Trinity: The Koldun Code (Book 1)

by Sophie Masson

  “A beer would be fantastic,” he said, smiling, and followed her in. She was so aware of his nearness she was sure he could sense it, but he seemed perfectly at ease.

  “Lovely place,” he said, looking around the room, as she pulled two beers out of the fridge. “Feels like a real home.”

  “Yes,” said Helen, “it does.” It was a singularly uninspiring answer, she knew that, but she couldn’t help it. Away from the woods, and the troubling atmosphere of their meeting, she should have felt more normal. But she didn’t. Far from it. She took a swig of beer. “Irina’s been coming here for years now.”

  “But this is your first time. It must seem strange to you.”

  “In a way. But I thought it would feel stranger than it does, actually. I mean being in Russia. You hear all this stuff about it, don’t you?” She saw his expression. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude ...”

  He smiled. “It’s okay. I know what you mean. Truth is, nothing is simple here. And yet everything is.”

  She was struck by his words. For wasn’t that precisely what had happened today? Something so magically simple it made her heart sing. Yet so complicated her head spun at the thought of it.

  “Helen,” he went on, “may I ask you something?”

  She swallowed. “Sure.”

  “What were you doing when I – when I tried my best to skittle you?”

  “What I was doing?” she repeated. “Oh, you mean – the magpie. On the path. I thought it was hurt. But it flew away. It must have.”

  “I suppose so,” he said, gravely.

  “Didn’t you see it?”

  He shook his head. “It all happened so fast.”

  “It did,” said Helen. Their eyes met. Hastily, she added, “I saw it yesterday too. When we arrived. I knew it was the same magpie,” she explained, seeing his raised eyebrow, “because of the tag. Around its leg, that is. Funny coincidence, right?”

  “Maybe. But you know what Albert Einstein once said about coincidence?”

  She shook her head.

  “Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous,” he said.

  She glanced at him. “I’m not sure that I …” she began, uncomfortably, but he laughed, and drained the last of his beer. “It’s okay. Just a cool saying. Right?”

  “Right,” she agreed, a little uncertainly.

  He got up. “Look, Helen, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to be going. My godfather’s arriving at mine any time now and we’ve got to talk business. Really wish I could stay a while longer, but I can’t.”

  “Oh. Sure. Of course,” she said, scrambling up in her turn and following him to the door. There, he stopped and said, “And look, I’m so sorry about before, about sending you flying, I mean.” His eyes were on her face. “Hope you won’t hold it against me too much.”

  She choked out, “Oh no. No. Really. It’s … fine.”

  He smiled. “Good. Because I’d really like to continue this conversation. Very soon. If you don’t mind.”

  “No. Yes. I mean, I’d – I’d like that too.”

  “Awesome. Look, I’ll be tied up for a few hours now. But can I call you later?”

  Her throat was dry. “Sure.” She gave him her number.

  “See you again soon, then, I hope,” he said, as he walked to his bike.

  “Yes,” she murmured. “See you.”

  His face lit up with an impish smile. “And keep an eye out for that enigmatic bird. I think it brought us good luck.” And before she could answer, he roared off up the street, waving a hand in farewell.

  When the motorbike had turned the corner and disappeared, she went slowly back into the house. The clock was reading 11.45. Her mother would be back soon. She’d promised to make lunch, and she hadn’t even half an inkling what. There was no time now to make anything hot. A big salad, maybe, with bits and pieces from the garden and the cupboards. Mechanically, she began gathering ingredients together: green leaves of various sorts, preserved beetroot, onions, gherkins and olives. She boiled some eggs and a couple of potatoes, made a dressing of mayonnaise and mustard and a splash of vinegar, set the table and cut some bread. But all the time, she couldn’t stop thinking of him. He stirred her in a way that scared her and thrilled her. And now the muted colors of her world had suddenly acquired a golden tinge, warm and unfamiliar as the patina of this room.

