Alexander, Soldier's Son

by Alma Boykin

  “You too lazy for own good, Ivan,” his grandmother scolded. Alexi opened his eyes and saw her smiling down at the boys, wagging her finger. “You should be chasing the rabbits out of my garden, or hunting bugs, not lazing around in someone else’s lap.”

  Ivan made a sneeze-like snort. Alexi shook his head. “Maybe he’s union?”

  “Meh.” With that Ivan jumped down onto the wooden floor of the porch and stalked off to sulk on a step, back to the humans.

  Babushka helped herself to real lemonade and some bread. “The rusalka following you?”

  “Yes?”

  “I can find nothing. I remember nothing. The New World has changed so much. Or perhaps allows change. Did Stacie know about rusalka, about legends?”

  Alexi opened his mouth, then closed it again. He sipped some lemonade. “I do not know. I do not remember her reading about Russian things, and we never talked about them.”

  Babushka nodded, and Ivan’s tail swished side to side, even though he was ignoring them. “If she read, then makes sense. She willed herself to become rusalka, even though is not Russian, is not in Russia. But if she not know of rusalka . . .” Grandmother and grandson crossed themselves.

  Alexi took another sip, in part to wet his abruptly dry mouth. “Ah, could the Black God and the Sweeper, could they turn person into, into something else?” Because if the black thing from the storm had turned Staci into a rusalka, what and who else could it turn? And if she had not been willing, did that mean it could . . .? The hot, sunny June afternoon felt as black as that stormy night had, and even the white shining from the last snow on the mountains couldn’t banish the dark memory.

  Babushka leaned over and patted his arm. “The Black One yes, but.” She raised one dirt-dusted finger. “Not against the will. The poor dead one, so focused on you, caught the Black One’s attention, I suspect. He watched and waited, and when she chose to die, he made offer of rusalka. She become beautiful, and strong, and his; stay rusalka here until priest banish her, or she repent and forgive you and herself.” She shook her head sadly and patted Alexi again. “But Black God and Sweeper cannot take soul, must be given.”

  Alexi closed his eyes and leaned his head back, releasing his breath and a hell of a lot more tension than he wanted to admit he’d been carrying. He had not felt any guilt over Staci’s death. She’d chosen to drown herself after his parents had taken a restraining order out against her. He’d broken up with her over six months before, and neither the police nor his conscience could find any grounds to blame him for her suicide. Thank you God, he prayed. Thank you that they can only destroy the body. After what he’d seen in Africa and Southwest Asia, death didn’t scare him much. The thought of burning to death terrified him, and he had nightmares about being maimed, but death? It was just death. The possibility of losing his soul to a monster from the Old Country had worried him a lot. Especially since he could not ask Fr. Anthony about it. Some things you just did not mention these days.

  “Do you ride horse?”

  He straightened up a little too fast. “Ow.” His neck hurt, and he rubbed it with the hand not clutching the cold and slightly damp bottle. “No.”

  “Too bad. Vasilli could bring you here on Saturday, take you back to Wichita on Sunday.”

  Alexi closed one eye and tried to imagine who on earth his grandmother might be talking about. Surely not. He glanced down at Ivan. The cat stared back, tail swishing rapidly, head tipped a little to the side, as if wondering just how slow the big human could possibly be. “You mean the Little Humpbacked Horse?” Alexi ventured at last.

  “Yes, of course. Who did you think I meant?” She tutted. “He has a name you know.”

  “Um, no, I didn’t exactly, Babushka. We have never been formally introduced.”

  “He visits the pasture at night.” She pointed to the acreage extending west from the garden fence. All Alexi could see was lush grass, a few cows, and eventually the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. “Ask him next time you talk.”

  I do not want to see him, or any other Slavic spook, until the twelfth of never, if then, Alexi replied. But only inside his head; he knew better than to say things like that aloud. Nothing put out the welcome mat for karma, disaster, bad luck, and inspections like saying “I’d never,” or worse, “Headquarters would never.”

