The Republic of Birds

by Jessica Miller

  ‘Olga!’

  It’s Mira. I suppose this means she stopped dancing and when the applause subsided she noticed I wasn’t there.

  I say nothing. I just walk faster.

  ‘Olga! Wait!’

  I am almost running now.

  ‘Please, Olga!’

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘I was only trying to help,’ she says meekly.

  ‘Do you really want to help me?’ I can hear my voice rising.

  She nods. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then disappear!’ I’m yelling now. ‘Just disappear!’

  I know how awful my words are, but I am too angry to care. I keep stomping back to the Centre. I don’t look behind me, but I can feel that Mira isn’t following me. She must still be standing in the trees where I left her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Dress Rehearsal

  I SCRAMBLE UP THE ladder and make straight for the bedroom. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is pinched and blotchy from the wind. My hair is tangled. I sit and stare at my face. What kind of a sister am I?

  ‘Disappear,’ I told Mira, and I meant it. But I don’t mean it now.

  I am relieved when, at last, I hear her coming up the ladder. I find her in the parlour doing relevés with one hand on the windowsill as if it was a ballet barre. She doesn’t look up when I come in. She’s stinging from my meanness. I’ll apologise soon and Mira will smile at me, even though I don’t deserve her smile. Then everything will be normal again. This is the way it usually goes.

  Right now, I need to focus on the Spring Blossom Ball rehearsal, on enduring all its small, painful humiliations while trying to look as though I am beautiful, trying to dance like I know how to do it.

  I turn from the mirror with a heavy feeling.

  I don’t want Mira to disappear. Perhaps I want me to disappear instead.

  I go back to the bedroom, where a gown is laid out on my bed. I feel queasy. Turning myself into a Spring Blossom feels like an impossible task. Even with the right dress, with my hair brushed and my cheeks rouged, I’m still me. A yaga. And if anyone finds out, I’ll be sent straight to Bleak Steppe.

  I reach for the gown, which is not my gown. Anastasia is the only person I know who would think it a good idea to take three travelling cases full of evening gowns to the remote mountains on the edge of the Republic of Birds. Three days ago, she made a great performance of giving me her green chiffon evening dress. ‘We can’t all be practical,’ she said, as she unpicked the seams to let out the sides of the gown. ‘There’s no need to apologise for that.’

  ‘I wasn’t apologising—’ I started.

  ‘I’m just glad—pass me that pincushion, will you?—that one of us thought to be prepared.’

  Even with the seams let out as far as they’ll go, the dress is very tight. But with Anastasia’s opera coat—also bestowed with a smug remark about sensible packing—over the top, the gown’s too-tight fit is hardly noticeable. Well, hardly noticeable, other than when I have to sit or stand or draw breath and other minor things like that. Anastasia says that pain is beauty, but that makes no sense to me. Still, I will withstand the constricting gown for the next few hours.

  Once I am dressed, I powder my face with Anastasia’s compact, and colour my cheeks and lips with Anastasia’s rouge. My hair is shining and it falls in curls around my cheeks. I check my reflection in the compact mirror. My face is still the shape of a china dinner plate and my skin is still smattered with pimples. But even though I look exactly like myself, I do look—just the tiniest bit—nice. It’s such a surprise that I smile. And I think that maybe this won’t be so hard after all. Maybe I will dance passably and recite epic poetry passably and make conversation passably.

  Maybe no one will ever suspect that I am a yaga.

  Anastasia bursts into the room in a perfumed swirl of red silk and red lipstick, all wrapped in the lavish folds of her mink. She looks so beautiful my breath catches in my throat. ‘It’s ten past seven!’ she announces. ‘Our guests will arrive at any moment!’

  She grabs my wrist and leads me out through the kitchen and sends me down the ladder before I can say anything.

  Outside it is sharply cold. Anastasia’s opera coat is thin protection against the evening chill. A pale half-moon shines on the shale-flecked earth of dance floor. It is eerily beautiful out here. I feel almost wistful. I wish I could be excited for the evening ahead. In Stolitsa, I scorned the idea of being a Spring Blossom, but now I wish more than anything that I were an ordinary Spring Blossom, concerned about getting her dance steps right instead of worrying about being packed off to Bleak Steppe. Though I am concerned about getting my dance steps right.

