by Kim Wilkins
Rosa thought that clarity might be precisely what she needed.
A dream at the edge of slumber.
A fair-haired girl. Pale blue eyes that turned to him, then deepened to the dark colour of fathomless oceans. A shock to his heart.
“Rosa?” he muttered, half-waking.
“Shh…I’m here,” she said.
“How long have I been asleep?” he asked, sitting up. A piece of material slipped off his shoulder, and Rosa scooped it up quickly.
“What’s that?” he asked.
“You looked cold.” She tied it around her waist and smiled. “Did you have sweet dreams?”
He frowned, remembering a dream only moments past which had now fled from memory. “I can’t remember.” He met her eyes. What he did remember was the nightmare of last night’s revelations. Her vanity, her stubbornness: two qualities he had always adored about her, but which now stood between them.
“You’ve only been asleep a few hours. Get some more rest if you like.”
He ran his hand through his hair and yawned. “I’m fine. You?”
“I’m eager to get going. The sun’s nearly up.”
“Where are we going, then?” Daniel asked.
Rosa smiled cautiously. “You won’t argue with me about it?”
“Would there be any point?” he asked.
She shook her head. “We’re heading north-east,” she said. “We’re going to see the Snow Witch.”
THIRTY-THREE
What in the two worlds is she doing?
Rosa Kovalenka has taken my raven and is heading for precisely the place I don’t want her to go!
I pace and I curse, and Totchka draws back from me, frightened. Why is Rosa doing this? Doesn’t she know she is mine to control? My bogatyra, the heroine of my story. I put her on this journey, I dressed her in red, I furnished her with the secret weapons. Foolish, foolish girl.
Or am I a fool? An old fool, a desperate fool, a weak fool?
Totchka is alarmed. I’ve told her to play with her seashells outside, but she prefers to sit on her bed with her dolls, eyes turning up to me repeatedly, checking that I am not going to break the dishes and bite the table. I must collect myself. I must finally tell you why the Snow Witch can’t have the Golden Bear. I have told you the rest of my story, there’s no use in keeping the last from you.
You knew, I suppose, that it was me? That “Secret Ambassador” was one of my many appellations? You live long enough, you gather more names, as though identities proliferate the way memories do. It was I who negotiated with Olga, with Mokosha, with Sofya and Aleksandr. It was I who worked so hard for Skazki, to keep us attached to Mir by blood. The demons and spirits were too stupid, the old gods were too lazy. I alone, deathless wanderer, was suited for the task.
After Aleksandr’s hasty half-promises, I resolved on spending more time in Mir, but away from court. The noble classes, after all, were a fraction of the population. I had to accept that I had done all I could in keeping Mokosha’s blood on the throne, and now my real work was out among the people, encouraging them to pick up their old ways. I acknowledged, too, that Christ’s religion was never going to leave Russia, but I had noticed how often the pagan and the Christian sat easily side by side in rural practices. A wolf-eyed sorcerer from Skazki offered little in the way of persuasion for Mir people, but a holy fool, who preached salvation along with superstition, did.
I first settled in the Tobolsk region, where I met a woman who needed a father for her three small children. I took her dead husband’s name for convenience. It was Grigory Efamovich Rasputin.
I loved the peasant way of life. I loved its simplicity and its carnal nature. I reconnected with my baseness out there. I plugged as many women as would have me, I ate and drank to excess, I rolled in muddy puddles and worshipped Mother Moist Earth with my prick. When I grew bored with my new family, I began to wander in my high-cut peasant boots, with my loose shirt and long black coat, carrying a crooked staff. I wandered for years, and I met many good Mir folk, and I returned to them their old superstitions. I even spent time with Church hierarchs, learning as much as I could about this earthly religion and finding areas of doctrine which overlapped into mysticism, so I could later exploit them. I used my magic for miracles, for healing and enchantments, and tales of my passing reverberated around the countryside.
Word of my powers travelled far, and finally made it back to St Petersburg, and to the Tsar Nikolai.