  Babushka got out of her chair and shooed Ivan away from her path. “Supper ready in half hour. Bring bread.” With that she marched into the house, Ivan close behind, his tail up in a question mark, as if asking for the tuna de jour. Alexi wondered what would happen if he slipped Ivan some cream laced with a cream liqueur. Ivan probably would start talking like a human, he decided. Or he’d take his hangover out on Alexi, if Babushka left anything after she finished with her grandson. Taking the Black God on by himself and then setting fire to the Little House on Chicken Legs would probably be safer. Alexi admired the view for another minute, then heaved his bulk out of the chair. It creaked in complaint. He wasn’t fat, just solid, like so many generations of his Russian peasant ancestors had been.

  The next two days passed quietly. Alexi helped his grandmother in the garden, protested that she was overfeeding him, helped her add a second security passcode to her router, and set up a paw-print authentication on a cheap smart-phone so Ivan could check his e-mail. “Ah, ma’am, not to be nosy, but does Ivan have a credit card number for the app auto-purchase?”

  “Absolutely not,” the voice from the kitchen called. “Mail is one thing; buy catnip not allowed.” Ivan, sitting on the table and watching Alexi work, shot a narrow-eyed glare toward the kitchen door.

  Several smart-ass comments bubbled up into Alexi’s mind and it took a heroic effort not to say any of them aloud. “Sorry, dude.”

  Ivan sniffed.

  “OK, so all you have to do is put your left front paw here, yes, like that, and wait.” The phone chirped and the screen lit. A zero appeared on the screen. “You have no new messages. If you had one, then—” Alexi stopped as Ivan swiped the bottom of the screen, then tapped the envelope icon with his paw. The cat was scary smart, and Alexi wondered again if Ivan was really a cat, or something else. “You got it.”

  Alexi also roto-tilled several additional yards of garden for his grandmother, against his better judgment. She seemed determined to make up for the previous year’s losses, caused by Baba Yaga kidnapping her and flattening the garden in the process. June in a dry year seemed kind of late to be planting things, especially since the corn was already almost as tall as Alexi, but he just shrugged and wrestled the cranky rented equipment. He needed his beer that evening. It would be the last adult beverage for two weeks, and he enjoyed it. A local Front Range brewery made a prickly-pear hefeweizen that almost made up for doing yard work at over six thousand feet of elevation. Almost.

  The next day he bade his grandmother good-by and headed north to meet the church group at Alpine Brook in Roosevelt National Forest. He took the slow, scenic route, staying well away from the reservoirs and lakes. He passed several signs warning that the fire danger level had reached extreme and that campers had better not even think about open flames, let alone light any fires. Several of the adults on the camping trip had arranged to bring portable stoves and fire extinguishers. Given the danger and dry conditions, the scout leaders had all agreed that they boys could get a waiver from the build-campfire requirement for advancement this summer. That suited Alexi fine. He and fire did not play well together.

  The road turned west and Alexi joined the stream of cars heading uphill, past the Flatirons and into the Front Range. Everything looked green, but then his definition of “dry” and a forest ranger’s definition probably differed by at least an order of magnitude. Alexi rolled down the window and rested his elbow on the door, enjoying the cooler air flowing into the pick-up cab. The car in front of him, a small blue something dragging a home-made trailer up the long slope, had dropped to thirty in a forty. Alexi shrugged. He didn’t see anyone behind him, and he’d told Fr. An
thony that he’d arrive when he arrived. And the slow pace gave him time to look in the rear-view mirror and watch the plains unfold behind him, grass that stretched into infinity.

  He reached the turn off for the campground at two. Alexi paid his five dollars and signed in. The man on duty flipped through several pages. “St. Catherine’s Scouts? Yes, they’re in the west extension,” and he circled something on a map and handed it to Alexi along with his parking pass. “You planning on a fire, sir?”

  “No, sir. Some of the other sponsors have cooking kits, and I brought food that doesn’t need to be heated, plus water filters and chemical purifiers.” He’d “borrowed” some slightly expired purification tablets and kits from the regimental supply. The supply sergeant needed them gone and had been happy to mark them destroyed in an accident. Given what scouts could do to field equipment, Alexi suspected at least some of the stuff would end up in little pieces. Scouts and Army privates had the same talent for breaking a steel ball if left alone with the thing. At least the kids had an excuse. Alexi waved to the volunteer, drove to the parking area, and after a quick visit to the port-a-john, retied his boot laces, heaved his kit onto his back, and set off uphill.

