The Ocean of Time

by David Wingrove

  Back on the boat, Bakatin berates me for being such a fool. ‘You should have let me deal with that little arsehole.’

  ‘Maybe, but don’t you think it curious?’

  Bakatin’s voice rises. ‘Curious? Being robbed?’

  ‘No. That they’re not afraid. None of them. Blagovesh I can understand, but not these villagers. You’d think they’d be terrified. After all, we used powerful magic back there on the river.’

  That stops Bakatin in his tracks. For a while he’s silent, trying to work it out. Then he shrugs. ‘Maybe they haven’t heard.’

  I laugh dismissively. ‘No, Fyodor. It isn’t possible. Besides, two of them are right here, in the village.’

  His surprise is almost comic. ‘Here? In Belyj?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure of it.’

  And I am. One of them was in Krylenko’s boat when I shot the bastard. The other was in the right-hand boat, one of the oarsmen. But here they are, in Belyj, as calm and unaffected as if they’d witnessed nothing back there on the river.

  Which is strange. Taking one of the packages of copper from the cart, I return to the smithy.

  The smith looks up as I appear in his doorway. The ‘unfinished’ item is now an elaborate-looking ladle – a real luxury item, by the look of it – and I wonder who it’s for. Blagovesh, perhaps?

  I stand over him, waiting for him to finish before I speak. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  The smith sets his tools down and wipes his hands on a piece of sacking. ‘I know you, yes. You’re the sorcerer.’

  ‘I’m …’ I shake my head, more confused than ever. Yet when I look at him again, I see the ironic smile.

  ‘You don’t believe that, then?’

  ‘That you’re a sorcerer?’ He looks me up and down, then shakes his head. ‘Not impressive enough. You’d be more arrogant, more …’

  ‘Strange?’

  He doesn’t answer that. Instead he asks a few questions of his own. ‘What did you use? Fire arrows? A crossbow?’

  It’s my turn to be surprised. The man’s a rationalist! Smith that he is – powerful mythical figure that he is in his own right – he clearly does not believe in myths and legends and the hobgoblins of rumour. I laugh.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My name?’ He turns aside. ‘My name’s my business and mine alone. Now … have you the copper?’

  ‘Yes, and you can have it all. Only … answer me a question.’

  He turns back. The darkness in his eyes is still and empty, like a night without stars.

  ‘Okay. Ask me.’

  ‘The two who were with Krylenko when he attacked us. What did they say?’

  The smith smiles drily. ‘That you used great magic to uproot trees. And that you sucked the brains out of Krylenko’s head through a tiny hole, just like a child would suck the inside from an egg.’ He takes a long, sighing breath, as if such talk tires him. ‘I told them at the inn that it was nonsense. Oh, I’m sure something must have happened, but there were such rumours. Such outlandish rumours! And look at you! Can you suck my brain out of a tiny hole, Nemets? Can you uproot this smithy with your magic wand and send it tumbling through the air in a great ball of flame?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. Then I was right.’

  And he turns away, all matter-of-fact, a one-off in this age of mumbo-jumbo and superstitious clap-trap.

  If he is from these times.

  Only I’ve little doubt that he is, for why would the Russians place a man here in this shit-heap of a place? Simply to wait for me and make me a leaf-shaped brooch? That makes no sense. Besides, the Russians don’t have skills like this man displays; they haven’t the time to waste on developing them.

  No. The smith is just an oddball. As out of place in time as he is in space. A rationalist – a seeker of simple explanations – in an age that sees a dark, distorting mystery behind events.

  I smile, then hold out the cloth-wrapped package that contains the copper.

  He turns, stares at me a moment, then comes across and takes it from me and unwraps it. Placing it down carefully, he removes one of the tiny ingots and weighs it in his hand. He sniffs at it and licks it, and then he nods.

  ‘This is good.’ And for the first time he looks at me, and smiles. ‘So, what kind of leaf do you want?’

