Riding Icarus (18 page)

A cloud of stinky cheap tobacco smoke wafted into the air.

“Hello, handsome,” said a voice Masha knew from somewhere. “Not so jaunty now, are you?”

An old woman draped in a black feather boa stepped up onto the table and pinched Nechipor’s bottom familiarly. It was the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, smoked right down to the end, that made Masha recognize her. She was the old woman who had escaped with them from the hospital.

“You too, eh,” she said, leering at Masha. “Didn’t think I’d see you again so soon. Not enjoying our little party?”

“Not much,” said Masha.

“No, well, not really your cup of tea, I suppose.” The old woman turned to the crowd. “Anyone got a fag?”

“Boo! Get her off! You’re spoiling the show!” they shouted.

“Oh, shut up.” The old woman tickled Nechipor’s nose with the end of her boa. “Said I’d do you a good turn, didn’t I?” she said to Masha. “Guess now’s the time. How can I help you?”

“Oh, please, let us go,” Masha pleaded. “I’ve got to find my birthday present.”

“A birthday girl, eh? And what’s this present then?”

“The magic fern flower,” said Masha. “My heart’s desire.”

The table suddenly went quiet. The woman from the hospital looked sharply down at Masha.

“Oh-ho. It’s like
that
, is it? You shouldn’t have told me that, young lady. All my sisters are going to want to come with you now.”

And indeed the dining crowd were all staring up at her with greedy shining eyes, licking their bright ravenous lips, holding out their hands hungrily.

“Well, you can’t,” the old woman snapped at them. “I’ve promised to do a good turn, and I’m going to do it. Off you go then, little bear’s paw. Don’t get lost, mind. And be careful what you ask for. You know that, don’t you? Make the wrong wish and you’ll be back here quicker than you expected.”

Scarcely believing their good fortune, Masha and the Cossack girl climbed down from the table. But the crowd sent up a screech of dissent.

“You can’t do that! Who do you think you are? Boo! Bring back our dinner!”

“What? You won’t let me, you old tramps?” screamed the old woman.

“No!” they howled back. “Let the small fry go, but leave us our Cossack, our juicy fat Cossack!”

The old woman twined her feather boa round Nechipor’s neck. “Well, I was rather sorry to see you go myself,” she drawled to him. “What do you say – time for a game of cards?”

“Yes, cards, cards!” shouted the onlookers, rattling their spoons.

“What, me, a Cossack, play cards with a load of females?” Nechipor bellowed. “Over my dead body!”

“Well now, that’s an unwise thing to say.” The old woman pulled rather tighter on her boa. Nechipor’s eyes goggled. “Come on,” she coaxed, stroking his long topknot with a proprietary air. “Just three teeny-weeny little card games, and at the end of it you’re free to trot off home to your old melon patch. If you win, that is. But such a fine clever Cossack as yourself will surely beat us poor foolish women, eh?” And she nudged him with her bony thigh.

“And if I lose?” asked Nechipor in a strangled voice.

“If you lose all three games…” She fondled Nechipor’s ample stomach and made big eyes at the laughing, clapping crowd. “If you lose, you will be our extra-special, oh-so-honoured guest for dinner.”

The crowd burst into a storm of applause and wolf whistles. “Agreed,” said Nechipor. “Three games, and you’ll be sorry when I beat you hollow.”

A grubby, greasy cascade of cards fell out of nowhere and riffled into a pile on the tablecloth. Nechipor took a seat on one side of the table and the old woman sat on the other.

“Nechipor!” cried Masha. “We can’t go without you.”

“Of course you can,” he said. “I’ll be right behind you anyway, once I’ve shown these piggety-faced, maggoty-arsed hags how a real Cossack plays cards. You find the enchanted place, and I’ll be there in time to help dig up the treasure.”

“Cut along, little girls,” said his opponent. “And be quick about it, before we change our minds.”

The Cossack girl took Masha’s hand and drew her away from the table.

“Well, ladies, what game shall it be?” they heard Nechipor ask in his rumbling voice.

“Devil’s poker! Fool! Strip Jack naked!” the crowd shouted, and their cries faded away behind the two girls into the night.

“Do you think he’ll be all right?” whispered Masha, clutching her friend’s hand tightly.

“Of course he will,” she whispered back. “We must be nearly there now, at the enchanted place. Do you recognize it yet?”

The night was silver. A full moon floated in the sky, spilling its ensorcelling light over the trees, the river, the long wet grass that lapped at their legs as they walked wonderingly through it. The whole world was utterly strange in this light, transformed; Masha had never been here before. No one had walked in this undiscovered country; it was just for her.

The dovecote pointed its tall wooden pole into the sky on their left. On the right, the round dome of the church gleamed like a second, duller moon. Nothing stirred, nothing moved. The sky shimmered; only the moonlight endlessly poured down. The enormous night held its breath, Masha held her breath, waiting for something to happen.

Deep in the dark shadows of the trees, a greenish light began to glow. It stretched and swayed like a candle flame, burning brighter and brighter. Slowly Masha pushed her way through the silver grass and the black shadows towards it.

There was a fern, its delicate leaves fringed with moonlight. The green glow came from its heart, from a round bud on a furry stem.

The stem rippled as it grew longer and longer, pushing upwards. At its tip the bud swayed and visibly fattened. As Masha watched in terror and wonder the green shell of the bud split open and curved slowly back. Inside were furled, glowing petals. These soft silky petals stirred as if breathing; they uncurled themselves and stretched and flushed a deeper, brighter colour. The flower opened out, a vivid, shining orange blossom with a fiery heart and black stamens that pointed upwards and trembled.