  Her mother came back clutching a plastic bag full of bits and pieces she’d bought at the riverside craft market, and full of chatter about her morning, to which Helen listened with only half an ear. Therese soon noticed her abstraction, and said, “And what did you do, darling, apart from prepare this scrumptious lunch?”

  “Went for a walk in the wood.”

  “Oh. Good. Was it nice there?”

  “Yes. Lots of flowers and so on.” She hesitated. But there was no point in hiding it. “Oh, and guess what? I met Alexey Makarov.”

  Therese looked puzzled. “Who’s that?”

  “You know – the guy from Trinity.”

  Therese stared. “You mean that young man we saw in the Mercedes the other day? Was he on his own?”

  Helen nodded. “When I was in the woods, walking – he came tearing through on his motorbike. I was startled and fell over. I thought I’d twisted my ankle so he – he gave me a lift back.”

  Therese gave her a sharp glance, but all she said was, “I see. And how’s your ankle now?”

  “It’s absolutely fine. Not even bruised. I just fell heavily, that’s all.” A pause. “I invited him in for a beer.”

  Therese raised an eyebrow. “Okay. I see.”

  “He’s nice, Mam. Much nicer than I expected.” Nice, she thought, her skin tingling. Such a dull ordinary word for a man who was anything but that.

  “I see,” repeated Therese. Her calm tone was belied by the anxiety in her eyes. “So. Are you going to see him again?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”

  “Do you think that’s wise, darling? I mean, what Irina said …”

  “It’s just gossip. She doesn’t know him.”

  “Neither do you,” said her mother.

  “I can’t keep hiding from people, from life,” Helen flashed out. “Or is that what you think I should do?”

  “Of course not! Sweetheart, all I’m saying is please be careful. People like that – I mean,” she hurried on, seeing her daughter’s expression, “from that kind of background, used to lots of money, used to having whatever they want – they see life differently to other people. And you – you have been through such a hard time. I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

  “I know, Mam.” Helen laid a hand on her mother’s arm. “Don’t worry. It’ll be okay. And anyway, I may not end up seeing him again.”

  Her mother’s expression said she thought that was highly unlikely. But she nodded, and to Helen’s relief turned the conversation to the subject of the market she’d been to that morning.

  “It was really interesting. Amazing display of all sorts of crafts. Bought up quite a storm as you can see.” She gestured at the collection of little lacquered boxes, nesting dolls, painted wooden objects and embroidered cloths laid out on the table.

  “They’re so gorgeous,” Helen said, picking up one of the boxes, painted with a winter scene.

  “Yes. It was hard to choose. There were so many nice things there.”

  “Are they still open this afternoon? I might go take a look.” She’d rather be out of the house if Alexey did call. Holding a conversation with her mother hovering anxiously would be too awkward, and she was jumpy enough as it was.

  “I think they’re open all day. Do you need me to come too? To translate, I mean?”

  “No! I mean, no thanks, Mam,” she added, hastily. “I should have a go at doing things myself. If I can’t find the right words, I’ll mime or something.” She hesitated, then added, “And, Mam, I know I’ve been – out of it – but I’m much better now. Really I am. And since being here – well, I feel even b
etter. Do you see?”

  “I do,” said Therese, with a little smile. “That sparkle in your eyes is back. And I’m so glad. I don’t mean to be a worry wart, sweetheart, I just …”

  “I know, Mam,” said Helen, kissing her mother on the cheek. “I know.”

  *

  The craft market consisted of two long rows of covered stalls in the big town park, close by the river-boat quay. When Helen arrived, it was thronged with tourists from two cruise ships that had just docked. They were picking over the items in the stalls, closely but not obtrusively watched by the sellers. Judging from what she could hear, one lot seemed to be mainly Russian, the other mainly American, with a good sprinkling of other nationalities – French, British, Canadians, Japanese, Antipodeans. Helen soon gave up any thought of buying souvenirs and instead sat on a bench to people-watch. She hadn’t done that for quite a while.

