For a moment, Bronislava’s cheeks flushed hot as fire. The table is too rough for this china. She spotted a few drops of dried blood from the last time Dmitri had arrived home drunk and bleeding from his knuckles. The blood had soaked into the grooves of the tabletop and no amount of scrubbing would remove the stain. She sighed and surveyed her dwelling: the dirt floor; the coal stove; the tarpaper walls; the flimsy door; the single window through which streamed the cold afternoon sun; the table and two chairs; the cradle. Here her eyes lingered. I must set a good table for Matryoshka. She mustered her courage for the hundredth time that day and resumed her task with steely determination.
This was the first time Bronislava had handled the precious cups and saucers since Mama had died. The china was white and brittle and paper thin, like human bone that had been worn away by the ages. Delicate like Mama. Even now, as Bronislava prepared to place the first cup and saucer on the table, she could hear her mother’s voice speaking to her out of the past, explaining once again how the two cups and two saucers had been given to her grandfather by a travelling Chinaman who’d hawked strange ointments and gunpowder in village squares. “Your Didi drank vodka from these cups every day until he died,” her mother would say breathlessly as she’d inspect the china for cracks and chips. “They hold his soul.” The memory brought a sneer to Bronislava’s lips. Such drivel. Mama was spineless and sentimental. She shivered and the cup and saucer shook in suddenly unsteady hands. No, no. I am stronger than Mama ever was.
Within a few minutes, the second cup and saucer had been placed at the seat beside the head of the table, and Bronislava stepped back to admire her handiwork. The cups and saucers from faraway lands seemed out of place in a peasant’s hovel — especially conspicuous on Bronislava’s blood-stained tabletop. Will this offering be enough to sway Matryoshka? Outside, a group of children played loudly in the snow. Bronislava marveled at their carefree laughter. They laugh as if there is no famine, no death. Viktor will live to laugh with such abandon. The kettle whistled from its perch atop the coal stove. Matryoshka is close. I can feel her. I must prepare the tea.
Despite the scarcity of food in the village, Bronislava had procured tea and bread and pickles for the occasion. She had stolen every morsel. The act could have landed her in a gulag, and she would not have lasted long there. Only a few weeks had passed since she’d given birth, and her body was broken and tired. But she wanted the best table possible for Matryoshka, even if it meant stealing from hungry people. Everyone is hungry, but Viktor’s life depends upon this meal.
Viktor stirred in his cradle, and at once Bronislava was hovering above him. Her son’s skin was white and brittle and paper thin. More delicate than any foreign teacups. She caressed his clammy cheeks and resisted the urge to scoop him up and press him against her chest. Let him sleep. Rest is best. The midwife’s words echoed in her ears. “He is weak. Prepare yourself to lose him.”
And Bronislava had watched Dmitri prepare himself, refuse to hold his son, refuse to refer to him by his name, refuse to love him. She knew Dmitri was capable of love. Theirs was a love marriage, a rarity in the village. He was withholding his love from his own son. It would take all her love to save him from Matryoshka.
She pushed Dmitri out of her mind and carried the stolen food to the table. Outside, the children had fallen silent and Bronislava knew that Matryoshka would soon appear. She had awakened that morning knowing that Matryoshka would come for Viktor before nightfall. She tore the black bread into several large chunks and arranged it with the thick pickles on her single platter.
As Bronislava fussed with the food, she considered everything she’d ever heard about Matryoshka. There wasn’t much. She had never laid eyes upon her. Few in the village spoke of her. Mama had been the exception. From Mama, Bronislava had learned many things about Matryoshka: that she was as old as time; that she accompanied the immature souls of stillborn babies and sickly infants into the light; that nothing could distract her from her course. Mama knew this, because Matryoshka had taken Bronislava’s infant brother years before her own birth. “I tried desperately to stop her, Broni! I begged with all my might, but when she went to take his soul, I couldn’t move or speak.” Again and again she told her pitiful story. Again and again her mother showed her weakness. “She pressed her lips against his head, grinned like a cat, and left his tiny corpse behind.”
