R1 - Rusalka (37 page)

Himself, Pyetr Kochevikov, who only recently believed in ghosts and vodyaniye and such, found himself fighting his way uphill in blind terror of what might be stalking them and blind trust of what was guiding them—

Knowing, absolutely, that the situation might be completely backwards of what he felt—

Sasha saying, That could have been your heart, Pyetr…

He heard thunder behind him, a crack that shocked the forest, felt the increasing chill in the air and the shadowing in the sky. Sasha overtook him, held him by the arm and protested they should stop, it was coming up a rain…

No, he said, brushing off Sasha's grip.

No. Not yet.
She
said not; and his feeling of where safety lay remained constant. "It's all right," he said to Sasha without looking at anything in its distracting detail, not Sasha, not the woods around them. "It's Eveshka. She's still in front of us. She's moving…"

"She'll come back," Sasha said.

"I'm not sure she can," he said, and walked while a fine mist drifted down through the branches…

They had left the bracken. It was leaf mold underfoot now, a thick carpet glistening with rain, easier going, except the brush and the thorns. He walked, followed the wisp of a notion where he was going until his side ached and his legs were shaking with every step, jogged when the presence grew fainter, caught his breath and walked again while it was-strong—until finally on the bare side of a ridge he slipped, lost his balance and skidded feet first down the slope into a rain-pocked spring.

He gasped a breath and hit the muddy ground in disgust, having landed up to the knees in water. But when he collected himself to get up he could see her reflected in the roiled surface, standing behind him.

He whirled to look, grabbing at his sword—and saw nothing but the wet leaves, the forest around him… and a very distraught Sasha Misurov coming sideways down the slippery face of the ridge to reach him.

Fool, he chided himself, heart pounding, and did not want to look back at that pool of water, because he had a cold, nape-prickling certainty that her reflection would still be there.

"Pyetr!" he heard Sasha calling him.

And saw her instead in his water-filled handprints in the leaf-mold, reflection after reflection, whole and part, repeated in every puddle and every water drop around him.

"God," he breathed, and slowly, unwanted and irresistible impulse, looked back at the pool.

Pyetr was sitting staring at the surface of a spring, finally, when Sasha arrived, drenched and panting, at the bottom of the slope—Pyetr was just sitting, staring as if that were far more important than the fact he had nearly lost himself in the woods—or lost
him
, more to the point.

It was certainly not Pyetr in his right mind—Pyetr scratched and soaked, flecked with bits of dead leaves with and his hands and his breeches all muddy.

"Pyetr?" he asked.

Pyetr asked, without looking at him, "Do you see her?"

"No," Sasha said, desperately regretting they had ever left the boat. He was trembling in the arms and the knees from the chase Pyetr had led him, and he wanted nothing so much now, if he did not carefully smother that thought, as to be back on the boat with Pyetr locked in the deckhouse, if that was what it took to keep him out of the rusalka's reach.

"She's the way she was," Pyetr murmured, "not—not like at the house…"

"What do you mean, not like at the house?" A cold doubt bobbed to the surface with that: but Uulamets had always put it down, Uulamets had been so sure, Uulamets had always insisted—

He felt
a wish touch him, a very strong one:
befell
whatever

Pyetr could see was well-disposed to them, and terrified of this place—

"That's enough!" he said, and picked up a branch and flung it at the surface, scattering ripples. "Pyetr!"

Pyetr dropped his face into his hands, drew a breath, and did not take offense when Sasha grabbed him by the packs he was carrying and tried to haul him away from the pool. He was not strong enough; but Pyetr made his own effort to get up, leaning on his arm-Stopped then, looked away, distracted—

"Don't," Sasha said, hauling at him,
wishing
him not to look, because suddenly there was a wisp of white drifting in the tail of his eye. He looked fearfully toward it, saw a haziness in the misting rain, as if the water was settling there a moment before it fell.

He felt reassured against his will. He saw it retreat, saw the surface of the pond ripple as a veil of droplets slowly sank into it and vanished.

Pyetr walked a few steps away and sat down as if his knees had simply gone out from under him.

"What's with Uulamets isn't her," Pyetr said, and rested his head in his hands. "Damn, it's not her, it never was, it never acted right. I should have said—"

"Is that what she told you?"

"She can't. I can't hear her.—I just know the difference."

Sasha sank down on his heels in front of him. He suddenly felt exhausted, cold, set about with too many questions.

"I'm not crazy," Pyetr insisted, starting to shiver.

"I know you're not." He reached out and grasped Pyetr's hand. It was like ice, white, flecked with bits of leaves and dirt. "Look, it's raining, it's late, we don't know where we're going. Let's stop here—put up the shelter, get a fire going, have supper."

"What were we sharing the house with?" Pyetr asked.

"I don't know," Sasha said, with a queasiness in his own stomach; he had never imagined he would feel safer spending the night with a rusalka than on their own—but in this place he did.

Keep away from Pyetr, he wished her; and felt she assented to that—

She wanted them safe.

Especially, and for special reasons—Pyetr.

