Riding Icarus (17 page)

A woman sitting in the grass holding a bunch of flowers turned and saw her. She held out her hand and drew Masha down beside her. The others looked up and murmured friendly greetings. They all seemed to have known her for years and years, because no one asked any questions. One of the women, Masha realized after a while, was her form teacher from school. Over there, on a grey horse whickering softly down its nose, sat Fyodor Ivanovich. And this girl in a white smock, her long hair crowned with flowers, was Anastasia.

Smiling, Anastasia gave her another, half-finished crown, and Masha started to thread in the many flowers, yellow and purple, white and pink and blue, that grew all around.

The evening began to come alive. Insects buzzed and chirred and whirred in the grass; blundering brown-winged beetles zoomed like clumsy aeroplanes. At the river edge the frogs set up their hooting and roaring and creaking. Masha finished off her crown, a fluffy, feathery circlet that smelt of spices and pepper and honey.

“That’s right,” said the woman who had first greeted her, placing it on Masha’s head. Someone else reached down and pushed a boiled egg into her hand. It was Nechipor, grand in a new embroidered shirt.

“Hungry?” he said in his booming voice. “I should think so. I could eat a horse, hooves and all. No offence,” he added to the grey horse standing quietly by, Fyodor Ivanovich smiling down from its back. “But a Cossack must think of his stomach, especially when it’s as big as mine.”

He led Masha over to a large white cloth spread on the grass. There sat Granny, and a lot of other people, making sandwiches of cheese and ham and
salo
, slicing up vegetables and poppy seed buns. She sat and ate, and drank some sweet, fruity drink, and the talk and laughter washed over her like a dim, mysterious, yet comforting wave. The women began to sing, and then gradually they got up from the ground, and they began to dance. The flower crowns turned their heads to angels’, to monsters’; their shadows wove long fantastic ribbons through the golden grass. In the twilight under the trees, a fair-haired boy began tuning a violin. At first Masha thought it was Gena, then she wasn’t sure. The long notes and chords wavered into tune, achingly sharp and sad.

The sun slipped down, pulling the blanket of the horizon over its head. The upper air was like warm gingerbread, but a new layer of cool, night-time fragrance flowed up from the ground, tangible as water filling a clear dark glass. Near the river a bright rose bloomed. It was the fire, just coming alight.

Everyone was dancing to music from the violin and an accordion, and the people sang as they circled the fire. Masha watched them, holding hands, now stepping left, now right, bending and swaying like birch trees. The fire burned up, up, until it was a brilliant hot pyramid flinging sparks into the darkening air.

The music swung faster, more lively, sparky and a bit dangerous like the fire. There was more stamping than stepping now in the dance; a rhythm was building with heels and palms. The dancers tossed their heads and put their hands to their hips as the music rocked through them; their faces gleamed hot and red and gold in the flames. The singing was hard and brilliant and at the end of each phrase the women flung high notes like sparks merrily into the air.

And then they dropped down to their heels and the revel really began. Wild, ecstatic Cossack dancing. They crouched and leapt, spun and wheeled in and out of the firelight. Faster, faster, furious, glorious.

“Come on!” said a voice in Masha’s ear. She turned and it was her friend, the little Cossack girl. “Come on!” she said again, and together they romped into the whirling, whooping dance.

Calling voices rang out from above on the hillside, where a group of men stood. A wheel of fire suddenly blossomed among them and rolled down the slope, leaving a wavering trail in the grass that flared up and twinkled and then disappeared. A second blazing circle wheeled down, and a third; they rolled to the river and plunged in with a violent hiss. Specks of flame lingered on the water, bending to look at their reflections. The women on the riverbank pulled the flower crowns from their heads and tossed them into the water after the wheels. They floated there, circling idly, and began to drift away downstream.

The fire’s voracious roar took on a satisfied purring sound. The music rollicked on, and a shriek of happiness went up from the people. A man and woman holding hands ran and jumped right over the fire. They landed on the other side, hot and laughing, and carried on into the trees.

