The Secret History of Moscow (20 page)

Galina nodded that she understood. They heard movement in the other parts of the house, and she guessed that Yakov and Timur-Bey were up. Koschey didn't sleep at all, or so he claimed-he stayed up all night, guarding. He wouldn't say why or from whom.

They set out before long. Galina was relieved when Koschey and Zemun decided not to retrace their steps, but to go further into the woods, to look for whoever had done the deed-he still had to be on this side, since the boatman swore that he had taken no one across in quite some time. And Galina held onto the hope that they would see more of the dark-colored birds, and somewhere, among them, she would find her sister.

"Tell me about those birds you mentioned,” she asked Zemun as they picked their way through the melting snow. The first snow anemones peeked through the melting transparent crust, their white petals and yellow centers looking at the world shyly. They seemed artificial under the snow, and Galina stopped to uncover the blooming flowers and thin, delicate leaves.

Zemun waited for her, chewing patiently. “I suppose I could,” she said when they resumed their walk. “It'll help pass the time. Alkonost and Sirin, yes, sisters-and the Firebird-you probably know about her yourself. But it is Gamayun I think about most."

Galina noticed that Yakov picked up his pace, straining to catch Zemun's story, and the albino rook on his shoulder listened too. Galina smiled despite her somber mood-they were all like children, eager for a good story.

"It all happened a long time ago,” Zemun started. “When heaven and earth had meaning, when only the dead lived underground."

* * * *

The bird Gamayun was related to Alkonost and Sirin in some vague fashion-even the most casual observer would've noticed that all three of them were not entirely birds; they had the faces and breasts of women, severe but beautiful. And when their lips opened, they sang in women's voices, deep and rich and bittersweet.

Alkonost, resplendent in her white feathers, sang of joy to mortal people, and when they heard her voice, all their cares and troubles lifted off their shoulders, and the old felt young, the sad rejoiced, and the tired became refreshed. Alkonost made her home in the Garden of Iriy, in the branches of the tree that grew with its roots planted in heaven, and its branches stretching toward the earth. There, she sang to the gods, and lightened their hearts burdened with the worries inherent in running the world.

Sirin of the dusky-gray feathers and long sweeping wings sang for the saints and gods and holy men only-if any mortals heard her, they were so entranced by the beauty of her voice and serene face, they followed her to their death; some lost consciousness and never regained it, forever lost in the wonder of their visions. Many said that she lived in Navi, the kingdom of the dead and the lost. Others maintained that she lived next to her sister Alkonost, in the branches of the heavenly upside-down oak. Every night, they sang down the setting sun in a duet so sweet that even the gods became quiet and contemplative. The songs of joy and sorrow mingled together, and as the giant flaming sphere of the sun settled for the night's rest, the heavenly oak itself froze motionless, not a single leaf daring to flutter on its branches.

But Gamayun, her feathers black as pitch, her face white and mournful, did not sing, nor did she make her home in Iriy. Damned with the gift of prophecy, the bird Gamayun flew from one end of the world to the other, screaming her visions of doom to anyone who would listen. The black hair on her woman's head streamed in the wind, and her graceful wings beat the air with heavy strokes; her clawed feet clutched at empty air in a futile attempt to gain hold of something, like a drowning man who grasped at the churning water around him, his hopes of feeling anything solid in his fingers growing more distant and yet more desperate with every second. Such was Gamayun, her voice loud, harsh and piercing, as she cleaved the skies in her flight.

Gamayun never rested in the branches of the celestial oak, she never sang the sun down with Alkonost, and people feared her more than they feared Sirin. While Sirin promised a certain death, she also promised pleasure and sweet visions, a quiet contented slide into unconsciousness. Gamayun's voice only portended disasters, with no hope or consolation, with no solutions to prevent the foretold doom. She was worse than the One-Eyed Likho, worse than the blind Zlyden who attached themselves to people and caused misery and poverty-at least, one could get rid of Likho by luring it into a barrel, or sweep Zlyden out of one's home, but there was no hiding from Gamayun's prophecies. Even the gods avoided her once she started promising the end of their time and a bleak long decline underground. Such was Gamayun's fate.

