by Alma Boykin
Oh shit, Alexi groaned. “How far back did you think you heard the bear?”
Daniel pointed. “Where the trail divides at the boggy spot near the big dead tree.” Almost a kilometer up the trail, Alexi realized. How had he missed the boys?
“Right. I’ll get him.”
Ranger Pagonis jerked her head up and down. “I’m coming with you. I need to check the wilderness camp site up that way.”
Alexi started to protest and stopped. She knew the woods. He didn’t. She needed to go up that way. And in the yellow shirt, she was easy to spot. “Let’s go.”
They followed the main trail west, then south as it jogged a little around some boulders. Alexi’s sense of trouble grew stronger and he undid the flap on his big belt knife. He also reached into his collar and pulled out the St. George medallion containing two hairs from the Little Humpbacked Horse, so he could grab it quickly if he had to. He stopped, sniffed, and then sniffed again.
“What’s wrong?”
“Do you smell smoke?”
The ranger snorted, inhaled deep, then wrinkled her nose. “Yes, but not the right kind of smoke. It smells like something dead and wet trying to burn.”
Whatever it was, it made Alexi’s throat ache. The two continued up to the boggy spot. “Right. Daniel said that Paul saw tracks here. He’s wearing a bright red shirt and has a yellow tape stripe on his day pack.” Alexi started looking at the ground, hunting for what Paul might have seen. Pagonis circled around the boggy spot, also searching.
“What on Earth?” Her voice came from the other side of a dense area of brush and tangled, half-fallen trees. Alexi scrambled around the obstruction and stopped, one hand on his medallion. “This wasn’t here last week.”
Alexi looked at the newly cleared path. He skirted the edge of it, looking at the marks in the dirt. Whatever it was had shoved through the forest, knocking any obstacle out of the way. And had left footprints: large, bird-like footprints. He said some of those Russian words he wasn’t supposed to say around ladies. “No, I suspect it wasn’t. It happened under cover of storm.” He caught himself and switched to English as Pagonis stared at him. “Sorry. It happened during the storm. The Sweeper used the storm as cover. That’s why—” he stopped before he mentioned what he’d seen in the clouds.
“The Sweeper?” The slender woman took a step back, as if getting ready to run from a madman.
“Yes. It’s complicated.” He stopped, listening. He heard a thumping, and sweeping, and rushing sound. And worse, far worse, a muffled cry like a boy trying to yell for help. The sound came closer and he ducked for cover in the brush. Pagonis joined him and as they stared, an old woman with grey hair and iron teeth rushed past in a mortar, driving it with the pestle and sweeping her tracks with the broom. Alexi saw a flash of red shirt and yellow stuffed into the mortar as Baba Yaga rushed past. Motion above caught his eye and he glanced up to see a bird flying above the witch, shedding what looked like black sparks as it passed.
“Magissa!” Pagonis gasped. “St. Cyril protect us.” She crossed herself Orthodox style. Alexi mimicked her.
“Amen. And she’s got Paul.” He got to his feet and started up the path the Little House on Chicken Feet had left. He couldn’t miss the route, and he made good time, allowing for the scrambles over downed logs. The House must be a lot sturdier than it looked, he thought, then shook his head. It was a magic house that walked on its own and could call for help. It was bigger inside than outside. Of course it would be sturdy. It probably floated too. Maybe it had floated across the Atlantic? Or maybe the Sweeper had towed it behind her? The mental picture of the Little House on Chicken Feet riding the North Atlantic on a surfboard or water skies, towed by Baba Yaga’s mortar, triggered laughter. He swallowed it, coughed, and pushed ahead. The nasty smell in the air grew thicker and he wondered what was burning. The ground got steeper, then leveled out into a large beaver meadow. Alexi stopped at the edge of the trees, his heart sinking.
The Little House on Chicken Feet squatted at the far side of the clearing. A few skulls on stakes marked the edges of the yard around it. A large dark gray rock loomed to the left of the House, and the strange bird perched on the rock. The bird shook, spread its wings, and threw off more dark sparks. Was it a firebird? It did not look like any firebird in any of the tales. Instead of shining gold, the bird burned with a dark, almost black flame, absorbing light instead of giving it. Had it once been a true firebird that Baba Yaga enchanted and twisted? Something dark moved on the other side of the House and Alexi realized no, maybe not Baba Yaga, or not Baba Yaga alone. Perhaps Chernobog, the Dark One, the deity of depths and swamps and all that was evil had twisted, or had made a twisted version, of the Firebird. Just as he had—
“Hello, Alex,” a lush, sultry voice dripped. “You’ve come to me at last, haven’t you?” The words wrapped around his heart and tried to pull him. Alexi put one hand on the hilt of his knife as he turned to see the source of the voice.
