Nine Layers of Sky

by Liz Williams

  “Truly, the Russians are a remarkable people,” Manas said, shaking his head. “And you are one of the greatest figures of their folklore. You rival only Prince Ivan the Stupid.”

  “What have I done to deserve that?”

  “Has it once occurred to you that the rusalki are your friends, not your enemies? That they have saved your life time and time again not as punishment, but because you are important?”

  “Obviously it has occurred to me,” Ilya said angrily. The crack about Ivan the Stupid rankled. “But they have not approached me, nor attempted to discuss the matter with me, nor shown any signs of being other than my foes. In addition to this, they have a reputation—which I have witnessed firsthand—of abducting people, taking them beyond the world, never to be seen again. And I have also seen them kill.”

  “They are not human,” Manas said after a pause.

  “They take folk, it is true, but they do not often kill them. They select. And they do not act according to human principles. By our standards, I suppose, they are ruthless.”

  “What are they, then?”

  “You know about aliens? You watch TV?” Manas’ face became reflective. “I love it. Best invention of the twentieth century, if you ask me. X-Files. Excellent program. Very exciting.”

  “It’s American,” Ilya said.

  “So? You think Americans don’t have legends, tell stories? The rusalki are like aliens—the little grey things who abduct people. Do you know that several thousand Americans claim to have had this experience? Not all of them have come back again. Of course, we in Russia, being superior”—Manas appeared to have abandoned his Kyrgyz origins for the moment— “have beautiful girls instead of little monsters. But I believe they are the same thing. And they are not alien in the sense that they are from another planet. They move between this world and the other.”

  “The other?” Having been there, Ilya thought he knew what Manas was talking about, but he wanted to hear the bogatyr say it, see how far Manas’ understanding tallied with what he had already been told by Kovalin.

  “The other, indeed,” was all that Manas said.

  “Say this is true. How do you know all this?”

  “Because three months ago, I met a man in the high Alatau. An akyn. Do you know what that is?”

  “A bard?”

  “Precisely. One who dreams for a living and writes poems about those dreams. A man like Kovalin, but from this world.”

  “What?”

  “The akyn told me something very interesting about your volkh. Namely, that he isn’t from this world any more than the rusalki are. And he is your enemy and mine.”

  “Long ago, Manas, you told me that you were my enemy.”

  “Why, so I am,” Manas said with sudden charm. “But you know the old Moslem saying, don’t you?— ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend.’ ”

  Ilya frowned. “Does that make us friends?”

  “No. But it does make us allies. I came with a request, Ilya Muromyets. If you are successful in your quest, as one hero to another, I ask you—do not hand the thing for which you are looking over to Kovalin. I do not ask you to give it to me, mind, only to keep it safe from him.”

  “And if I do not?”

  “Ah, then—or so my poet tells me—then the world will fall.”

  Two

  KYRGYZSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

  Having lulled the landlady’s suspicions and made sure that she was safely back in the kitchen, Elena hovered outside the bedroom door, trying to overhear what Ilya and the stranger were saying to each other. Usually, she despised eavesdropping, but she felt that the circumstances were curious enough to override her scruples. As she heard the stranger talk about the rusalki, her hands tightened on the strap of her handbag. She also found that she was waiting for the sound of Ilya’s voice.

  Slow down, she told herself, slow down. If you are starting to feel so strongly about him, then he almost certainly is not the right choice. God knows, it had happened before. Her last boyfriend had vanished into space after only two months, and now she wondered how much of that had been simply circumstance, a keyed-up excitement as they approached the start of the mission. Yuri had not been as damaged as Ilya— cosmonauts tended to be stable, once one discounted the madness that made them want to go into space in the first place—but he had undoubtedly been emotionally inaccessible, focused more on his work and on the mission than on her. Elena could understand that, and understand too that it had been part of his appeal.

