The Secret History of Moscow

by Ekaterina Sedia

  "What should we do with him?” Galina said, looking at the soldier with a worried, almost pitying expression. “We are not going to just leave him here, are we?"

  Yakov shrugged. “What else can we do? I'm not carrying him.” He stared at the soldier's waxen face, his concave closed eyelids shot through with a multitude of veins, fine like cracks on a porcelain cup. “He'll be all right.” In truth, the soldier didn't look like he would be all right-none of them did. They all looked deader than dead, and that didn't sit well with him. Everyone else was alive in here-or at least they seemed to think so. What if they weren't, though? What if he were dead too?

  Yakov shook his head and smiled, and followed the rook, which danced and hopped impatiently, down the wooden hall. He wasn't dead; this wasn't some stupid story they used to tell as kids by the campfire, during the blue and endless nights at the summer camp. He still remembered them-stupidities and non-sequiturs, man-eating furniture and menacing but unforgivably dumb serial killers. And dead people who didn't know they were dead until someone told then that they were, and then they crumbled into dust. Even as an adult he remembered the chilled shivers that crawled down his collar then, induced not so much by the stories themselves but by the darkness and the overall mood of joyful conspiracy, the conspiracy of being voluntarily scared, of faking the emotion until it became true.

  "Here.” Sergey stopped in front of a door, and Yakov looked back, dismayed to realize that they hadn't traveled far, just turned the corner and gone a bit down the corridor that seemed to run around the entire perimeter of the palace.

  "You knew they were here the whole time?” Galina asked. “Why didn't you give the feathers to them?"

  Sergey puffed out his bird chest. “'Cause. You're people, you're my folk. These fairytale things-not so much."

  "You're a fairytale thing,” Galina said. “You're a talking bird."

  "Regular birds can talk too,” Sergey said. “Besides, I'm not really a bird."

  "Your feathers beg to differ,” Yakov said. “Come on, get in there."

  The slot on this door was located higher than on the one that imprisoned them previously. Yakov picked Sergey up and unceremoniously shoved him inside; he looked through the slot, but could see only darkness and dilute shimmer. A weak scent of grass and milk told him that Zemun was indeed in there.

  "Look,” Koschey's crackling voice said, “it's that reanimated corpse from the surface."

  "Don't call him that,” said Zemun. “Don't you think one might not want to be reminded of one's mortality?"

  "I wouldn't know anything about that,” Koschey said with an audible sneer. “What do you bring us, rook?"

  "Feathers,” Yakov said, pressing his lips to the slot in the door. “From Alkonost and company. Do you know what to do with them?"

  There was some gasping and whispering inside.

  Yakov sighed and fiddled with the lock-a simple thing, easily overcome with any narrow tool. “Do you have any pins on you?” he asked Galina.

  She dug through the pockets of her jeans-the same ones she'd been wearing when they first came here; Yakov realized that his own clothes were also filthy, and wondered why it bothered him so little.

  "Here.” Galina offered a slender bobby pin on the open palm of her right hand.

  He studied it a while, a thin black piece of metal nestled into the deep furrow of her life line. It seemed so out of context here, it didn't belong. They were in a wooden corridor in some medieval palace, with nothing but pale unearthly light for company; they were underground, in a place that was below the river and the subways and secret KGB bunkers, the place that was so far below as to not exist, for all reasonable purposes. Bobby pins did not belong. Still, he jammed it into the lock, shifting the tumblers inside-easier this time, since he didn't have to work blind. He stuck out his tongue, self-consciously, because he remembered since childhood that it helped. Breathing heavily, tongue out, he concentrated on his work until the tumblers shifted and Galina tapped his shoulder.

  "What?” His voice came out more irritable than he meant.

  "Look,” she whispered.

  He did. More soldiers, of course, and one of them carried a child on its shoulders-a horrible malformed child that grasped the soldier's neck with its claw-like hands, its heels cruelly digging into the man's sides, bunching his uniform. Yakov recognized him for the legendary Zlyden. The group exuded the smell of old ash and sour milk, and Yakov never wished for anything more than to be away from them.

