by Alma Boykin
Catherine’s phone wiggled and she slid backwards to check it. “Smell 3. See?”
Peter squirmed backwards and handed her the field glasses. He said into her ear. “Found him. Ten-thirty, by the pile of wood.” She took the glasses and crawled up the slope again, then peered through the binoculars. She fiddled with the focus a bit and saw movement. It was her baby brother.
Stavros looked awful. He limped. One arm seemed not to work, and he struggled to carry an armful of wood. He’d lost his shirt and Catherine clamped her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out when she caught a glimpse of his back. Blue and black bruises stood up along with red welts, as if he’d been beaten. She wanted to rush to help him, to take care of him. Then she remembered where they were, and who owned the palace on the hill above the lake.
Catherine wiggled back down and returned the glasses. “See. Is hurt. Can walk” that seemed important, and she sent to Ivan.
Peter beckoned both of them and they retreated to the woods. “OK, we need a plan and a way to get him out.” Ivan and Catherine both nodded. “Assuming that walking in, grabbing his arm, and running is not an option, what do we do?” He stopped and rephrased, “What do the tales suggest?”
She’d been thinking about that. “He’s an innocent victim, right?”
Ivan texted, “No. Failed tests and your blood carries,” she squinted, trying to decipher what “fathom” meant. “Father.” Catherine thought hard. “Someone’s mad because of who we are, who our parents are. So he’s not completely innocent, which means . . . Hmm. We still need to ask for help.”
“Who? I—” Peter stopped, eyes wide, freezing. Then he whispered in Russian, dropped to one knee and crossed himself, closed his eyes and clutched his Theotokos medallion. What’s making him act so strange? Catherine looked around, then stopped when she heard a thumping and swishing noise. It raised the hair on the back of her neck and she started to shake and sweat. Something scary and huge, something looming over her, something that made her mother cry. The Sweeper! As Ivan tried to break Peter loose from whatever had him, Catherine rushed back to the little hill thing and clambered up to look for Stavros.
Two guards held him. He had his head up, glaring at Baba Yaga. That at least hasn’t changed—more guts than sense. Oh SG. Baba Yaga stood beside her mortar, pointing with the pestle. “I have first claim, then the Dark Lord gets the remains. Put him in.” Stavros tried to fight but he had no strength, especially not after the grey haired monster tapped him on the side of the head with the end of the broomstick. The guard creatures dumped him into the stone bowl and she climbed in on top of him. Baba Yaga jammed the pestle into the ground, launching the mortar. She drove it with the pestle and swept away her tracks with the broom.
“Fuck,” Peter swore in Catherine’s ear, giving her a heart attack. “But she’s not nearly as big as I remember.”
“I don’t remember her at all. And I think we need to follow her. She’s got Three.”
Instead of answering, Peter led the way back to where Ivan waited. Ivan had pointed himself in the proper direction and he led the way until they found the first pestle mark. From there they could see divots every several hundred meters or so. Once they got to a large, flat open area that seemed to extend into forever, the siblings and Ivan stopped for a while. “I don’t like this,” Peter admitted. “I never thought I’d say it, but I want more trees.”
Ivan chittered.
“Me either, but I don’t see a better route.” She looked up at the “sky,” studying the foxfire stars. Ivan chittered again. One of the stars seemed brighter, and redder. It moved, moved again, and grew larger. That’s not a star, that’s a fire falcon. “On second thought.” Catherine stepped forward and held her arm up, hand turned to the side.
An enormous crimson and gold raptor backwinged to a landing on her arm. She had to brace it with her other hand and her shoulder hurt from the weight. “Greetings, sir,” she said. Peter bowed to the bird.
“Greetings, warrior and warrior’s son. My clan owes your blood a debt. I will repay.” He stepped off Catherine’s arm, growing as he did. “Climb on my back and hold tight.” Peter stuffed the enormous Ivan into his backpack, then joined his sister on the falcon’s back. Two strong strokes of the wings and they surged into the air, following Baba Yaga. Catherine closed her eyes, relaxing into the warm, soft plumage as the rhythm rocked her into a light doze. She woke as the bird spiraled down, down, touching ground as lightly as she could imagine.
