Riding Icarus

by Lily Hyde

  Masha selected a blade of grass, stretched it carefully between her thumbs and forefingers and blew a long derisive squeak.

  “It’s true!” Gena objected huffily.

  “I’m not disbelieving you,” Masha replied. “I’m just showing my amazement.”

  She blew again, and the shrill blast echoed across the still, blazing water into the shadows of the oaks beyond. A moment later, several black crows exploded out of the trees, cawing loudly, and flew straight over the river towards them. The birds settled in the willow tree behind the two children. They bobbed and wobbled in the slender branches, fidgeting on their big feet, cawing and making strange popping noises, just like corks being drawn from bottles.

  “Shh,” Gena said to them nervously. “Go and sit somewhere else.”

  “Look over there,” said Masha. “Smoke.”

  A thin blue line ascended vertically into the air from amid the oak trees on the island. It reached a certain height and then levelled off and hung in a curious flat pancake.

  “It’s coming from a cauldron, isn’t it?”

  Gena shaded his eyes to peer across. There did seem to be something bulbous and black under the trees, but he couldn’t make out what it was.

  “If only we had a boat!” Masha exclaimed, thumping the ground in frustration.

  “Why? It’s probably just someone cooking shashlik.”

  But it’s exactly like in my dream, Masha thought. She looked for her mother over there, waving a white flag. But she could see nothing, only the fine pencil line of smoke.

  Gena gave her a friendly push. “Let’s move. These crows are starting to annoy me.”

  Chapter 7

  Masha led Gena along the path between the allotments and the river. The meadow grass was thick with flowers and stood higher than their shoulders. Dozens of tiny grasshoppers pinged out of it as they passed.

  A bunch of crows followed them, hopping and flapping and cawing close behind like a gang of irritating little children.

  “Where are we going?” asked Gena. The crows were really getting on his nerves.

  Masha was in two minds whether to tell him or not. But then, she reflected, he’d told her something very interesting, if unlikely, about her possible two birthdays. It was time to relent. “I’m looking for the place I went to in Icarus. I know it’s around here somewhere. It’s where you can see the church dome on one side and the dovecote pole on the other.”

  “OK.” Gena was quite excited. After all, it was fun to believe in night-time rides and mysterious buried treasure. He followed her happily, only occasionally stopping to throw lumps of crumbly dry earth at the crows.

  The faded blue onion dome of the church was soon visible, peeping through the trees on their right. They went on more slowly, looking out for the pole of the dovecote on the left.

  “Got it,” said Gena as the pole came into sight, all that showed above the trees of the little wooden hut on its one leg. “So do you recognize the place yet?”

  “Bother,” said Masha crossly. “Now we can’t see the church. We’ll have to go back.”

  They retraced their steps, the crows ahead of them flapping like old bin bags. The church came into view again.

  “Now we can’t see the dovecote,” Masha said, exasperated. “It must be a bit further back again.”

  They trekked up and down, up and down, in the heat. They tried going nearer the river, and nearer the allotments. The fact was, as the crows seemed to derisively remark, that from nowhere could they see the church and the dovecote at the same time.

  “But that’s impossible!” Masha was close to tears of annoyance. “It has to be here.”

  Impossible but true. A few steps one way, and the church peeked between the trees. A metre or two the other way, there poked the dovecote. The place where they were both visible simply did not exist.

  “Caw! Caw! Ha ha ha!” said the crows.

  Gena stopped. “Are you sure you came here last night?” He was beginning to doubt Masha’s whole story again. The crows’ cawing was making his head ring, and it was far too hot to be searching for a place she’d probably just dreamt of. He sat down, and the high grasses towered above his head, enclosing him in a striped pinky-green tent.

  “Of course I’m sure!” Masha snapped. But after a moment, she sat down beside him.

  “Of course! Caw haw haw!” the crows said in mocking satisfaction, and flapped away.

