Rosa and the Veil of Gold (19 page)

Days were turning to weeks, and soon it would be a month. Rosa knew he was never going to let her cross the veil.

So, was she going to run away? Back to St Petersburg, to Uncle Vasily? She wouldn’t give up on Daniel, of course. She would find somebody else to help, somebody who danced obediently to the tune of Vasily’s money. But how long to find that person? Anatoly had said there were only twenty-seven like him left in Russia. And how long, if ever, before Rosa could feel magic in her joints again?

Her cigarette was a tiny orange beacon in the dark. The keys rattled in her pocket and she had nearly decided by the time she arrived in the section of the woods where she had left the car. Then the decision was taken from her hands.

The car was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, Anatoly,” she said under her breath. Now she understood his casualness with her about hiding the vehicle. He had wanted to come out here and do it himself, so that Rosa couldn’t find it. So that Rosa couldn’t leave.

She turned. The wind whipped her hair and sent her scarf flapping behind, and a clutching sensation possessed her lungs, as though a trap was being closed on her.

Are we not all trapped, though, Rosa? Is not every sentient being, from the meanest beetle to the humblest child, to the wealthiest Mir folk, to the most powerful of Skazki magicians—me, Papa Grigory, who can roam freely in the minds of others and cannot die—are we not all caught in a trap of our own making? All of us desire. Desire drives us to satisfy ourselves. And our satisfaction is often found in a snare of conditions and obligations.

Rosa will come. Spend no moment of your concern on her. She will come. I expect her in little more than a week. I look forward to her arrival very much. I still have some hope that her friends will lose themselves and the bear without her assistance, but they have been shrewd and fortunate so far. Leaving their fate to chance would be foolish. I need Rosa, and Rosa needs me. I will tell you something you may not have guessed: since the moment that bear re-entered our world, I have not rested easy.

Of course, I would never let Totchka sense my concerns. I like her world to be made of sunlight and smiles. She sleeps now. It is late at night and I find I don’t need as much sleep as I grow older. We share a lovely bedtime ritual: when she grows sleepy, I lie next to her on the bed and stroke her dark hair and sing to her. She watches me and watches me, holding her eyes open as long as she can, holding onto wakefulness and togetherness as though they are the only two things in all existence which matter. Then sleep catches her, her eyelids flutter, and she slips away.

Should I glance over at her now, I would see her soft cheek and the fall of her dark hair. They are the only things exposed to the
firelight. The rest is safely under blankets, burrowed among pillows. Her breathing is slow and soft; the fire crackles gently and I rub my tired knuckles. The moon is hiding behind clouds tonight. It has rained for days out there, but we are warm and dry in here. I am almost perfectly content. The bear is the only thing which troubles me.

Are you surprised? Did you think I felt fondly towards the bear because of our long association?

Then you must understand: it is not the bear I fear. It is what’s inside her. Does that puzzle you? Good. Tales should be full of puzzles.

I promised you more of her stories. The Golden Bear has seen all the intrigues of history, ours and Mir’s, and how those histories have knotted and slipped and knotted again.

Imagine for a moment that you share some of her memories. What moments would burn brightest? It is hard to say because images and music, scents and sensations, wash over her constantly, entwined with the endless noise of human voices as they love, argue, grieve and plot against each other. The years come and go. She sits and she watches the to and fro of time, and sometimes she sleeps for long years because the frantic procession of Mir folk tires her.

Then, one day, she wakes and wonders why she has woken.

It’s the bells.

Ringing out into the cold sky, the clang and chime of bells, some warm and resonant, others sharp and musical. Intricate patterns and rhythms pealing over the snow-laden Cathedral Square and, even further beyond the Kremlin, out over the timbered streets of Moscow and down the hill to the river.

The bear listens and knows that something wonderful must be happening. From her shadowy corner in the Terem Palace’s Cross Chamber she ranges out in her mind’s eye and follows the bells all the way to the Cathedral of the Assumption. Solemn men sing as the bells ring in a cacophony of importance and the crisp frosty sky shivers. Inside, the dark spaces are lit by dazzling wheels of candles strung up high which glint off the gilded doors and illuminate the painted saints on the columns and walls. Deep mullioned windows let in a little of the grey daylight. On a carved wooden throne at
the centre of it all, wearing a fur-and-gold cap encrusted with gems, is Russia’s new Tsar, Ivan the Fourth.

Despite the solemnity of the ritual, the mood in the crowded cathedral is one of joy and relief. The grand-duke’s son, now seventeen, is old enough to be crowned and take over the rule of Russia in his own right. The bear surveys the crowd, sees the bearded faces of the noblemen—the boyars—who surround the throne. Two faces command the bear’s attention.

