Moonflower

by Angela J. Townsend

“I am stronger than any man. I am master at weaponry.” Anatoly studied me for a moment. “I know you are going to ask about Nickoli and Mila so I will tell you. Mila has a special gift to see future. She fights evil with holy power of Saints. She is blessed by God. Nickoli is an expert weapons-master. He is deadly with a whip and can speak Dragon tongue.”

  Dragon tongue? Wow. He really was crazy. “That’s a pretty amazing story.”

  “It is true story. Not fiction.” Anatoly said. “Would you like to know about your ancestry? I will tell you everything.”

  “How do you know about my family?”

  “My father told me, and his father told him before that, and so on.”

  I knew he was probably going to tell me some farfetched story, but even so, maybe I would learn something new, no matter how unbelievable most of it might sound.

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “I want to know everything.”

  “One of your ancestors was great man—even greater than Bogatyrs.” He paused, his face a mask of seriousness. “His name was Sasha. He lived in medieval times and was master artist. He was quiet, pensive man. He did not want his artwork to be famous. His only goal was to create masterpiece to save universe from unspeakable evil.” Anatoly paused, took a deep breath. “Legend says Sasha’s artistic ability was divine blessing from God to be used like sword. He passed on his artistic blessing to each generation. To your mother and now to you. The torch is in your hands.”

  “So this is like a myth, right?”

  “This is no fairytale!” Anatoly snapped. He lunged forward and grabbed my shoulders. “Please, you must help us. This is why I am bound here with others—to protect work that Sasha created.”

  “Hey!” I pulled back.

  Anatoly let go. “I am sorry…I did not mean harm.”

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean, help you? This sounds totally crazy.”

  Anatoly rubbed his face. “Please. Let me start over. Have you ever heard of Koschei the Deathless?”

  “No—but the name sounds creepy enough.”

  “In dark times, centuries ago, Koschei controlled humans like slaves.” Anatoly’s voice dropped. “To disobey meant death. Escape was impossible. Try and he would release an army of demons. To Koschei, humans were cattle.”

  “Why didn’t someone just kill him?”

  “That is problem. Koschei cannot be killed because his soul does not reside in his body.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Koschei’s soul is hidden separate from his body in a gold chest under an oak tree on a mysterious island called Buyan. This island has the ability to appear and disappear at will. All seemed lost until Sasha found way to imprison Koschei. He created mural in depths of church, in catacombs where it would not be disturbed. This house and land, now your home, was once Sasha’s. It has been passed down through centuries of descendants, artists who have tended to painting over centuries, repairing it, keeping evil sealed from the world.

  Anatoly pointed to a set of doors in the kitchen. “Through the basement lies tunnel under church. Your mother died just after she finished restoring painting. But now the mural is breaking down again. You must repair it.”

  I burst out laughing. “Are you serious? Do you expect me to believe all this?”

  “Natasha, you must understand. If you do not help us, Koschei will escape. He will come after you and kill you because you are only one left that can keep him imprisoned. With your death—all will be lost.”

  He frowned, his expression thunderous. He balled up his fists, and paced back and forth. He actually believed this story. I had learned about this type of mental control at Bellingham, in the group home I grew up in—it was a form of brainwashing. Fear tactics. Obviously his parents came up with this stupid insane story to keep him and the other kids here. Otherwise, they would have left a long time ago.

  “I don’t know who told you such a lame story…but there really isn’t any way for it to be true. I mean, think about it. It’s just a myth—it has to be.”

  Anatoly's shoulders hunched forward. His face hardened as he stared at the floor. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. I knew it was impossible that you—an outsider—would understand. I tried to tell my father, he disagreed. He said to give you chance. Look what good it did me.” He stormed off and suddenly I felt bad. He was visibly shaken. I hadn’t meant to upset him so much, I shouldn’t have laughed at something he was so serious about.

  “Wait!”

  He stopped without turning around.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, softly. “I didn’t mean to be such a jerk. I’d really like to see the mural, especially since it was something my ancestor created and my family took care of.”

