R1 - Rusalka (4 page)

Most of all he was afraid that what the neighbors had said about him could be true, and that, without even wanting Mischa to come to lasting harm, he could do what he feared, the same as they said Pyetr Kochevikov had conspired with someone to do to the boyar Yurishev.

Pyetr had asked him forthrightly why he had helped him in the first place. That was easy, Pyetr having done him no harm, and Pyetr seeming in desperate need of help—

Until the watch had come to the gates saying that Pyetr was involved in sorcery—

Then Sasha had wanted to stand very far in the shadows and not have anybody anywhere remember that he existed.

Now—now, he had helped Pyetr Kochevikov, he had brought him food, he had helped him hide from the law, and when he had heard the charge he had known in his heart that Pyetr was not guilty of what they said—not Pyetr the prankster, not Pyetr, who could do such outrageous, wonderful things and get away unscathed—Pyetr never did real harm to anyone. There was never malice in his jokes. Pyetr and murder were unthinkable together.

And Pyetr and
sorcery—

If they could believe that of Pyetr Illitch, then they could believe it of anybody; and if the thieftakers found out who had been hiding Pyetr—then people all over town might remember all sorts of things about The Cockerel's stableboy, and nobody was going to ask whether it was true or not.

Sasha wanted Pyetr Illitch to leave, now, immediately: that was all he could think of for a solution; but Pyetr refused, Pyetr said he had to have more time, and he personally had no idea what to do with a man so weak he could hardly walk. There was no throwing him out, even if he could hope the watch would never discover who had hidden a fugitive from them for a night and a day. He could think about sending Pyetr away, simply telling Pyetr he had to go and making sure that he got out The Cockerel's gate before anyone saw him. He could tell himself that he ought to do it before something terrible happened to the whole household, because they were not responsible for Pyetr Kochevikov, even if he was innocent, and he
was
responsible to uncle Fedya and aunt Ilenka, who had sheltered him when nobody else would—

But he had not the heart to see Pyetr Illitch caught and killed.

He wished he could think of something.

He wished none of this had happened.

But that kind of wish never worked.

«
^
»

T
he boy
came in the evening with a couple of small boiled turnips and a big piece of bread, which Pyetr was very glad to see. The Cockerel's kitchen had been smelling of baking bread all morning and of stew all evening, with the coming and going of patrons, footsteps on the walk, shouts and banging of The Cockerel's door, to remind a hungry, hurting man that other people were enjoying a much happier evening.

At least no one had come in for any of the horses, thank the god, and Pyetr had felt himself at least the better for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep—until hunger had set in and he would have been glad to contemplate yesterday's little saucer of bread and sour milk on the stall gatepost, which somebody's black and white cat had gotten after breakfast.

Sasha broke off part of the bread and put it in the saucer first off; and poured a little of their drink on it—for the Old Man of the stables, one supposed, and not for the cat—which probably had its daily round of barns and stables and doorsteps. It had certainly looked well-fed.

"They're talking in the tavern," Sasha said, between nibbles of his own bread. "There's a reward on you. From the boyarina and her family."

Pyetr felt his stomach upset. "So. How much?"

"They say"—Sasha's voice took on a tone of true respect—"sixty in silver."

"I can't say I'm insulted."

Sasha looked uncertain then, as if something of the bitterness had gotten through; or as if he thought he should not have brought that up, here, alone with him.

Why did he say? Pyetr wondered. To find out whether my friends can bid higher?

"Why would they think that about you?" Sasha asked. "About the sorcery—why would they think that?"

Is he
afraid
of me? Pyetr asked himself then, as an entirely new territory opened to him with that idea. Is
that
why you haven't gone to the law, boy?

"Maybe I know a sorcerer," Pyetr said.

"Who?"

This was the boy who put out saucers of milk for the barn-warder, who, even if one pointed out that the cat had gotten them, would say, as the old folk would, that the cat did not get the saucer
every
time.

"I wouldn't be smart to say, would I?"

Sasha bit his lip, frowning, and Pyetr felt no safer considering the deep distress he saw on the boy's face. He had no clue which direction to go, now, or what might gain the boy's help or what might send him running headlong for the watch.

"If you know a sorcerer like that," Sasha said, "why doesn't he help you?"

Perish any thought that Sasha Vasilyevitch was dull-witted.

"I don't believe you did it," Sasha said. "I think the boyarina's relatives did. I think they're lying.
His
relatives were saying Yurishev knew you were coming to the house and he set up a trap—but now they're not talking to the magistrates, they're not seeing anybody—and the boyarina's maid hanged herself, they found her this morning. They're saying she helped you—"

God, Pyetr thought, they've killed that poor girl—

"People are scared," Sasha said.

Pyetr raked a hand through his hair.

