by Alma Boykin
Time to go see what disaster awaited him in the small-unit exercise class. Alexi stood, brushed his trousers legs clean of white fur, then checked his appearance in the little mirror. Still almost as broad as he was tall, built like his Ukrainian peasant ancestors, with summer-blond hair that would darken back to brown pretty soon, light blue eyes, and a wary expression on his square face. Wary because the latest crop of first year officer candidates, well, Alexi kept reminding himself that everyone had to start somewhere. But trying to use that historical assassinations game for planning irregular warfare? And then arguing with their sergeant about it? He snorted. Not the young man’s best idea, or so Alexi hoped.
That evening he mentioned the complaint to Catherine Mary formerly Pagonis, his Greek-by-adoption wife, as he helped her clean up after supper. Their children, Peter Alexandrovich and Catherine Theodora, ages eight and four respectively, occupied themselves in the living room on the other side of the kitchen bar. Theodora asked something and Peter responded in Russian. “English, Peter,” Alexi and Catherine Mary called in chorus. The boy had heard nothing but Russian for his first four years of life, and that from Baba Yaga and her creatures, so why shouldn’t he lapse into Russian, Alexi sighed.
“Babushka and Ivan are not helping,” his wife pointed out as she finished programming the dishwasher.
“And Gatta?” He looked over at the fluffy white cat sitting on the bar, her tail draped artistically across two books, some mail he needed to file, and Catherine Mary’s black, three-inch fire science binder.
Gatta, also called Belle and officially named Byehla Ailuros, turned her head just enough to glare at Alexi with one eye. “Mreh.”
“That answers that,” Catherine Mary observed.
His cell phone buzzed with an incoming text message, and he sighed. “No tuna, no peace?” Alexi asked under his breath.
“Does anyone else you know have cats that text, dear?”
He shook his head. He probably didn’t want to know anyone so burdened, either, given the strange things already in his life. Ten years before, he’d driven to Golden, had watched the Little House on Chicken Feet crossing I-29 and discovered that the Russian fairytale monster Baba Yaga not only existed, but she’d kidnapped his grandmother in order to get Babushka’s property. In the process of rescuing Babushka he’d also freed a Coyote and the Red Horse. The Coyote had helped him the next fall when he faced down Baba Yaga and the even fouler spirit of Chernobog when some Russian pagans in central Kansas summoned the swamp spirit. Just after he first crossed paths with Catherine Mary, he found himself dealing with Baba Yaga and Chernobog again, along with a dark firebird. Oh, and his crazy ex had drowned herself and turned into a rusalka, the vengeful water spirit.
But it had been kidnapping Alexi’s children that had led to his final, he devoutly hoped, battle with Baba Yaga, aided by Vasilli the Little Humpbacked Horse, Gatta, and the water of life. Alexi reached inside his collar for his St. George medallion, stroked it, then picked up the phone. He read the message, mentally translating from “Otto corrupt” into Russian and then English. “Um, what gauge for firebird?”
His wife’s brown eyes went wide and white in her tan face, and she ran a hand over her tightly-braided black hair. “As in shotgun.”
“Yes. A firebird is eating Babushka’s tomatoes.”
They groaned in unison.
Alexi knew better than to ask his grandmother if she was certain she’d seen a firebird in her vegetable garden. If she and Ivan said it was a firebird, then it was a firebird. After putting the children to bed, Alexi dug out the mythology and folk-lore books he kept locked away from Peter and Theodora. These were not the fairy stories they read for bedtime, but the oldest accounts and tales, compiled over centuries by people who had to deal with assorted Slavic nasties. He read, skimmed, and studied for an hour while his wife curled up with her latest fire-science book, leaning against him on the couch. Finally he removed his drugstore reading glasses and shook his head. “It just is.”
Catherine Mary looked at him over the top of her tome.
“The actual firebird. Where it comes from no one knows. It eats fruit, its feathers glow, and sometimes it barfs pearls. And it is bad luck, which makes me wonder if someone cursed it way back when.” Not that anything from Russia or the Ukraine needed much help in bearing disaster, bad news, and misery with it, he sighed. “And there is usually a bad guy who owns or tries to own it.”
“That explains the tomatoes. Does it really drop flame, like that nasty one we met on our first date?”
