Clockwork Fairy Tales: A Collection of Steampunk Fables (5 page)

Petro fell silent, waiting, and the fine moment ended. Vasyl sighed. “I’m tired of being alone, Petya. I want to wake up with someone together and spend days together and go to bed together.”

“I understand loneliness,” Petro said. “After nine years, I understand. But to relieve yours, you could choose Yilka, the baker’s daughter, or Larissa, the shoemaker’s sister. Instead you risk your life to choose Hanna, the mayor’s daughter. It hurts me that I don’t understand why.” He thumped his chest. “Right here it hurts. So, why her and why today?”

“I’m also tired of being poor,” Vasyl blurted. “And I felt bad for her because she has to sit up there every week with no one to choose her. And now…I wish I could take it back. I am a fool. No one can build a mechanical that thinks for itself.”

Olena and Broom continued with their work. Broom was washing dishes while Olena swept the floor. The men kept their voices low, but Vasyl was sure Olena heard every word. Children always did.

Petro squeezed Vasyl’s forearm. Vasyl felt as though he should pull away, but he was too full and too tired and too tense to
bother. Besides, the physical contact was reassuring. “Nothing is impossible,” he said stoutly. “I will help you, my brother. But first, you must answer the question you have been avoiding.”

Vasyl felt nervous again. “What question have I been avoiding?”

“Why didn’t you make this mess last week or the week before? Why today, of all days?”

Vasyl opened his mouth to say he didn’t know why. Then he looked at the extra plate of food and at the gathering gloom outside the windows, and he realized he did know why.

“It would be easier to show you than tell you. But, Olena—”

“If you are going out, I am staying in,” Olena said.

Petro clambered to his feet. “You’re not going out!”

“I must.” Vasyl dropped the half-empty vodka bottle and the rest of the bread into a sack and pulled on his coat and pack. “I went up there today because tonight is
her
night, and I knew I might need help.”

Petro’s dark eyes went wide. “You want to visit
Baba Yaga
?”

“I have no idea how to make a mechanical think for itself. She might.”

“She’ll eat you alive!”

“And the mayor’s punishment is kinder?” Vasyl hefted the sack. “If you want to come, then come. I have to leave now.”

Petro looked torn. He glanced at his friend and then at his daughter. Vasyl felt a small stab of jealousy. Despite his earlier statement, he didn’t really want to do this alone—he had used up his courage for the week facing down the mayor—and he badly wanted Petro to come with him. When they were younger, Petro would have come without hesitation. But now Petro was a family man, and family men didn’t leave their families to help friends.

Vasyl admonished himself. He was being unfair. Still…

“Go, Papa,” Olena said. “I am not frightened. As long as I do not go outside, she will not touch me.”

A soft rumble outside made Vasyl hurry to the door. “Quick!”

Petro kissed Olena’s cheek, snatched up his own coat, and ran outside with Vasyl. Vasyl dropped the plate of food on the
doorstep, and the two men ran out to the deserted square. Every front step had a plate on it. Every window was shuttered tight.

“Do you see anything?” Petro was looking at the darkening sky.

“There!” Vasyl pointed. A streak of light rushed overhead and west. At the front of it was a strange contraption of iron and brass. It was shaped like a giant bowl or mortar, held together with an intricate pattern of rivets. On the back were fastened a pair of engines that blasted fire and light, carrying the mortar just high enough to clear the rooftops of Kiev. Vasyl took an involuntary step backward, and the autumn air grew colder. In the mortar stood a tall, thin hag in an earth-brown dress. Her gray hair streamed out behind her, and she steered with a rudder made from a brass pestle. The woman glanced down and her hard eyes met Vasyl’s for a tiny moment. His blood turned to thin ice water. Then she was gone, leaving a trail of smoke and thunder in the sky.

“I can’t believe I am actually saying this,” Petro said, “but we must hurry if we want to follow her.”

The two men ran through the empty streets of Kiev, their boots ringing on cobblestones. Ahead of them, the spreading trail of smoke arced downward as the hag brought her mortar in among the buildings, close to ground. Vasyl ran until his ribs burned, still following the smoke trail with Petro at his side. Unfortunately, the city grew too dark and the smoke trail too thin. They lost the path.

“Where now?” Petro asked.

