by Anna Kashina
I never learned their names.
In the morning, my father blasted my three lovers to ashes in front of me. The youngest and gentlest of the three tried to escape, but there was no place to hide in the circular room with no furnishing but the low wooden bed, wide enough for five to sleep in.
I was afraid to raise my face. I didn’t want Father to see my tears.
Mistress of the Solstice doesn’t cry.
“Did you enjoy yourself?”
I nodded. I didn’t want him to know the truth.
“Do you still long for me to touch you?” he asked.
I shuddered at the thought.
And then I understood. It had worked. I could never again think about love without remembering the horror, the humiliation of being handled by three men and then seeing them killed in front of my eyes.
The memory of their shameless hands as they tried to overcome my reluctance was etched right there, along with the memory of their screams as they squirmed on the floor, caught in the slow hellfire of my father’s magic. It mixed with the memory of my father’s cold hands on my neck, and his eyes, full of a dark glow that pierced me to my very soul.
If this was love, then I could never love again.
Ivan
“I still don’t know why I bother with you, boy,” Wolf said.
Ivan could see the grass of the fields through the hedge ahead, awash with the reddish light of the waning sun. He had to walk very fast to keep up. He took a breath to keep the panting out of his voice.
“What do you mean, a cat?”
“The cat,” Wolf corrected him. “The cat all other cats come from. The Telltale Cat.”
Ivan considered this.
“Cats don’t tell tales,” he ventured.
Wolf reached the opening between two birch trees and stopped on the edge of the field, just inside the forest hedge.
“Maybe stupid humans just don’t listen.”
Ivan took another deep breath. His legs hurt from the day-long march. His heart pounded.
“So, what am I facing?”
“Yourself,” Wolf replied “And based on recent events, I must say you have no worse enemy.”
Ivan shrugged. “It’s no help being cryptic.”
Wolf turned his muzzle toward Ivan. His yellow eyes beckoned. Ivan found himself sinking into the lupine gaze, drawn by the ancient, ruthless force it emanated.
There was no escape. He could no longer remember who he was. He knew nothing about his aim, his desire, his purpose. Nothing except the two yellow orbs that encompassed his whole being. His whole world.
And then it was gone. He was back at the hedge, the last sunbeams of the day caressing his skin. Birds chirped, and a mosquito next to his ear buzzed its bloodthirsty song.
Ivan. I am Ivan.
He shuddered.
Ivan the Fool.
“What you just felt was but a touch of the power that the Primals possess. Bayun the Cat’s power is similar to mine. Similar, but different.”
“How?” Ivan managed.
“Wolves live in packs. Their power is open to share with other beings. Cats are solitary. So, their power is not for sharing. Their power is aimed to take, not to give. Never to give.”
“Why are we seeking his help, then? If he won’t give us anything, what’s the use?”
“You are seeking his help, because you got yourself into trouble even I can’t save you from. And that, boy, is no small task. If Bayun refuses to help you, you’re truly on your own.”
“All right.” Ivan sighed. “What should I do?”
“First, don’t ask anything of him. If the beast senses you want something, you are lost.”
“How am I going to learn things if I don’t ask?”
“By listening. That’s what I’ve been telling you all along. If you had just been listening…” Wolf growled and turned away.
Ivan waited.
“His tales always have a meaning, boy, and they’re directed by the listener. You can figure things out if you just listen carefully. I know you can use your head. Sometimes.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Remember who you are. Don’t let him talk you into forgetting.”
Ivan remembered the draw of Wolf’s gaze. If the power of Bayun the Cat was similar, this advice would be hard to heed.
“Above all, don’t confuse the real with the false.”
“What?”
“The beast will try to confuse you, trick you with illusions, until you won’t know what is true anymore. Don’t let him. Think of anything you can that is real. Don’t let go. Or else, you are lost.”
For a second there was pity and sorrow in Wolf’s gaze. Ivan looked away. This was much more unnerving than the contempt of last night.
