Fantastic Trains

by Neil Enock

  “Why should I help them?” she said again.

  “They are our people.”

  “Are they? I wonder who forgot that.”

  Berlitz’s dark eyes glinted. She turned away from him. He had his opinions. She had hers.

  She watched the barren landscape swoop by as the train rattled on. A light winter buried the deep forests and fields. Weeks they’d ridden the trains. Weeks of hiding, ducking from soldiers, fleeing the west, always heading east. East, into the lands the Cossacks claimed inch by bloody inch in years gone by.

  Russia.

  Her Russia.

  She leaned her forehead against the cool glass, watching it all pass by. She dozed, soothed by the swaying of the train, its whistle screaming in her dreams.

  A different scream woke her.

  Anya sat up. Ice crawled down her spine as the shriek pierced through the air. The other passengers were awake, milling in confusion. Berlitz grabbed her.

  “Down!” he shouted and pulled her beneath the seat. The scream roared over the train. Bullets pierced the ceiling, stitching through the aisle and seats, sending splinters flying. A man fell by her hand, his eyes staring and glassy. And blood, red blood, spilled across the floor.

  Anya stared, fascinated. The scream grew fainter. Fell away. She scrambled away from the body and rose to the window, peered out into the white of the day. A shape like a bird swung about through the sky. Soaring back toward the train. It began to dive, screaming like a banshee.

  She winced, covering her ears, shutting tight her eyes. The winter wind gave a great howl. A sheet of white washed over the window. The scream of the plane fell away, coughing in the dark.

  Faded.

  Somewhere, she heard a muffled whoomph.

  Anya cracked open her eyes, peering through the storm. A figure flickered just at the edge of sight, standing on a snowy mound. A man in black, a soldier’s coat whipping about him.

  She blinked. He was gone.

  The train moved on, winter bleeding into the car through the bullet holes. People sobbed and shuffled about. Later, they passed by the tail of a plane stamped with the Iron Cross, sticking out of the snow like an arm raised in stiff salute.

  —— «» ——

  They rolled into the station hours later. Anya stepped off with Berlitz and stood aside as soldiers carried out the bodies, stacking them like cordwood on the station platform. Anya turned away from the men in red, pulling her hood lower.

  Berlitz’s heavy hand landed on her shoulder. “Come, Anya. We must go.”

  She nodded stiffly and turned. Her face was as white as the snow as they walked down the street of the former peasant village.

  “We will meet guides,” he said. “They will take us on.”

  “They know the way?”

  “It is the old country,” Berlitz said.

  It was all the old country, she thought. Yet new buildings rose about them. Heavy, brutal things of cement and brick. Far more were the old, wooden ones that slumped beneath snow and their years, blending into the background of the encroaching forest and the drifts of white piled against their sides.

  They reminded her of the monk. The one with those powerful, intense eyes. The one who gazed into the face of her brother and calmed him and stopped his weeping wounds. She grew a little warm at the memory of him, speaking in a soft, deep voice to her and her sisters. She remembered him passing by them one at a time, smiling, speaking. She remembered him pausing when he reached her and placing his hand on her shoulder, staring deep into her eyes.

  “You,” he had said.

  Later he had spoken in murmured conference with her father.

  But that had been before. Another life. Another name.

  Berlitz brought Anya to one of the slumping buildings and pushed open the door. A samovar simmered in the corner and icons were gathered on the wall. Two men were within. One, his feet propped up on a stool, was big as a bull. His head was slumped forward, a heavy fur hat resting on the back of his chair. Not far away, a second man, thin as a rail, was meticulously writing on a bunch of papers, his hair slick and black, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth.

  The thin man looked up as they entered. His eyes flicked to Berlitz.

  “Berlitz?” he said.

  “Rogozhin,” Berlitz said, then to the large man, “Boris.”

  Boris grunted. Stirred and raised his head.

  Rogozhin rose, his legs creaking faintly. He stalked forward and peered at them. “So, this is her, is it? The one who will blow the Horn and save our Mother Russia?”

