Enchantment (39 page)

And then Ivan got the phone call from Ruthie.

“No one sees you anymore, Ivan. Are you hiding? Is the honeymoon still so engaging?”

Was she being bitter and nasty? Or cheerful and friendly? Hard to know. “She’s learning the language,” said Ivan. Which was true enough—though the language she was learning at the moment was modern Russian. As with so many Russian schoolchildren for generations, it was Pushkin who was her teacher, as they read to each other before going to bed. The stanzas of Tatyana’s dream had disturbed her greatly—the girl being chased through the snow by a bear. Ivan wondered, then and now, how close Pushkin’s vision had been to what Katerina herself went through, before she was enchanted in that magic place. He wondered also how Pushkin could have known. What influence did the bear still have in the world, at the time when Pushkin wrote?

Ruthie’s voice brought him back to the present. “I’d like to take you on a picnic for the Fourth.”

“A picnic?” It sounded bizarre. But if you looked at it another way, it was rather sweet, too. “That would be nice, but—”

“The three of us, of course. I still think of you as a friend, Ivan. Can’t I? Is that wrong?”

“Not wrong, no, of course not. I wish we could, but we need to stay home, kind of a family thing—”

“No, no, I understand. I’m not part of the family, and she is, and that’s that. I really am fine with it, Ivan. I don’t pretend I understand what happened—maybe that’s part of why I want to spend a little time with the two of you.”

“She doesn’t really speak much English yet,” said Ivan.

“You can translate. What if we do it the day before? The third. Ivan, don’t turn me away empty-handed.”

No way were he and Katerina going to leave the safety of Mother’s protected house. And yet it seemed churlish to turn down this overture of reconciliation. “The third, all right, but why don’t you come over here? I know Mother and Father would like to see you again.”

A moment’s hesitation on the other end of the phone. “But you have to let me bring the food,” she finally said.

“Mother won’t hear of it,” said Ivan.

“Then who’s inviting whom? It’s my picnic, Ivan. Even if we have it in your back yard.”

Why did he have such a creepy feeling about this? I should tell her no, Ivan thought. This is wrong, this is a mistake. It’s dangerous.

But he couldn’t think
why
it was dangerous. And he had wronged her. He owed her a debt of guilt. If she wanted to mend fences, how could he let some vague, unnameable fear stand between them now?

Truth to tell, there was another reason he didn’t want to have this picnic: In the weeks since returning to America, since seeing her at the airport, Ivan had come to realize that he didn’t really miss Ruthie. That in fact he probably had never loved her. Now that he could compare his feelings toward Ruthie with his feelings toward Katerina, he knew there was no comparison. He hadn’t been ready for marriage at all. It would have been a struggle to make it work with Ruthie. They would have bored each other so quickly.

And if he was completely honest with himself, he had to admit she had bored him already, before he left for Kiev. He was glad to leave her behind, he realized that now. He didn’t miss her. He had never really loved her.

And
that
made him feel so guilty that it overrode any other consideration. “Your food, my house, noon. This is sweet of you, Ruthie.”

“Don’t patronize me, Ivan. I’m still not sure that I don’t want to put the potato salad over your head. And maybe rub it in a little.”

The breath of honesty came as a relief to him. “Whatever you think is right,” said Ivan. “I won’t protest that I don’t deserve it. But not Katerina, please. She didn’t know about you when she said yes to me.”

“Oh. Well, you really are a two-faced son-of-a-bitch,” said Ruthie cheerfully.

“There it is,” said Ivan. “But at least I saved you from being married to one.”

Ruthie laughed lightly. “I’ll come by at noon on the third.”

“We’ll be here with bells on,” said Ivan. Only after they hung up did he feel a twinge of embarrassment at his own phoniness. Be there with bells on? What B movie from the thirties did he get
that
line from? There wasn’t an honest moment in that whole conversation, except when she talked about shampooing him with potato salad.

I don’t want her here. There’ll be a scene. Someone will cry. Someone will swear. No one will enjoy the food. If I had any spine at all, I’d have said no.

But what’s done is done.