  It was suddenly very quiet in their cage of grass and sunlight. Gena leant his chin on his pulled-up knees, watching a beetle like a shiny, bright blue bead crawl across his toes and onto Masha’s. It looked like hard work: each toe a mountain, each space between them a vast ravine. It was exhausting just to watch. And here was an orange butterfly drifting down as if to land on Masha’s sandal, and then fluttering away again like a dream of freedom…

  Gena glanced up after it – and found himself staring straight into a round, red face with a straw-coloured moustache plastered to it and an outraged expression.

  “What are you trying to do – trip me up? Hiding in the grass like a couple of partridges. Honest to God, it’s a good thing I didn’t bag you for supper!”

  “What?” Gena scrambled to his feet in confusion.

  But Masha knew exactly who it was. “Hello, Mr Cossack!” she cried.

  “Well, if it isn’t my fellow adventurer,” he exclaimed, his little blue eyes twinkling at her. “Good lad! But where’s your spade?”

  “Spade?”

  “Haven’t you come back to look for the treasure?”

  “Of course we have!”

  Masha jumped up, triumphant. Now Gena would have to believe her story. Here he stood, large as life, a huge fat Cossack with shiny cheeks and a moustache drooping down to his chin. His topknot was hidden under a fraying straw hat, his enormous yellowish feet were bare beneath the folds of his vast red trousers, and he carried a spade over his shoulder.

  “You’re a brave young lad to come back,” he said to Masha. “Doesn’t look so scary in sunlight, though, does it? And I see you’ve brought reserves.”

  “Why are you calling her a lad?” Gena burst in. “She’s a girl.”

  Masha blushed. “Of course I am,” she said crossly. “I’m Masha.”

  The Cossack goggled at her. “A girl?”

  “My name’s Masha,” she repeated, “and this is my friend Gena. What’s your name, please?”

  “Nechipor Prokopovich Golokopytenko,” the Cossack replied, still staring. “But you can call me Nechipor,” he added, noticing them struggling to digest this mouthful. He started to laugh. “Well, bless my soul. If you were a granddaughter of mine, I’d lambast you for trotting around the countryside in that get-up. And in the middle of the night too! You didn’t run away, though. A little snip of a girl like you, and you didn’t run away. We’ll have to call you an honorary Cossack, bless my buttons.” And he laughed so much his fat belly quaked.

  “What’s so funny?” demanded Masha indignantly. “I’m not a little snip.” She felt herself glowing pink and thought she might well lose her temper in a minute. “I bet you haven’t managed to find the place either, have you?” she said rudely.

  “You bet right,” Nechipor answered, still chuckling. “You’ve a mighty forward way of asking, but since old goat-foot himself has put you in my path I’ll forbear to mention it. What a joke. Oh, he’s a sly one, the horrible hairy old pig-face.”

  Gena hadn’t understood most of this. “Are you looking for the same place, with the grave and the candle, er, Nechipor?”

  “Of course I am; I want my treasure! But I’m blowed if I can find it. Up and down, up and down, all the lifelong afternoon, and nothing to show for it but sore heels.”

  “Exactly!” Masha burst out. “There’s nowhere you can see the church and the dovecote at the same time.”

  “It’s a real piece of trickery,” Nechipor agreed. “Oh, what a monster, that stinking pile of goat’s droppings, may his teeth fall out and his bu
m be covered in boils.”

  “Who?” asked Gena, confused.

  “The devil, of course,” said Masha. “May his ears be bitten by a million mosquitoes.”

  “Good la— Good girl,” said Nechipor approvingly. “I’ll tell you, though, you young ones, I’ve had it for today. This heat’s enough to send a fellow barking mad. I’m heading back to my melon patch. You can come with me if you like.”

  It wasn’t often you met someone as loud, as brightly coloured, as puzzling and funny and scary as Nechipor. “Yes, please,” they both replied at once.

  Nechipor’s melon field was deep in the patchwork of allotments that covered the low, sandy ground between the garages and the river. Masha thought she knew the maze of paths pretty well, but she was certain she’d never walked past Nechipor’s plot before. The fence was made of sprouting willow wands, wound round with the curly-wurly tendrils of morning glory.

  “You should see the flowers in the morning,” boomed the Cossack. “Such blue! Blue as Our Lady’s gown; you never saw anything like it.”

