Part Six
One
KYRGYZSTAN, 21ST CENTURY
At first, Ilya did not recognize the bogatyr. Manas had been tall, flamboyantly bearded, filled with a nonchalant and menacing elan. Now, Ilya saw only a stooping figure huddled in the folds of a dirty coat. When they entered the hallway, Manas was perched on a nearby chair, staring into space. He started at the sound of their footsteps, then hastened up to Ilya and put both hands on his shoulders, standing too close, with obvious intent. Ilya took an involuntary step back. The long Kyrgyz face was still handsome, though now it was clean-shaven. Manas’ eyes were bright and hectic. Ilya felt a momentary gratification that he had not been the only one whom the years had not treated so kindly.
So,
Ilya thought.
It seems I am not the last, after all.
The realization made him shiver, like cold rain.
And if
Manas is still alive, then how many others of my strange
kind? And why has there been no trace of them until now?
Why have I not heard them all these many years?
And then, the coldest thought of all:
They used to say only
one
bogatyr
could kill another.
Manas’ thoughts were, it seemed, running along similar lines. “Such a long time! When was it we last met?” There was clear challenge in his face.
We are born
enemies.
Manas, Ilya recalled, had always loved to walk on the edge. At least the
bogatyr
had the wit not to use Ilya’s real name.
“It must be the eighties, at least,” Ilya said politely. True enough. The eighteen eighties, anyway.
“Amazing. It seems like yesterday. Listen, I need to talk to you.” His eyes slid over Elena with evident appreciation. Ilya bristled. The landlady’s eyes were shining with curiosity. “Alone,” Manas added.
“All right,” Ilya said warily. “We’ll go up to the room.” He looked toward the landlady. “I’ll keep an eye on him, I promise.”
“I’ll wait here,” Elena said. Ilya cast her a mute plea:
Explain this.
As he headed back up the stairs, Manas in tow, he heard her say to the landlady, “Perhaps my nephew’s in trouble. . . .”
—and the landlady’s reply, “Often it happens, when the mother dies. One minute they’re such good boys and then they go right off the rails.”
Ilya smiled to himself. His own mother had died hundreds of years ago, but he still felt the loss, even though he could no longer remember exactly what she had looked like. She’d had blonde hair, like Elena’s. The recollection was somehow unsettling. He reached the door of the room and motioned to Manas.
“Inside.”
“Oh, no,” the
bogatyr
said, balking like a horse. He made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “You can go first.”
“Very well,” Ilya said, but he unfastened the fishing-rod case and kept Manas in the corner of his sight as he went through the door. The room was as silent and empty as they had left it. A halo of light could be seen through the window: a streetlamp, blurred. It was raining again.
“So,” Ilya said, turning. “How was the twentieth century for you?”
Manas gave an indifferent shrug. “Nothing much.”
“Oh, come on. Not even Kyrgyzstan’s been that quiet.”
“I spent most of it in the mountains with my people. They still believe, you know, up in the Alatau. They don’t give a damn what happens outside their own valleys. They still sing songs about me.” He paused. “Actually, now that the Russian rabbits have scuttled back to their burrows, I’m getting a lot more attention these days. There’s even been a TV series about me.” He looked up at Ilya with sly pride. “That’s something, eh? What about you?”
“Someone wrote an opera,” Ilya said. It was hard not to be bitter, harder still not to see the funny side of the matter.
“Oh, but that’s wonderful,” Manas said with a thin edge of contempt. “As long as they’re still singing songs about us, we live on, eh?”
It had occurred to Ilya more than once that there might be greater truth in that than Manas realized. What if they really were no more than phantoms, the embodied dreams of their respective lands, anchored to the world by a tenuous thread of belief? It would explain why he had spent the last decade in a haze of heroin and alcohol. No one believed in anything anymore. Perhaps he was no more than a reflection of that lack.
We are, none of us, individuals. We are only what society makes of us, humans or heroes.
What was a hero but a collection of valued qualities, in service to his fellow man or the State? It was a central tenet of Marxism and it seemed appropriate to Ilya that a hero should be less real than ordinary men, rather than truly superhuman.
