by Ricky Fry
“What’s happened?” Such interruptions had become a regular occurrence. The villagers had taken to calling on him for all manner of problems in the weeks that followed his miraculous survival.
“It’s Kyrill,” said the man, a worried look spreading across his face. “He went into the forest to forage for berries and hasn’t returned. His mother is in hysterics. All the men of the village are out looking for him.”
“How long has he been gone?”
“Eight, maybe nine hours. It’s not like Kyrill to be gone for so long. He’s only a boy.”
Yekaterina stood behind him and placed her steadying hand on his shoulder. “Go, husband. The people need you. I’ll be waiting for your safe return.”
He gathered his things and lit an oil lamp, followed the man out into the darkness of the night.
The village had come to life in the early morning hours, as they searched every corner and hiding place. Even the children, many of them stirred awake by the noise of the men and women, stood in their nightgowns at the edge of the forest and called the boy’s name.
Bogdan assembled their most skilled hunters and readied a search party. There was Svyatoslav with his hound, his son who was keen with a bow, and a half a dozen more rough men who knew the forest well. Each carried an oil lamp as they set out into the woods, the pale light shifting through the trees and throwing strange shadows in all directions as they advanced.
It wasn’t long before the hound picked up a scent, his bark breaking the empty silence. They followed him through thick undergrowth and along a small stream, stopping only when one of the men found a strip of cloth tangled in a thorny bush.
Svyatoslav held it up to his lamp for inspection. “It’s a piece of Kyrill’s shirt.”
Whether it was good news or cause for concern, Bogdan couldn’t be sure. They continued along the stream for what seemed like an hour, the hound pausing occasionally to renew the scent.
How much time had actually passed, no one could say. The forest had become so thick it was difficult to see the moon. Snarled branches closed in all around them, tugging at their clothes like the hands of invisible beasts. As the night wore on, Bogdan began to give up any hope of finding the boy alive.
Then, in a small clearing at the base of a gently sloping hill, they found Kyrill’s thin and pale figure lying naked in the babbling waters of the shallow stream. Bogdan knelt down beside the boy, who in truth was not much younger than he, and listened for a breath.
The boy’s face and lips were an alarming shade of blue, but as Bogdan leaned in closer he heard the faintest whisper, a tiny, raspy sliver of breath moving in and out of the boy’s slender chest. “Quick,” he said to Svyatoslav, “give me your cloak.”
Their small party moved carefully, slowed by the weight of Kyrill’s limp body, as they followed the stream back in the direction they had come. When one man grew tired of carrying the boy, they passed him along to the next.
Day had nearly broken when they reached the village.
It was only there, in the hazy first light of dawn, before the night had fully given way to day, that Bogdan turned to look over his shoulder. Somewhere in the distance, between a tangled web of leaves and branches, a pair of glowing red eyes stared back at him.
Word spread quickly of their return. Those who had continued searching for the boy throughout the night were the first to assemble around them. It wasn’t long before the whole of the village had gathered.
“Get back,” said Bogdan, cradling Kyrill in his arms. “Someone light a fire. He needs a fire!”
“Kyrill!” The boy’s mother screamed when she saw the poor state of him. She fell to the wet earth and pleaded for God to save her only son.
“Husband—” Yekaterina’s face was steady and calm, an island in the chaos that swirled around her. “I’ve kept the fire burning in our house, for I had no doubt you would find him and bring him back to us.”
And so they placed the boy before the warmth of the fire and covered his naked body in animal skins. Yekaterina sent his mother home. “You need sleep,” she told the tired woman. “Rest and don’t trouble yourself. I won’t let anything happen to him.”
She nursed young Kyrill for three full days—only stopping to sleep for an hour or two when Bogdan or one of the other women from the village insisted. On the fourth morning, the boy opened his eyes and spoke.
“Where am I?” The words moved slowly from his lips as he struggled to form each sound.
“You’re safe,” she told him, placing her hand on his forehead. “Rest easy now, for you are in the home of Bogdan the Great.”
On the fifth day, the old priest, who’d been attending an annual religious gathering in a nearby settlement, came to the house and laid his blessings upon the boy. He traced holy water over Kyrill’s forehead and made the sign of the cross, much the same as he’d done for Bogdan on the eve of the sacrifice. When he’d satisfied his priestly duties, the two men retired together to a rustic table beside the hearth.
“It doesn’t make any sense, father.” Bogdan rubbed his tired eyes. He’d slept little more than his faithful wife in the days since he’d returned with the search party. “It’s not like Kyrill to take such a risk. How could the boy have wandered alone so far from the village?”
The priest stroked his grey beard. “How could you have survived the night of the ceremony? Sometimes, my son, it’s not for men to understand the will of God.”
“There’s something else, father. Something that’s been troubling me as I lay awake.”
“Yes, my son?”
He’d said nothing of the red eyes to anyone, not even his precious Yekaterina. He’d hoped, in those private moments when he allowed his mind to wander, that it had been nothing more than his imagination—a ray of early morning light reflecting in some strange way to mark the dawn. But his silence had grown heavy, until he could bear it no longer. “I saw something, father—something which I hoped never to see again.”
