Chapter 18 #2
“Make it stop,” warned Stacia as she threw a leg over the side.
“You can stop now, bag,” said Zakhar, but the bag kept on collecting. Bird after bird soared into the bag, filling it to bursting.
Zima began crying as the creatures bucked and screamed inside. She was certain some of the big ones were killing the smaller ones. Stacia suspected she was right. The tsarevna grabbed the little girl just before she was crushed against the side of the vessel and pulled her into her arms.
“That’s enough!” shouted Zakhar, climbing on top of the bag. He attempted to pull the opening tight and close it, but it wouldn’t stop.
Then he tried a different tack. “Now set the birds free.”
Hundreds of birds poured out of the bag.
Zakhar yelped as he fell halfway inside it.
Many of the birds had cuts and torn wings.
Some flopped brokenly on the deck of the ship.
Others never made it out at all. Their lifeless little bodies remained inside the bag, and Zakhar removed them one by one, tossing some overboard.
Others he kept, intending to roast them for supper.
Zima turned her head, unwilling to look at the little birds and cried herself to sleep in Stacia’s arms. When the job was finished, they saw the nose bag had returned to its normal size.
Stacia quietly counseled Zakhar. “Perhaps the trick is to be specific and only request a small number at a time.”
The priest nodded and tried again, opening the bag. “Bring me ten of Sima’s birds, making certain to give them enough room so that they are not harmed.”
It took some time, but eventually ten little birds arrived and flew into a stretched-out bag.
They circled inside, coming to no harm until Zakhar told the bag to release them.
He experimented with larger and larger numbers until he found he could hold up to two hundred small birds without endangering them.
Once they had what they felt was approximately enough winged creatures to pull them, they set off on their journey once again.
“We’ve wasted a lot of time,” Zakhar said, “but at least we’re headed in the right direction.”
That night for supper they roasted birds to eat along with their barley and rye pottage.
Zakhar even pulled the meat from the bones and made something of a stew out of it.
But poor little Zima took one look at the dinner and refused to eat any animal meat.
In fact, she warned them the nose bag should never be used to summon animals in such a way again. “It just wasn’t right,” she said.
Stacia and Zakhar agreed as the sky darkened overhead. They feared another storm would hit if the little girl’s despair was not mollified.
They mutually agreed to let her have an entire biscuit to herself while they ate the stew.
Unfortunately, when they turned around to search for the biscuits, the snow-white ermine, Belizna, in her desperation to get at some bird meat, knocked over the entire pot and began eating.
With their dinner in the dirt, Zakhar and Stacia contented themselves to fast until they could make another pot of porridge for breakfast. Zakhar seemed determined to spend the evening in prayer, saying things like, “The Lord is indeed merciful,” and, “One meal is not too much to ask for a spot at the table.”
Zakhar handed the biscuit, which was now becoming hard, to Zima and sat back, pulling his knees to his chest. “My brothers and I used to make trips to feed the hungry children,” he said.
“We kept only the simplest of fare for ourselves. What I wouldn’t give for some good black bread, cheese, and sbiten,” he said.
“A hard biscuit isn’t much for a little girl. ”
“Stop,” Stacia said. “Now you’re making me hungry.”
“What would you like? Right now? I mean, if you could have anything?”
“I don’t know. Ginseng tea sounds nice.”
“Huh. I’ve never had that.”
“It’s imported. Very rare. Oh, speaking of rare. Beluga caviar. Toasted bread with a bit of fresh butter, a very thin slice of salmon and caviar on top. Then you take a bite and just let it melt in your mouth.”
When Stacia opened her eyes, she found Zakhar staring at her mouth. She frowned and grew slightly uncomfortable. His cheeks colored all the way down to his neck.
“F-forgive me,” he said. “I’ve just never had such a dish. It sounds . . . intriguing.”
“Well, if we ever make it back to the palace, you’re welcome to come try some. My sister doesn’t like it. She’s got a sweet tooth. I was never much for sweets. My preferences tend to skew toward the savory.”