Vasyl scanned the street. He could smell the sharp exhaust from paraffin oil. All the houses they had passed sported plates of food, but here several of the plates had been emptied, and a number had been flipped upside down, as if someone moving at great speed had snatched the food from them without pausing.

“This way.” He led Petro down the street, following the trail of empty plates, until he came to an intersection. The plates on the street in three directions were still full. Vasyl peered nervously down the narrow fourth street. It was dark as a wolf’s
mouth. The plate on the first doorstep, just visible in the pale light at the intersection, was empty.

“I didn’t think to bring a light,” Vasyl whispered. “Did you?”

Petro shook his head. “How do we—?”

A rattling noise made Vasyl jump, and his heart beat at the back of his throat. Broom scuttled up, bobbing anxiously.

“Broom!” Vasyl gasped. “What in God’s name?”

“Did you order him not to follow you anymore?”

“I forgot,” Vasyl admitted sheepishly. “But as long as he’s here, we can use him. Broom, light, please.”

There was a
pop
, and from the spot where Broom’s staff belled outward a beam of blue light speared down to illuminate the cobblestones. Broom bounced up and down, apparently pleased.

“Very nice, Broom,” Vasyl said. “Walk beside me.”

They entered the street with Broom lighting the way. All the windows were shuttered, and every doorstep plate was empty. Stony walls pressed inward, and the air dripped with smells of urine, garbage, and paraffin oil exhaust, which told Vasyl they were going the right way. The street made a dogleg and ended in a square. Vasyl sucked in a breath and Petro put a heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder. Even Broom’s little light quivered.

Before them stood a fence made of bones. Electricity arced in ladders up fence posts made of femurs and snapped off the skulls that sat atop them. The bones were inlaid with iron, and sparks snarled around the metal, bringing to Vasyl a mixture of fear and admiration. He swallowed around his pounding heart and wiped sweaty palms on oil-stained trousers. The fence blocked the entire alley, and beyond it…

A creak and a thud, and another creak and another thud pounded the cobblestones beyond the fence. A metal cottage occupied a square beyond the awful fence. Rust streaked the sides and the roof, and a heavy iron bar held the door shut. Strange enough that a cottage should be made of metal and sitting in the middle of a little square in Kiev, but this house was supported by a pair of enormous bird legs made of brass. Exposed pistons creaked and hissed as each leg moved. The feet came up and
down, thudding and thumping and creaking and hissing on the cobblestones, ready to crush anything that dared come close. Vasyl stared at the structure, simultaneously fascinated and frightened.

“How do we get past this fence?” asked Petro in a hushed voice. “If we touch it, we will die.”

“If
I
touch it,” Vasyl replied, also hushed. “You are staying here.”

“You aren’t going in there without me.”

“Yes? And who will take care of little Olena if you die?”

That silenced Petro, though his face clouded and it was clear that he wanted to disagree further. Vasyl pulled off his tinker’s pack and rummaged through it until he found some wire and a pair of wooden tongs.

“This will do.” He used the tongs to connect one end of the wire to the fence, while the other end dragged on the ground. With a pop and a shower of sparks, the electric current vanished.

“It’s a simple series circuit,” Vasyl said to Petro’s unasked question. “Easy enough to interrupt if you know what you’re doing.” Still, he used the tongs instead of his hands to push at a section that looked like a gate. It swung open with a tooth-grating screech. At the sound, the cottage beyond stopped moving on its strange bird legs. With a dreadful creak, it turned toward Vasyl as if the front windows were staring eyes.

“Uh-oh,” Vasyl said. “We’re supposed to say something. A password. What is it?”

“How should I know?” Petro hissed.

Broom managed a tiny whimpering sound. The cottage took a step toward them, then another and another. It leaned angrily forward. Old stories flashed through Vasyl’s head. The hut appeared on the thirteenth night of October each year. Anyone who touched the fence would die. To make it stop dancing, you said—

“Little hut, little hut!” Vasyl called. “Turn your back to the forest and your face to me!”

The cottage continued to stomp toward them, now only a few steps away. Broom quivered. Vasyl desperately glanced left
and right, but there was nowhere to run to. His bowels turned to water. The hut thundered forward. He shouted the words again, but there was no effect.

“Little hut, little hut!” Petro cried. “Turn your back to the city and your face to me!”

The cottage came to a halt a mere step away, one foot raised to crush them. Then it lowered itself to the ground like a hen settling onto a nest.

