R1 - Rusalka (62 page)

Pyetr still maintained his opinion of boats—though it seemed in some situations they were very good things, and that the girl he loved knew them very well—well enough to wish them out of their predicament and to bring the tipping, tilting boat about with its bow in the right direction.

In fact, after a while of what seemed, after Uulamets ' handling of the boat, quite a sedate and sensible progress, Pyetr decided he could stand up, and even walk casually to the side and hold onto the ropes that braced the mast—to look, of course, for Eveshka's benefit, as if he had only been sitting down because he wanted to.

He glanced back at Sasha, who was still seated amid their baggage, which Eveshka had insisted to shift to the center and rear—for balance, she had said, and both of them were entirely willing to oblige in that case. Sasha looked back at him with—he thought, a little concern for his position at the rail, which satisfied him: he might
look
careless of falling in, as careless and casual about the hazard as Eveshka did, which was precisely the attitude he studied—not to be outdone by a girl so sure and so cheerfully competent.

He could do that.

He could sail a boat like this quite handily, pick up the tricks of it by watching (she would think him quite clever) and sail it down to Kiev and back, certainly he could, except the little flutters in his stomach.

He thought he would patch the seams a bit first, to be sure; and mend the sail—he made his
own
luck, and that meant seeing to such things and trusting as little as possible to chance.

In fact he thought he would sail them all down to Kiev—not to go into the city: the god knew what kind of trouble two young wizards could find—but just to see the gold and the elephants, from a quite safe distance.

Then sail them safely back again, to a cottage furnished like a tsar's palace, with gold cups and fine rugs, with a flourishing garden, and a woods with all summer ahead to seed with acorns and such—he had found a bird's nest full of seeds amid the gold, and knew precisely what he was supposed to do with such a gift.

Then they would settle down for a golden fall and a white winter, and green springs and summers after that… having adopted the domovoi which would shift about and make the house creak quite familiarly and cozily of nights; and Babi—

That was the thing that disturbed him this afternoon—whether it was worry over the fur-ball or over the fact that he was worried. God, he thought, Pyetr Illitch, after all this—the old man dying, Eveshka alive again, Sasha in his right mind this morning—to spend your worry over the little wretch—

—
who can quite well take care of himself.

But Uulamets had died and the raven was dead: and it seemed to him that Babi might possibly have gone the way the bird had, not, he was quite sure, struck by the lightning, but simply because he was also Uulamets ' creature.

I expect him to turn up at the house, Sasha had said at breakfast, when he had asked about Babi.

Wish him back, he had asked, why don't you?—With a look at Eveshka, who, he was sure, had at least some sort of special advantage with Babi.

I've tried, Eveshka had said, which was no comfort at all.

So wipe Babi from the image of the cottage. Maybe he
would
turn up.

Or maybe he could get a dog. A black one.

He let his hand slack on the rope, testing his balance.

Not bad at all, he thought, and looked back to see if Eveshka was watching.

He walked across the deck, past Sasha, past the deckhouse, to the stern, to stand there quite confidently—till a swell rocked the boat and he had to grab the rail.

She smiled at him, quite kindly, considering; and went on smiling at him in a way that could make a man forget all about keeping his balance.

The Cockerel's boy was not naive and certainly Uulamets ' heir was not: the looks Pyetr and Eveshka kept giving each other meant two people quite, quite lost to reason.

It worried him; it made him wish—dangerously—for Eveshka to keep thinking sensibly, for Eveshka to know-She did
not
want him wishing at her, she let him know that, quite angrily, hearing echoes of her father; and he:

Speak
to him, Eveshka, don't wish him: your father never learned to say things in plain words. That was where he failed you: that's what I learned, that's what he was learning.
Don't
make his mistake with Pyetr.

That stopped her. He stood at the corner of the deckhouse, she stood by Pyetr at the tiller—Pyetr was steering, which was why for a little the boat had tipped and faltered, Sasha supposed, but it was steady now; and he hoped to the god Pyetr did not suspect the quarrel.

Eveshka did think about it. She went from being angry to being worried: she let him know that; and even said, earnestly, "Thank you, Sasha."

Much better, Sasha thought, feeling that she truly meant that. She wanted—

Wanted things to be right. Wanted Pyetr to be happy. Wanted that for all of them.

A generality, he thought, and stood there pretending to watch the shore, all the while thinking and thinking, deciding finally that
he
could not get between them,
he
could not tell Uulamets ' daughter to mind what she was wishing.

But he had a sudden notion who could.

Babi, he said sternly to that Place where such creatures went, as he had been calling more than once today.—Babi, get back here, right now. No nonsense.

He had no answer, only what he had had before, a fey, furtive presence, confused and lost, not sure where it belonged now.

"You!" he said aloud, walked back around the corner to the baggage, picked up the vodka jug—

And pitched it at the mast.

It stopped in mid-air.

"Babi?"

The jug waddled forward, with two moonlike eyes floating disembodied above it.

"That's much better," Sasha said, folding his arms. "I know who might well give it to you—if you asked him nicely."

A tonguetip licked invisible lips. The jug waddled past him, around the corner of the deckhouse, in search of sympathy.

About the Author

C. J. Cherryh's first book,
Gate of Ivrel
, was published in 1976. Since then she has become a leading writer of science fiction and fantasy, known for extraordinary originality, versatility, and superb writing.
HerDownbelow Station
won a Hugo award. She lives in Oklahoma and was Guest of Honor at the 1989 Balticon convention.