by Kim Wilkins
He ignored my advice. How different things might have been had he listened to me.
When Nikolai came to me, when the Great War was already in full, terrible flight, it was late and I was sleeping. The doorbell rang and I ignored it, thinking it was another petitioner too stupid and self-absorbed to realise that even holy men sleep. When it rang again, I felt a prickle across my shoulders, a distinct feeling that I should go down and let this petitioner in.
I had been drinking heavily at the bathhouse before I’d come home to bed. Perhaps I was still drunk. The smell of cabbage and sheep’s cheese hung heavily in the rooms of my apartment. I went to the door in my nightshirt to find the Tsar on the other side. He was dressed in a dark coat, with a fur hat pulled down over his ears. Nikolai was a slight man, pale and with hooded eyes. He had arrived incognito.
“Yes, Father, what is it?” I said, drawing him inside and closing the door behind him.
“I need to speak with you, Grigory,” he replied.
“Then come upstairs and we’ll be comfortable.” I led him to the living room, and lit a dozen candles which cast shadows on the grimy walls. The electric lamp was not working, and had been junked onto my desk along with bent icons, copper coins and a dozen old apples. Alcohol had dulled my sense of dignity: I wallowed in my own filth.
Nikolai pulled out a cigarette and lit it on one of the candles, before sitting in the heavy oak chair I offered him. He crossed his right ankle over his left knee—there was something effeminate about the gesture—and blew a stream of smoke into the air. Shadows hung under his eyes, and his small white hands trembled almost imperceptibly.
He was silent for a long time, watching me with his sad gaze. Then, finally, he said, “Russia is seething.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I hear tales, and I don’t know whether to believe them.”
“Tales of me? Or tales of Russia’s anger?”
“The tales of Russia’s anger I know to believe. Human life has become too cheap, and yet Sunny still insists on fresh flowers every week brought by train from the Crimea. I can’t stop her. I can’t stop the tide that’s rising. If only we could win this damnable war.” He stopped, caught his breath. His lips twitched downwards, and I realised he was trying not to cry. “No, it’s the tales of you I have come to ask about.”
“Go on.”
“That you have known my family before. Impossibly, for you appear to be only a man of forty.”
I dipped my head and pinched the bridge of my nose, thoughtful. How could he have heard this? “From whom do you hear these tales?”
“From my daughter Anastasia, who dreams of you often.”
“They are but the dreams of a child.”
“The dreams of a young woman, Grigory, because it is her approaching womanhood that has brought on this power of prophetic dreams which troubles me so greatly.” He removed his hat and placed it on the seat beside him, and ran a hand through his hair. “How do you explain the engraving she found? You and Aleksandr? Or the old watercolour of your face, in the crowd behind Ekaterina the Great?”
I held my tongue on my opinion of Ekaterina, the fat German bully. Her insatiable lusts had nearly bred Mokosha’s blood out of the family line.
“Well, it must be true then,” I said. “I have known your family before.”
“Anastasia said you helped Aleksandr. That the spirits of your magical homeland drove out Napoleon’s Grand Army.”
I understood, now, where the Tsar’s thoughts were tending. Much had changed since Aleksandr’s time: his broken promise would resound too loudly with the inhabitants of Skazki, and I doubted they would come to the Tsar’s aid again. But, as always, the old hope rose in me again. This time, perhaps, we will mend the breech for good.
“I will tell you everything,” I said. And so I did, starting with Olga and all the way through. Night faded and daylight glowed through the crimson curtains, and I explained to Nikolai his family’s link to Skazki and the awesome responsibility which now sat on his shoulders.
After I had finished, I left Nikolai in contemplation, while I went to the kitchen and fixed some breakfast. I scraped mould off the cheese I’d left out too long, and found a crust of bread. In a jar on the bench where I sat to eat, handfuls of money were crammed to overflowing. I eyed it, making plans for a trip to the market which I knew I would never take. Sleeping, drinking, fucking: they were all I cared for. In time, he followed me in, leaned his shoulder against the cool tiled wall, and set his chin against fear.
