Riding Icarus (13 page)

“If you want.” Ira was still puzzled. “It’ll just be you and Granny, and the driver.”

“Good,” said Masha. “Good!” She knew she wasn’t making any sense. She could hardly stop herself grinning. It was going to be all right. She would tell Mama, and they would go
together
to the village, and Igor would never know where they were, never.

“If we go today we’ll be in time for the night of Ivana Kupala,” said Granny. “How about that? You’ve never seen a real Ivana Kupala festival, have you, Masha? They’ve forgotten all about it here in the city. Not in the countryside.”

Masha chewed distractedly. She only vaguely knew what Ivana Kupala was. An old Ukrainian festival, something about flowers and fires. Wasn’t it … wasn’t it … midsummer?

“Is it today?” she demanded.

“Of course. St John’s and midsummer’s eve.”

Masha nearly choked on her mouthful. “But my birthday was on midsummer’s eve, and that was almost two weeks ago.”

“It’s the new calendar,” said Gena with the warm pleasure of making a discovery. “Remember, Masha? I looked it up in the encyclopaedia after you asked me. It
is
to do with calendars, like I said. There was an old calendar, and it got a day longer every one hundred and twenty-eight years, because people thought it took the earth three hundred and sixty-five days and six hours to go round the sun in a year. But then they discovered that it actually takes three hundred and sixty-five days, five hours and forty-nine minutes. So the old calendar got all out of sync because the year was just over eleven minutes too long.”

He paused, trying to remember the rest. “England and all of Europe changed to a new calendar centuries ago, to bring the year back in line with the sun. But Russia and Ukraine didn’t, not until 1917, and by then the old calendar had got a whole thirteen days behind the new one. And the Church here still hasn’t changed, so holidays like Christmas and Ivana Kupala are all thirteen days later.” He stopped, blushing. They were all staring at him in astonishment.

“What did you say?” asked Ira.

“There was an old calendar that got longer—” he began again patiently.

“Yes, don’t repeat it all,” his mother cried. “But where on earth did you learn all that?”

“In the encyclopaedia. I told you.”

Ira still looked amazed. “Aren’t you clever! Why can’t you follow up on your schoolwork with the same dedication?”

“But this is interesting,” said Gena. “You see, in a way, Masha is right – we have all got two birthdays. According to the new calendar, the one based more accurately on the sun, Masha was born thirteen days ago on midsummer’s eve, June … June—”

“June the twenty-third,” said Masha impatiently. “Go on.”

“But according to the old calendar, it’s June the twenty-third and midsummer’s eve today.
Happy birthday, dear Masha
,” he sang,
“happy birthday to you!”

Granny gave an indignant snort. “Newfangled nonsense. You young people believe far too much of what you read in all those books. Ivana Kupala is tonight and always has been.”

“Yes, that’s what I’m trying to say. It’s not that they changed the day; it’s just that they changed the way of counting days.” Gena broke off. He thought there was no point in trying to explain to an old woman like Babka Praskovia.

But Masha was looking at him with big, shining eyes. “It’s today,” she breathed. “I found it. So now will I find my heart’s desire?”

“You need to be careful of that,” said Granny. “Be careful what you wish for on Ivana Kupala.”

“Why?”

“Because it might come true, that’s why. If you find the magic fern flower.” Gena and Masha looked blank. “Don’t you learn anything in school?”

“No,” they answered in unison.

“What is the magic fern flower?” asked Masha.

“The flower that grants wishes. You must remember the beekeeper’s story. He heard it from his grandfather, who heard it from
his
grandfather.”

Granny’s voice dropped low and mysterious, so that they all leant closer instinctively to listen. “There was an orphan, Petro, who wanted to marry the pretty daughter of the village headman. In our own village it was, Masha. The headman said no, because Petro had no money. So what did the poor love-struck boy do?”

“What?”