It came from a small lake. A lake not on any map, a shimmering black lake belonging to a beautiful young woman. She wore a silvery dress and a seductive smile. The rusalka that had once been Stacie Nichols extended her hand toward Alexi, beckoning him to come to her. He felt his face growing warm at the promise in her smile, the pleasure that she offered. Another part of him also responded to her invitation and Alexi shifted, suddenly very aware and uncomfortable.
He backed up one step, then another. I need a Coyote, he thought. But Coyote had paid off his debts. How could he deal with the Dark One, the Sweeper, a rusalka, and the Firebird? And what did you fight off a firebird with, anyway? A bucket of water? Except that would put him inside the rusalka’s striking range. As Alexi wondered what to do, the Sweeper appeared from behind the House, dragging Paul. The boy looked as if he was trying to fight her and Alexi gave him points for guts, if not for smarts. Baba Yaga reached around and thumped him with one stick-like finger and Paul went limp. Alexi winced in sympathy.
“What is this?” A woman demanded in Alexi’s ear. He turned and found Pagonis staring over his shoulder, gape-mouthed. “What have they done to my forest?”
“It’s complicated.”
“That part I figured out. Who’s the half-dressed swim instructor?”
Alexi really, really didn’t want to explain. “That’s a rusalka. Um, think pissed off water ghost.”
“Is she going to start singing?”
“Huh?”
Pagonis rolled her eyes. “Never mind. Stupid opera joke. How do we get your scout back?”
Heck if I know, Alexi thought. Charging in and trying to grab him meant going between the rusalka and the firebird, or skirting too close to the dark thing in the woods and passing the House. Maybe they could distract the firebird, but with what?
Alexi’s stomach decided to growl, and he thought about the fruit he’d grabbed that morning. Maybe, just maybe . . .“Um, OK, this sounds stupid,” he started, taking his daypack off and rummaging around in the top. “Do you have any apples?”
“Any what?”
“Apples. In the legends, the Firebird steals apples from a nobleman’s tree. So maybe I could distract, ah, yes.” He pulled two apples, one slightly bruised, out of his bag: so much for lunch. But that left three creatures to deal with, assuming that the dark firebird would react like the real one did. He still needed a miracle, or a cavalry charger or— The cavalry! Alexi fumbled with the medallion, then prized it open. He pulled out two long, silver-grey hairs and wrapped one around each hand, across the palms. “Do you really want to help, um, Ranger?”
“Yes, I do. And my name is not Ranger, it’s—”
He clamped one hand over her mouth, shaking his head. He pointed to the magical creatures. “They can use names against you.” Her eyebrows rose, then she caught on and nodded. He lifted his hand away “Sorry. Just be careful. And call me Ivan.”
“Ivan. Got it.” She took the mean-looking digging tool off of her backpack. “What’s the plan?”
No idea, he thought as his mouth said, “The rusalka’s more dangerous than the bird.” I hope. “Can you distract them? Make a bunch of noise, look scary, whatever you can think of. Just stay as far away from the dark stuff over there as you can. He’s the Sweeper’s boss.”
“Sweeper? Oh, the magissa. Got it.” She took a deep breath, narrowed her eyes, and hefted the digging tool with one hand and one of the apples with the other. “Does cold iron scare any of these spooks?”
“Not that I know of. They’re Russian, not Celtic. Oh, and they can’t hurt your soul,” he added.
“Good to know. It’s been a while since I went to liturgy.” She closed her eyes and her lips moved in what was probably a prayer. Alexi followed suit, they crossed themselves, and Alexi got ready to run.
