The Secret History of Moscow

by Ekaterina Sedia

  Most of all she pitied the chronically ill, confused, broken, incapable of taking care of themselves, stuffed into hospitals four or five to a room. She used to visit her grandmother in the beginning, when they still expected her to come home. As it became clear that she was there forever, Galina stopped, unable to face her guilt. Now, she wondered if the old people would turn into birds too, or if they would still sit in the hospital, forgotten, abandoned, wondering at first why there was no lunch, and then simply accepting it as they accepted all the unfathomable but ultimately cruel turns of life.

  Yakov, Zemun, and Koschey conferred, with Sovin and David listening closely but not saying a word. Fyodor wandered around the Pub, looking for something-the gypsy girl he seemed so taken with yesterday, Galina assumed.

  "Excuse me."

  She turned to see the Medieval Tatar-Mongol warrior. She had to look down on him; not only was he quite short, but also his bandy legs detracted from his already unimpressive height. The hem of his long felt coat brushed the floor, almost concealing his soft-soled boots.

  "Yes?” she said.

  "My name is Timur-Bey. I heard about your sister,” he said. “I am sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "You can come with me,” Galina said. “But why? Everyone here seems to want to stay, not go traipsing through Berendey's woods."

  His expressionless narrow eyes looked up into hers. Galina realized that the man in front of her was very, very old-five hundred years? Six? “Redemption,” he said. “I have yet to atone for my crimes."

  "You mean the Golden Horde?"

  He shrugged. “We did what we had to. But there are cruelties I've done without compulsion."

  Galina smiled. “My name's Galina,” she said. “I do appreciate your help, whatever it is you think you've done wrong."

  He gave a curt nod, tossing the long sleek braid of black hair shot through with a few silver threads over his shoulder. Galina thought that he looked just like the Tatar champion on the famous painting depicting the battle at Kulikovo Field-only the copper helm and armor were missing. She imagined the small man armed, battling the Russian champion, a giant monk named Peresvet. The image was almost comical, and she shook her head. It was a long time ago; still, her own slightly slanted eyes and cheekbones sweeping up like wings were the heritage of the Golden Horde's occupation. The marks that Masha had avoided somehow, with her button nose and wide gray eyes. Masha, she reminded herself. She mustn't be distracted; she mustn't try and learn everyone's story, see how they all fitted together; it didn't matter how history had abused or forgotten these people. They won no wars, they showed no valor; the winners didn't spare them a second thought, and neither should she. Masha was her only concern, her sister was her only obligation.

  * * * *

  Soon it was time to go. Galina, Yakov, Zemun, Timur-Bey and Koschey were to go to the river, which, so Zemun asserted, was less than a day away. David packed them a parcel with bread, beer and some dry fruit. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn't have any fresh ones-without Berendey around, there's no one here to bring sunlight to my garden."

  "Don't worry about it,” Galina said. “But have you seen Elena?"

  He nodded. “She left this morning. Said she wanted to talk to the rusalki and the vodyanoys about something. Don't worry, I'll tell you when she gets back, and maybe she'll send you a message with one of her watery friends. Look for them when you get to the river-it's crawling with all sorts of water spirits, and they sure do talk."

  "Thank you,” Galina said.

  Yakov took the parcel from David. “We'll be back soon,” he said.

  David nodded. “Just be careful there, grandson.” He got the word out with some effort, as if he was still getting used to it.

  "Of course,” Yakov said. “It's not like anything can go wrong there, right?"

  David shrugged. “It's not a safe place,” he said. “There's no such thing as a safe place. Like there's no such thing as a good czar, no matter how much people want to believe it."

  "What are we going to do about Sergey?” Galina asked Zemun.

  "We took care of him last night,” she said. “He's coming with us, but Koschey made him harmless.” Her large soulful eyes flicked to Koschey, and he dug in the pockets of his jacket and extracted a large albino rook; its wings were clipped, and its eyes flashed with indignation. “Fuck you,” it screeched.

