by Paul Park
Andromeda watched him from the floor. Her head, too heavy to lift, lay on her paws.
It had been the shock of being wounded that had felled her on the ice, more than the seriousness of the wound itself. Now Andromeda lay waiting for the drug to wear away. Moving her eyes, moving her head in tiny increments, she could see Miranda and Peter Gross on the other side of the stove. Hugging his hand into his armpit, Peter had lain back against a strapped-up bedroll. He was asleep with his mouth open. His food, a wooden bowl of soup, lay untasted on the floor.
Hands on her hips, old Rodica looked at him appraisingly. “Is good,” she said. “Rest now. We will need him.”
She reached into her sash and produced a glass bottle of black pills. Now she squatted down to press the bottle into Miranda’s hand. “Just to sleep. Not now. One each night—no more. These next nights will be bad dreams for you.”
Standing, she pried up the lid of the stove and fed it with chunks of wood. Andromeda could smell the dust and the powdered sap. Miranda was staring at the yellow-haired soldier, whose body lay in a corner of the room. She slipped the bottle of pills into the pocket of her jeans.
Gregor Splaa stood beside the diamond-paned front window, looking out. He had a long, narrow face, a high, hooked nose. His beard was long and soft, as if it never had been cut. It was tucked into his shirt. He was in his twenties, an ugly man picking his lips. He was nervous now. Andromeda could smell his sweat.
“Twelve years,” he said. “We built this house, built the dam, cleared the field—oh, we had lots of projects. Princess Aegypta never told us what to do. We haven’t heard from her. One letter every year, in Albany. Sometimes not even that. I didn’t expect this—Ceausescu’s soldiers. We were a contingency.”
“But so easy to see,” muttered Blind Rodica.
Splaa stepped across the room to the rear window by the stovepipe. “I thought you’d live your life in that place your aunt prepared—grow up, have children, die. I never thought you would depend on us. Great Roumania has fallen, or will fall, Turks on one side and the Germans on the other, and the Tartars, and the Muscovies, and all the rest of them like cockroaches on a cake. It’s a matter of time. Who are you? Just one girl.”
“No time for this,” grumbled Rodica.
“No, but your father took me in, an orphan in his house. I’ll lay down my heart and life. Rodica, too. Don’t worry about that.”
“Is not worried. Raevsky will come at dark.”
“Tell me about my parents,” said Miranda suddenly. Andromeda thought: What was different about her? Black hair the same, and her wide forehead, narrow cheeks.
Splaa said, “Yes! Your mother.… That’s the truth—it’s been twelve years. It doesn’t matter—here, when Julius Caesar came back from his Roumanian campaign, he brought a Dacian princess who was pregnant. When Brutus stabbed him on the senate floor—chaos—the girl fled. She gave birth in the mountains, in Pietrosul—is that what you want to know? It could not be true. But how can you explain the power of your family?”
After a moment he strode back to the window by the door. “You are hope to all our people,” muttered Rodica.
“Yes,” agreed Splaa. “A white tyger was prophesied, and a white tyger was found in the Carpathians. Your father was already dead, and your mother chose the name ‘Popescu,’ the commonest name in all Roumania—this isn’t hurting you?”
“Go on,” Miranda said.
What was different about her? Her hair was the same length, kept in place behind her ears. Her dark eyebrows were the same, and her blue eyes. She was more solid, somehow. Had she put on weight? Was she taller? No, but something had changed in the expression of her face. Her skin looked rougher, darker, older.
“Baron Ceausescu was your father’s friend, but he betrayed him,” said Gregor Splaa. “He forged a letter from the German ambassador. Testified against him at the trial—it was a joke. No one believed. It didn’t matter, they were looking for excuses. Your father was shot, they say, trying to escape. This was five months before you were born.”
While Splaa was talking, Blind Rodica gathered a pile of gadgets and utensils on the floor below the stove, between Andromeda and the sleeping soldier. She had about her now a smell of wax and grease. She sniffed, rubbed her nose—“Is twenty years ago. Now, but tonight—no time for explanation. Must make plan—first first. Twelve years to think. Raevsky’s men will come around the house. They will set the house on fire.”