“So why are you here, Manas? Have you come to welcome me to your mountains? And how did you find me, anyway?”
“I followed the people who are following you.”
It was a shock, but not a surprise.
“And who are they?” Ilya asked.
“For a man who is a hero, you’ve certainly managed to attract some undesirable characters. Not your lady friend—she’s lovely—but you had a party of dream-stealers on your tail, did you know that? You’ve lost them for the moment, though. Do you know why they’re following you?”
“Do you mean the FSB?”
“What? A bunch of petty bureaucrats? No, not them. I mean
dream
-stealers. People who control what goes on inside other people’s heads. The people who
run
organizations like the FSB.”
“Manas, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Best to pretend ignorance for the moment.
“Of course you don’t. You’re a Russian. You probably don’t have anything going on in that head of yours except where the next vodka’s coming from.”
Finally, the realization hit Ilya. “Do you mean a
volkh
? A man named Kovalin?”
“That’s the one. You’ve met him?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“The same thing that you just did. They are working against the creatures known as
rusalki.
My enemies.”
“And so you immediately assumed they were your friends.”
“No, I am not completely an idiot. I agreed to help them because Kovalin told me he had the power to give me something I wanted. In turn, they wanted me to find an object for them. Something belonging to the
rusalki.
”
“And did you find it?” There was a sudden burn behind Manas’ gaze, an eagerness.
“Not yet,” Ilya said cautiously. Instinct told him that it was best to keep quiet about the object. “I went to meet Kovalin’s contacts. Elena came with me. She’s a scientist.”
The
bogatyr
was frowning.
“Once you found this object, what were you planning to do? Hand it over to Kovalin?”
“I arranged to meet his contacts, to discuss the matter,” Ilya said, “but the
rusalki
got to them first.”
“Truly, the Russians are a remarkable people,” Manas said, shaking his head. “And you are one of the greatest figures of their folklore. You rival only Prince Ivan the Stupid.”
“What have I done to deserve that?”
“Has it once occurred to you that the
rusalki
are your friends, not your enemies? That they have saved your life time and time again not as punishment, but because you are important?”
“Obviously it has occurred to me,” Ilya said angrily. The crack about Ivan the Stupid rankled. “But they have not approached me, nor attempted to discuss the matter with me, nor shown any signs of being other than my foes. In addition to this, they have a reputation—which I have witnessed firsthand—of abducting people, taking them beyond the world, never to be seen again. And I have also seen them kill.”
“They are not human,” Manas said after a pause.
“They take folk, it is true, but they do not often kill them. They select. And they do not act according to human principles. By our standards, I suppose, they are ruthless.”
“What are they, then?”
“You know about aliens? You watch TV?” Manas’ face became reflective. “I love it. Best invention of the twentieth century, if you ask me.
X-Files.
Excellent program. Very exciting.”
“It’s American,” Ilya said.
“So? You think Americans don’t have legends, tell stories? The
rusalki
are like aliens—the little grey things who abduct people. Do you know that several thousand Americans claim to have had this experience? Not all of them have come back again. Of course, we in Russia, being superior”—Manas appeared to have abandoned his Kyrgyz origins for the moment— “have beautiful girls instead of little monsters. But I believe they are the same thing. And they are not alien in the sense that they are from another planet. They move between this world and the other.”
“The other?” Having been there, Ilya thought he knew what Manas was talking about, but he wanted to hear the
bogatyr
say it, see how far Manas’ understanding tallied with what he had already been told by Kovalin.
“The other, indeed,” was all that Manas said.
“Say this is true. How do you know all this?”
“Because three months ago, I met a man in the high Alatau. An
akyn.
Do you know what that is?”
“A bard?”
“Precisely. One who dreams for a living and writes poems about those dreams. A man like Kovalin, but from this world.”
“What?”
“The
akyn
told me something very interesting about your
volkh
. Namely, that he isn’t from this world any more than the
rusalki
are. And he is your enemy and mine.”
