The hair that lay before her was already washed and combed, and all that was left was to spin it into yarn. Yarn that shimmered and felt like silk yet had the durability of leather. Next week in the village she would find another eager buyer. Or a quick trade, perhaps for more udder. She was always well rewarded. The villagers prized the wool of Tyotya’s hounds because it combined the beauty of the borzoi’s fur with the warmth and toughness of the Siberian wolf’s coat.
From the floor Tyotya took the distaff, a large L-shaped piece of wood, its once decorative paint long ago rubbed off. She slid the bottom of the device under her thigh, attached a clump of hair to the top portion. With the pencil-like spindle in her left hand to hold the yarn, she began to spin. Under her skilled fingers, the wooly hair grew into a tight yarn of rich brown, flecked with silver.
She heard a slight scratching noise across the room. Her eyes rose upward and in the faint light of her lantern, she saw a thick gray body with a long tail. A rat. Pressed against the base of the log wall, the rodent froze.
Another one, thought Tyotya. How many can there be? How many mice and rats can the cool weather drive into her home? Still holding the spindle in her left hand, with her right Tyotya carefully reached down and wrapped her fingers around the knife. As slow as a rising moon, she raised her hand, her eyes all the while on the motionless rat. Then she cocked her arm. The rodent shot forward, and Tyotya hurled the knife. In an instant, it was over, the rat speared to the wooden wall.
“Ach…” muttered Tyotya, rising.
She hated these things creeping about, stealing her food. Parasites on her existence. Her weathered face expressing a storm of displeasure, she went to the wall, freed her knife with one tug, and lifted the plump rat by its long tail. Holding the bloody pest out in front of her, she moved to the front door and unlatched it. She took one glance behind her, heard the dogs licking their bowls, and went out.
She passed the rear of the palace, a three-story annex—now windowless—that had once contained the kitchens and the servants’ quarters. Some thirty meters farther, Tyotya stood on the edge of a small ravine. With one heave she tossed the rat into the darkness, then turned, a scowl on her face. It was hopeless, she knew, but she still hoped the dogs wouldn’t find the dead creature.
Her face twisted with disgust, she headed back to her rooms. Passing her window, though, she stopped in her tracks, unable to believe what she saw through the wavy panes of glass. There, on the other side of the thick stone wall and scurrying beneath the table, was a second rat, its nose vibrating in quest of food.
Furious, Tyotya ran to the open door, then stopped herself. If she made noise, she’d scare the thing away. Be calm, she told herself. That was the only way she’d kill this creature too. So without pushing on the door, she slipped in, and spotted the knife just inside where she’d left it.
Concentrating totally on her stealth, though, Tyotya failed to realize that, other than the rodent and herself, her rooms were quite free of life. Milka and Toozik had bounded off into the night.
Chapter 33
“Tomorrow I begin my novel,” said Boris as Lara placed the cheese and pickles on the table before him. “I’m going to start living my dream. I can’t keep driving a truck and wishing I were doing something else.”
“You can do it, Boris. I know you can. And I’ll be your editor, read the book as you work on it. All the fresh air here will be good for your imagination too. Not to mention being away from the city.”
“Da, da.”
He forced himself to push away all the memories of Leningrad. The book—think about the book. War and invasion. Yes, the Hitlerites had come this far. Not even forty-five years ago the Germans had come and taken over Zarekino during the siege of Leningrad. Fascists had covered this entire area. Soldiers camped here by the river; officers were billeted at the palace. For all 900 days of the siege Zarekino had been theirs to use and abuse and to ruin. Horses and trucks in one wing of the palace, a mess hall and hundreds of soldiers in another, Tyotya and her family, her gypsy father and her Russian mother, had been forced to set up their little circus in the grand ballroom. Every night for a month they were forced to perform. Then all except Tyotya were destroyed.
Yes, all this was excellent material for a book. A character such as Tyotya would be the spine of the story and like her, after a bloody revenge, she would survive the war. Perhaps Boris’s fictional character, as Tyotya, would live far beyond her tragedy, at first left alone as a war hero, later forgotten.
