by Kim Wilkins
“What do you think Aleksandr did, Totchka?”
“He found the orchestra, and had the instruments made, and taught them the songs himself, because he was very musical,” Totchka said, her little girl’s voice mimicking Grigory’s storytelling meticulousness. “Then Ekaterina didn’t want the music any more.”
“Just so,” Grigory said, “because she was impossible to please, though Aleksandr never saw this.
“Ekaterina wanted too much from Tsar Aleksandr, but the Secret Ambassador wanted only one thing from him. He wanted the magic kingdom to be invited back into the lives of the kingdom of men. If Tsar Aleksandr would only make a declaration of brotherly love for his half-blood magical family, then the Secret Ambassador need fear no longer that his magic kingdom would wither and die. Aleksandr said he would think about it but, in truth, he was so concerned about his sister’s love that he put off giving an answer for weeks and months and years. He enjoyed the fruits of his youth, and was very happy.
“But not all was well in Aleksandr’s world, because in the west, there was a great emperor. The mighty commander of the greatest army ever known, and his name was…”
Grigory looked to Totchka again, who gave a theatrical shudder and spat the name, “Napoleon.”
“Yes, the French king. Napoleon, a man in love with death. Kingdom after kingdom fell to his Grand Army. Napoleon was of lowly birth and the fire in his belly was white-hot. Mighty ambition drove him, he would stop at nothing. This is why he was one of Mir’s most famous captains. This is why Aleksandr was so afraid of him.”
Totchka settled under her blankets, her fingers twining in her own hair as Grigory shifted in his chair and continued his tale.
“Do you know where Tilsit is, Totchka?” asked Papa Grigory.
The little girl nodded. “It’s in Eastern Prussia. I’ve never been there.”
“I have,” said Rosa. “It’s part of Russia now. It’s called Sovetsk. I think it’s quite famous for cheese.” She smiled at Totchka. “The river’s very pretty.”
Totchka wore admiration in her eyes for Rosa. “You have seen the Memel River? Where Napoleon met Aleksandr?”
“Yes,” Rosa said, “although it’s called something else now. The Niemen, I think.”
“Just so,” said Grigory. “And it was precisely there that the two great princes met to discuss peace. It has long been said that Napoleon and Aleksandr met alone, but it isn’t true. For the Secret Ambassador was there.”
“He was hiding,” said Totchka, watching Rosa now, “in the Golden Bear.”
Rosa returned her attention to Papa Grigory. “Ah, the mysterious Golden Bear.”
He gave her a weak smile. “Just so, yes. The Secret Ambassador peeled out of himself and sat in that Golden Bear, watching the whole exchange.”
Papa Grigory stopped for a moment to take a breath, or maybe to add a dramatic pause. Rosa considered him, and wondered about this Secret Ambassador character.
“It was a warm summer’s afternoon. The light was hot upon the land. A specially made raft had been built and anchored precisely in the middle of the river. On board was a gaily coloured pavilion with bright streamers fluttering from its peaks in the wind, and the royal emblems of each country emblazoned in glittering thread. Tsar Aleksandr went across to the raft on a little boat with only the bear for company. Napoleon met him, and they went inside.
“‘I want no gifts from you,’ Napoleon said, indicating the bear.
“‘She is no gift, she is my lucky charm,’ Aleksandr replied, and Napoleon raised his eyebrows but thought little more of it, because there isn’t a race on the earth as superstitious as the Rus.
“In the pavilion, a great feast had been laid out. Far too much for two men. Partridge and spatchcock, peach pies and cream pastries, fine wines and sweet cheeses. They picked at pieces, but both were too full of passions to need food. Napoleon had gorged on steely ambition, Aleksandr on bitter fear.
“‘You are pale, my friend,’ Napoleon said.
“‘It is only the light.’
“‘There is no need for fear. You see, I smile at you.’ The French king bared his teeth. ‘We both hate the English, Aleksandr. Common enemies make firm friends.’
“To Aleksandr’s relief, Napoleon outlined an informal treaty, where he and Aleksandr would be common enemies against the English. They embraced like brothers, and all might have been well…” said Grigory. “Yes, all might have been well but for one small problem.”
