The Ocean of Time

by David Wingrove

‘To go? But it’s late, Otto. And, my friend, my purchase won’t be ready till the morning …’

  ‘Forget that. Tell him you’ll come back for his goods later. I’ll pay you both for the inconvenience. But let’s get out of here, now.’

  ‘But Otto—’

  ‘Fyodor. Do as I say. We’re in danger here. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. If we stay here, they’ll attack us.’

  Bakatin looks at me as if I’m mad, but he shrugs and, hauling himself up off the bench seat, gives orders to his sons.

  The moon is high and it’s late when finally we moor on an island three hours upstream from Antipino. It’s far enough not to be followed by foot, but there’s always the possibility that they’ll follow us by boat, and so while Bakatin and his sons get some sleep in the bottom of the boat, I sit at the stern, keeping watch.

  I’ve told Katerina to rest, but she wants to sit with me. She’s said nothing thus far, but now that Bakatin and his sons are asleep and snoring, she asks me why we didn’t stay in the village.

  ‘Just a feeling,’ I say. ‘An instinct I had. Those two … they’ve been trailing us for a reason.’

  ‘You don’t think they simply had business in Antipino?’

  ‘Yes, and their business was us.’

  ‘But surely …?’

  I turn and look at her. ‘I made a mistake back there, Katerina. I revealed what I was. Not just to you, but to everyone. And even if they mistake what it is, they know I’m something different, something special. And that’s dangerous. Very dangerous indeed.’

  ‘Then maybe you should have dealt with it back there. Maybe you should have followed them and—’

  ‘Killed them?’ I shake my head and look away. ‘No. I can’t kill people just because I suspect them.’

  ‘But they’d have killed us.’

  ‘Maybe. And maybe not.’

  She’s silent for a time, then, putting her arm about my back, she leans close and whispers to my ear. ‘Otto?’

  ‘Yes, my love?’

  ‘Forget watching for a while. Take me ashore and make love to me.’

  181

  It’s two days’ journey to Tatarinka, our last stop on the river, and from the start the weather is awful. We wake to an overcast sky, a solid layer of thick, grey cloud blocking off the sun, and then it begins to rain.

  For the rest of the morning it doesn’t stop, and Katerina and I sit huddled together beneath the makeshift awning as Bakatin and his sons pull against the current.

  The heavy rain has swollen the river, which here cuts through a rougher, less even terrain. We have left the flatlands now and the land to either side rises steeply, fold upon fold towards the distant, rain-obscured hills

  After a while Katerina complains of the cold, and I go to the cart and carefully unpack one of the furs I’ve brought for colder weather, securing the load again before returning to her and wrapping it about her shoulders.

  There is the slightest plumpness to her now – barely anything, yet last night I took care to be gentler than usual with her and she, noticing it, laughed softly and asked me if I didn’t think her made of sterner stuff than that. And maybe she is, yet the thought of her carrying our child fills me with such tenderness for her, such an aching softness, while at the same time …

  At the same time, I would kill anyone who harmed her.

  As we sit there, listening to the rain fall and the birds call forlornly in the trees, to the slush of the oars and the rush of the water past our hull, I am conscious of just how vulnerable she makes me feel. Which, perhaps, should worry me. I am, after all, a time agent, my life a complex, dangerous one. Yet without this …

  She sleeps a while, and when she wakes the rain is still falling, and very little in the landscape seems to have changed. Sometimes the sheer size of this land encroaches on the mind. Great armies have floundered in its vastness. It has been a month and more since we set out from Novgorod and still we seem a long, long way from our goal.

  But I am happy today, despite the rain, despite the thought of all the bad weather to come – for the rainy season is now upon us, and after the rains comes the snow. Happy because, for the first time in some while, I feel at peace. It will be hard, juggling my life to fit everything in, but when was life easy for anyone? Hecht’s the only problem, but even there I can work my way around him, find ways and means to come back here as often as I can. To be with her. And with our children.

