The next morning, she asked Fyodor and Yakov if they wanted to go. Yakov nodded, dutiful. Fyodor thought a bit and shook his head.
"Zemun will go with us, Yakov said. Yesterday, she was agitating that we need to do something. If you ask her, she'll have to go. Ask around, see who else is game."
"I think we need to bring that thug along, Sergey, Galina said. He'll be able to recognize the voice he heard."
"It's not a bad idea, Yakov said. Only he is a dangerous man, even if he was recently raised from the dead."
"Just take his soulstone, Fyodor said.
"Won't work. How will you talk to it? Through a medium?"
"Maybe put it into something else, Fyodor said. A rat maybe."
"They can't talk either, Galina observed.
"Oh, fuck me. Fyodor slammed his palm on the table. Just trying to help here."
"If you want to help, come along, Galina said.
Fyodor made a face. I do what I can. I didn't have to lead you here, you know."
"Enough bickering, Sovin said. Zemun and Koschey will figure something out."
They found everyone at the Pub. Galina wondered to herself if anyone ever went home, or if they sat behind the wooden tables, upright and silent in the darkness, all night long.
"I'm leaving to go across the river, Galina told Zemun. I'll need someone to come along."
"We'll find someone, Zemun promised. But we also thought that we need to mount an expedition to the surface."
Galina saw her point, but the thought made her unease flare up. If Sergey was telling the truth-and she had no reason to doubt his veracity-then who knew what his former friends were up to. A vision of the empty city came to her mind, deserted streets with garbage blown across the pavements, flocks of birds studding the power lines and turning the sky black; she imagined them watching from the roofs, looking through the windows of their former residences, longing for the lives they had been forced to abandon. She thought of her mother, an old grey crow, and Masha's baby-it would be just a hatchling, unable to fly on its own.
And what of her grandmother, locked in the hospital, among the walls covered with cracking, piss-colored paint? What of the old woman alone, her wrinkles flowing around her eyes and mouth in a fluid pattern, sitting on a hospital bed, wondering dimly why no one comes to visit her anymore, not even her daughter-didn't she have a daughter? She remembers pigtails and cheap patterned dresses, she remembers mending white bobby socks, but the girls all blur together, daughter, granddaughters, nieces, grandnieces, extended family and friends; she could never remember Galina's name, and always tried a few others first.
Galina pitied the old woman in that abstract way one reserves for the old-a general pity for decrepitude and decline, recognition of one's inevitable fate in another. She pitied the old women who timidly waited by the benches where young people laughed and drank beer, until there was no one around so they could quickly snatch the empty bottles and turn them in at the recycling centers for pennies each, but they added up to enough for a bottle of milk and some cheap fish for the cat, they added to the destitute existence on government pensions that remained the same as the prices doubled, tripled, and quadrupled in a single day. She pitied the old men who pinned their medals to the threadbare jackets to hide holes on their lapels and who grew thinner by the day.
Most of all she pitied the chronically ill, confused, broken, incapable of taking care of themselves, stuffed into hospitals four or five to a room. She used to visit her grandmother in the beginning, when they still expected her to come home. As it became clear that she was there forever, Galina stopped, unable to face her guilt. Now, she wondered if the old people would turn into birds too, or if they would still sit in the hospital, forgotten, abandoned, wondering at first why there was no lunch, and then simply accepting it as they accepted all the unfathomable but ultimately cruel turns of life.
Yakov, Zemun, and Koschey conferred, with Sovin and David listening closely but not saying a word. Fyodor wandered around the Pub, looking for something-the gypsy girl he seemed so taken with yesterday, Galina assumed.
"Excuse me."
She turned to see the Medieval Tatar-Mongol warrior. She had to look down on him; not only was he quite short, but also his bandy legs detracted from his already unimpressive height. The hem of his long felt coat brushed the floor, almost concealing his soft-soled boots.
"Yes? she said.
"My name is Timur-Bey. I heard about your sister, he said. I am sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?"
"You can come with me, Galina said. But why? Everyone here seems to want to stay, not go traipsing through Berendey's woods."
His expressionless narrow eyes looked up into hers. Galina realized that the man in front of her was very, very old-five hundred years? Six? Redemption, he said. I have yet to atone for my crimes."
"You mean the Golden Horde?"
He shrugged. We did what we had to. But there are cruelties I've done without compulsion."
Galina smiled. My name's Galina, she said. I do appreciate your help, whatever it is you think you've done wrong."
He gave a curt nod, tossing the long sleek braid of black hair shot through with a few silver threads over his shoulder. Galina thought that he looked just like the Tatar champion on the famous painting depicting the battle at Kulikovo Field-only the copper helm and armor were missing. She imagined the small man armed, battling the Russian champion, a giant monk named Peresvet. The image was almost comical, and she shook her head. It was a long time ago; still, her own slightly slanted eyes and cheekbones sweeping up like wings were the heritage of the Golden Horde's occupation. The marks that Masha had avoided somehow, with her button nose and wide gray eyes. Masha, she reminded herself. She mustn't be distracted; she mustn't try and learn everyone's story, see how they all fitted together; it didn't matter how history had abused or forgotten these people. They won no wars, they showed no valor; the winners didn't spare them a second thought, and neither should she. Masha was her only concern, her sister was her only obligation.
Soon it was time to go. Galina, Yakov, Zemun, Timur-Bey and Koschey were to go to the river, which, so Zemun asserted, was less than a day away. David packed them a parcel with bread, beer and some dry fruit. Sorry, he said. Didn't have any fresh ones-without Berendey around, there's no one here to bring sunlight to my garden."
"Don't worry about it, Galina said. But have you seen Elena?"
He nodded. She left this morning. Said she wanted to talk to the rusalki and the vodyanoys about something. Don't worry, I'll tell you when she gets back, and maybe she'll send you a message with one of her watery friends. Look for them when you get to the river-it's crawling with all sorts of water spirits, and they sure do talk."
"Thank you, Galina said.
Yakov took the parcel from David. We'll be back soon, he said.
David nodded. Just be careful there, grandson. He got the word out with some effort, as if he was still getting used to it.
"Of course, Yakov said. It's not like anything can go wrong there, right?"
David shrugged. It's not a safe place, he said. There's no such thing as a safe place. Like there's no such thing as a good czar, no matter how much people want to believe it."
"What are we going to do about Sergey? Galina asked Zemun.
"We took care of him last night, she said. He's coming with us, but Koschey made him harmless. Her large soulful eyes flicked to Koschey, and he dug in the pockets of his jacket and extracted a large albino rook; its wings were clipped, and its eyes flashed with indignation. Fuck you, it screeched.