  As hikes go, the trek wasn’t too bad. Alexi smelled pine and heard bird calls, and a crow scolding something. He saw what looked like deer tracks when he crossed a faint trickle that was supposed to be a stream, at least according to his map. He passed a former beaver pond, now a meadow. The grass seemed browner than it should be this time of year. Alexi continued up and west, finally reaching the rest of the group. Yes, he could have parked closer, but he needed the exercise. And he wanted to impress the boys, he forced himself to admit.

  “Bear!” a boy called.

  Someone else called back, “No, dope, that’s just Mr. Z. Bears don’t sound that loud when they breath.”

  Before Alexi could do more than start to growl, an adult intervened. “Bears are much louder, and what you are hearing is Tom, not Mr. Z. Have you finished securing your tent?” Nick Maloof said.

  Alexi found Fr. Anthony, hands on fists, supervising some of the younger boys as they twisted tent stakes into the dirt. “Good afternoon, Father.”

  “Ah, good afternoon Alexander.” The priest’s Slavic-Brooklyn accent still made Alexi’s ears ache, even after five years in the parish. “No, push it evenly.” The black-clad priest lumbered over and crouched beside the corkscrew of metal. “Like so.” Screech scruuuunch. Alexi wasn’t sure if Father Anthony twisted the stake into the rocky ground or if the metal buried itself in the dirt trying to escape. Either way, it would not be going anywhere soon. “Your turn.” The bearded priest, a former boxer and weightlifter, stood up and made room for the boy.

  “Yes, Father.”

  Fr. Anthony pointed to a gap in the line of tents. “There, please, Alexander. How was your visit?”

  “It went well, sir. Babushka is fine after her little scare last year.”

  “That’s good to hear. No, just clear out the fire pit, do not tunnel through the mountain,” and Fr. Anthony hurried off to interrupt a clod war. Alexi grinned behind his hand and went to pitch his tent. He’d been offered several Army-surplus tents over the years, “Since you’re familiar with them.” Yeah, he thought as he unloaded his backpack, which is exactly why I don’t want to be anywhere near the beasts. He liked his light weight, waterproof, bug resistant, not tan or green two-man tent just fine, especially since he’d gotten it on sale at the end of last year’s camping season. In less than half an hour Alexi had the dark blue and yellow tent assembled, organized, staked down, and was busy clearing the twigs and other burnables away from it.

  “You’re a Michigan fan?” a teenaged voice sneered. Alexi straightened up slowly and turned around. “Um, sir?” Paul Davis gulped. Paul, fifteen and painfully overconfident, backed a step, then another.

  “No. I’m not. Do you need a hand with your tent?”

  “Ah, no, that is, no thank you, sir. Fred and I got it all sorted out.”

  “Good. Then you can go help the younger boys finish trenching.”

  It took a few seconds, but Paul got the hint and scuffed off. He wasn’t a bad kid, just one of those who thought expertise in gaming was the same as in the real world. Well, Alexi grunted as he removed a rock from his trench, he’d learn, hopefully without getting hurt.

  The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. No one found any wasp nests or skunks, no one got lost going to or from the toilets, and all the boys had brought everything they were supposed too. And a little more, and Alexi grinned happily as he handed over the contraband electronics to Fr. Anthony. The priest cataloged them and locked them in a cash bag he’d brought for that very thing. “But how can we navigate without GPS?” a little voice moaned from behind the scout leaders.

  “Map, compass, moss, the sun, stars. The slope of the land. Blazing a trail. Memorizing the landmarks as you pass them,” Mr. Andropolis recited. “Mr. Z probably knows a few more.”

  “One or two,” Alexi fibbed. He’d been practicing map reading and orienteering for the past few weeks. He’d gotten a little too comfortable with his GPS, as he discovered in the woods behind Ft. Garry Owen.

  “So, who brought supper?” Fr. Anthony smiled as the boys looked around, a few with the expectant, hopeful looks of people waiting for a pizza delivery. They were in for a surprise, Alexi mused.

