Rosa and the Veil of Gold

by Kim Wilkins

  “She’ll come for us, she’s angry,” the woman was saying.

  “How did the Mir woman get away?”

  “It signifies nothing. It’s us Bone-Legs will punish.”

  “What if we offer to help?”

  “Get Slava to go out after the woman. Then the witch will know we’re on her side. That the woman was an offering.”

  “Yes, yes. Throw her friend out, too. Bone-Legs can have them both.”

  “Slava!”

  Darkness came, then fluttered off again. He felt rough hands under his armpits, his feet being dragged across the floor.

  “Hey, be careful,” he tried to say, but no words came out, just an incoherent groan.

  He fell under again, and was at peace once more. Then something broke through the dark haze, a pleading voice.

  “You must try to wake up, Daniel.”

  “Em,” he said. Or tried to say. He moved his limbs, they all went in the wrong directions. Her arm was around his back, pulling him to his feet. He dropped his weight on her and tried to move his legs again. Found his feet could shuffle if he didn’t concentrate on them too hard.

  “Good, good. Quickly now. If you can.”

  He ran into something. She cried out. He still couldn’t open his eyes or talk, and he feared the inertia returning.

  “Hold this,” she said, thrusting something into the crook of his arm. He pressed it against his ribs, wondering what it was, where he was, who he was…

  “You’re doing great. A little further…”

  Then her voice faded out and he was lying down again, slipping under. Far away, he felt her hands pummelling him, then that sensation was dissolving too. The soft peace of sleep returned.

  As long as Daniel had been semi-awake, Em had allowed herself to believe they would get out of this alive. But now he had lapsed into unconsciousness again, she felt hope run through her fingers.

  He lay in the grass next to her, the bear still pressed against his side. The ringing pressure in her ears told her Baba Yaga was drawing closer, and away in the moonlit field she could see Slava. He only had one eye, so she had managed to sneak by in his blind spot so far, but he would soon spy her standing here next to Daniel.

  So don’t stand.

  “Yes, of course,” she muttered, crouching so that the long grass hid her. She pulled Daniel a little way, to a hedge surrounded by rocks. She tucked Daniel under it, threw herself on top of him and pulled the damp fur over the both of them. Her elbows drilled into damp ground, her head rested on Daniel’s shoulder.

  “Think, Em, think,” she said, pressing a hand over her eyes. It wouldn’t be long before they found her. The witch and the boy had no light, but she was stuck in one place unless she abandoned Daniel. She was easy prey. And what would they do to her when they got her? She shuddered, and envied Daniel his unconsciousness. She was too weary to run, too weary to fight, and too weary to think about how close she had felt—just hours ago—to escaping home to Mir.

  Then the solution occurred to her: if she and Daniel slept at the same time, the bear would move them.

  They might end up in snowfields, or in a village of hostile revenants, or on a leshii’s breakfast table. They might also end up safely in empty fields. The fact was, if Em didn’t do it, she and Daniel would be returning to Baba Yaga’s charnel house to have their throats bitten open and their bones sucked for marrow.

  Em gathered the bear against her and closed her eyes. It didn’t cross her mind for an instant that she might have difficulty sleeping. She was mortally weary, and her body needed to rest: all she had to do was let it. Daniel’s body was warm beneath her, though she was unable to leach the warmth into herself. She matched the rhythm of her breath to his, and felt her heart slow. One breath, two breaths…

  Be quiet and still.

  Just as she began to slip away, another consideration occurred to her, the one she had been too tired to think through. If she and Daniel left this place, they left behind their chance to escape through the crossing at the Dead Forest.

  It was too late. Sleep, victory finally within its grasp, rushed on top of her.

  “Thank God,” she said. Though maybe not aloud.

  Her body sank towards unknown places.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I wonder where the Golden Bear will take them next, don’t you? A cave under the earth where only blind worms and flesh-eating bats live? A frozen wasteland where the horizon is endless and the white ice is uninterrupted by comfort? The bottom of a deep lake, where the weight of water crushes lungs like a bear crushes butterflies? Or, have you considered this: perhaps the Golden Bear’s deeds are not capricious at all, perhaps she wants to return to the Snow Witch.