Boris sketched the face of a woman whose mission in life—the restoration of a palace where her entire family had been murdered—was not even talked about officially, let alone planned. He drew the eyes, small and pained, the face narrow, the hair—
Boris stopped. Emerging on the paper was not the face of Tyotya, but of Sergei, his face caught just as it was before he was shot. Horrified, Boris threw down the pencil, and flipped over the paper.
Lara set two chipped glasses on the table. “Boris?” She placed a bottle of cognac in front of him and sat down on the opposite bench.
He raised his head. At the sight of her gentle face and those green eyes that read his soul, he began to relax. For him she was the only star in the dark sky.
“It’s going to be all right,” she said.
Wordlessly, they lifted their glasses and, Georgian style, bent close and linked arms. Boris leaned over and kissed her on the tip of her nose.
“To us, to our love, to our baby,” he said, his voice low.
Tilting back their heads, they threw the cognac down open throats. A burning sensation shot through Boris and he felt his head swell with emotion. He grabbed a hunk of bread, held it to his nose, and let its rich, earthy smell bring him back to reality.
“We’ll come out here every weekend,” he said.
“The fresh air will be good for the baby.” With her eyes closed, she held her stomach. A silly grin emerged on her face. “I can read and you can write. Can you imagine such a wonderful life?”
“So you like it?” he asked. “Zarekino and the dacha? I—”
Suddenly, his face whitening, he turned in his chair. “What was that?”
With no alarm on her face, Lara said, “What? Boris, come now, you must relax.”
“No, I heard something. I swear!”
Boris rose from the bench, certain that something or someone had cried out from across the river.
Chapter 34
They stepped out of the birches and into the edge of the meadow. Musya knew where to look and was the first to spot it. A yellow square of light below and, above, a gray slick curling into the moonlit sky.
Entirely pleased with herself, she whispered, “I told you Boris was here.”
Kyril spotted the little window and the smoke rising skyward then studied the other nearby cabins. Everything else was dark.
“Let’s hope he’s alone.”
“Of course he is, Kyril. Down at the dacha, I mean.” Musya motioned to the broken palace and a thin strip of smoke off to one side. “Don’t forget Tyotya, the caretaker. Look, she has a fire up at her place too.” Musya thought about the stories she’d heard. “We have to be especially careful of her.”
“I thought you said she was an old woman? he said, his voice hushed.
“She is, but—”
“Don’t worry. We’ll just be quiet and quick. Slip in and slip out.” He opened his coat and pulled out the cleaver. “This shouldn’t be difficult.”
Fortunately, the bleeding in his left arm had stopped in the early afternoon. Musya was certain there’d be no complications, but she could see discomfort in his eyes, how he strained not to move his arm.
“Oi, I think it must hurt terribly, eh, golubchik she said, reaching her lips to his cheek. “Just let me—”
“Stop it, would you?” He pushed her away. “Of course it hurts, but I can manage. Let’s finish here and get back to town.”
The two of them had left Leningrad less than an
hour ago, Musya driving Boris’s car down the Moscow Highway. As they neared Zarekino, she had pulled off the main road into a clump of birches, then led the way on foot down the long lane.
“How do we get across the river?” he asked.
Her lips pushed out in annoyance. “There’s a footbridge in that grove.”
Kyril started down the path, through the meadow, and Musya followed in complete silence. As she walked through the grass, her eyes on the palace, a chill of fear ran through her. In and out. Quick and quiet. She prayed the deed would be simple. They had to surprise him, kill him, not rouse the old gypsy woman, and everything would be fine. They’d be back in Leningrad in no time.
By the time they were halfway to the bridge Musya was trembling in fear and anticipation. She wanted to be on the far side of the end, not just before it. Ach! How she hated Boris. A simpleton born into a life of luxury, full of all that she wanted. And he didn’t even appreciate it, let alone deserve it!
