Alexander, Soldier's Son

by Alma Boykin

  “Mroh.” The nose disappeared but the ears remained.

  “See? Normal cat. Always wants something but never knows what she wants.” Her mother smiled. “She did get squirted with the spray bottle Wednesday. She was on the counter, trying to get into the ham I had thawing.”

  “Ooh, naughty Gatta.” Ham was to Gatta what tuna was to Ivan.

  Catherine went back to school the next afternoon with a quarter of the freezer’s contents. “They’re about to expire, your brother is going through a phase and won’t eat them, and I can’t eat all of them. I love your grandmother but she can’t learn to cook for less than a dozen.” Little Catherine had brought a cooler with her just in case, and grinned as she looked at it in the rear-view mirror. All kinds of meat-filled dumplings, pickled beets, pickled cabbage, bread, and other goodies filled the cooler. Babushka thought overfeeding meant love, and took it as her personal mission to see that no one left her house without food. How Aunt Morena stayed slender mystified Catherine.

  And tucked well under her clothes was a silk envelope. She wasn’t going to do anything, just show the professor the feathers and return them at the end of the term. Maybe not even that unless he pushed her again. I am so tired of him, she sighed. Maybe I should just report him to the dean. Except he hasn’t really done anything, just made sideways comments and snide remarks. Not like the women’s studies TA. Catherine grinned. She’d brought in a photo of her mother in her firefighting gear, complete with Pulaski, and shoved it at the snippy TA, saying, “Dad wears combat boots, Mom wears fireproof clothes. What’s wrong with her cooking when Dad’s home?” Of course, her mom never did anything on the grill, because she did fire for a living and why should she bring work home?

  When she got to the dorm, Catherine stashed the feathers in a drawer, put the food in the freezer with a note warning anyone who touched it that they’d face her wrath, and listened with half an ear to her roommate’s description of the weekend. “ . . . and the protest ended when Prof Toasty started yelling in Russian and waving his hands and acting really strange.”

  “Wow. I wonder what they said to tick him off?” Not that she wanted to know, not really.

  Jeniffer-with-two-fs shrugged and texted. “I didn’t hear. They’d forgotten to get an amp permit so it was kinda muted in here with the windows shut.”

  “Hmm.” Catherine dug through her books, trying to find the novel she needed for the open book quiz on Monday.

  By Wednesday Prof. Tolstoy had pushed all her buttons and more. He was lecturing about Pan-Slavism and how it fit into nationalism in the 19th century and the cultural revivals of the late Romantic movement. It would have been interesting except for his digs about religion and true Slavs and the problems of the Orthodox Church trying to eradicate the Old Ways and how the poets struggled to rediscover them through the study of folk-lore. “But they took the church’s teachings for granted far too often, assuming that what the church had declared to be evil was, in fact, inimical to the rod. The stories they glorified, such as those involving the firebird, were all borrowings from outside the true Slavic pantheon, while supposedly evil creatures like Baba Yaga actually should have been recognized as benevolent spirits.”

  Catherine blinked and growled, but very quietly. Oh, she really wished her father were home. She had a vague memory of flying in the air on a horse, and her father said it was from when her mother had rescued her and Peter from Baba Yaga. With the help of Gatta, Ivan, the Little Humpbacked Horse, and the Red Mare. Her father never talked about the Red Mare. From behind her a voice asked, “Dr. Tolstoy, what about things like Chernobog that even the earliest accounts show as being associated with negative forces?” Oh great, that would be Eric, one of the neo-pagan wanna-bes. Catherine slid down in her desk to avoid the blast.

  “Cthonic powers are often overlooked by folklore collectors, but in the case of Chernobog specifically, and his sons including Koschai the Wise, German scholars assigned them to the evil pantheon as a way to duplicate the false dichotomy introduced by the church into Slavic religion as it was understood by its enemies. As Sergeiovic said, in refutation of the Childe and Grimm patterns . . .” Catherine pretended to take notes as she studied Tolstoy. He reminded her of a fatter version of Lenin from the Soviet posters, but with more hair on his head, and that hair was blond instead of dark. His dark eyes, almost almond-shaped, did make her wonder if her dad had been right about Tolstoy’s ancestry. Ick. Today he wore an embroidered shirt under his suit coat and looked really odd.