"If there
is
a sorcerer," Sasha said, "did he do that too?"

"There is no sorcerer!" Pyetr cried. "I was seeing Yurishev's wife. Yurishev set up a trap and caught me and he must have had an attack of some kind; but if Yurishev's family proves adultery, the wife's dowry is forfeit, and her relatives want it back. They've had bad times lately. They need that property. Yurishev built the mill on it! And now they've murdered the poor maid. Do you think they won't murder me—or anyone else they think might testify for the Yurishevs? It's money involved, Sasha Vasilyevitch, and they're quite willing to kill you as well as me. Don't mistake it!"

Sasha looked appalled.

"My friends are doing all they can," Pyetr said. "But it takes time. They have to get appointments. They have to meet with people. In the meanwhile—what you have to do is find me some clothes."

"Clothes!"

"I'm all over blood and mud. If I had clean clothes and a cap or something, someone who walked in here might not look twice at me. Something bulky, something like your uncle would wear."

"My uncle!"

"Nothing good. Old clothes. Rags.—Maybe a loaf of bread, while you're at it…"

Sasha looked as if his supper were sitting uneasy on his stomach.

"It might be a good thing for everyone," Pyetr said, "if I could get out of Vojvoda for a fortnight or so—and I need your help, Sasha Vasilyevitch."

The boy went silent. Somebody was walking outside.

"Somebody's coming!" Sasha whispered. "Cover up!"

Pyetr moved for his corner and raked handfuls of straw over himself. Sasha flung the horse blankets over him and got up and walked away. Pyetr could hear the gentle breakage of straw, the soft opening and closing of the stall.

"What are you doing?" somebody said.

"Having my supper," Sasha said. "Resting for a moment." He was appalled. Mischa stood in the stable aisle, covered head to foot with mud.

He did not want to ask why. He simply felt sick at his stomach, the anger of the morning gone and nothing left in him but a profound horror, his secret misdeed come home to him—

Thank god I didn't wish worse, he thought.

"Don't stand there with your mouth open," cousin Mischa said. "Fool! I can't go inside like this! Get me some water and get me some dry clothes, hear me?"

"I'll be right back," Sasha said, and took out running, out the stable door, down the walk, up onto the porch and inside the box of a hallway between the kitchen and the main part of the inn. Straight back, behind the stairs and behind the kitchen led him to Mischa's room, which was latched only when there were strangers in the tavern. He pushed the door open, snatched clothes off the peg and ran out again.

"Where are you going, Sasha?" aunt Ilenka's voice pursued him. "Alexander Vasilyevitch,
what are you doing
?"

He stopped in the outside doorway, bounced on one foot. "Mischa fell in a puddle," he said, and was out the door before aunt Ilenka could say anything.

Steps came closer to the stall. Pyetr refrained from breathing any larger than he had to, for fear of making any motion in the straw and the blankets.

The walker stopped. Someone else was coming at a run. In a moment: "I've got the clothes," Sasha's voice said. "Here."

"I need the water first, fool!"

"I'm getting it," Sasha said. There was the rattle of a bucket. "I'll be right back. You can start getting undressed."

Footsteps left, running. Footsteps walked back up the aisle.

Pyetr held his breath again, heard the advance of the footsteps, heard swearing, heard the rattle of the stall gate as it swung inward. For a moment he could not determine what was going on with the small creaks and grunts, until he realized Mischa Misurov was pulling off his boots, starting to do what Sasha had said.

O my god, Pyetr thought, suddenly putting a cold, wet Mischa Misurov together with the convenience of a pile of horse blankets on the straw in the corner of the stall.

As the footsteps came up to him and his shelter vanished with a snatch of Mischa's hand and an unwelcome flood of lantern light.

Mischa yelled and leaped back, Pyetr gasped and lurched for his feet, grabbing his sword, and Mischa Misurov yelled for help and banged his way past the stall gate, out into the center aisle.

"Help!" he yelled, mostly naked, running and slipping barefoot in the straw. "It's him! It's him!"

Pyetr banged his own way out of the stall, sword in hand, overtook him with a pain that shortened his breath, tried to lay hands on him without running him through, but he missed both chances, bent double with the pain as he lost his grip. Mischa plunged out into the dark of the yard, yelling and howling that he was beset.

"Damn," Pyetr gasped, and ran for the door as Sasha came dashing in, no bucket, nothing in his hands, terror on his face. "Stop the fool!"

"I tried!" Sasha cried.

"I've got to get out of here," Pyetr said, and grabbed him. "Get me a horse!"

"There isn't time!" Sasha cried. "Come, come on!"

Sasha offered conviction and a direction. Pyetr had neither. He yielded to the pull on his arm and ran in the direction Sasha pulled him, out the west door toward the tangled area of the hay-shed and the garden.