Russka: The Novel of Russia

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Little Kiy felt happy. He was still excited by this adventure into an unknown land.

  He had wandered over half a mile when the path led into a thick screen of trees and became narrower. He pressed on: the trees closed in upon him. There was a faint, peaty smell.

  And suddenly, right beside him, was a dark pool.

  It was not large – about ten yards across and thirty long. Its surface was still, protected by the trees which concealed it. While he looked, though, a little gust of wind stirred a faint ripple on the surface. The ripple came towards him and lapped, with scarcely a sound, against the dark earth and clumps of fern by the water’s edge.

  He knew what it meant. He looked at the pond, and all about him cautiously.

  ‘In the still pool, the devils dwell.’

  That was the saying the people of the hamlet used. There were sure to be water maidens – rusalki – in there, and if you were not careful they would come out and tickle you to death. ‘So don’t ever let the rusalki get you, Little Kiy,’ his mother had warned him, laughing. ‘You’re so ticklish they’d finish you off in no time!’

  Keeping an eye carefully on the surface of the water, the little boy moved round the edge of the dangerous pool, and was glad when the path led him away from it. Soon the trees opened out into an oak grove. The path wound through them until it came to a large empty clearing. Tall grasses moved gently. On the right was a stand of silver birch. Kiy paused.

  How quiet it was. Above, the blue sky was empty, silent. Which way should he go?

  He waited a few minutes until a cloud drifted soundlessly above the clearing. He watched carefully, to make sure of its path.

  East lay straight ahead. He began to walk again.

  For the first time, now, he wished he were not alone. Several times he glanced around the clearing. Perhaps, he hoped, his mother might appear. It seemed to him natural that she should suddenly be there, where he was. But there was no sign of her.

  He entered the woods again and walked another ten minutes. There was no path at all: the short grass under the beeches did not seem to have been trampled into tracks of any kind by man or beast. It was strangely empty. He paused, disconcerted. Should he go back? The familiar field and river seemed very far behind. He suddenly wanted to be near them again. But then he remembered the silent, hidden pool with its rusalki that lay beside the way, waiting.

  The trees grew close together, tall, frightening and aloof, soaring up and blocking out the light so that one could only see little fragments of sky through the screen of leaves – as though the vast blue bowl of the sky had been rudely shattered into a thousand pieces. He looked up at them, and again hesitated. But what about the bear? He would not give up. The little boy bit his lip and started to go forward.

  And then he thought he heard her voice.

  ‘Little Kiy.’ His mother’s cry seemed to have echoed softly through the trees. ‘Kiy, little berry.’ She had called him. His face lit up with a smile of expectation. He turned.

  But she was not there. He listened, called out himself, listened again.

  Only silence. It was as though his mother’s voice had never been. A gentle gust of wind made the leaves rustle and the upper branches sway stiffly. Had the voice been no more than a moan from the wind? Or was it the rusalki from the pool behind, teasing him?

  Sadly he walked on.

  Sometimes a thin ray of sunlight from high above would catch his fair hair as he made his way across the forest floor under the tall trees. And occasionally he felt as if other eyes were watching him: as if silent forms, brown and grey, were lurking in the distant shadows; but though he looked about him, he never saw anything.

  It was five minutes later that he nearly ended his journey.

  For just as he had paused once again to look for signs of movement, there was a sudden, loud screech above him; and as he turned in fright, a dark form burst through the high foliage.

  ‘It’s Baba Yaga,’ he shrieked in terror.

  It was a natural thought. Every child feared Baba Yaga the witch. You never knew when she might find you as she flew through the air in her mortar, her long feet and claw-like hands outstretched, ready to seize little boys and girls, carry them off and cook them. You never knew. He stared in horror.

  It was only a bird, however, flapping noisily as it plunged through the leaves and swooped through the high branches.

  But the shock was too much for him. He was shaking uncontrollably. He burst into tears, sat on the ground, and shouted for his mother, again and again. Yet as the long, silent minutes passed, and nothing stirred, he ceased to cry and gradually became calm.

  It had only been a bird. What was it his uncle had often told him? ‘The hunter has nothing to fear in the forest, Little Kiy, if he is careful. Only women and children are afraid of the forest.’ Slowly he got up. Hesitantly he moved forward, a little further, through the dark woods.

  And it was only a short while later that he noticed that, to the left, a different region was starting to appear, where the woods were thinner and the light permeated more easily. Soon this other wood seemed to be glowing with a golden light and, drawn by it, he made his way across.

  It was warmer there. The trees were not so tall. Lush green grass grew beneath, and bushes too. There were clumps of moss on the ground. He felt the hot sun full on his face, heard the buzz of flies and soon felt the tiny bite of a mosquito. His spirits lightened. At his feet, a little green lizard darted away through the grass.

  He was so glad to enter the place that for several minutes he scarcely noticed in which direction he was wandering.