Miranda interrupted. “Tell me about my parents.”
Splaa answered. “Frederick Schenck von Schenck—half German, see? That makes things difficult. Your mother called him Freddie. His mother was a Brancoveanu like her. They were cousins. How they met. He was at his grandparents’ for the winter holidays, near Brasov. And she, of course, well, she…” Splaa walked back across the room.
“Tell me.”
“The white tyger. Does this mean nothing to you? You take after your father, of course. But your mother held the story of the tyger in her bones. Your father couldn’t use it, because he was a German. Always foreign-born. Oh, but he was a great prince! You should have seen him ride his horse through Vulcan’s Gate after he’d stopped the Turks at Havsa. The whole city turned out to cheer him. He had the armistice in his hand. After his death, of course, the sultan broke the line.”
“He had all but beauty,” agreed Blind Rodica. “Is why they hated him, Ceausescu and the others. Why they killed him.”
All this time Rodica had been preparing an altar in the middle of the floor. The centerpiece was a small brass statue, which Andromeda identified as representing the Hindu god Ganesh. Once her father had brought her a chalk drawing back from India—why did she remember that? She never could remember dreams.
“What are you doing?” Miranda said.
The statue had four arms. It was elephant-headed, sitting on a rat. Around its feet lay all kinds of loose bric-a-brac—tiny bottles, tools, pieces of wire. Rodica lit some incense from a wooden match, then sat back on her heels. “Light won’t last,” she said.
Turning now, she reached inside the collar of Miranda’s shirt and uncovered the steel crucifix on its chain. “Many times I saw this on your mother’s neck,” she said. “Please let—”
Miranda put her hand up to her neck, but the cross was already gone. “Permit me,” said Blind Rodica, turning it between the pads of her finger and thumb. “You see is old. Made from the nails.”
“Give it back.” Miranda reached out her hand, but paused when Rodica hung the crucifix from one of Ganesh’s outstretched arms. “Now gold,” said Blind Rodica. She looked expectantly at Miranda’s backpack, beside her on the floor.
Miranda made a resigned gesture with her hand. And the old woman dug her hand into the laced-up top, then brought out a little pasteboard box. Miranda had shown it to Andromeda years before. It was from a jewelry shop in Bucharest.
Rodica selected the eleven thin coins and arranged them in a circle around the altar. The sun was down behind the hills now, and darkness filled the middle of the room. Squinting along her nose, Andromeda could see that each coin had a letter stamped on it. Together, they spelled out a word.
“‘Sennacherib,’” muttered Blind Rodica.
“Gypsy tricks,” said Gregor Splaa. “Don’t pay any attention to her.”
But it was impossible not to pay attention. Miranda sat on the step, staring at the Gypsy’s hands. Splaa was above her in a corner of the wall, smoothing out the empress’s damp letter, which was in English, apparently. He read it aloud. “‘It gives me happiness to welcome you and commend you to the care of my trusted captain.…’”
“What was my mother’s name?” Miranda interrupted. “Wasn’t there a letter from her? What did she say we should do?”
“So poor child,” said Blind Rodica. “Your mother cannot help now. We will help. We will get you out. Maybe would be different with Prochenko and de Graz—great warriors. Heroes—not so useful now—one asleep boy and one dog. An
d one stableman and one blind Gypsy, we will help you. Everyone tries tricks, you don’t forget. Valeria Dragonesti is your enemy, and Ceausescu. Antonescu above all—do not forget these names if we are not here to help.”
Shadows were gathering in the corners of the room. “They’re lighting fires in the wood,” murmured Gregor Splaa. “Four—no, five.”
He stood at the back window. “Don’t worry,” said Rodica. “Not worry. Sennacherib will come. He just needs … what? Coaxing.” Between these words, she was muttering something in a foreign language, gesturing in the incense smoke, rocking back and forth.
“There’s no point to this,” said Gregor Splaa. Then in a little while—“It’s starting to snow.”
“Yes, yes,” muttered Blind Rodica. And more words in the language that was neither English nor Roumanian. From the scarf around her waist she now produced a glass jar with a beast inside, a field mouse or a shrew, and she put the jar upright next to the burning stick of incense. The little animal nosed around the cork.
