Under A Blood Red Sky Part 41

'So the soldiers at the stable let you go,' she said.

'Did you think they wouldn't?'

She shook her head. 'I was searching for you up there. I didn't expect to see the troops. I was worried for you.'

'It was priests they were seeking today, not gypsies. Next time I may not be so fortunate.'

'Did the wors.h.i.+ppers escape?'

'Every last soul of them.'

'And Priest?'

'He is safe . . . but not safe.'

'It's a miracle that he hasn't been arrested and put to death before now.'

'I look after him.'

She understood now exactly what he meant by that: he used this strange hypnotic power of his. 'So why wouldn't you look after Mikhail when he needed it? I begged you.'

'Oh Sofia, don't look so angry. You have to understand that there were too many troops swarming round him and it was impossible. The time was all wrong, but now . . . the time has changed. Tonight is the moment when your eyes will open.'

She didn't know what he meant. There was a strange formality in the way he spoke, his tongue clicking against his teeth. His gaze was distant and she was not sure he was even seeing her at all.

'Rafik,' she whispered. 'Who are you?'

He didn't answer. The whistle of his breath grew louder in the room and a movement of his hands made her look down at the table where they'd been clenched together. Now they lay apart, placed on the worn wooden surface with fingers splayed like stars, and between them lay the white pebble. It seemed to draw all light from the room deep into itself. Sofia felt her skin grew cold.

The stone was the one she'd found earlier in the chest. Then it had seemed harmless but now, for some unknown reason, it made her nervous. And yet her eyes refused to turn away from it. Her breath quickened.

'Sofia.' Rafik's voice was deep. He reached out and rested a heavy hand on her head.

Instantly her eyelids drifted shut. For the first time in the darkness of her own skull she became aware of a powerful humming sound, a vibration that rattled her teeth. To her dislocated mind it seemed to be coming from the stone.

45.

'Are you ready?'

'Do I look ready?'

Pokrovsky had just stepped out of his banya banya, the bath hut behind the forge, with nothing but a towel draped round his barrel waist and a grin on his face. Elizaveta Lishnikova wasn't sure whether she found the grin or the ma.s.sive naked chest more disconcerting. The sun was about to dip down behind the ridge but not before it had set fire to the clouds in the west, a flaming red that draped a glowing sheen over the blacksmith's oiled skin.

'You're beautiful,' she murmured. 'Like Odysseus.'

'Like who?'

'Odysseus. A Greek warrior from . . .' she was going to say Homer's Odyssey Homer's Odyssey but changed it to 'from long ago'. but changed it to 'from long ago'.

Pokrovsky laughed unself-consciously, flexing both his arms to emphasise his huge biceps for her entertainment.

'Like rocks,' he said.

'Granite boulders, more like.'

He laughed again and put his muscles away, leaving her wondering what they would be like to touch. Until she came to teach in Tivil sixteen years ago, her experience of men had been limited to waltzing with cavalry officers or walking through the gilded gardens of Peterhof on the arm of an elegant naval captain. Even then she had enjoyed the feel of their hard masculine flesh under their uniforms, but they were as remote from Pokrovsky as the bright orange lizards that darted under his banya banya were from the grey monster crocodiles of the Nile. were from the grey monster crocodiles of the Nile.

Elizaveta was fifty-three now. Wasn't it time she stopped this girlish rubbish? It wasn't as though she'd never been asked, despite being as tall as she was. Three offers of marriage she'd turned down, much to her parents' anguish. She had even allowed one of the suitors to kiss her on the terrace, a recollection of a bristling moustache and the taste of good brandy on his lips, but she hadn't loved any of them and preferred her own company to that of fools.

'Pokrovsky,' she said in her teacher's voice, 'how old are you?'

'That's personal.'

'How old, man?'

'Forty-four.'

'Why aren't you married?'

'That's none of your d.a.m.n business.'

'I expect you frighten the females with those great granite boulders of yours. You'd crush any girl to death with them.'

'Hah!' But the blacksmith was grinning again. 'The trouble with you, Elizaveta, is that you think you know everything. If you're so d.a.m.n clever, tell me, how old are you you and why aren't and why aren't you you married?' married?'