“Thank you, sir. Your debt is paid and all honor is yours.” Catherine slid off the enormous bird and bowed.
“Your god be with you, warrior and warrior’s son.” They got out of the way as the fire falcon returned to the air, climbing hard before soaring out of sight.
They saw a pestle dent and then another and then a trail leading into more woods. “Right. The forest that once covered all of northern Europe,” Peter sighed. He let Ivan out of his bag. Catherine giggled and Ivan gave her a dirty look. She helped Peter get the big backpack sorted out again and then followed him down the trail. “Care to explain?” he asked after a bit.
“I think it is from when Dad and Babushka met Aunt M and Aunt O. They accidentally broke two eggs, one that scared the Swamp God’s son and one holding what Dad thought was a flaming bird. Apparently Swampy Junior had also ticked off a local spirit, like a thunderbird, as well as catching a firebird and something else. Dad said it got really confusing for a while, but he also had a screaming headache and mild concussion from Junior throwing him into a couple of walls.”
“So our friend was related to the something else?”
Ivan made an affirmative sound.
“What he says, and I suspect so. Fire falcons are known to be friendly to Slavic families.” Peter turned around and raised an eyebrow at her. She wagged a finger back. “The spirits say we’re Slavic. We’re Slavic. I’ve fought this battle before, One and I do not care to do it again.”
“Hssss.”
Peter backed down. “Got it. Sorry. Didn’t mean to step in it.”
“Yeah, ‘s OK, you didn’t know.” Catherine shivered at the memory of her aunt by adoption writhing in pain and crying as she turned half-way back into a firebird, and Catherine’s professor laying in a heap in a grove of pine trees at Colorado State, struck dead by power he had no idea how to use. Her mother had agreed that they’d never tell the boys about it. “It’s just a little tender still. The guy was a real jerk and a half.” Before he could go there she added, “Worse than the one Dad chucked out the front door.”
“I’m impressed. That must have taken work.”
“It did.”
They stopped talking and listened. “Eat. That order.” A pause and the sound of someone in pain, then the old woman’s voice repeated, “Eat.” After gagging sounds, they heard a door shut firmly.
Catherine felt sick. Peter looked about like she felt, and Ivan leaned against her hip. She petted him and took a deep breath. Then she crept forward, looking at the clearing. A little house on chicken feet scratched and bobbed inside a fence made of bones with skulls on the tops of the vertical posts. Stavros sat hunched up in a cage, miserable but trying to hide it. Baba Yaga seemed to have gone inside. Catherine’s mouth went dry and she turned back to Ivan. “This one’s mine, right?”
“Mroh.” He looked a little sad and nodded. She took off her backpack and set it beside one of the trees, then rummaged around the outside pockets until she found what she wanted. She tucked the little figure into her jacket. Catherine stood and took Peter’s arm, leading him back into the trees.
“Right. I have to do this bit. Don’t interrupt or I’ll lose my nerve and I’m as scared as all get out already,” she warned her big brother. “I have the tool Mom gave me. You and Ivan keep an eye out in case the Swamp God or Junior change their minds. Fire beats water.”
“It does?” He squinched his face into a scowl as he thought. Then his eyes went wide. “Got it.” He rested large hands on he
r shoulders. “I’m still your big bro, Sis. I worry.”
“Thanks. But look at it this way, you’re not trying to find a way to tell the master sergeant’s son that he’s both drunk and an SOB, tactfully.”
Peter managed to smile. He kissed the top of her head. “Go with God. And don’t fuck up.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “Thanks for that vote of no confidence.” Ivan was trying to look innocent and deaf. “Thpppth to you too,” she told the cat. Then Catherine marched into the clearing, hands out of her pockets. Stavros saw her and she put her finger over her lips, warning in her mind, If you say my name I’m going to kill you first and the spirits can have what’s left. He must have gotten the idea because he nodded.
