Enchantment (38 page)

But nothing was going to stop her. She was days behind Ivan and Katerina, but it was easy enough to find them. The house was protected, though, and Baba Yaga was too weak to get through all the magic. It infuriated her to be stopped by a witch that ordinarily she could blow away with a puff of air. But she had to deal with the world the way she found it. Ivan and Katerina were inside the house. Baba Yaga was able to probe just enough to be certain that the marriage was not complete yet. But almost instantaneously, the curtains were flung open and there in the window stood a middle-aged woman, staring right at her.

I’m not supposed to be noticeable, thought Baba Yaga. And yet she knew where to look.

So maybe it would have taken more than a puff of air, she thought.

She turned away from the house, wondering what to do next.

Listen, that’s what she’d do. She might not be able to work magic on anyone in that house without being noticed and blocked, but that witch couldn’t prevent her from doing magic on herself.

It took hours to put it all together, and she had to make do with substitute herbs, but it worked well enough, a spell of hearing. After she had chewed the mixture into paste and then swallowed it, she sat in the darkness under a tree and began to focus the sounds as they rushed in upon her. People eating, doing dishes, cooking, arguing, listening to machines that talked. House after house. Baba Yaga tuned them out, turned them into nothing in her own mind. Until at last there was only the sound from one house left.

By the time the spell wore off, a couple of hours later, Baba Yaga knew only that there was a woman named Ruth to whom Ivan had been betrothed.

A jilted woman, thought Baba Yaga. I can use her.

Not knowing where she lived, Baba Yaga again had to use magic to find her. It took two days, searching for rage and pain. There was plenty of it to be found—what angry people these are!—but finally, after casting her net rather widely, she detected Ruth driving along the freeway. So quickly everyone moved! But now that she had Ruth’s soul imprinted in her heart, Baba Yaga would always be able to find her.

Not speaking the language, Baba Yaga had to do the wasp trick, guiding the little pricker into the beauty parlor and then causing Ruth herself to imagine the woman and the words and the language to draw out of Ruth’s turmoil of feelings about Ivan the ones that Baba Yaga figured would be most useful to her: The desire to have him back, and the desire to destroy him.

Then, on the sidewalk, Baba Yaga appeared in person, because this time it couldn’t be hallucination, the potions had to be real. Sixty dollars? Baba Yaga wanted to laugh at the money. But she knew she had to take it, or Ruth wouldn’t believe the potions had any value.

Whichever one she chooses will suit me fine, thought Baba Yaga.

The next morning, Ruth woke up to find all her hair lying on her pillow. The mirror confirmed it: She was bald as an egg. She screamed. She wept. She resolved that she was going to
get back at Ivan
, because somehow this crowning misery had to be his fault, too. She wouldn’t have had a perm and a dye on the same day if it hadn’t been for him!

Out in the woods, where Baba Yaga was catching insects and killing them for the magic they held in their tiny bodies, Baba Yaga sensed Ruth’s rage and horror. This time the curse wasn’t just a bit of extra fun. Within hours, Ruth would fish the potions out of the trash in her car. For in Ruth’s mind, her baldness was also, however indirectly, Ivan’s and Katerina’s fault, and someone was going to pay, one way or another.

13

Picnic

Ivan saw his bags in the corner of his room. He hadn’t unpacked, not even a toothbrush, since Mother had a new one waiting for him in the bathroom when he got home, and there were plenty of clean clothes. But the dirty ones in the suitcases needed washing. He wasn’t even sure why he had been reluctant to unpack upon arriving. This
was
his home; and yet he felt as if he were only here in transit. He was married now; that meant he could never be more than a visitor in his parents’ home.

He tossed the bags on the bed and opened them, pulling out the tightly rolled clothes. He couldn’t remember now which were dirty and which were clean—Mother would insist on washing them all anyway, and this time he’d give in and let her. Into the laundry basket went the clothing.

