The Ocean of Time

by David Wingrove

  ‘Go on,’ I say. ‘Go to your mother.’ And they rush off past me, half turning to blow me kisses as they go.

  The feeling I woke with has faded. Hard work and sweat and the company of my fellows has subdued it – blunted it, one might say – but it is still there, at the back of my consciousness and in the pit of my stomach, like a tingling that doesn’t tingle, or a sound just beyond the range of hearing.

  It’s what we travellers sometimes call ‘a sense of the presence of the frame’. The frame being the no-space dimension that both surrounds and is embedded within every other; that same medium through which we travel every time we make a jump.

  Sometimes it manifests itself in a strange sense of unreality. A feeling that the world is a simulacrum, generated merely for the purposes of the Game. At such times it’s easy for the inexperienced Reisende to make mistakes, to think that the timestream that they’re in is somehow less real than that from which they’ve come, and that their actions therefore have no consequences. Or none that matter. Symptoms include taking bold risks, being cavalier with one’s own safety and, perhaps worst of all, telling someone in that world precisely who and what you are.

  You’ll smile, for I have done all of these things. Only I have had a reason for everything I’ve done. No, I’m talking here of a kind of random activity akin to drunkenness. A kind of letting go.

  The cloth is laid down on the grass, the picnic spread out by the time I get there.

  Katerina greets me with a brimming mug of apple juice, freshly made that morning.

  It’s cool and refreshing and I drink it down in one, handing her back the empty mug then wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Seeing it, she laughs. ‘You are becoming more Russian by the day!’

  To some extent it’s true. Down to the clothes I wear: the leather shoes – more moccasin than shoe – the plain cloth trousers and my cotton smock. I have indeed gone native. Why, I even slur the simple Russian words I use, like I was born here in the north of Rus’. But I still think like a German.

  I grin, then look past her, to where the girls – all five of them, including the baby, are playing a kind of skipping game with a rope. I watch them for a while, a strange inner stillness settling on me as I study their happy, shining faces, the way their long hair jumps in the sunlight. Slow it down, I think. Let me see it clearly. Let me remember this.

  But I understand now, with the full force of experience, just how transient this is. Like all such moments, it’s gone almost as soon as it’s there, for this is what it’s like to be time-bound. The days and hours and minutes flying by, and no returning …

  I look down, choked suddenly, not really knowing why. Katerina reaches out and touches my cheek. ‘Otto …?’

  I meet her eyes. ‘It’s okay. It’s just … I’m happy.’

  She nods, and I see she understands. ‘You feel it too?’

  Perfect, I think. Perfect that she understands me so. ‘It won’t happen yet,’ I say. ‘I’m sure it won’t …’

  Only I’m not sure. This feeling … it’s like someone is making decisions for you somewhere else in Time. Moving you. Placing you somewhere else on the board.

  ‘Let’s not spoil the day,’ she says and smiles. ‘Come. Sit down. There’s chicken pie and ham. Whatever you want.’

  But what I want isn’t possible. What I want is to stay here for ever and never leave.

  254

  It is late in the afternoon, the youngest, Zarah, asleep in my arms, when Anna runs up from the fields where she’s been playing and calls out to me. ‘Is it true, Papa? Is Jamil returning for the harvest?’

  I look to Katerina, alarmed, but she shakes her head. ‘No, Anna, it’s not true. Jamil went home, to Belarus. You know that.’

  ‘Who told you this?’ I ask, sitting up straight. ‘Who has been spreading such rumours?’

  ‘Young Tikhon, you know, Tikhon Ignatev. He said he saw her in the marketplace in Novgorod.’

  Katerina has gone pale. Ignatev is one of Alexander’s apprentices in the carpentry shop, a sober, hard-working young man, not given to wild flights of fancy, and he was in town with Alexander yesterday.

  I turn to Pavlenko, who is seated with his family nearby. ‘Igor, go fetch young Tikhon! Quickly now!’