  The horrible child whined, kicking the soldiers and urging them on. It flailed and bit the ear of his visibly annoyed mount.

  Yakov felt something shift inside his soul at the sound of the child's crying. Why wouldn't it stop, why wouldn't it just shut up and be quiet, why did it have to mete out the dull torment of its sniffling and sobbing, fits and starts, deceptive and momentary silences that were quickly displaced by resumed crying? And the only thing that was stopping him from crying out now-Shut up, shut up, or I'll-was a sudden unexplained fear that the voice would fall silent in compliance with his unsaid wishes, and…?

  "Do something,” Galina hissed into his ear before he could complete the terrible thought, and the threads fell apart again, like the pieces in a kaleidoscope, nothing but trash, ghastly bits of the soul-crushing toy he would never buy for a child.

  A strong shove from behind sent him sprawling under the soldiers’ feet-the door he had forgotten about hit him in the back as it swung open, and Koschey and Timur-Bey stood in the doorway, ready to quarrel.

  Yakov curled up, covering his head with his hands, expecting a blow. Instead, the soldiers rushed past him, and the only kick he received was accidental. He rose to his feet, just in time to witness Timur-Bey reaching into his wide sleeve and pulling out a long shining blade.

  Koschey stood next to him, exceptionally tall and thin and straight, with a grey feather held in his bony fingers. His hollow cheeks puffed out in a mockery of a breath; he blew on the feather, all the while drawing symbols in the air with his left hand.

  Yakov had no sense of what was happening; he only knew enough to rush past the soldiers (he tried not to look at Zlyden), to grab Galina's elbow and drag her away. He wanted to cover her wide eyes with his palm, to spare her the sight of the wide flashing arc of Timur-Bey's saber, the dull glint of the bayonets, and the dark swirling of the air where Koschey agitated it with his hand.

  He pulled her to the wall by the now open cell door, pressing flat against the wooden planks that still-all these centuries-retained a faint smell of cedar and pine, a frail and resinous scent. “Don't look,” he whispered.

  She looked, and why wouldn't she? She was a grown-up, not the imaginary child Yakov was-had been-protecting, in his muddled imagination; she didn't need to turn away when the bayonets and sabers stabbed and slashed, leaving the febrile blooms of red carnations in their wake; she was perfectly capable of watching the air thicken into a gray cloud, Sirin's spell rumbling inside it with brief lightning flashes, charging the air with the smell of ozone, heating the wall under their backs and making it breathe forth an exhalation of resin and summer and wild strawberries.

  The cloud surrounded the soldier who carried Zlyden and grew solid-it seemed a porous resin, a roughly hewn chunk of cement. As it solidified, the rest of the soldiers, many of them bleeding, stepped away from it, confused. There was no sign of Likho, and Yakov sensed that without their guardians the soldiers were timid.

  Yakov stepped forward, holding up his palm to the fray. To his surprise, even Timur-Bey stepped back and wiped his saber on his sleeve. “Citizens,” he said to the soldiers, “you're under arrest for disturbing the peace. Please surrender your weapons."

  "No,” one of the soldiers said. “Why should we listen to you?” His gaze traveled to one of his comrades bleeding on the ground, his blood, surprisingly real, soaking into the green wool of his uniform, staining it black.

  How many times could the dead die? Yakov thought. A lot, the answer ca
me to him. The dead always die, every time the living think of them dying, like the child crying in the crib who fell silent and resumed again-he died over and over, killed by the mere thought, only to come back to life and cry and die again. Just like the soldier of the long-ago war who kept falling, in slow motion, under the bayonet, under the bullet, under the blade of a saber; the soldier who slipped in his own blood and fell among the red carnations, again and again. He only lay still when one pinned him with a gaze.

  Galina gently nudged him aside. “You should listen to him,” she said, “because Zlyden and Likho are not here to be listened to. You traded your luck away, and ours. I'm just looking for my sister and I don't know if I can find her without any luck, and if you won't help then at least let us go."

  "Or you'll end up like him,” Koschey said and pointed at the grey blob half-blocking the corridor.

