Alexander, Soldier's Son

by Alma Boykin

  The wind whispered instead of roaring, and it felt almost warmer. Almost. Clouds hid the sky and the snow looked yellow in the dark. Alexi cracked a light stick and shook it, revealing two sets of tracks leading away from the barn. Alexi walked beside them, following. They curved a little around a drift and threaded between houses. No dogs barked, no equipment noises cut the stillness. It felt as if the low clouds had swallowed the sound, as if the world outside the reach of his light had disappeared into nothing. Alexi gulped and touched the front of his parka over his cross. The tracks continued past houses and another barn, then spread apart, as if both soldier and civilian had started walking faster. Probably got cold and decided to hurry, he snorted. He rounded a corner and wondered what his errant idiots had in mind.

  The tracks led to what should have been a church. But instead of a white building, black walls and a black dome rose up from the snowy ground. Alexi peered up at the top of the dome, looking for a cross, and saw nothing. That did not match anything he’d read about the Old Believers. Russian Orthodox Old Believers used the same building shape and style as did modern Orthodox, complete with a cross on the dome. The steps continued around to the side of the church. Alexi slipped the light stick into a pocket. He got as close to the wall as he dared, sticking with a little snow-free patch that had been swept— Oh shit.

  He eased the light stick out again as he crouched, touching the warm ground with his gloved fingers. In the side-light of the stick, he saw all-too-familiar divots under the sweep marks. He shivered as adrenaline shot through him. Could the Sweeper have called Nelson and Jones? Or had the so-called priest’s strange gesture done something? Alexi hid the stick again and crept back against the black wall, easing down the side of the building until he reached a door. It stood partway open, just enough for him to peek inside. Alexi caught a glimpse of red, and the shadow of a long, stick-like arm with bony fingers. The shadow beckoned to someone or something, and Alexi saw a short shadow follow the Sweeper’s arm. Oh fuck, it was Nelson.

  Everything inside Alexi wanted to burst in and grab the stupid woman. Instead he eased away from the door, reached into his coat and removed his nametape from his uniform, stuffing it up the closest downspout. He’d left his ID back in the barn. Then he returned to the door, whispering the Jesus Prayer over and over as he eased the door open a centimeter, then another, and another, until he could just fit through it. He closed it part way and half-crawled behind the cover of some tables and bundles of cloth until he had a better view of the room and the Sweeper.

  Baba Yaga wore the same patched blue dress and apron. A faded red kerchief covered her twisted, tangled shock of iron-grey hair. The light in the room came from the eyes of three skulls, just as Alexi remembered from her place near Greeley. Behind her, a black metal framework held pictures that made his eyes hurt to look at them, an obscene and grotesque inversion of the iconostasis. Odd-shaped dark stains on the wooden floor led his eyes back to the figure dominating the room. Baba Yaga stood with her hands on her hips, her iron teeth bared in a savage smile. Helen Nelson faced the forest witch, her face pale. The green-white light from the skulls did not flatter her painfully maroon hair dye, Alexi noticed before glancing away. He saw Jones in a corner, looking dazed and rocking a little as he muttered something. The few humans in the room gave Jones clear space, and Alexi wondered if the private had lost his mind. Probably. Baba Yaga would do that to anyone, and the perverted iconostasis was not helping matters.

  The spirit reached for Nelson, running one stick-like finger under the terrified medic’s chin. The plump woman squeaked with fear, but didn’t move. Had she been spell bound? That didn’t match anything in the Russian tales, but here in the New World . . . Alexi crossed himself.

  “What’s that?” Baba Yaga bellowed, turning her attention to where he knelt behind the table. “I smell a second Christ follower.” As she looked around, eyes blazing, the black-clad men moved toward the door, or peeked very carefully behind the image wall. Nelson backed a step, then another, then a third. It looked as if she’d wet herself and Alexi didn’t blame her. A bit of motion from the far corner showed Jones easing onto one knee. Alexi ventured to look around the end of the table and wave a tiny bit. Jones’s eyes went wide, and Alexi made a hand sign, then pointed toward the door. Jones licked his lips and nodded a fraction of a hair. God be with us, Alexi thought. He held up three fingers, then two, then one.