“Good luck.” Wolf turned to depart.
“Wait!” Ivan called out. “Are you just going to leave me like this?”
“Like what?”
Ivan shrugged. “I guess, I hoped you’d stay around…Until I’m—done.”
Wolf rested his muzzle on Ivan’s shoulder. “Remember, boy, cats and wolves don’t ‘stay around’ each other. Ever. Not even in death.”
He leapt past Ivan and disappeared behind a thick hazelnut bush. The fleshy leaves wavered, then went still in his wake.
The path was so thin that at times it was hard to find through the wavering grass. Obviously, Bayun’s lair was not popular with visitors.
The mighty oak squatted on the hilltop like a monstrous bird on its perch, spreading wing-like branches over its wide nesting grounds. The earth rose under the pull of the massive roots, forming a hill as if by the sheer will of the ancient tree. It was hard to imagine that anything might have been there before the tree. Even the rocks, bared by the cliff behind it, looked small and uncertain by comparison, as if knobby root fingers had tucked them into place to finish off the impressive roost.
As Ivan made his way up the hill, he saw no movement. The path on the hill became more defined, curving around the tree like a loose rope thrown carelessly into the thick grass. It was barely visible in the long evening shadows.
Ivan paused, waiting.
“Anyone home?” he asked carefully.
There was a rustle in the branches above his head and, moments later, the ground on his left shook noiselessly. Even then, it appeared as if the large shape that blocked the waning sunlight had grown out of the grass, instead of dropping from the branches above. Its movements, though they looked slow and lazy in their quality, were so swift they were hard for the eye to follow.
Ivan stared.
It looked like a very large house cat, smaller than Wolf, yet too big to be confused with an ordinary animal. Sitting down, its head reached just above Ivan’s waist. Its long fur was pitch-black, outlined against the blood-red sunset like a halo of darkness. Then Ivan saw the eyes.
The creature’s eyes were jewel green and they shone out of the blackness, as if emanating a light of their own, bright even against the sunset background. Ivan shivered under their gaze as if he’d been burned with cold green hellfire.
It was the most beautiful creature Ivan had ever seen.
The giant cat stirred.
“Ivan the Fool of the Twelfth Kingdom,” he mused. His voice was soft and deep, like a purr. He seemed to whisper, yet the sound echoed through Ivan like thunder.
A cat’s face filled Ivan’s vision and he saw, for a brief moment, a pink tongue flick out of its mouth lo lick razor-sharp fangs. Then it was gone.
“What do you seek, boy?” Bayun whispered. “What tale do you want to hear? Perhaps, of your own deeds turned into a song? Listen…”
The soft purr of his voice filled Ivan’s ears. The cat’s voice drew, no less captivating, than the green of his gaze. Instead of words, images filled Ivan’s head, as if he was watching events take place in front of his eyes. No, not watching—acting. Living them through the soft purr of the cat’s tale.
The evening smell of damp grass filled
Ivan’s nostrils. He was no longer on the hilltop under the giant oak. He was facing the oak, but the oak was gnarled, looming over the straight path that led to the castle wall.
At first glance it seemed safe. One could walk right through without stopping.
But there was a web of water droplets crossing the path. The deadly trap on the way to the Mistress’s tower. If one walked through, one would be lost. Ivan would lose his mind and never reach the castle. He would walk out into the swamp and perish in its bottomless depths…
This was not how it happened in real life, but more beautiful, like in a song. Any discrepancies did hot matter as he immersed himself in the tapestry of the cat’s tale.
Marya
Ivan in the Mirror reached out and touched a hanging droplet of water. His hand followed in a spiral pattern, and with a sigh the magical mist unraveled itself, disappearing like thin smoke into the night wind.
I drew away from the Mirror.
How had this boy learned to unravel my mist? It had taken my father and I a month to put it in place. No one was supposed to know how to remove it.
