All of which barely touches me. Masters are masters – with exceptions, and I count myself as one – and most will use what power they have to grab whatever it is they want, whether that be gold or land or flesh.
No. I am not here to save the maiden’s virtue. I’m here to find out why – at approximately this time – things went wrong. And, with that, why the Tree of Worlds should undergo the convulsions of Time Change. Major Time Change.
I cannot afford to be distracted. Cannot, this once, let small things shape my course.
The smith gives me the day off to go and help set things up – carrying the big trestle tables and benches, then helping fill the bonfire and—
And then I see her. The maiden. Only I don’t know it’s her straight away, only that she is the most stunning woman I have ever seen.
I know her name even before I ask it. Katerina. And, for the first time, I wonder how I could ever have forgotten her.
She’s helping lay a massive white cloth on top of one of the big trestle tables when I see her first, she and a dozen other young maidens, who, as one, throw the great white cloth high into the air, then spread it across the wooden surface, laughing as they do, their movements like the steps of a dance.
She looks across and her mouth falls open in surprise. She knows me. Just as I knew her the first moment I set eyes on her. I see her mouth my name.
Otto …
And turn away, disturbed, hurrying from there, my thoughts a storm of confusion – for, much as I know her, I have never met her before this moment. We have no past, no shared experiences. And yet I know we have.
Cherdiechnost, and Katerina … how much more have I forgotten? No. How much more has been stolen from me?
It’s as if they’ve been in my head and altered things. Tampered with my memories.
That night, after the celebrations, the master’s son goes to her, and, her parents sleeping a deep and drunken sleep, he has his way with her. In the darkness I hear her, crying out for help, sobbing helplessly as he forces himself on her, her cries for help no doubt arousing him.
There’s a part of me who wants to go to her, no matter the danger, to kill the bastard – big as he is – and free her, only I have been given orders not to intervene. Not in any circumstances. And so I lie there, beneath the rough sheet, my eyes squeezed tightly shut, my hands gripping the wooden bed frame, like it was I who was being raped.
Only what I really feel is shame. Shame and an overwhelming hurt. Like I have violated my very soul.
469
I wake, and all has changed. My head hurts and, on investigation, I find a bloody lump on the back of my skull that’s tender to the touch. But that’s not the only thing. Other things have changed, and that alone suggests that someone has been tampering with this timestream. Making those changes. And when my mother … yes, I have a mother now, a white-haired ancient … asks me where I went last night, I know at once where I went. To try to save her. Katerina, that is. Only I didn’t.
Why, I was lucky not to die, the savagery with which that bastard clubbed me. And I realise that I’m in trouble now, thanks to my attempted intercession. I’ll get a flogging at best. And at worst?
At worst I’ll get my throat slit or a long time in the cells, my arms and legs chained to the walls, like a common criminal.
Which serves me right for not staying on message.
And, suddenly, Svetov is sat there at my bedside, placing his finger to my lips, whispering to my ear, explaining what’s going on. That all this is somehow necessary. To protect things and keep this time-strand alive, to keep it ‘growing’.
‘Yes, but why did you permit that?’ I ask, referring to the maiden. ‘Why did you let that bastard rape her?’
Svetov looks down, as if ashamed, but his voice is clear and steady. ‘Because in all other versions she dies.’
I consider that, then ask the question that’s been bugging me since I came awake again.
‘Something’s wrong,’ I say. ‘My memories of other lives … they ought to have been changed, erased, even as my memories of Katerina have been erased. But that isn’t so. I’ve a head full of partial memories. Of vague recollections and … flashes, I guess you’d call them.’
‘That’ll settle,’ he says. ‘But keep on in there. It will get better. You will pull through.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘To change it all back. What other purpose could there be? If they maintain this … if he maintains this … then he’ll have won. Because this place – Cherdiechnost – is the hub of it all. It’s the reason why it all happens as it does. Or did.’
‘He being Kolya?’
‘Who else?’
‘But how did it get like this? It was so strong. So … permanent. To transform it in this fashion … how did he manage that?’
Svetov shrugs. ‘We don’t know. But he did. So it’s up to us to find out what he did and how he did it and change it back.’
‘And if we can’t?’
‘Then we’ll have lost.’
470
Svetov’s words are still reverberating in my head an hour later when I’m dragged before the master. He’s angry with me – furious – and inclined, I believe, to have me executed there and then. Only I plead with him, telling him I was mistaken, that in the dark of the night I didn’t realise that it was his son, and, begging for his mercy, tell him I’ll work for him for nothing for a whole year if he’ll only forgive me. And I hate myself for grovelling in this fashion, but there’s no other way to keep in this loop, and when he says two years, I agree to that – even though my true inclination is to choke the fucker with my bare hands, to gouge out his eyes and cut him into pieces for what he allowed his son to do to her.
In the end he proves ‘magnanimous’. His word, not mine. It seems I’m to get ten lashes for offending his dignity. Ten lashes and two years of working for nothing. And all because the boy’s a cunt.