I am stronger than Mama ever was.
“I have come for Viktor.” The voice was dusty and ancient and gentle, almost a sigh. Bronislava had not heard the door open and close. She spun on her heels. A plump old woman with a toothy smile stood at the head of the table. She wore a long brown coat that touched the floor. A red babushka framed her pale wrinkled face. Bronislava had never seen such clear blue eyes.
“Please, sit down for tea.” Bronislava hurried across the room and pulled out the chair for her guest. Do not look at the baby. Do not speak his name. She hoped her trembling voice did not betray her terror.
“Oh, you’re too kind!” Matryoshka laughed gaily and settled onto the chair. “It’s rare that I am received so warmly.” She patted the seat beside her. “Sit down, dear. You look exhausted.”
Bronislava hesitated and glanced again towards the cradle. Don’t be disarmed by her smile and her lovely words. She is not your Baba. She forced a smile of her own to her lips and perched on the edge of the chair with her spine as straight as a pin.
“Please, eat.” Bronislava lifted the platter from the coarse tabletop and thrust it towards Matryoshka. “Pickles and bread. It’s all I have.”
“Lovely, lovely,” Matryoshka chirped as she plucked a particularly large pickle off the platter and stuffed it into her mouth. Juice dribbled down her chin.
Bronislava felt the tension slide off her shoulders. There’s nothing to fear here. She’s just an old lady. “Would you like some tea, Matryoshka?” She filled her cup to the brim. “I’m sad to say I have no cream or sugar to offer you.”
“No need to apologize, dear,” Matryoshka said sweetly as she lifted the cup to her lips. “I’m sure it’s lovely all the same.” Suddenly Matryoshka gasped and returned the cup to its saucer. “My word!” She gazed down at the cup. “These are your mother’s teacups!” Bronislava’s blood turned to ice. “I would never forget such lovely china. She offered me tea and bread, just as you are now. Did she tell you that? If not, what a happy coincidence!”
At the mention of her mother, Bronislava stiffened. This is the moment. “We have much to discuss, Matryoshka,” Bronislava began slowly as she rose to her feet. She could barely hear her voice over the rapid thudding of her heart. “I humbly ask that you leave my son here, to live a full life. Please.”
Matryoshka dabbed each corner of her mouth with the sleeve of her coat and sighed. The smile vanished from her lips but remained in her eyes. “Your son is already an angel, child.” Her words were calm and gentle. She’s said these words many times before, but I am different from all the other mothers. “You must try to understand.”
“There must be something,” Bronislava replied forcefully. “He needs more time.”
“You need not be afraid.”
“There must be—”
“You look so much like your mother.”
Bronislava felt a sudden rush of tears behind her eyes. Her confidence fell away from her. “You vile woman!” She cried out in anguish. “Viktor deserves his life!”
Now the smile disappeared from Matryoshka’s blue eyes. She scowled. “You could be taking this time to kiss his head and wish him well.” She rose from the chair. “Instead you shout and scream and raise a ruckus.”
Breathe. All is not lost. Frantically Bronislava’s eyes darted around the room for inspiration. They fell upon the cradle. “Is it because of Dmitri, because he’s been so distant?” Bronislava choked on a sob. “He’s only been like that because he is frightened, and—”
>
Matryoshka waved a hand dismissively in the air. “It isn’t because of anything you or Dmitri did or didn’t do, and really, if you knew what I know, you wouldn’t be afraid. One day you’ll understand.”
“You must make exceptions!” Bronislava’s plea was shrill and loud. I sound like Mama. She gripped the edge of the rough table, clamped her eyes shut and struggled to stem the flow of tears. It isn’t over yet. “Please make an exception for Viktor,” she said quietly as she opened her eyes and peered imploringly into Matryoshka’s kindly face. “I will be a good mother.”
“Child, you are a good mother — a very good mother. But I already made an exception once for your family, and your line is allowed only one.” Matryoshka cast her gaze towards the cradle.
“I don’t understand.”