  Class ended and she got ready to leave. “Miss Catherine,” he said, standing between her and the door.

  She, Boris, and Jose stopped. “Yes, sir?”

  He handed her a paper, holding it with two fingers. “This is not creative writing class. And I will not accept any more assignments without your correct name on them.” He stalked off, or kind of waddled. Catherine felt her face turning red as she looked at the paper.

  “Wow, what happened? Toasty murder a Vulcan in his office?” Boris asked, pointing to the green ink all over the page.

  “Says red’s only for good things. Let’s go.” She snapped. Right, she thought, snarling, I’ll show him. Stolen from foreign myths, huh? Don’t really exist, huh?

  The next afternoon Catherine waited outside Tolstoy’s office with her paper, annotated until it looked as if she had more citations than text, and a silk envelope. She’d scheduled the last appointment of the day, so she could do her thing and then get away. The door opened promptly and his voice called, “Come in.”

  She went in. “You have the proper paperwork for registering under your correct name?”

  “No, sir. I have evidence that the assertions in my paper are correct and request that you re-enter the grade accordingly.” Like her dad said, she’d come up with a plan, a back-up plan, and had rehearsed in her mind what she wanted to say. She stayed calm, cool, and polite.

  “Really. And am I supposed to presume that this evidence is from a source other than Carson’s New World Encyclopedia of Mythology?”

  “Yes, sir.” Catherine put the paper on Tolstoy’s rather clean dusk and pulled the silk envelope out of her bag. Her heart started racing as she opened the envelope and pulled out the crimson and gold feathers. “In addition to the documents listed on the assignment, I have two feathers my father took from a firebird eleven years ago.” In the dim light of the office, the feathers shimmered with their own light, much paler than when Catherine had first seen them. “The firebird is not an artifact of Persian myth incorrectly incorporated into Slavic sources by the hey—! What are you— No!”

  Tolstoy moved fast for a fat academic, much faster than Catherine anticipated. He knocked his chair over, lunged around the desk and grabbed her wrist, ripping the feathers out of her hand, then spinning her around and pinning the arm behind her. “No! You defile that which is sacred to the rods,” he half-snarled, half-panted. She tried to kick but he dodged, shoving her off balance and forward, out the office door.

  “Let go of me! Give me those back or I’ll tell my dad!” Catherine yelled, but no one came to see what was going on. Oh shit, she gasped, it’s Friday after three. Everyone’s gone. Oh crap, oh crap, what’s he, no. No, he’s not, oh crap, Mom’s going to kill me I am so toast. He’d twisted her around, managing to open the door to the storage closet across from his office.

  “You stay here until I’ve called the authorities to deal with you, thief and defiler.” Tolstoy shoved her into the closet. She tripped over something on the floor, caught herself, and almost got back to the door. Thump click. She pounded on the locked door, then tried to find a light switch by the light of her cell phone. No luck. At least she had 90% power left on the phone.

  “But no bars. Oh crap.” Her mother really was going to kill her. She’d be grounded for life. “Right, what do I have to work with. A mop, a bunch of boxes and paper,” she tried the sink, and a little water trickled out of the pipe, “no water pressure as usual, and the hinges are on the wrin
g side of the dang door.” Her illegal pocket knife wouldn’t be much help against the metal door frame. She had plenty of weapons she could use against the prof if he came back, but no way to open the door.

  Catherine gave herself five minutes to act like a scared teenager, pounding the door and yelling for help, crying a little, then took a deep breath. “Right,” she murmured. “What would Dad and Mom, or Babushka or Aunt M do?” Her dad would have broken Tolstoy’s arm and not gotten locked in the janitor’s closet, so that didn’t count. Blowing the door off the hinges was also not an option, since she couldn’t find any cleaning chemicals or anything really dangerous. And taking a chainsaw to the door required something she didn’t have on hand. Babushka would not have gotten caught, either, but she’d be calm, pray, and make friends with anyone and anything that acted as if it were of the light. Catherine paced a little then sat in the corner, rubbing the charm on her cell phone case.