  "Now, now,” Koschey said. “I told you it was temporary. And honestly, dear boy, you should be happy you got resurrected instead of rotting in that river, with eels slithering in your eye sockets. So you'll be a bird for a bit; enjoy the new perspective it affords you, hm?"

  "Did you put the soulstone into that bird?” Galina said.

  Koschey nodded. “I promised I would free his soul from its glass confines eventually, but for now I prefer him-portable."

  "Don't piss me off,” the rook Sergey threatened.

  "Or what?” Koschey's bony finger wagged in front of the bird's beak.

  The rook made an unsuccessful attempt at pecking it. “I have friends,” it said.

  Koschey chuckled-an unpleasant sound with the consistency of scratching fingernails. “No, you don't. They killed you, remember? Your only hope now is to behave and help us, and if you do well, you might yet live again as a person.” Koschey stuffed the agitated bird back into his pocket.

  "Everyone ready?” Zemun said. “Let's go then."

  Zemun led the way, and Galina thought it difficult to take their expedition seriously, as long as they were led by a large gleaming-white cow, whose udders swayed in rhythm with her energetic step. She also considered whether the talking intelligent animals needed to wear clothes-Zemun appeared naked to her, somehow.

  Yakov and Koschey followed, and Galina and Timur-Bey brought up the rear. It felt like a school trip, and Galina had to restrain herself from trying to hold hands with Timur-Bey; despite his diminutive stature, he appeared quite formidable. Besides, Galina thought, he had never been herded with a group of other children to a museum or an exhibition of the country's agricultural prowess. It was frustrating, thinking of that man and realizing that they had never shared an experience; was it possible to be so remote in time and circumstance that there was simply no overlap?

  "I don't like the grass here,” Timur-Bey said. “It's so white and wet. You know what grass should be like? Golden and dry, and it should whisper in the wind, run in waves, part before a running horse like a beaded curtain. It should smell of sun and wormwood and wild thyme. Have you ever seen the steppes?"

  "Not really,” Galina said. “Only in the Crimea; I went there when I was little. But I remember the smell of wild thyme-on hot days, it was so strong it made my head swim."

  "It does that,” Timur-Bey agreed. “I lived most of my life there."

  "When were you-living?” Galina cringed, but could think of no tactful way to ask this question.

  "Under Uzbeg-Khan,” he said. “He started his reign in 1312, when I was a child."

  She nodded. “Forgive me for asking this, but did you find that the people here, underground, were all right with you? They didn't hold a grudge?"

  He gave a short laugh. “Not against Uzbeg-Khan they didn't. He was allies with Muscovy, didn't you know that? Muscovites and Tatars fought against Tver together."

  Galina decided to change the subject-she did not want to exhibit her ignorance of the finer points of history, as well as suspecting that the history in question was rather unsavory. It shouldn't make any difference to me, she thought; and yet the thought of her city allying with the invaders for whatever purpose bothered her, even it happened over six hundred years ago. “What brought you here then?” she said. “Were you at Muscovy?"

  He nodded. “I fled there, after the rebellion against Uzbeg-Khan was suppressed. He changed the religion of our ancestors to Islam, which I and a few other generals could not abide. How could we abandon the voices of the spirits, how could we betray the living steppe that whispered to us?"
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  Timur-Bey had three wives, but he loved the steppe better than any of them. He came out of his ger every morning and smiled at the golden waves that stretched from the camp to the horizon. He remained in the remote outpost even though his position among the Khan's foremost military advisors often required travel to Sarai Batu; he could not bear being away for long. He participated in enough military expeditions as it was. He was there to suppress the uprising of the Tver princes; he was there when the treaty with Muscovy was signed.

  Uzbeg-Khan had done much to unite the warring tribes; the only trouble was, he wanted to abandon the religion Timur-Bey knew in his heart was true-not out of fervor or divine inspiration, but because the grass and the sky and his horse, a sturdy bay pony, spoke to him in many voices. He never set his dirty foot into a clean stream, afraid of offending the water spirits.

