In the Heart of Darkness

The woman, frowning with puzzlement, began to nod. Antonina grabbed the woman's wrist and dragged her toward the door at the opposite end of the shop. The woman was heavyset, taller than Antonina, and began squawking and struggling vigorously. To absolutely no avail. Antonina was a very strong woman, for her size, and she was filled with implacable determination.

She shouldered the door open and hurled the woman through, following an instant later. Before closing the door, she peeked at the shop entrance. The outer door was still closed. Her pursuers, she thought, hadn't seen her enter the shop.

Good. I've got a little time.

She turned and confronted the woman, who was now spluttering with outrage. The woman's husband was standing next to her, glowering, holding up a metal ladle in a half-threatening gesture.

'Shut up!' snarled Antonina. 'There are men just outside your door who are trying to kill me! They'll kill you, too.'

The woman's mouth snapped shut. A second later, her mouth reopened. Wailing:

'Get out! Get out!'

The husband stepped forward hesitantly, raising the ladle.

There was a large table against the wall of the kitchen next to the door. Antonina slammed her purse onto the table and emptied its contents. A pile of gold coins spilled out. Along with a small dagger.

The shopkeeper and his wife were, first, transfixed by the sight of the coins. Then, by the sight of the dagger in Antonina's hand.

'You've got a simple choice,' hissed Antonina. 'You can take the money-call it rent for the use of your kitchen-or you can take the blade. In your fucking guts.'

The shopkeeper and his wife ogled her.

Antonina hefted the dagger. The wife's face, as she eyed the razor-sharp blade, paled a bit.

The shopkeeper's face paled quite a bit more.

He was fat and middle-aged, now. But, in his youth, he had led a rather disreputable life. He was not particularly impressed by Antonina's sharp little blade. He was a professional cook. He had several knives which were just as sharp and much bigger.

But he recognized that grip. That light, easy way of holding a blade.

'Shut up, woman!' he snarled to his wife. 'Take the money and go upstairs.'

His wife frowned at him. The shopkeeper threatened her with the ladle. Antonina stepped away from the table, clearing a space. The shopkeeper's wife scuttled over, glancing at her fearfully. Then, after scooping up the coins, she practically sprinted to a small door in the rear corner of the kitchen. A moment later, Antonina heard her clumping up the stairs which led to the living quarters above.

Her husband began backing his way toward the same door.

'You can't come upstairs,' he muttered. 'I'm not going to get involved in any of this. Things are crazy right now.'

Antonina shook her head.

'Just bar the door and stay upstairs. But, before you go-where do you keep your flour? And your knives?'

The shopkeeper pointed to a cupboard with the ladle.

'Flour's in there. The knives, too.'

'Good. Leave me the ladle.'

He frowned, glanced at the ladle, shrugged.

'Where do you want it?'

Antonina pointed toward the big kettle on the stove. Hurriedly, the shopkeeper dropped the ladle into the simmering broth and then scampered out of the kitchen.

Antonina stepped to the door which led to the outer room of the shop and pressed her ear against it.

Nothing. They haven't found the shop yet.

She raced to the cupboard and threw its door open. She hesitated, for just an instant, between the flour barrel and the knives hanging on the wall.

The knives first.

She grabbed four of the knives, two in each hand, and carried them over to the workbench next to the stove. Quickly, she gauged their balance. One of them, she decided, was suitable. That one-and her own little dagger-she placed on the edge of the workbench, blades toward her. The other three-much larger blades, one of them a veritable cleaver-she placed next to them, hilts facing out.

She hurried back to the closet and seized a small pan on a shelf. She lifted the lid to the barrel and dug the pan into the flour. A moment later, spilling a trail behind her, she poured the flour into the kettle. Quickly, using the ladle, she stirred the flour into the broth.

She was practically dancing with impatience. But she didn't dare add more flour too quickly. She had to give the broth time to regain its heat.

When the liquid began roiling, she hurried back to the closet. More flour. Into the kettle. Stir it. Wait. Wait.

Again.

That's enough, she decided. The meat broth was now a lumpy, viscous mess. And, within a minute, would be back to a boil.

She looked around. Draped on nearby pegs, she saw the thick, wettened cloths which the shopkeeper used to handle the kettle. She wrapped her hands in the cloths and picked up the kettle. Grunting with exertion-it was a big kettle, three-fourths full.

Yes. Barely, but-yes.

She replaced the kettle on the stove, leaving the cloths next to it. Then, she raced to the door and closed the latch. For a moment, she considered trying to brace the door, but decided against it.

Better this way. I don't want them to have to work too hard to get through the door. Just hard enough. The latch will do for that.

She strode to the table onto which she had dumped the coins, and dragged it into the middle of the kitchen. Then, squatting down, she placed her shoulder under the edge and levered the table onto its side. It was a solidly built wooden table, large and heavy, and it made a great clattering sound when it hit the floor.

Upstairs, she heard the shopkeeper's wife scream.

Damn you!

Faintly, she heard a voice coming from the street.

'In here!'

She heard the outer door burst open. Then, the sounds of many men pouring into the shop.

Now, louder:

'In here!'

She saw the door to the kitchen move, as someone tried to open it. The latch jiggled.

Very loud:

'She's in here!'

Antonina stepped to the stove. She wrapped the wet cloths around her hands and gripped the kettle. Stood still, looking over her shoulder. Watching the door.

A loud thump. The door bulged. The latch strained, but held.

Very loud:

'Out of the way!'

Thundering footsteps.

Smash!

The latch splintered. The door flew open. A large body-then another-hurtled through. Three men came piling in behind. All of them were dressed in the rough clothes of street toughs, and all were holding cudgels in their hands.

The first man-the self-appointed battering ram-was already off-balance. He slammed into the upended table in the middle of the kitchen and bounced back, half-sprawled onto the floor. The man coming right behind tripped over him and stumbled to his knees, leaning over the edge of the table itself.

The three men behind him skidded into a pile.