  From within the room, she heard the scrape of a chair as someone rose. Not wanting to be caught listening at the keyhole, Elena slipped around the corner and out of sight. The door opened and the stranger stepped through. He retreated down the stairs. Moments later, he was followed by Ilya, carrying the fishing-rod case.

  “Ilya,” Elena hissed.

  He turned. “I’m going with him. Wait here. Lock the door, push the bed against it, and make sure the windows are bolted.”

  “Why can’t I come?”

  “I want to make sure you’re safe.” His gaze flickered to her handbag and she knew he was thinking about the object.

  “I’ll look after it,” Elena said.

  “I know you will. But make sure you stay here.”

  “All right,” Elena said dubiously. She did not fancy the role of damsel in the tower.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be. If it’s a long time, I’ll call you. I’ll take the number of the guesthouse.” At the corner of the corridor, he turned. “Elena. Be careful.”

  “You, too.” She waited until he had vanished around the corner, then went to the window and peered out into the twilight. Two figures, both tall men, were receding swiftly down the street, one behind the other. She held her breath, but the stranger did not turn to see if he was being followed.

  Thoughtfully, Elena sat down on the bed. She flicked through the channels of the television and at last found the news. It was in Kyrgyz and she could only understand occasional words and fragments, but she watched the images unfold nonetheless. The news was a litany of car crashes and drug busts. There was nothing about bodies in a Kazakhstani hotel. There had been an earth tremor to the north of Almaty, along the line of the mountains. Elena leaned closer to the set to look at the little diagram. It depicted Koktubye Hill, the place where they had encountered the horse tribe. She stared at it thoughtfully.

  The news changed to the wars in Afghanistan and Chechnya, perennial subjects for discussion, followed by a shot of the new space station, like a great wheel above the world. Yuri could be floating clumsily down one of those passages even now. Elena sighed with envy. Then the weather: rain, with sudden dips in temperature and occasional sun, typical for spring. The advertisements came on, then a game show with squealing contestants trying to win a holiday in Cyprus.

  Elena turned off the set in disgust and closed the curtains. Opening her handbag, she reached for her mobile phone and dialed her mother’s number, but there was nothing, just a hiss of static and failed connections. She must be out of range, or perhaps the mountains were blocking the signal. The region was full of such black spots. She put the phone back in her bag.

  The object was still within, nestled in a handful of tissues.

  She stared down at it, half-expecting something to happen, half-fearful. She was not entirely willing to admit to herself that she resented being left behind, that she wanted an equal share in any adventures.

  She took the object from her bag, weighing it in her hand. It was the same as ever: heavy, cold. At first the chill of it froze her down to the bone, but then it grew warmer, seeping into her palm like sunlight. She sank down onto the bed, still holding the object. She thought of that strange land and the hope rose within her. It was what she had always wanted, after all: the chance to be part of the reach for the stars, for other worlds. She had never hoped to visit one, and there was little chance that she would ever have children. The descendants of others would travel out beyond the solar system, not her
own blood, her own genes. And she wondered now whether that was why she had pinned so much of her life on the success of the space program: It was the only dream left available to her.

  The warmth of the object flooded through her. It was comforting, like another presence. She thought back to Baikonur, to the excitement before the launches, the rockets blasting up into the burn-blue sky, mission control working like a single entity, a gestalt. The rockets still traveled, but from a shattered country, and she had been sidelined. She felt as though she had fallen from a great height, burning out on reentry. Her eyes snapped open. The object was as cold as old ashes.

  Restlessly, Elena put it back in the bag and turned back to the television. But as she flicked the switch, light flooded out across the room, so bright that she flung up an arm to shield her eyes.

  This time, there was no sense that she was being drawn into the strange world on the other side of the light. It faded, until it was nothing more than a long opening, suspended in the air. Elena stood, blinking as her eyes adjusted, and found that she could now see through the gate. The world beyond was plunged into twilight.

