He tried not to be angry tonight with that old liar, or with uncle Fedya. Wish no harm, Uulamets had said, above all, wish no harm; but Uulamets’ anger kept turning around his own, Uulamets’ anger at his own teacher, Uulamets’ anger at his wife, at his daughter, at his wife’s lover, his student Kavi Chernevog—
Like trying to rest in a bed full of snakes, Sasha thought distressedly, all the while guessing which one was dangerous.
He might perhaps talk to Pyetr: they had been able to talk straightforwardly about the most difficult things, and Pyetr being wiser in the world at large sometimes, had very good instincts for right answers.
But how could he ask Pyetr to keep confidences from Eveshka, if it was about magic, if Eveshka might well feel any upset in him and want to know why?
He rolled onto his side and stared at the pattern in the boards of the wall, trying not to think things like that or entertain suspicions: a wizard was so liable to wish completely crazy things— as apt to self-delusion as not, even about what his interests really were, and having an old man’s memories tumbling around in his head, mixing with his own…
In Vojvoda, patrons in The Cockerel had looked askance at him: That’s the witch listening, they would say, nudging each other with their elbows. Be careful what you say…
Or the baker’s daughters, whispering to each other in the corner, Don’t look in his eyes, he can’t bewitch you if you don’t look in his eyes-Aunt Ilenka, when a dish broke: I know who’s the jinx around here…
Maybe there was truth in that, after all.
Certainly Eveshka wanted what she thought was right for Pyetr: that was one constancy he could believe in; that was, perhaps, part of the trouble with all of them. And perhaps, he reasoned, if he could only retrace not only the business with the horse, but a number of small quarrels, and recover the kind of (twice with Eveshka he had had at first, if he only could get her to trust him and if he could avoid making some other foolish, selfish mistake to make her angry with him, Eveshka knew him In ways even Pyetr did not—being a wizard and knowing in her very bones what he meant when he said certain things, which Pyetr might well hear completely differently.
If, he thought, if he could get Eveshka to sit down and listen to him, really listen, just once, and listen—if that was truly what she was worried about—as if it was only himself who was talking to her, and nothing to do with her father and his advice… If, please the god, he could know that himself, and be sure his thoughts had no one else’s wish behind them—including hers.
He lay abed until the birds nesting in the eaves began to stir, then quietly got up, built up the fire from last night’s coals and started breakfast with as little noise as possible, a special breakfast, as he intended, cakes of the sort aunt Ilenka had used to make, the best flour, sweet dried berries… Sun rising beyond the branches, dew gathering on thorns-Reddening with the dawn-He chased meandering, chaotic thoughts away with the soft rattle of the spoon against the bowl, one of Uulamets’ wooden ones, pinch of spice, pinch of salt, a recipe against unwanted memories… spice and salt and grain they got from a freeholder downriver, an old man who had trouble, Pyetr said, in recalling it was no longer Chernevog or Uulamets living in the woods upriver—an old man who wanted mushrooms, simples, medicines for a cough and a good wish or two in the bargain, which Sasha gave whenever he thought of it.
So much the world knew of their doings: the old man felt safe from wizards and their doings, and had no notion what had happened up here in the woods, except herbs grew in the woods again.
That was all it meant, all that they had ever done, wizards had changed, the dreadful rusalka was gone, and herbs helped an old man’s cough.
River water, dark and deep… Eveshka’s ghost drifting above the waves, part of them…
Eveshka had so much skill with growing things, she always had had: she could wish a garden to perfection, protect the seeds they planted, the creatures that ventured back into this woods She had all this love of life—even when foxes by their nature preyed on rabbits and on fieldmice. And she was wise about nature. He got attached to the mouse, he thought about foxes and he wanted it safe—because it was one particular mouse. But Eveshka had said to him, quite soberly, If you do that, he won’t be free.
He thought about that. He told himself he should have listened to Eveshka long since, that she had given him good advice, over all, much of which counseled him plainly to want as little as possible and to ignore her father.
He heard voices from the bedroom, people he loved, people who did truly, in differing degrees and to their own capabilities love him: “Tie that, will you, Pyetr?”
We’ll be all right, he had argued with Uulamets. We’ll manage; Pyetr can make the difference for us, because neither of us would ever hurt him.
To which Uulamets’ ghostly voice still said: Fools.
Fool, Uulamets whispered again, plain as plain, while he was sitting on the hearth, stirring up the cakes and heating up the griddle. It was never Uulamets’ advice that had brought them to live under one roof. In very fact, if one thought honestly about it, it was Chernevog who had thought wizards could live in the company of other folk. Chernevog had argued that a wizard could use wealth, rule cities—a wizard can do more good in the world, Chernevog had written in his youth, than tsars can ever do; and work far less harm than tsars have ever done.
But at the very time Chernevog had been writing that, he had been deeply under the spell of Uulamets’ wife: had become boy that he had been, Draga’s student and very soon after that her lover—
Draga ate him alive, Uulamets had said when he had found out.
Uulamets had written: Two people can’t have the same interests. They can’t have the same wishes, not a man and his wife not a father and his daughter—not a teacher and his student.
And the end of Chernevog’s book said: Generations of cattle…
“Up early?” Pyetr hailed him, opening the door beside the fireplace. Sasha rocked in startlement and spilled a big splash of batter off the griddle, making the fire throw ash.
“Thinking,” Sasha said, rising, dusting ash off his knees as Eveshka followed Pyetr into the kitchen. “Breakfast is almost ready.”
“God,” Eveshka said, “how many berries did you put in those cakes?”
“A fistful.” Eveshka had her ways in the kitchen, her very precise ways, and he was instantly concerned about the things he had not yet cleared from the counter, wanting no offense, god, no quarrel in the house this morning.
Pyetr said, sharply, “They’re just fine, Eveshka.”
“It’s quite all right,” Sasha began to protest, in Eveshka’s defense; but Eveshka was already stacking the spice-pots and the berry-cannister back the way she wanted them, rearranging things he had disarranged, saying, “God, Sasha, you must have used half the stores. Let a man in the kitchen—”
“For the god’s sake, Eveshka!” Pyetr cried, turning around; and Sasha quickly said, handing Pyetr the spatula: “Pyetr, watch those, will you?” The shelf Eveshka wanted the berries on was too high for her convenience: Sasha hurried over and put them up himself.
“Thank you,” she said quite pleasantly, and smiled at him, seeming not to have noticed any upset in her wake, perfectly cheerful and intending to put her kitchen and both of them in the order she liked, too.
Which left him standing there numb, wondering if he were the one losing his senses. Of course he could talk to Eveshka, he talked about a great number of things every day with Eveshka, they worked together to make their medicines and do simple householder things that Pyetr, not having grown up doing un aunt’s various chores, had no notion how to do.