Trinity: The Koldun Code (Book 1)

by Sophie Masson

  Helen flinched as her mother’s innocent remark triggered an unwelcome scenario in her mind. Mom talking about her work. Irina raving about hers. And then the professor would turn to Helen and say, “Well, honey, last time I heard, your mom told me you were working as a researcher and writer at that funky little film production company – what’s it called again? Changeling? Said you were doing real well. So I want to hear all about it, and about that good-looking boyfriend of yours too, Simon, isn’t it?” And she’d sit there with a brightly expectant expression, waiting to hear all about the success her friend’s daughter was sure to be making of her life. And Helen would sit there with nothing to say and Irina would see the truth in her eyes and know that in just about everything that counts Helen got it so wrong, and she’d look away, embarrassed, or worse still take pity on her.

  Hurriedly, she brushed the thought away. “Shall we go for that walk you were talking about before?”

  Her mother smiled. “If you’re not too tired, then, yes, let’s go!”

  Under a milky blue sky, they set off, through a riot of greenery and bright washes of spring flowers, past a couple of shabbily pretty churches, and lots of lovely wooden houses. Some were of silvery-weathered timber, like Irina’s, some newer, the fresh timber glowing like gold, while others were painted in greens, pinks, blues, yellows and browns, with carved scrollwork like gingerbread lace set around the windows. Some had flowers in the windows, scalloped curtains, scrubbed paintwork and tidy vegetable gardens; others were less well-kept, lapped by long grass with higgledy-piggledy piles of firewood toppling at the side, yet still charming. Even the odd ugly spot, such as a dilapidated block of apartments squatting toad-like amid the green, could not detract from the magical look of the place. And somehow it seemed familiar to Helen, though she couldn’t work out why at first. And then it came to her.

  “Remember that book Irina once sent me for my birthday?” she said to her mother. “The Tale of Prince Ivan, the Firebird, and Gray Wolf?”

  “Yes,” said her mother. “How could I forget? You were only six, and I remember thinking that it was obvious Irina didn’t have kids as it was a strange story to pick for a child that age. I thought it might give you nightmares.”

  “I was scared, but I still loved it,” said Helen. “I loved everything about it, the story, the characters. But most of all I loved those pictures.”

  “Yes, you did,” said Therese cheerfully. “You practically wore them out, poring over them for hours. I remember you saying once that if you stared long enough, it would work like a spell and you’d fall right into those pictures.”

  “I was a weird little kid,” said Helen.

  “No. Just very imaginative.” Therese linked an arm with her daughter’s. “And here you are, chérie, fallen right into your book. How does that feel?”

  “Nice,” said Helen. She smiled. “Very nice, actually.” She hadn’t thought of the book in years; it had vanished somewhere in one of their moves, long ago. And yet now, in this place, she remembered the exact breathless feeling she’d had, as a young child, turning the pages of The Tale of Prince Ivan. “I think I’m going to like it here, Mam,” she said softly, using the half-French, half-English term for her mother that she’d called her from childhood.

  “Oh, I’m so glad,” her mother said. “So very glad. You were so subdued in Moscow that I feared I’d pushed you too hard. That I was selfish, dragging you so far away.”

  “No, Mam. Don’t think that. I wanted to come.”

  She had, very much. Not because she wanted particularly to see Russia, but because she was desperate to get away. Far away as possible from the old life, the old surroundings. Far away from the memories of that day. So what if it was not facing things, if it was running away from “confronting your issues”, as Simon had said? He’d always managed to make her feel like it was her fault, and never his.

  She jerked her attention back to her mother with an effort. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”

  Therese Clement pointed down the street they had just come to. “There’s that place Sergey was telling us about earlier. Looks like Fort Knox with all those high gates, doesn’t it? Makes you wonder what they’re hiding.”