  For several years he struggled with the new faith, but in the end he decided to leave.

  "The trouble is,” he told Galina, “is that it was not easy to leave the Golden Horde. It was so big-how do you leave the world?” He smiled but his eyes remained sad. “The Muscovites were our allies, and they were a dependency, not a real part of us. So I went there."

  "How long did you last?"

  He shrugged. “Not long."

  "I'm sorry."

  "But can you blame the sheep if the wolf who stole their young in the night, who demanded the very fleece off their backs, if that wolf came among them and said, ‘I have changed, I now want to live among you as a brother'? Can you blame the sheep when the wolf said, ‘I will not eat your food or worship your God, but I want you to accept me'? Can you blame the sheep?"

  "I can't,” Galina said. “Although I do not like the sheep comparison."

  He bowed his head. “I sought not to offend. But you're right; judging by some of my friends, the metaphor is deficient. There were as many wolves among your own people, and the sheep were ready to riot."

  "Who do you mean?"

  "There is a man who used to be an Oprichnik,” Timur-Bey said.

  Galina hugged her shoulders, fighting the chill this word-so old, almost meaningless now-brought with it. She thought of the Ivan the Terrible's army, the brooms and the dog heads with red tongues and milky dead eyes tied to their saddles. When they studied them in history class, she had screaming nightmares where they chased after her, the maws of the dead dogs slavering.

  Timur-Bey watched her from under heavy eyelids. “It's a terrible thing,” he said. “The evil doesn't die, no matter how much you atone for it. The old evil is always fresh-four hundred years? Six? What does it matter?"

  "People should be able to forget,” she answered. “Things that happened so long ago-it's meaningless. Where would we be if we forever hated those who did something wrong? Russians would still hate Tatars, Jews would hate Russians-"

  "You mean they don't now?” Timur-Bey interrupted. “And you're still bothered to think about Oprichniks."

  She nodded. “I'm just surprised,” she said. “I wouldn't think to find one here. I mean, why did they let him in?"

  "Why did they let you in, whoever they may be?” Timur-Bey shook his head, his braid swishing across his back, back and forth. “Virtue has nothing to do with it. Only those who are damaged enough can find this place; I wish I could tell you that suffering makes people better."

  "I know it doesn't,” Galina said. “It's just…"

  "You wish it did."

  "It would make sense, wouldn't it? Otherwise, there's no meaning."

  "But there is a chance of redemption,” Timur-Bey said. “And that's all one can ask for, isn't it?"

  11: The Boatman

  Yakov had never seen a river like this. Black as soot, with a quiet matte surface, rippling slightly as if tremendous pressure had been building underneath. Thin wisps of fog floated over the dead river, moving with a will of their own, twisting like ribbons and then unwinding; they dipped closer to the surface and drifted up, coalesced into a massive formidable cloud and broke apart again in an endless hypnotic dance, and Yakov could not decide whether he was more disturbed by the apparent life of the fog or its mindless stereopathy.

  The bank was devoid of any vegetation; not even the glowtrees dared to colonize the barren black basalt of the embankment, natural or artificial, Yakov wasn't sure. Even the pale grass recoiled from the black, slow water and the living mist roiling above it.

  "How do we cross?” Yakov asked Zemun.

  The cow looked at the river thoughtfully. “We wait for the boatman."

  Yakov glanced at Galina over his shoulder. “Did you hear that?"

  She nodded. “I told you there was a Styx down here somewhere. We should've taken Fyodor and his coin with us."

  "How long until the boatman shows up?” Yakov said.

  Koschey shrugged. “Whenever he damn well pleases. Takes his time, that boatman."

  "David said Elena might send us a message,” Galina said. “With some rusalka or vodyanoy."

  "And this will further our search how?” Koschey said.

  "It won't hinder it either,” Zemun said.