Totchka sat up, eyes aglow. “Yes, yes. Napoleon wanted to marry Ekaterina, didn’t he? Aleksandr said no.”
“That is right, little one, but you make me wonder why you need me to tell the tale if you know it so well. Napoleon did indeed ask for the hand of Aleksandr’s favourite sister. What a match it would have been! How safe it would have made the folk of Russia! But Aleksandr had too many hot thoughts about his sister and could not bear the idea of the French king having her.
“He roared and paced. His advisers danced about like little birds, desperate to change his mind.
“‘Your majesty, your majesty, Napoleon promises to leave us be if we will only relinquish your sister.’
“‘No, no, a thousand times no,’ Aleksandr said. ‘I will not let him marry her if he promises me two thousand fine horses. I will not let him marry her if he promises me all of Prussia. I will not let him marry her if he promises me the moon and all the stars.
“His refusals echoed about the streets of St Petersburg, through the thick forests to Siberia, down the rivers to Moscow, and across the steppes of Central Asia. Goodwill had dissolved between Napoleon and Aleksandr. Soon, the French king’s hungry gaze would turn to Russia.
“And so it did. In the summer, Napoleon crossed the river with six hundred thousand men and over a thousand cannon. His army was black as a black raven, and no matter where one stood, one could not see end nor edge of it. The most brutal, hardened soldiers from France, Germany, Holland, Scotland, Ireland, Italy, Poland, Hungary and Portugal. Aleksandr could field only a poor army, less than a third the size of the Grand Army, and their fate already looked to be sealed. The Grand Army began to move, their bronze eagles held high, driving everything before them. All was surely lost.
“Aleksandr turned to his advisers in their fine kaftans, sitting in their high-backed chairs, or pacing the floor of the great hall. They panicked, they pouted, they shouted, they shivered, they quivered, they quailed. But the Secret Ambassador was as strong as steel. He pounded his staff on the tiles and cried, ‘Enough!’
“All eyes were on him, as he rose to his full height and turned his blazing eyes on the Tsar.
“‘Aleksandr, Napoleon has more than half a million men. True, this appears to be to his advantage. You have three great allies. First, the goodwill of your people, who love their Mother Russia passionately and will die to defend her. Second, the vast spaces of the land to retreat into, drawing the French king further and further towards his ruin. Third, all your magical half-brothers and sisters from the land of Skazki. We will mount our steeds of wind and fire, we will ride to the open fields, we will fight for Mother Moist Earth, and die for her. We will come to your aid if I only give the word.’”
Grigory paused, laying his long hands on his knees. “The word was given,” he whispered, “and so the greatest military defeat in Mir’s history was brought into being.
“Aleksandr’s army engaged then retreated, engaged then retreated, pulling the Grand Army into the trap. Napoleon did not see this; he thought he was winning. He thought Moscow would be his, easily and freely. But when he paused on Sparrow Hill, looking down on the mighty ramparts and gilded domes of the ancient city, he felt his first twinge of doubt. Had it not been too easy? Was Moscow not too quiet?”
Grigory stopped and smiled. Totchka nodded. “Napoleon waited, didn’t he, Papa? He waited for days for word from Aleksandr. Up on Sparrow Hill.”
“Just so. Aleksandr sent no word. No deputation of surrender, no promise
to fight on. Aleksandr sent him nothing but silence. Puzzled, Napoleon sent his advance guards down to the city. They returned with news impossible to believe.
“Moscow was empty. No vendors tended their street stalls. No publicans poured vodka in their taverns. No prostitutes lifted their skirts in alleyways. Empty. Echoing and empty.
“Napoleon rode down to the Kremlin. Nobody greeted him. An ominous silence waited, and the marching feet and hooves echoed gravely around. They set up camp, and then the Secret Ambassador began to work his powerful magic.
“First, he called upon the fire demons of Skazki, opened a crossing and encouraged them to pour forth. In every corner of the city, fires broke out. The demons of wind and air came next, fanning the flames, sending embers flying out of the city and across the fields, scorching the earth across which Napoleon would have to return.
“Moscow was burning! Buildings, food, amenities, all consumed by magical flames. Napoleon had never met such adversity. The few people who were left in the city would rather burn their grain than sell it to the French king, and so it was that his army felt the pinch of hunger and the cold caress of disease.