  “Yes,” Berlitz said. His heavy hand rested protectively on her shoulder. “You’ll take us on?”

  Rogozhin peered closer, ignoring the tall soldier for the moment. “I saw a portrait of you. A very long time ago now. In the papers before the Revolution. And such comics! Is it true what they said about the monk?”

  Anya shied away from the man. His intent eyes and thin-boned face reminded her too strongly of another man from a life before. He grinned.

  “Rogozhin!” Berlitz barked.

  Rogozhin jerked upright. He waved his hands errantly. “Yes. Yes. All prepared. Not uncommon for men to make the trip along the mountain. Bourgeois used to do it all the time. I sometimes took generals along it before the war. But these days you need papers. Used to be just a few bribes but these new men are all about papers. Fine with me!” Rogozhin chuckled and swept a hand back toward the desk. “Cheaper than it, I say! Always new men too. Very keen. Hard to get a good word in.”

  Berlitz moved over to the papers and looked them over. Left alone, Anya’s eyes trailed over to the samovar, the fireplace, the chairs and desk. Anywhere not at the leering Rogozhin.

  “Yes! All ready. Boris!” Rogozhin barked, kicking the bigger man. “Get up! We go now.”

  Boris rumbled, yawned and rose unsteadily. He crouched down and picked up a pair of massive boots, jamming his feet into them one at a time. He stood slowly and grabbed the fur hat, pulling it over his ears. “Yes,” he said, fetching a rifle.

  “Not many go there now,” she heard Rogozhin continue. “Wolves very aggressive. Soldiers have been warning people away. We think they are too hungry.”

  “Do you?” Berlitz said.

  “Oh yes,” Rogozhin said, delighted. “But we will make it. I know all the short cuts to the mountain. So long as you know what you are looking for.”

  “We do.”

  “We should not bring the girl,” Boris rumbled.

  “We must,” Berlitz said.

  “Then we best go soon,” Rogozhin said. “There may be shooting. I hear one of the German’s planes shot up your train. They do not usually fly out so far. Very far from the front. Do you think they know?”

  “They may,” Berlitz said. “I expect there will be trouble.”

  “Good,” Rogozhin piped, patting his pistol. “I could use some new boots.”

  —— «» ——

  The winds of winter sliced across the barren steppes. A Cossack village, ruined, tumbled upon itself, clawed out of the snow like bones of timber, nail and spar. They walked through it, single file. Heavy furs against the cold, rifles slung over backs.

  Anya alone carried none. She trudged, the rough cloth of her coat scratching her skin. Exhaustion plagued her after the long march from the village and through the snows.

  “Only a little further, Anya,” Berlitz said. “Only a little further.”

  “I’m coming,” she gasped. “I’m coming.”

  She lifted her face and, in the distance, saw the peak. It rose out of the landscape, bald and terrible. The nearer to the mountain they drew, the harsher the wind cut and the snows stirred.

  They went on. Captain Berlitz led the way, his drooping mustache and beard speckled with ice. Boris followed, the heavy man’s trudge breaking a pat
h through the choking snow, his stolid face red from the biting wind. Behind them came Rogozhin, thin as a rail, but of the hardy peasant stock.

  “My father took me hunting this way,” Boris puffed as he forged ahead. “He was big man. Knew every trail. He hunted with rifle. Good rifle. Still used old flintlock in those days. I remember sound when it fired.” He made a popping sound with his mouth that made Anya wince. “It was good rifle.”

  They rested in what had been an old tavern. Rogozhin grumbled as he searched the basement for a drop of vodka or beer. Boris collapsed on a chair, and Berlitz kindled a fire in the hearth. A glow began, filling the room, light flickering on corners and edges of dust covered barrels and old cracked steins. Anya bundled down in a chair near the hearth, flinching as Berlitz broke a table into kindling and fed the fire.