  It’s that last thought that melts me. That makes me smile despite all obstacles to my happiness. And there’s even part of me that wants to jump ahead and see it, now – right now – as if to guarantee its future reality. But I can’t do that. In fact, I won’t let myself do that. This has to be as it is – lived through, day by day. To anticipate would kill it – would make it …

  I’ll be candid here. The truth is, I want this because it’s something I can’t have back in Four-Oh: a woman who is mine and mine alone; a family; and all of the uncertainties, the risks, that go with that.

  Oh, there are risks enough in my life, but not of this kind. Nor, for all my dedication to the volk, to the cause for which we fight, have I ever felt so attached, so … connected to anyone or anything. And maybe that’s a flaw in how things are set up in Four-Oh. Maybe, by breaking down those bonds of family – of Mutter, Vater and der Kinder – we have broken some essential link, and substituted one vulnerability for another. Maybe we need the strength of family – true family – to get us through the days, and kinship – mere kinship as we have it in Four-Oh – is not enough.

  Maybe. I don’t know. But my head is filled with such thoughts, and when I smooth my hand over the slight roundness of her stomach, well, it is like I have been transformed, my life made real, no longer such a game as it was.

  And that’s what worries me most. For I can see now that it is a game – however much we risk in playing it. It is a game. And Hecht … Hecht is not our father, Hecht is merely our master. Through us he plays the game. And surely that’s a flaw, too? For humans were not meant to be pawns in a game.

  Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to throw it all up. I know where my duty lies. Only I see things a little more clearly today. I see the comparative importance of things and I am left wondering if there isn’t a better way than the way we do it in Four-Oh, and that maybe – if there were changes – it might not work far better than it does.

  There are dark clouds just ahead – storm clouds blowing in from the north – and Bakatin, seeing them, decides to take a break and we moor over on the north bank, pulling the boat up on to the shore as far as we can. And just in time, for though it has been raining all day, the rain descends upon us in a torrent, and we huddle beneath the trees, our cloaks over our heads, listening to the crashing of the thunder, the sudden darkness of the afternoon lit up now and then by terrifying flashes of lightning.

  Katerina crouches at my side. She loves storms and is not afraid of them, but Bakatin’s youngest seems anxious and after a while I call him over and let him shiver alongside me, my arm about his shoulders, as if a sorcerer’s protection might make him safe.

  The rain falls endlessly, swelling the river yet further, and slowly soaking us, until it seems better to throw off our covers and just let it fall. We’ll get no wetter.

  As the thunder passes into the distance, and with it the electric storm, so Bakatin walks over to the boat and, taking out a cooking pot, begins to bale. His sons join him, lending a hand, and shortly afterwards, despite the continued downpour, we push off on to the water again.

  For a time the rain intensifies, and we are forced to bale yet again. But then it slackens and, after a few minutes, ceases altogether. There’s a break in the clouds and, for a time, a glimpse of blue sky and sunlight.

  Bakatin laughs, then breaks into song. An old river song, about the river-man’s daughter. A rather crude song, as it turns out, which his sons sing along with lustily, even as they increase their pace. For a time you would think they were raci
ng someone, but then, as Bakatin ends the song, they stop, letting the boat drift on in the sudden silence, their oars lifted, water dripping from them as the boat slows against the current.

  Bakatin turns and grins at Katerina. ‘You like our little song, eh?’

  If I was expecting her to blush, I’d be disappointed. She laughs and, improvising, makes up a verse of her own, much to Bakatin’s delight. He roars, and slaps his hand against his thigh, then sings her verse again, his sons joining in at the last.

  At another time I might feel uncomfortable, but we have come to know each other extremely well, Bakatin and I, and if Katerina isn’t offended, why should I be?

  I look to her and grin, then lean across and kiss her.

  The hardest part of our journey lies ahead: across land to Rzhev, and thence down the Volga to Gzhatsk. At least, that’s the plan. For in Russia, everything is dependent on the weather. The rains swell the rivers and make them difficult to cross, even to navigate upon. Yet by river and across river we must travel. Traversing the great stretch of forest that lies between Rzhev and Moscow is not an option in this weather – we would make three or four miles a day at best. But the snows will change that. Come the snows we shall unpack the sled and then hopefully the miles will fall away behind us.