  Anatoly turned around. His face brightened for a moment. “Thank you, thank you for giving me chance to show you and then maybe you believe.”

  I followed him into the kitchen. He pulled open the basement door. A rush of stale air escaped up the stairwell, sending shivers along my arms.

  “I’ll go first,” he said. “You must stay close. Tunnels are old. It is like maze in places.”

  We started down a set of wide, rock steps. Bits of earth crunched and crumbled beneath my feet as we descended into darkness. A spark of light flashed and mingled with the smell of sulfur. Anatoly handed me a blazing torch, the flame dancing. He grabbed another one from the wall, lit it, and held it high as he headed down the dirt path.

  “Why don’t we just use flashlights?”

  “Flashlights are useless.”

  “Why?”

  “Because evil drains batteries.”

  Wow. He really believed this whole crazy story.

  We walked along the dirt floor and walls, the space fanning out larger as we traveled.

  A damp chill hung in the air along with the pungent odor of moist earth. Something scurried in the darkness and I froze. I held the torch high, peering around the ancient catacombs with dirt walls and heavy wooden beams.

  “We are getting closer, we are almost under church now,” Anatoly said. He hurried ahead and I jogged to keep up. “This tunnel will lead us to ancient burial grounds for monks and to secret entrance beneath church.”

  We entered into a wide expanse. Cobwebs dangled from the wooden beams and I shivered thinking about hairy spiders dropping from the ceiling and scurrying down my neck. But I soon forgot all about spiders when I spotted hundreds of graves nested in the walls. I could make out stone slabs bearing coffins, or the remains of coffins. Some were sealed and intact, but others had nearly vanished, leaving heaps of bare bones and piles of dust behind.

  At the entrance to the next stone chamber three marble statues of Bogatyrs stood guard. The biggest of the three held a broadsword, one held a whip in one hand and a mace in the other. The last held a staff with a large cross on the tip and an ornate bible.

  “Let me guess, the one with all the muscles and the sword is your ancestor, right?”

  Anatoly nodded. He stuck out his chest and held his chin high. “That is Ilya Muromets, my ancestor. Brave and fearless. He was given super-human strength by dying knight named Svyatogor. Ilya liberated the city of Kiev and protected the people of Russia from invaders and tyrannical rule. He was made chief of Bogatrys by Price Vladimir.” Anatoly pointed to the next statue. “This is Dobrynya Nikitich. He is holding whip and mace. He was light on his feet, witty and clever like Nickoli.”

  I looked at the last statue, Mila's ancestor. No wonder they all believed in these farfetched stories—it had been handed down for centuries. “So Mila’s ancestor must have been a priest?”

  Anatoly nodded. “He is Alyosha Popovich. He was priest with psychic abilities given to him by God. He could see into future, slaying enemies of Prince Vladimir. He knew all. Saw all. Very powerful man.” Anatoly pointed to portrait of a man painted into the arch over the entryway and raised his torch. “And this is Sasha. Greatest artist who ever lived.”

  I stared up at the painting, tears welled. Why was I d
oing this? Acting all emotional in front of Anatoly? But I couldn’t help it. Here was the past I longed for all my life staring down at me with the same blue eyes as mine. The same platinum blonde hair, the same cheekbones and smile. My blood and roots in which to build the foundation of my life.

  We passed the statues and portrait and entered into a cavernous room. Candles burned to stubs flickered from every corner. A great mural stretched out in front of us, completely encircling the walls and ceiling. I’d never seen anything like it—except for pictures of the Sistine Chapel. The colors were brilliant blues, golds, and blood reds like those of Michelangelo’s. But unlike Michelangelo’s masterpieces, there was no comfort or peace in this painting. There was something ominous about it. The mural consisted of hundreds of inhuman figures. Things that could only exist in nightmares. Even the delicate birds circling the powder blue sky cast an evil eye down upon the onlooker.

  Near the mural rested a ladder, a chair, brushes, paint, rags, and vials of turpentine. I picked up a painter’s robe that lay over the back of the chair. It was pink with flowers—more like an apron than a smock.