Onto his desk went the books, the papers, the notes. His dissertation. His future? Not likely. It would be too hard, to devote a year or more to writing as if he were still as ignorant as any ordinary scholar. It was bad enough that dissertations all had to be written in the miserably pedantic language of scholarship; to have it be false as well would be unbearable. Did it even matter? He had to go back to Taina with Katerina, and if he lived he would be king there, at least in name. As a career choice, it was generally regarded as ranking somewhere above professor. Not to him, though, having no inclination for it.

I belong in neither world now—each has spoiled me for the other.

The bags were empty. On impulse he lifted each one and shook it. A slip of paper floated down and slid under the bed.

He fell to his knees, suddenly filled with urgency. He knew at once what this paper was. It was the note that had been left in Baba Tila’s window. He was home now, and Mother had been Baba Tila’s pupil. Now he understood what she had been learning. Maybe the note would mean something to her.

But Mother was as baffled as he had been. She and Katerina both looked at it; Mother held it up to the window, passed it over a flame, even laid it gently on a bowl of water, to see if some other message became visible. Nothing. It continued to say, simply, “Deliver this message.”

“And you found it in Baba Tila’s window?” Mother asked again.

“Between the stones, where she left notes for you before.”

“I wasn’t her only student.”

Ivan shrugged. “It’s not as if there weren’t several years for someone else to find it.”

“It’s simple enough,” said Katerina.

They looked at her, waiting for the explanation.

“I mean, the message is not for you, or you’d understand it.”

“Then I should put it back,” said Ivan.

“No,” said Katerina. “It
was
for you to
find
. It says to you the thing that
you
must do.”

“Deliver it—but to whom?”

Katerina shrugged. “Not to me.”

“It can’t be anybody in your world—I can’t carry anything there.”

“Mikola—” Katerina caught herself. “I mean, might it not be for Cousin Marek?”

“I should have thought of it, but it was in my bags, and I hardly opened them. A lot happened between finding this note and returning to Marek and Sophia’s.”

“It’s not for him,” said Mother firmly. “Baba Tila had no need of messengers or papers to send messages to the Farmer of the Wind.”

“They were . . . connected?” asked Ivan.

Baba Tila knew Mikola Mozhaiski. Katerina could not help but wonder if Baba Tila and her Tetka Tila—but no, her aunt was not one of the immortals. More likely the name was handed down over the centuries, like the old language.
Her
language.

“Nothing so marvelous,” said Mother. “They used pigeons. Baba Tila loved them.” She grew thoughtful. “I wonder what happened to them all after she died.”

“Maybe she took them with her,” said Ivan.

Mother glared at him. “Don’t mock what you don’t understand.”

“I wasn’t mocking.”

“The thing is,” said Mother, “she probably did. There was a part of her in the birds. They watched things for her, or rather she watched things through them. When she died, it would have left them suddenly empty, or partly empty, and I imagine they died at once. Or soon after.”

“How sad,” said Katerina. “But how wonderful, to know the flight of birds.”

“So we still don’t know who it’s for.”

“You will,” said Mother. “Keep it with you.”

“
On
me?” Ivan didn’t like that. For some reason it made him nervous, to think of keeping it in his pocket.

“Only if you want to,” said Mother. “Near you is good enough. When you find the person you should give it to, you’ll know, and then you should be able to get it quickly.”

Until I get to Taina, Ivan thought. Then it won’t be within reach at all. And somehow I can’t imagine that telling the recipient about the message would be at all the same as handing him the actual note.

“I hope I didn’t ruin it by letting it float on the water,” said Mother.

“It was the flame that worried me,” said Ivan.

“Sillies,” said Katerina. “If it was made well, neither flame nor water could harm it. And if it was made badly, then it isn’t a message of power and it hardly matters.”

But all this talk about the message filled Ivan with other ideas. “Isn’t there
some
way we can take things across the bridges, Mother?”

“I should know?” she asked.

Katerina shook her head.

“What if I swallowed something,” said Ivan. “Then it would be inside me.”