  The soldier opened his mouth to answer but his chest exploded in a loud blast-not carnations but a cavernous red mouth opened in his chest, fringed with white rib fragments like hungry teeth. A slow wet hiss came from between his suddenly white lips, bubbling forth with pink foam. His knees buckled and he fell forward, folding on his way like a lounge chair.

  At first, Yakov thought that Koschey's magic had done it to the soldier; but Koschey's face expressed as much surprise and shock as Galina's. Even Zemun and Sergey edged out of the cell where they were wisely waiting out the altercation, looking for the source of the blast and the deafening silence that followed.

  A careful scattering of footfalls came from behind the grey boulder that was blocking most of the view; military boots, Yakov guessed. He gripped Galina's elbow; Koschey's hands knotted into fists, and Timur-Bey reached for his saber. The confrontation forgotten, the Napoleonic soldiers turned to face the unknown danger, their shoulders brushing against Timur-Bey's sleeves and Koschey's outstretched hands, their backs turned on Yakov as if he was no longer a threat but an ally.

  "Don't anyone move,” a female voice said, and the muzzle of a shotgun peeked from behind the gray boulder. “What on earth is that thing, anyway?"

  Galina shook off Yakov's hand, and rushed forward, pushing between the soldiers. “Elena!” she called out. “Is that you?"

  The Decembrist's wife stepped into view, her black velvet dress stained with river mud, and the fingernails of her small white hands marked with half-moons of dirt. She dropped the shotgun she was holding to her chest on the floor and extended her arms to Galina. The two women hugged and laughed, oblivious to the blood on the floor.

  Elena had not come alone-from behind the gray boulder of Sirin's spell, several rusalki shod in heavy military boots filed out, followed by two soldiers circa 1917 or so-Yakov pegged them for Budyonny's cavalrymen, Cossacks or outlaws (not that there was much of a difference) all. Revolutionary and war heroes, led by the class enemy and several drowned girls. Yakov decided not to contemplate further.

  "Why did you shoot him?” he asked Elena.

  She shot him an irritated look-clearly, she wanted nothing better than to gab with Galina. “They're traitors,” she said.

  "That is not true!” one of the surviving soldiers protested.

  "Of course it is, Poruchik,” Elena said. “Burned during the retreat, imagine that! You're forgetting that my husband was leading your regiment. I know why you stayed behind; I know why you burned-the city couldn't stand your presence, the deserters. It would rather lose a building than let you remain inside it. You've abandoned your commander."

  The poruchik straightened, his white eyes almost glowing with anger. “You should talk, you bitch. You were the one who betrayed him, you didn't do as a good wife was supposed to-you were meant to go to Siberia with him, so you too deserve to be here in the blasted underground, you too…"

  He didn't finish-Elena picked up the shotgun in a fluid motion and leveled it on his chest. Yakov took it for bravado, just like everyone else-the soldiers on Elena's side smirked, the ones opposing her murmured discontent. A shotgun blast came unanticipated.

  "What are you doing?” Yakov yelled as the poruchik fell into the arms of his comrades, thrown back by the force of the blast. “Have you lost your mind? He wasn't doing anything!"

  Elena shrugged and rested the shotgun on her naked shoulder. “It wasn't a self-defense killing, Yakov,” she said. “It was a revenge killing. They killed Berendey and they cost my husband his health and his soul-he was a broken man after that war; Siberia couldn't do worse than they."

  "They also fed Likho and Zlyden,” Zemun interjected.

  "You can't just go killing people!” Yakov said.

  "Sure she can,” Timur-Bey said. He was so quiet until then, Yakov forgot that he was even there. “We have no cops here. And we do not like traitors."

  "I hate to interrupt the spirited debate on the nature of justice,” Koschey said. “But I think that perhaps we should take care of Alkonost and her sisters, and worry about these fried fleshbags later."

  The three remaining soldiers obediently went into the cell vacated by Zemun and the rook; the lock was busted, and two stoic-looking cavalrymen stayed behind to guard them.

  "Wait,” Galina said. “What about my sister? What about the rest of the people turned into birds?"