  At that moment, a big black Mercedes nosed out of the high metal gates, heading down the road toward them with sinister grace and power that made Helen instantly think of a gangster’s cortège in a movie. Her mother stopped to watch, shamelessly curious, but Helen hurriedly walked on, pretending to be interested in someone’s garden. But as the car turned the corner, it came to a halt not far from her. She caught a glimpse of figures in the front: a chauffeur in a peaked cap and another man, younger, dark-haired. And in the rear passenger side, a face, framed for a moment in the window that had just opened: a hard young man’s face under slickly combed dark blond hair, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, broad shoulders in a smart jacket. She looked at him; he looked at her. He had the advantage of her, for she couldn’t see the expression in his eyes behind the dark glasses. For an instant, she thought he was about to speak, and she held her breath. But he didn’t. He turned away, the window whispered shut, and the car glided on.

  “Well, how about that,” said her mother, behind her. “Checking out the outsiders for future reference. I suppose they think they own this road. Can’t escape New Russia even in fairytale country.”

  “What do you mean?” said Helen, watching the car as it disappeared up the road. Her palms were prickling from the unexpected encounter.

  “Pure Moscow swagger, swollen with loads of dodgy money and enough arrogance to sink the Titanic. Well, so that was the famous Trinity heir.” She looked at her watch. “Anyway, darling, Irina’s going to be home any time now. Shall we head back?”

  *

  It was a shock to Helen, how much Irina had changed. She hadn’t seen her mother’s friend for years, and Irina was at least ten years older than Therese, but she looked every year of it now. She’d never been a large person but now she was actually thin, the sharply expressive lines of her face almost gaunt. Her pixie haircut had gone quite gray, she had taken up smoking, and the jacket of her tailored suit was smudged with ash. But what hadn’t changed was her personality; the blue eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses were as bright as ever, and her manner as direct and friendly as Helen remembered it.

  Over a simple but delicious dinner of smoked fish, omelet and salad, they talked about what had happened since they’d last seen each other. At least, Therese and Irina talked. For Helen soon realized the scenario she had feared wasn’t about to come true. Her mother must already have briefed Irina on her situation, because there were no questions about boyfriends or careers, just chit-chat about the trip, and how Helen was liking Russia so far, and so on. There was only one awkward moment, when Therese went to the bathroom and Irina said, “Sorry I missed you when you were in the States last year, honey.”

  It had been a holiday with Simon. The last. Trying to sound offhand, Helen said, “That’s okay. You were busy with that conference in Alaska. I understand.”

  “That was the first time you’d been back in ages, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Irina shot her a look. “Didn’t try to see your dad, I suppose?”

  Helen shook her head. Her father, Sam Byrd, an American special forces officer, had been divorced from Therese since Helen was five. After the divorce, she saw him hardly at all, because her mother took her back to Europe. She spent a few holidays with him on and off over the years, but never felt comfortable with him. It wasn’t just that he was a moody, taciturn man, and she was used to her lively, bright, communicative mother. It was also that she didn’t know how to draw him out; his silence only made her silent too. She endured the visits more than enjoyed them. She didn’t know what he felt. He never told her. They never had a real relationship, at least not the sort she had with her mother.

  Not that it hurt her. Long ago, she’d learned to deal with it. Except that she had recently seen the fear in
her mother’s eyes, when Helen was drifting for weeks in the gray world of unhappiness after that day. She had known what lay unspoken between them. The fear that Helen was turning into her father. You can’t help over-reacting to things, because you have a genetic predisposition to depression. That’s what Simon had said. Simon was good at turning banalities into unexpected weapons.

  Irina was looking quizzically at her. Helen mumbled, “Sorry, didn’t catch that.” Her mother had come back and she and Irina had been talking, but lost in her thoughts, Helen hadn’t heard a thing.

  “I was just telling your mother that I have to go chasing off to St Petersburg for a few days to follow up a lead. I’m sorry, I know I’m a terrible hostess, but –”

  “Don’t worry. We don’t mind at all,” Helen’s mother cut in. “Do we, Helen?” Helen shook her head. “We’ve got plenty to do around here, exploring,” Therese went on. “And when we need to go further afield, there’s Sergey and his taxi.”

  “He’s a good guy, you can trust him. Even if he does talk your ears off.”