Another couple jumped over, another. And suddenly everyone was leaping across the flames. Masha found her hand seized by the little Cossack girl. They ran forward, faster; the fire was a hot terrible golden creature lying in wait ahead. Masha jumped and her friend jumped beside her. The fire grabbed at their feet, half playful, half dangerous, and then they had passed right through its heat and flames and were flying down to land on the cool dark other side.

She jumped across again with the boy who had played the violin. The third time she leapt it was by herself alone, to prove she could do it, and she did.

T
he fire had died down to its hot embers. The music had finished. People were wandering away, leaving only their voices floating, languid and profound, from the shadowy groves. The sky was dusky but the river seemed to have gathered all the light of the sunset and the fire into it, because it still glowed pink and orange, and the wading bodies of men and women were silhouetted black against it, dipping into liquid fire, liquid sunset.

For a moment, Masha thought she had been left alone. But then the Cossack girl touched her shoulder.

“Let’s go, Masha. It’s time.”

“Time for what?”

“Time to find the enchanted place.” It was Nechipor, materializing on her other side. “Are you ready, young fellow – er, lass? Lasses,” he added rather doubtfully, surveying the Cossack girl.

“Ready,” said Masha.

“Time to find the magic fern flower and your birthday present, your heart’s desire,” said her friend. “Are you ready?”

“Ready,” said Masha.

They set off together into the dark maze of paths between the allotments.

“Three sets of eyes to look out for three things,” said Nechipor. “Cossack number one, look left for the deacon’s dovecote. Cossack number two, eyes right for the church dome. And Cossack number three – that’s me, in respect of my greater age and experience – will guard the rear for old hairy-legs himself should he take it into his pumpkin head to interfere. Forward march!”

Masha obediently turned her eyes to the left. There was no one in sight, but all around the night was alive with rustling, with whispers and giggles and sighs. The sky still held the milky paleness of midsummer, and the few stars shone faintly. There was a glow of golden-white light ahead of them: the moon was rising.

“I can see the dovecote,” Masha whispered. She hadn’t meant to whisper – it just came out that way. She tugged on Nechipor’s sleeve. “Look!”

And there it was, poking above the trees.

“Well done,” boomed Nechipor, clearly not constrained by the mysterious need to whisper. “We’ll track down our treasure tonight, you bet we will, by my grandmother’s whiskers, God rest her soul. And the devil can just go and stick his head in a sack—”

He broke off rather suddenly. Because the dovecote seemed to have jumped out of the distance and was right in front of them, perched perkily on its one wooden leg. Masha looked more closely. Was that a
chicken’s
leg?

A long high cackle of laughter rang out, and the little house, on what definitely
was
a chicken’s leg, hopped right round and presented them with a small wooden door. The door popped open, a ladder unfolded with a snap, and skipping down the ladder came a dreadful old lady with a nose curving down and a chin curving up till they almost met like a pair of nutcrackers.

Nechipor’s mouth fell open. He even seemed to have turned rather pale. The old woman hobbled rapidly towards them, her knobbly stick tapping busily.

“Good evening! How good of you to come and see me, my dears,” she piped in a terribly refined voice. “Oh, how delightful to have guests! Do come and sit down. I don’t have cucumber sandwiches to offer you and the tea is a little stronger than you’re used to, I expect, but we are so,
so
happy to have you for dinner.” And she put one hand politely in front of her mouth and tittered behind it. Then she seized Masha’s wrist and in a moment she had dragged all three of them round the dovecote to a long table in a clearing lit by skulls on sticks.

They really were round human skulls on the sticks, with bright torchlight shining out of their eye sockets and between their grinning teeth. The cheerfully ghastly light illuminated the white cloth on the table, which appeared to stretch for ever, spread with a vast array of plates and cups and old-fashioned china teapots. Round the table sat a huge crowd of women. There were old ones and young ones, all with bright lipsticked mouths, thickly plastered eyeshadow and long artificial lashes. They seemed to be having a fantastically good time. They laughed and sang and gossiped and smoked and chomped on huge mouthfuls of food and sipped tea out of dainty china cups holding their little fingers elegantly crooked.