  178

  Our business in Belyj is done. The food is loaded on the boat, bought at an exorbitant price – famine rates, so Bakatin says – and we have removed ourselves to the opposite bank, mooring just upriver from the village for the evening. As the sunlight fades and the moon begins its slow climb up the sky, I send Bakatin and his sons ashore and, hoping that my timing’s right, begin to try to win her back.

  The brooch is in my shirt pocket. It’s a real beauty, a genuine work of art, the metalwork so light, so delicate, it looks as if a real leaf has been transmuted into metal.

  Katerina is sitting just beyond the cart, on the long bench seat in the stern, so still and silent that in the half-light she seems to be part of the boat. Moving carefully, the boat swaying gently beneath me, I make my way back, then sit across from her.

  ‘Katerina …’

  She is looking away, as if into the depths of memory, but at my words she turns and looks at me.

  ‘What?’

  It is the first word she has spoken to me since the fight.

  ‘I wanted to say sorry. And I want you to forgive me for frightening you. For making you afraid of me.’

  She’s silent a moment, then, ‘You scared me. I thought I knew you, only …’ I wait, and in a while she continues. ‘Only I didn’t. I don’t really know you at all, do I, Otto?’

  There’s something in the way she says it; something in the way she looks at me in that moment, that makes me realise she wants the truth. The whole truth, no matter how strange or disturbing it might be. But can I tell her that?

  I look down, almost afraid to meet her eyes and lie to her. ‘Katerina, I—’

  ‘You’re a stranger, Otto. You walked out of the night and stole my heart. And now … now I can’t trust you any more.’

  The thought of it shocks me. But why should I be so surprised? That glimpse she had of the weapon’s power was a glimpse of a different me, of a more powerful, more secretive person than the one she thought she knew.

  She speaks again, her eyes searching mine. ‘I want no barriers between us, Otto …’

  ‘I can’t promise you that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because …’

  ‘Have you another wife … back in Germany? Is that it?’

  ‘Katerina … no …’

  But she has touched upon a raw nerve. Not wife, but wives. A hundred wives and more.

  Mein Volk. Mein Schwestern.

  ‘It’s because you, well, you just wouldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Try me.’

  I laugh, then look away, pained. ‘You’ll think me mad. And then I’ll lose you. Lose you for good.’

  She reaches across the space between us and gently turns my face towards her. ‘No, Otto. Not if it’s the truth. However strange it is, however … odd. I want us to be as we were – as I thought we were. No secrets. No hidden rooms in our heads.’

  I stare at her, surprised by her maturity. By how quick and intelligent she is. By her inner strength. Or is it, rather, the idealism of youth? The untarnished hope that lies within a young heart? Whatever it is, it moves me – moves me more than anything she’s ever said or done – because it’s what I too want, deep down. A life without barriers. A life shared – in every single aspect – with the one person in all of time and space who completes you.

  Urd protect me, but that’s it. Completion, that’s what I crave, more than anything in the whole vast universe: utter, unconditional completion.

  I stare at her, seeing the beauty within her and without. ‘Okay. But you have to take what I say on my word. I can’t prove it. Not now, anyway. Later, possibly, but right now you have t
o believe me. You have to take me on trust.’

  Her eyes look back at me clearly. ‘If it’s the truth, I’ll know.’

  I nod, suddenly, almost absurdly convinced of it. Right now I could tell her anything – anything at all – providing it were true, and she would know.

  ‘I’m not from here,’ I say. ‘Oh, I’m German, German through and through, only … I’m not from this time.’

  ‘Not …?’ She struggles to take that in, then gives her head a little shake as if to clear it. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that I come from the future. From the days to come. I can go there and come back.’

  She laughs, and then her face clouds over once again. ‘I don’t understand. You can’t just—’

  ‘Oh, but I can. And I have. Hundreds of times. I’ve travelled back and forth across the centuries.’

  ‘Then tell me somewhere you’ve been. Something that you’ve seen.’

  I think a moment, cursing the fact that this is such a benighted age. If Katerina knows any history at all, it is of Novgorod, or at best, of Kievan Rus’. But then I think of something.