Not that I plan to be here for that long. Not with things as they are. No. Somehow – and I don’t yet know quite how – I plan to change things back. To make this the safe haven that it was. A nest for my six sweet darlings.
And so, as the sun nestles in the sky’s heights, I am bound to the whipping post and, with the whole estate assembled to bear witness, receive my punishment, vowing after every stroke to kill the bastard slowly when the time comes.
Which it will.
They cut me down and, letting no one come to my aid, watch me stagger back to my hut where that stranger, my mother, is awaiting me, the blood on my back glistening in the sunlight, the pain – in my back and on the back of my skull – threatening to black me out.
For a moment I stand there, my hands gripping the frame of the door, my eyes closed, willing myself to stay on my feet, then go inside and, waving the old woman away, ease myself down onto my pallet bed.
My head swims, then vision comes clear.
What am I doing here? What in Urd’s name am I about? Is Svetov right? Do I really have to stay here – for as long as it takes?
It makes no sense. No sense at all. But if Svetov says it …
Unless Svetov’s one of them now. Those Sons of the Lazy Eight.
But even as I think it, I dismiss the thought. I’d trust Svetov every bit as much as I’d trust Ernst. More so, in fact, considering all he’s done for me since our forces merged.
But just staying here. Not interfering. Can I really, honestly do that?
I wait a day, two days, helping out at the forge and staying silent, then, on the third day, venture out at first light.
If there’s one thing the master doesn’t expect it’s for me to escape this place. Not while he has my pack and all the valuables inside it. Not to speak of that other treasure his son has been visiting these past few evenings. But if I’ve been contemplating running away, then my mind is quickly changed.
Coming to the top of the escarpment, I am faced by a great sea of mist, extending to the distant horizon. A thick wh
ite sheet of mist that seems to mark the edge of this world.
I return to the hut in time to meet up with Smith Simon. He wants to know if I am fit to work yet, and though I’m far from recovered, I say yes. But my thoughts are elsewhere.
What if this is a construct of some kind? What if this is not Cherdiechnost at all, merely another copy? A copy convincing enough to distract me while he goes about his evil work elsewhere?
Unlikely, I know, only this really is enough to make you paranoid.
I go out to get the week’s orders for the smithy, keeping a watchful eye all the while, noting what changes our friend has made to the estate. There was a pretty little copse down at the foot of the big field, but that has gone now, cut back to build a hideous-looking barn. As for the school buildings, they have been torched and turned back into the soil. For there’s to be no educating these serfs.
As for the serfs themselves, they’re a surly lot. Not surprising considering the punishments that are constantly being doled out. But it’s more than that. On my estate they had a stake in things. They worked hard because working hard meant that they earned a greater share of what we all produced. I would even say they were happy.
Back at the forge I find the smith seated by the unlit fire, biting on a thumbnail, looking inward at his thoughts. Seeing me he hurries across and, making sure no one can overhear, begins to question me.
‘Why in God’s name did you do that, Petr?’
I almost tell him, but draw back from the truth. ‘I don’t know. Something about her, I guess. Her innocence.’
‘Yes,’ he says, the look on his face surprising me. ‘The bloody noise she made. I couldn’t get to sleep afterwards. It’s not the first time, but …’
‘But what?’
‘Nothing,’ he says, clamming up, something about it suggesting to me that to even talk of this could get one punished. Or worse.
Angered, he tears the list of orders from my hand and studies it, then grunts. ‘This’ll take an age …’
‘Then we’d best get started, neh? After all, I’m working on special rates now!’
It’s a feeble attempt at humour, but the smith appreciates it and returns my smile. ‘Just keep your head down in future, yes?’ he says. ‘As for the girl …’
I raise an eyebrow in query.
‘Close your eyes and ears. He’ll soon grow tired of her.’
‘And then?’
Only he doesn’t want to talk about this any more and turns his back on me, beginning to prepare the forge for lighting.
471
The next time I go there the mist has gone. Like it never was. But it’s still not right. There’s still something about the landscape that is unconvincing, some quality of vagueness, as if only the very minimum of effort has gone into creating this. It has … how do I put it? … an overwhelming sense of incompleteness. This is distinctly amateur. A job half done.
Only that seems totally at odds with what we know of our friend Kolya. This cannot, surely, be his work. It doesn’t have the feel.
Unless …
Unless his resources are finally depleted. Unless he’s quite literally running out of time.
I laugh, amused by the absurdity of that, then turn abruptly, sensing movement at my back. Kolya? Only there’s nothing there, just a lack of sharpness.
Running out of time. What a notion. As if that were at all possible.
I walk back, up over the lip of the land, the great sprawl of the estate suddenly below me again, the image sharp and crisp. This had been home. The place I made. My great social experiment. All gone, as if it never was.
And still no clue as to why.
Only standing there, I have a thought. What if this is no more than a superior kind of backdrop? A screen of sorts. What would he be seeking to achieve by creating this? Is his purpose simply to confuse?
That night the young master pays the maiden one more visit, and for a while all seems peaceful. Only this time it’s his screams, not hers, that rend the silent night-time air.
