Murder and Revolution

by Evelyn Weiss

  The ride is smoother and faster than any horse-drawn carriage: in fact, it’s faster than almost any motor car I’ve been in. I’m astonished how rapidly the familiar surroundings of Yermak vanish, and how quickly the little town of Kungur, built on low rocky bluffs above the Sylva River, comes into view. Beyond it, we see higher, thickly wooded hills surrounding the deep valley of the river, where Mr Sokolov said the caves are.

  As we approach Kungur, the snow is several feet deep across our road and the surrounding fields; the fences between the fields are buried in the drifts and almost invisible. The trotting stallion ahead of us gives a thrumming rhythm to our ride, counterpointed by the cantering of the mares either side, and the jangly melody of the silver bells. We pass through the houses of Kungur without slowing. Nor does the pace slacken when, on the far side of the town, our sleigh leaves the road and branches off onto a narrow track, a snowy trail leading into a deep forest.

  The bare branches of every tree are thickly coated with snow; as we speed along, the morning sun flashes between the trunks. In the undergrowth of the woodland, a fairyland has appeared; domes, castles, ramparts and bridges of frosted white. A deer leaps across our path, but with a flick of the reins, the driver and horses swerve to avoid it. Our track begins to descend through the trees, and the speed of the troika and the sparkling sunshine make my head reel. The descent is long and winding. But finally, the driver pulls the horses to an abrupt stop.

  We are at the bottom of the deep valley of the Sylva River, surrounded by high forested slopes topped with sheer crags. To our right and just below us, the river runs swiftly between snowy banks. But the driver gestures to our left. We see a small grove of pines at the foot of a snow-plastered rocky bluff. Among the pine branches, I see a hidden, dark space.

  I glance at Emily. “Did Mr Sokolov say there would be a guide to show us round these caves?”

  “Someone’s been here already today, Agnes – look. Maybe they are our cave guide.” She points out a single line of prints in the snow, heading towards the grove of trees. But the driver shakes his head.

  “There used to be a guide, years ago, when the caves had many visitors. But that was before the war. Now, hardly anyone comes here. So you must guide yourself. Here is a map of the caves. Whatever you do, keep to the marked route. If you get lost down there, you have no hope of rescue.” He hands us a sheet of paper, and two flashlights. Then he sits back on the sleigh, wraps himself in the blankets, and closes his eyes.

  We follow the footsteps through the snow, into the shade under the trees. The mouth of the cave is a flat dark shape among the rocks ahead of us, as if cut out of black cardboard. We switch on our flashlights.

  It feels like stepping into a little stone-lined room, with a constructed floor of wooden planks. The space is tiny: I can reach and touch the rock walls either side. Ahead of us, a bare stony crevice burrows into the earth for a few yards or so, narrowing to a tiny, dry slit. There is no ice anywhere.

  “Is this the cave? It looks very unimpressive.”

  “It’s there.” Emily shines her flashlight on a hatch in the floor. “According to the map, we have to climb down there. When we reach the bottom, there is a paved trail to follow.” The hatch has no fastening; we lift it, and see a ladder descending into utter blackness. Emily looks at me.

  “Are you okay with this? I’m used to mines that go deep underground, but how about you?”

  “Of course. I’m fine.”

  The steady descent, rung after rung, seems to go on for ever. But finally we reach a stony floor. “It was only fifty feet or so of descent” Emily says. I sense a vast unseen space around us, and Emily shines her flashlight ahead of us into the gloom. Rough slabs of stone are laid in a trail along the ground, leading us into the interior of the cave.

  We walk forward. Almost immediately, I see what I hadn’t expected: water in front of my feet. Our flashlight beams illuminate the dark, cold expanse of an underground lake.

  “Look!” Emily’s flashlight is waving in the blackness, picking out the far shore of the lake. What we see is astonishing. Above the waterline, a wall of enormous ice-crystals, patterned hexagonally like gigantic snowflakes, runs the whole length of the lake. The lake, as still as a mirror, reflects the lit area of the ice-wall in perfect symmetry. It looks like a giant honeycomb of glittering ice. Then, Emily’s rising beam picks out the ceiling. It is entirely covered with fantastically shaped crystalline ice-stalactites, like a host of jewelled chandeliers. Here and there the crystals glow with an unearthly light – some of them green, some blue, as if they were fluorescent emeralds and sapphires. Emily speaks in a hushed tone, as if we’re in a church.