  Yakov watched the fog, hoping that a boat would appear out of it, gliding across the sooty surface, steered by a tall man on the stern, a long pole in his withered hands-he shook his head to dispel the vision. “Why did you think there would be a river?” he whispered to Galina. “How did you know?"

  She shrugged. “There's always a river in the underworld. Or at least a bridge."

  Yakov left her to talk to the Tatar-Mongol, and sat down on the bank, half-annoyed, half-relieved that he was left alone for a bit longer.

  Yakov wasn't always like this, defeated in advance, dutiful out of habit. He once was a rose-cheeked youth fresh out of school who had wanted to be a policeman since he was a little kid, even though he didn't remember that the original inspiration and desire for the grey and light-blue uniform came from a rhymed illustrated children's book about a very tall policeman who had the ability to rescue cats from tall trees without any need for ladders or cherry-pickers.

  He also was once a lover and a husband, an optimist; he looked to the future with his wife Tamara, a girl as pink and light-haired as he was, who worked at a textile factory and shared a small apartment with her alcoholic father and long-suffering mother, of whom Yakov only remembered that she had the most spectacular dark circles around her eyes that he had ever had the misfortune to observe.

  They courted and married, and moved in with Yakov's mother, whom Tamara seemed to like more than her own, even if they did argue occasionally about insignificant things; Yakov had the feeling that both had a slight embarrassment about getting along so well, and engaged in perfunctory conflict (usually soup-related) superstitiously, to ward off the demons of serious fights.

  Yakov did not like to think of that time; he both resented his wide-eyed idiocy and regretted losing it. He hated himself for changing, yet could not see how he could've avoided it. He still remembered Tamara's face, but only because his mother refused to take their wedding picture off the wall where it hung next to an icon of St Georgiy. He could never understand why his mother was so partial to the patron saint of this city, dragon or no dragon. Yakov was especially unimpressed because the dragon on the icon was puny, the size of a large dog, and wingless. His eyes usually lingered on the dragon, reluctant to move to the left and look at the glowing pink face of Tamara surrounded by the cloud of white veil. He always looked eventually.

  It was easier to think about that time now, on the solid basalt shores of the dead river, under the watchful thoughtful gaze of the celestial cow who claimed to have made the Milky Way; it was easier to believe in the magical cow than in his own capacity for happiness. Koschey the Deathless sat on the bank, cross-legged, teasing the soul of a criminal trapped in the portly smooth body of a white rook. Galina and the Tatar-Mongol argued about the nature of memory, and whether it was possible to forgive a trespass without having to forget it.

  The water by the riverba
nk bubbled up, and a small scale-covered vodyanoy surfaced and swam ashore with an awkward breaststroke. Its seaweed hair fanned out in the water like a halo, and its webbed hands, green and speckled with large triangular scales, splashed the pitch-black water. It clambered up on the bank, and its large bug eyes searched their faces.

  "Did Elena send you?” Galina said.

  The little vodyanoy nodded shyly, and dug through the festoons of algae decorating its body to produce a crumpled and wet note covered in black swirls of river water, but otherwise undamaged. Galina thanked him and unrolled the note.

  "What does it say?” Zemun asked and attempted to fit her large head under Galina's elbow to take a better look.

  "That she is considering sending Fyodor, Viy, and Oksana to the surface. She also says to be careful."

  "Oh, great idea,” Koschey said. “I'll bet you fleshbags didn't even think of that."

  "You're not as invulnerable as you think,” the rook Sergey said. “I know where your death is."

  "So do I,” Yakov said.

  The rook gave him a haughty look. “Did you ever watch ‘Visiting the Fairytales'?"

  "Yeah,” Yakov admitted. “Every Saturday morning… or was it Sunday?"

  "Sunday,” Sergey said. “We had school Saturday. Didn't know cops fancied that sort of thing."

  "I was ten,” Yakov said, but found himself smiling. “I think they mostly showed movies from the forties and fifties."

  "Those fairytales were disguised Communist propaganda,” the rook said.

  Yakov stopped smiling. “I don't think so."