“We aren’t in the forest,” Petro said calmly.

Vasyl drooped with relief. “I’m glad you’re here, Petya.”

“Then let me come in with you.”

“You know she won’t allow that,” Vasyl replied with a shake of his head.

“I’ll wait out here.” Petro folded his arms. “All night, if I have to.”

“All right.” Vasyl succumbed to temptation and gave Petro a fast hug. “Here goes.”

Vasyl dashed up to the door before he could lose his nerve and flung the bar up. The door leaped open. Panting, Vasyl hurried through the dark opening. At the last second, Broom scurried in behind him—Vasyl had once again forgotten to order him not to follow. The door slammed shut. Vasyl stood in darkness, the only sound his heart pounding in his ears.

“Broom,” he whispered hoarsely, “light.”

Painful light exploded all around Vasyl. He threw up a hand to shield his eyes. When he could see, he found himself in a kitchen much larger than the cottage walls could encompass. Vasyl spun, trying to take it all in. Dirty flagstone floor. Ashy ceramic stove. Greasy black kettle. Grimy kitchen table. Cobwebbed cupboards. Tangled loom. Rumpled bed. The light seemed to come from the walls themselves, though Broom gamely cast his tiny twin beams.

In the corner, tall and thin, arms folded, stood the old hag with her tangle of gray hair. She looked like a mop left to dry. Then she grinned, revealing iron teeth that made Vasyl’s stomach shrivel back against his spine.

“Well,” she
said in a gravelly voice lower than Petro’s, “it isn’t often dinner just walks through my front door.”

Vasyl gave the door behind him an involuntary glance. Three heavy bolts slid home with a clunk, a thud, and a boom. Broom squeaked. Vasyl swallowed and wondered if his life could be counted in seconds. He forced himself to stand straight.

“You don’t want to eat me,” he said.

“No?” She licked her lips with a pale tongue and Vasyl realized she was at least two heads taller than he. “Why?”

Vasyl ticked off reasons with trembling fingers. “I’ll taste stringy and gamy. You just ate from all those plates outside, so you’re not hungry. And I brought other food for you.” From the sack he produced the bread and vodka, which he put on the awful kitchen table. Then he backed away. Broom stayed right behind him.

“Hm. I can give you a few minutes.” She gobbled the bread in two bites, poured the vodka down her throat, and flung the bottle into the fireplace with a crash. Vasyl flinched. “So, boy, what gives you the balls to brave the dancing hut of Baba Yaga?”

Coming from her, the word
boy
didn’t sound insulting. “I need your help, Grandmother.”

“They all do. And they all end up in that kettle. Why should you be any different?”

“You’re talking to me instead of eating me,” Vasyl pointed out, not quite believing he was doing this. “That makes me at least a little different.”

“Hm. Usually I get tender young girls. They ask me to give them a dowry for some hideous husband or hand them fire for their stupid stepmothers when they could just as easily get either for themselves if they would just try.”

“It must be difficult,” Vasyl said, “to watch foolish people make foolish mistakes, especially when you give them good advice.”

“You can’t possibly know how difficult.” A rusty mechanical cat crawled out from under a cupboard, and Baba Yaga picked it up. Her claws scraped absently across its back and made Vasyl’s teeth ache. “I tell
them their husbands and stepmothers have to sleep sometime, and the kitchen is filled with long, sharp knives. Or, if you
must
bow to them, make fire yourself with a pair of sticks when the hearth goes cold. But no—they always come to me. And then they cry bitter tears when I drop them into the kettle or, if I’m in a very good mood”—her claws raked the cat’s back with a screech that raised Vasyl’s hair—“I chase them across a river or through a hedge to teach them a lesson in self-sufficiency.”

“But they don’t learn much, do they?” Vasyl said.

“Never,” she sighed. “They always marry some stupid twit and spread lies about my—hey, now!”

Vasyl tensed. “Yes?”

Baba Yaga laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent confusing shivers down Vasyl’s back. She tossed the cat on the table, filled a long, thin pipe, and lit it with a spark created by snapping one claw across her teeth. The smoke smelled of diesel.

“So you bring the gift of listening as well as food, do you?” she said. “You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, boy. I like that. I think I like
you.
”

Vasyl let himself feel a tiny bit of relief. “So you’ll help me?”