“Why didn’t we ever do that before?” Vasyl asked when they parted.
Petro shook his head. “You know the answer to that.”
There was a pause, and then Vasyl asked, “How long?”
“Always, Vaska. On the first day we met, you listened to me. You made me feel wanted and…special.”
Vasyl closed his eyes for a moment. “All those years wasted.”
“Not wasted.” Petya kissed him again, then pressed his forehead against Vasyl’s. “I wouldn’t have Olena. We wouldn’t have Olena.”
“I was so jealous when you married Irina.” Vasyl leaned into him, put his arm around him. It still felt impossible, but Petya was here, solid and real. He smelled faintly of coal smoke and dark bread. “But I kept my mouth shut and smiled at your wedding.”
“Like everyone tells a good friend to do,” Petya agreed. “And then you decided to get married, like everyone tells a man to do.”
“I hate to break a romantic moment,” said Maroushka, “but you guys still have a honking big problem. Once the old lady gets her machinery reset, she’s going to suck Petie-boy’s brains out and put ’em into that old broom—or she’ll eat Vasyl. And probably Olena, too.”
Petya went pale, and resolve filled Vasyl. He got to his feet. “No. We’re ending this. Tonight. Now.”
“Sure, yeah, whatever.” Maroushka yawned. “Let me know how that turns out.”
Vasyl opened Broom’s control panel and swiftly pushed the faulty memory wheels back into place, then rooted through cupboards and drawers until he found a wrench with which to straighten Broom’s staff. Noises continued to emerge from the open door to Baba Yaga’s workshop. Vasyl restarted the wheels, and Broom shuddered to life as Vasyl dug the can of paraffin oil from his pack.
“Maroushka,” he said, “you know how to open the front door, don’t you?”
Maroushka eyed the can. “…No.”
Vasyl waggled the can so it sloshed enticingly. “Come on. You’ve been here for decades, haven’t you? Alone and neglected. What do you owe her?”
Maroushka licked her chops. “Look, it’s not that simple. Once you get out, she’ll chase you until the sun burns out. Yeah, the tesseract closes at dawn, real time, and the cottage will go…elsewhere, but it comes back every year, and she’ll be royally pissed. At you.”
Vasyl leaned his fists on the table. His bloodied hand twinged inside its rough bandage. “How will she chase us? In that flying mortar of hers?”
“Duh.”
“Fine.” Vasyl went to the workshop door and peeped in. Baba Yaga was standing at a control panel amid a large group of sharp-legged spiders. She twisted dials, and most of the spiders turned left. About a quarter of them froze and flipped over. Baba Yaga cursed and fiddled with the panel again. Petya came up behind Vasyl and put a hand on his shoulder. For a moment, Vasyl felt the old forbidden yearning. Then he remembered how things had changed and he put his own hand over Petya’s. Despite the difficulty of their situation, Vasyl couldn’t hold back the smile.
“If either of you meat puppets sets foot in there, you’ll set off five kinds of alarms,” Maroushka warned from the table.
“Broom!” Vasyl said, and Broom scuttled forward. “Slip in there and bring me those kegs of fuel by the forge. Don’t let her see you.”
Broom saluted and skittered into the room. Vasyl held his breath, waiting for the alarm, but nothing happened. Broom wasn’t alive. His handle bobbed and wove among the tables, just another mechanical going about its business. Baba Yaga’s back was to him, and she didn’t notice when Broom snatched up the kegs, one under each arm, and scampered back to the door. There was another bad moment when Broom crossed the threshold and Vasyl expected an alarm, but everything remained silent.
“Good job, Broom,” Vasyl said. “Put them by the table.”
Broom obeyed, puffing and squeaking. Petya squeezed Vasyl’s hand. “What are they for?”
Vasyl cracked a lid, expecting paraffin oil but getting another, rather dizzying, smell. “Uh-oh. I don’t recognize this.”
“That’s a fractional distillate of petroleum. Makes paraffin oil look like seawater.” Maroushka’s tail scythed back and forth. “I think I have a hard-on.”
“A hard-on? Strange for a female,” Petya observed.
“Strange for a female,” Maroushka echoed in Petya’s voice. “You’re hardly one to judge, light-foot.”