  There were raspberries and gooseberries and blackcurrants and redcurrants, which Nechipor offered them in liberal handfuls, but most of the plot was given over to low, creeping marrow and melon plants. Some of the stripy marrows were as long as Masha’s arm, but the watermelons were still small, hard green balls. A ramshackle shelter in one corner, built out of all sorts of rubbish, stood over a huge, sagging iron bedstead heaped with blankets and old cushions.

  “Do you sleep here?” asked Gena.

  “Of course I do. If I didn’t the birds and any old thieving vermin would have the lot. And as for the watermelons, they’re as much bother as children – need to be covered up from too much sun, turned so they ripen evenly. Honest to God, I think I’ve spent more time mollycoddling my melons than I ever did my sons and daughters. The thing is, you never know how your children are going to turn out; whatever you want, they want the opposite, the contumacious creatures. But melons now.” He folded his hands on his big belly and his moustache twitched in a benign smile. “Give your melons a little care and they’ll grow as plump and sweet and juicy as you like.” He smacked his lips. “That one there, that’s a Turkish melon. Curved like a ram’s horn when it’s grown. No one grows them but me.”

  Masha stared at the plant with its blaring trumpet yellow flowers. “Perhaps my mama’s eating melons like that right now,” she said wistfully. “She’s in Turkey,” she explained to the Cossack.

  To her surprise, his moustache bristled fiercely and his hand flew to his belt, where, Gena had already noted, he carried a big knife in a leather scabbard.

  “In that godforsaken country, that nest of vermin?” he roared. “Carried off, was she, by God; kidnapped by those marauding sons of dogs?”

  “Not exactly,” said Masha cautiously. “She went there to work.”

  “Work? That’s right, they make slaves of our freeborn Cossack maids, steal them from our hearths by night, by stealth, can’t fight like men, the cowardly dogs. Oh, that they should enslave our mothers and sisters, our daughters. My blood boils; my Cossack heart burns for action, for revenge!” And he smacked his chest resoundingly with his clenched fist.

  Gena and Masha stared open-mouthed. Nechipor looked down at Masha, and his expression softened. “Well, poor little one,” he said awkwardly. “And what about your grandmother? Recovered, has she, after your wagon knocked her over like that?”

  “Trolleybus,” Masha corrected absently. “Granny!” In the excitement of meeting the Cossack again, she’d actually forgotten about Granny. “We’re going to see her today. In fact, we should go right now. Come on, Gena.”

  “But I haven’t shown you the place yet, where I was dancing when old bony-knees snatched me off heaven knows where— ”

  “May his teeth all fall out next time he tries to eat vareniky,” Masha put in.

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” said Nechipor. “Come back soon, young fellows – er, both of you, and I’ll show you the cursed spot.”

  Chapter 8

  But they didn’t get to see Granny. The nurse at the entrance to the ward, one Masha didn’t recognize, closed the door firmly in their faces.

  “No visitors,” she said. “Doctor’s orders.”

  “But what’s wrong with her?” asked Gena’s mother. “Can’t the doctor talk to us at least?”

  “Why can’t we see her?” Masha added. “They told us on the phone that we could.”

  “She’s a very old lady,” said the nurse. “We have to run a lot of tests. And until we have the results, she can’t be disturbed. The doctor’s busy; come back next week if you want to talk to him.”

  “Next week!” exclaimed Ira indignantly. “Now listen to me. This little girl has a right to see her grandmother—”

  “You listen to me,” the nurse interrupted, her fat cheeks quivering with anger. “We are highly trained medical staff; do you think we don’t know what’s best for our patients? Either you let us do what’s proper or we’ll turn her out on the streets, and believe me she’s in no fit state for that. If you want her to get medical attention, you leave her with us. Now, did you bring anything with you?”

  Ira, her mouth set in a hard line, handed over the bag of fruit and cheese and biscuits they had brought. “When can we see Praskovia Matveyivna?”

  “Come back next Friday.” The nurse was shamelessly inspecting the food package. “Is this all?”