I’ve left the forge in an instant, joining the crowd of serfs and their families who quickly fill the big field before the master’s dacha, anxious for news. And then it comes, but not as an announcement. No. The first we see of it is the master himself, down at the south gate to the field, where one of his men opens the latch and stands back as the master comes through, carrying something large and heavy; his muscles straining, his face …
No, I cannot see his face, but I know how it must look, for from the spill of golden hair it’s evident who he’s carrying. His boy. The vehicle of all his dark ambitions.
Next, dragged along between two ropes, comes the girl, stumbling and fearful, her face, when it comes in view, pale and distraught, her eyes unseeing. And beyond her, her parents, roped just the same, their pleas for clemency ignored, the mother falling once and then again, mud smearing her plain white dress.
Up the long slope towards the dacha, where, at the edge of the fenced garden, five great trees reach up into the dark.
And even as we watch, lamps are lit and, as the master nears the very top of the slope, so his steward makes his way down the slatted wooden path from the house toward him, gesturing to his servants to lay down a great padded bed-cover. It is barely down before the master staggers to a stop and, his legs almost giving under him, gently lays his boy down onto the blanket.
For a moment he simply stands there, swaying, as if in a daze. Then, life returning to his face, he turns and watches as the others are dragged up the slope toward him, the crowd angry now, spitting and cursing the trader and his family.
And now time itself seems to slow, as I see, over to my right, ropes being cast up into the high branches of the trees, bare-chested men following them, shimmying up the trunks to secure them.
There is to be no trial. No reckoning of who was right, who wrong. And, knowing that, my stomach clenches, knowing what’s to come.
Those last few yards are awful, as I watch Katerina and her parents dragged and tugged into the open space beneath the trees where the master now awaits them. There is a moment’s silence, and then the big man, his breath pluming in the air, leans close and strikes out, his closed fist breaking Katerina’s nose.
She sinks to her knees, and as she does, so he draws his knife and grabbing her hair, lifts her head and draws the sharp blade across her face, left to right, then right to left, extending the shape of her mouth from ear to ear, the soft flesh falling aside, blood bubbling down her neck and chin.
I howl. Her helpless screams break my heart. But he’s not done with her. Standing back a little, he surveys his handiwork, then steps forward again, and with an obscene little movement, pokes the knife tip into her eye, blood spurting from the wound in a great spray.
I sway, feeling close to fainting, but there is nothing I can do, and even as the big man turns and gestures to his men, even as I step forward, meaning to stop it, I see how they’re noosed, how more men rush to join the servants at the end of the rope, adding their weight as the three of them are jerked up off their feet, the nooses tightening as the bodies dance and sway in that lamp-lit space, moving up into the air.
Dead.
472
And I wake, the girl beside me, naked in my arms. I turn and stare at her and she says ‘What?’
‘Where are we?’ I ask, remembering where I’d been but a moment earlier.
‘Cherdiechnost,’ she answers me. ‘Where else?’
Where else indeed.
And then I notice it. Around her neck. A small copper pendant in the shape of an ash leaf. Beneath which, I know, is the lazy eight.
So why didn’t she jump? Or did she? Damaged as she was.
But no. This is a much younger Katerina.
And part of me wants answers. Part of me wants to jump straight back to Moscow Central and find out what’s been going on. Only I’m here, beside her, her warmth, the smell of her, intoxicating. And in a moment I am kissing her again and her arms go
round my back and …
But you know the rest. It’s what happens every time we meet.
And when we’re done we lie there for a while, until she breaks the silence.
‘What happened?’
‘They killed you.’
‘I thought they might. So what …?’
‘Don’t ask,’ I say, putting my finger to her lips. ‘It was awful.’
She’s quiet again, then, ‘Are we any closer to an answer?’
‘No. But there was one thing …’ And I tell her about the mist and my sense of incompleteness. That it wasn’t all quite real. And she nods thoughtfully. And smiles.
‘What?’ I ask, puzzled by her amusement.
‘I was just thinking. Maybe it’s a peripheral world. One he’s shunted us off into. One where – because it’s peripheral – it’s also less real. Less focused.’
‘Okay. But why do that?’
‘Because …’
Only that isn’t an answer. That’s just an admission that we have no answers. No. We haven’t got a fucking clue what he’s doing.
‘So where next?’
She looks down, then meets my eyes again. ‘I’m off up ahead. I’ll tell you about it when we next meet up.’
‘And me?’
‘You’re staying here. Svetov thinks you’re close. Very close. That last time … the time before when we died … you literally shook the tree. There were BIG disturbances.’
That surprises me. Chiefly because Svetov didn’t tell me.
‘I should go back,’ I say. ‘See Svetov. Find out what else he hasn’t told me.’
‘You think that’d help?’
It always has in the past. But I don’t say that. In fact, I change the subject. ‘I had my tarot read. Did you know that?’
‘I read the report.’
I wait. Then, when she doesn’t answer me. ‘And?’
‘The cards are over there. In my knapsack. It was … interesting.’
I sit up, balancing myself against the stout wooden partition. ‘Interesting? Is that all?’
The Master of Time: Roads to Moscow: Book Three Page 37