Petya balled up massive fists. “Now, look, you rusty little—”
“Be quiet, the both of you.” Vasyl replaced the first keg’s lid. “Maroushka, are you sure Olena is still all right?”
“She’s moved eight inches since the last time you asked,” Maroushka said. “Twice the length of Petro’s—”
“Good, good.” Vasyl straightened. “Look, you are going to help us, right?”
Maroushka hesitated and shot a nervous look at the workroom. “I do like you, kid, but—”
“When was the last time she even gave you coal dust, let alone paraffin oil?” Vasyl said. “I’ll even fill you with some of this petrol. You’ll lick my earwax, right?”
Maroushka gave a long, long look at the open workshop door, clearly warring with herself. Thinking. Vasyl held his breath. After an aching moment, she said, “All right. But I was only kidding about the earwax.”
The front door was locked with a series of dials and switches that had to be set to particular numbers in a particular order at a particular speed. According to Maroushka, a mistake would send a deadly jolt of electricity through the door and set off a cacophony of alarms as a sort of afterthought. Maroushka told Vasyl how to open them and repeated the sequences several times until Vasyl had them memorized, then went over to Baba Yaga’s loom, which stood near the open workshop door. Petya kept watch while Broom carried the kegs of petrol.
“Ready?” Vasyl mouthed at the cat.
Maroushka gave a distinctly nonfeline wave of her paw and Vasyl set the dials and switches by the door to the first sequence. Zero, one, one, two, three, five, eight, thirteen. He forced his hand not to shake. One wrong turn—
The first of the three heavy bolts slid back with a heart-stopping thud that echoed through the kitchen. Petya’s face paled.
“What was that?” Baba Yaga demanded from the workshop.
But Maroushka was already working at the loom. She pushed on the warp beam, jumped down on the treadles, then leaped back up to the beam. The loom banged and thumped. This only made the tangled threads worse, but that wasn’t the point.
“I am starting your weaving, Grandmother,” Maroushka said in Vasyl’s voice. “Just as you said.”
No response from the workshop. Vasyl traded nervous looks with Petya and went on to the second sequence, and the third. As each bolt clunked aside, Baba Yaga shouted for an explanation, and again Maroushka said “he” was weaving.
The door was now unlocked. Petya took Vasyl’s hand. The smith’s palm was warm and calloused. Petya said, “Go!”
Vasyl shoved the door open. An immediate alarm screeched. The trio didn’t take time to listen. They bolted out the opening and down the steps into cold air. Olena was standing at the bone gate.
“Papa!” she cried. “Uncle Vaska!”
Vasyl had never been so glad to see her. Petro ran forward and snatched her up. Vasyl and Broom dashed after. The noisome, moonlit courtyard with its dead windows and uneven cobblestones seemed absurdly normal after all those days inside Baba Yaga’s hut.
The moment the two men reached Olena, Baba Yaga herself appeared in the doorway holding a trembling Maroushka by the scruff of the neck.
“Traitor!” she screeched, though whether she meant Vasyl or Maroushka, Vasyl couldn’t tell. “I’ll devour you alive!”
Olena screamed. Maroushka twisted in Baba Yaga’s grip and sank her brass teeth into the witch’s arm. Baba Yaga shook her arm with a howl, and somehow Maroushka managed to leap up and attach herself to Baba Yaga’s face. More outraged howls.
“Run
!” Vasyl said.
They fled through the dark streets, following Broom’s blue eye lights. Petya continued to carry Olena, whose little face was tight. “I was worried,” she said. “And I followed you, even though I was scared.”
“You did a good thing, my Olenka,” Petya panted. “You saved us all.”
They turned down another alley. “Can’t she follow us in her flying mortar?” Olena asked.
“We stole the fuel,” Vasyl replied tightly. “But we’re not safe yet. She’ll—”
“Behind us!” Petya cried.
Baba Yaga was, indeed, coming behind them, running like a demon scarecrow, her long legs eating up the distance between them. Her iron teeth gnashed and blood ran from a dozen cuts on her face. Olena whimpered.
“Broom!” Vasyl cried. “Break the kegs!”
