Candle in the Attic Window
Page 13
In your wisdom, Iryna, you are now wondering how Uncle Adolf can possibly approve of such an arrangement and you have guessed the answer: He does not know. Except for Pavel and me, only old Yevgenia, my maid, is privy to our assignations. She is my confidant and willing accomplice, and finds great sport in plotting a new escape each night; now you are my confidant, too! It goes without saying that you must tell no one of this. A lady’s reputation is her most fragile possession.
Perhaps, next month, I shall have even more news for you!
Love,
Olga
•
From: Olga Feodorovna, Novoarkhangelsk, Alaska
To: Iryna Dvorkin, Saint Petersburg, Russia
June 22, 1843
Dear Iryna,
Discovery!
I admit I was careless. I wished Pavel to have a favour, to remember me during the times we could not be together, and so, I presented him with one of my ribbons: blue, of course. You remember how Uncle Adolf was always having new clothes made for me, and always the same colour. He said it went well with my black hair, which he claimed looked blue in strong light, and he called me his “blue lady”. Here, in Novoarkhangelsk, he has maintained this harmless eccentricity. So, my closets are seas of blue.
Pavel wore my ribbon at his wrist but underneath his sleeve. One day, Uncle Adolf was down in the town and chanced to pass him in the street. The ribbon had slipped, unnoticed, below the cuff of Pavel’s shirt and Uncle’s eye was naturally drawn to it. He recognized it and confronted Pavel, demanding an explanation.
Pavel responded admirably. Although he feared for my honour, he refused to speak falsely before a Governor of the Empire, much less before the father of the girl he hoped to marry. He confessed everything and professed his love for me.
Uncle will have none of it, of course. He refuses to allow me to marry a “common sailor”. This from the Governor of Alaska! As though sailing the seas for the glory of Emperor Nicholas is any less noble than sitting hunched over a ledger tabulating otter pelt yields!
Pavel has Uncle’s grudging respect; I have his boundless love. I can only hope that, together, these assets might be enough to change his mind.
Pray for me, Iryna!
Sadly yours,
Olga
•
From: Olga Feodorovna, Novoarkhangelsk, Alaska
To: Iryna Dvorkin, Saint Petersburg, Russia
July 8, 1843
Dear Iryna,
Uncle Adolf has dispatched Pavel’s ship on an extended voyage. He will be gone a year or longer.
Uncle wishes to arrange my marriage to a wealthy friend of his, Vladimir Titov.
I have given my assent. What else can I do? Uncle Adolf wants what is best for me. I could never bring myself to show ingratitude.
We are to be married next spring. Perhaps you can arrange to come. I feel I may need you.
Love,
Olga
•
From: Olga Feodorovna, Novoarkhangelsk, Alaska
To: Iryna Dvorkin, Saint Petersburg, Russia
August 17, 1843
Dear Iryna,
I have much to tell you and I hope you will read to the end of this letter before dismissing me. You may find it unbelievable, but I am a desperate lady and I have discovered that there are few lengths to which I would not go to escape my situation.
What you will not find unbelievable is that, though my love for Uncle Adolf persists, I simply cannot marry Vladimir. To begin with, he eats like a swine and looks like one. His manners are atrocious; his hygiene is questionable; and ever since our betrothal, he has inflicted any number of unwanted physical visitations upon my person when Uncle isn’t watching, asserting his immediate ownership of that which has merely been promised. Since Vladimir came, I have been subjected to abuses that no ordinary serving-girl would allow, much less a lady.
Iryna, I would gladly submit to this if I thought that my future were foremost in Uncle Adolf’s thoughts, but I know this is not so. Various fragments of conversation that I have chanced to overhear have revealed that Uncle hopes to benefit from certain friendships and associations of Vladimir, after his term as Governor is ended. I should have seen it. I am not his daughter, after all. And what is the life of one girl where the promises of wealth and comfort are concerned?
Having learned Uncle’s true motives, I knew I must make a decision soon. I spent the better part of a day locked away in my rooms, praying for guidance; alas, nothing came of it. I fear I have spent my life amused and distracted; now that decisive action had become necessary, I found myself paralyzed.
It was Yevgenia, my maid, who forced me out of my helpless state. She came to me with a brilliant new escape, only, we were to make this egress together. She laid out trousers, shirt and sturdy boots for me and, just before midnight, she spirited me out of the castle.
Yevgenia has been at Baranof Castle forever, it seems, having served governors for almost as long as Alaska has been part of the Empire. She has seen much, and knows a great many things about this island, most of which had held for me no fascination at all. As I discovered, she was privy to secrets I couldn’t have imagined.
I had seen the local savages before, of course, though I had naturally always kept my distance; they often came into Novoarkhangelsk to sell their pelts. It is my understanding that there are similar tribes practically everywhere on the continent! I cannot imagine the nuisance they must pose the Americans, French and Spanish. I should have gladly kept away from them my entire life, but it was not to be.
