Under A Blood Red Sky Part 54

'Save her.'

'Save her.'

'I cannot. I am losing her down a labyrinth.'

Blood, like wine, was poured into a copper bowl.

'She is too far from me. I cannot disentangle the shadows.'

White flesh, like bread, was crumbled into the blood.

'She is alone and beyond my reach.'

Herbs, bitter as pain, were scattered on the glistening surface.

'How can we protect her, tell us how?'

'I need greater power.'

'Drink the blood.'

'Eat the flesh.'

'Swallow the herbs.'

Rafik drank and looked at the faces gazing at him. 'It's not enough.'

'You've come.'

The priest swept into the room, red hair ablaze, eyes bright with belief. His beard gleamed like a breastplate of fire.

'I've come.'

'Your strength is needed.'

'My strength is the strength of the Lord G.o.d Almighty.'

Rafik rose to his feet, ghostly in his white robe. 'The girl is in an abyss.'

'All are in peril of the Bottomless Pit, all who worship the image of the Beast. It is written in G.o.d's Word.'

'Help us, Priest.'

'Gypsy, if what you are doing provides food for the Devil, the smoke of your torment will be never-ending and you shall have no rest by day or by night.'

'We need her, I tell you this. She is rich in power.'

'What are riches? G.o.d in His infinite wisdom tells us this: that it is when we think we are rich that we are at our most wretched and miserable and poor and blind and naked. And as surely as night follows day, His wrath shall come to smite the scorpions of this earth.'

'Priest,' Rafik's voice rang out clearly, 'this village knows too well that it is poor and wretched. Will you join with us?'

'G.o.d will curse you, Rafik.'

'Will you watch Tivil bleed to death?'

'Sorcerers are condemned to dwell outside the City of G.o.d and you are a sorcerer.'

'Rafik.' It was the blacksmith, his darkened fingers pointing at the gypsy's chest. 'Tell the priest.'

'Tell me what?'

The light seemed to flicker and dart across the copper bowl as Rafik spoke slowly. 'The girl has a stone, a White Stone. It has drawn help to her side already.'

Priest Logvinov's face grew pale as his long fingers sought the cross that hung on his chest and clung to it. 'Do not blaspheme.'

'I do not.'

The priest shook his fiery locks. 'The Lord says in the last Book of His Holy Word, "To him that overcometh will I give to eat of the hidden manna and will give him a white stone and in the stone a new name is written which no man knoweth saving he that receiveth it."

'She has the stone.'

59.

Marshlands August 1933

The light was so clear and so white that at times the land looked as if it was made of bone. As they journeyed north through the taiga, the forest of pine and spruce thinned, giving way to open marshland that left Sofia feeling exposed. They were waiting for the creeping gloom of night before they crossed the flat wetland that stretched ahead, but every delay drove Sofia to distraction.

'Patience,' Mikhail cautioned.

He was adjusting the packs on the horses and picking burrs from their manes. The chestnut's head hung low, its eyes half shut, and Sofia was shocked by how weary it looked and how its ribs poked through its hide. Was that how she and Mikhail looked too? She studied Mikhail as he tended the animals. She loved to see the skill with which his hands moved over them, soothing their twitchy skins the way he soothed hers. They didn't talk much now, images of the dead patrol ousted words from their heads, and in silence her fingers ruffled the ears of the yellow dog that was resting its head against her thigh.

'I'm not good at patience,' she said.

Mikhail's grey eyes skimmed over the marshland. 'You're good at other things.'

'Anna's out there.'

'So are the soldiers who are searching for that patrol.'

A thickset old man sat half asleep in the afternoon sun, leaning back against the timber wall of his solitary izba izba, a picture of contentment in the middle of nowhere. He wore patched trousers and a threadbare shirt, a twist of smoke rising from the carved pipe in his mouth, keeping the mosquitoes at bay.

Mikhail greeted him pleasantly. 'Zdravstvuitye, comrade.'

'What can I do for you, comrade?'

'My saddle girth has snapped and I need-'

'In there.' The old man jerked a thumb at the barn beside the house, which was well built but slowly turning green with moss. 'You'll find plenty of tack hanging on the hooks. I've not much use for it now. Old Ivan is all I've got left to pull a plough.' He scratched his beard, a long grey mat that looked much older than his blue eyes. 'Who's she?' He smiled a welcome at Sofia.

'My wife.'

The man blew out an appreciative billow of fragrant smoke. 'She can talk to me while you fix your girth. I don't get much conversation these days, not since my Yulia died.'

Mikhail took the reins from Sofia's hand and headed for the barn.