The priest nodded. “We’ve all seen a great many things in recent days—not least of all the miracle of your very existence.”
“This was no miracle. It was the evil spirit. He was out there in the forest that night, stalking us through the dark. I fear he has returned to take vengeance.”
“You denied him once, Bogdan the Great.” The old man took Bogdan’s hands and held them between his own. “You shall deny him again.”
Bogdan lowered his head and sighed. The long days and nights with young Kyrill in the house had left him exhausted. “Then it’s true—our troubles are far from over.”
The priest only smiled. “Our troubles are never over, my son, not until we rest in the house of the Lord.”
On the sixth day, the boy had the strength to sit upright. He ate heartily the soup which Yekaterina brought him. His mother, who’d taken to spending the days locked away inside her house, was overjoyed when she came to see him.
The villagers called it another miracle—the second they’d witnessed in only a month. Theirs was truly a blessed village. People would surely come from miles around to pray in their simple church and receive counsel from the man called Bogdan the Great.
When the boy had recovered sufficiently, Bogdan took a seat beside him on the animal skins and asked if he remembered anything of what had happened that night in the forest.
“Even now it seems like a dream. I went to pick fresh berries for dinner. My mother loves fresh berries, and I know all of the best places to find them. I’d just filled my basket when I heard a strange voice call my name from deep within the woods. I thought it might be my little sister calling for help—she often trails behind me despite the protests of my mother—so I followed it along the creek. The last thing I remember was tripping over the root of a tree and tumbling into the water. When I next opened my eyes I was beside your fire.”
“Did you see anything?”
Kyrill shook his head. “I’m sorry, Bogdan. That’s all I can remember.”
“Let him rest, dear husband.” Yekaterina appeared in the doorway with a basket of vegetables. “Our handsome Kyrill must save his strength for the girls of the village. It seems they have been quite preoccupied with the state of his health.” She smiled over her shoulder as she busied herself with potatoes and onions. “And save your own strength, Bogdan the Great. I’m in need of your gentle touch tonight.”
On the seventh day, young Kyrill was strong enough to return home. That night, a great feast was held to honor the men of the search party. The whole of the village had come to celebrate in triumphant spirit.
Bogdan wasn’t in the mood for celebration. He scanned the edge of the forest, half expecting to see a glowing pair of red eyes staring back at him. But there was only darkness.
Yekaterina, seated beside him, placed her soft hand over his. “Something eats away at you, husband. I can see it on your face.”
He feigned a smile. “It’s nothing, my love. I’m only tired.”
“Don’t lie to me, Bogdan the Great. You watch and wait. Who do you expect to see?”
He thought about telling her, but it wasn’t the right time or place. Let them be happy, he thought, at least for the night. Who could say what tomorrow would bring?
Svyatoslav, already on his fourth or fifth beer, raised his tankard in the air and steadied himself against the table. “My friends, I propose a toast to our good fortunes. Bogdan the Great has defeated the evil spirit, and our handsome pup Kyrill has been returned safe into his mother’s arms—much to the satisfaction and delight of the many fine girls of our village!”
A quiet laughter rose among them.
He took a hearty swig of beer and continued. “May the harvest be bountiful and may our bellies remain full through the winter!”
At this, they erupted into a collective cheer. Somewhere at the edge of their little gathering, a musician commenced an old folk song on a stringed instrument. The men danced in a circle, hands together and raised above their heads, while the women laughed at those unfortunate enough to miss a step. They carried on this way until late in the night, drinking and dancing and celebrating the luck that had visited their village. Even the old men, who’d lived through far worse times, seemed happy and joyful. It wasn’t until the early morning hours when the last of them stumbled back to their little houses to sleep off the night’s festivities.
Bogdan, as always, was joined by his lovely Yekaterina. Her ever-present hand, so delicate and beautiful, found its way to his shoulder and began to unbutton his shirt. “Make love to me,” she said. “Make sweet love to me, my handsome prince.”
Maybe that’s what he was—a prince. The son of poor peasants, whose only lot in life was to be marked for death, he’d risen from the ashes and returned a leader of men. Perhaps it was as the priest had said. He’d defeated the evil spirit once before, even if he was unsure of the manner by which he’d accomplished such a feat. Perhaps, should the need arise, he could do it once more.
He took her again that night, their warm bodies twisting and bending in the flickering light of the fire, two parts of a single whole.
“Bogdan,” she said.
“Yes, my dear?”
“Tell me you will love me forever.”
He kissed her tender lips. “I will love you forever, Yekaterina. There will never be another—there could never be another as beautiful as you.”
And there, before the fire and joined as one, they achieved perfect ecstasy—a single moment so present and pure, not even the terrible ravages of time or death itself could destroy it.
When they’d finished, she stroked his cheek with the back of her slender fingers. “I wish to know what disturbs your thoughts. You must unburden yourself to me, or it will set wrinkles to your face.”
“In the forest, the night we returned with the boy, I saw the evil spirit.”
“Then it’s as I thought, for only such a vile and evil thing could worry my husband. But do not trouble yourself, my love, for you are the only one who has ever seen the beast and lived.”