“Don’t try it,” said Mother. “The rules about such things can be very strict, and it might be dangerous to you if you had anything but food in your body.
Any
opening of your body.”

“These are honest spells,” said Katerina. “Made to counteract a deceiver. They work
against
a deceiver. You see? The Wicked Widow can’t use the bridge because she’s made of lies, filled with them, covered with them. You don’t want to see what would happen if you tried to cross as a sneak or a liar.”

Ivan chuckled. “Then we should provide a service, and give certificates to politicians who can cross the bridges.”

The Ukrainian word for
politician
baffled Katerina, and neither Mother nor Ivan wanted to try to explain it.

“You can take only what’s in your head,” said Katerina. “And in your heart.”

“What’s in my head is nothing but confusion. And Russian literature.”

It dawned on Mother and Ivan at the same time. “Why not learn what you need to know in order to make things there?” said Mother, and Ivan was already nodding.

“Learn what?” said Katerina.

“There are weapons,” said Ivan. “Bombs. I think I already have a good idea how to make Molotov cocktails—if we distilled alcohol . . .”

“Oh, excellent,” said Mother. “Introduce vodka to Russia centuries ahead of time.”

“I can’t very well use gasoline.”

“What are you talking about?” said Katerina. “I don’t know these words.”

“Modern things,” said Ivan. “Weapons. Whatever we can learn how to make
here
, so we can teach the people how to make them and use them
there
.”

“What weapons?” said Katerina. “You don’t have swords—I’ve seen no one carrying them—and as for magic, most people have no idea.”

“Oh, Katerina, you haven’t seen weapons till you’ve seen what our civilization produces. Weapons that could destroy the whole world—though of course no one uses
those
. And weapons of disease—but we can’t use those, because it would kill far more innocent people and might not reach the enemy at all. We need more sharply aimed weapons, right, Mother? Iron technology isn’t at a point where we can make cannon, I don’t think, not in the ninth century. Though they did cast early guns in bronze. That’s worth a thought. What is gunpowder? I remember it has something to do with saltpeter . . . that’s nitrate of something, isn’t it? What about dynamite?”

“You’re asking
me
?” said Mother.

Ivan laughed. “Oh, I know where to find it out. There’ve got to be wacko places on the Internet. If the government sees what I’m doing, they’ll assume I’m a terrorist.”

“Everything depends on what’s available back then. Katerina has to help you with that,” said Mother. “She’ll know what can and can’t be made there in her own village.”

Katerina nodded. She prided herself on having a clear understanding of the work of every man and woman in Taina. She might not be able to do all the jobs—smiths and plowmen needed more strength and bulk than she would ever have—but at least she knew what they could do, and what they needed in order to be able to do it.

“And transportation,” said Ivan. “We can’t make cars, but maybe we can—what, I don’t know, improve the cart?” He laughed. “Faster carts, that’ll strike terror into Baba Yaga’s heart.”

Mother brought her hand down hard on Ivan’s head.

“Ouch! What!”

“You said her name.”

“We’re not in Taina now,” said Ivan, rubbing his head.

“It gives her the power to push past the protections of the house,” said Mother.

“She’s on the other side of the world, Mother.”

“No,” said Mother. “She’s here.”

Katerina at once grew alarmed. “Here? In this city?”

“A few days ago. Someone probed at the house. I felt it—no, I
smelled
her. Foul. Like . . . never mind what it was like. I went to the window. I couldn’t see her—she had a glamour around her—but I could see where she was. Just across the street. Watching.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” said Ivan.

“Because the house was sufficient to stop her. She’s weaker here. I think she was angry to find that she couldn’t get through our defenses.”

“She knows where we are,” said Katerina. “Oh, God help us now.”

“Amen,” said Mother. “But it doesn’t change anything. You still have to learn whatever’s worth learning, and you still have to go back.”

“But with her at our tail,” said Ivan.

“I’ve been thinking about ways to send her home,” said Mother.