  The Snow Witch. You must wonder about her, I know. I tell Totchka many stories, but none of the Snow Witch. If ever there was a thing to echo in a child’s nightmares, it is the Snow Witch. Such horrors! No need to put those horrors in my little girl’s imagination, for she has already suffered and seen enough. Nor have I told her stories of the Golden Bear, for many of her stories are steeped in blood and cruelty. Like this one.

  Imagine a May morning in Moscow, 1682. The night before brought a violent storm: a bad omen. People are still clearing branches and debris from their paths. The logs which line the thoroughfares are part sunk into mud, the whole is a stinking mess. It is Monday, and Monday is an unlucky day for Russians. Some folk already wear their nerves ragged anticipating more bad luck on such a day. Imagine the sound of carts and wagons, musicians and jugglers, shouting street vendors and braying animals at market. Then, cutting across the noisy streets, bells begin to ring all of a sudden. The tocsin: its awful clang and din, pealing out its dread foreboding to all.

  Gathering sounds of marching now, footsteps and hoof beats reverberating through the streets. Folk peer out of windows and doorways, to see the awesome Streltsy regiments moving past, determination set on their brows. Their brightly coloured uniforms catch the sun, their yellow boots are splattered with mud. Their pikes and banners are raised, and their cannon follow them. These are the Tsar’s own guard, grown fat and corrupt from years of indulgence. Now is a time of confusion, for there are two Tsars: half-brothers too young to rule who have become the pawns of their warring families. The elder Tsar, Vanya, is partially blind and simple-brained. The younger Tsar, Petr, is only ten years old, but one day he will be known as Petr the Great. And it is Petr’s family who, on this day, will see their own blood spilled on the ground in violent revolt.

  The Streltsy pour into the Kremlin and up the hill to Cathedral Square where they mass before the Facets Palace. The Red Staircase itself appears to tremble with fear. Murder’s dark promise lurks in this mob; one whiff of blood could ignite them.

  “Death to the Naryshkins, for they have killed the Tsar!”

  “Vanya is poisoned. We will avenge his death!”

  “Show yourselves, or every boyar in the Kremlin will be put to the blade!”

  Inside, a young mother trembles. Her darling son, Petr, looks at her with frightened eyes.

  “What do they mean, Mama? Vanya is alive and well. I saw him just this morning at Matins.”

  His mother, her knuckles white as they wrap around her son’s shoulder, feels her stomach turn to water. “Somebody has started a rumour. One that will kill us all.”

  People are shouting at Petr’s mother: her brothers and uncles, frightened nursemaids and servants. They all say the same thing: take the boy to the staircase, find Vanya and present him too. The Streltsy must see that they are in error.

  The Golden Bear watches the people running back and forth up the rich corridors, their bright fine clothes at odds with their pale haunted expressions. Torture and death await them, the Streltsy have revolted! Little Petr begins to cry, somebody hurries Vanya into the room and thrusts him towards Petr’s mother.

  “Go. Now,” says her brother. “Take both boys. Tell them all is well.”

  She cannot make her legs move. Somebody pushes
her. It is too much for Vanya, who clings to her hand and wets his breeches. Somehow, she finds herself standing at the top of the staircase. Her body trembles as though it intends to fall to pieces. She cannot make her voice work. The Streltsy shout and jostle and she wants to flee. She must protect Petr, who hides his face in her side.

  “Listen to me!” she shouts, and all heads turn to her, their black intentions thick and oily in their eyes.

  She holds Vanya’s hand aloft, and the boy emits one loud, pitiable sob. His eyelids flutter anxiously over his half-sighted eyes.

  “Here is Vanya. You see? He is safe and well. And here is his half-brother, Petr, my son and your Tsar.”

  A ripple of astonishment. Two of the commanders advance up the staircase for a closer inspection, declare it is indeed Vanya.

  Something still isn’t quite right. As though, like dogs promised flesh, the denial through reason cannot quench the foretaste. All may be well, perhaps, if only…

  One of the boyars, affronted at their threats, strides out onto the balcony and begins to berate the Streltsy. Only disaster can proceed from here.