  “We got a taste of that yesterday,” said Therese, smiling. “He told us all about the big news, about that Trinity case.”

  “Oh yes. The talk of the town it was for a while. Died down a bit recently as nothing much more has happened.”

  “We saw the Trinity heir today, actually. Looked a bit dodgy, didn’t he, Helen?”

  Helen shrugged. “We didn’t even speak to him.”

  “And if I were you, honey, I’d keep it that way,” said Irina.

  “Why?”

  “He just sounds like the kind of guy best kept away from,” said Irina firmly.

  Helen opened her mouth to argue but Therese said, “Never mind, it’s not important. Irina, you haven’t told us about your book, how’s it going?”

  Irina was instantly distracted. “Fantastic, though I haven’t finished it by a long shot yet. It’s much less academic than my other books, and my publisher’s got high hopes for it to reach a wider market.”

  “Ah, a bestseller then!”

  Irina smiled. “Let’s wait and see, huh? Anyway, it sure seems like it’s a book that was meant to be. You know how I was in Yaroslavl today? My mom’s family was originally from the Yaroslavl area and that’s where I heard the story that sparked it all off, years and years ago when I first visited Russia ...” She looked at them with a twinkle in her eye. “But maybe I’m boring you.”

  “Not at all,” Therese protested. “We want to hear all about it, don’t we, Helen?”

  She nodded, smiling. “Sure we do.”

  “Okay. So this is how it goes: a thousand years ago, Yaroslavl was a wild place known as Medvezhy Ugol, or Bears’ Corner, which was inhabited by a fierce tribe of river raiders who worshipped a bear-god. In the eleventh century Yaroslav the Wise, a Christian prince of Rostov, and one of the sons of the first king of Russia, Vladimir of Kiev, turned up to convert them and also to bring them under the control of his people. He was captured by the locals and a huge bear was set on him. They thought he’d die for sure. But the story goes that he wrestled the bear to the ground and killed it with his club. After that, they all fell at his feet and did what he wanted. Even now, the arms of the city feature a bear with a club over his shoulder. “

  “That’s a bit of a black joke, isn’t it?” observed Therese Clement.

  “You could say that. A paradox, too. Very Russian, actually. And that’s what started me thinking about the Russian attitude to bears – on the one hand it’s one of their most powerful national symbols. In myth the bear is seen both as brother and god, demon and helper; in fairytale and folklore he is Misha, friend and enemy: sometimes so close to humans as to adopt them, sometimes an implacable foe. But on the other hand, to this day the phrase bears’ corner means not only an actual forest area where bears roam, but also shorthand for a primitive sort of place. And then of course there are all the stories of real-life encounters, not only past but present, because there’s still a lot of bears in Russia.”

  Helen said, a little uneasily, “Are there any around here?” She remembered her father, in one of his few loquacious moments, telling her of a terrifying encounter he’d had with a grizzly while hiking in Yellowstone National Park with a friend, when they were teenagers. The friend had been badly mauled before Sam had managed to scare the bear off. It was the kind of story you never forgot, especially because it was one of the few stories Helen remembered her father ever telling her.

  Irina smiled. “I don’t think so. Certainly not in the little wood just past my house, honey. You can safely go for a walk there without any chance of coming nose to nose with any big bad wild animal. But there are bigger forests outside the town and it’s possible there are both wolves and bears, though they tend to keep to the deepest parts of the forest well away from people. But further north in Karelia there are big, dense forests, and lots of bears. I saw one myself there a few years ago. Very close, actually, about as close as here to the other side of the room.”

  Helen breathed, “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I just stopped and kept very still. The bear knew I was there, but he didn’t care. Looked at me for a moment then just turned and ambled away.” She paused. “It’s funny, but I wasn’t frightened at all. And yet I knew what he could have done to me if he chose. It was just – I can’t describe it. It was like seeing the spirit of the forest, the soul of this land. Absolutely unforgettable.”