  The phone chirped. Huh? She lifted it and didn’t see anything, but when she put it on the floor, a text came through. “Oh, I am such an idiot. The wifi reception’s better down here because of the gap under the door.” Could she guess the password? It was probably one of the four general passwords, and she tried them. No luck. “Hmm, this is for faculty, so what about” she tried something really dumb. It worked and the phone chirped again as it locked onto the signal. Catherine brushed her hair away from her face and bent over, reading an incoming text. It was from Ivan the Purrable, and she rolled her eyes. Of all the times to— “Ivan!”

  She texted back as best she could, sending the cat a condensed version of the problem. Five minutes later he replied, in Russian as usual, and she read aloud, translating through auto-corrupt. “Papa? No Baba, Babushka no come. Morena with Mother. Told them. No,” no what? “Oh, no panic. Easy for you to type, cat. Trouble come, storm come, help come. No use feather!!!!” What did he mean by that? “Told Belarus.” Huh? Oh, he told Belyah. “You told Gatta? I am sooooooo toast.” Catherine put the phone down, rested her head against the wall and closed her eyes. Her mother would kill her and the white cat would keep saying “I told you so” or whatever cats said.

  After a few minutes, the rest of the text penetrated Catherine’s brain. What did Ivan mean by “not use feather?” The firebird feathers didn’t have magic any more. She slapped herself in the forehead. Of course they did, or they would not glow. And there was that one story, about how Prince Ivan summoned the firebird by whirling the feather over his head, and she had to come to him. Would that work? Could Tolstoy call Aunt Morena by swinging the feather? That would be stupid, because she’d probably bring Babushka, Ivan, and a shotgun. Except Ivan said Morena was with her mother . . . Why? Was it related to that problem her mom had mentioned over the weekend.

  The phone chirped. “Am on way. Trouble coming. Be ready to run.” Oh great. Her mother would probably break every land speed record in Colorado. Yes, Mom, I know I’m in trouble. Ivan already said that. Catherine closed her eyes again.

  She must have dozed off despite everything, because she woke as the phone shrieked and the building shook. “What the fuzz?” And she really, really needed to go. Really needed to go. That big iced tea had not bee a good idea. She blinked and skimmed through the texts. Storm warning for high wind and large hail the main dangers, exactly what Catherine wanted to see. Her mother was on the way, a storm was shaking campus and would probably flood it again, her professor was being a jerk, and she was missing the season finale of “Which Witch.” And Jeniffer would ruin it with spoilers before she could catch the episode on the ‘net.

  The building shook again and she heard howling. The howling came closer and she crammed herself into the corner as hard as she could. What now? She heard footsteps, fast moving, and she grabbed the broom and stood, ramming the end of the wooden handle against the door. “Let me out! Let me out!”

  “Shit, lady, you were right.’ Catherine heard keys and the door opened, flooding the closet with light. “Get out of there,” a man snapped. Catherine scooped up her phone and did as told.

  “Tolstoy! Where’s Dr. Tolstoy? He shoved me into the closet, locked the door,” she started to explain.

  “Later. We have to get to the ground floor, now.” He started to take her arm but her mother moved faster, almost dragging her daughter down the hall with one hand, a cat carrier in the other. The security guard followed as Catherine Mary raced down three flights of steps. Little Catherine didn’t think her feet got to touch the floor again until they reached the bottom, near a bathroom.

  “’Scuze me.” She darted in as soon as her mother’s grip relaxed. She emerged to find her mother crouching, opening the cat carrier. “Um, Mom, I can explain—”

  “And you will. Later. The guard’s checking for any stragglers. Gatta can find Morena. Don’t ask, just take this and come on,” she handed her daughter a silver rod, like a thin baton or pointer. “Your professor is a flaming idiot. And if we don’t find him before Morena does, he’ll be literally flaming.”

  The white cat took off as if launched and the women followed. Catherine Mary stashed the carrier behind some ornamental grasses by the building sign and the two kept as low as possible as they followed the white blob racing across the parking area toward a cluster of trees beside the grassy, open floodway. At least, that’s where they seemed to be going. Lightning flashed from the storm and the world vibrated from thunder. No rain fell yet, but the wind felt wet. As they got closer to the grove, Little Catherine could see red and gold light from between the spruces and evergreens.