  “Good evening, Grandmother,” he called in English with his thickest fake Southern accent, and swung over the table into the room. “I apologize for not staying to thank you for the gasoline, but you seemed busy.”

  As he spoke, Pvt. Jones launched himself from his corner, grabbing Mrs. Nelson’s hand and arm, and dragging the woman toward the door. She fled with him, and Alexi walked into the room, looked around, then took a step back. Baba Yaga, eyes flaming, pointed at him. “You! Ivan Ivanovich!”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Thank you, good-by.” Alexi spun and ran for the door, shoulder first. He managed to knock one of the locals out of the way, but just as he reached the open exit, the false priest loomed up and grabbed his arm, slowing him. As Alexi twisted free, something crashed down on his head. He staggered and a second blow turned the world black.

  Ow. He smelled puke, wet dirt, and alcohol. His head ached worse than the last time he’d gone on a bender, back when he broke up with Stacie. His ribs hurt as well and his wrists felt raw. Everything seemed to still be attached, though, and if he hurt and could smell stuff, he was still alive. You know, he told himself, taking Baba Yaga on, on her own turf, when she has back up standing between you and the door is probably the single stupidest thing you’ve done in your life thus far. Babushka will kill you and Ivan will probably pee in your shoes. And Dad will fuss, and Mom will fuss even more, and will remind you that if you had a nice wife, none of this would have happened. Alexi contemplated knocking himself out again just to stop the pounding in his head, but decided against it.

  Instead he opened one eye, the one farthest from the ground. He saw dark, blurry, and dirt. He closed the eye, waited a few minutes, and tried again. Still dark, but not as blurry. Someone had tied his hands in front of him with the roughest, nastiest old rope they could find. It had already rubbed his wrists raw. Alexi opened the other eye. Then he sat up, biting his tongue against nausea and double vision. And against memories. Thank you God that it is cool, he prayed. If it had been warm, and had smelled of smoke . . . But he wasn’t trapped in a burning Bradley, wasn’t in Somalia. Instead he was in deep shite in Kansas. This was not what soldiers usually got in trouble for in small towns. Damn, but he wished Baba Yaga had stayed in Russia.

  As he sat on his knees, collecting his thoughts, he heard someone walking toward him. Fr. Boris loomed out of the darkness. “So you are awake, Ivan son of Ivan. I trust you are not expecting to leave soon. In case you were, your captain has departed and taken the rest of his dirty unbelievers with him. Including one the Lady had hoped to become closer acquainted with.” Something in the priest’s tone chilled Alexi to the marrow and suggested that Baba Yaga had planned more than just dinner. “The Lady has gone out on business, now that the storm has eased. But she will return. She is most unhappy with you.”

  “I,” Alexi croaked in English. “I’m aware of that. She’s not on my Mothers’ Day card list, either.” The priest kicked him in the chest, knocking Alexi backwards. He felt muscles straining and something in his left hip seemed to pop.

  “Such disrespect for a priest and the Lady. You will not like what comes with darkness, Ivan son of Ivan. And your false god cannot help you here.” The wild-eyed man spat on Alexi, turned, and walked off. A door opened, then closed with a dull thud.

  Alexi rolled onto his side, waited for the stars to clear from his vision, then tried moving his legs. They obeyed, but would his hip bear weight? He got to one knee, swallowed hard, and got ready to stand.

  “Allow me, Ivan Ivanovich,” a light, age-roughened voice said. Alexi felt thin stron
g hands under his left elbow, and the voice counted to three in Russian. At three Alexi heaved himself up and the hands supported him, taking some of his weight. He managed one step, then two, and the hands released him.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You are welcome.” Alexi waited until the presence behind him moved away, then turned slightly. He was not surprised to see nothing. Domovoy rarely showed themselves to strangers. Instead of hunting for the house spirit, Alexi went to the window. He blinked at the bright sunlight outside. Most of the snow seemed to be melting and water ran in streams from the eves of the building, whatever it was. Alexi considered the glass, and the heavy wooden frame, and the small size of the window. Even if he broke both sets of glass out, he would not fit through the frame unless it was one piece at a time. Da— he caught himself. Legends said that swearing upset the house spirits. So the warm front had swept back north: typical October in Kansas, then.

