by K L Conger
Sure enough, by the time Nikolai reined his horse in outside the kitchen entrance, Yehvah stood there waiting. Nikolai gave Inga a hand down as a groom appeared to take his mount.
Inga ran to hug Yehvah. Throwing her arms around the older woman, she hugged her as tight as her tired muscles allowed. Relief and elation—more than Inga would have thought—filled her chest at seeing Yehvah again. Had it only been a day since she’d left the Kremlin?
Yehvah hugged her back, shedding tears into the shoulder of Inga’s dress.
Inga pulled back and Yehvah took Inga’s face in her hands. “I’m so glad you are well.”
Tears pooled in Inga’s eyes as she nodded. “I didn’t find them, Yehvah. I tried...”
Yehvah nodded. “I know. There’s nothing you could have done.”
“I should have been able to do something,” Inga insisted stubbornly. “Why would God give us free will if we can’t change our circumstances?”
“I don’t know, child,” Yehvah said quietly. “I’m only glad you are safe.”
Yehvah moved aside and Inga's eyes fell on Ekaterina, standing behind her.
Despite what Nikolai told her, a relief such as she’d never felt before filled her chest at the sight of the girl. “Oh, Dear One,” Inga breathed and ran to hug Ekaterina.
Ekaterina sobbed into Inga’s chest for several seconds. Inga hugged her tight, looking over her head at Bogdan, who wiped his hands on his already greasy smock and smiled at them. Inga smiled back at him, happy to see him as well, before pulling back. “Where were you?” she practically shrieked at Ekaterina.
“In the northern suburbs,” the girl sobbed.
“I was in the northern suburbs,” Inga objected. “I searched everywhere.”
Ekaterina rubbed the tears from her face roughly. “Anne shoved me into a cabinet. I hid there all night and started back this morning. We must have passed one another.”
Inga sighed and pulled the girl into her embrace again. Despite her sadness over Anne, Inga felt glad she hadn’t managed to follow Anne into Siberia. It would have ultimately meant abandoning Ekaterina, which was the last thing she ever wanted to do.
She’d felt nothing except cold since Yehvah first told her of Anne and Ekaterina the morning before. Now, a few more bricks crumbled out of the walls around her heart. She, Yehvah and Ekaterina re-entered the palace with Nikolai on their heels.
Chapter 18
Kiril waded into the icy water of the river and, with the help of another man whose name he hadn't bothered to learn, picked up the nearest body. This one happened to be positioned with its head closest to him and its legs near the second man, which meant that Kiril had the more difficult task when helping to carry it.
He didn't complain. He picked up other bodies by the legs this morning, and had to take his turn with the more gruesome of macabre tasks. He pulled the corpse close to him and gripped it under the arms, wrapping his own numb limbs around its torso.
The other man grabbed the legs and together they trudged out of the river. His unknown companion claimed perhaps ten winters more than Kiril did. A reddish beard covered his jaw and upper chest. Wavy hair of the same hue reached the middle of his back. His hands held callouses, which named him a common laborer, though Kiril couldn't have said what kind.
Dozens of men like Kiril and his companion trekked up and down the banks of the river, some carrying bodies away, others returning for more. They’d been out all day, and all day yesterday too.
While it did seem to have done some good — they had to grab hold of bodies as they floated by now, rather than merely drag them from an island of bodies in the center of the river — there were still hundreds to be pulled out.
Despite the icy water and frigid temperatures, Kiril wore only his britches and a thin shirt. A coat or cloak would have become sodden immediately. Not only would they not have kept him warm, they would have weighed him down in the water. Perhaps even tripped him up. Kiril winced at the thought of finding himself swimming beneath the icy waters with the corpses the Tatars had left in their wake.
The Tatars had left the corpses, but the bodies in the river were entirely Ivan’s fault, by Kiril’s way of thinking.
The Tsar orchestrated a complete disaster, and Kiril couldn’t suppress his bitter thoughts about it. He didn't know if Ivan had known what would happen when he gave the order, but Kiril thought an educated man should have figured it out.