“Excuse me,” she tried to say. Her voice cracked. “Excuse me,” she called again, this time getting the words out. “Forgive me for intruding, Grandmother. I need to borrow a light, please. The fires have gone out and I cannot light them again.”
The Little House on Chicken Feet stopped scratching and sank down so she could climb the steps and tap on the door. “Come in, my Granddaughter,” the old woman’s voice invited.
Catherine walked in and curtsied, sort of, to the hag. The Sweeper beckoned her with a bony, twisted finger and Catherine walked closer. The grey hair like snakes had been covered in part with a faded and patched blue kerchief, and the spirit wore an apron spotted and stained from cooking. Catherine did not want to know what the Sweeper had been cooking, though she could guess. “Your mother sent you?”
“Yes, Grandmother. She sends her compliments and asks for a light, since ours have all burned out.”
“Ah.” The gust of breath turned Catherine’s stomach. “Stay the night and then tomorrow you may work for your light.”
Crap, I forgot about that delay bit. “Thank you, Grandmother.”
Catherine found a place in a corner to sleep. She did need the rest, but she wondered if Peter was worried. Of course he was worried, he was a big brother. That was his job. He was a Marine officer. Worrying about his men came with the turf. And he wasn’t supposed to chase them with those practice fighting sticks like her dad had done a few times, then beat sense into their heads. Thinking about her Dad made her homesick and she swallowed around a lump. The first time she’d seen her Dad cry was when Babushka died. The second time was after the Red Mare came for Peter. Alexi had hidden his feelings until his eldest son had gone away, but he took it hard. Now she curled up in a corner, away from the door that led to Baba Yaga’s bedroom and the other parts of the house. Catherine said her prayers and slept despite everything.
The next morning Baba Yaga handed her a sieve and pointed her to a stream. “Fill my cauldron, please, while I go visiting.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” As soon as the witch left she took the sieve and returned to the yard to look at her brother. He seemed to be healing but was still miserable in the cramped cage made of more bones. “You OK, Three?”
He gave her a strange look. She pointed to him and held up three fingers, then to herself and held up two. The light dawned. “Yeah. You need to go, though. Really need to get out of here.”
“Not without you. Ivan has a plan.”
“Oh no!” he wailed, but quietly, and covered his face with his hands. “I should have listened to him. I totally screwed up, Ca—um, Two.”
“Yep, you did. Doesn’t matter. Ivan has a plan,” she repeated, standing up. She couldn’t resist adding, “Don’t go anywhere.”
He flipped her the bird, then went back to looking morose.
Catherine went to the stream and looked for something to use to plug the holes in the sieve, but had no luck. Running from the stream to the Little House didn’t do it—she wasn’t fast enough and all the water leaked out before she got half-way up the trail. After another few tries, Catherine took her mother’s gift out of her pocket. “Please help me,” she asked the small, battered doll.
“Say your prayers and do not worry, my child,” a woman’s Greek-accented voice said. Catherine set the doll and sieve down beside the stream and found a bit of soft grass. There she sat and began reciting the Kyrie and other prayers. A faint splashing noise almost distracted her, but she prayed until the doll returned to her pocket.
Baba Yaga gnashed her teeth, throwing sparks of frustration when she found the cauldron filled. “Very well done,” she said. “But I fear I need one more task done before I can give you a light.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” Catherine slept well despite her worries and hunger. She’d eaten the bread and vegetables offered to her but politely declined the meat. Catherine also gave the doll a little bread. Then she texted Ivan. He replied, “Brother a pain. Won’t fish. Is worrier. =^^=.”
“Is brother. Be pain is job.”
“:P”
No argument here, she yawned. No argument here.
The next day the Sweeper scattered a blend of poppy seeds and sesame seeds across the dirt of the yard. “These were mixed by the baker. Sort these for me, Granddaughter, and when I return you shall have a light. If you do not, it will be your head.”
