Alexander, Soldier's Son

by Alma Boykin

  The bird sang a few notes, then tried to head for the garden again. Alexi nailed it square in the ass and the bird shrieked, climbed, and zoomed off westbound. Should he follow? Why not. Something on the ground caught Alexi’s eye and he walked carefully toward the glimmer, treating the object with as much care as he would an IED. Two long feathers lay in the grass, glowing the same red and gold as the firebird. Alexi tried to recall anything dangerous about firebird feathers, couldn’t, and put on a pair of knife-resistant gloves, then picked the feathers up and tucked them into a vest pocket. Then he hurried back to the truck and took off after the bird, just to see where it went.

  He got to the edge of the national forest and stopped. “Right. We go home and get some sleep, and see if it was persuaded to depart,” he told Ivan.

  “Mree? Mroo, mow mow mow.” The cat bounced on the front seat, leaning forward like a dog on point.

  “No. Not in the dark, cat. You want to meet a pissed off bear?” Or one of his wife’s coworkers? No.

  “Hsss.” Ivan curled up and sulked for the hour back to Golden. Alexi let himself into Babushka’s house, reached for the light-switch and pushed it. Nothing happened. He flipped on his flashlight, and swore in Russian, English, Pashto, and bad Arabic. Ivan cursed in cat, probably more creatively. Someone had gone through the house. Alexi pulled his pistol out of its holster and started searching the house for intruders. Yes, he should call the police. No, he was not going to. The intruders had been looking for something, but what? It didn’t look like the usual burglary, and none of Babushka’s things seemed missing. Except . . . Alexi glanced at the wall and frowned. “Where’s St. Boris and St. Gleb?” The icons were gone. In fact, every icon, the samovar, and a few other Russian bits that his grandparents had managed to sneak out when they fled the Soviet Union were gone, as were a half-dozen books. Alexi spun around, swooped down on Ivan, scooped up the surprised cat, and left the house post haste after locking the door behind them.

  “We’re going to my place. And then, I have an idea what’s going on. And I do not like it one bit.”

  Ivan, squished in the crook of Alexi’s arm, squeaked.

  Gatta let the boys know what she thought about their return late, then sulked in her basket. Alexi took a quick shower, fed the cats, and went to sleep. He’d learned to sleep anywhere, anytime, thanks to four tours overseas, only three of which appeared in his official files. Without sleep he couldn’t function. He was no longer eighteen and immortal, or so his body kept reminding him, usually the day after he forgot it. Alexi set the clock for 0500.

  Luckily for the police officer who called at 0600, Alexi had consumed his second cup of coffee before the phone rang. “Zolnerovich.”

  “Um, good morning, I’m looking for a Mr. or Mrs. Boroslavna.”

  “Ekaterina Boroslavna is my grandmother. I’m Alexi Zolnerovich and I have legal power of attorney.”

  He heard a clicking of keys, someone talking, and a muted voice saying, “Yeah, know of him. He’s with the ROTC and Reserve unit. Name as long as his shoulders are wide. Gave Officer D’s kid hell when she was in ROTC.”

  “One of the good guys then.” Alexi wondered which of his miscreants they were referring to. The policeman came back, “Sorry about that, sir, needed to double check a car registration since the names didn’t match exactly. Spell check doesn’t like Slavic names.”

  “I can imagine.” And what in the flying fark’s name are you calling me about and what did Babushka do now? Alexi glanced over at the two cats, both sitting on the table where they were not allowed and watching him intently.

  Alexi’s gut went cold when the officer said, “We got a report of an abandoned vehicle at the Mountainview Overlook this morning and found Mrs. Boroslavna’s car. There was an overnight bag in the backseat. The keys were on the ground outside the vehicle.”

  Alexi started to growl and caught himself before the phone picked up the sound. In Russian he wrote out “Babushka missing. Car abandoned. West overlook” and showed the cats. They blinked in unison and nodded. “Babushka, my grandmother, had gone to stay with Mrs. Andreivich from church last night because we were having problems with the well at her house. I checked on the house yesterday evening and didn’t see anything wrong.” He crossed his fingers as he spoke. The cats flowed from the table to a chair and disappeared. “She said she planned to return this afternoon, but she has a habit of leaving places early in order to avoid the secret police.”