  It was so funny, she thought, how when they were in a group, people behaved as if they were following some national script written by Stereotype Central. Russians were impassive, made quick decisions and didn’t go in for chit-chat. Americans marched up confidently, showered cheerful greetings on the sellers, picked things up and turned them over, then asked complicated questions the sellers couldn’t understand with their limited English. Canadians were humbler, but more impulsive. The French cast disdainful eyes over the displays, as if to say it was all far beneath their notice; then walked away with a big haul, discreetly bought when you weren’t looking. The British hummed and hahed and looked like they were thinking of buying up the entire stall but rarely bought more than one thing. Australians tried to bargain, not very successfully. The Japanese never bargained but paid first price.

  She was so absorbed that the tug on her sleeve startled her. She turned. Someone else had come to sit on the bench. An old lady, frail, birdlike, with cloudy blue eyes and a flowery scarf over thick silver hair. She was carrying bunches of lily of the valley. And a clear plastic bag half-full of small painted wooden figures.

  “Good day – I mean, dobree dyeyn,” said Helen, awkwardly.

  The old woman nodded, acknowledging the greeting. She reached into the plastic bag and handed Helen a tiny wooden figure of a girl in traditional dress. Simply but strikingly carved and painted, it sat snugly in the palm of Helen’s hand, and she loved it at once. She looked at the old woman, rummaging in her mind for the right word. “Er – krasivee,” she finally remembered. Beautiful.

  The old lady beamed, showing a row of rather crooked teeth. Lifting a thin hand to Helen’s hair, she touched it very lightly. “Krasnee,” she said. Red.

  Helen remembered reading somewhere that the two words used to be identical, and that “red” was synonymous with “beautiful”, so that Red Square’s name long predated Communism, and the “red corner” was where you kept the family icons. She knew the old lady was paying her a compliment, and she smiled. “Spasiba.” Thank you.

  The old lady nodded in a pleased sort of way.

  Helen pulled out her wallet, and started to take out some notes. “Skolko?” How much?

  The old woman’s glance flickered over her face, and Helen had the sudden unnerving feeling that the pale, cloudy, half-blind eyes actually saw right into her. Deep into her. The old lady growled, “Nyet, nyet,” and pushed the notes away.

  Helen said, helplessly, “You mean – it’s not enough? Or it’s not for sale?”

  “Nyet,” she repeated, loudly and sharply, “Nyet,” so that several people turned around to look what the commotion was. Helen colored. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand … do you want it back?” She held out the figure. The old woman made an explosive sound, turned her back on Helen and went marching off through the crowd without a backward glance.

  A nearby stall-keeper, a young woman with a friendly face under an ash-blonde perm, had seen the little scene. Helen caught her eye. “Izvenityeh – excuse me – do you speak any English?”

  “Choo-Choot. Little bit,” explained the young woman, thumb and forefinger showing how much.

  “That lady – who is she?”

  “That Olga Sergeyevna Feshina. She is widow. She have one daughter in Yaroslavl.” She jerked her head at Helen’s hair. “Child of daughter, she has hair same you.”

  “She seemed like a nice lady.” She held up the figurine. “And a good artist.”

  The young woman shot her a look. She did not respond directly to what Helen had said, but instead observed, casually, “People say she is zhanarka.” She saw Helen’s puzzled expression and added, “This means, woman who knows.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

  “She knows,” the woman said, patiently. “She know to heal. Also, she might see who you marry. If you get money. And more.”

  Helen stared. “You’re not saying, she’s some kind of witch?”

  The other woman’s face closed up, more at Helen’s tone than anything. She said, indifferently, “I tell only what people say,” and turned away to serve a customer. Helen was dismissed, and knew it, and muttering, “Thanks,” she walked away with as much dignity as she could muster, the little carving still in her hand. As she left the market and turned down the river path that led to Saint Dimitri, she couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Of course she didn’t believe in witches, not any more at least, not since childhood. But the memory of Mrs. Feshina’s expression as she looked into her eyes was still vivid. What if the figurine she’d given her was some kind of voodoo thing? What if she was being jinxed? She half-wanted to throw it away in the bushes. But that was too stupid. It was lovely, and there was no way it could possibly do her any harm. To think otherwise – well, that way lay madness. She pushed the figurine into her bag. Maybe she’d ask Alexey about it. If he called ... but maybe he’d have thought better of it by now. For what had happened in the woods – it was something out of time. Like a dream. Something marvelous, but that you couldn’t fit into ordinary life.

