Chapter 18
YOU CAN GET USED TO ANYTHING—EVEN HELL
“Can’t you do anything to stop this?” Stacia yelled above the squall as their dirizhabl’—or Rackapelterly Aeroflation, as Stribog called it—twirled dangerously like a child’s toy held under a giant’s thumb.
Each one of its passengers clung tightly to the ropes as the dark and threatening sky pressed heavily against them.
Zima cried as she held on to Stacia’s leg.
“It’s not me!” The poor girl wept frozen tears that rained like sleet down her pink cheeks.
Soon her lips and eyelids turned blue, then purple, and the clouds puffed up darker and rained slush on them to match her mood.
As her voice choked out a sob, they heard the crack of thunder, and lightning streaked across the sky.
Stacia’s dark red hair was plastered to her neck and cheeks.
Her own lips and fingers felt as icy cold as little Zima’s.
She wrapped her heavy coat around both of them, but it didn’t serve to warm them at all.
They were quickly drenched. “Zakhar!” she yelled, trying to reach him through the storm. “Zakhar!” she tried again.
The priest turned to her, squinting in their direction, and took a few steps closer, trying to hear them through the storm. “I fear we’re going to be lost!” he cried.
“What?” Stacia shouted.
“Lost!” he screamed. “We’re being dragged off course!”
“But didn’t they say we could use the storm? Ride the lightning somehow?”
When he didn’t understand her, she tried to gesture to him by moving her hand like a snake and then twisting her other fingers to hop on top of it and zoom away.
But she had to grab for the rope again as the balloon lurched suddenly.
When she righted herself and steadied Zima, she thought she saw the spark of understanding catch in his eyes.
He quickly turned about and began adjusting levers and buttons.
“Brace yourselves!” he cried loudly.
Crouching down next to the girl, Stacia wrapped her arms around her and said, “Hold on to me tightly, little one. We’re going for a ride.”
“But we’re already on a ride,” Zima said before plugging her thumb back into her mouth and closing her eyes.
Stacia nodded to Zakhar, who turned to the sky, watching carefully.
Zakhar had no idea if such a thing would work.
Truthfully, the very notion that one could “ride a bolt of lightning” was something out of an old wives’ tale.
Such fantastical stories and superstitious practices that were still observed among townspeople, especially those born in the smaller communities, were very difficult to eradicate.
Zakhar and his brethren always found themselves at odds with old traditions and belief systems, and they struggled to implement the new Christian ways of doing things.
What would his brothers think to see him operating a contraption such as the one he was in now?
He’d be lucky if he wasn’t immediately excommunicated.
After saying a quick prayer and asking his Lord for forgiveness, ending with the sign of the cross, Zakhar spotted a streak of lightning and pressed the button, turning the lever indicated at the same time.
The little switchboard hummed to life, and he shrieked as the lightning bolt switched direction midair, turning toward them instead.
The buttons he’d been pushing lit up, and the hair on his arms, legs, and head stood on end.
He’d only a fraction of a second to think, What have I done?
At the same time, he was mouthing the word, “Amen.”
He never got to finish his prayer, though, because the air around him crackled and sparked, as did his fingertips.
Never in his entire life had he felt such energy.
It practically filled his frame. He was acutely aware of his own heartbeat, and there was an itching sensation all over his skin.
It was as if time somehow slowed. Zakhar heard a hum in the air; then there was a pop, and he heard nothing at all for several seconds.
A scent tickled his nose. It reminded him of the cleaning solution he used to wipe down the church pews.
Then there was a taste in his mouth, as if he’d been sucking on the coins left in the collection box.
He wondered if he’d killed them all. Perhaps they were dead, and this was what the resurrection felt like.
Or maybe he was being changed into spirit, like the Holy Ghost. That wouldn’t be so bad.
To be a thing filled with the power of God.
But what if he hadn’t been good enough? He had been questioning much as of late.
If anything, the quest he’d been sent on had certainly tested his beliefs, his faith.
What if the energy he felt was not the glories of heaven but the fires of hell?
Was having doubt enough to send him there?
Zakhar didn’t think he’d done anything worthy of hellfire and damnation, but he knew there were those who believed the merest deviation, the simplest infraction, or even defying your superiors would qualify.