  The steward hurries off. While he’s gone, I hand Zarah over to Katerina, then gather the rest of my girls about me and speak to them.

  ‘Listen,’ I say. ‘This cannot be Jamil. It can only be her twin, and she is a bad woman, an evil woman. If you ever see her, here on the estate, you must tell me at once. And you must never go with her. Not ever, understand? Not even if she claims to be Jamil!’

  I have frightened them. Little Martha bursts out crying, while both Anna and Zarah look close to tears. But this is necessary.

  ‘I know Jamil would never hurt you,’ I say, gentler than before, ‘but her sister …’

  Razumovsky, who has been napping, now wakes and sits bolt upright. Seeing his girls in tears, he frowns at me and gives a roar. ‘Otto! What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s Jamil’s twin,’ Anna says, before I can speak. ‘She’s a witch! Papa’s said we’re to run away if we see her!’

  I would laugh at her childish distortion, only it’s far too serious a matter. If she is here …

  Then why would she show herself?

  I turn, my hand going up to touch the necklace of tiny silver Thor hammers about my neck as if to reassure myself, and see young Tikhon running full pelt up the slope towards me, the portly Pavlenko trailing in his wake. The men and women have stopped their labours in the fields to stand and watch.

  Breathless, he stands before me. ‘Meister?’

  ‘Jamil. You saw her?’

  Tikhon gasps for breath, then nods. ‘Yes, Meister. She smiled at me. But we didn’t speak.’

  ‘Are you sure it was her?’

  ‘Or her twin.’ And he smiles, as if it’s a joke, but that’s not his fault; he’s not to know.

  ‘What was she doing?’

  ‘Doing, Meister? Why, shopping, I guess. She had a basket.’

  ‘And you saw her … what? Once? Twice?’

  Tikhon shrugs, then scratches his head, as if to aid his thought processes. ‘Three, maybe four times? Every time I walked through to Master Jablokov’s workshop, there she was!’

  ‘Thank you, Tikhon.’ And to impress him that he’s not in trouble I take a copper denga from my belt-pouch and hand it to him. It is a day’s wages and more. ‘Now go,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry to take you from your work.’

  He beams. ‘It’s okay, Meister. We’d finished anyway. Master Alexander—’

  Pavlenko says it for me. ‘Tikhon, you can go.’

  Embarrassed, he bows, then turns and walks away. But watching him go, I feel cold despite the heat of the late-afternoon sun, for there is nothing accidental about this. This has been done to remind me just how vulnerable I am.

  A man alone, he can cope with such threats, but a family man, with children …

  Katerina touches my arm. ‘We’ll be okay …’

  ‘Will we?’

  I meet her eyes, knowing that I have never felt so defenceless. Because I know what they are capable of. How they might materialise, at any time, in any place. Heartless assassins who’ll kill a child without compunction then fade back into the air. What good are walls or locked doors against such adversaries? How can one defend against their careful, calculated schemes?

  Urd help me, I think. For there is nothing I can do. Nothing. And that is a dreadful, debilitating feeling. It makes me feel sick, poisoned.

  Only maybe that’s what’s intended. To wound me. To weaken me and make me less effective.

  I take a long, calming breath, conscious how everyone there on the hump is watching me, taking their lead from me. And I know, in that instant, that I cannot be seen to be weak, no matter what I feel inside. Those bastards think they have me, but that’s far from the truth. For I am fated to return here, to live here and have c
hildren.

  All that is in my future.

  I smile and look about me, exuding confidence, making them smile just to look at me.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘We’ll post guards. Keep watch against her, and if she comes …’

  ‘We’ll slit her throat,’ Razumovsky says, drawing his knife theatrically, making the girls give little squeals of delighted horror.

  I nod. If you’re quick enough. If you can cut air.

  I open my mouth, meaning to say more, when a cry goes up from the fields below us and, turning, I see what it is. Horsemen – a dozen or so of them – coming across the plank bridge from the north village.