“The magic fern flower,” breathed the little Cossack girl beside her. “Pick it, Masha, and make your wish.”

Masha stared at the flower: wide, wide open and glowing. “I can’t,” she whispered in anguish. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

“You must!” cried the Cossack girl. “It’s your birthday present. It will bring you your heart’s desire.”

But what
was
her heart’s desire? She had to be so careful. She had to be right. This was her only chance, and if she got it wrong she would be captured by the witches, the devil would drive her mad. Oh, if only she knew what she wanted! She could think of nothing, only the flower stood on tiptoe, offering itself, orange and black and burning. She wanted the flower but she knew she couldn’t have it. There was nothing in her head but orange and black and burning.

She stretched out her hand and closed her fingers around the living stem. “I wish I could see a Siberian tiger,” she said, and she picked the flower.

A
t once all the flower’s petals crumpled up and withered. They dropped to the ground, one by one, soft and grey and dead. Masha felt a flood of absolute misery fill her up. What had she done? She’d missed her chance; she’d messed it up for ever. She could have asked for anything,
anything
. She could have asked for Igor to leave her and her mother alone, and for everything to be all right. She could have asked for Granny’s leg to get better. She could have wished for Nechipor’s treasure, or for her own rollerblades. A house to live in. For her father to be returned to her. Anything, but
anything
. And instead she’d made this stupid, stupid wish, this embarrassing, idiotic, moronic wish. She’d ruined everything. She was such a fool! And now the flower was dead and there would never be another one, and she had messed it up. She had failed. It was too awful to cry. It was too awful to do anything but sit in the dirt and hate herself.

And so she sat, looking at nothing, seeing nothing. She wished she was dead.

It was something tickling her palm that made her stir. She couldn’t ignore it; it tickled and twisted – eugh, maybe it was some horrible bug—

Full of hate, she lifted her hand, ready to squash what was underneath. But it wasn’t a bug. It was a little sprout poking out of the earth. And it was growing as she watched it, almost as the magic flower had done. It put out two little round baby leaves, and a stem. More leaves began to grow, long ones this time, with edges like lions’ teeth, growing out in a wheel on the ground. The stems were pinkish and fat and shiny. It was a dandelion. But it grew and grew, a huge dandelion, a monster. Other plants were growing too, thistles and dark violets, and bright green things she didn’t recognize, and there was a little whispering, sizzling sound all around; after a moment, she realized it was the sound of the plants growing. Her skin felt damp all over in the sudden warmth. Up grew the plants, up and up into a light green forest that smelt fresh and sappy. The dandelion stems had buds on them, and then they popped out into great bright yellow sunbursts of flowers, as big as her head.

Pad-pad
, she heard behind her. Something huge, on velvet paws. And a rumbling and grumbling, like thunder all the way away in … Kamchatka…

She turned her head to see what was behind her.
Pad-pad-pad
. Its paws were huge and furred, with glints of claws embedded in them. Burning orange, striped with black. It was enormous. It looked at Masha with its golden eyes, and its body thrummed and vibrated to an invisible touch.

Hardly daring to breathe, Masha reached up to brush its fur. Her hand looked so small and soft. Under her fingers the harsh fur tingled. Hot and alive, thrumming like a musical instrument to its own unknowable, secret melody. The tiger looked at her with eyes like yellow dandelions. Its huge forehead touched her own. She felt its hot breath, its stink of meat and wildness. Then it stalked past her, moving smooth as silk, heavy as lead in its skin of black and orange. A drift of feathery dandelion seeds settled on its flanks.

It snuffed the air; its tail twitched once, twice, thrice. And then it roared. It roared like the end of the world and tensed all over and bounded away.

The dandelion seeds drifted down in slow silence, silver parachutes the size of her palm, but not big enough to fly away with. She was so tired. The seeds brushed her face with a soft, almost imperceptible touch. Masha curled up in the leaves and closed her eyes.

The last thing she heard was a surprised man’s voice saying “Mashenka?” It sounded familiar. She fell asleep before she could answer.

B
irds sang. They sounded small and cheerful. The endless patting and lapping noise was the Dnieper River rocking in its banks. The goats scuffled in the straw and maaed doubtfully. Up above, the trolleybus wires sang their thin, twanging song. And through all those lovely familiar sounds somebody was cataclysmically snoring.

“Sunny,” Masha said, “and clear as a bell.”

“Just right,” said Granny. “Up you get and have a look.”

Masha opened her eyes. Between the red and white curtains the sky was a deep, marvellous blue. Blue as Our Lady’s gown, as Nechipor would say. The curtains swayed a little in the fresh breeze, their edges rimmed with sunlight.

She was back in her own bed in Icarus the trolleybus. Granny sat by the stove, peeling potatoes. So who was that in the other bed? Someone small and thin, with a tangle of red hair half stuffed under the pillow.

“Mama—?”

“Shh!” said Granny. “Best not wake her yet. Though how she can sleep through that racket…” she added tartly.

The racket came from the floor where, stretched out comfortably, hands clasped on his enormous belly, lay Nechipor. There was something odd and unfamiliar about him, but Masha couldn’t work out what. He was snoring fit to wake the dead.

“Run and wash your face, Mashenka, and then you can help me with the potatoes.”

Masha obediently got out of bed. She was already wearing her shorts and T-shirt. She stepped over Nechipor and slipped out round the curtain covering the open door.