  “Those unreal colors – there must be mineral ores in the rocks up there, filtering into the water that flows down into this place. Azurite for sure, and maybe cobalt ores, but there are rarer minerals too. And the whole place is so – huge.” Emily is right: the scale is baffling, and we both stand, awe-struck. The wandering beams of our flashlights pick out marvel after marvel in the colossal cavern around us.

  I hear a noise, as if a pebble has dropped into the black water.

  “What’s that, Emily?”

  “Probably a piece of ice melting and falling.”

  “It can’t be. Everything in here is frozen hard as iron.”

  “But the lake itself isn’t frozen, Agnes. So it can’t be really cold in this cave. Mr Sokolov said it remains at a constant temperature, even when it’s Arctic outside. Let’s explore… look, the path is paved with stone slabs here, along this side of the lake. Another relic of the days when this place used to have tourists.”

  We follow the path, which winds along the very edge of the lake; in places the slabs form stepping-stones across the water. Some of the stones are only a few inches wide, and a few of them are covered with a thin film of ice. We step gingerly to avoid slipping into the lake. After ten careful minutes, we reach a narrow cleft between icy walls. We bend and squeeze through it.

  Beyond the cleft, the cave widens again into a different kind of wonderland. Our flashlights reveal thousands of pencil-thin glassy fingers of ice stalactites. They hang from a wide, low ceiling, and reach down within inches of our heads. One either side of us, as far as our flashlight beams can penetrate, stumpy ice stalagmites, one below every stalactite, cover the floor, like a thick forest of tree-stumps. Most of them are about a foot thick, and the height of my waist. A narrow trail winds among the stalagmites, like a pathway among flower beds.

  Out footsteps on the stone floor echo oddly through the stalagmite garden. It sounds like there are more than just two of us walking here in the dark; at times I hear the distinct sound of other feet.

  “Emily, can you hear –”

  A blast hits my ears. Stalactites shatter, the splinters of ice falling on our heads like hail. Instantly, unmistakeably, I recognise the sound.

  It’s a gunshot.

  “Down, Emily. Get down!”

  I see her shocked eyes as I pull her down to the floor. A second passes. Then another shot rings out. I whisper.

  “Put out your flashlight.”

  We switch off our lights: the cave is plunged into total blackness. Our enemy has nothing to aim at, and we crawl, as silently as we can, into the furthest corner of the stalagmite forest. I can hear my own breathing: to me, it sounds as loud as an express train.

  Neither of us dare speak. But in the stunned silence and darkness, we both know what will happen now. Our attacker will come along the pathway toward us.

  I can hear his tread, heavy like a giant. As there is no light from us any more, he switches on his own flashlight. I see the beam, glaring, vanishing and glaring again as it swings methodically between the icy columns, probing every crevice. In a few seconds, he will find us.

  My hand closes on cold, broken fragments of a fallen ice stalactite. They are rounded, like tiny pellets.

  As gently as if I’m touching a baby, I silently swish my hand, flinging the ice out int
o the pathway, like a scatter of ball bearings. One second later, the flashlight beam swings wildly up to the ceiling: we hear a heavy crash and brutal cursing as our pursuer slips and falls.

  “Go now, Emily!” I switch on my flashlight. Putting on the light is horribly risky, but it’s the only way to see our way out of here. Even with the flashlight, we blunder and slither among the slimy stalagmites. But behind us, the cave is pitch-dark; our assailant has lost his flashlight in his fall, and must be groping for it among the ice.

  Slipping and sliding, we half-trip, half-clamber through the stalagmite stumps towards a black slit. It’s the thin cleft that leads back to the lake. As we squeeze through it, I look behind me: I can see nothing. Ahead, our flashlights illuminate each stone slab of the path back to the ladder.

  I hold Emily’s hand to slow her pace, as we step hastily along the slabs of the lakeside path. The stones are treacherously icy, and we have to be careful: we can’t afford a trip here. Every footstep must be precisely placed, despite the deathly thumping of my heart.

