by Alma Boykin
“Tracks?”
He shook his head and pointed. Catherine crouched carefully and saw a bit of cellophane wrapper. “And it gets foggy back that way, like the nasty fog we could see from above.”
“Good thought.”
He let her go ahead. Is he being nice or am I bait? No, you let the person who knows the rules go first and make the initial approach if the parties are of equal status, that’s right. Ah, perhaps that class on diplomatic translation might just pay off. Catherine walked along, trying to be aware without looking as if she were waiting for something to jump out of the bushes and scream or attack her.
“Two, are we going to have to deal with a vampire or ghoul?”
She thought for a bit, edging to the side of the path away from a strange looking tree. “Probably not. They need consecrated ground and burial places, and I am fairly sure we won’t find either of those here.”
“No, you will not,” Ivan said from behind her.
“Thank you, sir.”
“One, does that perfect tree make you a little uncomfortable?”
Peter considered the tree in question and reached inside his pants pocket. The silver knife he carried felt warm to the touch, as did the medallion of the Theotokos around his neck. “Yes. I suspect they are not quite what they seem, or have been made and put here for a reason. Like that not-tree beside the interstate as you leave the Springs for Denver.”
She giggled. “Am I right to guess that there’s a more realistic not-tree hiding in the area there?”
“Probably.”
Where are the birds? There should be birds here, yes? Or is that the wrong kind of magic? As she thought about it, she decided that they’d probably find the birds elsewhere. On they walked, stopping from time to time to make a chalk mark on the trees. It seemed silly, but she had a hunch that they might need the additional guidance later on.
After a while she sniffed. She heard Peter doing the same, and beside her Ivan sneezed. “Cider?”
“Smells like it,” She agreed. It made her mouth start to water. She stopped, took a sip from her water bottle and let Pete take the lead. He went ahead, then waved her forward, one finger on his lips.
“Ooohhh,” she heard from somewhere beyond her brother.
“Wind in the branches, Two?”
They both looked up. The trees remained still, no leaf moved, nothing disturbed the quiet of the deep twilight.
“Ooooh,” and a creaking groaning sort of sound. Thump. Thump thump. Peter went forward, watchful and keeping to the side of the path away from the sound. Catherine followed. They rounded a bend in the trail and she gasped.
“Oh, you poor thing.”
“Help me, young mistress,” the overladen apple tree groaned. “Please, help me.” its twisted branches looked ready to break from the weight of fruit. Someone had propped up one lower branch, but that was not nearly enough. Peter gave her a look and she nodded.
“I’ll do what I can, sir,” she assured the tree. Her brother found more sticks and things to use to prop up the branches while she picked as many of the red, yellow, and orange apples as she could reach, then piled them into a neat mound near the tree’s roots. Peter picked more fruit and added it to her first mound while she collected the already fallen apples and made a second heap, tidying up the area around the tree. Ivan watched from the trail. As they worked, the moaning stopped and the tree seemed to grow straighter and more healthy, sighing a little as if a light summer breeze played in its leaves. “That’s all we can do, sir,” Catherine apologized after several minutes’ hard work.
“Thank you,” the tree whispered. “Take what you will with my gratitude.”
The siblings each took a few apples, bowed to the tree and left. Catherine waited until they were well down the trail to take a bite. Ooh, it was sweeter than her Greek grandmother’s honey braid cookies, but spicy as well. She licked her fingers, sucked a bit of juice from the remains of the core, and after looking around she set the core on a bit of bare dirt off to the side of the path. Peter did likewise. They went on and after a space of time Peter snorted and pointed off the trail. “I see Three was here first.”
Catherine saw the core, tossed well back into the woods. “Yep. That’s Three. Start with mild enthusiasm and go running off as soon as he gets bored.”
“Or someone yells ‘squirrel,” Peter added with a snicker. “What’s he doing in school now, anyway?”
She sighed. “He’s finishing a double degree in construction engineering and materials science. And working two part-time jobs. After that collision with the Dean’s niece two summers ago he’s been working his tail off. He still has a chip on his shoulder, though.”
A thoughtful silence followed her words. “Dual degree.”