  “Secret police, sir?”

  “She and her husband defected from the Soviet Union, brought four kids with them.”

  He heard a grunt and more typing. “Got it, sir. Anyone she might have upset recently?”

  Short list or long list? “Not that I know of. Some years ago she had a run-in with a crazy realtor who threatened her and tried to force her to sell the house and property, but nothing since then.” The realtor had been Baba Yaga’s daughter, and Alexi and a shotgun had terminated the problem. Could it be Baba Yaga again? Or something worse? Why did all these Russian myths keep showing up at her house, anyway?

  The policeman interrupted Alexi’s train of thought. “I’ll look at that, sir, thank you.” He asked a few more questions about Babushka’s habits and acquaintances, her medical history, and other things, and promised to be in touch. Alexi let him hang up first, then stared at the phone before putting it on the cradle.

  “Coffee first. Nothing before more coffee,” he said aloud. As he poured, he heard feline muttering and the sound of paper dragging across the floor. What now? Mug in hand, he got up from the barstool and peered into the living room in time to see Gatta and Ivan dragging a map across the floor. “You know, it would be nice if you two just acted like normal cats for a weekend or two. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Mrrf,” they chorused, mouths full of paper. Alexi finished his coffee and went to look at their find. They’d pulled it out of the newspaper bin, where he’d tossed the bumf: advertising, real estate, the society pages, car flyers, and so on. The page came from the real estate section and featured a new sub-development out on the edge of the National Forest, in one of those easements Catherine Mary always had suspicions about. The model home, referred to as “Crestview Castle,” sprawled worse than the Winchester Mansion, judging by the photo on top of the map. Thus far it was the only residence in the section, and it belonged to one mister Kaschey “Kaspar” C. Waldfeind, a businessman and Russian art collector. The paper did not have a picture of the gent.

  “Kaschey?” No one who loved their child would name a boy Kaschey; it was too close to Koschei in the old transliteration. Alexi looked at the useless-as-usual realtors’ map, then at the little inset that showed the view. He blinked and peered at the image, then got his reading glasses and studied it.

  “This is due west of Babushka’s house. Everything that disappeared was Russian or Ukrainian, oh fug.” He covered his face with his hands. “You have got to be shitting me.” He looked over at the icons on the wall above the little home altar. “St. George and St. Niketas-the-Goth, what did I do to piss your boss off so badly?”

  Firebird and bad luck? Check. A castle that appeared out of nowhere? Check. Someone who collected treasures? Check. And someone possibly related to a very very nasty Russian swamp spirit who just happened to have a score to settle with Alexi? Bingo. He looked down at Ivan. “Is there a way to find out just who I pissed off this badly to have The Swamp Master’s relatives bothering me, if this is as bad as it sounds?”

  Ivan got up and disappeared in the direction of the litter box.

  “Some help you are.” Right, Alexi thought, I need serious back-up on this one, if the picture I’m putting together is correct. Please, most holy Lord, may I be wrong, may it be coincidence, may Babushka’s car have been stolen while she was at a gas station, and may Mr. Waldfeind’s first name be a joke. Because the last time he’d tangled with Chernobog the Tall, Dark, and Nasty, Alexi would have died save for the Red Mare’s intervention, and he did not th
ink she’d get involved this time. Nor would he try and contact her: she was not the kind of power one called on; she came of her own will and left of her own will. A different idea struck him and he glared at Gatta. “You read English.”

  She sniffed, stood, arched her back, stretched, flipped her white-feather-boa of a tail at him, and stalked off toward the cat tree and the sunshine pouring in through the window. Now Alexi really wanted to know what was up with the cats, but his survival instincts jumped up and down screaming “don’t ask, don’t ask!”

  Alexi made a good breakfast (by his standards), set milk out in matching saucers for the cats, and finished the coffee. Then he went over to Catherine Mary’s bookshelf and started pulling out binders and manuals. If he was going to go poking around in the national forest, he needed cover, something he could carry through if cornered. “Ah, here we go. I knew she’d made a copy, because I had to go get more toner.” He also borrowed her old name badge, the one that just said C. Zolnerovich.