Katerina shook her head vigorously. “Don’t think of it,” she said. “You’re very talented, but weak as she might be, you’re no match for her.”

“I think I might be, here on my own ground,” said Mother.

“Don’t try it, I warn you,” said Katerina. “The very act of confronting her, that’s pride, don’t you see? It gives her power over you, because she rules through pride. You need to stay meek. It’s the protection of Christ. The meekness of the obedient followers of Jesus, that protects us from the she-wolf.”

“I’m not a Christian,” said Mother.

“But you have never acted in pride before, have you? Never challenged a rival, have you?”

“No,” said Mother. “I’ve never needed to.”

“You don’t need to now, either,” said Katerina. “You must believe me. I don’t know as much as you about these things, but I know more than you about the Widow. If you face her, challenge her, she has you then.”

Mother shuddered. “Well, then,” she said. “Well, then.”

“Don’t tell me you were looking forward to it,” said Ivan.

“No, no, no,” said Mother. “The opposite. And I’m relieved to think I don’t have to. And frightened to think how close I came to trying it when I faced her there through the glass of our window. I came
this
close.”

There was a greater sense of urgency now. No more time for desultory talks with Father and Mother, for pleasant household chores with Katerina and Mother, for explorations of language with Katerina and Father. Now Ivan spent his days at the computer terminal in his bedroom, linked to the university computer system and through it to the rest of the Internet. He wrote thirty emails to various people he knew, and began to get answers: How gunpowder was made, how to make a match, where deposits of the necessary minerals were known to have been located in the Carpathian foothills, or how they could be extracted from plants or what substitutes might do almost as well. Constantly he quizzed Katerina about materials, though most of the discussion was always spent trying to find language to describe exactly what he was trying to find out about. Father even got into the fray, querying his own network of friends.

They didn’t stray from the house, Ivan and Katerina. Mother and Father were safe enough, Mother decided—though she insisted that Father wear a charm, which just about killed him from shame; but he went along. Ivan and Katerina, though, walked only around the back yard—which was large enough at first, but seemed to grow smaller as they spent day after day unable to leave it. The only consolation for Ivan was this: If he had to be trapped on a desert island, at least he had Katerina for company.

Partly it was the project they were working on. As he made his first batch of gunpowder—which nearly blew his hand off—she began to gain new respect for him; but he also gained respect for her, as she insisted on learning how to do everything herself, as well. “What if one of us is killed?” she said. “Does she then win the victory?” And then she made him take her hands and guide her through the process of grinding the material to powder. He was terrified of killing her with a mistake, but she joked all through it, teased him about how protective he was. He was close to her hour after hour, the smell of her, the touch of her breath on the hairs of his arms or on his ears as she leaned over his shoulder to watch. He thought sometimes he might go insane with desire for her; but he could not think of a way to change what lay between them, and though he thought she liked him well enough now, he still didn’t know if their friendship was yet the thing a marriage should be made of.

Do you love me? he wanted to ask her, to demand of her. But, fearing the answer would be a wan “I’m sorry, Ivan,” he did not speak.

She learned to throw practice Molotov cocktails, she learned to make and strike matches. They made a still in a Sears storage shed Father bought for that purpose, grumbling all the time about how it would look in the papers, “Professor arrested for making vodka in back-yard shed.”

They decided they would test everything on the Fourth of July. “Nobody will mind a few explosions and fires that day,” Father said, and he was obviously right. They’d find out then what their gunpowder could do. Minute quantities, for they didn’t want to blow anything up, just to see if it would explode at all. Firecrackers, really. And a few Molotov cocktails thrown at a pile of logs, so they would be doing nothing more than igniting a celebratory bonfire. Afterward they’d roast sausages over the coals like good Americans. Well, not quite—they could never bring themselves to eat those clammy, nasty wieners Americans used as their hot dogs. Good, hearty Polish and Russian and Italian sausages, that’s what they’d eat, and on a hearty bread, not those squishy spongy confections designed so that you didn’t need teeth to eat them.