  “That must have been your mother’s,” Anatoly said. “She was last one to work on painting. When she died, most villagers left in panic. They knew it would be long time before you were old enough to take over job. They worried something might happen to mural, and there would be no one to fix it.”

  Anatoly pointed at various places on the painting. “You see there are places that are breaking down. Spots and cracks that weren’t there before your mother died. She spent years in this dark place, restoring it to pristine condition. She finished everything right before you were born. So you were here before, in her womb.”

  I shuddered. “I can’t imagine my mother—or anyone all alone in this creepy place.”

  “She was not alone. The Bogatyrs, my father, Nickoli’s father, and Mila’s were here with her. Guarding over her. And if a demon escaped, one of Bogatyrs would have hunted it down and killed it.

  My mind raced. They were probably so caught up in an abstract evil they never suspected my mother would be gunned down by one of their own. Maybe the guilt drove Anatoly’s father into making this story even more elaborate—to blame something other than their personal failures.

  “Now that painting is deteriorating,” Anatoly said. “It will not be long before evil escapes, one by one as paint chips or peels away.”

  The painting was so real it looked as if the figures were writhing beneath the paint. “I think I could try to fix it—as long as you understand it won’t be anywhere as good as Sasha’s. Or my mother’s. That would take a lifetime of practice.” I pointed to a place with rocks and flowing water. “The movement he created is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.” I stepped closer to the painting. It was unnerving how real it looked.

  “I did not think you would help us,” Anatoly said. He bowed, lifted my hand and kissed it. “I will be forever grateful to you.” His lips feathering over the back of my hand, caused heat to prickle up my spine.

  “Uh, no problem,” I said. “Just don’t get disappointed if I screw something up.”

  “You are descendant of Sasha. You will do great work.”

  “I need to take a closer look,” I said. “Can you bring the ladder over here?”

  Anatoly grabbed the ladder with one hand and set it up close to the mural. I climbed up the steps until I was near the top rung. I studied bits of the massive work of art. Paint was starting to bubble and crack everywhere.

  “Do you think you can fix it?”

  I shrugged. “I can try, but it really needs a professional.”

  “No. It can be only you.”

  I rolled my eyes. “How do you know someone isn’t lying to you about this?”

  His face darkened with a flash of anger. “It is truth! You must believe.”

  “So you’re saying if I picked off one piece of paint….” I pointed at a tiny bird in the clouds. “Say by this innocent-looking bird, it would change into a bird-demon, rip from the wall and try to kill us. Right?”

  “I know it is hard to believe, but you must trust what I am telling you.”

  I had enough of whatever mind control he was under, so before he could stop me, I gently pulled back a tiny piece of gold fleck near the bird’s wing. I didn’t want to damage the painting but I had to prove there was nothing to be scared of. “See?” I smiled. “Nothing happened.”

  I climbed down the ladder and faced Anatoly. His eyes were filled with indescribable fear as he stared past me and to the mural. I felt a whoosh of air and heard the whir of wings. I swung around as a raven ripped itself out of the mural, and dove at me. It missed, swerved in flight, and rose to dive again. It was joined by others, six, seven, a dozen—all changing shape and growing in size, larger and larger. Hissing with long pink tongues. Covering my head with my arms, I tried to run. But they kept coming at me, filling the stone room with the sounds of shrieking and beating wings. Blood ran down my hands, my wrists, my neck. Each stab of a swooping beak tore at my arm trying to get to my face. If only I could keep them away from my eyes. Nothing else mattered.

  They clung to my shoulders, ripping at my hair, my clothes, diving in mass at my head. With each swoop, with each attack, they became stronger, bolder, angrier. Anatoly grabbed a canvas sheet and whipped it through the air. They shrieked and cried in rage, leaving me to turn on him.

