Deathless

left me! Ivan, come and kiss me! I dreamed of you kissing me while all the worms were knocking at my coffin.”

Ivan’s broad face lit like a lantern. “Dorshmaii! Oh! You are blond, after all! And kind.”

“So kind!” the silvery girl agreed, her braids bobbing as she nodded. “Everyone here says so. I always share my ashes!”

Ivan Nikolayevich drew back a little. Marya tried to pull him away, but he was big and stubborn and he would see this through. More fool you. Marya gave up. I warned you. “What do you mean?” he said uncertainly.

Dorshmaii Velichko took a cigarette out of the sash of her dress and put it into her mouth. It had all been smoked. The cigarette was a long column of ash. But she breathed in happily, and the ash slowly turned white again, until it was whole. She held it out to Ivan.

“You can have it, now. I know you like them. I saved it for you.”

“Don’t you dare,” snapped Marya.

Ivan did not reach for it. Dorshmaii shrugged and dropped it, grinding it into the ground with her dainty foot. “It’s no good to me now. All used up. Oh, but you are not used up, Ivan! You are so warm and bright I can hardly look at you! Thick and full of juice, that’s you! Like a green grape! Come and share my bed, like you always wanted. And I know you wanted to, even then, you wicked little thing.”

Ivan stared at her. His hand in Marya’s went slack, and she could feel him flow towards the girl like water pouring from one glass to another.

“Dorshmaii,” Marya said, without raising her voice. She had hoped he would be strong enough on his own, that she would not have to use her authority. She was ready to lay it down, so ready. “He is under my shield.”

The girl in the lace dress looked from Ivan to her and back again. “I don’t think your shield extends to playthings, little Tsaritsa. Let me have him. I’ll ride him to Georgia and back before morning. He’ll bleed from my spurs. Then you can have him back.”

Marya reached for the pale, intricately carved rifle slung over her back. She loved her rifle. There was no other like it. She had found it in Naganya’s house, so long ago. The vintovnik had whittled it out of the bones of the firebird they had killed on their hunt, the last time they were all together, meaning it to be a wedding present. Marya Morevna brought it to bear on the ghost and adjusted the sighting.

“Don’t!” cried Ivan.

“Oh!” Dorshmaii breathed. “It’s so beautiful! I can see the flames still! Oh, Marya Morevna, you have no right to a weapon like that! Give it to me! See, the bird opens its mouth to me; it wants to be mine!”

Marya fired. One of the girl’s teardrop-shaped braids dropped off.

“Oh, I hate you,” Dorshmaii spat. “I had him first. It’s not fair!”

Blood seeped from the stem of her braid, yellowish and thick. A clump of black, dripping earth struck the ghost between the eyes, and she screeched in indignation. Ivan whirled to see who had thrown it.

“Stop looking, Ivan! I told you to listen to me! You can’t look at them!” But Marya, unable to let him go or lose him to the dark, was looking, too, as a little man with a beard of pale, frosty moss and hands like broken stones gathered up another handful of earth and tested it in his hand. A silver splash stained his chest. He looked only once at Marya, and big tears welled up in his eyes, falling like rain.

“Run, Ivan,” Marya whispered.

He did. And behind them, the dark spasmed, as if in grief.

* * *

When they reached the light, Marya seized him close to her, spun around three times, laid her finger on the side of her nose, and disappeared.

17 A Pain Where My Death Once Lay

“We’re home,” Marya sighed. “This is home.”

But Ivan went white and trembled in his long grey coat. He looked at the blood fountains gurgling and spraying. He looked at the braids lying along the eaves, the chapels with their skin doors and bone crosses, the gate of antler and skulls. He looked at the black domes of the Chernosvyat looming before them, all shadows.

“This is hell,” he whispered. Marya saw his hand twitch, longing to cross himself, keeping his fingers still for her sake alone—and she liked that, that in his horror he still wished to please her.

“No, no, it’s not like that. It’s the Country of Life. It’s all living, see? The blood and the skin and the bone and the fur. It’s all alive. Nothing is dead here, nothing. It’s beautiful.”

But Ivan was shaking his golden head. “At least in Leningrad we build over the bones.”

Marya Morevna laughed. She wanted to brush his hair from his eyes. “Of course you are from Leningrad,” she said. It would not be temptation if he came from Moscow, or Minsk, or Irkutsk. Only a boy from her home could come bearing an old red scarf and scratch at her core. He had been built for her, like a perfect machine.

“I don’t want to stay here!” he cried. “This is the devil’s country!”

“Of course it is,” said a deep voice, familiar to Marya as her own bed. “And you should go home immediately.”

Koschei the Deathless swept Marya into his arms. She smiled—a frank, open smile, unguarded and bright as winter. She kissed him, and where their mouths joined, drops of their blood spontaneously welled and mingled, so deeply did their bodies interlock.

“Have you brought a toy?” Koschei said curiously, setting his wife down, his long black cassock whipping in the heavy Buyan wind. “Is he for me as well?”

Marya watched his face carefully. If she played it right, if she managed it, no one would be hurt. “He found me, at Irkutsk, after the battle. He is from Leningrad.”

Koschei the Deathless grinned enormously, his black hair lifting a little, blowing in the wind. “Oh, my Marya has grown up and started stealing humans for herself! I am proud.”

“It isn’t like that.” But wasn’t it? Hadn’t she appeared to him like a bird-husband, out of nowhere, and dragged him out of the world?

Koschei turned to the young officer. “Oh? What do you think, young man? Is it like that?”

Ivan was somewhat beside himself. He could not stop staring at the fountain of blood, how the sun turned it half-black.

“Is he mute? Does he have a name?”

Marya faltered and cast down her eyes. She could not say it, could not begin to bring herself to say the name Ivan in the presence of her husband. But he guessed it. He saw it caught in her mouth like a fish hook. They had been married a long time. Koschei’s black eyes flared fury; his jaw clenched, just like hers. What mirrors we are, set to face each other, reflecting desire.

“You would not do that to me, would you, Masha? Tell me he is Dmitri Grigorovich. Tell me he is Leonid Belyayev. Tell me his name is Priapus and you could not resist him. But my wife would not bring an Ivan into my house; she would not stab me so, through the neck.”

“I thought there were no rules between us,” Marya answered softly, somewhat embarrassed to discuss it in front of Ivan himself, who was no part of their marriage, and should not hear its private arrangements.

Koschei blinked twice and straightened his back, crow-hunched with resentment.

“Of course you are right, wife. I have forgotten myself. What is a name? Nothing and no one. I am a silly old man.” His smile froze on his perfect face, the youthful curve of his jaw, his eyes not even a little wrinkled with age. He remained utterly the man who had appeared on Marya’s doorstep with stars in his hair. “You must bring your friend to dinner, and we will discuss our options, with regard to the war.”

The Tsar of Life turned on one shining black heel and strode toward his palace. Over his shoulder he called, “Oh, have a care not to walk on the right side of the road. We lost it while you were gone.”

Marya brought her hand to her mouth. She had not seen it. How could she have missed it? A long black strip ran down Skorohodnaya Road. In the darkness, silver pricked like stars.