R1 - Rusalka (6 page)

Sasha stood up and faced him. "We're in enough trouble, Pyetr Illitch. Making jokes isn't going to help it."

"It does help it. It helps not to be fools." Pyetr staggered to his feet. "It helps us that the thieftakers are probably suspecting the haystack or the horses, and the gate guards who let us out aren't going to admit they were tricked off their post, they're going to say they were 'witched, and
they
aren't going to come out here in the dark looking for wizards and shape-changers who walked right through a locked parley-gate. So be grateful that
they're
fools."

"Where are you going?" Sasha asked, for Pyetr was leaving the roadside, heading off through the meadow, eastward.

"To blazes," Pyetr said. "Come with me or go back and explain to the thieftakers how you were 'witched, too."

"I can't!" Sasha cried.

But Pyetr kept walking, slowly, and there was nothing to do but run after him.

They came on a road in the dark, or at least a memory of one, so overgrown and weedy it was almost more trouble than the open field, but better, Pyetr thought, to be on it, since a road, however old, promised a sure way through. The god knew he was in no way for climbing or rough ground, and from time to time he would come back to himself with the feeling that he might have been wandering—except for the road, which at least kept them on a course for somewhere, at least guided them away from Vojvoda, and steered them clear of dead ends and drops over banks—one hoped.

"Talk," he said to the boy finally, because he knew that his wits were drifting.

"About what?" Sasha asked.

"Anything. I don't care."

"I don't know anything to talk about."

"God.—What do you want to do, where do you want to go in the world, what have you always wanted to see?"

"I don't know. I never thought.—I thought we were just going to hide a while, till your friends—"

"Don't be naive.—Did you plan to work for old Fedya for the rest of your life?"

Silence.

"Did he pay you?"

"No," Sasha said in a small voice.

"That old skinflint.—Mischa spends him blind and you're jack-of-all-work, is that it?"

"Mischa's his own son."

"And you call
me
a thief." He had no wish to argue, he had not the strength, but the boy's docile gullibility infuriated him. "He took you for a fool, boy, he worked you like a tinker's donkey, so his son could squander his money in every inn in Vojvoda, and you make excuses for him."

"He didn't have to take me in."

"Oh, he took you
in
, boy." He felt the pain come back, riding every step, and he wanted to drop the whole conversation, but the argument called up old, disturbing resentments, and he wondered if he had ever understood the boy. "You should have beaten Mischa's head in—years ago. It might have done both of you some good."

"I couldn't."

"Mischa's soft—soft, and you aren't, if you ever added it up. You let people push you, they get used to it and they don't even think about it. Same with Mischa, same with your uncle, not mentioning your aunt. You want a witch, boy—"

"That's the trouble!" Sasha said. "That's the trouble. You don't believe in witches. But I might
be
one."

"You might—bee—one."

Perhaps Sasha comprehended that that was sarcasm. Several moments went by in silence.

"Boy, everybody makes-believe. Everybody has terrible hidden powers, everybody is going to get back at the fools around him. And then you grow
up
, boy!"

"Everybody says I'm just unlucky," Sasha cried. "But I
wanted
Mischa to fall in a puddle, you understand? I
wanted
us to get through the gates and them not to follow and the bar fell down—"

"So did I
want
it, boy, luck's got nothing to do with it."

"It does with me! My parents' house
burned
, Pyetr Illitch. Mischa fell in a puddle and we got through the gates and they haven't found us. Sometimes it's good and sometimes it's bad, but you can't always tell whether a thing's going to be good or bad when you wish for it, you can say I don't want my father to hit me anymore and your house can burn down—"

The boy was crying.

"That's nonsense," Pyetr said.

Sasha sniffed, turned his face away and rubbed his eyes as they walked.

"Did your uncle tell you that?"

"Our neighbor did. Our house burned down. People say I'm a jinx, uncle Fedya wouldn't let me come near the customers, he said if things ever did go wrong, people would believe it was my fault."

"Kind of him."

"But it's not just bad luck! Things happen that I
want
."

"So why don't you want to be tsar?"

Sasha sniffed again, and said nothing to that.

"So don't say things happen that you want," Pyetr said.

"You can't say how it could happen. If you wish for things like that, the tsar might die, there might be a war. I don't wish for things like that. I don't even want to think about things like that!"

"Large thoughts. What
do
you wish for, boy?"

"I don't."

"Don't make wishes? Wish we were out of this, if you believe it'll work."