  ‘I have seen Christ.’

  ‘Christ?’ She is visibly shocked. ‘You have seen our Lord?’

  I nod. ‘I was with him in the garden of Gethsemane, with Jesus and his disciples, in that last, awful moment before the Romans came and took him. I saw Judas come slowly up the path in the twilight and greet him with a kiss. His hand cupped Jesus’s cheek so … I …’

  I falter, because she is looking at me now as if I am the world’s greatest liar. But it is true. I have seen so many things. I was there, for instance, when Barbarossa, in June 1190, in the very moment of his triumph over the infidels, fell from his shying horse into the River Salef in Armenia and drowned, the weight of his armour carrying him down into that fast-flowing current. And I was there, on-board the Standard in 1703, when Peter, later called ‘the Great’, looked about him at the wild, flat empty marshlands of the Neva delta and decided he would build a city there.

  I take her hands, willing her to believe me.

  ‘Oh, Katerina, I have seen so many things. Things both wonderful and terrifying. I have seen great kings deposed and imbeciles set up in their place. I have seen vast cities rise from the smouldering ruins of the old, and I have seen the sky turned black with bombers.’

  ‘Boh-mahs?’

  ‘Ships, only with wings, sailing in the sky, throwing down great pots of fire – bombs – on to the people below.’

  She looks away, troubled. ‘All this is true, Otto? You see things that are yet to happen? You have … visions?’

  ‘Yes. Only these aren’t visions. I’ve actually been to those places and witnessed those things with my own eyes.’

  ‘But … why exactly are you here, Otto Behr? What are you doing here?’

  Being with you. Only I know that won’t be enough. I can see that she’ll need to know it all. And so I begin, explaining it, piece by piece, trying to make sense of it all to her. Four-Oh and Gehlen and the great dark castle of Asgard. And the War, and Time and …

  Dawn comes and we are still sitting there, only I’m quiet now, letting her digest what I have told her.

  ‘Well?’ Bakatin asks me, as I come ashore. ‘Is it all mended?’

  I shrug. ‘I’m not sure. But at least we’ve talked. At least …’

  ‘At least?’

  At least she knows now. Only I could change it in a moment, jump back and last night would not have happened. Only now that it has, I want it to remain. I realise now just how heavy a burden it has been, keeping it from her. And though I’m still afraid of how she’ll take it, I feel a real relief.

  I look to Bakatin. ‘At least it’s done.’

  For no particular reason, I feel in my pocket and my fingers close over the delicate shape of the brooch. I take it out and stare at it a moment, surprised that I’d forgotten, then turn, meaning to go back and give it to her, there and then. But I stop. Now is not the moment. Just now it’s best to leave her, to let her brood on what I’ve said.

  It’s a fine, clear morning, the kind that lifts your spirits, only I’m not sure what to think. Katerina is retching again. And who can blame her? What I’ve told her is enough to make any sane person anxious. All the same, I go back to her and, waiting for her to finish, ask her if she’s all right.

  She splashes water over her face, then turns and looks at me, and smiles. ‘I’m fine. Really. It’s okay. Besides … it’s not me … it’s the baby.’

  179

  ‘Otto?’

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘Can we start again?’

  ‘Again?’

  We are midstream, half a day north of Belyj, the sun shining down, the forest a solid barrier of green to either side. Light glints off the surface of the river as Bakatin and his sons pull hard on the oars, drawing us swiftly through the water.

  ‘You were going to teach me German. Remember?’

  I reach out and trace the line of her jaw. ‘I remember.’

  ‘Only it would be useful.’

  ‘Useful?’

  ‘If we need to speak of … things.’

  ‘Ah …’

  I understand. Though they seem as if they aren’t listening, Bakatin and his sons hear every word we say. In a few days’ time, we’ll be saying farewell to Bakatin and his sons, and they’ll be heading back downriver to Surazh.

  ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Then let’s begin right now.’

  She sits up a little straighter, her face all attentive, like a pupil at her desk, which makes me laugh. But as I hand her the brooch, I see her face change, an expression of pure wonder and delight entering her eyes.