He had to smile. “Supposedly no, but Baba Yaga’s not supposed to be able to cross oceans, either, so it probably does.”
“Well, given the fire loads on the Front Range, a firebird will be bad luck for the whole area. Can you, oh, rig up a bird-chaser to make it go away?” She frowned over the top of the book, her black eyebrows making a lumpy caterpillar. “Like the water spray on the motion detector Father Dominic used on the dogs at the priest’s house at St. Elias?”
He’d rather use a shotgun or a pressure-washer, but those might damage the garden and he’d be in even worse trouble. “I’ll see. I hope Babushka just wants it shooed off.”
“That should be Ivan’s job.”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you? Maybe I could persuade him to drag the last data-overuse bill of his out onto the porch and wave at the firebird.” What did the cat do to need a gigabyte in two weeks, anyway? Watch every cat video on the internet? Did someone have a live catnip cam? Maybe he was hacking into the Berlitz Russian language courses, or the Russian embassy, or something. That would be Ivan the Purrable in spades, Alexi snorted.
“What?”
“Wondering if Ivan is hacking into the Russian embassy or something, to need that much data.”
She made the Orthodox sign of the cross. “Do not even say that, Alexander Zolnerovich. Do not even think that so loudly.” Then she sighed and closed the book. “Although he’s probably planning a DDoS attack on PetFoodWorld dot com so he can change the order again. Or hacking the vet’s office to make it look like he’s had his shots already.”
“That, my love, I can believe.” Alexi looked at the clock, his books, and her book. He began stroking the back of her hand. “Ah, it’s late, isn’t it?”
She smiled and set the book aside, then turned off the lamp. “Not too late, dear. Not for that.”
Two days later, Alexi braved Friday afternoon traffic and went to visit Babushka. The heavy gate on the white-painted pipe fence stood open and he started to worry until he noticed her large car pulling into the garage. He goosed his truck and zipped in before the mechanism started closing the pipe and beam gate. Once it latched, someone trying to ram through it would be in for an expensive, loud surprise. The low white house with red shutters sat back from the road, with green native grass for the front lawn. Behind the house, pasture extended over a small rise, making it look as if Babushka’s land stretched to the Front Range, snow-dusted in the distance. A very large garden, and a relatively new garden shed, sat behind the house, along with a nice wooden porch that Alexi had gotten the privilege of re-finishing the previous summer. Cedar had become a swear word for several months after that and Alexi had decided that if he found a magic lamp, his first wish was going to be to have the wood changed to that fake stuff that never needed re-painting and that did not splinter.
“Good! Help move groceries,” Babushka called in Russian. Alexi dutifully took three bags, heard the clank of cans, and wondered yet again why Babushka insisted on keeping so much food in the house. Oh, he knew, really, but you’d think after fifty years in the ‘States she’d have stopped feeling the need to horde and hide. She unlocked the door, pushed it open, and he shuffled in, scuffing his feet in case Ivan the Purrable had decided to flop in the middle of the—
“Mrrrow!”
The middle of the kitchen doorway. Alexi glared down at the lump in his way. “And hello to you too, Ivan. Now scoot before I set your tu
na on top of your head.”
He didn’t move until the black shape had gotten up with a grumble and sniff, flowed across the kitchen floor and assumed a perch on the bar stool beside the counter that ran along the back wall. Alexi frowned. Ivan usually got onto the counter. As his eyes finished adapting to the shadows, Alexi started to grin. Electric shoo-pads covered the counter, one on each side of the phone and answering machine. Heh. No more erasing the answering machine for you, he thought at Ivan. “Thanks, dude.”
Alexi got out of the way as his grandmother, her white hair covered in a rather drab (for her) pink and yellow kerchief, arranged everything just so in the cabinets and ‘fridge. He’d quit asking about the cans in the fridge. Babushka was Babushka. Only after she had sorted, rotated, and stacked everything, put the kettle on to boil, poured a little tuna-oil into Ivan’s dish, and sliced black bread sprinkled with sea-salt did Alexi inquire in Russian, “How is garden?”
“Garden was good. Now garden mess. Firebird steal tomatoes, tear down half bean poles! Make much mess. And keep Ivan from sleep, make too much light at night.”