  “How do we know you’ll give them to her?” demanded Masha, clutching the bunch of flowers she and Gena had picked.

  “Well, little girl, I hope you aren’t suggesting they won’t get to your grandmother,” the nurse replied grimly. “I’m sure you want the old woman to receive the best care possible.”

  “Of course we do,” said Ira hurriedly as Masha opened her mouth to ask the nurse what she meant. “Please tell Praskovia Matveyivna we called, and we will be back next Friday. I hope the doctor can see us then and tell us what’s wrong.”

  “Don’t we all hope that,” the nurse retorted. She took the flowers from Masha’s unwilling hand and folded her arms over the front of her grubby white coat, staring at them until Ira turned away.

  “What did she mean?” Masha insisted as they squeaked down the long, dingy hospital corridors. “Why did you give in to her like that?”

  “Hush, Masha,” said Ira tiredly. “What can we do? If they refuse to keep her here, we can’t afford to take her anywhere else. We have to do what they say.”

  “But why wouldn’t they tell us what’s wrong?” Masha’s voice was small. “Do you think – is Granny really ill, do you think? Is that why we couldn’t see her?”

  “Oh come now, Masha.” Ira put her arm around Masha’s shoulders. “I’m sure she’s all right. The doctor probably didn’t have any time today, that’s all. And it’s true, your granny is a very old lady. I expect they want to keep her in for a while for check-ups. Don’t worry.”

  “I bet she won’t give Granny the flowers or the food,” said Masha. “The horrible old pig.”

  “Don’t be rude,” Ira said in her schoolteacher voice. They scrunched down the gravel path towards the gates, and she turned to them with a bright smile. “Children, how about ice creams? You stay here and I’ll get some. What do you want?”

  “Chocolate,” said Gena.

  “Vanilla,” said Masha.

  “All right. Back in a minute.”

  Ira set off down the street. Gena sat on the kerb to wait, but after a moment Masha turned back in through the hospital gates.

  “Where are you going?” Gena demanded.

  “I’m going to try and find the window of Granny’s room. Maybe if we shout she’ll hear us. Coming?”

  They ran across the dry, scrubby lawns and along by the peeling hospital walls. It was hard to work out where they had been, but Masha thought it was round the corner, and she knew it was on the first floor. A few windows were open, greyish curtains flapping out of them.
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br />   “Granny!” called Masha softly. “Granny!”

  “Babka Praskovia!” Gena called, even more softly. “What if the nurse hears?” he whispered to Masha. “You heard what she said. They might turn your granny out.”

  There was no sign of anyone at the windows.

  “I suppose so,” Masha said reluctantly. “Anyway, maybe Granny’s asleep.”

  They turned back the way they had come. Then came the call: “Masha! Mashenka!”

  “Granny!” Masha whirled round, staring up at the windows. And there, not where they had been looking but further along, was her grandmother peering out.

  “Granny!” She ran back, waving excitedly.

  “Shh,” hissed Babka Praskovia, laying her finger on her lips. “Quiet, little one.”

  Granny had lost her headscarf, and without it her head looked tiny, and her gossamer white hair so thin and light it might blow away any minute. But her dark eyes twinkled as brightly as ever as she smiled down at Masha. “I’m so glad to see you, my dear.”

  “We came to visit you, but they wouldn’t let us in.” Masha was nearly crying with relief.

  “Oh, the staff here, what fools!” said Babka Praskovia. “Still wet behind the ears! People were coming from all around to ask my advice before they were even born, and now they think they can boss me about. So when are you going to get me out of here, my sweetheart? I tell you, your old granny can’t stand it much longer.”

  “They won’t let us,” cried Masha. “They won’t tell us what’s wrong with you.”

  “They wouldn’t know what was wrong with me if it jumped up and poked them in the eye,” said Granny. “It’s just a bit of witchcraft, that’s all. And how’s our trolleybus, Masha? Is it behaving itself?”

  “It came back. But I’m not living there now; I’m staying with Gena. Granny, I want to tell you all about what happened that night.”

  “And so you shall. But you have to take me away from here first.”