Andromeda raised her head off her paws. Peter Gross was moving too, shaking his head, though he was still asleep. Andromeda had forgotten about him. But now she was looking at his black, hairy hand, and the red birthmark on the joint of his thumb—de Graz’s mark. So he had de Graz’s hand at least. No, more than that. Andromeda could see now in his brown curls and brown skin, his bent teeth and brooding, heavy brow, a small version of a face she recognized.
She pricked her ears. His smell, also, was a washed-out version of de Graz’s acrid sweat.
He spoke, and Miranda gave a small cry of surprise. His eyes were still closed. Still he lay against the bedroll. His mouth lolled open and his voice, when the words came out, was empty and strange.
“There lay the rider distorted and pale,
With dew on his brow, the rust on his mail:
The tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted…”
“A poem,” Andromeda thought.
“Yes,” said Blind Rodica. “Is just…” Then to Miranda—“Your aunt sent two soldiers with you to protect you. Friends of your fathers. Officers of the guard.”
“What do you mean?”
“They are not what they are,” said Blind Rodica.
Peter’s eyes, open now, stared down at the little altar. His voice was low and flat and halting. Though soft, it filled the room: “WHY HAVE YOU SPOKEN?”
“Sennacherib,” breathed Blind Rodica.
Seated by him, Miranda reached over to take hold of his left hand. “WHAT HAVE I TO DO?” he said. “THERE IS NO SACRIFICE.”
“No, but I have one,” said Blind Rodica. “In Christ’s name.”
“I DO NOT NAME HIM. TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT.”
“I can see the men now,” said Gregor Splaa. “I see them near the fire.”
“Enemies have us in a ring,” murmured Blind Rodica. “You are the protector of the weak.”
There was a silence, and then Peter spoke again. “WHAT IS THE SACRIFICE?”
The voice was distorted, low. Peter was slumped forward now. “Here,” said Blind Rodica. Andromeda could see the mouse was motionless at the bottom of the jar.
“RELEASE IT.”
Rodica twisted the cork and put the jar on its side. After a moment the mouse came to itself. It nosed its way out of the jar, then ran across the floor in the direction of the sleeping soldier. On the way it fell into a seam of shadow and disappeared. But the soldier, who had been lying still, now rolled over onto his back. “Ah, well,” said Blind Rodica. “Is too poor a gift.”
“WHAT DO YOU OFFER ME?” whispered Peter. “DEATH FROM DEATH.”
“Enough of this,” said Gregor Splaa. He paced across the room. “They’ll come in from all sides. Maybe I’ll shoot three or four. You have a chance. You be ready.”
“What do you mean?” Miranda asked.
“There’s a coat and a pack of supplies. I dug a hiding place.” Splaa put down his gun and turned over a corner of the floor, a square of planks three feet on a side. “She’s right—we had twelve years to prepare. We’ll go out, and in the dark they can’t be sure. They follow us, and you stay here. Then you join us. Run for the woods, and then you’ll meet us at the river. Upstream to the black rock. They’ll go downstream if they chase you.”
“What if I give myself up?” she asked.
“He’ll shoot the rest of us and shoot you later, by a firing squad in Bucharest. This is a war.”
Andromeda had pulled herself onto her haunches. She lay with her muzzle between her paws. The soldier was awake now. He lay on his back, saying something in Roumanian.
“There, you see?” Blind Rodica still knelt before her altar. “Do not listen to these plans. You will not do these things. My way is good. Raevsky knows.”
Splaa threw down the trapdoor, leapt forward. But it was too late. The soldier had flung himself across the room to the front door, which crashed open before Splaa could get his gun up.
Miranda jumped to her feet. Lethargic and slow, Andromeda now staggered up. She stood looking at the gray, swirling snow through the open door. She heard two gunshots, both quite close. She smelled the powder. The soldier had rolled partway down the slope, then got to his feet, screaming and shouting, and disappeared into the half-light and the snow.
Splaa was cursing. “What did you do? What did you do? Miss Popescu, please…”
Blind Rodica was on her hands and knees. Now she got up, went to the door, and closed it. Another gunshot fired. “It does not matter.”