'Don't be so b.l.o.o.d.y impertinent, Pokrovsky. Go and get yourself decent at once. You'll be late for tonight if you don't hurry. Don't you know that you shouldn't even be talking to a lady in that rude state of undress?'

He roared with laughter and rubbed a great hand across his neat little beard, then ambled off to his izba izba. Elizaveta took her time heading into the forge, she didn't want him to think she was anything other than calm and indifferent to his gibes. But once inside, she poured herself a stiff gla.s.s of vodka and knocked it back in one.

Only then did she permit herself a smile and dare to imagine the heroic Odysseus with a chest like that.

The noise of a bell came first, sweet and silvery. Five pure notes in the darkness that wasn't darkness. It was more an absence of being, and Sofia even wondered if she were dead. Was this her own death knell she was hearing? But the ringing of the bell changed. It expanded and grew and surged and swelled until it was a rich, rounded sound that reverberated all around her, making the air quiver and dance.

Yet the tolling of the bell seemed to arise from inside Sofia's head, not from outside, and she could not only hear it, she could feel it. The great bra.s.s clapper rapping against the delicate inside of her skull, clanging out each ba.s.s note in a crescendo of sound that she feared would crack her bones, the way gla.s.s will shatter when the right note is. .h.i.t. And through it all came a voice in her ear, soft as love itself, yet so clear she could hear every word.

'Fly, my angel, fly.'

She looked down for the first time and discovered that she was high up in the air at the topmost pinnacle of a tall spire. It was attached to no building, just a towering needle of gold that pierced the sky. Like the Admiralty spire in St Petersburg that used to glint like a blade of fire in the sunlight when she was a child.

'Fly, my angel, fly.'

In one smooth movement she spread out her arms and found they were wings. She stared with astonishment at the fluttering of the feathers, long pearl-white gossamer feathers that smelled as salty as the sea and rustled as she breathed. She moved her wings gently up and down, flexing them, testing them, but they weighed nothing at all. Far below her stretched a wide flat plain full of silver-haired women, their faces turned up to her, thousands of pale ovals, each one with arms raised above her head. All whispered, 'Fly, my angel, fly.'

Sofia felt the breath of it under her wings and launched herself . . .

She opened her eyes. She had no idea where she was or how she'd arrived there, just that she was standing upright in the dark, arms outstretched to each side. White figures circled her, four of them. Flickering lights in their hands, candle flames and the scent of cedarwood. Rising from the floor, a mist wove around her. She inhaled, a short sharp breath, and tasted the tang of burning pine needles. It made her look down.

At her feet on the blood red cloth from Rafik's wooden chest stood a small iron brazier. In it were things she could only guess at but which were alight, all of them crackled and spat and writhed. Her feet were bare. Outside the circle of light all was darkness but she could sense instantly that she was indoors, somewhere cool, somewhere damp, somewhere deep inside the black womb of Mother Russia. The four figures stood silent and unmoving around her, one at each point of the compa.s.s, a loose white gown covering each of their bodies.

'Rafik,' she murmured to the one directly in front of her.

As she did so she became aware that her own body was draped in a white gown, which rustled when she lowered her arms.

'Sofia.'

Rafik's single word was like a cool touch on her forehead.

'Don't be afraid, Sofia, you are one of us.'

'I'm not afraid, Rafik.'

'Do you know why we have brought you here tonight?'

'Yes.'

She didn't know how she knew but she did. Her mind struggled to clear itself but it was as if her thoughts were no longer her own.

'Speak it,' Rafik said. 'Why are you here tonight?'

'For Mikhail.'

'Yes.'

There was a prolonged silence while words pushed against her tongue, words that didn't seem to rise from her own mind.

'And for the village, Rafik,' she said clearly. 'It is for the village of Tivil that I am here, to make it live a life instead of die a death. I am here because I need to be and I am here because I am meant to be.'

She barely recognised her own voice. It was low and resonant and each word vibrated in the cool air. She s.h.i.+vered beneath her gown, but not with fear. She gazed round at the four figures, their eyes steady on hers, their lips murmuring silent words that drifted into the mist, thickening it, stirring it, causing it to linger as it brushed Sofia's cheek.