  The warmth pushed away the cold, but the darkness of the abandoned place lingered just beyond, crouched in corners like the domovoy her nanny had once spoken of, describing the little house spirits that the peasants still had faith in. An altar stood in the corner, the once fine gold paint faded and smudged.

  “Driven out,” Rogozhin said, stomping upstairs. “Long gone I’d say. The Reds came through.”

  “Could have been the Whites,” Berlitz said.

  “Doesn’t matter. Soldiers! That’s all I know. Only soldiers take all the liquor and burn everything else.” He spat into a corner and slumped into a seat. “Left the icons. Probably the Reds. We’ll stay here tonight. Take the mountain tomorrow.”

  “Is it far?” Berlitz asked.

  Rogozhin laughed, a sharp, biting sound that Anya hated. “Noooo. Not far. Just near the foot of the mountain. People about don’t like it, though. Probably why no one else took up residence. No one ever goes near the mountain. They fear a curse. Peasant stories talk of the cold and a winter that never leaves. That it gathers in the valley even during summer. Hah! High time we got rid of all that.”

  “My grandmama talked of the valley,” Boris said. “She said we must never go. That it is too cold and always cold. Not a place for men. But wolves. Many wolves.”

  Anya left them to their conversation. She went to the smoke-stained window and looked out into the snow. Winter hung heavily over the remains of the village. The forests grew thick on the outskirts of town.

  She squinted, staring, spotting a dark figure against the tree line.

  “Something’s happening.”

  Instantly all three men were moving. Boris went to the door, rifle in hand. Rogozhin drew his own and dashed up the stairs, peeking out a hole in the wall. Berlitz joined her, peering out at the night.

  “What did you see?” the old soldier asked.

  “A man. I … think.”

  “You think?”

  “I saw him before. At the train. After the plane attacked.”

  His mouth tightened. “We’re leaving.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Boris grunted and threw his pack back on. Rogozhin came running back down the rotting stairs with a sound that sent Anya’s spine rattling. Berlitz grabbed her and pulled her to the back of the old inn.

  The kitchen was caked with dust, and pots and pans clattered under their feet as they moved to the back door. The way through was open, the door smashed in by some boot in years past. Through it they reentered the snow choked village. The ruins rose around them in ragged shapes. The sun was setting, stitching the sleet gray sky with a blaze of colors.

  “Move. We must move!” Berlitz grunted.

  There was a crack. Anya barely heard it. Then Rogozhin reeled about, clutching his chest. He fell into the snow with a thump, and in moments the snow was filling the hole his body had made.

  “Run!” Berlitz shouted.

  And they were running.

  Anya looked back and saw other figures chasing. Men in storm gray coats and helmets that swept down to cover their ears raced from the tree line. Near a dozen of them. Berlitz turned, firing with his pistol. One of the gray men went down, feet flying from under him, looking as if he had slipped while skating on the Saint Petersburg canals. He never got up. The others came on. Grim, purposeful men like those who had taken her and her family out behind the cabin.

  “The trees!” Berlitz bellowed. “The trees!”

  The soldiers in gray kept coming, firing wildly now. The snow puffed with every missed round.

  Over the gunshots, she heard the howls.

  The wolves streamed past the trees. Ragged, mangy, starving things. The men in gray shouted in surprise. One swung about but the wolf was already on him. Teeth fastened on the man’s throat. Both went down, struggling in the snow. The others fired again. One’s weapon jammed in the frigid winter air, and he went down screaming under a mass of fang and claw and bristling fur.

  Boris bellowed as a wolf tackled him into the snow.

  “Run Anya!” Berlitz roared as more wolves raced for him. He fired, drew his saber from his belt and hacked the first one down. Blood spilled, red and so warm it steamed when it hit the snow. She heard the sobs of her sisters. Her mother and father’s painful dignity as they looked down the men in red. The maids whimpering and crying. And a voice echoed through time, shouting at her the same word from that dark night.

  “Run!”

  Anya clamped her hands over her ears to silence the screams, the howls, and ran into the woods.

  —— «» ——

  The winds roared down through the trees.