Zakhar didn’t consider himself authorized to decide who was and wasn’t going to heaven.
He figured it was up to God. Even men smarter than himself still argued over minuscule points of scripture, so who was he to tell them who was right and who was wrong?
Still, at that moment, he feared he hadn’t done enough.
How could he ascend to God’s throne, look Him in the eye, and say, “I did my best,” and “I deserve a seat at your table?” The very thought filled him with shame and made him want to “hide under a rock,” as the Scriptures noted.
It wasn’t that Zakhar was a bad man; he just wasn’t godly enough.
Not for a priest, anyway. He hadn’t even joined the clergy for the right reasons.
All he’d wanted was three meals a day. What kind of man did that make him?
He closed his eyes and consigned himself to his fate.
At least he knew God was merciful. Perhaps He would allow Zakhar to do penance.
Maybe a forty-day fast? Zakhar didn’t think he’d survive that either. His stomach rumbled immediately.
“I can’t do it, Lord!” he shouted.
Then the lightning hit.
Everything turned white. The ship stopped turning and began moving forward, faster than he believed possible.
They bounced slightly, like a rock or a pebble skimming the surface of a still pond.
Quickly, they passed beyond the storm and were deposited down on the outside of it.
The lightning bolt fizzled away. They fell a short distance and were then caught by the air as they stabilized.
In the distance, they could see the storm raging—all purples, grays, and blues.
They had moved away from it, but the weather was still unbearably cold, and clouds still covered the horizon as far as they could see.
Stacia stood, removing her sodden coat, and waved her hand over the burning cresset, igniting the blue flames.
They stood around it, trying to warm their hands and faces.
It would take forever to get warm. Picking up the bag of sunshine, she opened it and inspected the contents, not sure how to use it.
Seeing nothing of interest inside, she shook it out over the edge.
When that didn’t work, Zima said, “You have to throw the whole bag overboard.”
She climbed up on a box, held out her little hands, and when Stacia handed her the bag, she closed the top and twisted it shut.
Though Stacia had seen nothing in it before, this time there was clearly a bouncing ball moving around inside.
With a heave, Zima tossed the bag as far as she could.
The minute she did, the wriggling ball broke free and burst outward in all directions, pushing away the clouds, dissipating them until they could no longer be seen.
Warm sunlight filled the blue sky, and steam began rising from the ship.
“Thank you,” Stacia said to Zima, giving the girl a wink. “And thank you, Zakhar. It’s a good thing you were paying attention. You really saved us back there.”
“Yes,” Zakhar said. “Paying attention.” He spun and picked up a sodden paper map, barely clinging to the side of the vessel.
Tracing his finger across the blurred lines, and studying their position, he said, “But we’re further from the mountains than before.
It’ll take longer to get back. Especially if we have to skirt the storm. ”
“The snail will come, but who knows when it will arrive?”
“What’s that?” Zakhar asked.
“It’s just something my mother used to say. It was her way of telling us to act. Not just wait around for things to happen.”
“Right.” Zakhar gave Stacia a lopsided grin, then turned back to the controls. “Tsarevna,” he said, “speaking of not waiting for things to happen, we, umm, aren’t moving.”
“What?”
“Yeah. It seems without the birds or the wind, we don’t go anywhere. At least not anywhere we want to. The wind blows us around a little, but not in any particular direction. There’s no way to control it. We just end up where we end up.”
“So what do we do?”
Zakhar shrugged. “I don’t know. Wait for them to find us?”
“Use the bag,” Zima suggested.
“What?” Stacia said.
“The nose bag. The one you trapped the rabbit with.”
“But those birds are a good distance away.”
Zima shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt to try.”
Stacia nodded, and Zakhar opened his soggy pack and found the nose bag.
Loosening the tie that secured the opening, he said, “Collect some birds.”
Within the span of a few seconds, birds of all types began darting toward the balloon, careening to the open bag and diving inside.
Once in, they screeched and banged themselves against the sides.
At first it was only small birds, then larger birds appeared, including falcons, hawks, and owls.
As they, too, joined the group, the bag grew larger and larger.
Slowly, it filled the space where they stood until they began to be crowded out.