Nine Layers of Sky

by Liz Williams

  “Listen,” she said, as another thought occurred to her, “this job in Moscow. Is that real, or something else you made up?”

  “No! It’s true.”

  “But it’s not in an office, is it?”

  After a long pause, Anna said, “No. It’s in a nightclub. But it’s just serving drinks. Nothing more than that.”

  I’ll bet, Elena thought. And she’d have more than a few words with Marina when they got to Moscow. She wasn’t letting Anna near any nightclubs, if she had to lock her in the apartment. But the damage was done; the main thing now was keeping it from their mother. Anna went back into the living room, and Elena leaned against the wall. The cold kitchen felt suddenly stifling. There had to be another way besides prostitution and drudgery.

  She thought of Fyodor in his too-small suit; of herself standing in a corridor with an apron and a mop, and then she thought back to the days of the launches: the rocket blasting up from the grasslands in a great, rosy column of fire. You can’t see the stars very well from cities; there’s too much interference. You can’t see clearly at all, but Elena didn’t want to think about that. She stepped into the hall and went quickly toward her bedroom, to where the jewelery box sat on the chest of drawers. Elena sat down on her bed with the box on her lap, and investigated the contents. The ball was intact. At the bottom of the box lay three gold chains, a locket, the bracelet that her father had given her the year he died, and her grandmother’s gold cross. Not much, but maybe enough for a few more dollars. It wasn’t yet four o’clock; the place she had in mind would still be open.

  “Anna! Mama! I’m just going out to the post office. I forgot to post the electricity bill,” she called, wrestling with her coat and boots. She stuffed the jewelry box into her bag and ran down the stairs into the street.

  Three

  KAZAKHSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

  Ilya had lost track of the time. How many days had it been since they had left Moscow? Two, or three? He could no longer remember. The hours passed in a blur, but by the time the train pulled into Almaty, both the heroin and the vodka were long gone. Light-headed and shaky, Ilya dragged the sword out onto the platform and stood blinking in the early morning light.

  He had visited Almaty years before, when it was still named Vernyi and nothing more than a Russian outpost on the far fringes of what was not yet an empire. How long ago had that been? A hundred and twenty years, perhaps. Coming out of the station, the grey streets with their lacing of bare branches looked like everywhere else, but then Ilya looked up to see the mountains floating high above the city, the dawn frosting their sides with light. A cold clean wind sailed through the streets, making Ilya shiver. But it was a good wind, bringing no sound other than the small rustlings of animals and birds far away in the rocks. Up there in the mountains, there was nothing for miles.

  His brow was chilly with sweat. He had no suppliers here, no contacts, but it should be easy enough to buy smack—Ilya shivered again, this time with resolve. He would not go down that road; it led nowhere. He would avoid the bars and the dealers; he would stay clean until he had found what he was looking for. He swore under his breath. He knew he was lying to himself, and he knew what he must now do. He was aware that he was not thinking clearly, that the first priority should be finding the object, but this was a duty he owed to himself, not to Kovalin. Besides, he had no idea where to start looking. Strange weather conditions. Curious phenomena. But the weather here was just the tail end of winter, and the only curious phenomenon in Ilya’s immediate locality appeared to be himself. All Kovalin had been able to tell him for certain was that the object was known to be here in Almaty—or had been several days ago. Ilya sighed.

  There was a faded map on the public information board outside the station. Ilya peered at it until he found what he sought, then set off through the streets of this familiar, foreign town.

  As he walked through the early morning light, Almaty began to wake around him. He saw an old woman scraping snow from the steps of an underpass. A group of schoolchildren gathered at the foot of a bronze statue. Ilya paused to read the inscription: Abai. Memory tugged at him. He remembered a man of that name: an old poet, out among the steppe dwellers, the horse clans, who had recognized Ilya for what he was and did not care. Ilya recalled a round face, Orient-eyed beneath a turban. Words echoed in his head: Everyone who thinks differently is already an outcast, my Russian friend. You are neither alone nor unique. You may have had longer to wait than most of us, but perhaps it is merely that your time has not yet come.