  After looking around a little, Alexi cleared his throat. “Is there a place where I can relieve myself, sir?”

  “The far corner by the old stove.”

  Perhaps that was why they’d tied his hands in front. Alexi finished his business and returned to the main room. He was in a storage building or old workshop of some kind. The floor might once have been tile or linoleum under the ground-in dirt, and wooden planks covered the walls. The worn, fading white or light brown paint could do with a touch-up, and the space felt cold and lifeless. Heaps of lumber, junk, bits of this-n-that, and probably old equipment under canvas tarps took up most of the room. Alexi liked the barn better.

  After looking around and finding another even smaller window, he sat with his back against the wall, eyes closed. He needed to get away, or to figure a way to defeat the Sweeper. He couldn’t trick her again. He hoped the troopers had taken his kit with them, so she wouldn’t be able to learn his real name. At least the room was warm. In fact, it was very warm. Almost too warm, even though the locals had taken his heavy coat. Alexi got back on his feet and after much twisting and effort, opened the small window. It faced the empty pastures east of Blackland, and he saw some storm blasted trees, and a rise in the land, and tall weeds.

  “About time, I’m getting bored trying to talk sense into this stupid horse,” a voice declared in English.

  Alexi rose onto his toes and poked his head out far enough to see a yellow dog, tongue lolling in a grin, brown eyes bright, tail wagging in the dirt. “Coyote?”

  “No, I’m Princess Purrsian Perfection the Third, winner of the pure-breed category at the Wichita cat show.” Alexi ducked at Coyote’s biting tone. “Who were you expecting, pizza delivery? White Buffalo Woman?”

  “Sorry, sir. I got hit on the head and I’m a little woozy,” Alexi admitted. As he did, he wondered if he’d finished going round the bend, because he was whispering to a Coyote that talked back.

  “Apology accepted. Now tell your pony friend to quit ruining my beauty sleep.” Coyote got up and stepped aside as the Little Humpbacked Horse tiptoed up to the window.

  “You are a very lucky man, Ale—” the horse stopped. “Ivan son of Ivan. The Red Mare’s foal distracted Baba Yaga last night or you would be dead and damned.”

  “Thank both of them, please. What can I do?”

  Coyote spoke. “I can give you something, if you want it.”

  Alexi considered. According to the legends he’d read, Coyote’s gifts cut two ways, and he was not in such dire straits that he was willing to risk that just yet. Yet. “I thank you, sir, but perhaps it would be better if I wait.”

  Coyote nodded, expression sober and wise. The Little Humpbacked Horse nodded as well. He turned around and backed up to the wall. “Take four of my hairs,” he ordered. “No more, no less.” If he stood on his tiptoes and stretched, Alexi could just reach the base of the dapple-grey beast’s tail. He plucked four and pulled them into the room, tucking them into his trouser pocket. They felt warm.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Be wary, Ivan son of Ivan,” the flop-eared horse said, turning around. “The people here summon more than they realize.”

  “And they have angered one almost as powerful,” Coyote added. “May your god be with you, John Johnson.”

  Alexi thought he heard footsteps, and he pulled back inside the building, trusting the Little Humpbacked Horse and the Coyote to take care of themselves. As he pushed the hairs deeper into the pocket, making his left elbow and shoulder protest at the unnatural angle, he felt half a package of chocolate candies left from “supper” the night before. He considered them, his stomach, and what he recalled about head injuries. Better not eat anything, but wasn’t there something about . . . Yeah, that was it. Alexi looked around and found a bit of clean-ish wood stuffed into a far corner of the room. He managed to get the bag out of his pocket, opened it, and set it down, then backed away, bowed a little and went about his business. He found a faucet but no water came out. Alexi also found a rough-edged piece of sheet metal.

  What were the Sweeper’s helpers thinking, leaving him in a room with all sorts of potential weapons and tools, Alexi wondered. Then he remembered how he’d been ganged up on the night before, and what the priest had done to Nelson and Jones. “Right, they’re assuming I’m dazed, they outnumber me, and they have Her help.” And whatever else they have called, which should probably scare me spitless, he thought well inside the privacy of his head. And they’re bigger than I am, mostly. I am so screwed. He heard something rustling in the far corner and did not look to see if the domovoy liked his offering. Instead he considered the rope on his wrists and the nasty, rust-edged metal. Good thing I got a tetanus booster last summer, he mused. If he rose up on his toes and reached, carefully, he could rub the back of the rope against a sharp-looking bit.