The kegs shattered like eggs in Broom’s arms, and a river of petrol cascaded down the cobblestones toward Baba Yaga. From his pack Vasyl drew the knife he had taken from Baba Yaga’s kitchen and stabbed at the stones. Sparks flew, and the petrol ignited. Fire roared. Heat sucked the air from Vasyl’s lungs and singed his eyebrows. Baba Yaga leaped back from the yellow flames.
“Go!” Vasyl gave Petya a shove, and they ran again, with Broom lighting the way. They reached a deserted crossroad and sprinted over it. In the distance, a bell struck five o’clock. Still an hour until dawn, when the tesseract would close. Vasyl gave himself a final look at Petya, knowing what he had to do.
“That fire won’t stop her for long,” Petya panted.
“I know.” Vasyl halted, as did Broom.
Petya ran a few more steps before he noticed he had lost Vasyl. He spun and shifted Olena to his other arm. “What are you doing?”
“We can’t outrun her,” Vasyl said softly, “and she said it was you or me. You have to think of Olena, so—”
“No!” Petya set Olena down and grabbed Vasyl by both shoulders. “That isn’t a choice, Vaska. It’s foolishness.”
Vasyl merely shook his head, unable to meet Petya’s dark eyes. “I’ve been a fool all my life, Petya. Especially when it comes to you.”
“What are you talking about, Papa?” Olena asked frantically. “She’s coming! Run!”
“I knew how this would end from the start, Petrushka,” he said, using Petro’s most intimate nickname. “You can’t let her take Olena.”
“Papa?” Olena said.
Petya crushed Vasyl to him, and Vasyl felt tears running down his face, and he didn’t know if they were his or Petya’s or both.
“How can I lose you now that I just found you?” Petya’s voice was thick and hoarse.
“You had me your whole life,” Vasyl replied, equally hoarse. “Now run!”
Olena’s protests about leaving Uncle Vaska behind faded as Petya fled with her deeper into the city. Vasyl swiped at his face with his sleeve and turned with Broom to face Baba Yaga. It wasn’t long before she stormed into view. Broom quivered and tried to hide behind Vasyl, but Vasyl grabbed the top of his staff and held him in place, though his own hands were shaking and black terror threatened to swallow him whole.
Baba Yaga loomed over him, clawed hands on hips. “So, it’s going to be you, my little mechanical. Very well. I’ll devour you raw and screaming in this place so the noise will remind all those people cowering behind their ordinary windows what it means to cross Baba Yaga.”
But Vasyl pressed the point of Broom’s staff against his heart. The life pulse throbbed beneath his ribs. “I offered you my soul, Grandmother, and you refused it.”
“You can’t bargain with something that doesn’t belong to you, boy.”
“But I can.” Breath coming in short puffs, Vasyl spread both arms wide, leaving Broom’s sharp spear at his heart. Broom remained motionless. “One word to Broom and I die. You won’t have taken my life, and our bargain will be nullified. Without the bargain, you can’t touch Petya, either, no matter what kind of future you saw.”
Baba Yaga’s eyes narrowed. “He doesn’t like suicides, you know. Would you choose an eternity of torment to ensure that your little Petya lives a few miserable years in freedom?”
“Yes. My soul, my bargain. My choice.”
“Liar.” Baba Yaga drew back her hand. Iron claws gleamed in silver moonlight.
“Broom!” Vasyl shouted. “Kill—”
“Wait!” Baba Yaga dropped her hand. Witch and man stared at each other for a long moment. The center of the universe shifted, and Vasyl felt empty and triumphant at the same time.
“Very good,” Baba Yaga chuckled at last. “I said I liked you, boy. You’ve earned your future. But think on this—a witch always fulfills her bargain.”
Still chuckling, she turned to stalk away, then paused and turned back. “By the way, boy, where did you find that delightful and delicious paraffin oil?”
“It’s my mother’s formula,” Vasyl said.
“Hm. If you ever want to share it with someone who can truly appreciate it, you know where to find me.” She vanished into the dark and stony streets.
Vasyl held himself upright for a moment, then grabbed Broom’s handle as his legs turned to bread dough. He stood there for some time, feeling his own heartbeat, tasting every breath.