Which notion far from reassured him.

They had supper—fish and turnips again, but honest fish and turnips. The trick was to keep the fire hot enough to overpower the drizzle—and not high enough to come back on a gust of wind and catch the canvas, which they had stretched from several makeshift poles and pegs to make a shelter: smoky from time to time, but the smoke meant warm air, and it was actually pleasant despite the sting it brought to the eyes. With a hot meal and a little measure of vodka afterward they were tolerably dry and comfortable—sitting on the wooded ridge, not by the pool, to be sure; and with the heat and light of the fire between them and Eveshka, Sasha had seen to that, having set up the shelter while Pyetr was gathering wood.

Not that he completely disbelieved the rusalka's good intentions. But he had marked how pale Pyetr seemed by dusk, how clearly exhausted.

And he was not much better after supper.

"How are you feeling?" Sasha asked.

"All right," Pyetr said. "I truly apologize. The stupid thing was, I knew at the time it was stupid."

"Did you know I was behind you?"

Pyetr nodded. "But I had this feeling of something else behind us. And I couldn't explain it. I don't know why I couldn't. It was altogether, irredeemably
stupid—"

"That's how strong she is. I couldn't stop her. Or you." He reached out and shook at Pyetr's arm. "Be careful. I don't think, I truly don't think she's after us, or we wouldn't be sitting here right now, but that doesn't mean she won't change her mind."

"She doesn't mean us any harm," Pyetr insisted, with a conviction that did nothing to ease Sasha's misgivings; and Sasha shook at him a second time.

"Listen to you, Pyetr Illitch. It's her. You know exactly what she's making you know. Don't start believing it. Maybe she's on our side, maybe she wants to help her father, but she's not alive, and you are, and that's what she needs. Don't
be
stupid. Don't let her close to you!"

Pyetr gave a kind of shiver, staring into the fire. "That's not easy."

"I know it's not easy. You're white as a ghost tonight.
Don't
let her touch you."

Pyetr took a drink, swallowed hard, and nodded. "I know. I know that. I'm not being stubborn about it."

"Listen, if she doesn't tell us tomorrow morning where she thinks her father is, or what's going on here, or what we're going to do about it, I think we'd do best to turn south, just start walking out of this woods—"

"I know where Uulamets is," Pyetr said, and made a motion of his hand to the general direction he had been going. "She does. He's being a fool. I suppose wizards can be that the same as the rest of us. She's upset about it."

"Is she talking to you?"

Pyetr shook his head. "I just think that's where she's taking us."

"Maybe we'd still better go south," Sasha said, afraid now, wishing he had long ago listened to Pyetr when he was sure it was Pyetr's own idea. He could only see Pyetr slipping deeper and deeper, and of that he could only see one conclusion. "We can get to the house, float a log across if we have to—"

"Hwiuur," Pyetr reminded him, and Sasha's heart thumped an extra beat at that name, here, where they did not want attention.

But Pyetr had no power to wish up a thing.

"Then we just walk all the way to Kiev," Sasha said. "I'm sure there's a ferry. And too many people around for things like him to try anything. I don't think magical things like too many people around. I don't think wizards do. But I don't mind going there."

There was long silence.

"I don't think we'll get there," Pyetr said. "I don't think we've a chance."

So they were face about in their arguments. "We can try!" Sasha insisted.

And Pyetr slowly shook his head.

"What does that mean?" Sasha asked.

Pyetr did not answer.

"Pyetr, why not?"

"We won't get there."

Sasha stared at him, helpless, being far from him physically to make Pyetr do anything—and he did not
want
to wish him into it; which was immediate failure in itself.

"Feels better here," Pyetr said. "A lot better than the boat, crazy as it sounds."

"It's not crazy," Sasha said. "It
is
better.—But do you know—like you knew leaving me was stupid—that it's stupid to believe her?"

After a moment Pyetr nodded, then said, "But I just have this feeling—I think it's her, talking to me: telling me grandfather's alive—that he's in some kind of trouble; that if we don't get him back something dreadful's going to happen—something I don't understand, but I don't understand any of it anyway. Nothing new for me." He reached down for the jug and started to unstop it.

And yelled and grabbed for his sword, nearly taking the shelter down as he leapt up—

—
because something was skittering along the bushes near them.

Sasha tried to get out of Pyetr's way and miss the fire at the same time; but whatever it was circled to the side behind the fire and vanished into a bush.

With a hiss.

"Babi!" Sasha exclaimed, and caught Pyetr's arm. "Don't scare him."

"Don't scare
him!"
Pyetr retorted; but a round black head had poked out of the brush and blinked at them.

It showed shiny white teeth, a huge row of them.

"Babi?" Sasha said.

It crept out into the firelight and the drizzle, a very abject and flat-to-the-ground Yard-thing.

"It can stay out there!" Pyetr said. "Throw it something to eat. We don't need it in here with us."

It crept closer, chin on ground, and folded its little manlike hands in front of its face, staring up at them.

A very diminished, very sad-looking Babi.