“Napoleon waited too long. Too long. Aleksandr’s silence was absolute. No word was sent from St Petersburg. Too late Napoleon ordered a retreat from Moscow. By then, Aleksandr’s army had regrouped. By then, the Secret Ambassador had enlisted Mother Moist Earth herself to finish the Grand Army off.
“Perhaps they were unconcerned when they first set off from Moscow. Certainly, they had hardly any food and only summer uniforms on. But the weather was mild and they had home on their minds. It seemed a straight road to travel. But on that road were the black swamp and the crooked birch to trap the Grand Army. All the grasses and meadows tangled together; all the coloured flowers dropped their petals; and all the dark woods bent their heads down to the earth. Magic was alive on that road, the magic of our Mother.
“She is a cruel spirit, Mother Moist Earth, and she feels anger deep in her bowels. She sent the rain first: cold, miserable downpours which churned the ground to sucking mud. Fire demons had been ahead of her, scorching the earth black and it congealed to tar with the rains. Knee-deep in the cold filth were Napoleon’s men. Their starving horses could not move. Misery marched among them. And then, Mother sent the cold: temperatures plunged deep and deep below frozen, a cold that sent fingers blue and white, that froze the blood in men’s hearts and the air in their lungs.”
“Tell the best part, Papa,” Totchka exclaimed. “With the artillery.”
“Ah, yes. The gunners couldn’t operate their cannon because their hands and feet had frozen off,” Grigory said, and Totchka laughed and clapped her hands together gleefully.
“Across the miles, Aleksandr’s voice carried on an ill wind to Napoleon. ‘Go,’ he said to the French king. ‘You’ve made enough young wives widows, you’ve made enough infants orphans, you’ve quenched your thirst on the blood, and ground your teeth on the bones of the Rus. No more. Go.’
“While the Grand Army was limping away, small bands of Russian troops picked at them, emboldened by the knowledge that the very earth they loved so much was their ally. By the time Napoleon crossed the river out of Russia, the Grand Army was reduced to a handful of sad, ruined cripples. Less than one in twenty men had survived. The others had been swallowed in the snow and mud, their bones a sacrifice to appease the great spirit of the Mother.”
Totchka settled under again, suppressing a yawn. “Then what happened, Papa?”
“Then Aleksandr was so grateful that he clasped the Secret Ambassador to his bosom. ‘My dear friend,’ he said, ‘in repayment, I will give you what you have always wanted from me. Tomorrow at midnight, I will hold a secret ceremony and I will swear you three promises.’
“The Secret Ambassador was almost too excited to button his shirt the next evening. Here was the promise upon which he had been waiting, for surely Aleksandr meant to grant him his dearest wish—the reunification of the kingdoms of magic and men.
“The great hall was ablaze with candles. The dim light flickered over the friezes of saints. Here, the goddess Mokosha’s face under the Virgin Mary’s veil; there, a wooden crucifix carved with the eyes of a leshii. Aleksandr wore dark colours, as did his closest advisers. The Secret Ambassador advanced up the hall between sparse rows of men, glancing at the faces. These men were all allies; none of the nay-sayers had been invited. In the flickering amber light, Aleksandr asked the Secret Ambassador to kneel. He held aloft the Golden Bear and said, ‘Tonight, in this court of shadows, I swear three times.
“‘First, I swear that the Russian people honour and love you for your part in saving Russia from the French king.
“‘Second, I swear that under my rule no penalty shall ever be paid for the worship of magical creatures from your dear kingdom.
“‘Third…’ Aleksandr paused, smiling. ‘Dear friend, what a pleasure it is to grant you your dearest wish. I swear that as long as a drop of my half-magic blood lives on, the kingdom of men and the kingdom of magic will—’
“‘Stop this!’ A door slammed open. The Secret Ambassador’s head whipped up, and his heart, prepared for joy, was now stained with uncertainty. Ekaterina, in her long nightshirt, hair flowing behind her, strode into the room.
“‘Go on, Aleksandr,’ said the Secret Ambassador, close to tears. ‘Please. Don’t listen to her.’