  Chapter 3

  Helen woke the next morning to bright sunshine flooding the room. For a moment, confused by the unfamiliar surroundings and the ghostly outline of the silver birch through the thin curtains, she felt disoriented. Then she remembered. She was in Russia. In Uglich, at Irina’s place. And she’d had the best sleep she’d had in a very long time. Utterly dreamless, and perfectly restful. And the jumpiness of the day before had completely gone.

  Going downstairs after a shower, she found Irina and her mother deep in conversation over breakfast. A cheerful smell of warm bread and coffee filled the room. They both looked up and smiled when she came in.

  “Slept well?” said Irina.

  “Fabulous.”

  “Great. Now, honey, sit down. Here’s some coffee. Bread. Butter. And my own home-made forest berry jam.”

  Helen raised an eyebrow as she helped herself to the food. “Hey, Irina, I never pictured you as the jam-making sort!”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t, before. But here it’s different. Making jam. Growing vegetables. Gathering mushrooms and berries. Everyone does it here. I love walking too. There’s a lovely little stream in the wood right near here where I go to think, it’s my favorite place.”

  Therese shook her head. “Sounds like you’ve become a real country girl!”

  “I used to think I was one hundred percent urban, but I guess I was wrong. Never too old to learn, are you? And this country, it’s opened me up to new experiences. More than that – if you’ll excuse the psychobabble – it’s like I’ve found myself here. And I didn’t expect that at all. You see, I didn’t exactly have positive ideas about Russia when I was young. Mom’s family defected when she was a baby, and they just wanted to forget about the place and become American. And me, well, I didn’t really care. It was only when Mom died a few years ago that I decided I should at least come and visit, have a look. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “How do you get on with the locals?” asked Helen, thinking she hadn’t heard Irina mention any Russian friends.

  “Normailno, as they say here. Fine. But we don’t live in each other’s pockets and that’s good, I’m not keen on social stuff, I’ve always been perfectly happy in my own company. And I’m very busy anyway. Besides, I don’t kid myself that I can ever hope to be a real Russian, despite Mom’s background and the fact I speak the language pretty fluently. I’m an American born and bred, plus Dad was sixth-generation American and I never try to deny that.”

  “But you don’t use your full name, do you?” said
Therese. “Sergey said you preferred to use Bayeva here.”

  “That’s right. Simmons is on my visa but I don’t use it. Just makes it easier. Bayeva is a familiar sound. And it is Mom’s family name after all. In fact, usually I introduce myself as Irina Petrovna Bayeva. Because Dad’s name was Peter. I’m Peter’s daughter – so, my patronymic would be Petrovna. People feel they’ve got a bit of a handle on me then, even if I’m still that eccentric foreign lady who writes about bears.”

  Soon after, Sergey came to pick up Irina, and she left them with all kinds of last-minute instructions. “Help yourself to whatever you want,” she said, as she finally got into the taxi. She looked up at Helen with a cheeky smile. “But whatever you do, don’t get on the wrong side of domovoi.”

  “Dom who? Is he a neighbor?”

  Irina laughed. “Closer than that, hon. Much closer. He came with the house. Have a look at the books on my shelf, and you’ll find out. See you.”

  And she was off, a grinning Sergey tooting the horn in jaunty farewell. He was clearly in on the joke too.

  “Tell you what,” said Therese, as they went back in, “I was a bit worried about Irina at first, she’s so thin I thought she must be ill and hadn’t told us … and all that mystical stuff about finding herself here, that just isn’t like the old Irina. She always used to scoff at that kind of thing. But now I can see it’s just that she’s fallen madly in love. With a place, not a person, that’s all. And all her passionately obsessive nature has gone into it, as per usual.”

  “Plus remember back in L.A.,” Helen said, “she never went for walks and she used to eat a lot of junk food. It’s like she’s gone on a health kick here. That’s probably why she’s lost all that weight.”

  “Yes, and going back to smoking, which isn’t so good. But I guess here where people smoke like chimneys, it must bring the craving back. Anyway, I’m glad that she seems happy in her own funny way. Pity though she hasn’t met some nice man to …” She broke off, looking shamefaced. “Okay, forget I said that. Engaging mouth before brain. Sorry.”