  At last, we reach the foot of the ladder. But glancing back, I see a flicker of light. It’s taken us several agonizing minutes to get along the lake shore, but in fact our pursuer, now squeezing through the cleft and stepping out onto the shore of the lake, looks only a hundred yards away or so. His beam comes closer with every breath I take.

  Emily is above me: I climb, rung after rung, my fingers gripping for dear life, my feet pushing up and up. I risk another look back, and see that the man is holding a heavy black revolver, readying himself for another shot. But them he thinks again, and runs forward. He’s now at the foot of the ladder, and his arms straighten, gripping the gun: I can see right down the barrel. The man has a clear, vertical line of sight straight up to my swishing skirts on the ladder. He can’t miss me.

  I take one half-second to aim. I drop my flashlight, with the beam shining down at him. Then I grip the final rungs, one after another, another and another…

  I clamber out. The falling flashlight spoilt his aim.

  “Agnes, help me pull the ladder up!”

  We tug at the top rung, but it’s a long, heavy ladder. It doesn’t move.

  “Can’t do it, Agnes – push it over, instead!”

  “It’s tied. Look there.”

  “Not a problem.” Emily opens her handbag; inside I’m surprised to see a six-inch butcher’s knife. She mutters to me “It’s for protection. I stole it from the kitchen at Yermak, and I carry it everywhere”. I see her thin, white hands, sawing at the rope that secures the ladder.

  The ladder begins to shake, with the impact of heavy feet: our attacker is on the bottom rungs. But Emily cuts the rope: we push the ladder; it shifts and wobbles – and tips over. We see its falling shape, sihouetted palely against the black hole below, before it vanishes into the darkness.

  “Shut the hatch, Agnes! That man will have the ladder back in place within the minute.” She looks around wildly. “Can you see anything heavy, to put on top of the hatch and hold it down?”

  “No. And there’s no time to look for anything. Let’s get back to the troika.”

  In moments we’re out of the grove of trees, blinking stupidly in the searing white light of sun and snow. Ahead of us we see the horses and our sleigh. But I gasp in dismay. Our driver is nowhere to be seen.

  “Get in the back, Agnes.”

  Emily is already up on the driver’s bench. She grins grimly. “Two years travelling round alone in the Rockies means that I spent a lot of time driving a wagon. This can’t be that different. I know a lot about driving horses, and I couldn’t help notice the way our driver handled these three beauties.”

  She shakes the reins, and the stallion begins his usual rapid trot. But the sleigh is facing away from our route of escape. Emily has to turn us around towards the track through the woods. A pull on one rein seems to do the trick; the right-hand mare quickens her pace to a canter, and we start to slew round, turning back onto the tracks in the snow that the sleigh made when we arrived. Emily is skilled and confident; the troika slides easily, quickly along, like a waltzing skater. We’re going to get away from here.

  As our pace starts to quicken, I can’t help looking behind me. Near the cave entrance, I see a huge man emerge from the shadows and coming out of the little grove of pines. The gun is still in his hand. But our sleigh is now moving fast along the track, up and away into the snowy depths of the forest.

  Emily gasps with relief. “Thank God. Even if he could see us among the trees, we’re out of shooting range… I think we’re safe now.”

  From the back of the sleigh, I reply. “Thank you, Emily: you’ve saved both our lives. But – are we safe now? That cave is miles from anywhere. We got there by sleigh; in this deep snow, walking to it would have been impossible.”

  She gives the reins another shake before replying. “Your point is?...”

  “How did he get to the cave?”

  This time, we both glance back. Far away through the tree-trunks, we see something moving swiftly and silently. It’s a sled, pulled by a powerful, galloping horse.

  19 A reluctant secret agent

  Emily has seen the other sleigh too. Her face is pale with fear, but her voice is clear.

  “Agnes, I have to drive fast: I can’t look back. So I need you to tell me some things. Is that horse much bigger than these?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the sleigh like?”

  “Small and light, just a little sled really.”

  “Okay. Although we have three horses, in terms of speed, that sled will outrun us on the flat. Our only hope is an uphill track. One horse pulling a sled uphill will tire quicker than three horses sharing the load.”