“I think he’s nuts but I’m not going to tell him that. I don’t see how he does it.” She admired his determination as well as questioning his sanity.
“Huh.”
The woods opened up after they passed a few more of the enemy trees, as Peter thought of them, and they found a nice fence and pasture. “Civilization?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Two.” They heard something moaning, and a long, pitiful, “Mooooooo.”
Catherine sped up and Peter stretched his legs to match her pace.
“Help me, please.”
Nice barn, he thought as the structure came into view. Thatch? Yep, thatch. I wonder what lives in it and if it is going to fall onto my head like that stuff in Colombia. Ugh, those were nasty bugs. I can see why the Good Lord gave us bug spray. Then he saw the cow and started to swear. He caught himself and said instead, “Does no one care for their things here?”
“Short answer, no.” Catherine found the buckets, including one that already had milk in it, but no milking stool. She stopped, looking at the cow and wondering how one got the milk out. She knew the theory but just tugging on the handles seemed a little, well, crude. “Um, pardon me, ma’am, but what do I do?”
“Milk me, please.”
Peter had drawn up the bucket from the well and rinsed his hands, then shook the water off and rubbed them dry. “I got this.” A cow had to be easier than those nasty goats he’d milked in the ‘Stan. “I think I’ll need more buckets.” He knelt on one knee, took a good grip on one teat and squeezed. Wow, did the milk come! Poor thing, no wonder she was miserable. Catherine put a second bucket under the cow and he found his rhythm, milking two teats at a time. She swapped buckets and he filled two more before they switched sides. Unlike the nasty goats of southwest Asia, the cow shifted over to allow him to work and she did not try to kick him, slap him with her tail, or eat his hat. It still took effort to get her milk, though, and his hands and wrists were sore when he finished. They’d also run out of buckets.
“Wow. Where’s Gat— white cat when you need her,” Catherine giggled.
He looked at the eight full buckets. “I don’t want to think what would happen if she got into this much milk.” It would come out the other end as fast as it went in, and their parents would fuss at them for letting her have so much.
“Thank you,” the cow mooed. She looked much happier and sounded calmer. He ran a hand along her flank, noticing the silky smooth hair coat. Her brown hide had a few red spots, and a touch of silver-grey made her horns seem to shine a bit. Catherine was scratching around the horns and the cow sighed with contentment. Ivan made a faintly disapproving noise and Catherine stuck her tongue out at him. “Take what you desire young master, young mistress, and thank you.”
“You are welcome,” he replied. Catherine patted the cow and went into the barn, returning with two cups and a small pan. They put milk in the pan for Ivan and he did not refuse. Peter sipped the milk and decided that he still preferred it to goat milk. In moderation, that was.
“Imagine what this would do for ice cream,” Catherine sighed, looking a bit glazed.
“Yeah, and what it would do to your waistline. I’d be running all day, every day just to keep from gaining weig
ht.” I’d die happy though. This with fresh peaches or strawberries . . . mmm.
They rinsed the cups and pan, returned them to where they came from, and continued on. The more open country agreed with Peter, and he decided once more that he wouldn’t mind being posted to somewhere with rolling, grassy hills and a mild climate. Of course, with his luck he’d get sent on detached duty to Ukraine and the Black Sea fleet. Followed by scenic, metropolitan Diego Garcia. If the Brits are happy for us to have it, it must be icky.
“Do you smell something on fire?”
Huh? Peter stopped and sniffed. He smelled grass and garlic and burning something. “A little.” He inhaled more deeply. “Yes. It smells like Aunt O’s little oopsie.”
Catherine pinched her nose shut. “That’s what I was afraid of.” She really did not want to get in trouble for letting the Russian spirit world burn down. It had been bad enough when her aunt-by-adoption had almost set the kitchen in her fancy New York City apartment on fire trying to bake. Catherine loved Aunt O but Russian princesses needed cooking lessons. Apparently she’d never had to learn back home, or when Guess Who kidnapped her. Fortunately, her dad and mom had been there, and Aunt M had remembered where the fire extinguisher was. “This why you have cook,” she recalled hearing M scold her sister. “Larger batch not mean hotter oven and longer time!”