“Ekaterina pushed her way through the crowd and ascended the shallow staircase, where she wrenched the Golden Bear from Aleksandr’s hands. ‘What nonsense is this? Are you mad? You cannot swear upon such a heathen object.’ Here, she threw the bear across the floor. ‘And you certainly cannot swear to allow heathen monsters free reign in our kingdom. Yes, yes, your secret has been let slip, brother, and in good time too. What were you thinking? I am most displeased.’
“The Secret Ambassador was still hopeful. Foolish old man. He should have known that all was lost, and indeed it was when Aleksandr mumbled an end to his sentence: ‘As long as a drop of my half-magic blood lives on, the kingdom of men and the kingdom of magic will remain as they always have.’ And then he went too far. ‘When the last drop is extinguished, then I can help you no more, Secret Ambassador.’
“A bolt of shock speared into the Secret Ambassador’s heart. How he wept and wailed!
“Aleksandr took the Secret Ambassador aside much later. He promised he would think more about it. Weeks turned into months and years. The folk of Skazki enjoyed freer crossing and much happy hunting in Mir. Still the Secret Ambassador waited on the final promise. At last, angry, the Secret Ambassador organised a secret meeting. Aleksandr didn’t arrive, indeed nobody ever saw or heard from the Tsar again.
“At this place the story of the Tsar Aleksandr and the French king has come to an end. Now, Totchka, it is time to sleep.”
“No, no, tell me first…what will happen on the day when the last drop of half-magic blood dies?”
“It is too awful to speak of,” Grigory said, his face darkening. “Monsters will roam free, cold will settle over everything. You aren’t to think of it, Totchka, for it will not happen.”
Totchka smiled uncertainly. “Really, Papa?”
“I have always made you that promise, little one. And I shall keep it.” He glanced at Rosa. “Now, sleep.”
Totchka yawned. “Another story?”
“No, precious child. Sleep now.”
Totchka’s eyes closed, and Rosa settled next to her. She was tired, but excited. Sleep came in fits and starts, her dreams quivering in and out of wakefulness, leaving her confused and restless. At one point, deep in the night, a strange noise woke her. At first, she thought it was just Grigory sighing. Then, she could hear crying. A woman or a child, but far off and quiet.
Rosa turned on her side and slowly cracked an eyelid open.
Grigory sat at the table and in his hands was a shining mirror. He hunched over it, sighing. The sobs appeared to be coming from the mirror’s surface. Then Grigory
shifted, putting his back between her and his activity. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep again, wondering about Grigory’s secrets. Somewhere in the hour before dawn, sleep finally caught her in its firm grasp, and she knew nothing again until the morning.
THIRTY
“She’s still sleeping.”
“Then wake her up.”
Rosa’s eyes flickered open. Totchka leaned close, her sticky index finger about to jab Rosa in the eye.
“I’m awake,” Rosa said, gently brushing aside the little girl’s hand. “What time is it?”
Totchka frowned in puzzlement, and Rosa presumed that time didn’t mean the same here in the protective bubble of Papa Grigory’s cottage.
“Is the sun up?” she asked instead, sitting up. She noticed that Totchka wore a too-large headdress: a decorated kokoshnik which didn’t match her plain brown dress.
“Oh, yes,” Totchka said. “It’s been up for hours. Papa said I wasn’t to wake you until it was nearly time to go. He says your journey will be tiring and dangerous. So I let you sleep late.”
Rosa’s eyes sought out Grigory. He was busy in a far corner, organising coloured fabrics on hooks.
“Thanks,” Rosa said. “I like your hat.”
“It’s your hat,” Totchka said, pulling off the headdress and handing it over.
Rosa took it curiously, ran her fingertip over the fine intricate beading. “I don’t think I’ll be needing a kokoshnik.”
“Rosa,” Grigory growled. “You’ll do as you’re told.”
Rosa shrugged, threw back the covers and put the hat on, modelling it for Totchka with only Grigory’s shirt for an accompaniment, which left her knees exposed to the cool of morning. Totchka laughed and Grigory turned to smile at them.
“Take a closer look at it, Rosa,” he said. “It’s special.”
Rosa realised that the fabrics Grigory was fussing with were actually clothes. She pulled the kokoshnik off her head and examined the patterns. Triple-pearl clusters hung at every inch. The peak was decorated with the shapes of a circle and an apple embroidered in gold thread.