  In fact, though he did not know it, Kiy had been walking for almost an hour and it was now high noon. He still did not notice that he was hungry and thirsty; nor, in his relief at escaping from the dark woods, did he realize he was tired. Glancing back now, he could no longer see the dark wood; indeed, as he turned full circle, the sunlit place seemed strangely unfamiliar. Nearby, silver birches were gleaming in the sun. A small bird on a branch stared at him as though too hot to move; and suddenly he, too, affected by the powerful sun, felt as if the whole day had taken on a dream-like quality. Ahead, the undergrowth grew thicker and there was a low screen of reeds.

  And then he saw the shining light.

  It came from the ground, from under a tangled mass of roots. It flashed suddenly in his eyes and made him blink. He took a pace forward. Still the light glittered. A light in the ground. He moved closer, and as he did so a thought formed in his mind.

  That light, he wondered, could it be the way into the other world?

  Surely it might be. For the Slavic word by which the people of the hamlet referred to the other world sounded identical to ‘light’. And Kiy knew that the place where the domovoi and the other ancestors lived was underground. Here then was a shining light, in a mysterious place, in the ground. Perhaps this might be it – the way in!

  Moving closer, he discovered that the light came from the smooth surface of a tiny, half-concealed stream, where it was struck by the noonday sun. It wound its way in and out of the undergrowth, sometimes disappearing entirely into a trough, and then reappearing in the long grass a few yards further on. But the fact that the light came from a stream did not make it any the less magical to the little boy. Indeed, as he looked around at the stream, the shining birch trees and the lush grass, another and still more exciting idea was forming in his mind. I've reached it, he thought, this is it. He must have arrived at the start of the secret kingdom – the kingdom of Three-times-Nine. For what place could be more magical than this?

  Wonderingly, he followed the tiny rivulet: it led him for fifty yards through the greenery until he reached a pair of low rocks with a hazel bush growing in the crevice between them. There he paused. He touched the rocks: they were warm, almost hot. He felt suddenly thirsty, hesitated for a moment to drink from the magical stream, and then, his thirst overcoming him, knelt on the grass and scooped up the crystal water with his hands. How swee
t it tasted, how fresh.

  Then, to get a better view of where he was, he began to scramble on to one of the rocks. There was a ledge just above him. He raised his hand overhead, cast about for something to grasp.

  And felt his hand close upon a snake.

  He himself could not have said how, a second later, he came to be ten feet away from the rock, trembling from head to foot. His head made tiny, convulsive movements, jerking this way and that, as he looked at the trees, the stream, the rocks, for signs of the snakes that might be about to strike him. A stalk of grass brushed his foot, and he jumped into the air.

  But the snake on the rock had not moved. He could see the end of its tail lying along the edge. For two long minutes he waited, still trembling. Nothing on the ground stirred, though high above a buzzard, wings stiff and still, swept noiselessly over the scene.

  Slowly, his curiosity overcoming even his terror, the little boy crept forward again.

  The snake was dead. It lay in a twisted mass on the broad ledge. Fully extended, it would have been two, perhaps three times as long as he was. Its head had been split open and gouged: he wondered how – by an eagle perhaps? He could see that it was a viper – there were several varieties in the region – and although it was dead, he could not help shuddering as he looked at it.

  Yet even as he looked, he realized something else: something that, despite his fear, made him tremble less and even smile. Yes, indeed, this was the magic kingdom. The snake lay under the shadow of a bush that grew in the crevice between the two rocks. And it was a hazel bush.

  ‘So now I’ll be able to find my bear,’ he said aloud.

  For the dead snake could give him one of the greatest secrets in the world – the secret of the magic language.

  The magic language: it was silent. All the trees and plants spoke it, so even did stones and streams; animals too, sometimes. And you could obtain the secret in several ways – no less an authority than his grandmother herself had told him. ‘There are four ways to discover the secret language, Little Kiy. If you save a snake from the fire, or a fish from being caught, they may give it to you. Or second, if you find fern seed in the forest at midnight on Midsummer’s Eve; or third, if you find a frog when you’re ploughing and put it in your mouth. Or lastly, if you find a dead snake under a hazel bush, you must bake it and eat its heart.’

  If I could speak to the trees and the animals, they’d soon tell me where my bear cub is, he thought. And he gazed at the fearsome snake with satisfaction. Only one big problem remained though: how to bake it? For there was no fire. Perhaps, he considered, I could take it back to the village.

  He did not take his eyes off the snake. It lay only a few feet away and it had not been dead for long. Except for its torn head, it looked as if it might come back to life at any moment, and as he felt the heat of the rock through his little bast shoes and thought of the heat warming the snake, he still could not help trembling a little.

  No, he could not drag it home alone.

  But then a simple and comforting thought came into his head; and in his mind’s eye it seemed as if a broad path had just opened up before him through the lonely woods. I’ll go back and fetch Uncle Mal. He’ll come and bake the snake for me.

  How easy it seemed. For a second, he felt as if his journey was over and he was safely back already. With relief he scrambled down off the rock to the little brook below, and began to retrace his steps along it. The whole scene seemed less magical, more familiar now, as he began the return from his successful journey.

  It was five minutes before he realized that he was lost.