  255

  As the leading horseman draws up ten feet away, I realise that I know him, that I met him in Moscow, when Katerina and I were there, years – or was it months? – ago.

  He is one of Prince Alexander’s bodyguards – his oprichina – and he and his men must have ridden out the eleven miles from Novgorod to see us. His horse – a grey – is lathered, and as the man addresses me, it pulls back its long head, as if it longs to gallop more.

  ‘Are you the owner of this estate?’

  I stand defiantly before him, my arms across my chest. ‘What if I am?’

  Men are coming up from the fields now, hurrying to reach me, wanting to hear what’s said and to take their place behind me, facing these strangers who have trampled our crop without a second thought. They carry sticks and scythes and other makeshift weapons.

  There are eleven horsemen in all, armed warriors, rough blankets thrown across their horses’ backs, their packs slung over the horses’ rumps. With their topknots and loose clothes, their short swords and spears, they look like nomads, yet these are the highest authority in the land: they represent the Prince.

  Hearing the tone of defiance in my voice, their leader scowls at me, then leans over his horse’s neck to spit. Then he looks at me again, contempt in his eyes. ‘You owe the Prince your duty.’

  ‘I owe him nothing. What was due has been paid. Every last kopek.’

  ‘So you say. But word is that this is a rich estate and that you have … underestimated.’

  Men are still coming up from the fields. Already there are sixty or so behind me, and more are joining them every second, but the horsemen seem barely aware of it. The men behind me are, after all, only muzhik and would run if it came to real swordplay. At least, that’s what these rogues are thinking. And so it normally is. Only these are my muzhik, and we have been through hard times together and fought off many adversaries. This is not the first group of men to venture out from Novgorod to demand what isn’t theirs.

  And yet I don’t want any trouble. Not if I can help it.

  ‘What do you want?’ I say, keeping my voice hard.

  Their chief turns, looking about him, assessing what he can sting us for. I know now that he doesn’t recognise me, and though it may be a fault in his memory, it is probably because our meeting happened elsewhen, in another timeline.

  I have met him, but he has never met me. Until today.

  When he turns back, he finds me smiling, and that clearly puzzles him. Maybe he thinks I plan to cheat him, for there’s a little movement in his eyes – a moment’s recalculation – and then he names his price.

  ‘Two thousand kopeks.’

  There is a collective murmur from behind me: part astonishment, part anger. The figure is exactly what we’ve paid already.

  My smile remains fixed. ‘That sounds very reasonable … if you are a thief, or a Tartar-lover!’

  Anger flares in his eyes. He draws his sword and kicks the grey forward, yet as he swings the sword, I duck beneath it and effortlessly ease him from his horse’s back, bringing him down on to the grass with a bump.

  It’s a manoeuvre meant to hurt his pride more than his body, and as he gets up, so I move back slightly, circling him. I am unarmed, but I don’t need to be, not against this one.

  He picks up his sword and faces me. His men hold back, watching to see what happens. If I’d attacked him – hurt him, or disabled him – they’d have been on me in an instant, but this is now a matter of pride – of face – and so they wait to intervene, expecting him to punish me for my impudence.

  But he’s more wary now. The fall has bruised his confidence. Even so he has the sword and I’m unarmed. There can only be one end to this. This time he doesn’t swing indiscriminately, but jabs. Only, to his amazement, I reach past him and, putting my hand over his sword hand, twist it sharply, snapping the wrist.

  He cries out as the sword falls away, and as he does, so two of his men spur their horses forward only to fall from their mounts, dead, heavy arrowheads buried between their shoulder blades.

  I look past them to where Alexander and three of his apprentices stand, bows in hand, then to the fallen captain.

  ‘Take your little gang of thieves and go! And tell Nevsky that the next time he tries to rob honest men, he had better bring an army, not a gang of bungling fools!’

  He glares at me through the pain, then, shrugging off the helping hand of one of his men, hauls himself to his feet. ‘You do not know what you have done.’