“You lived,” Matryoshka continued as she slid across the room. Her feet were obscured by her long coat so whether or not she floated inches above the dirt or simply walked with grace was a mystery to Bronislava. “I let you live, and now your son must die.”
Stymied and horrified, Bronislava gaped and reeled. She’s a demon! A monster! How foolish I was to think I could charm her with tea and pickles! I must block her path. But Bronislava was unable to move. Her limbs were cold and leaden and locked in place by unseen forces.
“When I returned to your mother to take you — I had already taken your brother too, you remember — again your mother begged, but this time she was prepared to bargain. Such a strong woman. Each line is entitled to one exception — my goodness, he is beautiful!” She leaned over the cradle.
“You’re lying!” Bronislava cried. “She would have told me. She would have—”
“She could not speak of the bargain if she’d wanted to, my child.” Matryoshka gazed down into the cradle and stroked Viktor’s cheek. He cooed. Now Bronislava’s tongue was stilled by the unseen force, and her cries were locked inside her head. She watched helplessly as Matryoshka bent down and pressed her lips to Viktor’s forehead. He wheezed once and fell silent, and Bronislava’s heart shattered in her chest.
Now Matryoshka floated towards the door. For a moment she paused, turned back to face Bronislava, and smiled. But this time, Bronislava knew that the sweet smile on Matryoshka’s face belonged to Viktor, and though robbed of mobility and speech, she called all her love to her eyes. Go in peace, my son.
Matryoshka nodded and passed through the closed door, and Bronislava was alone with the tiny corpse.
I knew I couldn’t prevent this. Deep down, I knew all along. And Bronislava also knew that, as soon as she was able, she would smash Mama’s teacups to bits, grip the biggest shard in her fingers, and drag the edge along her wrists until Mama’s bargain was forfeited. I am stronger than Mama ever was.
* * * * *
Sabrina Furminger is a writer and essayist based in Vancouver, BC. Her speculative fiction has appeared in Ricepaper Magazine, OCW Magazine, and Luna Station Quarterly. In 2009, her historical coming-of-age tale Powder Blue was shortlisted in FreeFall Magazine’s Prose & Poetry Contest. Sabrina published her first novel (a paranormal romance entitled The Healer) in 2011. She wrote “Matryoshka” after the birth of her daughter compelled her to examine the tumultuous relationship between life and death. Her collection of antique Matryoshka dolls provided further inspiration.
Fingernails
By J. Y. T. Kennedy
Harald had hardly gotten a wink of sleep. The twenty two hours of midsummer daylight did not bother him at home, but staying in the city was another matter, and the guest-house window curtains were completely inadequate. The one time he managed to doze off, he was woken by an earth tremor. The hosts came up to reassure the German tourists in the room next to his, but assumed he was used to these things. Never mind that the farm where he lived was in a part of Iceland that actually wasn’t on a fault line, where you could set a hairbrush down beside your bed without worrying that it would land in your face in the middle of the night.
He dragged himself outside far later than he had planned, and proceeded blearily along the streets of Reykjavik through the cold, drizzling rain. Everything was just as he remembered it from the last time he visited: the same rows of garishly painted houses spoiling the view of the mountains, the same pungent sea air, the same noisy cars. He stopped at a cafe, but turned around and left almost as soon as he got through the door. It was far too busy and instead of the kleinur or cake he was hoping for, the menu was all things like vegan lasagna and couscous salad.
When he finally reached the conference room, he almost turned around and went back out that door as well. The room was full of people, packed to the point where it would be hard to cross it without bumping into someone, and most of them were foreigners. He had known that would be the case, but knowing was not the same as actually being here. He found the chatter deafening and utterly incomprehensible. Could all of these people really be world record holders, he wondered, or were most of them just hangers-on? No one particularly unusual here: one might encounter a similar assortment of types in an airport. A couple of people wore sports uniforms; they might have been famous for all he knew. There was a young fellow with a huge mohawk, who must have had to turn his head sideways to get in the door. His ears were very large and peppered with studs. Four middle-aged women might have been identical quadruplets, although Harald was too far away to be certain.