Something whooshed to her right, crushing dry grass as it moved, and she gasped. She searched the meadow and saw nothing but a plain of grass and, in the distance, another edge of birches. Her nerves? Her imagination? No. There it was again. The clear sound of someone in the distance rushing through the field. Biting her lip, she hurried forward and touched Kyril on the back.
“What?” he snapped in a whisper.
Her voice was but a gasp. “Something’s… out there.” She swung her heavy arm across the meadow, brought it back to her bosom. There was nothing to see in the pale light of the moon except an empty field.
And there it was again! This time clearer. A gentle beat, a rhythm of nature like the pounding of waves.
“Listen!” she hissed.
The noise grew louder. Musya’s head shot up and she spotted something charging toward them. Then it swerved and was hurled aside.
“Oi!” she gasped in a hushed voice.
“Ts-s-s!” he said. “Keep quiet!”
“But I saw something! Something big and white.”
“Where?”
Kyril looked to the river, but saw nothing. “It must have been a birch stump.”
She screwed up her eyes. “What? No, I—”
“Come on, we have to get out of this open area. Keep down.”
He nudged her with the tip of his cleaver and started off. She hesitated, then glanced behind. There was something back there, she knew it. Shivering, she hurried after him, at the same time reaching in her purse for the pistol. And then she heard it again. The loping, rhythmic sound. She spun around. This time the flash of white was clear before it disappeared.
“Kyril, there’s some sort of animal out there!”
He turned. The creature raced nearer, and this time he saw it too. Long furry legs loping through the grass, a large jaw filled with saw-like teeth.
“Keep moving.”
Seeking the safety of the birch grove ahead, Musya and Kyril hurried on. As the animal circled, the lithe steps passed from one side to the other to the other. Musya thought it was charging from behind, and she spun around. An odd, massive figure flew at her like a white sheet fluttering through the night, then vanished. As soon as that one disappeared, another flashed in and out of sight directly before them.
“They’re two of them!”
“What are they?” asked Kyril.
“Some sort of dog, I think. The old woman out here had some wild dogs that were part wolf. Huge ones. Oi!”
Kyril grabbed her by the arm. “Come on, we’ll be safe in the woods. Just keep quiet. We don’t want Boris to hear us.”
Musya and Kyril broke into a trot, all the while aware of the creatures galloping around them in circles. The padding of paws raced in front of them, then off to the side. Musya glanced up and saw the birch grove just ahead. If they could make it there, Kyril and she might be able to dodge in and out of the trees. The bridge wasn’t too much farther after that.
Then suddenly the silence returned to the night, an absence of sound now more frightening. Fearful that they had entered the heart of a trap, Musya and Kyril slowed to a stiff walk.
“Where are they?” she asked. “Do you think they’re gone?”
“Am I a dog? How am I supposed to know?”
They gazed down the path behind them, found it empty. Kyril turned forward and saw it first. There, blocking the path, stood a tall, entirely white hound. Its long pointed teeth glowed phosphorous-like in the dark and a gurgling roar emerged from its throat.
“Don’t move,” said Kyril.
Slowly, he raised the cleaver, then stood motionless, hoping the hound might lose interest. Musya, wondering where the other one had vanished, began to shift from side to side.
“The second one—where is it?” he asked.
“Tfoo, I don’t know! I—”
The dry grass rustled to her right. The other hound swooped past her, reaching out with its mouth. Pointed teeth grazed Musya’s leg, tore skin free. Musya stiffled a scream and kicked out at the creature, connecting a foot with its rear hip. The dog yelped into the sky, then disappeared.
Kyril caught Musya, balanced her. “Are you all right?”
“I… I guess,” she gasped, touching her bloodied leg.
The one in front of them flinched, ready to leap. Kyril took a large step forward swinging his cleaver. The hound raised its head but did not give ground.
Then Musya heard the ominous sound again. The rapid padding of paws. A charge. She gasped, spun from side to side, searching the dark. There it was. A white streak, gracefully hunkered down, fur feathering in the wind. And charging directly at her, jaws open. Musya gasped, fear burning at the base of her throat. What did this monster want of her?