  Having turned back into the woods from the shining pool, he had taken his direction from the passing clouds. How was it, then, that the place looked so unfamiliar? The trees were starting to grow taller and closer together. There were some scattered boulders and bushes, quite different from the woods where he had been before. He would have been glad, now, to see even the dangerous pond with its rusalki. Again he looked up to see the clouds. He did not know that, since before noon, the wind had been gradually changing its direction.

  And only then, at last, did the little boy slowly give way to panic. As the minutes passed, and he knew with greater and greater certainty that he was lost, a coldness seemed to envelop him. He stopped, looked right and left, saw only the endless ranks of tall tree trunks stretching in every direction, and realized that it was hopeless.

  There was no way out. He called out, shouted his mother’s name four, five times. But his cries were only lost in the forest. It was as though the day itself had decided to trap him, imprison him in the forest under the endless blue sky, and was now watching him from far above, mocking. Perhaps he would never get home. There was a fallen tree nearby and he sat beside it. Waves of misery passed over him as he sat on the ground with his back to the tree, too discouraged to walk any more. He began to cry.

  Twice more he called out, but there was no answer. A large mushroom was growing beside him. He stretched out his hand and stroked its soft form for comfort, then cried a little more. And so several more minutes passed as his crying brought him warmth and his wet eyes grew heavy. Then, for a little time, his head fell foward and his chin rested on his chest.

  At first he wondered if he was dreaming when he saw the little bear.

  It had obviously wandered away from its mother and was loping along, almost tumbling over its own large paws, hurrying to catch up with her. The bear cub passed only fifty feet from where Kiy was sitting half asleep.

  Rubbing his eyes, Kiy struggled up, pinched himself to make sure he was awake, and stared after it. Could it really be, after all, that he had found the cub? He could hardly believe his luck. The cub was still visible, scurrying towards a brown form about a hundred yards away that must be its mother. The brown form vanished behind a tree.

  Forgetting everything, the little boy started after them. He had only one thought: I must see which way they go. Excited, hurrying as quickly as he could, he followed.

  They led him through the wood, across a glade, into another wood. He did not care how far it was. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of them and froze in case they saw him. But mostly he was following the sounds they made as they plunged and scuttled through the forest. He did not know how far from home he was now; nor how he would find his way back. He was too near the object of his quest to think of that. Eagerly he pressed on.

  Several times he almost lost them. In the middle of a seemingly endless grove of oak or beech, he would suddenly encounter silence. All around would be trees, with no special feature. And he would pause, wander, pause again before at last hearing their rustling sound coming from some direction.

  He had no sense of danger. For after so many magic signs – the hidden pool, the light in the stream from the other world, the snake under the hazel – it was clear to him that this must be a magical day and that the spirits of the forest were leading him to his goal.

  It was in one of these silences that he saw that, over to his right, there was a patch of sunlight behind a screen of birch trees that suggested a glade. Perhaps the bear cub had gone there. He moved towards it.

  And then ahead of him at the edge of the glade he saw a flash of light in the trees. It was not very high up. Something in the lower branches was glittering. He could not see what it was for the screen of birches, but the sun’s rays were dancing on it, darting this way and that amongst the trees, flashing bright colours of red, silver and gold. What could it be?

  And then he realized, with a rush of joy – of course, what it must be. What else lived in a tree and shone like this? What else guarded the valuable things that people searched for – and must surely be guarding his bear cub at this very moment? What else, but the rarest and finest of all the forest’s wonders?

  It could only be the firebird itself.

  The firebird had plumage of many colours. It glistened and sparkled, even in the dark. If you could creep up and seize one of its long tail feathers, you could have anything
you wanted. The firebird meant warmth and happiness. To be sure, the bear cub would be waiting there with the firebird, now. The glinting light seemed to beckon, inviting him.

  He went forward, until he was only a dozen yards away. Though he could not see it clearly, the firebird did not move but still sent out flashes of light: it was waiting for him. With a little cry of joy he ran through the screen of birch trees into the clearing.

  The face of the horseman that looked down at him from under a metal helmet was motionless. The helmet had several coloured gems set around the rim which flashed in the sunlight – like a firebird. The face was dark, with a large aquiline nose. A mane of black hair cascaded from under the helmet to his shoulders. And his black, almond-shaped eyes were cold. Behind his shoulder hung a long, curved bow.

  The little boy stood before him, transfixed. The horse this awesome figure rode was black. Its leather trappings were richly decorated. The horse had been cropping the grass in the shade beside the trees: now it raised its head lazily to look at Kiy.

  The face of the horseman did not move.

  Then he swooped.

  High above, in the vast blue sky, the heavy sun beat down upon the land at silent noon; though a faint, sultry breath of wind made a whisper in the dry barley that brushed against Lebed’s waist as she left the golden field. The dusty smell of the barley permeated the edge of the wood too. As she made her way along the open ground by the wood’s edge, a field mouse scurried out of the barley and hid under a tree root.

  Perhaps the child had only strayed to the shadows by the trees. As she walked, she called out gently: ‘Kiy, my little berry. Little Kiy, my dove.’