  Abai had been a poet, not a shaman; a seeker of words, not an oracle. But Ilya now stared up at the half-remembered face and wondered whether there was any real difference.

  Perhaps it is merely that your time has not yet come.

  Ilya mouthed the words aloud, then realized that a group of young mothers was gazing at him in alarm. A woman drew her child closer to her and whispered in its ear. Ilya gave the child a wolfish smile and turned away.

  It was a long trudge up the street to his destination, footstep after footstep, shuffling through the snow. He could feel the mountains at his back, a force as strong as the wind, holding him up and driving him on. Before him, past the rows of apartment blocks that lined the street, lay a dark edge of trees. Ilya stepped from the pavement and found himself in the park.

  At this time of the day and year, the place was quiet. Ilya made his way between oaks and firs, past a great monument of rearing horses and a man with his bronze mouth open in a silent shout. A flame flickered over the surface of a marble plinth. Ilya stood before it for a moment, head bowed, remembering nightmares of a multitude of wars.

  Snow muffled sound and the trees seemed to swallow the light. Ilya walked on until he saw the gleam of gold. The air was freezing, yet his hands and face were suddenly hot. How long had it been since he stood before a place such as this? Two hundred years or more, ever since the priest at the old cathedral of Kiev had cast him out, flung his beads in his face, and damned him for an abomination. Since that day, Ilya had avoided holy ground, and now here he was, seeking it out. Then the need for the drug—its sweetness, the only warmth he had come to rely upon—snatched at him. Ilya leaned, gasping, against the trunk of an oak. What time would the bars open here in Almaty? He was a fool. He should have waited around the railway station. Such places attracted dealers like flies drawn to fresh blood. Ilya swallowed and turned back to the church.

  The cathedral floated above the trees, light as a dream. Its walls were painted a rosy pink, the color of a dawn sky. Golden cupolas shone against the clouds. Ilya took a shuddering breath and walked forward. Nothing happened. He was neither beset by priests nor struck by lightning. Moving jerkily, like a puppet, he climbed up the steps and put his hand to the wooden door. It swung open. He stepped across the threshold into a soaring room, and looked up to see gilded stars. They glittered in the candlelight, as though revealed by racing clouds, and the air was heady with incense. Ilya stumbled as if struck, and collapsed into a nearby pew. He was alone in the cathedral. He dragged his gaze upward, to meet the calm golden face of Christ.

  The Lord was looking past Ilya toward the door. Ilya had dreaded the thought of meeting Christ’s eyes, and that God seemed prepared to ignore him made things easier. He did not think he could cope with being forgiven, not just yet. Holding tightly to the wooden rail, he pulled himself to his feet and fumbled with the sword. If the priest came in—well, Ilya would just have to start praying, that was all. He carried the sword to the altar and knelt before it. He could not look up, in case he caught Christ in a frown. Instead, he stared grimly ahead to where the golden cross sparkled on the altar.

  He placed the sword in front of him, held upright by the hilt. This was an old practice, and perhaps unfitting for a Christian place of worship, but it seemed right. Ilya gritted his teeth and clasped the raw blade with his right hand.

  Pain seared through him. He gasped, and his grip involuntarily tightened. A trickle of blood ran down the
blade of the sword, and through the haze of pain Ilya whispered, “Lord, let this be a vow, sacred to you, that I will not touch the drug until my journey is over. Let me have a single clean death, not many small ones.” He thought of renouncing vodka, as well, but that was further than he was prepared to go. He needed something, he thought. If God were really Russian, then God would surely understand. He added under his breath, “Bring me to my destiny. Show me what it is.” His own words startled him. Years ago, it had been a preoccupation, but it had been a long time since he had considered the question of destiny.