  She was standing before a garden fragrant with fruit trees. High above, snared in the branches of a cherry tree, she saw a single burning star. A wind drifted through, laden with the fragrance of grass. A shadow moved behind the trees. Elena waited, watching.

  Slowly, a figure stepped out onto the grass and hesitated.

  “Who’s there?” it called—a woman’s voice, brusque and speaking in oddly-accented Russian. Elena, seized by panic, nearly did not reply. But it was the closest she had come to meeting a person from this other world and she did not want to lose the chance.

  She called out, “My name is Elena. Don’t be afraid. I’m on the other side of the—the hole in the air.”

  “Oh, my God,” the woman said. “It’s a localized breach.”

  Somehow the term, with its technical connotations, was reassuring.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Elena said. The woman was coming close now, striding swiftly across the damp grass toward the gateway. She was tall and dark-haired, perhaps fifty or so, dressed in some kind of military uniform with the jacket undone. Elena could see an insignia on the shoulder: a scatter of stars. Something about the woman’s face was oddly familiar, yet Elena was certain that she had never set eyes on her before.

  “How long has this breach been open? How long have you been using the distorter coil? Where did you get it?” The woman’s voice was sharp, accusing.

  “A what? Look, I don’t even know where you are.”

  “Where are you?” the woman demanded in turn. “Earth? Russia?”

  “Yes. Well, I’m in Kyrgyzstan. Not Russia, not anymore.”

  “Kyrgyzia? That’s in the southeast, isn’t it? Toward Pathan territory.”

  “Pathan? Do you mean Pakistan?”

  “I don’t know that name,” the woman said. She ran a hand through her hair and Elena saw that her arm was strapped up in a bandage.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Colonel Shadia Anikova. Pergama Provincial Military. It won’t mean a lot to you.”

  “It means nothing,” Elena said. “I’m Elena.” She could see something at the base of the trees, scratching about. It was the size of a pheasant. “What’s that?”

  The woman glanced over her shoulder. “Just a kikimura ,” she said dismissively. “Listen to me. The coil—”

  But at that moment, the room in which Elena stood began to shudder. Outside, she heard the sudden, protesting creak of branches. The gap in the air sealed shut with a snap; the bag rocked on the night-stand. Elena snatched it up, preparing to run from the room, but there was no need. The tremor had passed as swiftly as it had come. There was no sign of the gateway in the air. Elena gave the object a narrow-eyed look, thinking fearfully of the earthquake on the news.

  But the object sat in the middle of her handbag, silent and impenetrable.

  Three

  KYRGYZSTAN, 21ST CENTURY

  Manas was heading toward the park. The streets were empty, but Ilya could see lights in the windows of the apartment blocks, catch snatches of meal-time conversation. He had spent many evenings like this, wandering the prospekts of St. Petersburg and Moscow, looking enviously in on the warm world of ordinary people. But this time he had a room of his own to which to return, and Elena instead of a syringe. The thought of sleeping once more in the same room glowed within him like lamplight.

  Manas had disappeared into the trees. Ilya paused and listened, then caught the sound of uncertain footsteps. After a few minutes they stopped. Ilya peered into the dusk. Surely that was a statue, standing so still at the edge of the trees? But then the statue moved. Ilya saw a man in a business suit and black-and-white alkapak hat. He was middle-aged, unremarkable.

  “Did you find him?” he heard the stranger say in Russian.

  “Yes?”

  “And then?”

  “He seemed to believe me. He claims not to have it.”

  “Is he lying?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Can’t you tell? I thought you said you would be able to detect this thing if he had it.”

  “Well, I did not.” Manas’ voice tilted into arrogance. “If it is here, it has not spoken to me. But take my word for it—he is Russian, a simple sort, not good at dissembling.”

  “Panimyu, I understand. But we should not talk here. We need a place where our voices will be masked.”

  “What about your office?” Manas asked.

  “Don’t be naïve. You know it is bugged, like all government buildings.”