“Ladies,” cried the old woman from the dovecote. “Do greet our guests! Just in time for the main course.”

All the women turned their heads towards them. Masha had an overwhelming impression of smiling red lips and gleaming teeth and sweeping eyelashes, and somehow she had been whisked into a chair between one slim young woman and one fat old one. The Cossack girl was sitting a little further down, but she couldn’t see Nechipor anywhere.

“Oh, you little darling,” cooed the thin young woman.

“You little sweetheart,” shrieked the old plump one. “But you’re so thin, my little dove. Eat! Drink! Plenty of time to fatten you up before the main course.”

Together they piled a plate high with dark dripping meat. It looked as if it was raw.

“A drink, my sugarplum,” wheedled the young woman, putting a cup of tea in her hand.

Masha took a sip and nearly choked. It wasn’t tea at all; it was some thick, treacly liquid with an incredibly salty taste.

Her tormentors cackled with laughter. “It’s too strong for her, the little lambkin. Oh, she’s so delicious! She’s so sweet! A tasty baby girl Cossack!”

Masha defiantly put the cup back to her lips and pretended to drink. Over its rim she looked at the table in growing disbelief. There were rats scampering merrily round the plates and whisking their tails into the cups. From a big pot leapt a pair of long slimy eels, twining in a scaly dance. A rosy piglet came trotting down the tablecloth. It rolled its little eyes at Masha and gave her a sly human smile with human teeth and human lips with red lipstick on them.

Masha dropped the cup. At that moment, there came a roar from further down the table.

“What trickery is this, you bunch of witches? Can’t give an honest Cossack a decent glass of
horilka
? Take your witches’ brew and tip it right down your scrawny throats till you choke on it, you ugly lot of double-dealing devil’s spawn!”

A loud, sarcastic
“Ooh!”
went up from the table. “Angry, is he, our fat red rooster?” screeched someone. “Going to crow for us? Going to strut for us? Go on, give us your best; give us your final display before we pop you in the pot!”

All around the crowd began to thump the handles of their spoons on the table. “Dance! Dance!” they chanted. There was much pushing and shoving among the diners, and then Nechipor was standing on the table, grand and wonderful in his red trousers and embroidered shirt, his moustache bristling and his topknot swinging as he booted the cups and plates out of the way.
Crash! Tinkle!
The rats fled squeaking as the liquid from the teapots ran into thick, viscous puddles.

“I’ll show you stinking, lice-ridden vermin!” roared Nechipor.

Stamp!
His boot came down.
Stamp! Stamp!
More plates slid to the ground. Round he went, slowly, round again. He spread his arms wide; his trousers ballooned out like scarlet sails.
Stamp! Stamp!
He bobbed down to his heels, out flashed his legs, his topknot whirled.
Stamp, stamp, stamp-stamp-STAMP—

And he stopped. Stopped dead, absolutely stuck. As if his boots were nailed to the table, he struggled to lift his feet but could not budge them. His eyes bulged, and his face flushed as darkly red as the spilt puddles from the teapots. A horrible cacophony of laughter rose from the watching crowd. Nechipor grasped one leg with his huge hands and pulled, pulled – and could not move.

“You fiends!” he shouted. “May you be struck blind; may you sink into the ground, you – you monsters… You…”

Oh, how they laughed and laughed. Masha could not bear it. She looked sideways at the little Cossack girl, and her friend looked back. With one accord the two girls jumped up onto the table and ran to join Nechipor. Masha took his right hand, the Cossack girl took his left, and they began to dance.

But it was so hard. Their feet seemed to be weighted with lead. Their limbs dragged; every movement was pushing an impossible weight. All around the air pressed on them, squeezed against them, crushing the breath out of their bodies, the blood out of their veins. And the laughter, the laughter!