  He let go of the blade. It hurt, more than anything had done for years, even the knife in his chest. The whole cathedral swam red, as though the air had turned to blood. But the vow was made. Ilya bound up his hand in the sleeve of his coat and slid the bloodied blade back into its sheath. He would have to clean it later; there was nothing that could be done here. Then he fell back onto a bench and closed his eyes.

  His hand throbbed. He tried to focus on the pain, diminish it, but it was overwhelming. Then, through the pain, he heard something. It was not a voice, and yet it spoke to him.

  I am here, it said. I have found you. I am coming.

  Who are you? Ilya asked, puzzled.

  But suddenly there was a hand shaking his shoulder, and a very human voice saying, “Friend? Is everything all right?”

  The reflex was too strong. Ilya’s eyes flew open and his good hand reached for the man’s throat. The man stepped back with an exclamation and Ilya saw that it was the priest: a long equine face underneath the tall hat. He did not look old enough to be a priest. His beard was wispy, like coils of black fleece.

  “Sorry,” Ilya muttered. “Must have been asleep.”

  “It’s my fault,” the priest said quickly. “I shouldn’t have woken you like that. Is everything all right?”

  “I—hurt my hand. I fell in the park on the snow, caught it on a broken bottle.”

  “People will not use the litter bins,” the priest said in distress. “We put up signs, but everyone just seems to ignore them. I sometimes think that no one cares about anything anymore.”

  “I know the feeling,” Ilya said with a thin smile.

  “Come into the back office. There’s a toilet there, with a sink. I’ve got a first-aid kit. And tea—that’s always good for shock.” His gaze fell on Ilya’s shrouded sword and he gave a puzzled frown. “You were going fishing? In this weather?”

  “Present for my nephew,” Ilya said, improvising hastily. “Birthday.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, come on through.”

  The thought of the tea was enough to draw Ilya to his feet. He followed the priest through the incense-laden vault, still echoing with the remnants of his vow. But then there was the sudden drumbeat of rain on the wooden dome above him. A flicker of lightning sparked from the gilded icons. Startled, the priest looked up.

  “The weather’s broken.”

  “Sign of spring,” Ilya said.

  “About time. I thought the snow was never going to leave us.”

  It felt right, Ilya thought. Whatever storms the spring might bring, winter was passing at last.

  Four

  ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

  Last night’s foray to the pawnshop had seen a moderate degree of success: a few dollars from the gold chain and the watch. But the pawnbroker had not been interested in the ball.

  “What is it?” he had asked, puzzled. “Is it made of metal?”

  “Just a curio,” Elena had lied, glibly. “My father said it was some kind of relic.”

  “I can’t see anyone paying good money for it. Sorry.”

  Elena had then tried some of the market stalls, but though people were selling single boots and unworkable radios, the ball remained an object of curiosity, not desire. It rested once more in Elena’s pocket, still heavy, still obscure.

  Now Elena stood at the top of Lenina, looking south. The mountains were blanketed in drifting clouds. Her coat was soaked and her shoes were sopping wet, but it was better than more snow. The deep gutters that carried excess water down from the mountains were running brim full, so that it seemed that every street was bounded by a narrow stream. The trees, freed of their weight of snow, were bowed down by raindrops. And the sky was darkening again, heavy with storms.

  Elena stepped out into the road to flag down a lift, but everyone was rushing home before the next cloud-burst. Perhaps if she hurried, or found shelter … Then the thought of the cathedral snapped into her head. It was not far away. Elena set off again and was halfway across the park when the heavens opened. She dodged beneath the branches of a fir to catch her breath. The storm had come on so quickly, it must have raced down from the peaks. She hoped they weren’t in for a wet spring.

  Above her, something rustled in the branches. Elena looked up, expecting to see a squirrel or a magpie, but there was nothing. A shower of dislodged raindrops scattered across her face, making her flinch. Elena peered into the tree and something hissed. Startled, Elena stumbled back. She saw a face in the branches, upside down: gleaming eyes with pinpoint pupils and a row of needle teeth. It was coming down the tree, sliding along the trunk like a polecat, but the size of a man.