“Long ago, Manas, you told me that
you
were my enemy.”
“Why, so I am,” Manas said with sudden charm. “But you know the old Moslem saying, don’t you?— ‘My enemy’s enemy is my friend.’ ”
Ilya frowned. “Does that make us friends?”
“No. But it does make us allies. I came with a request, Ilya Muromyets. If you are successful in your quest, as one hero to another, I ask you—do not hand the thing for which you are looking over to Kovalin. I do not ask you to
give
it to me, mind, only to keep it safe from him.”
“And if I do not?”
“Ah, then—or so my poet tells me—then the world will fall.”
Two
KYRGYZSTAN, 21ST CENTURY
Having lulled the landlady’s suspicions and made sure that she was safely back in the kitchen, Elena hovered outside the bedroom door, trying to overhear what Ilya and the stranger were saying to each other. Usually, she despised eavesdropping, but she felt that the circumstances were curious enough to override her scruples. As she heard the stranger talk about the
rusalki,
her hands tightened on the strap of her handbag. She also found that she was waiting for the sound of Ilya’s voice.
Slow down,
she told herself,
slow down. If you are
starting to feel so strongly about him, then he almost certainly is not the right choice.
God knows, it had happened before. Her last boyfriend had vanished into space after only two months, and now she wondered how much of that had been simply circumstance, a keyed-up excitement as they approached the start of the mission. Yuri had not been as damaged as Ilya— cosmonauts tended to be stable, once one discounted the madness that made them want to go into space in the first place—but he had undoubtedly been emotionally inaccessible, focused more on his work and on the mission than on her. Elena could understand that, and understand too that it had been part of his appeal.
From within the room, she heard the scrape of a chair as someone rose. Not wanting to be caught listening at the keyhole, Elena slipped around the corner and out of sight. The door opened and the stranger stepped through. He retreated down the stairs. Moments later, he was followed by Ilya, carrying the fishing-rod case.
“Ilya,” Elena hissed.
He turned. “I’m going with him. Wait here. Lock the door, push the bed against it, and make sure the windows are bolted.”
“Why can’t I come?”
“I want to make sure you’re safe.” His gaze flickered to her handbag and she knew he was thinking about the object.
“I’ll look after it,” Elena said.
“I know you will. But make sure you stay here.”
“All right,” Elena said dubiously. She did not fancy the role of damsel in the tower.
“I don’t know how long I’ll be. If it’s a long time, I’ll call you. I’ll take the number of the guesthouse.” At the corner of the corridor, he turned. “Elena. Be careful.”
“You, too.” She waited until he had vanished around the corner, then went to the window and peered out into the twilight. Two figures, both tall men, were receding swiftly down the street, one behind the other. She held her breath, but the stranger did not turn to see if he was being followed.
Thoughtfully, Elena sat down on the bed. She flicked through the channels of the television and at last found the news. It was in Kyrgyz and she could only understand occasional words and fragments, but she watched the images unfold nonetheless. The news was a litany of car crashes and drug busts. There was nothing about bodies in a Kazakhstani hotel. There had been an earth tremor to the north of Almaty, along the line of the mountains. Elena leaned closer to the set to look at the little diagram. It depicted Koktubye Hill, the place where they had encountered the horse tribe. She stared at it thoughtfully.
The news changed to the wars in Afghanistan and Chechnya, perennial subjects for discussion, followed by a shot of the new space station, like a great wheel above the world. Yuri could be floating clumsily down one of those passages even now. Elena sighed with envy. Then the weather: rain, with sudden dips in temperature and occasional sun, typical for spring. The advertisements came on, then a game show with squealing contestants trying to win a holiday in Cyprus.
Elena turned off the set in disgust and closed the curtains. Opening her handbag, she reached for her mobile phone and dialed her mother’s number, but there was nothing, just a hiss of static and failed connections. She must be out of range, or perhaps the mountains were blocking the signal. The region was full of such black spots. She put the phone back in her bag.
The object was still within, nestled in a handful of tissues.