The burning smell got stronger and she followed it to some buildings and a brick and stone oven with two doors. “Should we?” Peter asked.
“Yes. Otherwise we’re wasting bread, and you know what Babushka would do to us for that.”
“Oh heck yeah. No, not again. Once was enough thank you.” He still remembered the swatting he’d gotten for dropping bread on the floor because he wanted a cookie instead. As he watched, Catherine picked up a thick rag that she found, made a pad out of it, and used that to open the metal door. “Whoof,” she gasped, backing up really fast as smoke and heat shimmer billowed out.
“Dang, and I thought going through the Canal in August was bad.”
She found the bread paddle and removed a loaf that seemed rather well done. Even so she set it on some clean wood near the oven, then removed two more, and a pan of really good looking pastries, and one of meat pies. She left the oven door open, put the paddle back where she’d found it, and began stacking the wood. Someone had made a serious mess of the woodpile. Peter joined her and soon they had a very tidy and large stack, probably a cord at least, well away from the still hot oven. Catherine closed the door again and moved all the breads and other things to a table in the shade of a small hut.
Behind her she heard a creaky, hollow sort of voice. “Thank you, young mistress, young master. Take what you will.”
“You are welcome,” she called over her shoulder. The really dark loaf proved to be a serious black bread like Babushka had made, and she picked that up. Peter ducked, glanced around, and tucked some cookies into his pockets, as well as grabbing three meat pies. Catherine took two meat pies as well. They bowed to the oven and left the yard.
Peter’s stomach began to growl and Catherine grinned at him. “You too?”
He pointed to a grassy area. They shed their packs. Catherine bowed her head and he did likewise. “For this gift of bread we are truly grateful, holy Lord. Bless those who eat and those who make.”
“Amen.” They crossed themselves. Then she broke the loaf in two and they sat. It tasted hearty and sour but wasn’t as heavy inside as it looked. Catherine wondered what the secret was. The crust was good too, a little dark in spots but hey, black bread was bread. She and Peter each had a cookie, and Ivan ate the middle out of a meat pie. The humans split the remaining crust.
“Man, I wish my crusts came out this well,” she sighed. It tasted of butter and flaked like a pie crust, but wasn’t as fragile.
“Kneading the dough less would be a good start, along with using ice water instead of cool tap water,” Ivan suggested, licking his whiskers before starting to work on one paw.
Oh kay. Catherine filed the information away, ignoring her brother’s curious look. She wanted a drink and to get rid of an earlier drink. Running water would be safe from enchantment, she remembered and brushed her hands off, stood, and stretched. “Scuze me.” She headed into the woods without waiting for a reply.
Fortunately, she remembered how to do what bears did in the woods, without making a mess. She wiped her hands on some minty-smelling grass and stopped, hands on hips, listening for sounds besides the ones her brother was making. Trickle trickle burble. Splash burble trickle trickle. She followed the sound, intercepting a track lined with ferns and bluebells and other sweet plants. “Ooh, this is so pretty.” A small pool sat at the base of rocks. Water danced out of the rocks, making a little waterfall before flowing into a tiny pool and then into a stream. Watercress grew in the stream, and tiny silver fish seemed to dance, darting back and forth in the water. She drank downstream of the pool, then went and got the boys. They drank as well, and Peter filled a clean spare bottle that he’d brought. Ivan nodded as if he approved, and Catherine noticed that the colors seemed brighter and she felt more energetic for the snack and drink.
“Onward?” Peter helped her get her pack back on and they returned to the path. She noticed one of those trees that looked like a book illustration and edged to the far side of the path, skirting it as best she could. Her Theotokos medal grew hotter and hotter as she looked at the tree, and she felt heat coming from the silver-trimmed knife clipped onto her belt. Peter stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled it right back out, then sucked his fingers. “Yeah, it’s hot,” he said. They sped up and got away from the thing.
“OK, so silver reacts to, ahem,” she looked toward the tree, now out of sight.
“To unfriendly stuff,” he supplied.