He hadn't been privy to all the conversations concerning the matter, as Evgen sent him on other business while it transpired, but Kiril heard Evgen’s quiet conversations with other members of the oprichniki.
Ivan fled to Alexandrovskaya Sloboda when Devlet-Guirery first set fire to Moscow. Even when Devlet-Guirey fled, Ivan still refused to return to his capital out of fear for his own safety. Instead, he gave a command from Alexandrovskaya Sloboda for the Muscovites to rebuild their city.
Kiril found it disgusting. Ivan could have returned in triumph to be a figurehead for his people in a time where they desperately needed inspiration and guidance. He could have given them a great deal of help and supervised the cleanup and rebuilding of the city. Instead, he cowered versts away, and gave a pretentious order without any direction about how it should be followed.
In their ignorance, the people left in the city decided there were too many dead to give everyone a proper funeral. Only the most influential citizens identified among the ruins were given burials. The rest were thrown into the river. In a matter of days, the river became choked with bodies. Anyone who drank the river water—the city’s main source of drinking water—grew gravely ill.
It had been become poisoned with death, as Moscow itself was. Kiril, along with many others, had pulled bodies from the river for the past two days. Once people realized the folly of throwing bodies there, they'd set servants and laborers to drag them back out. The poor from neighboring villages were requisitioned as gravediggers.
After the fire, followed by days pulling bloated corpses from the river, Kiril ceased to care much about his surroundings. He merely plodded through his unending tasks with his red-bearded friend.
Human decency suggested he at least ask the man's name, but he felt too numb and apathetic to do so. The red-bearded man must have felt the same because he hadn’t asked Kiril’s name either. The man's eyes held a look somewhere between half-asleep and haunted. Kiril suspected his eyes held the same look.
The two of them carried their corpse over uneven ground through the twisting passages that had once been streets, but were now mostly ruins and charred remains of houses. They finally reached a small gate leading outside the city to where a mass grave had been dug beyond the walls.
As they walked, passing other pairs of men, Kiril heard General Vorotynsky’s name more than once. Vorotynsky’s victory, though unlooked-for, had been a great blessing to Russia. He’d ousted the Tatars without great loss and won the war. Vorotynsky’s name fell from the lips of every Russian. Moscow buzzed with praise of his strategy.
Kiril’s back and legs ached from carrying dead weight back and forth over such a great distance, but he knew he couldn't stop until the river was cleared. No citizen of Moscow could have a drink of water until this task stood complete. Some might break down and drink it. They would become ill or perhaps even die. Then again, not drinking for days could bring death as well.
When they reached the edge of the mass grave, the two of them swung the body together. Kiril loosened his grip from around the torso so that he merely gripped the underarms with his hands. For the first time, he registered the body he held was that of a woman. She had dark, unruly hair, but he could tell nothing more about her. Her eyes were closed, her face so bloated, he couldn't tell the state of her skin when she lived. Her mouth remained mercifully shut so that she looked, if not peaceful, at least not completely ghoulish either. On the third swing, Kiril let go, as did his companion. The body landed several feet away with a thud.
The first time they carried
a body together, the man had muttered, "On three?" Kiril had nodded, and they hadn’t spoken the rest of the day. By unspoken consent, they merely continued through this practice over and over again.
The mass grave was half as long as this side of the city wall and wide enough to hold four bodies arranged end to end. The gravediggers worked steadily at enlarging it. Twenty or thirty dug at the sides of the pit with wooden tools. Those who weren't digging stood in the pit, many of them with material tied around noses and mouths to ward off the stench, pulling the bodies thrown in toward the bottom and edges of the grave, so they didn't pile up in a mound. Kiril and Red Beard turned away to head back toward the river.
“Kiril?"
Kiril turned at the sound of his name. A man—a gravedigger, by the shovel he held—stood six feet away at the perimeter of the pit. Kiril stared at him blankly. He didn't recognize the man.
"Kiril. It's me. Endar. Don't you remember me? My father and I used to come into your father's shop all the time to get our shoes cobbled."