  ‘Das Blatt,’ I say. ‘Das Esche Blatt.’

  180

  That next evening we arrive at Antipino. It’s another Belyj, only worse, and I’d prefer not to stop, only Bakatin has business there.

  We go ashore, Katerina holding my hand, curious to see the village, even though it’s clearly a stinking hole of a place. Chicken bones and other discarded things litter the ground between the ill-built, shabby huts, and – worse than anything in Belyj – there are dogs, half-feral beasts with dark oily coats that sniff at us and growl and show their sharp yellow teeth threateningly.

  There are more slaves here, too. Six scrawny-looking young men in ragged clothes sitting with their backs against the wall of a hut, chained to each other at the ankle, one of their ‘owners’ – a Swede without any doubt by the axe and sword he carries – standing close by, keeping an eye. They look underfed, and from the bruises on their arms and legs it would seem that their masters have been none too kind.

  Feeling despondent, we cut the tour short and search out Bakatin. He’s drinking beer and laughing with a merchant friend in the riverside ‘inn’, a crowd of locals pressed into that hot and fetid room. The smell is awful and I wonder how they can stand it. I say hello and am about to make my way back to the boat when I see them standing in the shadows of the far corner.

  The two men we saw in Belyj. The ones who were with Krylenko.

  Noticing my eyes on them, one of them speaks quickly to the other’s ear, and immediately they begin to push through. But they have to get past me, and I move slightly so that they can’t do that without either pushing me aside, or asking me to move.

  Katerina glances at me, then looks again, noting how I’m watching the two men.

  ‘Excuse me, cousin,’ the first one says, trying not to make eye contact.

  I put my hand flat on his chest, stopping him. Immediately, every eye in the room is on me.

  ‘How is Krylenko?’

  The man swallows nervously and glances at me. He’s trembling now. His answer’s almost a whisper. ‘Krylenko’s dead.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You? Are you dead?’

  He’s shaking now, afraid I’ll strike him down. ‘I … I … No … No, I’m alive.’

  ‘Good. Then st
ay that way, eh?’ And I remove my hand from his chest and stand aside, and the two of them stumble past me and then run out of the door, as if all the devils in hell were chasing them. You might think there’d be laughter at the sight, but the room is deathly silent. Even Bakatin is quiet, watching me from where he sits, tankard in hand, waiting to see what I’ll do next. But I do nothing, merely look to him and smile.

  ‘I’m sorry, Fyodor. Don’t mind me, I’m just saying hello to old friends.’

  Bakatin’s face is serious a moment longer, and then he smiles, the smile broadening until he gives a great roar of laughter and the tension in the room breaks and suddenly everyone is laughing – with relief, it seems. But I know something now. They all know who I am – or who they believe I am. A sorcerer. A powerful magician. And behind every smile, every laughing face, I see an element of naked fear.

  I have made a mistake. I know it now. There is not a single village or settlement on this river that hasn’t heard of me and what I did back there. Only it’s to be hoped it won’t follow me across land to Rzhev. Because if it does …

  I turn and leave, taking Katerina with me. She’s silent, too, thoughtful, and back at the boat she asks me quietly what I mean to do about the men.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I can’t blame them for what Krylenko did.’

  It’s true. But it’s not the only reason why I won’t go after them. I could track them and find them, and even kill them if I wanted, only it would mean leaving Katerina here while I did. Besides, I don’t think they’re a danger. They’re much more afraid of me than I am of them. Even so, I’m slightly worried. Why were they here? On Blagovesh’s orders? Or maybe they’re cousins of Krylenko and this is a kind of vendetta? Only, if so, why not sneak up on us and kill us while we sleep? Why slink about from village to village, following us?

  Because they think you are a sorcerer, Otto. They probably think you never sleep.

  It’s dark when Bakatin returns, not drunk exactly, but unsteady. His business has gone well, and he wants to talk, and maybe to drink some more, only I’ve another idea.

  ‘I want to go, Fyodor. I want to leave here now.’