“He sold his soul to the devil, that’s what. He plucked the magic fern flower that blooms only on the night of Ivana Kupala, and wished for riches. As if money can buy happiness! To find the flower he had to do what the devil told him: murder his own true love’s little sister. An innocent child, all for a pot of gold. Much joy he got from it.”

“Why, what happened?”

“Went mad, didn’t he. Drove his poor lovely wife to misery and distraction. The devil came for him in the end, took him down to hell. And what was left of the gold?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Nothing but a sack of old rubbish.”

“That’s a true story?” Gena said disbelievingly.

“Oh, you city children.” Babka Praskovia took hold of his chin in her strong, gnarled old hand and looked closely into his face. “You don’t know a thing, not a blessed thing. You come and stay with me in the village, and I’ll tell you stories about Ivana Kupala that’ll make your hair stand on end.”

“No thanks,” said Gena as the old woman let him go. Was Babka Praskovia really a witch? He thought she quite possibly was.

“What a grim tale,” Ira commented with a faint shiver. “If the moral’s about the evil of riches, perhaps someone should tell it to Igor.”

“Oh, he already knows it,” Granny said.

“How?” Masha asked, puzzled.

“He grew up with it, like Sveta.” Granny was massaging her hurt leg again. “From our village, isn’t he. Although he’d rather pretend that he isn’t.”

M
asha raced along the sunny street past the garages on Gena’s rollerblades. She was on her way to let out the goats. The poor goats: who would look after them now? Ira had promised she would find someone.

It was far too hot to hurry, but there were so many things to do. Her mind was in a whirl. She had to get over to the island and tell her mother about going to the village. Masha had planned that Mama would come with them and everything would finally be all right. No one, she had thought, not Igor, not anyone, would be able to find them deep in the countryside, in the whitewashed house at the end of the dusty, unpaved road.

And now it turned out that Igor was from the village too. Masha was furious that she had not known this. When Igor had first appeared in their lives about three years ago, Mama had said he was an old friend. Exactly how old, or where they had met, Masha had never enquired – or perhaps Mama had told her but she had not listened. She hadn’t listened, she realized now, because she hadn’t wanted to know. She had never liked Igor; even though he had a family of his own, it had always felt as though Mama was somehow trying to replace Papa with him.

Why did Igor have to spoil everything? Now he’d even spoilt Masha’s dream of the village as a safe haven. How could Mama have been so stupid as to trust him and let him send her away? And what was this strange power he had over her now, which meant she was hiding on an island talking to herself and wouldn’t come home? If only I knew what happened in Turkey, Masha thought in a kind of enraged anguish. If I knew the answers, perhaps everything would be all right. It’s like my second birthday, and my present—

But today was her second birthday! St John’s Eve, midsummer’s eve. She’d found it. Now she had to find the enchanted place, the spot between the church dome and the dovecote. Because there, she would find her heart’s desire.

She thought about Granny’s story of Petro the orphan and the magic fern flower, long ago in the village when wishes came true. She didn’t want to go mad like that.
Nothing!
she thought she heard again, croaked in a hoarse crow’s voice. All the same, she thought, I
am
going to find it. I’m going to find out everything, and then I’ll
know
.

“Know!”
There was a crow, big and glossy and black, sitting on the fence croaking at her.
“Know!”

“Oh, shut up.” She skidded to a halt and stooped for a pebble to throw. The crow flapped off with derisory slowness.

“Who’s throwing stones?” A familiar head popped up behind the fence. “You could damage my church domes. What did you do that for, Masha?”

“Sorry, Fyodor Ivanovich. I didn’t mean any harm.”

The crow let out a distant cark of laughter.

“Don’t do it again. I was looking out for you.” Fyodor Ivanovich smiled. “Don’t look so alarmed. Are you all set to go and see my sister? I’m about to leave.”

Of course, today was Thursday. Masha had completely forgotten her promise. “I can’t—”

She suddenly had a wild thought. It came without warning, from the angry turmoil in her mind. She answered before she had time to think about it. “Yes, I’ll come. But not to visit your sister and the baby. I want to visit Uncle Igor.”