Kiril would never have recognized the face, the name he remembered. Nearly two years had passed since Ivan razed Novgorod, and longer still since Kiril clapped eyes on his childhood friend. Endar had grown taller and filled out through the shoulders and chest, much as Kiril himself had. Kiril remembered a ruddy, round faced boy with a pudgy stomach, but this man had grown hard as a soldier and large as a blacksmith.
Kiril had the vague notion that this ought to be a pleasant meeting of old friends, but he felt only strangeness. "Yes. Endar. I remember you." He glanced around, searching for something to say. Only the pit of bodies met his eyes. "How are you?" he finally asked, feeling ridiculous and insensitive.
Endar shrugged. "I, too, left Novgorod not long after the Tsar and his demons. I ‘ventually got to a nearby village and ‘prenticed there. They came around a few days ago, saying they needed gravediggers. Said we got no choice. Called it...scripting. Coscript. Somethin’ like that.“
Kiril nodded. "Conscripting. You dig the graves. I bring the bodies to fill them." He only meant it to be an observation, but as it left it's his lips, it sounded morbid.
Endar stared at him with a strange expression. "I s’pose we could never predict such a bad outcome when we was boys, filching meat pies from my mother's kitchen."
Kiril didn't know what to say. He ought to feel some joy or reminiscence, but did not. Too much had happened in the years since their childhood. Kiril had seen too much to laugh with his boyhood friend.
"I should get back. There are more bodies to come. Plenty more."
Endar nodded grimly. He hefted his shovel and turned back toward the pit. Kiril turned back toward the city and found that Red Beard had waited for him. Together, they stepped toward the gates.
"Kiril."
He stopped and turned toward Endar once more. Endar still gazed out over the pit of bodies, his back to Kiril. "I'm glad you still live, my friend," he said without turning.
The icy wind blew Kiril's hair and beard out in front of him. The cold wind across his putrid, water-soaked clothing made for numb hands. Endar’s words made for a numb soul, and Kiril had no answer. Without a word, he turned and followed Red Beard back into the city.
KIRIL AND RED BEARD pulled dozens of bodies from the river as the day progressed. When the sky began to darken, Red Beard spoke. "This will be the last for me. I'll come back tomorrow. I refuse to swim with the dead in the darkness."
Kiril only nodded. He didn't care about the darkness, but they needed to sleep sometime. They pulled the final corpse for the day out of the river. This time, the redhaired man grasped the corpse under the arms and Kiril merely gripped its legs.
A man this time, by the physique, with long hair. Sodden with river water, it covered the corpse’s face, so Kiril couldn’t tell much about his age or features. Not that he cared to. They followed the now-familiar path through the city and out the gate to where the mass grave lay. Plenty of others still brought bodies, though Kiril suspected they’d all soon call it a night, as Red Beard wanted to.
Together, they tossed the body onto the pile. Vaguely, Kiril wondered where Endar had gone. He'd caught glimpses of the man throughout the day. Several times, they came face to face again. Other times, Kiril glanced about for Endar and didn't find him. Perhaps he worked in the pit, beyond Kiril's line of sight. Perhaps he took a break, and truly wasn’t there. Invariably, the next time Kiril returned with a corpse, he caught another glimpse of Endar.
This time, Kiril didn't see him anywhere. He didn't try especially hard to find him. They would see one another on the morrow when he returned. Many corpses still filled the river. It would be another few days, at least, before the water ran clear once more.
Kiril turned back toward the city with his companion. He walked two paces before a cry went up behind him. Both he and Red Beard turned .
A handful of men clustered in a circle, gazing down at something Kiril couldn’t identify. Kiril and Red Beard exchanged glances. Though Kiril still felt quite numb, he did feel curiosity on the outskirts of his mind. Still, if Red Beard turned back to the city, Kiril would ignore the commotion and go with him.
Red Beard glanced at Kiril, shrugged, and walked toward the cluster of people. Kiril followed.
As he moved closer, Kiril saw the arms and legs of a person lying on the ground. A circle of men stood around him. Perhaps someone collapsed. Red Beard pushed through the circle of men and looked down. “What's going on?" the big man asked gruffly.