"You don't understand. You can't wish for things like that. If we were dead we'd be out of this. It can come true that way. You have to think of something that hasn't got any harm in it, and even then you don't know if you've thought of everything—"

"So you try not to wish for anything, you try not to want anything. That's really hell, Sasha Vasilyevitch. That's
hell
you live in."

Sasha wiped his nose.

Pyetr was amazed at his own stupidity, to be betrayed by everyone he knew, and find himself doing it all over again, believing the boy with a conviction and a trust he had never placed in anyone so much as now—seeing he had lately had his own delusions, chased his own moonbeams—which had, whatever else, at least been pleasant while they lasted.

Not Sasha's.

Poor crazed lad, he thought. The boy's not altogether sane. At least they've not encouraged him to be.

"You don't go at things the right way, boy. You've been wishing for things
likely
to happen. What you do, you wish for the tsar himself to ride along and recognize us both for the honest, upstanding sort we are, and make us rich and happy. Wish for us both to marry tsarevnas and die at a hundred and twenty, rich as lords and surrounded by great-grandchildren—"

"It doesn't work that way."

"You're too honest, Sasha Vasilyevitch. You should learn to laugh. That's your trouble. You're too serious." He clapped Sasha on the shoulder as they walked—which was a very good thing, because he turned his ankle on a rock and depended on that hold quite suddenly.

"Pyetr!"

He got his feet under him again, with Sasha's help. "Joke," he said.

But it had hurt. He walked a few more steps, Sasha never letting him go.

"I think I'd better sit down for a while," he said, short of breath. "I've come a long way for a man in my condition. Have pity."

Sasha snatched up standing weeds, gathering dry ones that way, the same way a good stableboy never took hay or straw from the damp ground. He gathered another armload and piled it over Pyetr's arms, Pyetr lying on a mat of more such weeds, against a thorn-bush with tightly-laced branches, the best shelter Sasha could find in this season before leaves were out.

No blankets, Pyetr in a shirt, himself in only the lightest of coats—Sasha kept reproaching himself for the horse blankets and the extra clothes they might have brought, if he had had his wits about him and not thought only of running—

Or there was the food he might have had in his pockets, if Pyetr had only said, plainly, Let's run away, once and for all…

Pyetr was chilling now that they had stopped walking. The night cold came on the edge of a wind, and the wild grass was the only blanket he could think of.

"Good boy," Pyetr said between chattering teeth. "Good lad.—More sense than 'Mitri and that lot ever will have…"

Sasha pulled weeds until he was sweating, until his hands felt raw, and built up a bank beside Pyetr, higher and higher, until he could lie down and rake the weeds over them both.

He was warm, at least. He burrowed under the weeds, opened his coat and put himself up against Pyetr chilled body.

"Wish us a warm day tomorrow," Pyetr muttered. "Wish us a horse or two while you're about it. And the tsar's own carriage."

"I'm wishing you to
live
," Sasha said, and did, as hard as he had ever wished for anything. He was trying not to shiver, up against Pyetr's chill side as he was, but it was not the cold, it was fear.

"Good," Pyetr said. The shivers were down to little ones now. "I'm glad you're minding the details."

A moment later, Pyetr said, with a small shudder, "But do spare a wish for a horse, two of them—fast ones, if you find the time. I've always fancied black, myself."

«
^
»

"N
o horse,"
Pyetr complained, in the morning—a frosty morning, Sasha found, in which it might be a great deal warmer to stay where they were, but fear of the thieftakers and the sting of Pyetr's ridicule made it unlikely he would rest.

"No horse, no coat, no carriage," Pyetr said. "I expected the tsar for breakfast. For supper tonight, do you think?"

Sasha got up, picked weeds out of his hair and felt bits of them go down his collar.

"No sense of humor," Pyetr said.

One could be very angry at Pyetr, except he tried to move and sit up, and it hurt him, so that he caught after the branches of the bush and stabbed his hand on the thorns. Sasha winced, himself, while Pyetr just drew back the bleeding hand, shook it and sucked the blood with a weary, aggrieved frown—and held it up then, still bleeding, with: "Do you do
small
cures, perchance?"

"No," Sasha said sorrowfully, and came to help him up. "I truly wish I did."

It took a bit to get moving, cold as it was, but it was the only help for a stitch like that, just to work it out by walking, the boy trying to help him the while.

"It's better," Pyetr said, finally, when moving and the warmth of the sun on his back had helped what it could. And, his wits being a little clearer, he thought that the boy was very quiet and very unhappy this morning. "Cheer up," he said. "We're away, we're not on the main road, we'll come across it again, eventually, beyond any distance they'd search for us…"