Fyodor Ivanovich looked offended. “Whatever for?”

“Actually, I don’t want to see him,” she amended. “I want to see Aunt Anya. You know they live close by your sister.”

“Of course I know, in Tsarskoe Selo,” said the nightwatchman. “All right then. The baby will be disappointed. Just let me wash my hands, and we’ll be off.”

Masha sat down to wait, and changed the rollerblades for the sandals in her backpack with fingers that trembled with nervous excitement. It was all coming together. Now she’d really know everything. Igor had said he’d be out of town today, so she could ask Anya what had happened to her mother in Turkey. Then Mama wouldn’t have to hide any more; it would be all right; perhaps she’d even be able to help Masha find her second birthday present.

When Fyodor Ivanovich came through the gate, he held his hand out. “Here. I’ve got something for you.”

It was a star, somewhat larger than her open hand, paper-thin and cut from the same soft, shining metal that covered the domes.

“It looks like a sheriff’s badge,” Masha said.

Fyodor Ivanovich snorted. “It’s nothing of the kind. I made them for the dome of our little church down by the river. Remember you asked about it? You gave me the idea. When I’ve got time I’ll put them up, cover it with stars.”

“They’ll look lovely,” said Masha. “And what about the deacon’s dovecote?”

“The deacon’s…” He gave her a puzzled look. “Wherever did you hear that? I haven’t heard it called that for a long time.” He watched as Masha tucked the star away carefully in her pocket; it only just fitted, and its points dug gently into her leg. “Ready to go?”

Masha had never walked along the streets of Tsarskoe Selo before; she’d always come in the Mercedes. The enormous brick houses were crowded with fancy turrets and balconies, stuck about with chimneys and galleries, surrounded by smooth naked English lawns and glaring blue swimming pools. They all looked raw: gracelessly new and soullessly unlived-in. Each house and garden lay behind high walls and fences, and outside were piles of sand and bricks, cement mixers, bits of board and planks and broken tiles. Among the debris lounged scrappy stray dogs, and ordinary citizens trudged to and fro on their way to the little old cottages further on, dwarfed by the new mansions and palaces of the rich.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Fyodor Ivanovich asked her. “Thought you weren’t too fond of your Uncle Igor.”

“I’m not. And he’s not my uncle.”

“What’s he got to do with you and your mother anyway? I understand he found her a job abroad…”

Masha looked up at his lined, honest face, and for a mad moment wondered if she could tell him the whole story. She could actually feel the secrets bulging up like a monstrous balloon inside her, trying to burst out of her mouth.

“I don’t know,” she said, swallowing hard, and her eyes filled with tears. She looked down, scuffing her toe in the dust. “He wants me to go and live with him.”

“You’d have a fine life, I suppose.” Fyodor Ivanovich sounded bitter. “A big house, a chauffeur, money and all it can buy. But where does that money come from? That’s what I’d like to know. Why does all of it go to them and none of it come to us? I used to have a good job; I used to be paid on time. Now I’m hardly paid at all. And that’s because people like your Uncle Igor have stolen everything. Now they run the country according to their own rules. And people like you and me and your mother, we don’t matter; we’re just there to be used, to do the work while they take the profits.”

He seemed to have forgotten she was there as he glared at the new, high walls and spat on the ground in front of them. And then he looked down at her and his face softened, just as Nechipor’s had done when he clutched his knife and inveighed against the Turks. “Oh, Masha. So are you going to go and live in the castle there, forget your old friends begging outside the gates?”

“Of course not!” she said indignantly. “I hate Igor. You’re right – he’s wicked. I’ve come here to see Aunt Anya, because she’s nice, and I need to know – something.”

“About your mother, I suppose.” Fyodor Ivanovich shook his head. “You be careful. Sometimes it’s better not to know.”