Kiril still couldn’t see the face of the man on the ground, though from where he stood, Red Beard probably could.
"One of the gravediggers collapsed. He needs water."
Kiril wasn't surprised to hear it. Everyone needed water and they all worked hard. Most refused to drink the poison in the river.
Red Beard gave Kiril a significant look, though Kiril didn’t understand why.
"Does the man have a name?" Red Beard asked of the first man who answered. "The one who collapsed?"
The man who’d answered before shrugged. "All men have names. I do not know his. He’s one of the workers brought from a neighboring village."
Kiril froze as he abruptly understood Red Beard’s look.
Pushing through the line of men, Kiril looked down at Endar. The man's lips and hands looked blue against skin the color of snow. Kiril squatted down beside Endar and touched his shoulder, a strange itching sensation in his eyes.
Endar opened his eyes. Kiril saw no recognition there.
“Endar, I am here, my friend."
Endar blinked at Kiril, not responding.
“You need water, and some place warm to sleep. Where are you staying?"
Endar didn’t seem to hear him. The man stared up at the darkening sky. His expression held contentment, or perhaps relief. Kiril didn’t understand why the man felt either one of those things after the past few days.
Someone tapped Kiril on the shoulder and he looked into the face of one of the bystanders. A man he didn't know handed him a skin of water.
Putting an arm under Endar’s head, Kiril lifted it, cupping it against his chest. Endar smiled broadly when Kiril cupped his head, as though Kiril told humorous story. His eyes remained unfocused. When Kiril pressed the skin to his lips, the smile faded quickly. Endar jerked his head away.
“No.”
“Endar,” Kiril said firmly. “You must drink. Your body is dying.”
Endar shook his head weakly. “The water is poison. People die from drinking it.”
Kiril nodded. “I know, but if you don’t drink something, you’ll die anyway. At least try for it.”
Endar gazed up at Kiril, his eyes focusing on Kiril’s face for the first time. His voice sounded entirely reasonable. “I cannot, my friend. There are people in it. I would rather die a pure man than live a cannibal. Their ghosts would haunt me forever. I’d go mad. Madder than our fallen Tsar.”
“Please, Endar,” Kiril begged him, the itching in his eyes growing
more intense. “Please drink.”
He spent the next five minutes trying to persuade Endar to take some water. The man adamantly refused, jerking his head away when Kiril attempted to force it on him.
Kiril decided to try a different tactic. It amounted to tricking the man. If it kept him alive, Kiril could stomach it.
“Talk to me of Novgorod, Endar,” Kiril said softly. “Talk to me of boyish adventures and meat pies, and shoes cobbled for small feet.”
Endar smiled as Kiril spoke. It faded before he replied. “I cannot, my friend. Boyish adventures have washed away, down the river with the dead. I will soon join them.”
The itching in Kiril’s eyes turned to pressure. Something needing relief. He shook his head. “You will not. You have apprentice work to do yet in your village.”
Endar’s eyes grew misty with reminiscence. Kiril pressed the water skin to his lips, hoping he’d be distracted enough to drink without thinking.
Endar jerked his head to one side and brought a hand up enough to weakly push the skin away.
Kiril considered holding the man’s head still and simply pouring the water down his throat. Endar would spit it out anyway. Kiril didn’t wish to disrespect his friend so far.
“Will you do something for me, Kiril?” Endar asked.
“Anything,” Kiril answered. The pressure behind his eyes felt at a breaking point.
“Don’t bury me in this communal grave. Take me someplace else. Anywhere. I don’t care where. Only take me some place I will be remembered as myself. Not as one of thousands cast thoughtlessly into the river. Let it be a humble place. A place that makes people wonder as they pass it, what sort of man lays in that spot. What he might have done to deserve a place all his own.”
The pressure behind Kiril’s eyes erupted. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He nodded. “You’ll have your spot, Endar. Our families in Novgorod did not enjoy such luxury, but you shall have it. The people who pass it shall know your name.”
Endar closed his eyes, looking content. Seconds later, his chest fell and did not rise again.