“S-sweets?” Zakhar’s voice squeaked. “Such as what? I’m afraid we give up most delicacies in the brotherhood and keep to simple fare.”
Stacia frowned. “But your stores held plenty . . .”
“Oh yes. That is true enough. We have more than enough to eat. But like I said, it’s not elaborate in any way. Just your basic everyday items. But you were saying your sister enjoyed the palace sweets?” he prompted. “Such as?”
“Oh, you know. She had her favorites. Trubochka, ponchiki, bliny, pastila—she loved most everything. Nikolai knew it, and he would often ply her with sweets when he wanted something, which was all the time.” Stacia laughed.
“I swear, he knew every merchant in the empire, especially those who specialized in chocolate or candy making.”
“What’s chocolate?” asked Zima.
“Shokolad,” explained Stacia. “And why haven’t you eaten your biscuit yet?”
“The two of you aren’t eating,” the little girl said. “If you can’t eat, I don’t want to eat either.”
“But we’re older, milaya devushka. We can do without a meal or two. But you? You still have some growing to do. Don’t you want to get big and strong?”
“Oh, I’m never going to get any bigger. That’s what my aunties say.”
“What do you mean?” asked Stacia.
“I’m the snow child,” she said simply, putting her thumb in her mouth.
Just then a wagon seemed to appear just outside their camp. It was drawn by two large horses. When they came to a stop, a very pregnant woman, her husband, and their two young children approached.
“May we share your fire this evening?” asked the husband. “My wife is nearing the blessed day of our next child, and it would be nice to save a bit of time and spend it with her instead of hunting firewood.”
“Of course you may,” Stacia replied.
“Spasibo. My name’s Fyodor. My wife’s Dinara, and our two young ones are Klara and Kiril.”
“Rad vstreche,” Zakhar said.
“To you as well,” Dinara replied, groaning as she sat down, leaning back against the wheel of their wagon.
Her husband hurried and placed some blankets behind her back and tucked them around her, then sat the children next to her and put thin blankets around them as well, before tending to the horses.
They all warmed their hands. “It’s so chilly tonight, isn’t it?” Dinara said. “But your fire is toasty. We’re lucky, aren’t we, kroshkas?”
“Yes, Mama,” the two children replied.
They buried their little faces in the blanket, and soon the father passed them a small cup and a piece of bread. “It’s all we can spare,” he said, whispering to his wife.
The mother smiled brightly at her children anyway. “Look what your handsome papa has brought us!” she said. “A cup of milk and the softest bread in the world! He must love us more than anything, da?”
“Yes, Mama,” the two children said as they looked up at their pretty mama with hope-filled eyes.
She broke off the largest pieces for them, saving only a tiny bit for herself, then took a sip from the cup and made sure each child drank down a good share.
Before Stacia could intervene, Zima got up with her saved biscuit and walked over to the group. “I have an extra biscuit,” she said quietly. “Would you like some?”
The mother-to-be smiled her softest smile. “Well, aren’t you just a ray of blessed sunshine on a bitter cold night? Thank you, sweetheart,” Dinara said.
Stacia could see the sparkle of tears in her eyes. When Zima turned as if to leave, the mother shifted, opening her blanket. “Come, child. Would you like to sit with us? We’ll dunk your biscuit in the milk to soften, then we’ll all have a bite, da?”
Sucking her thumb, Zima smiled, nodding vigorously.
The woman didn’t complain about Zima’s cold skin but tucked her in close against her own body, along with her children.
When the father returned, conveniently just after the food was finished, he pulled the little boy onto his lap and scolded all of them about keeping the warm blankets to themselves.
He put his arm around his wife, and the children asked for a story.
Stacia said, “Before you begin, we have grain. We can boil some up for you or put on a pot for the morning, if you like.”