“Mrow.”
“Good to know.” She adjusted one backpack strap and they proceeded onward. After some time she heard the sound of water lapping land. They switched positions and Peter took point. He stopped at the edge of a thicket, listening and looking, then eased on, Ivan after him and Catherine bringing up the tail. “Oh. Oh dear.”
The castle with gemstone towers rose over a black lake. “And I thought St. Basil’s was garish,” Peter said.
“It is. Just not this garish. Tasteful,” she added quickly in case someone was listening, “but very brightly colored.”
Scuff scuff scuff. She and Peter both bit their tongues as Ivan made his thoughts on the architecture quite plain.
“So. Walk up, ring the bell, and ask if they’ve seen an overconfident twerp?” Peter folded his arms, making his biceps bulge.
“Hssss.”
“No.” Catherine thought aloud. “No, because the Sweeper knows there are three of us, or at least now she does. So does Guess Who, which means his father probably does as well. And if I recall, in a few stories, Guess Who has a guard dragon to keep visitors away.”
“A guard dragon?”
“Black with several heads. Like Cerberus but not as cuddly.”
“Whoa boy. No, direct approach is not the solution then.” He looked around. “Let’s start walking again, and see if we can confirm that Three’s even in there. He may have gotten diverted.”
Catherine shrugged and followed as he set off, staying up by the edge of the woods. The water of the lake gently washed the lakeshore, lapping the dark sand. Short grass led from the trees down to the sand. The grass seemed very normal, now that she thought about it. Hmm. Except for those fake trees, all the plants appeared normal. Well, the talking apple tree was a bit odd, but there’s that blogger who thinks she can talk to house plants and that they talk back . . . “Mind your step,” Peter called and she lifted her feet to go over some roots. As she did she glanced down the shore and saw something in the sand. She went down the slope and knelt, picking up her brother’s keys and ID. Thank you God that he dropped this! If someone had captured him and if they went through his pockets, they wouldn’t find anything. Except his cell phone, she realized
and wanted to smack herself on the forehead. She stood and trotted up the bank to catch Peter.
His expression shifted from alert to grim when he saw the ID and keys. “Let’s put that in here.” He knelt and she tucked the keys way down, under several pairs of socks and clean underwear. “Before you ask, I got sent out on a quick look around that ended a week later. You can never have enough dry socks.”
“Ah. I hadn’t thought about that.” Like how I carry girl stuff after getting stranded in that little town in Ukraine for several days and got off my usual timing. Never again, nope, nope, nope. “They won’t rattle or anything.” She secured the top of his bag and stepped out of the way as he got to his feet again.
They walked on, past a place where an empty flat boat of some kind bobbed just off shore. The shore grew steeper and they returned to the forest, moving more slowly and listening carefully. At last they came to an opening and a cobblestone road, and what looked like a road sign, about three meters tall with a number of arrows attached to the white-painted pole, all pointing in various directions. Catherine started reading the glowing letters and covered her mouth with one hand, trying not to giggle. “Before you ask,” she managed after a minute, “Yes, this is what you think it is. Yes, those are cities in our world and elsewhere, with the distances.”
Peter shook his head, as did Ivan. “At least it’s not a lamppost in the middle of the woods in winter. Then I’d be getting very scared.”
Catherine opened her mouth, closed it again, and frowned up at the signpost. “Too bad Grandfather Frost is a Soviet creation. Oh well.”
Ivan thumped her on the back of the legs with his head, then walked around her and started down a secondary path. The siblings followed.
Chapter 6: Stone, Wood, and Water
Ivan had his phone out, tapping the screen with one claw. Catherine and Peter lay on their stomachs on top of a small mound of dirt, looking at the back of the palace. They’d walked quite a way before finding a bridge over an arm of the river feeding the black lake. Once on the correct side, they doubled back, Peter making note of what looked like guard posts, currently empty. He was not impressed with the palace owner’s lack of perimeter security. They found a stand of trees, sickly but not evil, and followed the sound of wood chopping and grunts of effort. The land rose a little and they opted to sneak up the back of the rise, leaving Ivan and their packs behind.