  Tatarinka proves a surprise. It’s an orderly, pleasant little town, with a well-kept palisade and a sense of bustling life about it, rain or shine. It’s also the end of our journey with Bakatin and his sons, and though he is not setting off back down the river for another day or two, I feel saddened that we must make this parting. But first he helps us find a room and a place to store our cart until we can hire a guide to take us north-east to Rzhev.

  The inn is a surprise too, not merely for its size, but for the fact that it’s one of the few two-storey structures I’ve seen in this age. There are Novgorod’s churches, of course, and the hall that the veche use, but almost everything out here in the wilds is single storey – log cabins, essentially, with either a single room, or two at most. The inn – while built of logs – has eight rooms and a barn attached. It’s run by a jovial, red-faced fellow named Rapushka, who leads Katerina and I through a crowded room where drinks are being served and out the back, where we find a sturdy ladder going up to the second storey.

  ‘There,’ he says, ‘on the left.’

  I climb up first, and step inside, lighting my flint and looking about me at the room.

  The floor is packed with earth, on which are laid rush mats. As the light falls on them, insects scuttle away into corners, or burrow down again between the logs, but it looks clean enough and dry, and there’s a large pallet bed in the corner, stuffed with straw.

  I hold the flint up as Katerina steps into the room.

  ‘At least the roof doesn’t leak.’

  She looks to the bed, then giggles. ‘We’ll have to be quiet,’ she says, her voice almost a whisper. ‘Half the village is down there, listening.’

  But the look of her in that wavering light is too much for me. ‘Let them listen,’ I say. ‘Let the whole world listen …’

  And, pushing her down on to the bed, I extinguish the flint and begin to make love to her, there in the insect darkness, with half of Tatarinka listening below.

  182

  ‘Otto … there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

  I turn and look up from where I’m sitting at the table, my drink before me. Bakatin, it seems, has brought a friend to introduce to me. I nod and bid them sit across from me.

  ‘This is Lishka. He’s a haulier.’

  Lishka nods his agreement, then grins at me, showing a set of blackened teeth.

  He’s a good ten years or more older than Bakatin – with a wispy grey beard – but of a similar build. Only whereas Bakatin seems as if he’s built of granite, Lishka looks as though he’s made entirely of lard. He looks in ill health and, to be frank, I find myself wondering if he’ll even make it to Rzhev.

  ‘Fyodor?’

  ‘Oh, Lishka is a good man. A very good man. You can trust Lishka. And he knows all the best routes. He’s travelled everywhere. Down to Smolensk and across even to Orel and Tula.’

  Again Lishka nods and shows his blackened teeth. I turn and hold my hand up, signalling to Rapushka to bring us more beers. Katerina, I note, is looking dubiously at Lishka, as if she’s thinking precisely what I’m thinking.

  ‘Fyodor, I—’

  ‘Lishka is my cousin. And he’s cheap. There’s not a man to be had so good at twice the price Lishka charges. And he’s reliable. He won’t run off in the night and leave you prey to bandits. Lishka’s a fighter. A stayer.’

  I almost laugh. Lishka looks like he’d run a mile at the first sign of trouble. But I don’t say that. Instead, I decide to question Lishka myself.

  ‘Tell me, Lishka … do you know what they say of me?’

  Lishka grins and looks to Bakatin. But Bakatin nudges him. ‘Answer him, Lishka. Show the man you have a tongue.’

  I’m beginning to think that maybe Lishka is a bit of a simpleton, but when he finally speaks, there’s no sign that he’s a simple man.

  ‘They say you are a sorcerer, Meister, but my cousin Fyodor says that’s nonsense and lies. He says you are merely a trader and a Nemets … oh, and a good fighter, too.’

  ‘He says that, does he?’

  ‘Yes, and if Fyodor recommends you, then Lishka will be honoured to guide you to Rzhev. Yes, and keep you from the wolves.’

  ‘There will be wolves, will there?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, this time of year. But Lishka knows how to deal with wolves. Lishka has great experience with wolves.’

  I look to Bakatin and raise an eyebrow, but he merely shrugs. ‘Lishka is a good man, Otto. I wouldn’t put you in the hands of any other, believe me.’