Footsteps tapped toward him. He turned, expecting to see Petro. Instead, Broom’s little blue lights illuminated a young woman in a dark cloak. She gasped when she caught sight of Vasyl and flung back her hood. Golden hair spilled over the cloak, and azure eyes blinked at him. It was Hanna Vyktorevna, the mayor’s daughter.
Vasyl’s mouth fell open. “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t want to marry you,” she blurted. “I don’t want to marry anybody.”
“That’s still no reason to be out on the night of…oh. Oh!”
“If she can’t help me, no one can.”
“That way.” Vasyl pointed. “Better hurry, though. The tesseract closes in less than an hour.”
“Tesseract?”
“Just run.”
She gave a curt nod and started off. Vasyl called, “Hey, wait!” He dug through his pack and handed her a tattered, much-folded piece of yellow paper.
“What is it?”
“My mother’s formula for paraffin oil. It’ll give you a leg up when you bargain with her.”
Her eyes widened. “Thank you! You’re so kind, Master Tinker.” The new center of the universe kissed him on the cheek and dashed away.
Moments later, Vasyl let himself into Petya’s house. Before he could even shut the door, Olena flew into his arms and nearly knocked him over. Petya grabbed them both together and squeezed so tightly Vasyl thought he would never breathe again. He kissed Vasyl over Olena’s head, his strong fingers running through Vasyl’s sunset hair.
Vasyl set Olena down and kissed Petya back. The last of the fear and tension evaporated, and he gave himself up to the thrill and love that ran through him, the upswell of pure emotion he had been waiting for his entire life. He loved Petya and Petya loved him back and the rest of the world didn’t matter.
“I was right! I was right!” Olena squealed. Broom bobbed up and down.
They separated and Petya tugged one of her braids. “You were definitely right, my Olenka.”
“And now Uncle Vaska can move in with us and fix toys for children and be my uncle forever.”
Vasyl touched Petya’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Is she right? Am I moving in?”
“Of course she is. What better pairing could there be besides blacksmith and tinker? Everyone in the neighborhood is half expecting it anyway. No one will notice or care, as long we keep quiet.”
A terrible thought occurred to Vasyl. Petya read his expression and asked what was wrong.
“Baba Yaga said a witch always keeps her bargain,” he said. “Is she going to come back to finish the job?”
“Not to worry,” said Maroushka from the kitchen table.
Everyone jumped and spun. The cat was sitting calmly next to the lamp.
“How did…what are you…?” Vasyl stammered.
“What’s with the surprise? I can’t stay with Baba Yaga, duh,” Maroushka said. “And you make paraffin oil.”
“A talking kitty!”
“Hey! Hands off, kid.”
“All right,” Petya said slowly. “Why don’t we have to worry?”
“The bargain’s fulfilled. Baba Yaga’s future came true. Again, duh.”
“Because of you?” Vasyl asked. “If you live here, it’ll mean I came away from the cottage with a mechanical that can think for itself?”
She gave a paw a swipe with her tongue. “Hell with that.”
“Hey!” Petya snapped. “If you’re going to stay here, you have to watch your language.”
“Whatever. Why aren’t you going to marry the mayor’s daughter, kid?”
“Because I chose someone else.” He looked down at his own hands, and realization clicked. “Oh. Oh! Baba Yaga meant that I’m—?”
Petya took one of his hands. “We’ve known each other more than twenty years, Vaska, but you never reached for me.”
“Because everyone told me not to. I tried to marry because everyone expected it. I escaped my stepmother because my father told me to go. I even obeyed Baba Yaga’s rules without thinking.”
“The perfect little automaton,” Petya said. “Until she let me go to you and you chose to break her rules.”
Vasyl nodded. “I chose to think for myself. I chose you.”
Petya cleared his throat. “But there’s still the mayor. You can’t present yourself to him and claim—”
“Actually, I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” Vasyl interrupted. “Hanna went to bargain with Baba Yaga about the marriage, right? If Hanna wins, she gets what she wants, and she won’t have to marry me or anyone else.”
“And if she loses,” Maroushka put in, “there won’t be anyone for you to marry. End of bargain. Nice one, kid.”
“I think her chances are pretty good,” Vasyl said. “She’s pretty smart, and she has my mother’s formula.”
Clockwork Fairy Tales - A Collection Of Steampunk Fables Page 6