She stared down at it, half-expecting something to happen, half-fearful. She was not entirely willing to admit to herself that she resented being left behind, that she wanted an equal share in any adventures.
She took the object from her bag, weighing it in her hand. It was the same as ever: heavy, cold. At first the chill of it froze her down to the bone, but then it grew warmer, seeping into her palm like sunlight. She sank down onto the bed, still holding the object. She thought of that strange land and the hope rose within her. It was what she had always wanted, after all: the chance to be part of the reach for the stars, for other worlds. She had never hoped to visit one, and there was little chance that she would ever have children. The descendants of others would travel out beyond the solar system, not her own blood, her own genes. And she wondered now whether that was why she had pinned so much of her life on the success of the space program: It was the only dream left available to her.
The warmth of the object flooded through her. It was comforting, like another presence. She thought back to Baikonur, to the excitement before the launches, the rockets blasting up into the burn-blue sky, mission control working like a single entity, a gestalt. The rockets still traveled, but from a shattered country, and she had been sidelined. She felt as though she had fallen from a great height, burning out on reentry. Her eyes snapped open. The object was as cold as old ashes.
Restlessly, Elena put it back in the bag and turned back to the television. But as she flicked the switch, light flooded out across the room, so bright that she flung up an arm to shield her eyes.
This time, there was no sense that she was being drawn into the strange world on the other side of the light. It faded, until it was nothing more than a long opening, suspended in the air. Elena stood, blinking as her eyes adjusted, and found that she could now see through the gate. The world beyond was plunged into twilight.
She was standing before a garden fragrant with fruit trees. High above, snared in the branches of a cherry tree, she saw a single burning star. A wind drifted through, laden with the fragrance of grass. A shadow moved behind the trees. Elena waited, watching.
Slowly, a figure stepped out onto the grass and hesitated.
“Who’s there?” it called—a woman’s voice, brusque and speaking in oddly-accented Russian. Elena, seized by panic, nearly did not reply. But it was the closest she had come to meeting a person from this other world and she did not want to lose the chance.
She called out, “My name is Elena. Don’t be afraid. I’m on the other side of the—the hole in the air.”
“Oh, my God,” the woman said. “It’s a localized breach.”
Somehow the term, with its technical connotations, was reassuring.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Elena said. The woman was coming close now, striding swiftly across the damp grass toward the gateway. She was tall and dark-haired, perhaps fifty or so, dressed in some kind of military uniform with the jacket undone. Elena could see an insignia on the shoulder: a scatter of stars. Something about the woman’s face was oddly familiar, yet Elena was certain that she had never set eyes on her before.
“How long has this breach been open? How long have you been using the distorter coil? Where did you get it?” The woman’s voice was sharp, accusing.
“A what? Look, I don’t even know where you are.”
“Where are
you
?” the woman demanded in turn. “Earth? Russia?”
“Yes. Well, I’m in Kyrgyzstan. Not Russia, not anymore.”
“Kyrgyzia? That’s in the southeast, isn’t it? Toward Pathan territory.”
“Pathan? Do you mean Pakistan?”
“I don’t know that name,” the woman said. She ran a hand through her hair and Elena saw that her arm was strapped up in a bandage.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Colonel Shadia Anikova. Pergama Provincial Military. It won’t mean a lot to you.”
“It means nothing,” Elena said. “I’m Elena.” She could see something at the base of the trees, scratching about. It was the size of a pheasant. “What’s that?”
The woman glanced over her shoulder. “Just a
kikimura
,” she said dismissively. “Listen to me. The coil—”
But at that moment, the room in which Elena stood began to shudder. Outside, she heard the sudden, protesting creak of branches. The gap in the air sealed shut with a snap; the bag rocked on the night-stand. Elena snatched it up, preparing to run from the room, but there was no need. The tremor had passed as swiftly as it had come. There was no sign of the gateway in the air. Elena gave the object a narrow-eyed look, thinking fearfully of the earthquake on the news.
But the object sat in the middle of her handbag, silent and impenetrable.