by Alma Boykin
As he waited for someone official to get things organized, Alexi peered through the twilight at the signboard beside the trailhead. The refuge had been set aside by the Department of Defense in the 1960s after archaeological tests turned up human remains, bits of pottery, and the foundations of a previously unknown homestead. And after a major flood on the Arkansas River made the area useless for training, unless it was for swamp maneuvers, Alexi thought, reading between the lines. “Prime wetland habitat . . . urban-wildland interface . . . in perpetuity for generations to come so they can see a remnant of the once-common riparian woodlands,” he finished under his breath.
By that point, a person in a park ranger hat with one of the biggest flashlights Alexi had seen outside the MP’s equipment room had brought the rest of the group to order. “Sir, are you coming with us?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Alexi drifted to the edge of the group.
“Good. Welcome to the Arkansas Bottoms Nature Reserve. My name is Amy Jabara, yes, I’m related to Col. Jabara, and I will be leading the hike tonight. Who here brought a flashlight with a red lens cover?” Five hands went up. “Good. The rest of you need to keep your flashlights turned off and stowed in your packs. The white light will ruin our night vision and chase off any owls and,” she ducked and two of the girls yelped as a bat fluttered by. “And bats.
“You must stay with the group and stay on the trail, especially once we get into the so-called endless swamp.”
As Ms. Jabara droned on about the risks of straying, Alexi shivered and reached for the little cross he wore under his shirt. He was looking for a supernatural creature at night in a swamp. Um, he thought and gulped, maybe this wasn’t the smartest idea. On the other hand, confronting Baba Yaga in her house hadn’t been all that brilliant, either, or daring that tribal sheik in Eretria to take his best shot during that mission-that-never-happened. Oh well, might as well finish what he’d started. And this close to the city of Wichita, in a bog surrounded by houses and military base, the swamp spirits probably had taken one look and gone back east and south to less crowded wetlands. He grinned as one of the girls shrieked as a nighthawk flew overhead. Yeah, no swamp things around.
Aside from the usual night noises, mysterious plops and splashes, and having four tween-aged girls go from cool and bored to terrified in less than a second when an owl called from just over their heads, the visit passed uneventfully. Not until the group, now spread out a little distance along the boardwalk trail, had begun walking back through the dark trees and night mist to the parking area did Alexi sense anything amiss. “Ooh, foxfire! Look!” One of the older hikers called.
Five little flames waved off in the marsh grasses. The air felt cooler, and more threads of mist rose from the water and reeds around the boardwalk. The lights seemed to change color and Alexi crossed himself. They returned to their original blue and danced closer, then farther away from the group. Alexi whispered a bit of prayer under his breath and took back his earlier thought about swamp spirits not staying in the Wichita metro area. “I wonder what’s there,” the man beside him said, sounding intrigued. “They’re not that far off the path.”
He managed to take one step off the boardwalk’s safe path before Alexi grabbed him, hauling the taller man back. “No, sir. We have to stay on the path.”
“It’s perfectly safe as long as we don’t go to the water.”
“No, sir, because you can’t see where the water is.”
“Of course you can. See the sheen and the ripple there?” The stranger pointed to the left of the five lights. “That’s water. Those are on land.” He sounded annoyed and tried to shake Alexi’s hand off of his arm.
“No, they are not,” a new voice said. Ms. Jabara pointed her giant flashlight at the spot and turned the beam on. Water shone under the foxfire, which faded away into nothing. The man slumped, disappointed, and Alexi released both the guy’s arm and the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He had not wanted to tackle the guy to keep him out of trouble. “We’re the last ones on the trail,” she said, giving the men a stern look.
“Sorry, got distracted,” Alexi said, turning to continue up the trail. He left the other man to the ranger’s tender mercies. Her eight D-cell flashlight would probably keep both of them out of trouble.
As it was, Alexi reached a clearing that opened into a lovely, moonlit meadow and stopped. Fireflies danced in and out of the waist-high grass, and a nighthawk and some bats flashed through the sky. Singing frogs did their thing, and the mosquitoes hummed but stayed away. And a horse whinnied out in the grass.
