upon like a starving wolf, and then, with the sky already lightening as the short early-summer night came to an end, Daromila led her to an empty bedchamber, and told her to sleep as long as she liked, and that they “would sort out all this mess in the morning.”

  ***

  Dasha awoke the next—or rather, the same—morning even more ravenous than she had been the night before. She made her way down to the main room, where Daromila was cleaning up the remains of breakfast and the last of the day’s travelers were preparing to set off.

  “Up already, my dove?” asked Daromila in surprise. “I thought you’d sleep the day away for sure. How are the knees?”

  “Sore,” Dasha admitted. “But I don’t think they’re taking septic.”

  “Well you can’t be too careful, you can’t be too careful…my uncle, may the gods watch over him, had the tiniest little cut on his toe, and it took septic, and that was it. Well, first there was a lot of suffering and sickness, and we cut off his foot, but it was too late and he died anyway. But I’m sure that’s not what’s in store for you,” she added hastily, seeing the look on Dasha’s face. “Breakfast?”

  “Yes, please,” said Dasha.

  “All I have is porridge…I could go out and kill a chicken for you, but it wouldn’t be ready till midday…in fact I’ll go out and do it right now…”

  “Porridge is fine,” Dasha interrupted he
r. “I don’t need a chicken. I don’t want a chicken. I just want porridge.”

  “Well, as you wish, my dove, as you wish…” Daromila gave her another sharp look. “You must be used to much finer breakfasts at home. You have maids bringing it to you on golden platters every morning, my head for beheading.”

  “Porridge is fine,” Dasha repeated, not wanting to admit the truth, which was exactly as Daromila had described it. “I eat porridge most mornings for breakfast at home, too,” she told her.

  “And a very fine porridge it must be, my dove, a very fine porridge it must be, a…”

  “It’s much the same as porridge anywhere else,” Dasha interrupted her again. “Although normally it comes with jam.”

  “That must be a hint for me to get out more of my jam, my dove,” said Daromila with a wink. “No, no, don’t protest: porridge and jam it is, and then we’ll have a nice sit and chat about what you’re going to do and where you’re going to go.”

  Dasha didn’t really like the sound of that, but she made no protest as Daromila brought out porridge, which was made of oats and was quite delicious, or maybe it was the plum jam she put on top, or maybe it was just the hunger. She ate it all down and was scraping the bowl for the last morsels when Daromila came out into the main room from the kitchen.

  “Still hungry, my love?” said Daromila. “I’m about to make pies: come back into the kitchen with me and I’ll give you some dried apples, and Yarya brought back the first strawberries of the season yesterday. I was going to save them for something, I don’t know what, but let’s just eat ‘em ourselves as a little treat, you and I, and not tell anyone.” She winked at Dasha as she led her back into the kitchen. “Are you sure you don’t want me to kill you a chicken? I’ve an old hen as needs killing soon anyway; she ain’t laid an egg in ages and all she does is eat. My head for beheading, every time I see her eat, I just want to pluck her up and wring her neck on the spot, it makes me so angry to see her gobble down food without giving nothing back. But that’s how some is! Always content to take without giving nothing in return. She was a good layer for years and years, but now…We’ve a calf we’re planning to slaughter soon too, for veal—I make the best veal pies in Severnolesnoye, ask anyone and they’ll tell you it’s so—but not quite yet. Stay till next week, though, and we’ll fix you up. Or maybe suckling pig…”

  “I don’t want any chicken,” said Dasha. “Or any veal or piglet either.”

  “You know, you’re not with the castrates any more,” Daromila told her, giving her a playful poke in the side. “You can have your pleasures, and no one’ll judge you here! We’re not like those sour-faced old men. I tell you, you let men run off and do things themselves, and this is what you get…cutting off their manhoods and the gods know what other kinds of perversions…even my Yarya, who’s as good a man as they come, well, I’d never let him out of my sight, I wouldn’t, I’d never let him go off and join the guards, or a sanctuary—they’re all the same, they are, all the same, they are…ah, here we are. Look at these strawberries! Smell them! Don’t they smell fine? What do you think? Eat ‘em now or put ‘em in pies? I need to make more jam, too, but this’s hardly a handful; no point in holding onto it. We’ll go out next week and gather bunches and bunches of ‘em, and then I’ll make such a mess of jam, you won’t believe your eyes! Though I might need more pots afore then…let me see…yes, look here, I’ve only a dozen or so left, the others has already been broken—well, that’s what you get for buying cheap pots of cheap clay—maybe I should buy the fine ones that the merchants bring in from Ovrazhskoye, down South where there’s a big ravine full of the best clay, what do you think?”

  Dasha tried to come up with a response to this dizzying barrage of information, and settled for, “If you can afford the nicer pots, you should get them, of course.”

  “‘Course I should, ‘course I should! ‘Course, that’s what a noblewoman’d say, isn’t it? I’ll wager your mother only buys the best pots, don’t she?”

  “Ah,” said Dasha. “Yes.” She took a seat on a high stool next to a workbench, and tried to answer Daromila’s constant stream of questions and comments as she chopped up the dried apples, mixed them with nuts—“the last of last year’s nuts; good thing the first summer harvest is almost here”—and set them to soak in honeyed water while she mixed and kneaded the dough and shaped it into little boats, filling them with the apple and nut mixture, brushing them with egg white, and then putting them all in a big oven. Then, still with no sign of fatigue or any evidence of tiring of holding up both sides of her conversation with Dasha, she took yesterday’s loaves of bread, split them open, laid cheese on them, and placed them in the oven to toast. “For dinner,” she said. “We always get a couple of travelers stopping by for a meal. Go and check the front, will you, there’s a dear, and see if anyone’s come in.”