  The snow had risen to her knees. Every step was a fight through snow so hard the crust broke with a crack under her feet, leaving solid pits in the white that swiftly filled. Her breath steamed in the air. Her lungs burned with effort and her face tingled to the roots of her hair with that cold. That terrible, terrible cold.

  Berlitz was dead.

  She shuddered and buried her face in her collar.

  Father was dead.

  Mother. Olga. Tatiana. Maria. Alexei. All dead. All gone.

  She was alone.

  And in the distance, she heard the howls.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  She fought on. Fought forward. There wasn’t anything else to do. If she stopped, she’d freeze, perhaps even before the wolves got to her. She almost laughed at the thought of the animals breaking their teeth on her blackened, frozen face. But that was too near hysterics, and instead she choked on the sound.

  A root, hidden under the snow, caught her foot. With a cry, she went down. For a moment, she lay in the snow, gasping, sobbing.

  The wind died to a whisper.

  She raised her head.

  The man stood before her. His booted feet only just touched the snow. His dark soldier’s cloak was wrapped about him and a sloping helmet not in fashion for a hundred years or more sat on his head. A saber was sheathed at his side. His beard was a thick white thing, mustache sweeping in a style popular when Frenchmen marched across Europe under their emperor.

  But his eyes were older. Far, far older than mere centuries. Not even the monk’s eyes had held such power. The casual ease to carry death. The utter absence of any warmth. A thousand could die at this man’s boots. A hundred thousand could claw at his cloak and he wouldn’t even look down at them as they stiffened with frost and stilled. He could pass through fields and leave whole villages to starve without an ounce of interest. He didn’t mean to. He simply did. He simple was.

  Anya had faced death before. Looked down the barrels of rifles as she stood, soaked in the blood of her mother and sisters in the cold snow behind the cabin.

  She saw something worse than death in those eyes.

  The fur of her collar was stiff like porcupine spines around her head as she stood. Her tears froze on her cheeks, burning with the numbing pain. She looked him in those eyes.

  “Where?”

  He moved his head.
An acknowledgement? A greeting? She wasn’t sure. But he stepped aside, and, like a white curtain to the stage, the blizzard parted.

  A cave lay before her, cut into the mountain’s face. Stone worked with strange designs flanked it in a pair of heavy pillars. Shapes without forms she could recall spiraled across the two bautasteiner. They reminded her starkly of the writing in the old illuminated manuscripts. But this was rawer. More unevenly cut, like the winds had carved the stones.

  He said nothing. Merely stood aside. Waiting. She glanced his way, then ventured through the cavern mouth and into the darkness.

  Her footsteps echoed hollowly within, chimed off icicles hanging from the ceiling. She breathed in. Out. Her breath no longer puffed in the air.

  A blue light shone ahead. She forged on until the light became a doorway, and she stepped through, and into a memory.

  The walls were made of clearest ice, like she had walked into a room of crystal. Elegant filigree curled in corners and arched above. Pale light glowed from a chandelier hanging above, its every candle lit with a blue flame. It was a place she knew. The palace at Saint Petersburg.

  In the middle of the room stood a throne. And on it rested a woman of striking beauty. She sat, still, her skin like marble. Her hair was white as snow, and her gown as blue as the water from the freshest spring. Her throne was worked from the trunk of a single great tree, its branches rising into the air to spread out and clasp the roof of the palatial chamber.

  On her lap, in her hands, was a horn of antler.

  Anya stared at the woman. Slowly, she approached, her footsteps chiming in the stillness of the chamber. She climbed the cut steps up to the throne and looked down at the Horn.

  She reached out and grasped it. It was stuck. With a scowl, she yanked.

  The woman shattered like glass. Anya gasped, stepping back as the woman’s flesh fell to pieces on the throne. The shards dissolved, melting on the ground.

  The throne was empty.

  Anya held the Horn.

  She ran her fingers over the ancient thing and traced designs like those on the stones outside. She felt the heft of it.