  That makes me think. Lishka may look soft, but if he’s done what Bakatin claims, he can’t be that soft. Wolf packs are one of the hazards of trade in this age, and if Lishka has survived to the age he’s reached, then he must have been good at dealing with them.

  Our drinks arrive and for a while we busy ourselves making toasts and emptying tankards. Then, wiping my mouth, I look to Bakatin again. ‘I’ll think about it overnight.’

  ‘Good!’ Bakatin says, and grins, as if I’ve said yes. ‘You’ll not regret it, Otto.’

  ‘I said—’

  ‘Oh, I know what you said, Otto. But once you’ve had the chance to think about it, you’ll know that Bakatin was right. That he wouldn’t place you in the care of any but the best man for the job, cousin or no cousin. Why, I would take you there myself, if I only knew the way, and if I didn’t have four wives waiting for me downriver.’

  ‘Four wives, Fyodor? I thought it was three.’

  Bakatin looks at me, surprised. ‘Oh, didn’t I say? That’s what my business was in Antipino. I’ve bought myself a new wife, a young one, fresh from the south. She’ll be waiting for me when I get back.’

  I laugh, astonished, then look to Katerina, who merely raises her eyes, as if she’s heard it all before.

  Bakatin’s right. His recommendation carries weight with me. Lishka may look soft, he may look a simpleton, but I can’t believe Bakatin would palm me off with someone who couldn’t do the job. So the next morning I decide to hire him.

  Only when I ask Lishka when we’re setting out, he shakes his head.

  ‘Not yet,’ he says. ‘Not until the rains die down. The paths will be unpassable. The cart would just sink into the mud! And where would we be then? Look at the river, how high it is. The land between here and Rzhev will be nothing but a marsh!’

  ‘So how long will we have to wait?’

  Lishka shrugs. ‘Two weeks? Maybe three?’

  It’s a delay I hadn’t counted for, and for a moment I consider hiring myself another guide, one who’ll take us now, only Lishka is probably right. If, as Bakatin says, he knows these lands, I should trust in his experience and believe him when he says that the terrain is impassable i
n this weather. In the day and a half we’ve been in Tatarinka, it has barely stopped raining for an hour, and the river is close to bursting its banks.

  There’s every reason to hold on and await the snows. However …

  ‘Is there no other way to get to Rzhev?’

  Lishka gives me a blackened grin. ‘There is, only …’

  ‘Only?’

  ‘Only it would mean travelling at least three times the distance, south and then east and then along the shore of the lake, and then north, following the Volga into Rzhev.’

  ‘Then let’s do that.’

  Lishka laughs. ‘You want to?’

  ‘Why not? I can’t stay here.’

  ‘Can’t stay … here?’ Lishka looks puzzled by that. ‘But in eight, maybe nine weeks from now the snows will come, and then …’ He skims his hand along an imaginary road of ice and makes a faint whooshing sound. ‘Here you are cosy and warm. You have good food and fine beer. You and your woman.’

  That’s true. Only I don’t want to sit on my hands, waiting for the weather to change. I want to get to Rzhev. Once we’re there we can await the snows. Not here. Not in Tatarinka.

  Even so, I decide to delay the decision until Bakatin leaves, and that night, as I’m lying there beside Katerina, I ask her what she wants to do.

  ‘I want what you want, Otto. Don’t you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  I fall silent for a time, thinking about it. I am not used to doing nothing, that’s the problem, because if the idea is to spend time with Katerina, then I can do it here as well as anywhere.

  And so I make my decision, to stay and await the snows, only that very night I’m woken by voices, outside, just below where we’re sleeping. Careful not to wake Katerina, I creep to the door and, looking through a gap between the logs, I see two men a little way off, beside the barn. I watch them for a moment, then realise what they’re doing. They’re trying to break inside, to steal the cart!

  I feel my way back across the pitch-black room and, slipping on my trousers, take my dagger from the pack. Then I go back and, trying to make as little sound as possible, push the door open enough for me to slip through. Ignoring the ladder, I drop and roll and come up facing them.