Yevgenia and I left the town behind and soon found ourselves thrashing through the most vulgar, brush-infested woods. I was glad of my trousers, though when I had first put them on, I thought them quite scandalous; how snug they were at the hips, Iryna! We went on forever, old Yevgenia practically dragging me at times. I was perspiring in a most uncomely way. Just when I had had my fill and was about to insist on our retreat, Yevgenia stopped and pointed.
Ahead of us was a dilapidated house– a shanty, really, with a small fire blazing nearby. Sitting in the doorway, in a battered wooden chair, was one of the savages! The ‘Koloshi’, we call them, though I understand they call themselves the ‘Lingit’ or ‘Tlingit’, or some similar gibberish. This particular Koloshi had taken note of us, staring in our direction without blinking, like a lunatic.
Yevgenia bade me remain and went to the man, engaging him in whispered conversation, occasionally gesturing in my direction. He nodded slowly, once, and held out his hand. Yevgenia withdrew a small sack from her pocket and emptied into the savage’s palm several gold coins, no doubt liberated from my personal funds.
My maid motioned me forward. As I approached the fire, I got a proper look at the savage. Iryna, he must have been older than Moses! Beneath his ragged clothing, his skin clung to his bones like wet silk and the lines etched into his brown face looked like the veins in an autumn leaf. His eyes, still unblinking, were black pits.
Yevgenia explained that he was what might be called a ‘shaman’. He had been here since before the Russians came, and he would tell me my destiny, so that I might determine the proper course of action.
When he spoke, his voice was faint from age, but unwavering: “You are the blue lady.” My surprise was twofold: that he spoke passable Russian and that he knew Uncle Adolf’s pet name for me, especially because, for the first time in years, I was wearing no blue. My borrowed men’s clothing lacked that shade completely. Yevgenia swore before God that she had not told him and I believed her.
“You are bound to two men. One rope you grasp willingly. It stretches into the sea. One rope has been tied to you by another. Its end bears a great weight.” He can only have meant Pavel and Vladimir, Iryna. Are shivers running down your spine as you read?
“All that you see around you was once our country. The Russians have it and, though there has been conflict, we are content to live under your law. For now, it is profitable for us. But hear me. This land is still Tlingit. The l
and obeys Tlingit law and no Emperor can change that.
“For the Tlingit, there is the light and the dark. The water and the earth. The ocean that gives food and the forest that gives danger. The soft, wet cold of the outside, which causes sickness, and the sturdy, dry warmth of the inside, which protects from sickness. All things are two.
“You and your sailor are one. This I see. And, being one, you are two.
“You can never truly leave this island. And the sailor can never truly remain. He can come, but always, he will be drawn away again. You may go, but never far and never for long.”
He rose from his chair, doused the fire with water from a rusted bucket, and retired to his shanty, shutting the door behind him.
Yevgenia and I walked back to the castle in silence. She held my hand the entire way.
What do you make of this, Iryna? If the savage was able to guess at my identity and my situation, was he also right about my future? Must Pavel and I be apart forever?
I wish I might talk about this with Pavel. He is intelligent and logical, and would know what to do. Alas, I will not see him until after I am to be married to Vladimir.
I must think. Perhaps, I might find the answer myself, as I have some months to consider the problem. I shall make certain you are informed, my dear.
Love,
Olga
•
From: Olga Feodorovna, Novoarkhangelsk, Alaska
To: Iryna Dvorkin, Saint Petersburg, Russia
March 18, 1844
Dear Iryna,
I am a married woman. What choice did I have? I do so wish you could have come, but I would not wish that terrible voyage on anyone.
Uncle Adolf is happy. He gave an immense banquet afterward. Everywhere I looked, his friends and associates indulged their appetites, both for free victuals and for lewd conversation. Vladimir ignored me save for the occasional leer, though I sat at his right hand.
As the desserts were brought out, Yevgenia crept in and whispered to me that Pavel’s ship had been observed entering our harbour. Curiously, it was not flying the colours of the Empire, but rather, displayed a standard of brilliant blue. Pavel has returned for me.
I have dispatched Yevgenia to locate Pavel and tell him all that has transpired, including the sore truth that that he is mere hours too late. If he will still see me, she will bring him to my rooms. We have much to discuss, certainly.
I am in my rooms now, Iryna, finishing this letter to you, so that I can entrust it to Yevgenia when she comes. It is hard to say when I might be able to write again and so, I had to inform you of all that has happened today. You have always been so kind and understanding.
Now I hear two sets of footsteps in the corridor outside. My Pavel is coming. I believe I know what I must do.
Love,
Olga
•
From: Adolf Karlovich Etolin, Governor, Russian American Company
To: Count Sergey Petrovich Volkov, Saint Petersburg, Russia
March 21, 1844
My dearest Count Volkov,
How is life in the State Council? I surely envy you the excitement and intrigue of life at Emperor Nicholas’ court!