  He had to stop several times for cramps and because of the pain in his hands and arms. Strength he had in plenty but not endurance or patience for fiddly little work like this. As soon as Alexi felt the first bit of extra give in the rope, he stopped. OK, now for a sit-down break. He settled by the window and eased down until his rump hit the dirty floor. He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes closed, and relaxed as best he could. His head still ached and his tongue felt two sizes too big, and furry. The sun had moved well toward the west, and sunset came when? Around eighteen-thirty local time, if he remembered right. Alexi recited a few more iterations of the Our Father, Creed, Kyrie, and whatever else he could think of, and dozed a little.

  Some time later, he heard a scuffing, cough-like noise. Alexi opened his eyes and saw what looked like the world’s largest dust-bunny scooting back into the corner. A bowl with water in it now sat within Alexi’s reach. He carefully stretched, then picked up the bowl and drank, one sip at a time. It helped, and the water tasted better than any beer he’d ever drunk. “Thank you, Grandfather,” he said in Russian, replacing the bowl and closing his eyes. The domovoy, according to tales, never helped strangers; they served their families only. Well, they also never hung around storage sheds either, according to the same tales, and he shrugged to himself.

  “Something is coming, Ivan son of Ivan,” a nervous little voice said. Alexi kept his eyes closed. “We do not like it, my brothers and I. The Old Woman never takes innocent lives, not in the Old Lands and not here. Something has changed and we do not like it, my brothers and I.”

  What is coming, Alexi demanded silently. Could you be a little more vague? What didn’t the house spirits like? Probably something wild, something from the swamps and forests, or some grassland spirit Alexi hadn’t found yet. Maybe the idiots had found a way to conjure a Mongol demon or something equally charming. “Thank you, Grandfather. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Flee so they cannot shed blood. Do not let them shed more blood, Ivan son of Ivan,” the voice pleaded. “Promise us they will shed no more innocent blood.”

  Believe me, I don’t care to lose any more blood, thank you. Aloud he said, “I will do my best, but I can make no promises.”<
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  A little sigh came in answer. Alexi noticed the light on his closed eyelids changing, and opened them. He got onto his knees and stood, then walked to the western window. Through a gap between two houses he saw dark clouds to the west, hiding the late-afternoon sun. He sniffed. The air smelled wet and warm, and the wind seemed to have gone still. The hairs on Alexi’s neck prickled and not just from the heat. Wet, still, dark to the northwest, cold front nearby, everything felt and looked right for a hell of a nasty storm. “I am never joking about bad weather during a Guard drill again.”

  By the time the men came to get Alexi, the air felt ready to explode. So did Alexi. He wanted to muscle his way out and run. He wanted to fight. Instead he bit his tongue and pretended to still be dazed and dehydrated, allowing three black-clad townsmen to shove and drag him out of the building. The western sky looked green and the land around the village seemed to hunch down, hiding from whatever might be coming. Alexi stumbled and one of the men grabbed him, hauling him upright. “Don’t let him fall. The Lady wants him undamaged,” Popovich called. “He owes her a daughter.”

  Alexi’s guts turned to water and his knees went weak. He felt blood draining from his face and from a few other places as his manhood threatened to turn inside out in its effort to hide. The men around him laughed. The so-called priest stepped closer and back-handed Alexi. “So rude, to reject the great Lady’s favors! Have respect for your betters.”

  They dragged him into the church-like thing, and shoved him onto the floor, facing the false iconostasis. Alexi kept his eyes down, looking at anything but the cursed pictures. He also reached into his pocket as carefully, slowly, as he could, drawing out the four hairs from the Little Humpbacked Horse. He looped them around his right thumb.

  The priest lit some kind of foul incense. It reminded Alexi too much of burning flesh and charred Bradley, and he clenched his teeth, breathing through his mouth and running one finger over the horsehairs. They felt cool. He heard a faint sound, like a distant coyote’s call. Then the men left and he heard the door shut.