'Pokrovsky,' she said, turning her eyes on the broad bear of a man, whose wide shoulders stretched the white robe to the edge of its seams. 'Blacksmith of Tivil, tell me who you are.'

'I am the hands of this village. I labour for the working man.'

'Spasibo, Hands of Tivil.'

She lowered her eyes from the blacksmith to the slight figure with the full lips and bold gaze. 'Zenia, who are you?'

'I am a child of this village.' The girl's voice rang clear and strong out past the flames and into the darkness beyond. 'The children are the future and I am one of their number.'

'Spasibo, Child of Tivil.' Sofia swung round further to face the figure in place to the east of her. 'Elizaveta Lishnikova, schoolteacher of Tivil, tell me who you are.'

The tall grey woman, with the nose like a bird's beak, stood very straight. 'I am the mind of this village. I teach the children who are its future and bring knowledge and understanding to them the way the dawn in the east brings each new day to our village.'

'Spasibo, Mind of Tivil.'

Finally Sofia stepped round to look, once more, deep into the intense black eyes that burned with their ancient knowledge.

'Rafik,' she asked, softly this time, 'who are you?'

Ten heartbeats pa.s.sed before he spoke. His voice was a deep, echoing sound that made the flames s.h.i.+mmer and sway to a different pulse. 'I am the soul of this village, Sofia. I guard and guide and protect this small patch of earth. All over Russia villages are destroyed and trampled by the brutish boot of a blood-addicted dictator who has murdered five million of his own people, yet still claims he is building a Workers' Paradise. Sofia,' he spread his arms wide to include all the white robes, 'the four of us have combined our strengths to safeguard Tivil, but you have seen the soldiers come. Seen the food stolen from our tables and the prayers clubbed to death before they are born.'

'I have seen this.'

'Now you have come to Tivil and the Pentangle is complete.'

Sofia observed no signal, but the four white-clad figures stepped forward out of the shadows as one, until they were so close around her that when they each raised their left arm it rested easily on the shoulder of the person to their left. Sofia's heart was racing as she felt herself enclosed inside the circle. Rafik scattered something into the brazier at her feet so that it flared into life and the mist thickened into a dense fog. She could feel it crawling far down into her lungs every time she breathed. She swayed, her head growing too unwieldy for her neck. A pulse at her temple throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

'Sofia.' It was Rafik. 'Open your eyes.'

She hadn't realised they had closed. Their lids were heavy and slow to respond to her commands. What was happening to her?

'Sofia, take the stone into your hand.'

He was holding out the white pebble to her and without hesitation she took it. She expected something from it, some spark or sign or even a pain shooting up her arm, but there was nothing. Just an ordinary warm round pebble lying in the palm of her hand.

At a murmur from Rafik the circle sealed itself tighter and a slow rhythmic chanting began. Soft at first, like a mother crooning to her infant, a sound that loosened Sofia's limbs and stole her sense of self. But the chanting rose, the language unknown to her, until it was a rus.h.i.+ng wind that tore at her mind, ripped out her conscious thoughts and swept them away until only a great echoing chamber remained inside her head. Only one word leapt out of it.

'Mikhail!' she cried out. 'Mikhail! ' '

Hands touched her head and she started to see things and hear things that she knew were not there.

A small room. A small desk. A small man with a small mind. Long rabbity teeth and pale cheeks that looked as though they'd never seen the sun. His elbows on the desk, his thoughts on the prisoner in front of him.

The prisoner angered him, though he kept all sign of it from his face. He s.h.i.+fted the lamp on his desk to angle the beam more into the prisoner's eyes and had the satisfaction of seeing him wince. One of the prisoner's eyes was swollen and half shut, his jaw bruised, his lip as split and purple as an over-ripe plum, yet still the prisoner clung to the wrong att.i.tude. Hadn't he learned that it didn't matter whether he was guilty or not guilty of the crimes he was charged with?

Wrong att.i.tude.

That was his real crime, that he still believed he could pick and choose which bits of the Communist creed he would adopt and which ones he would reject.

Wrong f.u.c.king att.i.tude.

The prisoner's mind was a danger to the State. Time to change what was in it or discover that the State could break the strongest of wills and the strongest of minds. The State was expert at it and he, the interrogator, was an instrument of the Soviet State.

There would be only one f.u.c.king winner.