“We’re well enough off tonight,” the father said. “Perhaps in the morning we’ll take you up on your kind offer. Now, then,” he said. “Shall I tell you the story of ‘The Duck That Laid Golden Eggs’?”
“Oh yes! That’s one of my favorites!” said Klara.
“I don’t know that story,” said Zima.
“Well then,” replied the father, “you’re in for a treat. Especially if you’re fond of birds.”
Zima began to cry. “I love little birds. But so many of them died!”
“Oh no, my dear one,” the mama said, pulling Zima close. “You must remember that little birds are special. They never stay dead for long. It’s why they have wings, you know. God turns them to angels right away. He doesn’t even need to judge them. They’re already perfect.”
“They are?”
“Absolutely. They’re His best little souls.”
“Which is why, in my version of the tale, the duck wins. Every duck has his day, you know. Didn’t deserve to get eaten, in my opinion. Are you ready for the story?”
Zima nodded, her eyes wide, and the father began.
“A long, long time ago, there lived a very poor family. The papa named Abrosim, a mama named Fetinia, and a young man named Ivan. When their last crust of bread was stolen by a sorrowing spirit living behind their stove, they begged her to return it. She refused, but instead promised to send them a very special bird . . .”
Stacia could feel her eyes drifting shut as she listened to the story.
She didn’t know when she fell asleep, but it was dawn when she woke.
The fire had burned down to just embers, and she realized it was her trembling body that had woken her.
Zakhar was still sleeping nearby, snoring lightly, so she glanced over at the place where the wagon and the family had been the night before, only to find them gone.
Throwing off her thin blanket, she stood, wobbling as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
The only sign that the wagon had been there at all was a blanket left in the snow, covered by a thin layer of white powder on top.
Stacia dashed over to it and saw neither footprints, horse prints, nor even a trail of wagon marks.
It was as if the family had never existed at all.
Crouching down, she dusted the snow from the blanket and felt a form underneath it.
Gasping, tears filling her eyes and panic making her choke, she hurried to lift the edge of the blanket, thinking she’d find Zima’s lifeless body.
Then, when she saw the little girl suck on her thumb and take a breath, the steam coming out from around her thumb, the relief was so palpable that her hands began to shake and the tears spilled out, blurring her vision completely.
Stacia cupped her arms beneath the child and lifted her up, carrying her back to the fire, and got it going hot again, then began cooking their breakfast. The smell of hot food, even if it was barley and rye, roused Zakhar.
It took him a moment to realize the wagon was missing.
Stacia put a finger to her lips to shush him, pointing to a still-sleeping Zima.
He spoke in low tones. “Only a snool would leave in such a way.”
“A snool?” Stacia couldn’t help but grin. “The old man left in the same fashion, and you didn’t suspect him.”
“That’s right. I normally welcome strangers. But twice in a row is becoming suspicious. What did they steal? I fear we are being taken for fools. We are carrying magical tokens. We must be more careful.”
Stacia didn’t like to admit she hadn’t even thought about what they might have stolen. She’d only cared that Zima was safe. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “You’re right though. We need to be more wary of strangers.”
Just then a sleepy Zima rolled to a sitting position. “They didn’t steal anything. They were nice to me,” she insisted.
“I know you liked them, sweeting. We just want to understand why or how they disappeared.”
“They didn’t need to be here anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“The test was finished. They gave me my gift.”
“Gift?” Stacia said. “What gift?”
“This.”
Zima held out what looked like an hourglass, but it was more intricate and elaborate than anything Stacia had ever seen.
Whorls of silver, gold, and brass flowers adorned each side, and on the top was a sort of clock or compass, but the handles were spinning of their own accord.
The very strange thing was, there was sand on both ends—white on one side and dark as ebony on the other—and neither one flowed into the other.
It looked like they were trapped on either side of the glass and couldn’t mix, and yet both of them flowed.
“What is it?” asked Stacia, handing it back to Zima. The little girl shrugged. “Mama said I had to be careful with it. She called it the Glass of Death.”