  The ladies of the Beneficent Home are first to arrive, wearing ballgowns as ancient as they are.

  ‘What a fine evening,’ says Luda, while her fingers worry at the disintegrating lace of her collar.

  Glafira looks me up and down. ‘You look quite acceptable, Olga,’ she says with a note of surprise.

  I’m pleased with that. Acceptable is exactly how I’m hoping to look, for more reasons than Glafira knows.

  ‘But perhaps not for more reasons than I know,’ says Varvara in an ominous tone.

  She looks at me with unblinking eyes. A moth flutters out from between the folds of her skirt and flies into the cold twilight.

  Does Varvara suspect that I’m a—I can’t allow myself even to think the word in case she overhears it. And if she does suspect that I am the thing I can’t even think, will she tell someone? Will she have me sent to Bleak Steppe?

  ‘Now, Varvara, what did we say about telepathy?’ says Luda brightly.

  ‘That it’ll spoil the ball,’ says Varvara in a sulk. ‘Which is actually untrue. The ball will go off very well even if Olga does trip three times in the mazurka and forget part of the fifth stanza of “The Clouds Were Stained with Blood”.’

  Even in the middle of worrying that Varvara will tell everyone my terrible secret, I manage to be pleased that I will trip only three times in the dance.

  ‘Although,’ adds Varvara, ‘the whole affair will finish in an abrupt and troubling manner.’

  Glafira sighs and steers Varvara over to the nettle wine. ‘I won’t tell,’ whispers Varvara over her shoulder as she walks past me.

  Before I can feel any relief, Pritnip and his men arrive. They have polished their boots and waxed their moustaches. They all seem excited, even though some of them have bandaged heads and some carry their arms in slings. Father’s search for the firebird’s egg is to blame for their injuries, I’m sure.

  As the air fills with the soldiers’ conversations and the clinking of wine glasses, the dress rehearsal starts to feel like a proper occasion. We have a rugged, icy mountainside instead of the ornate gold-leaf décor of the Stone Palace’s reception hall, Glafira on the balalaika instead of an orchestra, candles instead of chandeliers, and a murky brew of nettle wine instead of champagne. And yet, the evening has a festive glow. If I weren’t the sole Spring Blossom, I think I would enjoy it. But I’m excruciatingly aware that I will shortly be called on to recite all seventeen stanzas of ‘The Clouds Were Stained with Blood’. And even if I make it through my recital, there is still the embarrassment of the mazurka waiting for me.

  Father clinks a spoon against his glass of nettle wine and opens the proceeding with a toast. Finally, he calls me to the stage, saying, ‘Our lovely Spring Blossom—and my eldest daughter—Olga, will now delight us with an ode to the might of the glorious Tsarish military victory over the Birds.’

  I recite ‘The Clouds Were Stained with Blood’. I start off well, but I stumble in the fifth stanza. In the audience, Varvara nods knowingly. But Anastasia, behind her, mouths the words, and I keep going, all the way to the end. My voice echoes off the mountains and hangs in the air in the moment after I finish and before the crowd’s polite applause begins.

  Now, it is time for the dancing to begin. I swallow hard and tell myself it will be over soon.


  Glafira plays the balalaika, and Pritnip partners me for the mazurka. It is not a success. At least not to start with. I can’t find the beat and more than once I feel Pritnip’s toes crunch under the soles of my dancing shoes.

  But then I remember what Mira taught me. I listen to the music and let my feet follow it. The steps come easier that way and there is something satisfying in the way my movements start to match up with Pritnip’s. And, just as Varvara predicted, I trip only three times. When I finish, kicking my heel out with a flourish, I look for Mira’s face in the small crowd, to flash her a secret smile, but she is half-hidden behind the soldiers who are already coming forward for the next dance.

  Glafira cracks her knuckles and applies herself once more to the balalaika. As the others begin to dance, I edge away. I pour myself a glass of nettle wine and take a mouthful. It burns my throat and sits in my stomach all heavy and scratchy, but it warms me. I sip slowly, and watch the others take their partners.