  She was by the river now, not far from Saint Dimitri’s. Up close like this, it was even more enchanting, with its five sky-blue onion domes studded with golden stars, its deep red walls and towers elaborately iced with white pilasters, cornices and carvings. She might as well go in and have a look, she thought, if only to get away from her restless thoughts and from the equally restless clouds of big fat mosquitoes under the trees, dive-bombing her mercilessly. There was a tour party waiting to go in, so she joined it.

  The cathedral had looked quite big from the outside, but just as with St Basil’s in Moscow, that was deceptive, for the space inside was much smaller. Warm and close, it was very different to what she was used to in the great cathedrals of Western Europe, with their soaring spaces and light falling through stained-glass windows. Here it felt much less spacious, much more dim, yet color glowed everywhere, from the frescoed walls and the iconostasis, or wall of icons, with its rows of saints, angels, prophets, apostles and Jesus and Mary, Mother of God. Their sad, steady eyes followed Helen around; their very stillness seemed living, breathing.

  There were no statues. No pews, because congregations never sat in services, but stood or knelt. No altar to be seen either – that was behind the iconostasis, in the middle of which was the golden door through which only the priest may enter. For in front of the iconostasis, the guide told them, was this world. Behind it, the other world.

  Now the guide said, “As you know, this is the very spot where little Prince Dimitri, last son of Tsar Ivan Grozny, you say Ivan the Terrible, was murdered. He was only nine years old when this happened.” She took them to a series of wall paintings in the nave, which told the whole story somewhat in the manner of a comic strip. There he was, playing by the Volga with his friends. And there was someone creeping up on him. And there the poor kid was, lying on the ground, with a blade in his throat and blood spurting from his wounds.

  “Nobody can say exactly who did this,” said the guide. “Many say it was his uncle Boris Godunov. He was regent after Ivan died. He send investigators, they say D
imitri stab himself in epileptic fit. But nobody believe this. People in Uglich then, they are sure Godunov order this murder, and they rise up. But maybe is someone else. Nobody knows. What is certain is Boris become tsar after Dimitri’s death. But Boris Godunov was not long tsar. After his death, many, many problems. We call this Time of Troubles.”

  A wag in the party said, “How do you Russians tell that time of trouble apart from all the other ones you’ve had?”

  The guide serenely ignored this. “Polish kings, they say Dimitri not really dead, they say he hiding in their country, they bring false prince and try to put him on throne of Russia. There is much, much trouble and war. But all the time, real Saint Dimitri here, in this place, and Russian peoples know this. His body stay sweet and uncorrupted, and that is why he is saint.” She led the way back to the main part of the church, and pointed at the big bell that hung there on a stand. “This bell rang signal for rebellion that started in Uglich after Dimitri died. So Boris Godunov, he order that clapper of bell be cut out, like man’s tongue, and bell is exiled to Siberia.”

  There was a gasp, half-amazed, half-amused, from the audience. The guide smiled. “Yes, this really happen. Bell only come back hundreds of years later. It has new clapper now.” She gently lifted the clapper, letting it softly hit the side of the bell. Once. Twice. Three times.

  The bell’s voice was softer than Helen had expected, given its size. Deep, but soft and sad, the sound reaching right into your bones as it reverberated in the hushed church. Helen suddenly thought of what Sergey had said: In Russia, we say churches are alive. She understood what he meant now. Oh, I hope you were happy here, poor little Dimitri, she thought. I hope that before you died and became a saint that there were lots of ordinary happy days, sunlight on the river, birds singing in the trees, games to play, trees to climb, honey cakes to eat, not too many mosquitoes, and no bad dreams. I hope you never knew what was coming.

  As she walked out of the church, her phone rang. It was Alexey. On the phone, his voice was even deeper.