I was not unaware of his family, of course. I still had my magic mirror to watch them. In the entire time that Mokosha’s blood was in Mir, and despite the intermarriages with other countries, that blood never flowed outside of Russia. It couldn’t bear to leave its Mother. All I needed was a little Mokosha, warm in a beating Mir heart, to keep the worlds from slipping apart permanently. At least Aleksandr’s promise had ensured that.
Two of Nikolai’s children had it: the youngest daughter, Anastasia, and Aleksei, the little boy. Aleksei had inherited something else in his blood: it wouldn’t clot properly. Little accidents became huge catastrophes. The boy was terribly ill, seemed doomed to an early grave.
Still, I did not force my hand. This time, I wanted to come to court as an invited guest, not as a sinister intruder.
When I came to St Petersburg, it was at the behest of one of the Tsaritsa’s closest friends, Anya Vyrubova. Anya was interested in mysticism, in prophets, mesmerists, saints, clairvoyants, rogues and madmen. She was a pretty moon-faced woman, doe-eyed and sweetly smiling, although there was something vain and vacant about her. She found for me a little room, and made sure I wanted for nothing. I was comfortable there for a time.
St Petersburg was a thriving modern city. Motor cars shared the bridges with horses and carts; electric street lamps lit the roads radiating out from the admiralty; the finest homes always had a telephone. Anya paid me handsomely for a few magic tricks, and from there my reputation spread. I was besieged by supplicants: they wanted miracles, blessings, prophecies. Magic is physically demanding and, at first, I would lie exhausted on a shelf of the bathhouse after a night’s work.
Then I grew canny. I gave very few of them what they really wanted. They were mostly happy to be divested of their money in return for some mumbling incantations and vague platitudes about God.
Those who couldn’t pay in money paid in other ways. Sweets, alcohol, clocks, flowers, fish, anything. Some women, bored with their upper-class lives and drawn to my raw, bestial nature, paid with their bodies happily. Repeatedly.
I was humping one such woman, a baroness with stout ankles, on my creaking iron bed, when Anya burst into the room. She was flushed and her eyes sparkled. Without apology, she said, “Grigory! Exciting news! The Tsaritsa has asked to meet you!”
Anya and I were received in the Formal Reception Room of the palace at Tsarskoe Selo and told to wait. Anya sat on an upholstered French chair, while I circled the gold parquet floor. Seven huge windows invited in broad streams of sunlight. The walls, overlaid with white marble, seemed to glow. I paused in my pacing, gazing out the window over Aleksander Park. It was only October, but a light snow had fallen the previous night. Yellow leaves loosened and dived in the breeze, and with the sun glinting on the snow the effect was one of silvers and golds, as though the park was an extension of the extravagant grandeur inside.
“No need to be nervous, Grigory,” Anya said. I hadn’t realised she had come to stand at my side.
“I’m not nervous,” I said to her with a smile. “I’m excited.”
The door flew open, then thudded closed behind an imposing woman. Anya hurried to her side, offering her a kiss. “My dear Sunny,” she said. “I have brought the holy man to you.”
The woman turned to me. Her strong German face was beautiful, her blue eyes imperious, her red-gold hair gleamed in the sunshine. This was the Tsaritsa, Alix of Hesse-Darmstadt. The nickname “Sunny” had never suited anyone less. I never saw her brow without rainclouds upon it. I never saw her hands
still, or her feet in one place. Even on this, our first meeting, I could sense a great disquiet in her. It wasn’t my way to humble myself before these people, and I sensed anyway that I would make inroads with this woman if I avoided the simpering servility which kept all others at a distance from her. I walked forward, seized her elbows and enfolded her into an embrace.
“Mama,” I said, “how you must have suffered with your little boy.”
Sunny took a step back from me, alarmed but not angry. “Yes, I have. But how could you know?”
“I haven’t told him anything,” Anya interjected quickly.
“Your son,” I said, “he suffers a bleeding disease.”
Sunny pressed her hand to her mouth. “That is impossible for you to know. We have kept it secret from all but our closest circle.”