Yes, Esther was afraid for her son, for her new daughter-in-law, for the whole family. Yes, she worried about how her husband feared and hated the magic that had intruded into his life, and how he resented her for having known it all along. The power and malice she had sensed in Baba Yaga, that was the most terrifying of all. And yet all these fears did not diminish her joy, for this was the moment she had lived for. All those years ago, learning from Baba Tila, she had thought these charms and potions, spells and curses were to protect her family from the KGB or from some future pogrom. But now she saw that her whole life had been directed toward this moment, when she could protect the future queen and king of Taina from the most dangerous witch in history. And, more than her own pride, she was joyful because she saw her son growing into his manhood now. He, too, had been directed in his life—all that running, jumping, hurling of shot and discus and javelin, it seemed so foolish to Piotr and to Esther both; yet because of it he was able to get past the Bear and kiss the sleeping beauty. He and his father had learned to be as fluent in Old Church Slavonic as any two people alive, which proved to be vital for Vanya.

But who was doing all this directing? Was it a god? More to the point, was it God? And if the latter, was he helping them because they were Jews? Or helping Taina because it was a Christian kingdom? Or simply shaping the world to be able to put an end to Baba Yaga’s great evil?

Or was there a fate greater than all gods, that could not bear a truly great malice, and had to bend reality, including a backward passage through time, until that malice could be put to rest?

There were no answers to such questions, of course. And in truth, Esther was not interested in them past the asking. Enough for her that whatever had chosen her and her son, they had so far been up to the challenge. It had worried her, watching Vanya grow up, that while he sometimes worried her and did not always choose wisely—look at Ruthie—he was nevertheless good, in some hidden place in his heart where the deepest choices are made. Any rule of life that he truly believed in, he obeyed; any course of action that he thought was right, he pursued. Resentfully, sometimes, but he did his duty.

Perhaps that’s how the great ones are chosen, she thought. No outward sign of genius. Vanya was clever enough in school, an apt scholar, a good athlete. But no one would have picked him as the one to stand against a terrible enemy. No one would have expected him to be a hero.

Even now, Esther could see that neither Vanya nor Katerina expected him to be the one to stand against the witch. He was going to help train the knights and villagers with new weapons, but it was Katerina who was princess, Katerina who was bound around with the enchantments her aunts had created for her. And they might be right. It might be Katerina who faced the witch and beat her, perhaps in battle, perhaps simply by surviving and having babies. Endurance, after all, was a kind of victory; a kind of heroism, too.

And that would be good enough for Esther, too. Let them live. Let them love each other. Let them have babies that grow to adulthood, not just one but many of them. Even if they live in another time, another world, where I never see them, where I’m only a story to them, a name without a face, so be it, if my son and his bride can live. That is joy—joy in the midst of grief, perhaps, and loneliness, but joy and triumph all the same.

Katerina came to her in the night. She was restless—worrying about seeing Ruthie again, she said. But that wasn’t all, Esther knew. And sure enough, Katerina soon led her down to the shelf in the garage where she had put the basin in which the still water had shown her Vanya’s face.

“A black bowl?” asked Katerina.

“It showed me Vanya when he was with you,” said Esther.

“I’ve heard of it, but never seen it.”

“You can only look at one you love deeply,” said Esther. “It isn’t always satisfying.”

“There’s more to it than that,” said Katerina. “If it’s large enough, a black pool, you can see a place and then leap into the water and go there. I think that’s how the Widow followed us.”

“Then let me say that all my dear old Baba Tila taught me was to look.”

“Let’s look, then,” said Katerina. “My father. Who knows how many days or months have passed for him? Time does not flow the same there as it does here.”

So they got out the basin and filled it, set it out in the yard, leveled it, and waited together on this hot still summer evening for it to become truly still. To do it, they had to charm away the mosquitoes, but Katerina was deft at it, making the hand motions with a style and confidence that Esther had never thought of, having been taught by an old woman with shaking hands. At last, well after midnight, the water was still.

“May I see what you see?” asked Esther. It was a presumption, but Katerina smiled and nodded.