  Koschey twirled the white feather in his fingers. “I can help them, but we need to get them to the surface first. I don't want all these tourists stuck here."

  "Isn't this place supposed to be connected to Kolomenskoe?” Yakov said.

  "Yes,” Sergey squawked. “Slava always met them there, and there has to be some connection. And I think the tower in the east, that's where the exit is. The birds are in the western one."

  "We'll check everything,” Elena said, and motioned for her small but intimidating army to follow. “Your other friend is on the surface, and if Father Frost hasn't imagined things in a drunken stupor, he and his girlfriend were planning to visit Kolomenskoe. Come on, let's get Gamayun and the rest, find the exit and round up the birds."

  "And find One-Eyed Likho,” Galina added. “Funny you didn't run into it-him."

  Elena nodded, smiling. “That's a lot of things to do,” she said. “Let's get a move on."

  18: Birds

  Fyodor did not expect the bear made entirely of rats to be helpful for much longer-it seemed to work more as a distraction, a quaint way of buying time. If only he could do something with the time they bought-running seemed superfluous now, and the only thing that occurred to him was to shove Oksana into the nearest snowdrift, to protect her from harm that now seemed inevitable.

  Unfortunately, the bear made of rats misinterpreted his intentions and turned toward him, raising its arms silently and protectively.

  "What the fuck is that thing?” one of the maroon jackets said.

  "It's a bear of some sort,” another answered. “A transformer bear."

  "Oh yeah,” the first one said, brightening up. “My kid has one of those-imported. Good toy."

  They watched as Fyodor retreated up the path, the jackdaw Vladimir hovering over his head. Slava remained silent, but his hand reached inside of his jacket and Fyodor cringed at the thought of what it would extract. He never liked guns, was fearful of them-even when his stepfather went hunting he preferred to stay behind and never looked at the glassy-eyed birds and rabbits he brought back. Now, he imagined his own eyes turning into expressionless glass marbles, clouded with death.

  Oksana, now between him and the thugs, got to her feet. She spat out snow and whistled to the bear, redirecting its slow shambling attack. Fyodor thought that it was getting embarrassing; it was the only reason why he ignored the glint in Slava hand and instead charged him.

  He was too far and the path was too slippery. Slava saw him move and raised the gun. His gray eyes squinted, aiming a heavy long-nosed Luger at Fyodor. The bear moved closer and Slava hesitated and changed aim, as his bodyguards stepped off the porch and walked toward Fyodor.

  A shot rang out and the bear tottered and fell apart. The rat
s scattered, leaving one writhing and spraying blood onto the blue-streaked snow. Oksana cried out and fell to her knees to pick up the injured rat. She cradled it in her hands, oblivious to the danger.

  Fyodor took an awkward swing at the thug who'd reached him first, but the man just waved Fyodor's hand off, as one would a fly, and his round rubbery fist slammed into Fyodor's jaw, dislodging something important and filling his mouth with salty blood. He staggered backward a bit but remained standing, watching the blood drip from his lips, searing small black-cherry red craters into the packed snow of the path.

  The other thug stepped forth-there was no hurry in his movements, as if he were going to take his sweet time beating the trespasser. Fyodor found himself sympathizing with the thug-how often did this man have an opportunity to pummel someone in peace, in the middle of the snow-covered forest at sundown, where there was no risk of interruption or discovery? At the very least, their attention was diverted from Oksana. Even Slava put his Luger away and watched the beating.

  Another punch, and out of the corner of his swelling eye Fyodor saw a streak of motion-a dark blur in the blue twilight, and realized that Oksana lunged for Slava. She knocked him off balance, and the two of them tumbled into the cabin. The last thing Fyodor saw was Slava pushing Oksana away from him with one hand, and reaching into his jacket with the other.

  Fyodor strained to follow them, but two thugs cut off his route, reluctant to let go of their forbidden amusement, like a bulldog with an imported leather shoe. One of the thugs grabbed his coat at the chest to hold Fyodor up, and the other deposited slow, methodical blows to the face and sternum, calculated to inflict the maximum amount of pain and remorse for ever having tangled with Slava's goons.