The Ocean of Time (11 page)

She splashes water over her face, then turns and looks at me, and smiles. ‘I’m fine.
Really
. It’s okay. Besides … it’s not me … it’s the baby.’

‘Otto?’

‘Yes, my love?’

‘Can we start again?’

‘Again?’

We are midstream, half a day north of Belyj, the sun shining down, the forest a solid barrier of green to either side. Light glints off the surface of the river as Bakatin and his sons pull hard on the oars, drawing us swiftly through the water.

‘You were going to teach me German. Remember?’

I reach out and trace the line of her jaw. ‘I remember.’

‘Only it would be useful.’

‘Useful?’

‘If we need to speak of …
things
.’

‘Ah …’

I understand. Though they seem as if they aren’t listening, Bakatin and his sons hear every word we say. In a few days’ time, we’ll be saying farewell to Bakatin and his sons, and they’ll be heading back downriver to Surazh.

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Then let’s begin right now.’

She sits up a little straighter, her face all attentive, like a pupil at her desk, which makes me laugh. But as I hand her the brooch, I see her face change, an expression of pure wonder and delight entering her eyes.

‘
Das Blatt
,’ I say. ‘
Das Esche Blatt
.’

That next evening we arrive at Antipino. It’s another Belyj, only worse, and I’d prefer not to stop, only Bakatin has business there.

We go ashore, Katerina holding my hand, curious to see the village, even though it’s clearly a stinking hole of a place. Chicken bones and other discarded things litter the ground between the ill-built, shabby huts, and – worse than anything in Belyj – there are dogs, half-feral beasts with dark oily coats that sniff at us and growl and show their sharp yellow teeth threateningly.

There are more slaves here, too. Six scrawny-looking young men in ragged clothes sitting with their backs against the wall of a hut, chained to each other at the ankle, one of their ‘owners’ – a Swede without any doubt by the axe and sword he carries – standing close by, keeping an eye. They look underfed, and from the bruises on their arms and legs it would seem that their masters have been none too kind.

Feeling despondent, we cut the tour short and search out Bakatin. He’s drinking beer and laughing with a merchant friend in the riverside ‘inn’, a crowd of locals pressed into that hot and fetid room. The smell is awful and I wonder how they can stand it. I say hello and am about to make my way back to the boat when I see them standing in the shadows of the far corner.

The two men we saw in Belyj. The ones who were with Krylenko.

Noticing my eyes on them, one of them speaks quickly to the other’s ear, and immediately they begin to push through. But they have to get past me, and I move slightly so that they can’t do that without either pushing me aside, or asking me to move.

Katerina glances at me, then looks again, noting how I’m watching the two men.

‘Excuse me, cousin,’ the first one says, trying not to make eye contact.

I put my hand flat on his chest, stopping him. Immediately, every eye in the room is on me.

‘How is Krylenko?’

The man swallows nervously and glances at me. He’s trembling now. His answer’s almost a whisper. ‘Krylenko’s dead.’

‘And you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You? Are
you
dead?’

He’s shaking now, afraid I’ll strike him down. ‘I … I … No … No, I’m alive.’

‘Good. Then stay that way, eh?’ And I remove my hand from his chest and stand aside, and the two of them stumble past me and then run out of the door, as if all the devils in hell were chasing them. You might think there’d be laughter at the sight, but the room is deathly silent. Even Bakatin is quiet, watching me from where he sits, tankard in hand, waiting to see what I’ll do next. But I do nothing, merely look to him and smile.

‘I’m sorry, Fyodor. Don’t mind me, I’m just saying hello to old friends.’

Bakatin’s face is serious a moment longer, and then he smiles, the smile broadening until he gives a great roar of laughter and the tension in the room breaks and suddenly everyone is laughing – with relief, it seems. But I know something now. They all know who I am – or who they believe I am. A sorcerer. A powerful magician. And behind every smile, every laughing face, I see an element of naked fear.

I have made a mistake. I know it now. There is not a single village or settlement on this river that hasn’t heard of me and what I did back there. Only it’s to be hoped it won’t follow me across land to Rzhev. Because if it does …

I turn and leave, taking Katerina with me. She’s silent, too, thoughtful, and back at the boat she asks me quietly what I mean to do about the men.

‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘I can’t blame them for what Krylenko did.’

It’s true. But it’s not the only reason why I won’t go after them. I could track them and find them, and even kill them if I wanted, only it would mean leaving Katerina here while I did. Besides, I don’t think they’re a danger. They’re much more afraid of me than I am of them. Even so, I’m slightly worried. Why were they here? On Blagovesh’s orders? Or maybe they’re cousins of Krylenko and this is a kind of vendetta? Only, if so, why not sneak up on us and kill us while we sleep? Why slink about from village to village, following us?

Because they think you are a sorcerer, Otto. They probably think you never sleep.

It’s dark when Bakatin returns, not drunk exactly, but unsteady. His business has gone well, and he wants to talk, and maybe to drink some more, only I’ve another idea.

‘I want to go, Fyodor. I want to leave here now.’

‘To go? But it’s late, Otto. And, my friend, my purchase won’t be ready till the morning …’

‘Forget that. Tell him you’ll come back for his goods later. I’ll pay you both for the inconvenience. But let’s get out of here, now.’

‘But Otto—’

‘Fyodor. Do as I say. We’re in danger here. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. If we stay here, they’ll attack us.’

Bakatin looks at me as if I’m mad, but he shrugs and, hauling himself up off the bench seat, gives orders to his sons.

The moon is high and it’s late when finally we moor on an island three hours upstream from Antipino. It’s far enough not to be followed by foot, but there’s always the possibility that they’ll follow us by boat, and so while Bakatin and his sons get some sleep in the bottom of the boat, I sit at the stern, keeping watch.

I’ve told Katerina to rest, but she wants to sit with me. She’s said nothing thus far, but now that Bakatin and his sons are asleep and snoring, she asks me why we didn’t stay in the village.

‘Just a feeling,’ I say. ‘An instinct I had. Those two … they’ve been trailing us for a reason.’

‘You don’t think they simply had business in Antipino?’

‘Yes, and their business was us.’

‘But surely …?’

I turn and look at her. ‘I made a mistake back there, Katerina. I revealed what I was. Not just to you, but to everyone. And even if they mistake what it is, they know I’m something different, something special. And that’s dangerous. Very dangerous indeed.’

‘Then maybe you should have dealt with it back there. Maybe you should have followed them and—’

‘Killed them?’ I shake my head and look away. ‘No. I can’t kill people just because I suspect them.’

‘But they’d have killed us.’

‘Maybe. And maybe not.’

She’s silent for a time, then, putting her arm about my back, she leans close and whispers to my ear. ‘Otto?’

‘Yes, my love?’

‘Forget watching for a while. Take me ashore and make love to me.’

It’s two days’ journey to Tatarinka, our last stop on the river, and from the start the weather is awful. We wake to an overcast sky, a solid layer of thick, grey cloud blocking off the sun, and then it begins to rain.

For the rest of the morning it doesn’t stop, and Katerina and I sit huddled together beneath the makeshift awning as Bakatin and his sons pull against the current.

The heavy rain has swollen the river, which here cuts through a rougher, less even terrain. We have left the flatlands now and the land to either side rises steeply, fold upon fold towards the distant, rain-obscured hills

After a while Katerina complains of the cold, and I go to the cart and carefully unpack one of the furs I’ve brought for colder weather, securing the load again before returning to her and wrapping it about her shoulders.

There is the slightest plumpness to her now – barely anything, yet last night I took care to be gentler than usual with her and she, noticing it, laughed softly and asked me if I didn’t think her made of sterner stuff than that. And maybe she is, yet the thought of her carrying our child fills me with such tenderness for her, such an aching softness, while at the same time …

At the same time, I would kill anyone who harmed her.

As we sit there, listening to the rain fall and the birds call forlornly in the trees, to the slush of the oars and the rush of the water past our hull, I am conscious of just how vulnerable she makes me feel. Which, perhaps, should worry me. I am, after all, a time agent, my life a complex, dangerous one. Yet without this …

She sleeps a while, and when she wakes the rain is still falling, and very little in the landscape seems to have changed. Sometimes the sheer size of this land encroaches on the mind. Great armies have floundered in its vastness. It has been a month and more since we set out from Novgorod and still we seem a long, long way from our goal.