I had happily anticipated reporting to you the joyous occasion of my niece Olga’s marriage to the gentleman Vladimir Titov, whom I believe you know. I am afraid that, instead, I must relay a great tragedy.
Though Olga and Vladimir did indeed wed three days ago, misfortune reared its head on their very wedding night. While Vladimir and the rest of our guests celebrated in my great hall, Olga was in her chambers, consorting with a sailor of her acquaintance; the maid admitted to arranging this shameful tryst and it was she who interrupted the serving of the wine with a hysterical account of her discovery.
Both were dead, you see. My little Olga had wrested the sailor’s sabre from him, thrust it through his heart, and then done likewise to herself. It was a horrid scene that chills me yet; Olga was slumped across the mariner’s body with the sabre protruding from her chest. I have no idea of the nature of the dispute between them, though he cannot have reacted well to the news of her marriage. Her motive, regrettably, must remain a mystery, though she had previously harboured an infatuation with the man. It could be said that they finished their lives together after a fashion, as she once wished, but obviously, humour, even black humour, has no place in these circumstances.
As for my own duties, you may report to the Emperor, with all confidence, that his interests in Alaska are being well attended to. We have been living in peace alongside the Koloshi for some time, and that cooperation has led to an unprecedented harvest of seal and otter pelts, whose shipment to Russia is being expedited even as I write this. Though I know I risk my good name by speaking with such optimism, I daresay it will not be long before the Russian American Company shows an actual profit!
Yours,
Adolf Etolin
•••
Desmond Warzel’s curiosity about the Blue Lady of Baranof Castle was stymied by the near-absence of concrete details concerning her legend; he has now graciously rectified this historical oversight. In the past year, his stories have appeared in Daily Science Fiction, Redstone Science Fiction and Shelter of Daylight, and more tales are forthcoming in several anthologies. He lives in northwestern Pennsylvania.
The Snow Man
By E. Catherine Tobler
I loved – but those I love are gone;
Had friends – my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o’er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill’
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart – the heart – is lonely still.
— “I Would I Were a Careless Child”, Lord Byron
The dream was always the same, except when it wasn’t.
The season was cold, fog stretching low across every hill and meadow, tucked into the valleys and over the rooftops, and no wind did rise to stir it. Even the sails of the old windmill stood still. Should something move in the gloaming, it would seem odd indeed, for no one ventured out into such weather and the air was, all about us, still.
He would take me by the hand – his own not gloved, fingers twining warm and firm about mine – and lead me through the fog, up the hillock with its dew-wet grasses (faded to amber with the coming of autumn), and into the meadow beyond. The gate would unlatch, the sheep unseen, and we would make our slow and steady way toward the windmill, which rose in dark relief within the clouded air. The bare oak and apple trees made a fringe behind the old mill, only half there in the gloom; he pulled me through thorn bushes which caught at my skirts and tried to hold me back.
Inside the mill, he would lead me up and up and up to the top room, beyond all the gears and strange mechanisms that made this building-machine work. He would draw me to his side with a whisper and then dance me across the old wood floor. That flooring made a music beneath our feet every so often, depending how we stepped. I was conscious of it only for a moment and then there was only the warmth of his arm around me and the soft clouds of fog that began to intrude into the room.
The walls were rough slats and smelled of old corn, and they splintered under my fingers as he pressed me backward into them. I dug my fingers into the old wood, thinking to shatter the entire windmill under my force. Much as I tried, it never came to pass. But his mouth did pass across my own, his breath mingled with mine. He had lips as would any human man, lips that tasted of wintergreen oil, but his eyes were far gone – and so, too, his nose – and yet, in the dream, this did not bother me. It simply was. His hands were no longer those of a man, either, but skeletal. Long, pale bones stroked over my cheek, my hair, and curled around my throat. I thought I should scream, yet the touch was warm, rousing, and I leaned into it. Even when he bade me not to, even when he told me only I could stop him.
I didn’t wish to.
&
nbsp; •
I first saw the man on the rocks near sunset. He stood on one of the highest outcroppings of jagged cliff stone, his face toward the churning lake. The tails of his greatcoat whipped in the wind, snapped at the gathering mists like bird wings, while the wet rope of his hair lashed against his cheek. He reached up with a gloved hand to tuck the sodden mess into his coat collar.
The wind threw more rain against the windowpane, beginning to freeze into flakes of snowlit ginger by the remote sunset. I wondered why anyone would venture out on such a dismal night. I pressed a hand against the glass and could hardly tolerate the cold that slid into me. The man seemed small under my palm, as though I might wrap him in my fingers and thaw him. At the least, I could take him a mug of cider, but when I lowered my hand and looked again to the rocks, he was gone. A thin layer of snow dusted the ground, snow that was not disturbed by a single footprint.