Silently they approached the basin, standing on opposite sides of it, their clothing tucked back behind them so that no bit of cloth, no thread, not even a strand of hair could fall onto the water. Katerina lowered her face over the water first, scarcely breathing; Esther then leaned over, remaining always higher than Katerina and therefore farther from the water, so it would be Katerina’s will that controlled the vision.

It took only moments, and the face of a middle-aged man appeared. No doubt King Matfei, asleep, looking peaceful. But then, to Esther’s surprise, Katerina made some unfamiliar movements with her hands above the water, and the vision zoomed back to show the whole scene around her father. He was lying on a bed, yes, and he was asleep; but he was also bound hand and foot, and two knights stood guard in the room.

Katerina made the vision zoom in so that it showed only her father’s face. Then, placing her hand near her mouth to stop the breath of speech from stirring the waters, Katerina said his name softly. Once. Twice. A third time.

His eyes opened.

“Do not speak,” said Katerina. “Do not wake the guards. Look upward to tell me yes. Look downward to tell me no. Are you a prisoner, as it seems?”

His eyes rolled upward.

“Soldiers of the Widow?”

A downward look. No.

“Another enemy?”

No.

“Our own people?”

Hesitation. Then a yes.

“Oh, Father. Dimitri? Because Ivan and I fled?”

Yes.

“
She
has done it, Father, you know that. Dimitri was a true man—he must have been deceived.”

No response at all.

“You’re right, it doesn’t matter why. A man can’t be deceived unless he wants to believe the lie. But Father, we
are
coming home. Soon. We’ve learned things. I’ve seen marvels—but now is not the time. Be content that we will return, and Dimitri will be taken out of his place and you will be restored to the throne.”

No.

“No? Why not?”

He rolled his eyes.

“I know, you can’t tell me why. But you
are
the king. You
must
be king.”

No. No.

“Then who, Father? Dimitri?”

No.

“Ivan?”

Yes.

“Ivan isn’t ready.”

Yes.

“Neither am I, to rule through him.”

Yes. No. Yes. Her statement had been ambiguous, and so he couldn’t answer clearly.

“You think I
am
ready?”

Yes. There it was.

“When we come back we’ll discuss it. After you’re free. But you
are
our war leader.”

No. No. No. And a tear came to one eye.

“You can’t lead us in war?”

No. Yes. No. Again, the question could not be answered as she asked it. If he agreed, should he say, Yes, your statement is true, or No, I can’t lead in war?

“Have you been injured, Father?”

Yes.

“A physical injury?”

Yes.

“He
hurt
you?”

Yes.

“I’ll kill him,” said Katerina simply.

Yes.

“Your arms? Your legs?”

No. And no.

“How can I know your injury?”

He opened his mouth.

It took a moment to realize what they were not seeing. He had no tongue.

Katerina gasped, stepped back, began to sob quietly into her hands. Esther also backed away from the basin and carefully walked around it, then enfolded her daughter-in-law in her arms.

“She couldn’t kill him, she couldn’t even get Dimitri to kill him,” whispered Katerina. “But she made it impossible for him to lead in battle. She made it impossible for him to be king.”

“It wasn’t a wound,” said Esther. “Did you see that? It was
Molchaniye
. Stillness.
She
gave the traitor—Dimitri, yes?—she gave him the potion to carry the spell inside your father’s body. The most powerful I’ve seen, to shrink the tongue like that. But it must be maintained by the power of the witch who invokes it.”

“Is this comfort to me?” asked Katerina. “The Widow will never release him from it.”

“No, she won’t. As long as she lives.”

“She will long be alive after my father and I have rotted away in our graves. She’s already more than a hundred years old, and her magic has the power to give her many centuries more.”

“But in my time she has long been dead,” said Esther. “No one knows how, but she was destroyed or she weakened and died, one or the other, but there was no trace of her until she followed you here.”

“I refuse to believe in false hopes,” said Katerina. “Even if you came back with us, no one could stand against her and break her power.”

“She
can
be killed,” said Esther.

“How?”

“I don’t know how. But Baba Tila said that no protection is perfect. There’s always a way through.”