  ‘No?’ I smile. ‘Novgorod is a long way from Moscow. Tell your master that. And tell him … tell him I shall have vengeance for what he did at Krasnogorsk.’

  That puzzles him, but his puzzlement lasts only a moment. If he could, he’d kill me where I stand, yes, and burn the estate, even if it meant not collecting the tamga. But he can see this is no ordinary situation, and now that two of his men are dead …

  He has the two corpses lifted back on to their horses and secured there, then, ignoring his own pain, clambers back on to his own, holding the rein in his left hand, his right pressed against his chest.

  He snarls at me. ‘Next time I see you I will kill you.’

  I am silent, but from behind the horsemen, Alexander’s voice rings out. ‘Shall I kill him, Meister? Shall I put an arrow through his eye?’

  I could order it. I could have them all slaughtered, right here and now, only …

  Only what? I ask myself, realising that for once I’m not thinking. If I let them go they will come back, without question, and maybe Nevsky too at the head of his little army. Whereas if we kill them now, maybe someone will think they were waylaid, by a robber band maybe or …

  Or whatever. The point is that it would take Nevsky some while to find out what happened to his little band, even if he asked in Novgorod. And by then …

  I turn and look to Katerina and my girls, then give the order.

  ‘Kill him, Alexander. Kill them all!’

  256

  We take care of our wounded, then ‘bury’ the strangers in the deepest part of the lake, their bodies weighed down with stones, their horses with them. That upsets the peasants more than the killing of the men, for the horses were fine animals.

  ‘Maybe so,’ I say, sharing their unease, ‘but if anyone from town should see us riding such fine beasts, word would quickly get back to the Prince, no?’

  I say that, but word will get back somehow, at some time, for it’s not easy keeping such a big secret – not when there are so many of you, and many of those weak-minded and loose-tongued. But that’s not the point. The point is to make it hard for Nevsky, to give me time to prepare for his coming. For I know for a certainty he’ll come.

  I expect the girls to be shocked, but only the two youngest seem affected.

  ‘They’ve seen worse,’ Katerina says, her eyes reassuring me, letting me know she doesn’t blame me for what happened.

  ‘Yes, but you know what will happen now?’

  ‘Nevsky will come, with all his men.’

  ‘Then we must be prepared.’

  She nods, a half smile on her lips.

  ‘Good,’ I say. ‘Then gather all the bol’shak. We have much to discuss.’

  257

  I have Alexander make a map, and on it I mark what needs to be done: where to build the stockades
and watchtowers, where to make the water traps and conceal the secret caches of weapons. I mark where we need to place angled stakes, to defend against Nevsky’s cavalry, and where to construct stone walls. And more, much more.

  It’s a lot of work, especially with the harvest to be brought in, but there’s ample time before Nevsky comes from his base in Moscow. It will be spring at best before he can get here. Besides, there’s no lack of commitment from the men. They’ve seen what Nevsky’s men are capable of, and they know the choice facing them. It’s stay here and fight or run away, and they have invested far too much of themselves into this place to run.

  It’s a matter of pride.

  The feeling that I woke with has returned, as if the weather is about to change. But the day remains hot, the sky a perfect blue, and as the evening falls, I put my mood down to the day’s events: to the visit from Nevsky’s men, and the return of Jamil’s twin. That last particularly disturbs me, and when we’re finally alone in bed, Katerina asks me what I think is going on.

  I reach out, touching the copper ash leaf that hangs about her neck that I had made for her that time by the smith in Belyj, then shrug. I’d like to have an answer, only I don’t, because the more I think about it, the less I understand.

  ‘Are you sure she’s an agent?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why hasn’t she struck before now? What is she waiting for?’

  Good question. And I can only keep returning to my first thought. To weaken me. To undermine me. Only she could do that just as well by making a move, by attacking one of my children.

  I get up and walk through, looking in at their doors, checking on them for the fifth time that evening.

  As I return Katerina looks up at me, her dark eyes seriously concerned. ‘What can we do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I say, feeling sick at the thought. ‘Until something happens. Then …’