Perhaps I’d do better to learn his story from the start.
“Tell me about his past,” I ordered the Mirror.
The fog disappeared to reveal a frightened little boy perched on a thin branch of an apple tree. The boy’s face was lean and freckled, but I could easily recognize his eyes, blue like cornflowers.
Two older boys stood on the ground laughing, swinging the tree back and forth.
“Hurry up, Ivan!” the oldest boy shouted. “Get that apple over there!”
“Will it really give our father his youth back, Vassily?” the other boy on the ground whispered doubtfully.
“Of course not, Fedor, you idiot!” Vassily hissed back, shaking the tree violently.
“I can’t get the apple, brothers!” Ivan shouted from above. “The tree is trying to throw me off!”
“That’s because it doesn’t want you to get the apple! Do you think our father’s youth is easy to get?” Vassily answered, smothering an evil laugh.
“All right!” Ivan shouted, and in the Mirror I saw a tear run down his pale strained face.
I watched the pictures flash by, so absorbed I forgot to tell my Mirror to stop or to condense the sad tale.
I saw little Ivan fall from the tree just as he grabbed for the apple hanging from the furthest branch.
I saw his brothers watch him crawl on the ground—Vassily with cold satisfaction, Fedor with mild concern—as young Ivan fought tears of pain, smearing the blood dripping from his nose all over his face with the back of his hand.
I saw them present the case to their father, the Tzar, in a way that made little Tzarevich Ivan look like a complete idiot who’d suddenly imagined that an ordinary apple from their orchard could make their father young again.
And I watched such stories go on and on until, against Ivan’s protests, he firmly and finally became known to everyone in his household as Ivan, the Fool.
I admired the evil wit of Tzarevich Vassily who set his traps, one by one, with the skill of a born schemer. It was obvious to anyone, that of the three sons of the widowed Tzar it was not the wicked Vassily, or the simple-minded Fedor, but Ivan with his sunny personality for whom his father had the highest hopes. And so his older brother cleverly made sure that his father’s hopes were diverted from Ivan to himself.
He played on Ivan’s good nature and love for his father to make the boy do the stupidest things. Their six years’ difference in age made Vassily sound so mature and honest, both to little Ivan and to their elderly father.
Vassily’s superb mind invented more and more complicated yet seemingly logical tasks for his little brother, which, combined with Ivan’s desire to help, infallibly proved him to be a fool in the end. It took a fool indeed to believe Vassily after so many failures. And yet, every time I heard Vassily speak in the Mirror, I felt I could believe him myself.
Ivan, at Vassily’s bidding, went out into the middle of the town plaza to kneel, sprinkling the road dust onto his head. Vassily had told his youngest brother that the Crossroads man—his own invention fashioned after Leshy and his kind—would then come and grant Ivan three wishes. As Ivan was brought before his father, dirt-covered and defiant, I saw him give Vassily a long look. He was getting older and wiser. But the damage had been done.
“Enough,” I told the Mirror, taking a deep breath and shaking off the misery I’d just witnessed. I’d made the mistake of letting my compassion slip my guard. There was nothing terrible in what I’d seen. It wasn’t an unusual game, and the best man always won.
“Show me why Ivan came to our kingdom,” I ordered.
Again I saw the same palace in the Twelfth Kingdom, but this time the Ivan I saw was much older, a young man, not yet in his full strength, but already so painfully similar to the image in my head.
What is it that gives him such power? He is a simple-minded fool, kind, trusting, and good-natured. Everything I was taught to despise in a man.
Vassily was right. Yet I couldn’t stop watching.
Ivan’s father spoke in a voice full of concern. “It is a hard time for our kingdom, my son. The evil Tzar Kashchey of the Thirty Ninth kingdom demands that we pay tribute. He has destroyed many lands that lie to the east. I have no choice. Yet, if I accede to his demands, it would weaken us so that we would not be able to defend ourselves. At such a time, perhaps it would be better if you stayed?”