  Two hours later Alexi stood in a natural clearing about half a kilometer up one of the Forest Service’s old logging roads. He’d never called Vasilli by daylight before, and wasn’t entirely certain the Little Humpbacked horse would, or could, come. Alexi concentrated hard, thinking toward the north and trying to make his worry and desire clear. After what felt like a very long time, he heard hoofbeats and a wheezy laughing neigh. Alexi opened his eyes and saw an ugly dappled grey horse with large floppy ears, a long, silky tail and mane, and mischief in his golden brown eyes. “Greetings, Alexander Soldier’s Son!”

  Alexi bowed to the North Wind’s cleverest son. “Well met, Vasilli Konyok-gorbunok.” He reached into the bag in his pocket and presented Vasilli with some very expensive organic yellow and blue carrots from the farmers’ market and a maple sugar leaf. The small horse snorted a laugh, whinnied, and devoured the offering.

  “You need me?”

  “I do not know, sir. The firebird appeared in Babushka’s garden, eating her tomatoes. I chased it away and it flew west. That night, or early the next morning, Babushka disappeared, and someone stole the Russian and Ukrainian things from her house without leaving the doors unlocked.” The folk tales claimed that there were a few things that could come and go without permission from a house’s owner, and Alexi did not care to meet any of them. “Sir, is there anyone who would call their child Kaschey?”

  Vasilli tossed his head, making his mane and forelock ripple. “No. That name is for the Black God’s oldest son alone.”

  Alexi’s mouth went drier. The fairy stories about Koschai the Deathless were scary enough. The other tales, the warning stories from the Old Country, explained why the Deathless had so much power: his sire was Chernobog, the god of darkness, swamps, and the evil dead. Alexi had sent Chernobog back to Russia, weakened and injured, ten years ago. “The number ten does not have any special meaning, does it, sir?”

  “No.” Vasilli shook again. “Do you have a feather from the firebird?”

  “Two sir.”

  “Were they freely given?”

  “Not really. They fell off after I hit her in the rump with bit of metal from a slingshot.”

  Vasilli stamped his foot and neighed a laugh. “I wish I could have seen her face! She’s overdue for getting punished for theft.” He stamped again. “She has been raiding my mother’s garden, teasing my brothers the horses of dawn and twilight. Hit her again for mother if you can.”

  “Yes, sir.” Alexi took a breath and asked his question. “Sir, how do I find Babushka?”

  “Use your wits, Alexander Soldier’s Son. Strength alone has never defeated the Black God’s elder son. Keep in mind this, too: he is away from his own strength. He is not of the mountains, not truly. You are of this land, he is not.” Vasilli glanced left and right, then came very close to Alexi, closer than Alexi could recall, and whispered with a cold breath, “There is another bird who might help, or might not. He is his own law.” The ugly little grey horse backed up, dancing in place and waving his tail. “I will tell my mother that you stung the firebird. She will be pleased that I have such clever friends. But then, I am her cleverest son.” He preened and winked.

  But not the most modest, that’s for sure, Alexi thought to himself even as he bowed. “Thank you for the news and caution, sir. I hear your words and will follow them.”

  “Do that and you will be wiser than most heroes, Alexander Soldier’s Son.” Vasilli turned and pranced into the tree shadows, disappearing.

  Alexi hung his head, shaking it as he looked at the wilted grass and droopy little tree sprouts around his boots. You know, I am getting sick and damn tired of having Russian monsters and spirits show up in my life every blasted time I turn around. My ancestors came here to get away from this crap, and from the Tsar, and it followed them. And which stupid son of a Subic Bay bar-girl and a second lieutenant invited the Deathless here? Alexi started trudging back to the pickup. Probably someone who thought they could control him, or who got a lot more than they bargained for. Alexi’s finger brushed the firebird feather tucked into the pocket with the now-empty treat bag. There was that legend about an enchanter, Koschai or someone else, turning a girl into the firebird because she rejected his advances. Hmm. . .