“Mreh.” Ivan agreed. The black cat gave Alexi a hard stare, his blue eyes asking just what Alexi intended to do to chase the bird off that was ruining Ivan’s beauty sleep.
“Eat.” Babushka pushed the bread, fresh butter, and a plate at her grandson, who cut a slice in half, made the sign of the cross and gave thanks, then enjoyed the heavy, nutty, dense home-made treat. The only time anything within Babushka’s sphere of influence had gone hungry was when she’d been kidnapped by Baba Yaga.
Alexi decided to ask his question while Ivan was busy cleaning his whiskers after the tuna. “Babushka, why Ivan not chase firebird?”
She gave him one of those looks, as if he should know already. “Not Ivan job. Garden not Ivan duty. House is Ivan duty.”
Alexi had a sudden mental picture of a black cat with blue eyes, wearing a tiny apron, pawing through the programming manual for one of those vacuum-cleaner robots. He almost choked trying not to laugh. Ivan glared, then turned around and made a point of washing in a way that let him stick up his middle hind-foot claw.
“Naughty cat.” Babushka shook her finger at the feline. “Rude to guest.”
Well, that explained why Ivan wasn’t chasing the bird, Alexi mused, filing the information for future reference. “How often does firebird come?”
“Three, four times since tomatoes ripe. Comes around midnight. Is bright red and gold with blue sparkles. Perches on bean poles and pecks tomatoes.” The kettle whistled and the old woman made very black tea, stronger than Alexi’s Sergeant Major made the coffee, and sat facing him at the kitchen table. “Eats for few minutes, grabs more tomatoes, flies west.”
“Have you tried bird nets, like cherries?”
She snorted and shook her head. “Too much bother. And just started eat. And pulls down bean poles.”
Personally, Alexi had no difficulty with a few less green beans in the world, but Babushka had never consulted him about vegetables.
“Is also pestering sweet corn.”
OK, he growled, now that’s a serious problem. No one messed with the sweetcorn. Once the tea had cooled a little, he sipped carefully. Only a masochist or newbie chugged Babushka’s black tea. Alexi imagined his regulation short hair leaping to attention as the caffeine hit his system. “What say Vasilli?”
“No ask Vasilli. Firebird come, eat, go west. Shoo it off, make go away.”
Alexi considered his schedule, and the likelihood of being granted a 24 hour leave to chase an imaginary Russian creature. Low, he decided, very low. “Week after next I chase. Have Monday off, so can chase weekend. And Peter and Little Catherine with Aunt and Uncle while Catherine Mary at meeting.” Catherine Mary’s middle brother and his wife had moved to Colorado Springs and loved having the kids come for a few days. They had four of their own, and an additional pair almost escaped notice. Even better, they had a few acres on the side of a mountain and the kids wore themselves out running uphill. Petros kept gently prodding Alexi and Catherine Mary to have a few more, but Alexi left that to his wife to decide. She had the hard part.
“Good. Make it go. Now, when have more grandchildren?”
Alexi could have sworn he heard Ivan snicker, and gave the cat a stern glare. The tip of Ivan’s tail shot upright, and he snorted. Then sneezed and ruined the gesture.
Cats, Alexi thought.
As he drove back home, turning Babushka’s story over in his mind, her description of the firebird came back. “Red and gold with blue sparkles,” he said aloud. “Red and gold with blue— oh Sheet!” He slammed on the brakes as a little blue something with delusions of horsepower cut him off, then lost speed. And the firebird ate fruit but was now attacking tomatoes. How literal. Wait, fruit? Alexi slammed his hand down on the top of the steering wheel. “Damn it, I bet the firebird’s the fruit thief.” As traffic came to a complete stop for reasons unknown, he leaned his head back and started at the Lord through the roof of the pickup’s cab. Sir, no offense, but could You please make it go away? Far away, as in back to Russia where it belongs?
An hour later, when he finally got home, Catherine Mary was not excited about her husband chasing the firebird. But she didn’t ask him not to. Instead she inquired, “Dear, what do you intend to do to make it leave?”
“Well, putting poison out is a no-go, since it is eating the plants off the vine and stalk. And Babushka’s house is within that no-firearms discharge zone the county put into place last year, even though it is still outside the city limits.” Unless the bird attacked him, he couldn’t shoot it legally. And even then, he’d have a lot of explaining to do.