Kashchey, I thought. My father’s hand reached far indeed. I felt a surge of pride for the power of our kingdom. Blessed be Kupalo and His ancient powers.
“I must go, Father,” Ivan said gently. “I am not of much help to you here. Yet, I may come across something useful in the other kingdoms. Besides—”
The old man nodded.
“It is a tradition, I know,” he said. “We send young men out into the world before they come of age. Your brother, Vassily, rode out six years ago and returned last year with beautiful Tzarevna Varvara from the Third kingdom, a Tzar’s daughter he rescued from the evil Tzar Kashchey.”
What a lie! I thought. Nobody had ever rescued a maiden from my father. Vassily had turned whatever happened to his credit again.
“I am proud of Vassily. He came back a hero, with a beautiful bride, and I hope he will succeed me to make a great ruler for our kingdom.”
I, for one, agreed with the old Tzar’s choice of heir. Vassily, smart and ruthless, would make a good ruler. Not a do-gooder like Ivan.
“Now, Fedor, he came back empty-handed. He didn’t gain much glory, but he had a chance to see the world and to gain some skills on his own. You, Ivan,” the old man hesitated, looking at his youngest son with discomfort. “Must you really go?”
I realized I was clenching my teeth. What would I ever do if my own father showed such distrust in me? I think such a look alone could kill me. But the Ivan in the Mirror didn’t seem to care. Or was he so skillful at hiding his pain?
“Yes, I must go, father,” he answered with his usual easy smile. “I don’t want to be your shame for the rest of your life.”
His smile was overwhelming. It glowed like a stream of light, it absorbed his father’s protests, as steady and inevitable as time itself.
“Gods be with you, Tzarevich Ivan,” the old man said, blessing him with a weary hand. “Right or wrong, you are my son and I love you.”
The old man turned and re-entered the palace, his head bent, and Ivan rode away.
He needs a better horse, I thought as I watched the skinny disaster of an animal putting one unsteady foot in front of another on the dusty road. Why, this beast must be at least twenty years old, if not more. Hardly a befitting steed for a young Tzarling.
I ordered the Mirror to stop.
I could spare no more time for this. I needed to settle the question of who had betrayed the secret of my father’s Death, and how to get the Needle back before it landed in unfriendly hands through its bearer’s foolishness.
The Raven wasn’t on his perch. In fact, he’d been missing since my last nocturnal adventure.
“Show me Raven!” I told my Mirror.
Ivan
Ivan stirred.
For the life of him, he couldn’t remember who he was or why he was sitting on the grass beneath a tall oak, listening—
—to the cat’s purring tales…
The soft, whisper-like voice drew him in. He couldn’t hear the words. Only images that poured into his head with an intensity so overwhelming for his tired mind—
—so hard…
A woman, ancient as the trees, stretched her gnarled arms over the still body of a warrior. His severed head lay next to the bloodied stump of the neck, its eyes still open. Under the mask of death the face was very young, boyish.
The woman chanted, passing her hands, dark and roughened as if covered with tree bark, over the still, outstretched limbs. Then she dropped her arms to her sides and sat still.
—purr, purr…
A furry shape leaned against him. He reached out and absentmindedly scratched its ear—
—The old woman labored to her feet, put two fingers into her mouth, and whistled. The sound was so strong that the wind it raised flattened the leaves of the nearby trees. A thunder rolled through their branches in response, and a large, heavy object landed next to her, planting itself deep into the damp forest floor.
It was a giant mortar, but instead of a pestle, a broom stuck its bristled head out of the mortar’s opening.
The woman bent down and lifted the dead body with the care of a mother lifting her child out of a crib. One marveled at such strength in a woman so old. Yet, in the tale, it all made sense.
She carefully wrapped the severed head in a cloth and put it into her apron pocket. Then she eased the body into the mortar and jumped in herself.