  Well, his first task was to find out if the guy with too much house knew what had become of Babushka, and how to get her away. Then . . . Then he’d deal with it when he got there. “Move it, Ivan. You can’t reach the pedals,” Alexi told the black cat. Since he wasn’t certain about leaving Ivan at the house and couldn’t take him back to Babushka’s Alexi had brought Ivan along. Ivan shifted over without complaint and made himself small and scarce under the passenger seat as the human started the pickup and returned to the main road. Not ten minutes later, Alexi rounded a curve and hit the brakes hard, stopping a meter from a bunch of dead wood in the road. At least that much of the legend of the firebird was true—more bad luck. Alexi got out of his truck to look at the mess. “Huh.” He poked at the wood with his pocket knife and the blade slid in, as if nothing but rotten punk remained under the bark. Alexi walked around the tree and for the first time really noticed the forest around them. It looked sick.

  The underbrush drooped and the pines looked yellowish, with thick streams of sap dripping down their trunks. Alexi didn’t hear any birds, not even ravens. The grass in the ditch beside the road had begun to die of something white and powdery. The young trees seemed puny, with pale leaves that hung limp, as if too tired even to move in the breeze. Alexi went back to the uphill side of the road and stepped into the woods. He crouched down and touched his fingers to the dirt, just letting himself feel the place, so to speak. The sense of the woods seemed, weak and queasy, for lack of a better word. Too much dead stuff had built up without burning or rotting properly, bugs and fungi poisoned the adult trees, and the life of the forest was not there. Catherine Mary would know better, but she’d taught Alexi enough forestry that he knew something very wrong when he saw it. No wonder she was worried about the fire load up here.

  “OK, when do forests in the Old Country get sick? When the local forest spirit is chased off,” he said aloud. “And who can chase off a leshiy? Only a big bad, unless there has been a lot of death out of season, like a war or something.” On the other hand, it gave Alexi a better idea on how to firm up his cover and explain what he was doing. Once he moved the pickup out of the road, that was.

  He drove carefully around the end of the tree, parked in the next up-slope parking area, and slung one of Catherine Mary’s forest service surplus daypacks over his shoulder. “Come on, Ivan,” he ordered. “I don’t care to explain to Babushka if a coyote eats you.” Or to explain to the forest service how the coyote got such terrible indigestion, either.

  “Mrrrow mau.” Ivan waited for Alexi to pick him up from the floorboards, then scrambled over the man’s shoulder and into the bag. “Mrrf.”

  Alexi walked up the road to the edge of the new development. There he stopped, shifted the copy of the fo
rest service fire load and fuels handbook to where he could easily get at it, and pulled a smaller spiral-bound notebook out from under Ivan. Alexi fastened the straps on top of the old-style daypack loosely enough that the cat could squirm out if necessary, and put the bag back on. Then he walked straight up to the edge of the “castle,” looked it over, made notes, and began an inspection of the perimeter, writing more down every ten meters or so. He picked up grass, felt leaves, kicked at the underbrush, and made tutting noises. He also counted the security cameras and found six before anyone appeared to see what he was up to.

  “You are trespassing,” a Slavic accented voice announced. Alexi turned to see a large man in a dark jacket and trousers, wearing dark glasses, coming up from behind him.

  “And you really need to clear this brush back because you are violating at least two county and three federal fire safety regulations for a residential property with a forest construction easement.” Alexi figured a good offense would be the best defense. “Fire can jump a wall like this easily, especially a crown fire. You really need to clear this back, at least ten meters. In a drought year, flame can travel quickly through dry underlayers, and those young trees there are excellent fuel for a stair step flame situation and a potential crown fire. This is not acceptable.” He made more notes and continued along.

  Dark-suit-and-shades followed. “You are trespassing.”

  “And that tree? Dead and has insects. If it is bark-borers, you will need to cut and spray everything for twenty meters around it, and make plans for a controlled cleaning burn.” Alexi had spot-memorized bits of Catherine Mary’s books over the years, helping her study, and he’d skimmed a little the previous day as well. He started droning about fire loads, burn temperatures in healthy woodland ecosystems as compared to fuel-rich environments, and did his best impression of one of the fire-science nerds from the university. It seemed to be working, because the guard or whoever retreated, muttering to himself in something Slavic sounding. And Alexi wasn’t totally BS-ing the guy, either. With the local forest spirit gone, and after last year’s wet summer but dry and hard winter, and this year’s drought, the area around the sprawl of house was one match away from a conflagration. Alexi imagined Smokey the Bear taking a quick look and running away screaming. He rounded a corner and found an enormous pile of very dry tree trunks heaped up, apparently waiting to be carted off for timber or cut into fire wood.