“I’ll do it, Secret Ambassador,” he said. “If you can convince your people to come to our aid, I will grant you everything you want.”
My blood flushed warm, and I put down my meal to steady myself against the bench. “Don’t make empty promises.”
“I will promise it with all my heart. I will put it in writing and sign it with my own blood.”
“Your blood isn’t worth much to me, Nikolai.” I shook my head dismissively. “Allow me to return to my homeland, to assess the goodwill for the idea. It may take some time.” Already I was outlining my plan: get the forest creatures on-side first; they were always more reasonable. Then the minor demons; finally the witches…and at the end of this process, Aleksei, nearly a grown man, would sit on the throne of two mighty kingdoms, reunited once again and invincible.
Nikolai left soon after. Pulling on his hat at the door, he turned to me and said, “Don’t tell Sunny.”
“Secrecy is my nature,” I said with a smile, and watched him walk off into the dim, snowy morning alone.
Secrecy was also the agenda of the two men who watched him, who had followed him here the previous night, and about whom I had not known. Already there were a million suspicions about me, but the Tsar’s midnight visit sealed my fate. I did not know it at the time, but I was about to fall victim to murderers.
I was made curious by Nikolai’s visit. I was made curious by his talk of Anastasia’s prophetic dreams. In days of old, when Mokosha lived as Ivan’s wife, her name too had been Anastasia. Had some special sympathy of identity created a link between the Tsar’s little girl and the pagan goddess I had loved so well? I remembered the first time I had met Anastasia, when she was a tiny child of four. Immediately she had recognised me, had felt a connection between me and the bear.
Nikolai had returned to his war residence. I took the train to Tsarskoe Selo.
Sunny received me, as she always did now, in her own room. Mauve curtains drifted over the windows; mauve wallpaper and mauve lace. Fresh flowers filled every flat space, and I remembered what the Tsar had told me, that these flowers came regularly by train at a time when food could not make its way to the front.
“Friend,” she said, “I’m so pleased to see you. I hope you bring good prophecy, because I do not like my husband being so far from home and hearth.”
“I predict all will be well, though it may be some time before you hold him in your arms again,” I said, and this settled her fluttering hands a little, and brought some colour to her cheeks. “Mother, it is not you I wish to see today. I had hoped to speak with Anastasia.”
Sunny’s expression was perplexed, perhaps even concerned. She loved me dearly, but she also knew the stories about me and my excesses.
“Only briefly, Mother,” I said, “and you are welcome to stay while I speak with her.”
Of course she consented. I was the man who healed her son, whose prophecy of Aleksei’s recovery from haemophilia by manhood was already beginning to come true (which was not through my doing, but through the strength of Skazki blood, you understand).
Anastasia had bloomed into womanhood. She was, perhaps, sixteen at the time. Her pretty face was still impish, but her body had gathered curves. In truth, she was almost fat, but it didn’t mar her beauty or her bearing.
“Mother?” she said, espying me waiting as Sunny ushered her in.
“Grigory must speak with you,” Sunny said. “I shall wait here, and work on my cross-st
itch.” Sunny took herself into a corner and picked up her sewing. I stood with my back to the window, and the glass was cold. Outside, snow lay heavy around the bare, black trees. I was aware of Sunny’s eyes, flicking away from her work and up to my face. She was worried. She was always worried. And all that worry couldn’t save her from her awful fate in the end, so it was energy ill-spent.
I eyed Anastasia closely, and she giggled under my scrutiny.
“Grigory, what on earth is wrong? You look as though you expect my head to pop off and release monsters.”
I chuckled, and touched her plump cheek. “I have heard about your dreams, little one. You are very busy when you are sleeping.”
Sunny put aside her sewing and made no pretence of not watching.
“My dreams are very vivid, yes.”
“And you often dream of me, or so I am told.”
“Yes, I dream of you, and you are in stories from other places and times.”
“What a creative girl! You should write them down.”