His mosquito — the world’s largest sculpture made entirely from twist ties — was suspended over one corner of the room. It was not in the position it had been in the night before. Somebody, who apparently had never observed an actual mosquito, had decided to tip it up so that it was presenting its proboscis horizontally like a knight’s lance. He could not see any of his other sculptures; he supposed that they were still beneath the mosquito, but probably rearranged as well. He only hoped that nobody had damaged anything in the process. He made up his mind to find out immediately, or at least as soon as he could get across the room.
It looked as though it would be easier to go around the edge than through the middle. The walls all displayed poster-sized framed photographs accompanied by small informative plaques, forming a sort of world record hall of fame, and a stream of people was shuffling around viewing them. He shuffled along too, pressed between a troupe in matching purple T-shirts that had something written on them in Italian, and three Englishwomen with irritating, high-pitched voices. It was hot in here, but he did not want to take off his sweater: he would only end up carrying it, and would mess up his hair in the process. It was getting thin on top, and apt to stick out in odd directions if not carefully supervised.
The first picture was of a bearded lady, which made him think of his grandmother. Not that his grandmother had a beard, but he remembered her telling him how the gigantic wolf, Fenrir, had been bound by a magic cord made of things like women’s beards and the sound of cats’ footsteps, which have not existed in the world since. Or almost never: perhaps the existence of bearded ladies was a sign that Fenrir was working his way loose, and the end of the world was at hand. And the guest-house had featured a cat that made a remarkable amount of noise scampering about the hallways when people were trying to sleep. Now if rocks just started growing roots and … he couldn’t remember the rest, not that it mattered. As far as he could tell, the Norse gods were quietly succumbing to the indifference of the modern world, no apocalyptic battles required. For his own part, he had stopped believing in trolls and hidden folk at about the age of three, and had preferred stories about real things ever since.
The next picture was of a tightrope walker, and then there was a tiny man in old fashioned clothes, and so on in no particular order that Harald could determine. He took the time to read the names, although he knew many of them already. These were the sort of record holders that people remembered, not the kind that got their name put up on a webpage just for managing to think of some weekend stunt that nobody had b
othered doing before. Freaks, either by accident or by choice. Like him.
He had worked on his sculptures in every free moment for the past fifteen years. He had dedicated his life to making up his mind to do something truly painstaking and difficult, and then doing it. Some of his sculptures had taken more than a year, working for hours each day. He put many hours in with the twist ties just figuring out ways of joining them together, and was particularly proud of interesting arrangements he had come up with that gave an effect similar to the knotwork on old Viking ships. The world record people didn’t care about that sort of thing: it was all about being the first, or the biggest, or using the most pieces. But the people who actually saw his work remembered it. They told other people about it; some emailed him with questions or comments. A picture of one of his sculptures had been used for a book cover. You couldn’t say that for the world’s longest chain of drinking straws.
The first corner held a sculpture which towered almost to the ceiling, constructed from old typewriters. It was not one of his: he would never make anything so crude. With materials that large, the whole thing probably could have been welded together in a week. He did take the time to read the plaque, though, and discovered that the typewriters were supposed to form a model of DNA, being arranged in a double helix and each having their A, T, C, or G key stuck down. The result was more hideous than clever, but he still felt some sympathy with the creator: they both built things from what others discarded.
Just past the typewriter tower there was actually a bit of open space. As the people shuffled along, they all seemed to strike out from the wall as they came to the sculpture, and cut across the corner. The purple T-shirt people did the same, and he gratefully stepped out of the stream. With room to inhale at last, he was on the point of doing so with gusto when he noticed an unpleasant smell. For a moment he worried that it might be coming from him, but decided that was unlikely. He was fairly sure he had put on deodorant that morning; his clothes had been washed since being worn in the barn; he had not been sweating very much; and anyway he never usually noticed his own odor. Perhaps something had died inside one of the typewriters.
Danse Macabre: Close Encounters with the Reaper Page 11