Alexander, Soldier's Son

by Alma Boykin

  “Ow!” Thud. Steve’s foot caught on a tree root and he tripped, fell, and rolled down toward the water. He stopped on the grass and shook, then got back to his feet. The girls had stopped as well and they stared at him. Smooth move, dude. Really smooth. Two of them pointed, and one covered her mouth with her free hand, her eyes going wide. Was his fly open or something? He did not look down, but as he started walking toward them again, he gave it a quick brush with his fingers. Nope. Closed.

  One of the girls took a step forward, coming a little closer. He licked his lips and ventured, “Um, hello?”

  “Hel-low?” She said, as if she did not know the word. Behind her, the other girls whispered. It sounded Slavic.

  He tried again, this time in as much Russian as he recalled. “Greetings to the house.”

  She smiled and replied, slowly, “Greetings. Are you a traveler?”

  “Da, traveler.”

  The rest of the group seemed to be having a conference of some kind, and a second girl stepped forward. “Welcome, traveler. Come and be welcome in our father’s hall.”

  Steve put two plus two together. It would be rude to refuse hospitality, as he recalled. He bowed, generating more giggles and smiles. “Thank you for kindness. I come.”

  As Steve stepped into the large, flat-bottomed boat with the nearly-identical girls, they bombarded him with questions, slowly. He tried to answer them as best he could, and did not notice the boat drifting across the water without anyone poling or rowing it.

  He also did not notice the large blue-eyed cat standing in the trees, gasping for breath. Ivan had run most of the way, trying to find Steve once he got his track. “Oh no.” He panted some more, then used his hind paw to push a smart phone out of one of the pockets on his harness. He rested his paw on the screen, unlocking it, then began to text carefully. “So much for the third child’s fortune,” Ivan sighed after he tapped SEND. He worked the phone back into the pouch, turned and disappeared into the woods once more.

  Chapter Three: Such Stuff as Dreams are Made Of

  I’m impressed. As magnificent as the palace had seemed from the far shore of the lake, that impression paled compared to the reality. Steve did his best not to stare around like a kid on a college tour, and having twelve very attractive guides helped. Still, his interior design instructor would have had raptures as she looked around the palace. Or maybe not, since she was more into modernism, and the girls’ father seemed to favor Slavic traditional with a large dose of Baroque over-the-top just for variety. One thing Steve had guessed right about—the outer wall was wood and stone, well fitted and treated to keep the pale wood, probably birch, from weathering into a darker color. The lower stone felt like a high grade limestone or a very fine sandstone.

  The girl closest to Steve tugged his arm when he slowed to look at the work. “Is problem?”

  “No, sorry. Admiring craft and work.”

  She smiled, her grey eyes lighting up. “Ah, good. Come, please.” He followed her through an ornate gateway to one even fancier, made of what seemed like wrought iron decorated with gold and silver in patterns of flowers and vines, with stars and golden sun faces resting on the tracery. The center of the arch over the gate, also made of metal, appeared to have a monogram and the double eagle of Russia, but when Steve tried to focus his eyes on them, they twisted a little, as if heat shimmer blurred the pattern. He shrugged. He was tired, no wonder his eyes didn’t want to focus. The gate opened before the first pair of sisters and he followed behind.

  The palace blended a little of everything and all of it colorful. The main building had a rectangular façade with windows only from the second floor up, all of them trimmed with elaborate white, pale blue, or pale yellow ledges and scrollwork. Four small towers, two rectangular and two round, sported onion domes of different colors, each lit from inside, and he thought he could see more beyond. The main body of the building was blackish-blue, an unusual shade Steve had never seen before. It looked as if it would be miserable hot in summer. On the other hand, it made the trim stand out, and if the sun never shone in fairy-tale world, then excessive insolation was not a problem. Steve followed the girls through another gate and a passageway painted with stars and fancy stylized birds and deer, emerging in a courtyard in front of a building that took his breath away.

  “It’s magnificent!”

  “You like?” his guide asked, serious.