“I started to, but Tatiana tore up my notebook, the swine. All because I stole her cream dress and ripped it accidentally.” She laughed again. “I’m far too tired to be writing stories, anyway.”
I pushed off the window and walked slowly around the room, aware of the two sets of eyes on me: Sunny’s clouded with anxiety, Anastasia’s with amusement.
“Well, you are being very mysterious today, Grigory,” Anastasia said.
What was I to tell her? That I had a strong sense that the magic in her blood was the highest concentration since the babies grown in Mokosha’s own womb? That her dreams showed that she was tied more tightly than any other ruler to Skazki? That, if I had my way, I would put her on the throne of Russia, ahead of her sickly brother, to rule it and the magic kingdom?
“Let’s invite Anya up for tea,” I said, forcing a smile. “I’m famished.”
I was excited, standing on the brink of possibilities. A half-Mir witch queen, a new era. Time would tell if these dreams would come to be.
Living in Mir had dulled my wits. I drank too much and I cared too much about my prick and too little about my safety. When Feliks Yusipov invited me to meet his wife—with the inference that I would be welcome to fuck her—I took the invitation at face value. Why not? Yusipov was a known scoundrel, and he loved to dress in women’s clothes and make merry. It crossed my mind that he may even want to join us. What didn’t cross my mind was that the invitation was a front for a plot on my life.
Of course, as soon as they led me into the little downstairs room, I felt a twinge of concern. The low arches almost bumped my head. There were no windows. But there was a glorious feast of all my favourite things: little chocolate cream cakes, candied fruit and strawberry-iced pastries, and a decanter of madeira. I sat down, eager for the repast. The moment my fingers lit on one of the pastries, I sensed the poison within.
What was I to do? Yusipov and his cronies sat with me, smiling, nodding congenially.
“Irina will be here soon.”
“Help yourself, my good friend. This food has been made especially for you.”
I spied a candied apple on the table, reached for it and thrust it in my pocket. The men continued to urge me to eat. I smiled, took a moment to balance myself, then hummed a little tune.
“That’s a lovely melody, Grigory,” Yusipov said. “Would you like it if I played the guitar for you?”
“I’d like it very much,” I said, reaching eagerly for the cakes. My soul was now stored in an apple in my pocket, so I didn’t need to fear death. Moreover, I wanted to play a trick on these charming monsters.
I ate. I drank. The food smelled so bitterly of cyanide that I almost laughed at them. Any poor victim of these men would know he was being poisoned before he opened his mouth to eat!
The night wore on. Yusipov played his guitar. The men exchanged furtive glances; I pretended I didn’t see. An hour passed, two. They were growing desperate. I asked them again where Irina was, just to see their reactions.
Yusipov nearly tripped over himself trying to get out the door. “I’ll go upstairs and see what keeps her,” he said. The other two followed him quickly. I put my feet on the table and picked my teeth, and tossed the candied apple up into the air and down again, waiting for the next act of the play.
The young rake returned with a gun. He shot me twice. I fell. They left. I lay there a long time, chuckling to myself about the merry game I was playing. When Yusipov came back, wanting to dispose of my body, I sat up and grinned at him. He shrieked and hid behind the table, and I walked out.
They got me again in the yard, another two bullets, slamming into my body. I fell again, and let them drag me to the river. I stilled my laughter as they heaved me into the water. This time, I intended to let them think the job was done. What a trick it would be to visit Yusipov the following day, inquiring after my coat! I sank under, bubbles fizzing through my beard. Their dark shapes waited above. I sank low, swam a hundred feet and surfaced. I began the walk home, cold and wet, chuckling over my intentions to upset Yusipov. I did not know that all my intentions were about to be foiled by an unexpected force.
Love.
I can explain it no more than any other fool can. I dragged myself out of Moika Canal, hummed my soul back into my body and quickly healed my wounds. Koschey the deathless fears no bullet or poison. I took a back route through dark, snow-lined streets, far from the electric lamps: damp stone, rotted vegetables dumped in alleyways, and the scent of fatty boiling mutton. An urban emptiness which is always inhabited by cold, and bad smells, and poverty. This is where I nearly stumbled over a bundle of rags which lay on a tiled doorstep.