Her legs. Musya bent over and tried to hide her legs, to protect them from those piercing teeth. She felt the blood surge in her body, saw the creature flying like an owl of the night. She wrapped one arm around her knee, but as she cowered, she caught her foot on the edge of the dirt path. Her body swayed. She felt herself tip. She looked up, saw the hound hurling at her and now only meters away. Panicking, Musya swung an arm out. Then, completely off-balance, she toppled forward. With arms outstretched, she fell into the creature, caught it full force. Its long head rammed into her stomach and the air burst from her. Claws slashed her face. Jaws snapped into her flesh. And both bodies—human and animal—tumbled to the ground.
Chapter 35
The blade of Tyotya’s knife grew warm between her thumb and forefinger. It would be a clean throw, a quick kill. She brought back her arm, steadied her eye. The rat, though, noticed something, twitched, and inched forward beneath a chair.
With one of the chair’s legs now blocking the way, the scowl hardened straight across Tyotya’s face. Her arm relaxed a bit and she stepped sideways a half-step. Paused. The rat saw her, though, and bolted toward the wall. Tyotya bent slightly back, then hurled the knife forward. The silvery blade shot through the air. But the rat was fast, faster than Tyotya thought, and the knife missed it by centimeters. Terrified, the rodent shot into a crevice in the wall.
“K’chortoo!” To hell with it, cursed Tyotya, loosening her knife from the floor.
She froze. Above her own commotion she heard something. Leaning on the edge of the table, she listened. What was that, coming from so far away? Could it be one of her dogs? No, the noise was across the river, not from the nearby pen. Unless, of course, one of the hounds had jumped the fence.
The calm of her house suddenly struck her.
“Milka? Toozik? Ah-ew!” she called.
She scurried into the other room, found nothing but their empty dishes. Cursing herself, Tyotya ran to the front door. Of course. She’d left the door open. They’d escaped into the night. But why would they cry out like that? What was wrong?
She rushed outside and over the rubble, dread filling her. Her back to the palace, she stood on the ridge looking down. At the bottom of the hill the single window of Boris Ankadievich’s dacha was lit up. But there were
no loud voices, no strangers. All seemed normal.
Breaking the tenuous calm came the muffled cry of a person. Tyotya cupped her ear. The sound fell away just as quickly as it had risen, but Tyotya was still shaken. People! But where were they? Where had that cry come from? Her eyes ran from the dacha below to the river to the meadow on the other side. Or perhaps it had come from way over there, on this side of the river and to the south. That’s where she’d found those boys from the village last week.
Her anger intensifying, she rushed back into the cabin and grabbed her knives. Then she went to the other room and pulled the hatchet from the stump. Milka and Toozik were out there somewhere, no doubt caught up in this disturbance. And whoever had entered the grounds—village hooligans or ruffians from Leningrad—she would allow no trouble at Zarekino.
Chapter 36
Lara pressed down on his shoulder. “Please, relax. Boris, no one followed us out here.”
Yes, she’s right, he told himself. He was just being overly cautious. Cognac. Perhaps another glass would help.
He started to pour some into Lara’s glass, but stopped as the sound assaulted his ears again.
“You heard it this time, didn’t you?” he asked.
Lara looked up from her glass with a puzzled expression. “Heard what?”
“A cry, I think.”
He rose, swung his legs over the bench, and went to the door. Outside, the waters of the river rippled along; the bright moon shimmered on the surface. On the other side, the meadow grass and the birch trees bent and hissed in the night breeze. Off to the right, behind the silhouette of the palace, charcoal clouds rushed through the air as if puffed from a locomotive.
“It must have been one of Tyotya’s dogs.”
He stared up at the palace, but saw nothing in the gray light of the moon. He could discern only the rustling of dry fall leaves off in the woods as the birches danced in the night breeze. Shrugging, he returned to the table.
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