  As she speaks, she jerks the reins and we turn right, so suddenly that I’m flung sideways. We’ve turned off the track we came here on. We’re now on a narrow trail, only just wide enough for our three horses. It climbs steeply up through the trees like a white staircase.

  The snow on this track is different: formed into huge lumps and dips, like an array of giant pillows. Our horses are struggling, plunging deep into the drifts – but, when I look back, the single-horse sled is struggling more than us. Their huge black horse is swimming in a sea of white. But I also see, with a shock, that the sled has two men aboard. One is the huge man we saw in the cave, but he has a companion. The giant drives: the other man holds a gun. Both sleighs are dipping and bouncing, half-submerged at times, in the snow. Thankfully, there is no way the gunman can try a shot at us.

  The drifts are now so deep we seem to be swimming: there’s snow in my mouth and eyes, and I see the sweat-flecked heads of our horses above an engulfing sea of white. I turn my neck but can no longer see the sled behind us. Emily shouts.

  “This deep snow’s in our favor. If it carries on, we just might lose them.” I see her head and shoulders through a spray of powder – then suddenly, we are clear of snow. We’ve reached the top of the slope: our horses gallop out onto a smooth white track that might have been designed for racing.

  The flat area stretches out, straight ahead of us, lined on our left by a wall of dark conifers. To our right, lumps and hollows of snow descend unevenly; it's the start of the bluffs and slopes dropping into the valley. After that climb, we must be several hundred feet above the river.

  “Are they following us – or was that last snowdrift too much for them?” Emily gasps: the effort of urging the horses up that steep slope has taken her breath. I stare behind us, praying for our pursuers’ sled not to appear.

  My wish is granted, for a few seconds. But then, a horse’s head appears, a tiny dark shape. It strains desperately: then with a final lunge, it pulls free from the snow.

  “Yes, they’re behind us, Emily. A long way back, but they’re moving.”

  “Then it’s all about speed now. We’ll just have to hope that that steep climb has exhausted their horse.”

  We’re galloping out across a wide white space. Our horses ar
e strong and fast. But, freed from the deep snow, the other horse is gaining on us. Its hooves thunder, its eyes stare blankly ahead and its nostrils flare wide. Sweat like froth covers its black flanks, as the driver shouts and cracks his whip. Every second, the other sled gets closer. On this flat ground, there is no shaking or movement; just speed. All the horses are racing like the wind.

  The sled is a few yards behind us now. The driver shouts to the man on the back, who stands, gripping the revolver with both hands. We’re on a dead-flat stretch of snow, as smooth as silk. The man’s stance is braced, his grasp of the gun is steady, his view totally clear. Even with the speed, he can’t miss.

  He fires. The bullet flies harmlessly past me. But the next shot will kill one of us.

  With a sharp pull, Emily steers us to the right, down into the hummocks of snow. The sleigh plunges into a deep drift; I'm blind with snow, then we emerge onto a steepening downward slope. Ahead are jagged rocks: the top of the bluffs overlooking the river.

  I look behind: the other sled appears, plowing through the drifts. It's now just feet behind us: I can see the driver's florid face, his eyes focused hard on his horse. Below his chin, I see what I knew I would see: the silver chain around his neck.

  We’re seconds from the edge of the cliff. Emily wrenches her shoulder to pull the reins left. It's just in time; our horses swerve their course, on the very crest of the bluffs. Our sleight spins out into the air, the outer runner grazing along the edge of the rocks. I see the river like a blue ribbon far below me. We bounce along the rim of the cliff, holding our line along the edge, until we hit a huge frozen wave of snow. Our horses rear and plunge, as if in deep water, and we slow to a stop.

  But I'm looking behind us, to see what has happened to our enemies.

  The great horse is pulling powerfully towards us, but the last-minute swerve is too much for the sled. Momentum pulls it, swinging out over the top of the cliff, teetering along the brink. The sled slides further and further outwards; the centrifugal force of the swerve is pushing it over the edge. Each moment is frozen in time, as its outer runner slides off the edge of the bluff. The sled is slipping out, further and further into empty space: dropping, tumbling and crashing.