But Splaa was in tears. “Mother, how can you say that? Did you see him? Did you see him through the door?”
Rodica grimaced, smiled. Her hand was still on the wooden latch. “Raevsky knows. That boy will tell him, and then he will know.”
“He didn’t know. Why would he know?”
“But he knows now. He will set the roof on fire. You see my way is best after all.”
“Unless they killed him as he ran out. What way? Gypsy nonsense.”
He had put his gun aside and was sobbing into his hands. For the first time Andromeda realized that Rodica had been hurt. She staggered forward into the room, then flopped down on her knees. Andromeda could smell the new blood on her hands. “Given,” she said, and then Peter spoke.
“YES.”
“What have you done?” Splaa said. “What have you done?” He and Miranda had their arms around the old woman now, and they supported her as she slumped onto the floor. Then she was sitting with her legs splayed out, hands on her stomach.
“You don’t be stupid now,” she murmured. “You tell my lady what is happened. Is a letter for my mother in her pawnshop in the Old Court, and package for my daughter in Constanta—you will see. Aegypta Schenck will pay to her my wages— that is what I want. She can’t be shamed for her old mother. Is married to a good man. God bless Roumania. Jesus help me. Freely given, remember. Is freely given.”
“YES.”
“You stupid Gypsy fool,” said Gregor Splaa. “Twelve years. Oh, God,” he said. “Does it hurt? Where is it?”
Now there was a lot of blood. Andromeda could smell it as it spread out from her hands. “Oh my friend,” she said. “My son, we saw the white tyger. A sacrifice—we can do not more. You tell my lady?”
Miranda had a stunned expression on her face. She had her arms around the Gypsy’s shoulders.
There was a wind around the house. Andromeda could hear it in the stovepipe. Outside the window, the snow was falling thicker every minute.
“Lie down now, lie down,” said Gregor Splaa. “Let me—” but there was nothing to be done. Blind Rodica grabbed Miranda’s hands and held them as they laid her down.
“You have trust,” she said. “Trust in Sennacherib. If no trust, then you can fail. Raevsky will be gone, men will be gone. But you will go quickly—take their boats! Find Ion Dreyfoos in Albany—that is all. Oh my son—brave boy—you can do this!”
Her voice was weak. Gregor S
plaa was crying. Andromeda could smell his tears. “Talk to her. Talk to her,” he sobbed, and Miranda did, telling her a story that Andromeda had heard before, which was about when Stanley took her hiking in the White Mountains in a place called New Hampshire. Early in the morning she had gotten up to pick blueberries. And she had found a field with a bear doing the same thing, and she had sat in the same field as the bear, picking blueberries as the sun came up.
* * *
OUTSIDE THE COTTAGE the wind blew. It was peculiar, Raevsky thought, because at first he could feel nothing on the ground. He stood at camp on a small promontory above the ice pond, watching the door of the house through his field glasses as the snow came and the light grew dim. But when he put down his glasses, in the trees beyond the house he could see movement in the bare, high branches and the evergreens. A current of air ran through them, making them toss their heads. Around him, the air was still. The snow fell in large flakes.
Raevsky circled the pond to the next fire, where Gulka sat among the evergreens. Gulka was afraid that in the darkness and the snow, someone might slip through the cordon. Raevsky had put his men in five protected positions around the house, each with clear sight lines and an open space in front.
The darkness would help them more than the enemy, he explained. The snow would help them, too. Gulka was the oldest of his men at twenty-one, and a bit slow. The baroness had not wanted to pay for soldiers, except for him. So he’d picked farm boys from Cluj and given them guns. He’d brought his own sister’s son. They would have been enough to find Miranda Popescu in the woods and bring her home. They’d have been enough to snatch her from the Gypsy and the Jew.
Now Raevsky was less sure. “I swear to you, it must be his son,” he said. “He’d be the right age. If he’s like his father just a little bit, there could be a difficulty. So leave him to me. I was with the army when de Graz fought the Turkish champion.”
Gulka was a thin, nervous man with a weak beard and a spot on his face. “When it is dark, we all move forward,” Raevsky explained for the third time. “At six o’clock we burn the rats out of their nest. When the fire is lit, we can see everything.”