  “Very much like. Is beautiful.” The wooden building was everything Russia, all incorporated into a log structure with onion domes and magnificently-carved wooden eves and rafter-tails holding the dark green roof up over log walls. Is this where giant redwoods go when they die? Man oh man, the structures professor would die of sheer joy if he saw this. The logs had been finished to keep their rich golden brown color, but ornate folk-style figures decorated the shutters, the gable-ends, the ends of support beams, and anything that might be considered flat. The gemstone onion domes belonged to this building and Steve sighed, amazed. He could spend hours going over the building, trying to see how it all fit together. The load distribution from the roof puzzled him, and he decided if possible he’d ask for a tour of the attic to see how the framing and force balance worked.

  His guide tugged him again. “Sorry.” He followed her up a curving formal wooden staircase. As he got closer to the building, he started feeling uncomfortable. Something about the designs carved around the windows and doors bugged him. Like the gate they did not want to stay in focus, and the proportions of the figures seemed off, heads too big or legs not as they should be, even for fairy-tale creatures. When he tried to look closely, his eyes slid away from the shapes and back to the solid, comfortable curves of the logs in the wall. He stumbled on the next step and decided that concentrating on his footing might be a better idea.

  A large man met the girls at the top of the stairs. He loomed in the doorway a bit like Steve remembered his dad looming when Catherine brought home an unacceptable boy. “Welcome home, my ladies. You bring a guest?”

  They parted, allowing Steve to see the man clearly. He wore a costume out of Russian folk art, with shiny black knee boots, loose blue trousers and a black coat over a white shirt. Steve bowed. The large man bowed in turn. “Your name, young master?”

  Steve hesitated an instant, then said, “Steven Zolnerovich, called Steve.” No way I’m explaining a Greek first name again, nope, not at all.

  A gust of wind whirled past, as if the palace sighed. “Welcome, Master Steve, Soldier’s Son.”

  The first sister in the rows said, “He has come far, and saw us at the edge of the lake as we began to return home. He is our invited guest.”

  “And a welcome guest he is, my ladies. Please, young master, enter and be welcome to bed and board.”

  Steven followed the young ladies into the palace, and soon found himself surrounded by servants. They directed him into a brightly painted guest room, done in browns and golds with blue trim. The folk art style suited the building. A flat-topped ceramic-covered oven took up one corner. “May I take these to be cleaned?” an old man asked, pointing to Steve’s shirt.

  “Yes, but not the coat, please.” I don’t want you getting my phone and keys, no offense. The servants brought a folding screen for privacy and a loose fitting shirt and trousers for him to change into. Steve handed over his two shirts and his trousers, and zipped his St. George medal into the coat pocket with his phone. When he emerged from behind the screen, a small table with a food tray appeared. He had a light meal of fruit and sweets, followed by a very welcome visit to a steam bath. Steve recalled enough from his great-grandmother’s Russian stories to tidy up after himself, and the old man running the place nodded as he handed Steve a clean towel. “Your clothes are drying as well, young master. If you would care to follow Chern back to your room?”

  Chern, dressed all in black with black hair and pale grey eyes, led Steve to the guest room. “The evening meal will not be served for several hours, young master. If you would care to
rest?” He pointed to a bed piled high with a feather mattress and clean, white sheets and pillows.

  “Thank you. I believe I will.” Steve put his St. George back on and lay down, asleep before he could pull the blanket up.

  #

  Steve woke and found his clothes clean and folded, waiting for him. He got dressed again, glad he’d worn a decent flannel shirt and a thermal shirt that matched his dark blue pants. He combed his hair and studied the room, fascinated by how the panels fitted to the walls and the curved ceiling supports. They seemed to be a hybrid of Gothic buttressing and standard log bracing, and he peered around, running his hand over those joints he could reach in order to see how they fitted and attached. “Pegs? Yeah, that feels pegged. Dang, that’s good work. Did they bend the logs some way or is it, hmm . . .” He considered climbing onto the table to get a better look but didn’t trust the surface to support him, and he was a guest, not a contractor, after all.