The prophet bird could not stop, driven by the fire deep in her heart; her wings never stopped cutting through the air, and her voice, hoarse and terrible, never ceased shouting the prophecies born within the bird. Her eyes became mad and black, with dark circles surrounding them. And when her tortured predictions came true, Gamayun found herself underground.

Alkonost and Sirin missed the sun, and grew silent and ill. They did not sing anymore, and only ruffled their dull feathers high in the branches of a glowtree. But Gamayun could not stop prophesying, even though her voice was so strained that it became little more than a coarse whisper. She hissed and sputtered, and whispered fiercely of the terrible things happening on the surface, and the things that were only going to happen.

Gamayun spoke of fire and ash, she promised a burning like none in times past, she promised that the proud city above them would be consumed in a conflagration greater than any before it; she promised blood and destruction like never seen, and she promised that the Moscow above their deep grave would be turned into a flower of fire, beautiful and horrid; she promised its raging febrile bloom and the seeds of black ash.

The gods and others did not mean to ignore Gamayun, but her prophecies were simply too unbearable to be acknowledged. Still, the underground denizens turned a troubled gaze upward and sighed every time they imagined the sound of hooves and the crackling of fire.

Father Frost raged and promised early and cruel winters, and the leshys ventured to the surface woods, to lead away and confuse the invading armies. And Gamayun was the one who screamed and hissed and promised fire, and she was the one who disappeared on the day Moscow burned and smoldered, and Napoleon took the city, then not much more than a handful of cinders.

* * * *

"And now there's a Napoleonic bayonet and birds,” Galina said to Zemun. “Do you think there's a connection?"

Koschey sneered at her from his considerable height. “Did you think of it all by yourself? Or do you really think that stating the obvious is somehow helpful?"

"We didn't know about Gamayun,” Yakov said. “If it was so obvious to you, why didn't you mention it?"

"Because it's not obvious,” Zemun said. “I haven't thought of this in a while."

Galina turned to Yakov; even though she doubted his overall competence, he was her main hope in finding Masha. “What do you think?” she said.

He opened his mouth but Sergey the rook interrupted. “You all jump to conclusions too quickly,” he said. “Napoleonic bayonets? You can buy them; so many people collect antique weapons nowadays. Why do you think that everything has something to do with your private obsession?"

Galina swallowed and fell silent. Sergey was right, she thought; she had seen everything as a sign, as a personal message that would lead her to her sister. She was no different from the people she'd seen in the hospital, the ones who received secret communications on TV and saw every minor event as a coded message meant for them alone. She remembered a woman who always sat by the TV every Saturday, waiting for the announcement of winning lottery numbers. She never bought any tickets as far as anyone knew; but she wrote the numbers down anyway, and deciphered them, her brow furrowed and her lips moving in tortured concentration. Galina was just like her, and once again she looked at Zemun and Koschey, wondering whether they were really there.

Yakov touched her hand, his fingers rough and leathery. “Don't listen to him,” he said. “What does he know?"

"I watched the same TV show as you,” Sergey the rook said. “And they always try to make you think that you understand how it works, and you rely on it, and it always backfires when you need it to work the most."

"Will you three just stop that?” Zemun said, her usual docility broken. “Stop trying to guess; it's not a game. There are no rules. It's about our lives too, and they are as important as yours."

Koschey nodded. “You people always think it's all about you. Like we're here just to entertain you. You haven't thought that Berendey was my friend, have you?"

"You didn't seem too upset,” Sergey squawked.

"Most of us are dead,” Koschey said. “At some point, histrionic displays just run out. It doesn't mean that one isn't mourning."

Galina looked up at the rust-colored leaves-winter had ended, either due to Berendey's passing or Father Frost's absence-and fall foliage spread yellow and orange as far as the eye could see. Squirrels, their tails as bright orange as the leaves of oaks and ashes, ran up and down the trunks, stopping only to screech and chitter their disapproval at the travelers passing by.

There was a rustling in the branches of the tree they were passing under. Galina looked up, only to meet the gaze of a pair of incredibly large and yellow eyes slit by vertical pupils. A tiger, she thought. While she didn't expect to meet one in this climate zone, she was underground, where stranger things were common. Still, she wasn't sure if the thing in the tree was dangerous, and she remained

standing.

"What's the holdup?” Yakov said once he realized Galina wasn't following.

She pointed wordlessly, and Zemun looked up and laughed.