  Five portable stoves appeared, along with fuel, and soon supper bubbled, bread-on-a-stick toasted, and the fifteen boys and seven adults ate heartily. Alexi drew the straw for clean-up, and he showed Paul, Tom, and Little Alex how to scrub the pots and where to leave the rinse water. It was disappointing not to have a campfire, but rules were rules. Alexi took first watch, which consisted of making certain anyone who went to the toilet came back, and that everyone really was in bed. He shouldn’t have worried. Between the long day, the hike, and the previous days’ exertions, the boys fell asleep within half an hour of bedtime.

  He rousted Paul and company out as soon as the sky started turning pink. “But it’s early, Mr. Z,” Toby protested.

  “Do you want breakfast?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then we go to prayers. The sooner we get there, the sooner you can eat. You know Fr. Anthony’s rules.” Alexi’s stomach also growled, but he’d gotten used to that sensation. At least he wasn’t doing PT before food.

  The morning liturgy was appropriate and blessedly brief. They ate quickly, cleaned up, bear-proofed what needed to go up between the trees or into the heavy, locked metal food trunks, and then the boys and all but one sponsor set off up the trail to an old mine. It felt chilly in the shade of the trees, but Alexi suspected the day would heat up a lot earlier than he’d have preferred, even here at 10,000 feet. Fr. Anthony led the group and Mr. Andropolis brought up the rear. Alexi found himself in the middle of the group, listening to the boys chatter. They quieted down as the trail grew steeper. Flatlanders, Alexi thought, then noticed that he’d begun panting a little.

  They couldn’t go into the mine, but the flat clearing in front of the entrance provided a magnificent view of the mountains and plains to the east. A snow-touched mountain rose to the west, and to the southwest they could just see white-clad Long’s Peak. A dark colored eagle or other huge raptor soared on the morning breeze, drawing “Cool!” “What’s that?” “Is it a vulture?” “If it is, he’s coming for you, George.” Alexi tried not to sigh. They sounded like his privates and corporals, without the curse words.

  Alexi looked behind them. Every generation of his family had come from flat, wooded places, or flat grassy places, going back to whichever mysteriously distant ancestor had first wandered into European Russia, looked around, and decided to settle. He’d probably assumed that winters couldn’t be that bad, Alexi snorted. Maybe he’d gotten tired of shoveling snow down in the Caucuses or out in the Urals. The mountains were nice, but all the trees bugged him a little. He liked seeing what was coming.

  The trip back was quie
ter, if faster. A surprise waited for them when they returned to camp at noon. Alexi heard Nick Maloof talking to someone just around the bend in the trail, and a woman’s voice answering, “That’s a good ratio of adults to kids. I’m going to have a word with my volunteers about the difference between a rabbi and a priest, though.”

  “And what does happen when a priest walks into a clearing in the woods?” Fr. Anthony’s voice boomed out, making everyone jump.

  The woman, a Forest Ranger, turned and bowed to Fr. Anthony. “The sun shines and the heavens rejoice, or so it appears,” she replied. Alexi’s eyes bugged out as she extended her hand. “I’m Catherine Mary Pagonis, Father. St. John’s Parish, Chicago, west side.”

  The priest smiled at the slender, very attractive, black-haired woman, who looked South Asian Indian. “Father Anthony Makarov, St. John of Damascus Church, Wichita. How can I help you?”

  “You can tell my volunteers that Orthodox and Orthodox Jewish are not the same. I didn’t think I’d ever heard of a Jewish St. John, but these days . . .” Her white teeth flashed and she shook her head. “You know the rules about no fires?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We brought portable stoves with our own fuel, and food we can eat cold as well, if we need to. Plus shovels, and Mr. Maloof has a scanner for the Forest Service fire reporting frequency.” Fr. Anthony sounded confident.

  Ranger Pagonis nodded. “Good. A cold front is due through in two days and we may get some storms. You have a good camp set up. There are reports of black bears in the area up by Glacier Falls on the Black Lake Trail, so be careful if you go out that way.”

  Several of the boys gulped and Alexi wondered if bear tasted like chicken, or something else. Pig, that was it, he remembered. One of his guys had a Comanche brother-in-law who said bear tasted like pork. Although trying to cook a bear on a camp stove might be a bit more challenge than Alexi was up to tackling. And the scouts didn’t have a hunting-and-skinning badge, at least not yet. Oh well.

  Ranger Pagonis shifted her backpack a little. “If you don’t have any questions, I’ll be off. I have four other campgrounds to check on.”