The new Tsar, Ivan, who is tall and spare, with long hands and a thin pointed beard, brows arched like a bat’s wings, and a long hooked nose. He is very young, but has the bearing of a man much older. The bear has seen him before, of course. They live together at the palace. Today, dressed in his official robes and wearing the Crown of Monomakh, Ivan looks every inch the grand Tsar, the autocrat, the man who will lead his people with a hard hand and will one day be called Ivan the Terrible, Ivan the Awesome, Ivan the Purifying Storm. The bear wonders if Ivan will now relinquish his childhood pleasures, and stop throwing dogs from his third-floor window or unleashing his ungovernable temper on his servants.

The other face which is conspicuous to the bear is one that she has not seen for many years, but one she is not surprised to recognise. The Secret Ambassador, dressed like the other boyars in his stiff brocade kaftan, watches proceedings with a passive gaze. He is thinking about the separation of the worlds, and how the two might be once again tied.

Since Olga ordered Skazki to withdraw, things have changed. The Church has a clawhold in the minds of Russian people and many of the old ways have been diluted or abolished. Yet life in this harsh land is more suited to pagan thought, so most folk still hold onto scraps of the old rituals and beliefs. The Secret Ambassador is anxious to ensure that the old ways don’t slip from their minds completely. Some of the boyars have been talking about Ivan’s intention to marry very soon. He has called for every virgin of marriageable age in Moscow to be brought before him for consideration. The Secret Ambassador sees in this an opportunity to reunite Mir and Skazki, for Skazki blood to be intertwined with the rulers of Russia.

He needs only to make Mokosha agree.

Mokosha is the most powerful woman in Skazki. Of the six old gods, Mokosha is the only female, an immortal and ever-beautiful deity. For centuries, women of Mir shed the blood of animals to appeal for her help in conception and childbirth. Since the separation of the lands, more and more turn to the Christian deity in prayer and Mokosha finds herself bored. She lives in a dark stone house by a river in one of the thrice-nine lands of Skazki, where she watches out the window in hope of something more than the swinging of branches to catch her eye. Like all of the old gods, she is content to stay in Skazki. It is only the hunting creatures—the witches and demons of place—who cross between the worlds for prey.

When the Secret Ambassador arrives, she is already waiting at the door for him. “Come in,” she says, grasping his hand and pulling him inside. Little bells tinkle; charms hanging over the threshold. Mokosha is dressed in flowing robes of black, decorated with fur and snakeskin. A necklace of bird skulls is wound twice around her long pale throat. Her coal-black hair is unbound and falls around her sharp face and broad shoulders. “Sit with me, Koschey,” she says, offering him a chair. “Tell me of life beyond these windows.”

The Secret Ambassador brushes snow off his coat and takes a seat. The room is cluttered and dark, filled with collections of twigs and stones and skulls. The fire is high and hot, sending shadows fluttering around the room. Surrounding him are smells he cannot distinguish one from another: herbs and dried flowers and female smells and moist earth and other things, other things which remind him of long-ago pleasures and willing lovers whose arms have long since crumbled to dust.

“In Mir, a young man has come to the throne of Russia.”

“Will he ask us to return?”

“I fear not. His father and his grandfather would not hear of it. The Church has them all in thrall, but I know a way we can insinuate ourselves without anything so obvious as an invitation to return.”

Mokosha sits on a wooden stool by the fire and leans forward eagerly. Her icy grey eyes are wide. “How?”

“A marriage.”

The Secret Ambassador knows that Mokosha has already guessed the rest of the plan. She tilts her head to one side, eyes narrowed. “I will not do it.”

“You are the only one.”

Her voice is indignant. “I am an immortal being.”

“And so you will outlive him. You need only marry him, bear his children, then return to Skazki upon his death.”

“Human children?” She shudders with revulsion. “No, no. You must ask somebody else.”

“There is nobody else to ask.”

“Take a russalka, any one of them would do.”

“The russalki are all under ice until spring. He intends to marry within weeks. Besides, they are unpredictable and foolish. They will drown their own children. They will disappear on moonlit nights, and pine for the water until they go mad.”

“Someone else then.”

“Mokosha, the blood of men and magic barely mix. It is you alone of all of us, magical creature of fertility and birth, who would be able to bear children in Mir.” He inclines his head in deference. “And it must be somebody beautiful. Somebody who we can be certain he will choose from a crowd of virgins.”