"That's Bayun,” she said. “Come down, cat, and tell us what you've seen."

The Cat Bayun descended from the tree in two graceful leaps. He turned out to be considerably smaller than a tiger, but much larger than a housecat-as big as a collie, Galina decided. He arched his striped back and yawned, his claws digging at the ground, as if plucking invisible guitar strings. His gaze never left Galina's, and his lip hitched up, exposing long sharp mother-of-pearl canines. “I haven't seen nothing,” he said in a husky, almost adolescent voice. “What are you looking for?"

Galina had heard about Bayun before, but she could not remember whether he was supposed to be good or evil. While Zemun explained the situation to him she tried to figure out whether she should be afraid of the strange talking cat-he seemed menacing. “Excuse me,” she whispered to Yakov. “Do you know anything about Bayun?"

"Not much,” he answered. “I think when he sings he can put you to sleep, and he is supposed to live in Thrice-Ninth Kingdom."

"He's also related to Scandinavian myth,” Koschey said. “His children are the two cats that pull Freya's chariot; at least, according to some sources."

"I hadn't realized Russian fairytales were related to other religions,” Yakov said.

Koschey laughed. “You're kidding, right? Most of Russia's pagan gods were borrowed from elsewhere-Scandinavia, Phoenicia, Greece, Egypt… you name it. There's very little original folklore here."

Galina thought it strange that mythological creatures were capable of discussing their own origins. But then again, why wouldn't they be? “Is it true that he can put people to sleep?” she asked Koschey.

He nodded, and picked up a robust, rust-colored leaf off the ground, twirled it between two fingers. “It is not just the sleeping,” he said, and smiled a wan smile. “It's the dreaming you should be interested in. He can make your dreams… worthwhile, to say the least."

* * * *

Koschey was right. Galina's dreams were unusually powerful and vivid, and as she dreamt she really believed that she was back home, in their small apartment, with grandmother in the kitchen doing something to the cabbage to make it smell. Their mother was at work, and Galina was getting ready to go to the night classes she'd been taking during her rare periods of lucidity. Masha was still in school then-she sat in the living room, oblivious to the blaring of the TV, her elbows propped on the windowsill, the open book in between them.

Galina felt guilty then, because she was a bad big sister-absent, distant, frail and unsure of what was real and what wasn't. She wanted so desperately to be there for Masha-so young, so pink, so brimming with health and hope. She wanted so badly to connect. “Homework?” Galina said.

Masha looked up from the book, her gaze momentarily snagging on something outside before turning to meet Galina's. “No, just reading."

"What?” she persisted, admiring the round contour of her sister's cheek. How old was she, anyway? Eleven, twelve? Something like that.

Masha consulted the cover. “Hamlet,” she said. “Do you know that one?"

Galina smiled. “Yes. How're you liking it?"

Masha made a thoughtful face. “They all speak in verse… but I do like it. Especially the part about forty thousand brothers… that's a lot of brothers, isn't it?"

Galina nodded. She understood the quiet awe in Masha's voice-none of the kids they knew had large families, and a girl was lucky to have a big brother. It was a generally accepted truth that brothers were better than sisters-they could be strong and protective, and they were the closest thing to a father for a girl who didn't have one. Big sisters were generally useless, because they moved out and had children, and couldn't protect one.

"You wish you had a brother, don't you?” Galina said.

Masha looked guilty for a moment, but then smiled. “I would like a boy to live with us. Wouldn't you?"

"Not really,” Galina said. “You're lucky you don't remember Dad."

Masha looked furtively toward the kitchen, but their grandmother remained there, ensconced in the sizzling of the vegetable oil, the clanging of the oven door and the smells of cabbage and fried onions. “Grandma is making pies,” Masha said. “Tell me about our father."

There wasn't anything new to tell, but this conversation had the comfort of familiarity about it. “He was a jerk,” Galina said.

"And a drunk,” Masha said with conviction.

"Not so much a drunk,” Galina said. “The neighbors said that Mom was crazy to let him go. Where else would you find a sober man, they said. But he just… he wasn't anything. I don't think he ever said a word to me. And Grandma hated him."

Masha nodded, smiling. “I guess it's good that there aren't any boys here then."

"If you say so."

"You'll be late for your school,” Masha said. “Why do you go to school at night?"