As I sidestepped it, the bundle moved and whimpered. Perhaps the dramatic events of the evening had worn my nerves down. I jumped in fright. Then, when I realised the bundle was no more than some poor wretch freezing to death, I resumed my step and walked on.
“Papa?” a little voice wavered in the dark.
I turned. Everything changed.
The little girl was sick and pale, on the verge of death. Her eyes met mine and held them. A shiver of fate hissed across my body; some transformative power emanated from her.
“I’m not your papa,” I said sternly.
“No, that’s right,” she replied. “My papa is dead.”
“And where is your mama?”
“She is in the same place. And my brother. They are all dead. I was sleeping when you walked past, and something about your footsteps reminded me of my papa.”
I swallowed hard, and tried to make sense of these feelings. I still do not completely understand them, but every man, no matter who he is and where he is from, is on a journey. Love is a part of every man’s journey, whether he admits it or not. Finding Totchka led me on a new path, one which now beckoned with the sweetest promises.
“I must be on my way,” I mumbled, with no conviction.
She raised her skinny arms, as though she assumed it perfectly natural that I would pick her up. “Will you take me with you, Papa?”
And when I did, it was perfectly natural.
In Skazki, the progress of Totchka’s illness was halted. Her own death couldn’t find her, but as she had been destined to die as a child she remained a child. No fate as a woman existed for her to fulfil. She was forever a little girl.
My little girl.
I did not enjoy my last laugh on Yusipov the way I had hoped. Never mind. I am certain, however, that he saw me climb out of the water that night. Why else would he have bothered to drown an old tramp, fill him with bullet holes and ensure his body washed up a few days later? They pointed to the corpse, bloated and death-eaten beyond the barest recognition. They said it was Rasputin. He told his co-conspirators that his plan had succeeded. In time he even managed to convince himself. It must have helped that I did not return to Mir.
Life with Totchka was simple and busy. I fed her, kept her warm, made her safe. I made the best of the fact that circumstances ke
pt me in Skazki. I sent word to Nikolai that I would petition my fellow magical creatures, that he was to wait and hope for my return. I set up a stream of meetings and councils, all the while keeping Totchka safe and hidden in my cottage. Perhaps I wasn’t as dedicated as I should have been to this cause, because I was unprepared to leave Totchka alone. Many of the hostile spirits of the far east didn’t respond to my invitations, Baba Yaga refused to leave her home, and Perun and Veles sent to tell me to let it go, that life was perfectly acceptable to them without the weight of millions of worshippers. Perhaps if I’d been able to attend them in person…but it’s too late for self-recriminations. Totchka’s tearful anxiety at any suggestion of my departure was enough. I didn’t go.
Support for a military alliance with Nikolai was thin. A year later, I was only just starting to win over the witches of the south. Then word came, from the bright lands of Mir, that a revolution had swept the land. The Tsar and his family no longer ruled in Russia, but they were still alive and well.
I took this news with mixed feelings. They were still alive, Anastasia and Aleksei. No separation was imminent. I had settled into a different kind of life with Totchka. Perhaps Perun and Veles were right. Perhaps this half-dream of life in Skazki was enough.
Yet, this half-dream of life was still dependent on Mokosha’s blood living in Mir bodies. Aleksandr’s stupid promise had made it so. If both Aleksei and Anastasia died without offspring, then everything changed. The final separation would occur, and Totchka would be ejected from Skazki, to die her own death in Mir.
Yes, I lied to Rosa. Would you not?
Nikolai and his family were imprisoned, at first in their own palace at Tsarskoe Selo. Then, by degrees, their circumstances grew more and more dire. From Tsarskoe Selo to Tobolsk, but still with a full retinue of servants. Finally, to Ekaterinaburg, to a house with bars on the windows, where their guards were loyal Bolsheviks who took joy in humiliating and frightening their prisoners.