Mokosha stands and paces, and the Secret Ambassador is put in mind of a caged wolf.

“I am to be paraded like a milking cow then?” she says. “Should I allow my teats to be unbound so he may inspect them more carefully?”

“I know it is so far beneath you. I know it is an insult. It could almost be a joke. But it isn’t.” He imbues his voice with all the gravity he can muster. “It is our hope for the future.”

She turns, wrapping her arms around herself. “I am a god,” she says softly. “How am I to submit to life in Mir as a woman? Women are ranked so low. Those that defy their husbands are buried alive. The ones who live are beleaguered with trivial tasks. How am I to concern myself with whether a jar and a spoon should be stored upside-down or right-side-up?”

“It is only for a brief time. And then your blood will be mixed with the blood of Russia’s ruling family. As long as the blood
passes along, parent to child, we have a knot which binds us to Mir, and we cannot slip away completely.”

Her mouth turns down in an expression both miserable and angry. “There is nobody else?”

“Nobody, Mokosha. You know that.” He pulls her to her seat, folding her hands in his. “Our world rests upon your shoulders.”

“Don’t. That isn’t a fair thing to say.”

“It is the truth.”

A minute ticks past, and her breath is troubled. She sighs and shifts, then says, “How would it be done?”

The Secret Ambassador feels the wall of resistance give. Relief makes the words stumble too fast from his mouth. “A boyar family in Moscow lost their daughter last year. They are willing to have you pose as her, so long as the marriage proceeds. Neighbours and friends who knew the dead girl will be rewarded for their silence. All will enjoy new standing with the Tsar. Her name was Stasya and this will be your new name. Stasya Romanovna.”

“And the children?”

“Bear as many as you can. Let your blood flow far and wide in the important families of Russia. When Ivan dies, you may return to Skazki and continue as you always have.”

Mokosha, nervous energy tingling in her legs, stands again and goes to the window. Hushed snow is falling on her roof, and over all the woods and streams for miles. The land is frozen as it is every year at this time, but it always thaws. The years always swing in and out, decades always pass. Time is not a thing to be feared when one is immortal; it is the enemy only of those whose death rushes towards them with every stuttered tick. Mokosha breathes and ponders while the Secret Ambassador waits in hope.

“I see I have little choice,” she says at last.

“No, Mokosha. It is still your choice.”

She turns from the window. “Don’t call me Mokosha,” she says. “You may call me Stasya.”

Mokosha, now Stasya, has changed more than her name by the time she arrives at the Kremlin to meet Ivan. Using a mixture of herbs and magic, she has dyed her hair ash-white, and has adopted the coloured silk robes of a noblewoman rather than the rough
natural fabrics of a pagan goddess. She wears a sarafan decorated in stars and moons, and an elaborate covering upon her head, its long veil of blue damask skimming behind her. In the Cross Chamber, Ivan’s reception room up high in the Terem Palace, she queues with more than a hundred other girls.

This competition brings her so low that she feels she could scream. The idiot girls around her are full of giggles and false compliments, but Stasya refuses to talk to any of them. She is a god, for all that she pretends to be an ordinary young woman; nor is there anything ordinary about her beauty. She is otherworldly, pale and noble, with haunting eyes, but even this won’t be enough to ensure Ivan selects her for his wife, because love is notoriously ill-sighted.

No, the Secret Ambassador has been very careful not to leave Ivan’s choice to fate. Instead, he has cloaked Stasya—crown to toes—in magical glamour. There is no chance of the young Tsar choosing another.

Though Stasya secretly hopes he might.

The ceiling in the Cross Chamber is low, and the deeply-recessed windows mean that no light illuminates the decorated corners. The arches are painted, the portals are intricately carved, the dark timber furniture merges into the shadows. Candles in the alcoves provide the flickering light, and fill the air with a warm wax smell. Here is where the bear sits, on a chest of ebony. The bear recognises Stasya as a visitor from the land of her birth, and is excited that Ivan might choose Stasya for his bride.

Face after beautiful face passes before Ivan, who feigns boredom even though he doesn’t feel it; he has the vanity of a young man. He is surrounded by boyars in their long hats and richly-embroidered kaftans urging him to pick this one or that one, to heed this family or another. Ivan wants to marry the most beautiful, the most noble, the most able to bear his sons and establish his dynasty.

His hands on the edges of his carved chair, he extends his neck and shoulders forward, and the bear is put in mind of a vulture. His hooded black eyes flick left and right, scanning the face and body of a boyar’s daughter, then dismissing her with a flip of his right index finger.