“Now!” He lumbered into motion as she raced toward the Little House. Alexi lowered his head and ran across the meadow like a charging bull, aiming for the firebird’s rock. He caught a glimpse of motion to his left and ignored it for now. A meter from the rock he swerved, tossing an apple up to the bird and heading straight at Baba Yaga. She raised the pestle and let go of Paul. The boy didn’t collapse but stayed on his knees, then got to one knee as Alexi thundered closer. Dear God, please may this work, Alexi begged. He kept moving, opened his arms, and tackled Baba Yaga!
Whatever she’d been expecting, it sure as hell wasn’t that, and she hit the ground hard. So did Alexi, who slapped her face with one hair-wrapped hand, then rolled away. The big wooden pestle had a mind of its own and tried to hit him, forcing Alexi to duck and dodge as he reached for Paul. Alexi raised his other hand and the stick slid away, deflected by the lingering power in the Little Humpbacked Horse’s hair. “Get up,” he snarled at Paul. “Come on.”
Paul might have been foolish, but he could be fast if he wanted to. He shot off, past the firebird, ahead of the Little House, and away from Ranger Pagonis, who was threatening the firebird with her metal tool as the bird tried to eat the apple and fight at the same time. Alexi followed Paul, hoping to avoid Baba Yaga at least long enough to get to the edge of the woods. Pagonis saw him moving and left off harassing the firebird, falling in at his shoulder. Paul cleared the edge of the trees, the adults not far behind him. “No!”
Greasy black boiled up from beside the rusalka’s lake, forcing Alexi and Pagonis to stop. The Dark One’s solid yellow-green eyes glowed from within the shadowy form. It seemed to absorb light and the firebird screamed, launching into the air from the rock. The rusalka laughed, a cold, damp sound that made the hair on Alexi’s neck stand up. “Holy,” Pagonis caught herself just in time. She started again, whispering, “Saint George and Saint Cyril, what is that thing?”
“The Sweeper’s boss. He’s kinda mad at me. He made the rusalka.”
“No, Alexi, you made me. You refused me, you broke my heart, you betrayed me,” Stacie’s voice called. She sounded pathetic and lost, like she had in half the phone messages she’d left. “You turned me out, refused to keep your promise. You drove me to my death, heartless man.” If he hadn’t known the truth, Alexi would have felt guilty. As it was he started to weaken, then remembered the other half of the messages. The voice continued, “Sister, beware the young man. He will seduce you, then break your heart. He broke his promise to me, left me alone.”
The ranger asked, “Did you?”
Alexi shook his head. “No. I broke up with her, then she stalked me and my parents.”
“One of those kind.” She sounded disgusted. “I had to deal with the male vers— Duck!” Ivan dropped to the ground as something black sailed over his head. The pestle, followed by the Firebird, whooshed past. “Shit, man, look behind you. I hope you’ve got a plan.” Pagonis sounded worried and Alexi didn’t blame her. Baba Yaga had crept up on them and they now stood at the center of a square with Baba Yaga and the firebird on two corners, Chernobog and the rusalka on the other two.
“I was about to ask you. Or are we about to have more problems? Because what’s wrong with the firebird?”
Something spun out of Chernobog and Alexi dodged it, pulling Pagonis with him. Baba Yaga and the Dark One both reached for them, and one of Chernobog’s fingers brushed Pagonis. She screamed as a burn-like mark appeared on her hand. “No! Don’t touch her. I’m the one you want, bastard.” The firebird dove at him again and he bent low, trying to protect the woman beside him.
“He’sss mine,” the rusalka crowed. In his panic, Alexi had moved within her reach. The water ghost grabbed at him, catching his leg. Bitter, draining cold shot through him and he kicked, then pulled, and broke free as the leg started to go numb.
“No, I have the stronger claim, wench,” Baba Yaga snarled, her teeth throwing sparks.
Oh, great, just want I need: spirit women fighting over who gets me first. It was like listening to those two Al Shabab guys on the other side of the wall in Eretria arguing over who got to blow up the Bradley. Apparently Chernobog was not pleased either, and as the females snarled at each other, the black form loomed closer and closer, ready to claim the humans for himself. A wind began to blow toward the elder god and the world darkened around them.