“It is true though,” I said.
Sunny lowered herself into a chair, her elbow resting on the ebony table beside her. “How can he know that?” she mumbled. “Anya, are you sure you didn’t tell him?”
“I said nothing of Aleksei to him,” Anya said, her round eyes agog. “I am as amazed as you.”
I knelt in front of her, boldly taking her hands. “I know more than that, Mama,” I said. “I know the trouble on your heart is guilt, that you believe Aleksei’s illness is your fault. The bleeding is in your family, isn’t it?”
Sunny’s hand went to her breast, and she began to breathe rapidly.
“But I will tell you this now. The child will outgrow his illness. By the time he is a man, he will be well.”
Sunny met my gaze, and her eyes were damp and her lips were trembling. “How can you say that will be so?”
I rose, smoothing my tangled hair. A few crumbs dropped out on the shoulder of my rough shirt. “I will make it so. If you will allow me to help you.” I returned to the window, letting my promise sink in. From the corner of my eye, I could see Anya urging the Tsaritsa to stand, to approach me. I waited, and she came.
“My son,” she said, “has just learned to walk. He stumbles and falls often. It makes me mad with worry. As though blackbirds in my head are flapping to be free.” Here, she pressed her hand against her temple. “This morning, he hit his knee. It has already swollen hugely, and he has hardly stopped crying.”
“Then bring him to me,” I said, “and we shall see how it goes.”
Sunny hurried to the door, throwing it open and bustling out. From a distance, I could hear her bellowing, “Maria! Bring Aleksei at once!”
Anya fell to her knees and touched my hand. “Grigory, you are a prophet.”
“Stand up, Anya. We are old friends.”
“I feel humbled. I have always been your most ardent supporter, but I did not know your gifts were so far-ranging.”
I pulled her to her feet. “Now, now, Anya. Enough of that.”
Anya clutched at my fingers still, shaking her head. “Do you not see? If you can heal Aleksei, you will be the most powerful man in all of Russia.”
Precisely then, the scampering of feet rushed down the corridor towards us, and a little white dog raced into the room, with a little fair-haired girl in pursuit.
“Trushka, no!” she declared, hunting the dog to his hiding place under a table and firmly wagging her finger at him. “Bad dog.” Then she looked up, saw me, and her jaw dropped. “Oh, my!”
I was puzzled. I knew that this was the Grand Duchess Anastasia, all of four years old but already remarkable for her pretty, mischievous face. Why should she react to my presence with such surprise?
“What is it, little girl?” I asked.
The dog ran past her and back into the corridor. Anastasia glanced after him only briefly, turning her gaze back to me. “I dreamed of you last night, sir,” she said, “and now you are real.”
I smiled, hoping the gesture would diminish the oddness of my wolf-like eyes. “Was it a nice dream?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. You were trying to steal my bear.”
“Your bear?”
“I’ll show you.”
She raced off and I turned to Anya, feigning amused puzzlement. It was not odd to me that Anastasia should dream of me and the Golden Bear, especially the night before my arrival. Her Skazki blood gave her many gifts that she would probably never recognise or use.
In a few moments she was back, panting and flushed, with the dog scurrying at her heels. She presented for my inspection the Golden Bear. I took it carefully from her.
“She’s very beautiful,” I said. “Where did you get her?”
“She belongs to my family, but I love her the most and so she stays in my room. Though Aleksei stole her the other day, but I just stole her right back.”
I was stroking the bear’s familiar belly when Sunny returned, stern-faced.
“Get that dog out of here! You imp, I’ve told you no dogs in the reception room.”
Anastasia collected the dog in her arms, and started, “But, Mama, this man—” Then she hushed when the nurse stole into the room with little Aleksei in her arms. The child was crying softly, hoarsely.
“I’ll go, Mama,” she said, leaving quickly and closing the door behind her.
I placed the bear on the table, and moved forward to lift Aleksei from the nurse’s arms. She shrank from me, frightened. The child, however, relaxed as soon as he was in my embrace. No magic there. Sunny and the nurse were nervy women, always anxious and over solicitous. With me, Aleksei merely felt that somebody strong and calm was in charge.