'What would you like to talk about?' Sofia smiled and sat down on the bench beside him, stretching her legs out in the sunshine. The word wife wife had taken her by surprise and to her ears it sounded good. She laughed as a tiny kitten with spiky white fur scurried to safety under the man's ankles when it saw the dog trailing across the clearing. Several scrawny chickens paused in their dust-baths to bob their heads at the intruders. had taken her by surprise and to her ears it sounded good. She laughed as a tiny kitten with spiky white fur scurried to safety under the man's ankles when it saw the dog trailing across the clearing. Several scrawny chickens paused in their dust-baths to bob their heads at the intruders.

'Do you know Moscow?' the old man asked.

'I've never been there, I'm afraid,' she said.

'Is it true Stalin dynamited the sacred Cathedral of Christ the Redeemer and is planning to build a Palace of the Soviets in its place?'

'So I believe.'

'And what about that Dutch Communist burning down the Reichstag in Germany?' He chuckled into his beard and slapped his thigh with glee. 'That's one up the a.r.s.e for that goose-stepping fascist monkey who has seized power over there.'

'You're very well informed.'

'Da. I read Pravda. Pravda. My son comes to see me every three months and brings me all the newspapers I need.' He nodded his head proudly and chewed at his tobacco-stained moustache. 'He's a good son to me.' My son comes to see me every three months and brings me all the newspapers I need.' He nodded his head proudly and chewed at his tobacco-stained moustache. 'He's a good son to me.'

They talked further, about bread rationing, the high prices in shops, the increase in educational places for girls and Kirov's plans for Leningrad. None of it could touch the old man out here in the wilderness, yet he was pa.s.sionate about seeing the rebirth of Russia. Alongside a steady flow of chatter, he provided a welcome meal of chicken, boiled potatoes, salted cabbage and cuc.u.mber with smetana smetana, and in return Mikhail took an hour to split logs while Sofia stacked them up against the wall. It was almost like normal living again. Even the dog lay in a patch of shade and snored contentedly, its stomach sated with chicken sc.r.a.ps.

'Time for us to leave,' Mikhail finally announced. 'Thank you for your hospitality. Spasibo Spasibo.'

'I've enjoyed the company.' He smiled at Sofia and patted her hand, pulling a face at the scars on her two fingers. 'Been in the wars, have you, girl?'

'Something like that.'

'You should take better care of your wife in future, young man.'

Mikhail gave Sofia a pointed look. 'She's not the easiest of women to take care of.'

Their gaze met and Sofia suddenly saw, for the first time, his fear for her, deep down, sharp and painful as a bayonet inside him. A rush of longing hit her. She wanted to rid this man she loved of those dark tense shadows, to make him as content and relaxed as the dog in the dust.

'When this is over,' she promised, and tipped him a crooked smile.

He nodded and returned the smile. It was only a moment but it was one she would keep safe.

She thanked the old man and Mikhail started to lead the horses forward, reins loose in his fingers. That was when she slid her hand into her pocket to tuck a couple of biscuits in there, provided by their host for the journey. One of her damaged fingers brushed against the white stone where it lay, warm from the heat of her body, and she felt something change. Startled, she looked around her, expecting to see something different, but still the silver birch branches shimmered gently in the breeze. A magpie spiralled down into the clearing to steal a chicken bone from the dirt. The izba izba looked as peaceful as ever, its windows blinking in the sun. looked as peaceful as ever, its windows blinking in the sun.

But something had definitely changed. She didn't know what, but she could sense it. Then slowly, like the echo of distant thunder, in the soles of her feet she felt the vibration of horses' hooves. She stood totally still, listening. She could hear the nervous beating of hearts and whispers rustling the leaves.

'Mikhail!' she called, her voice louder than she intended. 'They're here.'

'Who?'

'The soldiers.'

They prepared quickly, dismantled their packs and turned the horses into a field down by the river. Mikhail would be splitting logs in the front yard and the old man was to remain seated on his bench outside the house, this time with a wooden chess set at his side. Sofia was banished with a hoe to the vegetable patch at the other side of the barn.

'Sofia, take no chances, do nothing . . . foolish. Promise me.' Mikhail took her face between his hands. 'Promise me,' he said again.

'We're a happy peasant family just going about our ch.o.r.es.' She smiled at him and touched her hand to his chest, but he didn't smile back. His eyes were serious.

'I promise,' she said.

'Don't get involved,' Mikhail told her fiercely. 'I'll deal with them. Just keep your head down and get on with weeding.' He gave her a small shake that clicked her teeth together. 'You're not listening to me.'

'Yes, I am.'

But he knew her too well.

The rattle of rifle bolts surrounded the house. Sofia felt the hairs rise on her neck.

'Who's in charge here?'

The demand came from the soldier at the head of the troop, a lean figure with dark hair swept off his face and quick, intelligent eyes. Around him the troop fanned out, nervous and trigger-fingered, memories of the murdered patrol vivid in their minds.

'This is my home,' Mikhail said, polite but unwelcoming. He hung the axe from one hand and stood with legs wide and a thumb tucked into his belt.

'And who are you?'

'Mikhail Pashin.'

'The others?'