  He knocked several to the floor, while others folded their wings and dove for his face. He grabbed some of them in mid-flight, slamming them into the wall where they fell to the ground before twitching and launching into the air for another attack. I rushed up the ladder and smashed the gold leafing back into place with my thumb. A piece of foil came loose and spiraled to the ground. The birds suddenly stopped their attack on Anatoly and rushed at me—swooping at the last minute to peck at the mural instead. Anatoly jumped to his feet shouting in Russian. He picked up the tarp knocking and waving the birds away from the painting. I scrambled down the ladder, scouring the floor on my hands and knees, desperately searching for the lost speck of foil. If I didn't find it soon they would peck the painting apart unleashing more unimaginable creatures. The birds descended on me, ripping at my clothes, beating my back with their wings. In the glow of the candlelight, a glint of gold shone near the tip of my boot. A fat crow dove at the speck before I could grab it, nearly snatching it up in his beak. Anatoly raced to my side and kicked the bird to the other side of the room leaving a trail of oily black feathers behind. I plucked the gold fleck from the ground and struggled up the ladder as Anatoly held them off. I pushed the speck of gold back in place. The birds shrieked savagely as they disintegrated into ash.

  I climbed down the ladder, my knees shaking, and stood in front of Anatoly. I couldn’t look at him. “I’m so sorry. I was just trying to show you there wasn’t anything to be afraid of, but I was…I was wrong. Terribly wrong. I’m so sorry.”

  I couldn’t believe what had just happened. There was no way any of this could be real. I wanted to turn and leave and never come back. But how could I? I had nowhere to go. And I thought about what Anatoly said—how I could help them contain whatever evil was behind that painting.

  Anatoly lifted my chin so my eyes met his. “Now you see that what I tell you is truth. Come, I want to show you something.” He pulled me toward the painting and pressed the palm of my hand against the surface. “Can you feel that?”

  Beneath my palm pulsed the steady beat of a heart. But instead of being warm, it was cold, almost slimy, and it sent shivers to my very core. I jerked my hand back.

  “Yuk, it’s feels like the skin of a reptile.”

  “It is a living evil. Do you understand now?”

  I nodded and closed my eyes. Horrific images and sounds flashed in my mind. My father bursting into the room, the cold steel of the shotgun, my mother’s final screams.

  “Natasha, are you okay? Look at me.”

  I stared into Anatoly’s soft b
rown eyes. He fingered a loose strand of hair on my cheek. “This painting has ability to get into your mind. You must not let it in. It can command horrible things.”

  “Do you think it’s what caused my father to murder my mother?”

  He looked away for a moment, then his gaze came to rest on my questioning eyes. “I do not know what happened. I am sure evil in mural wanted your mother dead in order to escape. It wants you dead also. You are only thing that stands in its way.”

  We walked in silence through the dismal tunnel. Our raised torches caused slithery shadows to undulate along the stone walls. I kept glancing over my shoulder, feeling something creeping up behind us. The smell of decay and damp soil and something else I couldn’t name seemed extra strong. I shuddered, thinking of all the skeletons buried in the walls, their bones disintegrating to dust.

  “Are you sure you are all right?” Anatoly asked.

  “I am, but what about you? You’re covered in blood.”

  “It looks worse than it is.”

  We opened the door and entered into the kitchen. Relief washed over me, glad to leave the creepy mural behind.

  “The whole thing is just freaky,” I said. “I never imagined. I mean, I thought you had been brainwashed or that you were making it up. It’s so….”

  “Unreal. I know. It is hard to believe unless you have seen it. We Bogatyrs have kept world safe from its evil. Koschei is head of The Demon Delegation. An organization formed with one goal, to allow demons to live above ground, ruling over mankind with Koschei as their emperor—creating death, mayhem, and misery.”

  Anatoly peered out the kitchen window over the sink. “They say your mother was passionate about mural, keeping evil at bay. I am sure she wanted better world for you. My father said she died fighting for your life.” He turned and looked at me. “It must have been hard growing up, not knowing who you were.”

  I shrugged. “I really didn’t know any other way of living. I guess if I had known her or my father and then was taken away it would have been worse.”

  “My uncle, lawyer you met in Kostroma, and my father sent you far away. They had to make sure you could survive and live to fix painting and save world.”