Alexi looked behind him for the ranger and her charge, but didn’t see them. He took a few steps off the side of the trail into the softer dirt and called in Russian, “Is that you, Konyok-gorbunok?”
Another whinny followed, and a terribly ugly horse with enormous ears trotted out of the grass. The grey stallion sported golden-brown eyes and a lump on its back. Its long mane and tail floated in the little breeze that moved through the grass, and the horse tossed his head, making his mane and forelock flutter. “Of course! Who else would be so clever?”
Ivan the Purrable came to Alexi’s mind but he didn’t say that. “Um, what can I do for you, sir?”
To Alexi’s mild surprise, the horse gave him a straight answer. “You can stay away from Baba Yaga, because the woods-grandmother is very unhappy with you.”
I’m talking to a horse, in Russian, in the middle of Wichita, Kansas, Alexi thought. I’ve lost it. “I understand that she’s a little put out with Babushka and I.”
“That’s what my brothers, the horses of dawn and twilight, say. She lost her chance to stay by the mountains and now she wants revenge.” The horse drew closer and glanced around. “But the horse of storms says be ready. Baba Yaga came because she was called, and her master called as well.” He trotted backwards. “Be clever, Alexi Nikolayevich. Look for me with the north wind. I am her cleverest son, after all.” The horse preened, winked, and vanished into a stand of taller grass.
Blizzard, Alexi grumped as he walked the last quarter mile or so to the almost-empty parking area. We’ll have a blizzard. And I’ll have to tell Captain Wonderful the news. As he growled and grumbled, Alexi decided that the Sweeper had already started getting her revenge on him.
Come Monday, Alexi had concluded that an indirect attack might produce the best results. So he waited until the end of the briefing, to the “Are there any further questions” question, and raised his hand.
The round-faced, bald-headed officer glowered toward Alexi. “Yes, Sergeant Zolnerovich?” Captain Tom Wunder’s tone suggested that the question had better be short and easy to answer.
“Sir, what happens if we do encounter serious weather, like a real tornado, or a blizzard?”
“You deal with them as you are trained to, Sergeant. But since it won’t happen, don’t overload your men with unnecessary gear.”
The two senior lieutenants and the sergeants all slumped a little at the declaration. Alexi could almost read the thought bubble over the other men and woman’s heads: he’s jinxed us. We’re doomed.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Anything else? Dismissed.”
Once out of earshot, Master Sergeant Sherow asked one of the Reserve officers, “Sir, why didn’t Capt. Wunder go into maintenance?”
“With those long arms and stout undercarriage, you would think he’d be perfect for tank repair, wouldn’t you,” the officer observed. “No idea, Sergeant. I just work here.” A few half-muffled snorts and guffaw-coughs accompanied the group down the hallway. The fluorescent lights made the cheap green walls look even more bilious than usual, or so it seemed to Alexi.
Back in their office, Alexi and Sgt. Krehbiel compared notes. As they did, a firm hand tapped on the door. “Am I interrupting anything?” Lieutenant Mike Domzowski asked. The senior junior officer had a determined look on his broad face.
“No, sir.”
“Good.” Domzowski glanced up and do
wn the hallway, then stepped into the tiny office and pulled the door partly closed. “Tornado, blizzard, flood, fire, or yes?”
Krehbiel looked confused, so Alexi answered. “I’d say blizzard, then tornado, sir. It’s been too wet for a really good grassfire out that way.”
“Kansas too wet or normal state too wet,” the older man asked with a faint grin.
“Kansas too wet, sir.” Domzowski came from Illinois and proclaimed at least once a week that whoever convinced people to settle in Kansas should be dug out of his grave and the bones cursed, then scattered. His son’s football scholarship at the University of Missouri had nothing to do with his opinion, of course.
“Full winter kit or just the basics?”
Alexi and Martin both shrugged. “I’d say basics, sir,” Marty Krehbiel spoke slowly as he thought aloud. “We don’t have all our gear, and won’t until two days before we leave, assuming it arrives on schedule.” All three men wrinkled their noses at the dreaded “a” word. “And it will be a stop-gap until we can move into town. And sir, if the captain decides to do a gear inspection . . .”