“Well damn.” Sometimes his wife’s park ranger background showed, and this was one of them. “Could you use rocksalt shells, like Metropolitan Alexandros did with the vandals?”
“I thought about it, love, but the shotgun would still make too much noise.” Checking a suppressed M-16 out of the Guard armory proved impossible when he’d quietly asked in a round-about way, because of inventory that next week. The supply sergeants and quartermaster major would be camping out in the building to make dang certain everything on the paperwork stayed home, and anything not on the paperwork stayed away.
“So that leaves water, trapping it and releasing it somewhere else, or netting it and breaking its neck.” She stopped brushing her hair, and turned to look at him. “Firebirds are not listed as endangered or protected. I checked.” She giggled a little at the thought.
He smiled and shook his head. “Thank you for looking. I’m going to try one of my new super-slingshots and half-inch steel nuts.” If it didn’t kill the bird, it would sting the hell out of it.
Catherine Mary set the hairbrush down on the counter with exaggerated care and turned around making little shooing motions. He backed out of the bathroom doorway and she shut the door. Alexi made one more round of the house, checking the doors and windows, confirming that his battered truck remained parked in the driveway (lowering property values and irritating the neighbors), and that Peter and Theodora had not gotten up for some reason. No, all remained quiet, and Alexi gave Gatta a quick pet as he passed her nest, a basket near Peter’s door where she slept and kept an eye on the children. Gatta purred a little.
As he turned off the bedroom light, Catherine Mary asked, “Alexi, what did you mean by new slingshot?”
“One of the geniuses in Delta Company decided to make a new and improved slingshot. Apparently surgical tubing and aluminum water lines are not enough, so he came up with some technical upgrades.” He settled into the bed beside her.
“How bad?”
“Broke the shatterproof door windows on the Packer Memorial dining hall. Yes, when the first one broke, he didn’t believe it and had to try again. That’s when Capt. Duran and I came around the corner looking for the cadets.”
“I’ll add that to the list of things the children can’t have until they are at least eighteen.”
&nb
sp; Part of Alexi wanted to protest. The part of him that would have to pay for the damage his children caused ended the protest. “Yes, dear.”
Catherine Mary smiled and kissed him. Slingshots faded from his thoughts.
Alexi looked at Ivan and wondered if the cat had lost his little mind. The only thing missing was a helmet with night-vision gear and a tiny bulletproof vest. Ivan wore a harness with panniers, like Gatta had for emergency evacuations, but in black ballistic nylon. “You look like a mall ninja,” Alexi told him.
“Meh!”
“Well, you do.” Granted, it was Babushka’s idea, “so cat carry things,” but the vest/harness did nothing for Ivan. Babushka had gone to stay with someone from her church “because of water problems at the house,” leaving Alexi stuck with Ivan. The man rolled his eyes and returned to watching the firebird. The pair sat in the cab of Alexi’s pickup, parked in the pasture behind the house and watching the garden through night glasses. It was ten until midnight with a full moon, and Alexi hoped they would not have to go haring off along county roads after the thing. Alexi had rolled the window down, and had the super slingshot along with a handful of ammunition for it. He’d already put range markers of a sort in place. He’d also already watered the back tire once, and hoped the bird would either show up or leave forever.
Just before midnight Alexi shivered. He was getting that same feeling like he did when he’d seen the start of the forest fire on the scouting trip. A sense of something not quite right, something out of place, made him twitch. Not a minute later, he saw a glow over the hill to the west. The glow brightened, and his jaw dropped as a beautiful bird, wings at least two meters across, soared over the crest of the hill. It glowed crimson and gold, like hot metal, and scattered gold and green sparks as it flew across the pasture toward the garden. Was it an illusion or a real bird? Well, let’s find out, he thought. Ivan had his paws on the dashboard, chattering like a perfectly normal cat. Alexi sighted and launched a nut. He missed, or so he thought, and he tried again, aiming ahead of the bird. The firebird jumped at least a meter, flapping madly as it climbed, craning its long neck and squawking with indignation as it searched for what had attacked it. Ivan jumped up onto the dashboard and Alexi got out of the pickup. “Shoo! Scat!”