  The soldiers pour up the staircase. The woman and her two young charges are pushed aside, and cling to each other on the edge of the balcony. The boyar is seized and flung over the edge onto the waiting pikes of those below. The mob dismembers him, mashes his body to pulp. Then, hungry for more, they begin to howl the names of others. Soldiers raid the palace, dragging the accused traitors, screaming and struggling, to be thrown upon the pikes. Vanya is blessed in his blindness, he can see only the few inches in front of him. Petr’s mother closes her eyes to pray and pray and pray. Little Petr, however, watches it all, and sees his dearest uncle, an old man with only good in his heart, torn to pieces, his body savaged and violated.

  Inside the palace, frightened people hide under beds, in closets and under staircases. Pikes are driven through mattresses, the court dwarfs are enlisted to help find traitors, everything is in an uproar of fear and blood. Some are tortured for hours before finally giving up their spirit, on racks and fires in shadowy dungeons. Cruelty reigns over all.

  Who is responsible for this carnage? The Golden Bear knows for she has seen it all come into being. She knows precisely who set into motion this revolt. First, the order was given by this plump-faced woman you see sitting before you now, hands folded on her lap as she waits quietly by the deep window in the Terem palace. Her name is Sofya and, after today’s events, she now controls Russia as its Regent. She is plain, tending to fat, with a nose too long for her delicate face and deep-set eyes under heavy brows. Her gaze is dark, her hair mousy and thin. She seems harmless, does she not? Perhaps you might think her a pathetic creature, because Sofya dies for the love of a man whom she cannot have. A man whose influence upon her is so strong that, to please him, she will consent to have members of her own family slaughtered.

  So perhaps we should say it is this man, Prince Golitsyn, upon whom the blame for such savagery should be laid. He is ambitious, he is vain and believes that only he knows what is best for Russia. Here he sits in his stone palace in Moscow, surrounded by the ornaments of the West of which he is so fond: silver plate and Venetian mirrors, clocks, watches and gadgets. He is soft-eyed and fair-haired, dashing and intelligent. Yet…I see no cruelty in his mien. Is he, then, to be thought responsible for the day’s horrors? No, for he too was acting on the advice of another. A shadowy figure who has been circulating at court in recent times, a familiar face to the Golden Bear. Indeed, by now, to us. It is the Secret Ambassador.

  How did this all begin? Let us turn back a little while in time, and see.

  The Secret Ambassador grows desperate as the years pass. The connection between Mir and Skazki, which he hoped to improve through the introduction of Skazki blood into the Russian royal line, grows ever more tenuous. He has discovered that Mokosha’s blood is not necessarily passed onto every Romanov infant. Quite the opposite. The blood chooses just one child, and not always the most suitable to rule.

  It is easy to spot the child who has the Skazki blood. Of course, the Secret Ambassador can sense it with his subtle magic, but a far more obvious indicator exists: each of them develops a strong, almost obsessive, attachment to the Golden Bear. As though their veins yearn for any connection with the magical realm of her birth. Thus Mikhail is introduced to his secret history and accepts his responsibility to reproduce the Skazki blood. And while his son and successor, the Tsar Alexis proves to be a difficult and overly religious man, he spawns thirteen children from his first wife. The Secret Ambassador counts them, watching in anticipation. Only one child has Skazki in her: the third daughter, Sofya. Sentenced by tradition to remain unmarried and childless. When Alexis’s second wife bears a single child, little Petr, he is all-Mir. The rule of Russia is certain to fall to him, and he with no connection to Skazki! Too precarious!

  The Secret Ambassador takes himself to see Sofya in the gloomy confines of her chambers. Here is the Golden Bear, smiling and watching, knowing everything. The Secret Ambassador dismisses Sofya’s two female dwarfs with a snarl and a baring of teeth. How he hates this fashion for dwarfs in service, as though the powerful magic of a domovoi can be replaced so easily with a tiny human.

  Sofya is her father’s daughter and she wants nothing to do with magic and secrets.

  “I will not listen to you, stranger,” she says. “God is my master, His displeasure is not to be provoked. It would bring me no health in my flesh, nor rest in my bones.”