“Then Sergeant Major Young will have made everything disappear by the time the captain gets to that vehicle.” The lieutenant nodded, folding his arms. “Blizzard then real tornado. And basic winter kit, just in case.” A thoughtful look crossed his flat features. “You know, we haven’t had an ice storm in quite a while.”
Alexi covered his eyes with one hand and Krehbiel’s head sank as he studied the floor. No, Alexi thought, just no, don’t even say that kind of thing. “That is true, sir.”
“So we are likely overdue, but later, in time to ruin the corn harvest,” Domzowski concluded. “Carry on.” He opened the door and returned to his assigned task.
Well, Alexi mused, half the regulars would be prepared to the point of overloaded. He wondered how much kumshaw Domzowski’s sergeants would have to do. Not that much, actually, since Domzowski was a mustang and could tell his rear end from a hole in the ground, misguided football loyalties notwithstanding.
“You think Gooseberg’s going to have a run on heat packs tomorrow?” Krehbiel inquired.
Alexi shook his head. “Tonight.” Half the men went past that sporting goods store on their way home, after all.
That night his tablet started playing “Night on Bald Mountain.” Puzzled, Alexi muted the football game and pulled the computer over where he could see it. He tapped the answer button. “Hello?”
“Mrrow!” A blue-eyed black cat’s face filled the screen, giving Alexi a heart attack. The head pulled back and a paw appeared, swiping at the screen. The image pulled back a little more and Alexi saw his Babushka waving at the camera. His father had not been kidding about Babushka getting Ivan his own e-mail and chat account, apparently.
“Zdyrastuyte, Jak ty požyvajesh?” “Hello, how are you?”
Terrified out of my mind at the thought of what you are going to let that cat do next, Babushka, he thought as his heart rate returned to normal. “I’m fine, Babushka. How are you?”
They chatted a little and she informed him about her church’s bake sale, the depression that had settled over Denver after the Bronco’s latest defeat, and the state of her garden, which was poor after the heavy frost they’d just had. “If Sweeper had not ruined tomatoes and beans already I would throw at her. At least cabbage and potatoes survived.”
“Ah, yes. Um, Babushka, Ivan, Little Hump-backed Horse gave a warning last week.” He couldn’t believe he sounded so calm as he spoke the words aloud, making them real.
“Mrroo?”
“What did he say?”
To flee, dive into a hole and pull the hole in with me. “That Sweeper is not happy with us.”
Ivan made what Alexi took to be a rude sound, because his grandmother shook her finger at the cat and told him to mind his manners. “What else did Horse say?”
“That someone had called her to the States, and to beware of north wind.” Alexi rubbed under his nose with the hand not holding the tablet, stilling a sneeze. “And, Babushka, it was odd, how Horse said it.” White-haired woman and black cat both leaned closer to the screen, and Alexi heard the beeps as his grandmother turned up the volume. “He said, quote, Baba Yaga came because she was called and her master called as well. Does the Sweeper have a master?”
Ivan appeared alone on screen, now doing a good impression of a black dandelion or puffer fish. “I take it that means yes.”
“The Black God was sometimes called the Sweeper’s master,” Babushka said, her fingers playing with the chain of the ornate cross around her neck. “But he is of forests and swamps, of caverns and the underworld, not of the steppe and sunlight.”
So he was probably not in Kansas. That suited Alexi just fine. One angry former-deity at a time in his life was more than enough, thank you very much. On the other hand, that might mean that the Black God had moved to Colorado and now stalked Babushka. Alexi licked dry lips. “I’m not thrilled with the news, Babushka.”
“Good. Should not be. Go to worship, pray, and be careful, Alexi Nikolayevich. And don’t chase flaming birds, even if boss order you to.” The cat in her lap nodded in agreement, then sneezed, ruining his catly dignity.
“Yes, Babushka. Yes, Ivan. I love you, Babushka.”
“I love you too. Good night.”