  Father dances with Anastasia. Her hair falls down her back and his hand sinks into its thick mass. They are both smiling into each other’s eyes. Neither of them has looked happy like this, I realise, since we left Stolitsa. Pritnip spins Mira in circles. One of his soldiers is waltzing Luda across the floor. Another soldier beckons to me, but I shake my head. I have had enough dancing.

  I step away into the shadows and try to ignore how uncomfortable I am in Anastasia’s tight gown. As I watch, the dancing becomes wilder and faster. Glafira strums furiously on the balalaika and the soldiers on the dance floor keep pace, stamping and clapping and crying out for more. Father twirls Anastasia and she spins out away from him, then back into his arms. Mira’s skirt spreads out around her while she leaps and twirls. Her feet hardly touch the ground.

  Then, suddenly, Glafira’s fingers fall from the balalaika. A terrifying shrieking seems to come from every corner of the sky. I look up. There is a swarm of birds above us and it is bearing down. The shrieking birds tear at the marquee with their beaks and claws. Silk splits and blows wildly in the wind created by their beating wings.

  Wine glasses are shattering and there are screams as the dancers try to take cover.

  I stand where I am. The birds move in a swirl that is disorienting and hypnotic. Looking at them turns my knees wobbly and makes my head spin. And then an arm—I don’t know whose—reaches for me and pulls me under a table. My face is pressed against the ground. All I see are fragments of broken crockery and slimy puddles of uneaten mushrooms.

  Then the shrieking subsides, and, when I lift my head, I see Pritnip stand up from behind an overturned chair, with his rifle cocked and aimed at the birds, who are high in the sky again.

  In a rush of red silk, Anastasia tackles him to the ground. ‘Stop!’ she screams. ‘Don’t shoot!’

  She points at the retreating swarm of birds. Inside their dark mass is something pale, slender, dandelion-haired.

  Mira. They have taken Mira.

  I only see her for a moment before the birds change direction. They fly further and further away and then they disappear, frighteningly fast. They were here and now they are gone, and Mira is gone with them.

  No one moves. A silence comes over us all. I can’t seem to get up from the ground. Its cold seeps up and into my skin. I lie there, blinking at the sky. It feels like we are under a spell.

  Anastasia is the first to break it. She falls into a dead faint. The fabric of her gown billows out around her, vivid red.

  Then everything happens quickly. Father scoops Anastasia up and carries her, grim-faced, back to the Centre. His lips are pressed very tight together, like he is holding back a sob or a scream.

  Luda helps me to my feet and brushes the dirt from my gown.

  Pritnip springs into action, calling his men into a huddle. I hover at the edge of the tight knot of soldiers as they mutter about balloons and bullets and visibility. They brush me away, kindly but firmly, when I try to join in.

  And then Glafira takes me by the hand and pulls me, protesting, back to the ladder that leads to the Centre.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Search Party

  I SIT BY THE window and stare at the sky. It is so wide and black, so rippled with deep dark clouds. I wonder where in this sky the birds have taken Mira. I will them to bring her back. She must feel so scared, so small, and so alone.

  I don’t sleep. I am sick with fear. And with guilt. I told Mira to disappear. And now she has.

  Above me I can hear the click of the telegram machine as Father tries to reach the Stone Palace. I hear his footsteps as he paces up and down waiting for a response.

  At first light, I can see the soldiers assembling a search party below. I rush down the ladder.

  Pritnip says that this is a military operation and that I must stay out of the way. I try to tell him that I don’t care if it is a military operation or not—that Mira is my sister and that it’s my fault that the birds have taken her. But all that comes out is a pained sob.

  Pritnip softens. He allows me to hover at the edge of the search party and watch them, if I promise not to interfere. I stand with my hands balled into fists and a lump in my throat.

  The soldiers unpack a balloon envelope from a canvas bag. One holds a brass anemometer into the wind to test its speed. Another studies the sky through binoculars. I try to concentrate on the small details of these preparations—on the steam that comes from the nostrils of the tarpan, on the loop of braid that is starting to unravel from Pritnip’s left epaulet, on the clicking sound the binoculars make each time they are adjusted, on the cold air biting at my face. I am trying to distract myself from thinking about Mira.