“Yes, Grandmother.” As before, Catherine tried her best to sort the seeds, including floating a few in water to see if that helped. It didn’t. Then she took the doll out of her pocket. “Please help me.”
“Say your prayers and do not worry child. When the Sweeper returns, be ready to flee.”
Catherine set the doll on the ground and turned her back, praying very hard for protection and inspiration. Just before sunset she heard the pounding and swishing, and looked around to see that the doll had sorted the seeds into two sacks. Catherine snatched up the poppet and tucked it out of sight. “When she sleeps, take her keys,” the voice said.
Baba Yaga went through the two bags with great care but found no flaw in the work. “Very well. Help comb my hair, Granddaughter, and after I nap you shall have your light.” She gave Catherine a large wooden comb and removed her kerchief. Catherine gulped as she approached the back of the spirit’s chair. The hair wasn’t really grey snakes, she kept reminding herself, it just looked that way. But it was clean, to her surprise, and the comb moved easily through the mass. It took quite a while until Baba Yaga fell asleep, though. Catherine tucked the comb into a pocket, found the keys on the witch’s belt, and lifted the ring with care. Then she fled out the door, almost tripping down the steps.
She opened the cage, grabbed her brother’s good arm and pulled, dropping the keys in the process. He moved slowly, limping stiffly and hissing, probably because of cramps. He didn’t fall too far behind though, and they made it into the woods. Ivan was waiting with Peter, who hugged Stavros, making him squeak. And a third person who blinked golden eyes at her. “My clan owes your clan debt. I come to repay it.” The man shifted form, turning into the largest bear the siblings had ever seen. As Ivan scrambled to get into Peter’s rucksack, the bear crouched down and growled, “Climb on and hold tight.” Stavros managed to get up on the second try.
The bear ran as fast as the wind. Behind them they heard a thumping and sweeping sound. Catherine craned her head and saw Baba Yaga coming. “Thief! Come back!” Sparks flew from her teeth. Catherine pulled the comb out of her pocket and tossed it behind them. A forest so thick that it hid the stars appeared and the witch vanished. They could hear her gnashing her teeth and cursing
“Did that stop her?” Stavros whispered.
“No, just slowed her down for a while. I think.” They were on her turf, after all. The bear raced on, panting.
All too soon, they heard the old woman’s pestle and broom, and she called, “Tell me, Granddaughter, how did you finish my tasks?”
“I tried my best and I have my mother’s blessing.” And a Strega’s magic, but that doesn’t count anymore, not here. As she spoke, Catherine felt the bear slowing and descending toward an open grassy area.
“No! Take your light and be gone.” With that Baba Yaga hurled something at the escapees. Catherine let go of the bear’s fur to
catch the thing, then rolled off the bear’s back, landing on her feet and clearing the way for her brothers and Ivan. The Sweeper called, “I will not forget this. What the Elder One leaves is mine, Granddaughter. Remember that!” Then she departed, leaving sparks in the air. Catherine looked at the glowing skull in her hands and moved it behind her back.
“Thank you,” Catherine told the great bear.
“You are welcome. The debt is paid.”
“Paid in full and all honor is yours,” she confirmed. “Be well and may your family thrive.” He sped off, shifting into a man as he left.
The boys stared at the skull. “I’ll just put this away for right now. Thanks for grabbing my pack.” Peter handed her bag back to her and she wedged the skull into it. It had stopped glowing for the moment.
“Um, wh—, why are you keeping that?” Stavros whispered.
“Because you do not refuse gifts freely given, not here. And it might come in handy later. The Sweeper provides justice sometimes, but not quite in the modern sense.” Catherine pulled the pack on. “Let’s find water and get organized.”
“This way,” Peter said, pointing to where Ivan was sniffing.
The three siblings and Ivan found a stream. Stavros washed off. He still looked terrible and Ivan nudged Peter, then pawed at one of the pockets on his rucksack. “What?” He opened it and removed the water bottle, the one they’d filled at the spring. “This?”
“Mrow.” Ivan seemed to be miming patting the water onto something.