  Elena cried out with fright. Then she turned and ran, her feet carrying her away from the thing in the tree. She slipped on the wet path and almost fell, but she did not stop and look back until she reached the edge of the park.

  There was nothing behind her. The park was wet and empty. A woman with a bundle of shopping was staring at her.

  “Dyevushka? You all right?”

  “There was someone in the trees. I thought they were going to attack me.” She abruptly sat down on the low wall that ran along the edge of the park. The woman clicked her tongue.

  “The park’s full of drug addicts, drunks, who knows what. Probably after money. Did they hurt you?”

  Elena shook her head.

  “Well, don’t you go through there again, even in the daytime.” The woman was clutching her shopping bag as though Elena might try to snatch it away. “I don’t know what this town’s coming to.”

  Still shaken, Elena nodded and the woman walked on. But she was right. It must have been some crazy person, driven by the mad impulse to climb a tree. Now that she thought back, the face had appeared female. Perhaps it had been one of the poor souls from the asylum, released because their families could no longer afford treatment. That seemed the likeliest explanation.

  It was raining in earnest now, and Elena’s hair was plastered to her face. She bolted across the road, dodging the traffic, and into the area in front of the market. The place was lined with stalls selling all manner of things: flat dried fish from the Kyrgyz lakes, batteries, radios, a stuffed eagle. Trying to keep beneath the awnings, Elena hastened toward the main market building and through the door.

  She found herself in the vegetable section, in front of stalls covered with herbs, peppers, eggplant, apples. She was instantly assailed by cries from the vendors: “What do you want, dyevushka? Sultanas? Oranges?”

  Gold teeth flashed. Elena wondered how many of these women had university degrees. She would have bet that at least half were educated to the graduate level. Smiling, she shook her head and made her way through the vegetable section, past buckets of milk and piles of butter, toward the meat market. Beyond that were stalls selling clothes. She would just take a quick look. Perhaps by then the rain would have stopped.

  To the left, high in the roof of the market, there was a sudden quick movement. Elena stared, but there was nothing there. It must have been a trick of the rainy light, filtering through the plastic covering of the ceiling. She was in the meat section now. A row of kielbasy sausages hung redly on hooks, surrounded by slabs of mutton. Turning the corner of a stall, Elena came face-to-face with the flayed head of a horse: the ears still pricked, the dark eyes startled against the exposed whites. The woman behind the stall gestured to it.

  “Fresh today. You want some?”
>
  Elena shook her head and crossed to the end of the row. She squinted into the dim vault above her head. She could see nothing but shadows. The scene in the park had unnerved her, making her edgy. Get a grip on yourself, she thought. Stop jumping at things that aren’t there.

  She went through the doors at the end of the market, to the crowded garment section. Elena looked at the merchandise, but there was little of interest: cheap Chinese goods from over the border, a few things from Russia. She was more interested in the pattern books, which promised a middle way between the shoddy imported garments and the expensive Western-style clothes that were sold in big stores like TSUM. Canadian cities, Elena had read, had more than one big store. It would be nice to have more choices.

  Leaving the clothes behind, she went out into the passage that led to the street. The steps were slick with rain, but there was a brightness beyond the glass doors that suggested the storm had passed.

  Elena stepped forward. Sharp fingers clamped tightly over her mouth and a hissing presence dragged her backward. She was drowning, going down into the rain, a river closing over her head, blood-red water banishing the distant stars.

  Five

  ALMATY, KAZAKHSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

  The young priest had put ointment on the cut and bandaged it. Now Ilya sat, sipping tea and watching the rain pour down through the pines beyond the cathedral. The priest had excused himself, saying that he had services to perform. Ilya tried to remember what these might be, and failed. He could no longer recall clearly the offices of the Church, only the festivals, and even these were colored by memories of the pagan world of his childhood. But it was all the same thing in the end, Ilya thought, whether you tied a rag to the papery bough of a birch tree or lit a candle beneath a gilded roof.