  Before Steve got too bored or lonesome, someone tapped three times on the door. “Come in.”

  His guide from earlier stood in the doorway, an older woman lurking behind. Chaperone, oh yeah. Great, fairy-tale world had dads as possessive as his own. Granted, if he, Steve, had a dozen really good looking daughters and they brought a foreigner home with them one afternoon, he’d probably be a little wary too, but still. “Master Steve, if you would please follow?”

  “I am happy to follow,” he stopped. “Um, pardon. Your name?”

  She too hesitated. “I am called Rose.”

  “Thank you, Mistress Rose.”

  That seemed to be the proper response and the chaperone backed up enough to let Steve follow a pace or two behind Rose. She’d changed into a light blue dress with gold stitched shoulder straps over a very nice white underdress with full sleeves trimmed in gold and blue. She’d tied the end of her long braids with pale blue ribbons that matched the odd little coronet thing on top of her head. They continued down a long, dark hallway lit by those fake candle lanterns that a lot of building codes required because of fire hazards. Or were they fake? Steve shook his head a little. Have to be fake. No one in their right mind has open flame around wood, even solid log construction, and I don’t see sprinklers in the ceilings. The wooden floor had been painted in squares, and the walls teemed with floral designs on blue, green, or light brown backgrounds. As he looked around Steve realized that two colors were missing—red and yellow. He saw gold leaf all over, but not yellow paint. Orange, pale pink, white, every shade of blue and green imaginable, but not true red or yellow. Interesting. I wonder why?

  They turned a corner to the left, went down a short stairway, and stopped at a pair of very standard looking doors, if a bit tall. He checked his clothes once more and she tapped three times. The sound echoed, and the doors swung inward, revealing something out of Versailles or some other baroque palace.

  A polished marble floor and white and silver walls made the large room even larger. Mirrors hung along the walls, opening the space and confusing the senses a little. Silver-trimmed plasterwork filled the flat spaces between doors and mirrors. Four crystal chandeliers lit the room, and when Steve looked up, he saw a trompe l’oeil ceiling that seemed to be the sky at dawn or dusk, twilit and star brushed but not full night. Boy howdy am I in a palace, and really underdressed. Rose did not seem to notice his sudden discomfort and led him through the long room to a man who sat in a gold chair on a small platform at the end of the room.

  Rose curtsied and Steve bowed to the figure. The man didn’t look that old, a little past middle aged maybe? He had pale hair and a chest-length dark brown beard. An ornate cloth embroidered with strange creatures hung behind him and came up to form a canopy over the throne. “Most honored father, I present a far traveling guest, Master Steve Soldier’s Son.”

  The man nodded but did not open his eyes. “Be welcome, Steve Soldier’s Son,” a tired, hollow voice said. “Why come you here?”

  Hell if I know. That probably wouldn’t be a good answer, so Steve fudged it a little. “A large cat brought me against my will, and I seek a way to return to my home country.”

  “Ahhh.” The sigh reminded Steve of the wind outside the palace. “Perhaps my father may be of help when he returns from his own travels. Until then you are my honored guest. Rose, see that Master Steve’s needs are tended to, lest we bring shame on this house.”

  Rose curtsied again. “As you command, honored father.”

  “Thank you, sir. Your generosity already overwhelms me.” If they are going to be fancy, I can be fancy.

  The man smiled, revealing a bit of tooth, but his eyes remained closed. “You are welcome. Rose will show you to the dining hall.”

  Rose curtsied again and led the way back down the long ballroom, because that’s what it reminded Steve of, but turned and took a smaller blue door before they reached the end. A short, white-paneled hallway opened into a very fancy dining room with several tables, all laid with multiple knives, forks, goblets, and more tableware than Steve’s entire extended family owned. Oh boy, what was that rule we learned when I worked at Chez Rockies? Um, oh, come on brain, work, work. Rose led him to a seat at the table at the head of the room, one with a white tablecloth and gilded utensils. Outside in, that was it! At least that was what the French and Brits used, and Steve crossed his mental fingers that it applied to Russian fairy-tale dining as well.