But I am happy today, despite the rain, despite the thought of all the bad weather to come – for the rainy season is now upon us, and after the rains comes the snow. Happy because, for the first time in some while, I feel at peace. It will be hard, juggling my life to fit everything in, but when was life easy for anyone? Hecht’s the only problem, but even there I can work my way around him, find ways and means to come back here as often as I can. To be with her. And with our children.

It’s that last thought that melts me. That makes me smile despite all obstacles to my happiness. And there’s even part of me that wants to jump ahead and see it, now – right now – as if to guarantee its future reality. But I can’t do that. In fact, I won’t let myself do that. This has to be as it is –
lived through
, day by day. To anticipate would kill it – would make it …

I’ll be candid here. The truth is, I want this because it’s something I can’t have back in Four-Oh: a woman who is mine and mine alone; a family; and all of the uncertainties, the
risks
, that go with that.

Oh, there are risks enough in my life, but not of this kind. Nor, for all my dedication to the
volk
, to the cause for which we fight, have I ever felt so attached, so …
connected
to anyone or anything. And maybe that’s a flaw in how things are set up in Four-Oh. Maybe, by breaking down those bonds of family – of
Mutter
,
Vater
and
der Kinder
– we have broken some essential link, and substituted one vulnerability for another. Maybe we need the strength of family – true family – to get us through the days, and kinship – mere kinship as we have it in Four-Oh – is not enough.

Maybe. I don’t know. But my head is filled with such thoughts, and when I smooth my hand over the slight roundness of her stomach, well, it is like I have been transformed, my life made real, no longer such a game as it was.

And that’s what worries me most. For I can see now that it
is
a game – however much we risk in playing it.
It is a game
. And Hecht … Hecht is not our father, Hecht is merely our master. Through us he plays the game. And surely that’s a flaw, too? For humans were not meant to be pawns in a game.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean to throw it all up. I know where my duty lies. Only I see things a little more clearly today. I see the comparative importance of things and I am left wondering if there isn’t a better way than the way we do it in Four-Oh, and that maybe – if there were changes – it might not work far better than it does.

There are dark clouds just ahead – storm clouds blowing in from the north – and Bakatin, seeing them, decides to take a break and we moor over on the north bank, pulling the boat up on to the shore as far as we can. And just in time, for though it has been raining all day, the rain descends upon us in a torrent, and we huddle beneath the trees, our cloaks over our heads, listening to the crashing of the thunder, the sudden darkness of the afternoon lit up now and then by terrifying flashes of lightning.

Katerina crouches at my side. She loves storms and is not afraid of them, but Bakatin’s youngest seems anxious and after a while I call him over and let him shiver alongside me, my arm about his shoulders, as if a sorcerer’s protection might make him safe.

The rain falls endlessly, swelling the river yet further, and slowly soaking us, until it seems better to throw off our covers and just let it fall. We’ll get no wetter.

As the thunder passes into the distance, and with it the electric storm, so Bakatin walks over to the boat and, taking out a cooking pot, begins to bale. His sons join him, lending a hand, and shortly afterwards, despite the continued downpour, we push off on to the water again.

For a time the rain intensifies, and we are forced to bale yet again. But then it slackens and, after a few minutes, ceases altogether. There’s a break in the clouds and, for a time, a glimpse of blue sky and sunlight.

Bakatin laughs, then breaks into song. An old river song, about the river-man’s daughter. A rather crude song, as it turns out, which his sons sing along with lustily, even as they increase their pace. For a time you would think they were racing someone, but then, as Bakatin ends the song, they stop, letting the boat drift on in the sudden silence, their oars lifted, water dripping from them as the boat slows against the current.

Bakatin turns and grins at Katerina. ‘You like our little song, eh?’

If I was expecting her to blush, I’d be disappointed. She laughs and, improvising, makes up a verse of her own, much to Bakatin’s delight. He roars, and slaps his hand against his thigh, then sings her verse again, his sons joining in at the last.