“Don’t do that! No, not the grass, not there you stupid bird!” Pagonis yelled, jumping up. “It’s too dry!” Alexi risked a look over his shoulder as Pagonis ran past Baba Yaga to where the firebird had touched the grass. Flame shot up with a furious whoosh and she began beating it with the shovel end of her tool. “You stupid firebird, you’ll burn down the whole forest.” Pagonis fell back as the firebird attacked her. Baba Yaga also backed away. Her pestle returned to her hand and the Little House beat a rapid retreat away from the flames. Part of Alexi’s mind noted the House’s dislike of the flame. The rest of him started to shake and he reached for the radio he was not carrying as the scene shifted, turning from Colorado to Iraq, from a grassy meadow to the cramped, smoke choked interior of a Bradley armored fighting vehicle. The rusalka’s screams grew deeper, as if torn from a man’s throat as Lt. Corrigan struggled to get free, trapped and burning alive.
“Snap out of it, Ivan,” a hand struck his face. “We’ve got to get out of here.” Alexi returned to himself long enough to feel her hand on his as she started trying to drag him. “Come on, soldier, move.” She’d pulled her yellow hard hat on and brandished the tool in one hand. “Come on.”
Chernobog grabbed at them. Alexi shoved her ahead, darting as best he could away from her, trying to distract the demon. “Get the boy and run.”
“Dear blessed Lord, help us,” Alexi prayed as he backed away from the dark shape, each step moving closer to the rusalka’s lake. The fire blocked the path across the meadow.
A gust of wind swirled the flames and even the dark form eased back from the heat. As he did, a grey shape galloped out of the smoke. “Ivan son of Ivan, to me! I can carry two.”
Alexi shook his head and pointed. “Her. Take her and the boy.”
Paul had ventured out of the woods. The ugly grey humpbacked horse with floppy ears looked from the ranger to Alexi and back. Alexi shook his head and pointed. “Go. Take them. I’ll meet you in the campground.” He turned and moved farther from Pagonis and Paul.
“God be with you Ivan son of Ivan,” the horse called. He knelt, allowing the others to mount, and lurched into the air, running on the wind. Alexi crossed himself and turned back to face the rusalka and her master. The scene started shifting again and Alexi fought to stay in the here and now, to forget the fire in the Bradley and the IED, the screams and the darkness and burning men. The rusalka lunged for him, recoiled as sparks showered down, and cried and dove into her lake, leaving Alexi and Chernobog. The ancient spirit loomed closer, reaching for the man.
Alexi slashed with his knife, trying to fend off the shadowy hand. Cold shot up his arm as the steel made contact with the spirit. The knife passed through the hand and Alexi’s arm went numb. No, he snarled, switching the knife to his left hand. I’m not giving up. The twisted firebird swooped down and sparks burne
d his face. He beat at his clothes, putting out the flames, then crouched, ready to attack.
He heard another voice, a horse’s battle scream. “Warrior come to me!” Alexi recognized the voice and ran through the flames still crouched, running toward the voice as if he were running to a helicopter. He put his knife in its sheath as he reached the Red Horse. The crimson mare stamped one hoof, her eyes blazing clean red fire, her flanks rippling. “Mount for war, soldier.” She bore a saddle and bridle, and Alexi shoved his foot into the stirrup, heaved himself up into the saddle and sat. The saddle fit as if made for him. He looked down and saw the hilt of a sword. What was he supposed to do? Oh, stop that, he ordered himself. If a magic horse had a magic saddle, then the blade also had a spell of some kind. Alexi drew it with his half-numb right hand.
The red mare reared and screamed again. Together they charged Chernobog. The sword flamed crimson and gold. “St. George and Santiago,” Alexi roared, swinging with all his might as the mare turned. Chernobog staggered back, dodging the blow. The mare thundered past the dark god, galloped in a wide, curving pattern to charge again. Alexi leaned to the side and sighted down the blade, aiming for where a human’s heart would be. “St. George!” The blade struck home and the dark form shivered, shattering. The red mare sped on, racing faster and faster. Behind them the rusalka screamed, a thin sound that faded into the roar of the forest fire. I’m sorry, Alexi whispered as he sheathed the sword and ducked low, eyes watering in the wind and smoke of the mare’s run. God have mercy on your soul, Stacie.
“Hold on,” the mare ordered, and the red horse launched into the air. They galloped over the forest, past the mountains and down, the wind carrying them. The mare slowed her pace and descended, stopping in the car park near Alexi’s pick-up. He dismounted and stroked her neck.
“Thank you.”