  Ilya saw Manas nod, then the two men turned away and began walking swiftly across the park. Neither said anything more. He followed them until they reached a small street lined with bars and restaurants, evidently the cheerful equivalent of Moscow’s Arbat. Manas and the stranger headed into the nearest bar. Cautiously, Ilya followed.

  The bar was crowded and noisy, filled with youngsters and not the kind of place that Ilya would normally have sought out. He had to stop himself from performing the search-and-locate that had, during the time of his addiction, become second nature. He had come forth from the twentieth century with two new skills: a familiarity with modern weapons and the ability to recognize a dealer at twenty paces. He made his way to the end of the bar, ordered a vodka, then slid into a cubicle. From there, he could see Manas and the stranger, who sat with their backs to him. He took a fiery sip and settled back to listen.

  “—sure that we have not been followed?” the stranger was saying. Manas shrugged.

  “Very likely.” He glanced around the bar. Ilya shrank farther into the cubicle. “So I suggest we keep the conversation to matters of more common knowledge for now. Tak. You had questions for me?”

  “Of the nature of the place where you and this man Kovalin come from. Does it have a name?” the stranger asked.

  “Byelovodye. The land of white waters. Its gates were supposed to lie somewhere in the Altai, not so far from here. Did you know that?”

  “Yes. It’s like Shambhala. I thought it was a fairy tale.”

  “It is. So am I. So is our heroic Russian friend.” Manas’ voice was edged with contempt. He added, “Actually, I’m an epic.”

  Ilya smiled to himself as Manas went on, “It is a place that has a more fluid and flexible relationship with our dreams, with our stories and legends, than this world will ever possess. Entities come from it—the rusalki, for instance. Ideologies change it. There is reason to believe that at the demise of the Soviet experiment, its nature substantially altered—indeed, it may be that this alteration came first, and was the cause of that demise. It is a kind of parallel dimension that affects, and is affected by, our own ideas.”

  “Are you saying that it is some kind of imaginary world?” the stranger asked. He sounded incredulous; Ilya could not blame him.

  Or some kind of collective unconscious? Ilya wondered. A few weeks with that Gulag p
sychiatrist all those years ago hadn’t gone entirely amiss.

  “No, it is quite real. But it works according to different laws. Memory has a slightly different function there, for example.”

  “Do many people live there?”

  “Folk have wandered in or been taken there by the rusalki, over the centuries. There have been ways through before—gates opened by ancient, unknown technology—and it seems that sometimes there are little natural rifts. But in the 1920’s—not long after the Revolution—Byelovodye was colonized. A man called Tsilibayev found a way to replicate the equipment that can create a gate. We don’t know where he found the means—he kept his sources very close to his chest. What is clear is that he didn’t fully understand the technology he was trying to copy and his equipment was never very stable, but it worked nonetheless. The early Bolshevik authorities sent groups of people through, in case Russia fell. It was a top-secret project, a way of preserving national identity if all else failed. Felix Dzerzhinsky, the old monster, put a stop to all that—thought it was counterrevolutionary, or some such nonsense. The Cheka had the laboratory destroyed. But Tsilibayev’s technology is still being used within Byelovodye, by those who understand even less than he.”

  The room seemed to echo with guilt. Ilya thought back eighty years, remembering a bilious green office and the look on the Cheka operative’s face. He remembered the expressionless visages of the men waiting for him by the railway track, to lead him to the next train east and Siberia. These men were like beads in a black rosary, another link in a chain of destruction.

  “Does anyone fully understand it?” said the stranger. “Do you?”

  “I am no scientist, any more than you are. But I know that this device can be used. That is all I need to know. It is a key. It is not even necessary to be near a gate—the thing can open rifts in the air itself—but that is too dangerous.”

  “How so?”

  “You might not find yourself on solid ground, or find yourself in the middle of a sea. Byelovodye is not a geographical replication of Russia, you see. The device must be used responsibly.”