The screen filled with paw-pad before Mrs. Ekaterina Boroslavna ended the chat. Or had Ivan? “Arrrgh, I do not want to know. And I forgot to tell her about the lights in the swamp.” But did he want to tell her? And was he certain they were Russian? The Americas had their own spirits, as he’d learned in Colorado. He set the tablet aside and looked at the TV just in time to watch New England all but hand the football, giftwrapped, to Green Bay. Captain Wonderful would not be pleased if the Pats kept that up, Alexi gloated. But then nothing pleased Capt. Wonderful. Well, that was not Alexi’s problem. Not tonight at least.
For once the Kansas weather acted like Kansas weather. Alexi, in the front passenger’s seat of the third six-by-six truck in the convoy, could see a thin, dark blue line just starting to peek over the northern horizon. According to the weather guessers, the cold front would wash out before it crossed the Nebraska border, but Alexi suspected he’d be needing those hand warmers he’d tucked into his bag. He heard a faint honk over the roar of the big engine and the drone of the tires on pave, then another.
Corporal Martinez, the driver, shook his head a little and did not remove his hands from the steering wheel. “Has anyone ever gotten one of these up to seventy-five, Sarge?”
“Yes, and then we got to replace the engine. In rain. In the field. Or you can push one off a tall cliff and it might reach seventy-five before it hits the ground.” He watched the little blue sports car appear in the windshield, then zip away into the endless distance of I-70. “Must have a hot date in Denver tonight.”
Martinez shook his head. “Maybe, Sarge, but I don’t think so. He’s an unmarked Highway Patrol. The lettering’s in matte gold.”
“Really? I’ve heard of ‘em, but never seen on in the wild.”
The driver nodded. “Brother-in-law found one the hard way. They come in cherry and blueberry.”
“Good to know.”
Alexi looked north again. The clouds seemed no closer, but the day was young, and they had at least three hours before they reached Ft. Hays and the drill area.
West-central Kansas always made Alexi wonder if the Lord had run out of ideas, or maybe time, and had just smoothed the area mostly flat and decided to call it a day. Between the Republican River in Nebraska and the Smokey Hill in Kansas, the land seemed as level as a tabletop. He could count three steeples and a half-dozen grain elevators without using binoculars. The winter wheat had begun to sprout, so fields of low green fuzz alternated with brown corn, some of it already harvested, and pasture. Traffic also accelerated, racing from Hays to Goodland to the empty miles of eastern Colorado before colliding with Denver somewhere west, beyond the curve of the Earth.
If this was what the Russian Steppes looked like, Alexi could see why Russians had settled here.
Well, that and they wanted to get away from everyone. Alexi shook his head and frowned. Martinez gave him a concerned look. “Not you. Just thinking about some of the people who settled out near Hays and Victoria. There’s a strip of strange that runs from the Dakotas down to the Oklahoma border. Hutterites, Mennonites, crazy Brits, Bohemians, Doukhobors and Old Believers,” he listed. “Guess they like to live where they can see people coming.”
“They sure picked the right place, Sarge.”
“Yep.”
Martinez pointed to the little radio taped to the dash. Alexi nodded his permission and soon heavy metal guitars tried to compete with the engine and road noise.
They got to the training area south of Ft. Hays a little before 1600 local time. To Alexi’s irritation, the clouds had not moved, instead lurking just out of sight to the north. Captain Wonder stood by his vehicle, fists on hips, foot patting the dirt, listening to a Reservist from Ft. Hays. The Reserve sergeant gestured toward the east, frowning and waving his hands like an orchestra conductor. Alexi’s mood sank even lower. He retreated to the safety of his troopers and hid behind the trucks.
Lt. Domzowski stomped over fifteen minutes or so later. “We’re not welcome, it seems,” he announced.
Alexi and the others exchanged glances and raised their eyebrows, waiting for more details.
“The locals would greatly prefer that we go elsewhere, they can handle a tornado on their own, and we will just flatten their crops and ruin their gardens.” Domzowski’s mouth crooked up a little at one end. “And probably steal their laundry off the line, but they didn’t say that.”