“Sit with me, my child,” I said, lowering myself to the floor with my legs stretched out in front of me. I laid Aleksei across my lap and peeled back the bandage around his swollen knee. The blood was collecting under the skin. Fortunately it was only a minor bump, but a major injury would easily result in the boy bleeding to death. I understood the Tsaritsa’s anxiety. It wasn’t just for herself: it was for her country. Aleksei’s death would leave Nikolai without a male heir.
I was still not sure what I would do, though I felt certain that somehow the sympathy of my Skazki nature, and this child’s Skazki blood, would provide the key. I placed my hands on the swelling, and Aleksei whimpered but didn’t flinch. Beneath my fingers, I could feel Mokosha’s blood, strong and magical. The Mir weakness, which Sunny had introduced into Aleksei’s body, was trying to drag it down.
The first thing I had to do was to ensure that the child wouldn’t die while I performed my magic. He was very young, and there was no telling what effect powerful magic might have on him. I hummed softly, rocking him back and forth, preparing to store his soul outside of his body to protect it from whatever physical demands I had to place on it to heal him. There were no dogs, ducks or rats nearby. Ordinarily, I would have preferred to send his soul into another warm being, but on this day, I decided to send it to the Golden Bear.
With a breath and a muttered incantation, the boy’s soul flew away, speared into the bear, and sat waiting to return. Aleksei still cried and whimpered, and I understood that an inanimate object like the bear could not hold a life completely within its dark confines, that the layer of the soul most closely linked to the physical had to stay behind in a warm body and continue to suffer. Suffering I could allow, but I would not allow this child to die.
I cupped the swelling on his knee with my palm, and closed my eyes and forced my mind down into the blood. Dark and red and moving around me like a powerful river. In it, I searched for Mokosha, for the familiar shadowy intensity of her magic; I pulled the shadows together, creating a tide, and with the tide, I pulled the blood back, out of the swelling, into his veins and heart. Below my hand, the lump began to shrink, Aleksei’s sobs eased and his little body drooped and cooled. I had gone too far; I let go. His breath caught on a hook. Mine too. Then he breathed again, and warmth returned to his skin. I pressed him against me and hummed his soul back into his body, and he was restored to himself. He sat up and looked around, palming tears from his face.
“Mama?” he said.
My dealings with the Tsaritsa, indeed with the whole family, continued for many years after that. Every time Aleksei injured himself, I was summoned. If I hadn’t heard from them in a long time, I would send some subtle magic through the air, and arrange a little mishap, a small crisis to keep them dependent on me. I took an apartment on Gorokhovaia Street, close to the train to Tsarskoe Selo. Sunny learned early to keep my visits secret, insisting that the children’s nurse greet me as though I was her special visitor. The little girls adored me, though Aleksei never quite warmed to me. Perhaps he associated me too closely with his times of pain and suffering. The Golden Bear became his favourite object, though Anastasia fought him for it fiercely. I think he loved it as a peaceful keep for his soul in healing times, as well as for the blood memory of his magical heritage.
Secrecy or not, word soon began to circulate that I was close to the Tsar and Tsaritsa. Some took it to mean that I was God’s own angel on earth, and they flocked to me for incantations and spells (though they called them prayers and prophecies), never leaving me alone in my little apartment for a moment. The opinions of some, however, were vastly lower. I had too much influence with the Tsar, they said. I was leading Russia into ruin, they said. My advice was being adopted over the advice of other, more qualified men, they said. Ah, what did I care what they said? They wanted what was best for Russia, standing at a narrow window of history which they hadn’t the prescience to see beyond. I wanted what was best for the two worlds of Mir and Skazki, for all time stretching away to forever’s edge.
I told him, and I told him, and I told him again. I said to Nikolai that he must not send Russia to the war. I feared something, something which I had started to feel but was beyond words. There were only two children left with Skazki blood…what if they should die?