  The Secret Ambassador has been observing the Tsarevna for some time. She is intelligent and decisive, she is ambitious and yearns for life beyond these walls. And she is in love with Prince Golitsyn. Nothing can come of this love. Golitsyn has a wife, and even if that wife could be put aside in a nunnery, Sofya cannot marry. As the Tsar’s sister, there is no man in Russia of high enough birth to be suitable as her match, and the public would never allow marriage to a foreigner. So she is confined to the Terem with her sisters and aunts, to live out her days in perpetual virginity, invisible to the world. She wants something different. Oh, how she wants it. She longs for a public life, for power, for passions which tear her clothes and bruise her skin. And Golitsyn wants to rule Russia. And between her desire and his, the Secret Ambassador finds a way to put Sofya in control.

  Prince Golitsyn arrives at the dark chamber late in the afternoon. The windows are too thick to allow in the light, so every alcove is illuminated with candles. The waxy smoke hangs under the low ceiling, smudging the white arches and the painted carvings. A scratched mirror glints dully; a carved chest stands in dusty silence; the chairs and sofa wear their faded gold thread apologetically. Where good lighting would show up the dirt and clutter in here, the dimness lends a ruined glamour. Sofya is surprised to see Prince Golitsyn. Her heavy brow quivers, hopeful. She sets aside her embroidery and says, “Why have you come here?”

  He falls to his knees before her, as the Secret Ambassador has instructed. He clasps her doughy hands in his. “Sofya, we must act.”

  “Act?”

  “We must undo the Naryshkins. You should be Regent, not Petr’s mother. She is a fool. You are wise and clever.”

  “I won’t think of shedding blood,” Sofya says, setting her jaw. “Don’t ask me to think it, little father. Only they are blessed who have not walked in the company of the ungodly.” How she adores the touch of his soft hands on hers. Until now, the most comfort she has stolen from his body is the meaningless brush of his passing in a small space.

  “Many things are unthinkable until they are enacted,” he says, and he turns her left hand over and brushes his thumb across her palm.

  She is suddenly alive with knowing, and it feels as though every part of her body is opening up to him. He rises, places a hand on each of her shoulders, and leans into kiss her.

  Golitsyn experiences none of the delight and anticipation that Sofya feels. While he doesn’t find her repulsive, this moment is filled with awkwardness. Her body is too
big for his tastes and her features too coarse. Her skin is salty and her breath smells of potato soup. Her white flesh pours out of his hands as he tries to mould pleasure onto it. Under the dusty canopy of her dark bed, he performs the task as the Secret Ambassador has dictated it. If he should get a child upon the woman, all the better for the Secret Ambassador. Golitsyn only wants power for himself, and once Sofya is satisfied, his mind turns back to that objective.

  “My light,” he says, covering her gently with an ermine blanket, “we cannot allow Petr’s family to gain the upper hand.”

  “Must we talk of politics?” she complains, pushing off the blanket so that her large breasts are liberated to the deepening evening. Dust hangs in the dark; the thick oily smell of tallow candles is faint.

  “You are the most suited to be Regent. You know that. We have spoken of it before. You must act decisively. The Streltsy are on your side. Vanya is older than Petr, but Vanya is unable to rule on his own.” He kisses her bosom and murmurs against her heart. “Sofya, you are destined to rule.”

  Sofya has been softened by lovemaking. Through tender persuasion, violent fates are sealed. The revolt goes ahead and Sofya learns that once blood is spilled, it can never be recalled into the veins of the dead.

  The Secret Ambassador has relied too heavily on Golitsyn as his intermediary. The prince is a dreamer and a weakling. So shocked by the savagery of the revolt is he that he retires to his country estate to take comfort in his wife and children and gather his thoughts.

  How is the Secret Ambassador to influence Sofya, the ruler of Russia, when she is so suspicious of Skazki ways and magic?

  The migration of the soul from one body to another is the Secret Ambassador’s special magic. He can use it to shift his shape, possess the body of another, or elude his own death.

  He decides he must take the body of a Mir man, somebody the Tsarevna already trusts. From behind the eyes of the Golden Bear he watches court for a few weeks, finally selecting Fedya Shaklovity, a junior clerk whom Sofya favours. This young man, who has done nothing to harm the Secret Ambassador, must give up his life. Only one soul can inhabit a single body at a time, and Shaklovity’s displaced spirit, with no place left for it to go, is soon to shiver through the veil and away.