  “Fuck. I’m going to kill that idiot if he survives this.” Little Catherine stared, gape-jawed, at her mother. She also tripped over the curb, barely catching herself before she fell hard. “Damn it girl, be careful. Don’t give him any blood or anything he can feed on.”

  Her mother had never, ever sounded like this before, scaring Little Catherine to her core. Her mom also didn’t usually have a pistol on her belt, either, or a silver knife in her hand. What had she started? The stories, they weren’t just stories, but surely two feathers couldn’t cause this much trouble, could they? The light grew brighter and they heard a scream, part like a woman and part like a furious bird, an eagle or hawk. Gatta screamed as well and continued into the grove, Catherine Mary not far behind. Little Catherine slowed down, then stopped. She rested, hands on knees, gasping for air before swallowing hard and following her mother into the trees.

  Tolstoy was yelling in Russian, pointing one of the feathers at Aunt Morena. Morena was screaming back, trying to get to him, but she could not reach. Why not? Little Catherine squinted against the shifting light and gasped. No! Her aunt was shifting form, her legs part human and part bird, like her arms. She tried to call in Russian but a bird-like sound came out instead of words. Pearls streamed down her face like tears, and Little Catherine started crying as well. Aunt M was in pain, terrible pain, as the magic twisted her body. And what could do that to a person except one of the big bads, like Chernobog or Baba Yaga? Had Tolstoy summoned one of them? Could he?

  Catherine Mary had gone ahead and now had Gatta in one arm. The cat scrambled up onto her shoulder, fur fluffed, screaming bloody murder like a white demon. “Stop that right now, Tolstoy. You have no idea what you are trying to call,” Catherine Mary ordered.

  “Get away, female. You are not true rod. Go back to your own place.”

  “Neither are you, Mongol bastard. Hell, half of Napoleon’s army probably knew your great grandmother really well.”

  Little Catherine wanted to dig a hole and crawl into it. Mother! Ewwww, that was just gross.

  “And the damn spirits do not care, not anymore,” Catherine Mary continued, getting a little closer to Tolstoy. “I’ve fought Baba Yaga, Chernobog, and a damn stupid bint who got herself made into a rusalka. Do not tell me I can’t deal with Russian magic, because I’ve dealt with far too much of it. Now drop the feathers and get out of here before trouble really arrives.”

  “Your words are
nothing. I am true rod, I call true spirits.” His hair had gotten plastered to his head with sweat, and it looked as if the sweat was making the embroidery on his shirt run, like the dye was bad. “Go away. Firebird is mine, answers to me. I will bring back the real spirits, I will—”

  Crack BOOM! Little Catherine ducked. Catherine Mary yelled something in Greek, Morena shrieked and Gatta launched. The white cat sailed across the distance between the tall woman and the professor, landing on his face and sinking her claws into him. He screamed, dropping the feathers as Catherine Mary followed, her daughter close behind. Little Catherine caught up with her mom just as Gatta turned loose, dropping and scurrying out of the way and Catherine Mary bent down to grab the feathers. Her aunt cried out again, almost pure bird, the rain slammed into them, stinging and icy.

  “You leave my cat alone!” Little Catherine started hitting Tolstoy with the silver stick. “You— Leave— Gatta— Alone!” Her mother grabbed her arm and threw her off the man, shoving the feathers into her hand as she did.

  “Morena!” Little Catherine turned. Her aunt was caught, half human half bird, twisting. Something with the feathers?

  “Mrrrooow! Maaaaaaaah!” Gatta danced back and forth. Little Catherine hurried over and for lack of a better idea, shoved the feathers against her aunt’s arm.

  Crack BOOM!

  Catherine felt pine needles on her back and rain pelting her face. She couldn’t see or hear anything. She could breathe, though, and smelled ozone and char and something bitter. The wind howled through the pines. Something tried to burrow under her arm and she squinted in time to see Gatta pushing, butting her with her head. The cat looked horrible, drenched and skinny. Little Catherine rolled onto her side, carefully, and got on all fours. Gatta ducked into the shelter and started washing ferociously, growling a little.