He wondered if what she had said was true. If it was as he suspected, then young Kyrill had also received a visit from the evil spirit while gathering berries in the forest. The boy had paid a terrible price, and might have died like the others were it not for his intervention, yet still he lived.
“Very well,” he said. “I shall not worry. Should the spirit return I will defeat him again, once and for all.”
“Yes.” She returned his kiss. “You are truly a man now, dear husband, for I am with child, and you shall be a father.”
SEVEN
It was exactly as she’d feared. Word of their troubled home spread quickly through the finer houses of Boston, and finding another nanny was proving to be impossible. Her friends, once eager to join her for afternoon tea or a glass of wine on the verandah, had taken to avoiding the Hardaway place as though it were, in fact, the subject of some ancient and terrible curse. Even Mrs. Johnson had been avoiding her after the failed exorcism and sudden flight of Mr. Thornewood.
With nobody to watch baby Nora, Nancy’s lack of attendance at recent social functions had not gone unnoticed. She imagined what they might whisper in her absence—ripened women trading secrets in the powder rooms of Boston’s most exclusive restaurants and hotels.
Things only became worse when Mr. Hardaway, whose work demands already required extensive travel, began to take longer and more frequent trips to such exotic places as Panama, Switzerland, and the United Arab Emirates. She loathed him while he was away, and on the occasions when he returned, spent a great deal of time sniffing his clothes in search of any unusual womanly scents.
Once, after a particularly long trip to some unspecified location in Europe, she’d found a balled up napkin in his pocket with a strange phone number scribbled in blue ink. When she called the number, it rang and rang with no answer. Mr. Hardaway, who’d explained many times his reasons for keeping the details of his work a secret from his wife, refused to answer any of her questions. In a moment of uncontrollable rage, she threw a book at him, the latest Danielle Steel hardcover, and they’d both gone to sleep in separate quarters—she in the bedroom and he on the leather sofa in the study.
He returned from his most recent trip overseas to find her alone and terribly exhausted. Distraught and rather teary eyed, she’d sent faithful Inez home early before taking up position on the sofa where he’d spent the night only a week before. She helped herself again to his spirits, this time a fine aged cognac imported from France, and made no offer to pour him a glass.
“I’m worried about you, Nancy.” He sat beside her on the sofa and reached out with a hand.
She pulled away. “You don’t seem very worried. You’re gone so often I’d be surprised if you gave much thought to me or what goes on in this house.”
“That’s not fair, Nance. I’m providing for you and the baby. How do you think we can afford this house?”
He hadn’t called her Nance since the early days when they’d first met. He was so handsome back then—an ambitious young man staking his claim. He’d pursued her with the kind of chivalrous enthusiasm she’d only read about in books.
“I hate it.” She emptied the last of the cognac from her glass and poured herself another. “I hate this house, Byron. It’s dark and drafty and empty. Do you remember the parties we used to host—the wonderful parties?”
“Of course,” he said. “It wasn’t so long ago. How could I forget the time Mrs. Montgomery drank too much champagne and fell into the goldfish pond?”
Nancy almost laughed. “She was wearing that ridiculous dress, the one she’d brought back from Paris. She wouldn’t shut up about how much that hideous thing had cost. We were all so glad to see it ruined.”
Mr. Hardaway filled his own glass. “I know it’s tough on you, Nance—all of the traveling. Things will settle down and go back to normal. You’ll see.”
The smile left her face. “I’m tired, Byron. I’m so terribly tired.”
>
“I know, honey.”
Upstairs in the nursery, Baby Nora began to cry. Nancy, upon hearing the baby’s tears, couldn’t help but cry along with her. Big, wet tears rolled down her cheeks as she buried her worn face in her hands. “Heaven help me! Will I never rest?”
“Stay here,” said her husband. “Have another cognac. I’ll check on the baby.”
She was too tired to argue with him, and relieved to finally have some help with the baby, even if only for a short time. She wondered if she’d ever attend lavish parties again, or lunch with friends, or spend her husband’s money in her favorite boutiques on Newberry Street.
When Mr. Hardaway returned, he was glowing with the sort of pride all new fathers have for their first child. “She’s really quite beautiful,” he said. “Are you breastfeeding again? Nora’s put on weight in the last few weeks—she’s strong and healthy.”
Nancy had been too exhausted to notice. “Sometimes I wish she’d never been born.”
It was a slip of her tongue, something she never would have said under normal circumstances. The weeks and months had been gnawing at her sense of decency, and though she regretted having such thoughts about her own baby, it felt good to say it aloud. Something inside of her, some pressure which had been building, was suddenly released. She relaxed into the sofa and took another sip of her husband’s expensive cognac.
“You can’t mean that, Nancy. She’s our child.”
Now that it had been said, she couldn’t possibly take it back. Besides, she was never one for serious regrets. “I liked things better when it was just the two of us.”
“But you always wanted a child. You were devastated when the doctors said my chances were slim.”
He was right. She had wanted a child. After their many trips to the fertility specialists had come up fruitless, she’d spent months in therapy working through her disappointment, until she finally gave up hope of ever becoming a mother. But that was years ago, when she was younger and full of life. Nora had left her entirely depleted.