  A soldier rattles a gas tank along the ground. The burner is lit, and the morning is torn open with heat and flame. The balloon’s envelope fills and wobbles. Six grim-faced soldiers climb into the basket. Another whoosh of flame and the balloon rises up. The soldiers on the ground loosen its ropes, and it floats away.

  I want them to come back with Mira. I have never wanted anything more fiercely in all my life.

  I watch the balloon grow smaller and smaller in the sky. I keep watching until it has disappeared from my view completely.

  At last, I go inside and let sensation return, stinging, to my freezing hands and feet.

  There’s nothing to do now but wait.

  Later that afternoon the ladies from the Beneficent Home arrive at the top of the ladder. Anastasia emerges, pale and trembling, to receive them.

  ‘Will you have some tea?’ she asks, addressing no one in particular. The ladies all nod, and Anastasia disappears into the kitchen. A long time passes, and she doesn’t return.

  The ladies say nothing. Luda and Glafira sit and watch me with pitying eyes. Only Varvara looks calm.

  The silence is almost too much to bear. I nod towards the kitchen and say, ‘I’d better help her.’ And I hurry out to the kitchen.

  I find Anastasia bent over the stove, crying.

  I’ve seen Anastasia cry before, of course. All Tsaretsvo has. Sobbing prettily in The Vanishing Maiden when she woke one morning to discover she was turning slowly invisible. Wailing with abandon in The Beast with Red Footprints after the beast dragged her children out of the village and into the woods. Letting a single perfect tear roll down her cheek at the end of The Seventeen Heartbreaks of Sofia Antonovna as she turned and walked out the snow-dusted gates of the cemetery.

  But I have never seen her cry like this. Her shoulders shake and her hair is coming undone. Her face is blotched, and her nose is running. Anastasia—Anastasia Krasnoyarska, belle of Tsaretsvo’s silver screen, one of the greatest beauties ever to be captured on celluloid—is ugly. And, for the first time, I realise I might love my stepmother.

  I want to comfort her. But the longer I stand there, the more impossible it seems. And the harder she cries, the more I think that I might start to cry, too. And if I start to cry, I might never stop. I step around her, instead. I light the burner at the base of the samovar
and fill it with water.

  I place the teapot on top of the samovar and carry it out to the ladies. Anastasia follows me. Glafira, Luda and Varvara take turns offering words of sympathy and observations about the weather. Between speaking they leave pauses so long that the wind, howling outside, seems to be taking part in the conversation.

  ‘Pritnip will certainly find her,’ says Glafira stoutly, after the longest pause yet.

  Varvara’s eyes grow cloudy. ‘Pritnip won’t find her,’ she says. ‘No one will find her, until—’

  ‘Oh hush, Varvara,’ says Luda crossly. She lays her hand over Anastasia’s. ‘Almost none of Varvara’s premonitions come true, dear.’

  But I remember the dress rehearsal. How did Varvara say it would end? In an abrupt and troubling manner.

  ‘Until what?’ I ask Varvara. ‘Until what?’

  Varvara shakes herself and her eyes turn clear. ‘I’m sorry, Olga dear,’ she says, ‘I must have dozed off there for a minute.’

  ‘Lady Varvara,’ I press. ‘You had a premonition. You said—’

  ‘Look!’ Anastasia stands so quickly her chair topples over. Outside the window a balloon drifts to the ground. Father hurries down from the observation deck.

  Pritnip’s boots sound on the ladder followed by his knock at the door.

  He comes in and he gives a small shake of his head. Anastasia drops her face into her hands and Father makes a strangled noise and pulls at his collar. My eyes prickle with tears.

  Soon the room is filled with red-jacketed soldiers. Pritnip unrolls a map across the table and they crowd around it. I elbow my way between them, until I can see the map too.

  The Tsardom is marked in green, the Republic in orange. Between them is a thin strip of yellow. The Borderlands.

  Pritnip is pointing to the Borderlands.

  ‘We were able to sail this far,’ he says. He moves his finger over the map but it stays in the Borderlands and doesn’t touch the Republic. ‘But then visibility became too poor. As for tomorrow, Oblomov has made some calculations.’