  When the first dish appeared he realized that no, the Russians went from inside out. But the pattern worked, and he didn’t make too much a fool of himself. He also ate what was put in front of him, even though he really did not like whole fish with their heads on. There wasn’t any bread or salt, unlike his family’s big meals, but he didn’t really miss them. The rare and tender beef tasted good, the chicken likewise, and the little soups didn’t fill him too much. The cake stuffed with dried fruits and cream almost did him in, though, and the dessert wine, ick. Sweet wine dropped off his list of “things I want to try when I win the lottery.” Rose and one of her sisters provided conversation, and Steve tried not to make a mess or act like a country bumpkin.

  He liked how the dream was going, and wondered if it might go a little farther down the “attractive young lady intrigued by handsome stranger” path. Probably not, and as he recalled, bad things happened in Russia to princes or others who made passes at the tsar’s daughters. He didn’t feel tired now that he’d had a nap, and he wondered if he might be able to go exploring. I wonder where Ivan is? He’d lap up the fish courses.

  “Something bothers you, Master Steve?” Rose asked.

  He shook his head and smiled. “No, just wondering why the giant cat brought me here. Probably the cat’s idea of something funny to do. Cats are strange.”

  “You need not fear the cat here, Master Steve,” the other girl, Pearl, assured him. “Our father and grandfather do not care for cats and they are not allowed.”

  “Thank you.”

  The last course disappeared, whisked away by efficient servants, and the old woman chaperone reappeared, whispering into Rose’s ear. The flush on her cheeks faded, and she bit her lip, then nodded. “Master Steve, our grandfather has returned and wishes to meet you and welcome you personally.”

  “I would be honored to meet your grandfather.” Steve noticed that his Russian had improved quickly now that he was using it again. That the girls talked slowly also helped.

  Rose stood and Steve followed, their elderly escort close behind. Rose led the way to a hallway lined with painted chests and glass cabinets. The cabinets held treasures made of amber, ivory, gold and other precious materials, including carvings. One glass case featured an eagle that had to be made from a single enormous ruby, with talons and a beak of pure gold. Steve stared in awe at the craftsmanship and wondered where on earth the gem carver had found a stone that big. Then he hurried and caught up with Rose.

  She stopped at a doorway and bowed. Two very large and ferocious men in Russian costume stood on either side of the door. One of them turne
d and knocked. A deep voice called from inside and the servant opened the door. “Please, go ahead, Grandfather wants me to wait here so you can speak man-to-man.” She started to back away, then tripped. He caught her and she leaned close and whispered “Ludmilla,” then moved before the chaperone or one of the guards could object.

  Puzzled, Steve wondered who Ludmilla was. Oh well. He took a deep breath and walked into the office. A very large desk filled the end of the room, and thick carpet covered the floor. He glanced down and realized that he was standing on tens of thousands of dollars of Persian rug. Oh my. Yeah, he can afford the woodwork. “Come, please, young man,” the deep voice invited. Steve tried hard not to stare at either the office or the man behind the desk. Treasures from several cultures filled shelves in the office, carpets and jeweled weapons, paintings and enamel work, carved furniture, more gemstone animals, and even a few books. Steve blinked to see The Birds of North America, probably a first edition. Well, it was a collector’s item, or so his biology instructor had said, especially if no one had cut out any of the color plates.

  The man at the desk drummed his fingers on the inlaid wood. He looked very old, with grey hair and knobby finger joints. He studied his guest through half-closed eyes. An ornate, swirling glass paperweight caught Steve’s attention, and he wondered about a stick-like pointer thing. He also wondered if the man’s collar and cuff trim was real fur. He wore a brocaded coat in black and gold trimmed with very lush black fur, probably sable, like one of the paintings of Ivan IV Grozny in the Russian history books. Steve stopped and after a few heartbeats bowed.

  “Welcome to my dwelling, young man.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Steve felt a little shabby.

  “Have you been well received?”

  “Yes, thank you, sir. Your staff and your granddaughters have been most generous and hospitable.”