  “Certainly,” said Dasha, and hopped off her stool and walked (very stiffly) into the main room. Not a word had been said yet of getting Dasha to Lesnograd, or sending word to her family that she’d been found. Although who would do so, Dasha didn’t know, so she saw no point in bringing it up till the opportunity arose. The inn appeared to be run by just Daromila and Yaropolk, and neither of them could be spared to carry messages or act as escorts, and Dasha wasn’t sure she wanted them as escorts in any case. They had both been very kind so far, but Daromila’s company was already beginning to wear on her, and judging by all her words, her kindness lasted exactly as long as it was convenient for her. And she wouldn’t even realize she was being unkind. Not the best traveling companion. Perhaps there would be a party heading North that Dasha could join. She didn’t have a lot of coin, but she could promise that her kin in Lesnograd would pay anything that was owed. If anyone would believe that promise. If, if, if…her head was aching again at the thought of how to get herself out of the mess she had gotten herself into, and she’d only been gone a day. Was this what traveling was like for everyone? Was this what it had been like for Svetochka, all the way down on that long trek to Krasnograd? Probably, but worse. Dasha shouldn’t complain. Only she wanted to, and telling herself things could be even worse didn’t make them feel any better.

  There were four people in the main room, who looked to be a mother, father, and two children about Dasha’s age. “Oh, there you are, girl,” said the mother, as soon as she saw Dasha. “Tell your mistress we’ll be taking dinner here. And be quick about it: we want to be on our way as soon as possible. We already had to wait far too long for your father to take our horses.”

  “It will be bread and cheese,” said Dasha. “Does that suit you?”

  The woman did a double-take and gave Dasha a startled look. “My, but you’re a fine one, ain’t you?”

  Dasha didn’t know what to say to that, so she only asked again, “Will bread and cheese suit you? It’s all we have ready.”

  “We were hoping for roast chicken,” said the woman, her mouth pursed in disappointment. Her daughter fidgeted and cast an apologetic look Dasha’s way.

  “I’m sorry,” Dasha said. “Bread and cheese is all we have at the moment. There may be pies with apples and nuts in a bit, though.”

  “We don’t have the time to wait for you to finish! You should have started your baking in time to have everything ready for dinner, instead of sitting around on your rump all morning! If you were mine, I’d beat you till you couldn’t walk! Where is your mother?!”

  “Krasnograd,” said Dasha.

  “And no wonder she sent you away, as useless as you are! I want to speak to your mistress!”

  “I’ll call her,” said Dasha, and, after receiving another ashamed look from the daughter, went back into the kitchen.

  “There are four people asking for dinner,” Dasha told Daromila. “But I think I might have made them angry.”

  “And how did you do that, my dove? Didn’t guard your tongue, did you?” Daromila, apparently forgetting her earlier astonishment at the news of Dasha’s lineage, wagged h
er finger at Dasha in a way that was probably supposed to be affectionate and amusing, but was really just annoying, especially on top of all the things the woman back in the main room had said.

  “I suppose not. I told them there was bread and cheese ready, and that seemed to make them angry.”

  Daromila sighed and rolled her eyes. “There’s always some,” she said. “I’ll go deal with ‘em. Can you take the pies out of the oven when they’re done?”

  “Maybe,” said Dasha doubtfully. “I’ve never done it before.”

  “Never done it afore…you are a useless one, ain’t you? What can you do?”

  Dasha thought about it. What could she do? “I’m a pretty good rider,” she told Daromila.

  “A pretty good…and what use is that when people are going hungry? Well, never mind: I’ll go deal with them in the main room myself, and be back before the pies burn.” She bustled off, leaving Dasha to sit alone in the kitchen and contemplate her own uselessness.

  But I’m not useless! she told herself. Being a good rider is important if you have to ride places. And being good with horses means you’re a good person. And I can do other things as well. I know how to deal with princesses—well, better than these people do, at least—and all sorts of things about languages and history and magic and lore, and that all is important if you’re going to rule. I just don’t know how to do the things that the people I’m supposed to rule know, like how to cook and clean and sew. And maybe I couldn’t rule—when I do rule, if I ever do—if they didn’t do those things for me, but they couldn’t do those things without good rulers to make sure they didn’t end up in a war or a famine or something like that. If I’d spent all my time learning how to cook and clean and sew and plant gardens and the like, I wouldn’t have had the time to learn the other things, and more importantly, neither would my mother. Where would Zem’ be if she did all her own cooking and sewing? Someone has to think about trade from the East, and invasions from the West, and the alliance with Avkhazovskoye, and the harvest, not just for one family’s little plot, but for the entire country, and what kind of justice we’re going to have and how it will be implemented, and…all kinds of things that you can’t think about if you’re busy making bread, but that someone has to think about if all the people are going to live in peace and plenty. And scholars have to keep records, and sorceresses have to learn spells, and priestesses have to study the will of the gods, otherwise we’ll forget everything we’ve already learned and never learn anything new, and none of them could do that if they spent all their time doing ‘useful’ things. But…her thoughts were interrupted by the smell of burning bread.