The bank was devoid of any vegetation; not even the glowtrees dared to colonize the barren black basalt of the embankment, natural or artificial, Yakov wasn't sure. Even the pale grass recoiled from the black, slow water and the living mist roiling above it.
"How do we cross? Yakov asked Zemun.
The cow looked at the river thoughtfully. We wait for the boatman."
Yakov glanced at Galina over his shoulder. Did you hear that?"
She nodded. I told you there was a Styx down here somewhere. We should've taken Fyodor and his coin with us."
"How long until the boatman shows up? Yakov said.
Koschey shrugged. Whenever he damn well pleases. Takes his time, that boatman."
"David said Elena might send us a message, Galina said. With some rusalka or vodyanoy."
"And this will further our search how? Koschey said.
"It won't hinder it either, Zemun said.
Yakov watched the fog, hoping that a boat would appear out of it, gliding across the sooty surface, steered by a tall man on the stern, a long pole in his withered hands-he shook his head to dispel the vision. Why did you think there would be a river? he whispered to Galina. How did you know?"
She shrugged. There's always a river in the underworld. Or at least a bridge."
Yakov left her to talk to the Tatar-Mongol, and sat down on the bank, half-annoyed, half-relieved that he was left alone for a bit longer.
Yakov wasn't always like this, defeated in advance, dutiful out of habit. He once was a rose-cheeked youth fresh out of school who had wanted to be a policeman since he was a little kid, even though he didn't remember that the original inspiration and desire for the grey and light-blue uniform came from a rhymed illustrated children's book about a very tall policeman who had the ability to rescue cats from tall trees without any need for ladders or cherry-pickers.
He also was once a lover and a husband, an optimist; he looked to the future with his wife Tamara, a girl as pink and light-haired as he was, who worked at a textile factory and shared a small apartment with her alcoholic father and long-suffering mother, of whom Yakov only remembered that she had the most spectacular dark circles around her eyes that he had ever had the misfortune to observe.
They courted and married, and moved in with Yakov's mother, whom Tamara seemed to like more than her own, even if they did argue occasionally about insignificant things; Yakov had the feeling that both had a slight embarrassment about getting along so well, and engaged in perfunctory conflict (usually soup-related) superstitiously, to ward off the demons of serious fights.
Yakov did not like to think of that time; he both resented his wide-eyed idiocy and regretted losing it. He hated himself for changing, yet could not see how he could've avoided it. He still remembered Tamara's face, but only because his mother refused to take their wedding picture off the wall where it hung next to an icon of St Georgiy. He could never understand why his mother was so partial to the patron saint of this city, dragon or no dragon. Yakov was especially unimpressed because the dragon on the icon was puny, the size of a large dog, and wingless. His eyes usually lingered on the dragon, reluctant to move to the left and look at the glowing pink face of Tamara surrounded by the cloud of white veil. He always looked eventually.
It was easier to think about that time now, on the solid basalt shores of the dead river, under the watchful thoughtful gaze of the celestial cow who claimed to have made the Milky Way; it was easier to believe in the magical cow than in his own capacity for happiness. Koschey the Deathless sat on the bank, cross-legged, teasing the soul of a criminal trapped in the portly smooth body of a white rook. Galina and the Tatar-Mongol argued about the nature of memory, and whether it was possible to forgive a trespass without having to forget it.
The water by the riverbank bubbled up, and a small scale-covered vodyanoy surfaced and swam ashore with an awkward breaststroke. Its seaweed hair fanned out in the water like a halo, and its webbed hands, green and speckled with large triangular scales, splashed the pitch-black water. It clambered up on the bank, and its large bug eyes searched their faces.
"Did Elena send you? Galina said.
The little vodyanoy nodded shyly, and dug through the festoons of algae decorating its body to produce a crumpled and wet note covered in black swirls of river water, but otherwise undamaged. Galina thanked him and unrolled the note.
"What does it say? Zemun asked and attempted to fit her large head under Galina's elbow to take a better look.
"That she is considering sending Fyodor, Viy, and Oksana to the surface. She also says to be careful."
"Oh, great idea, Koschey said. I'll bet you fleshbags didn't even think of that."
"You're not as invulnerable as you think, the rook Sergey said. I know where your death is."
"So do I, Yakov said.
The rook gave him a haughty look. Did you ever watch Visiting the Fairytales'?"
"Yeah, Yakov admitted. Every Saturday morning or was it Sunday?"
"Sunday, Sergey said. We had school Saturday. Didn't know cops fancied that sort of thing."
"I was ten, Yakov said, but found himself smiling. I think they mostly showed movies from the forties and fifties."
"Those fairytales were disguised Communist propaganda, the rook said.
Yakov stopped smiling. I don't think so."
"You're so nave, the rook said. They brainwashed you, and you don't even know. This is why you're a cop."
Yakov just shrugged. He didn't like it when people he had just met somehow developed the illusion of knowing him better than he did.
"Where's that boatman? he said to Zemun.
Instead of another vague answer enticing him to patience and waiting just a bit more, Zemun pointed silently with her hoof. Through the fog that for a change remained stationary like a curtain, Yakov saw a shadow and heard weak slurping sounds.
The little vodyanoy shrieked and dove into the river, disappearing like a stone.
"What got into him? Galina asked, and a vertical wrinkle settled between her dark eyebrows.
"He's worried that the boatman will collect from him, Koschey said. Stupid thing. The boatman doesn't care about spirits and gods and those who've already paid. He only takes from fleshbags, and this one, Koschey pointed at the rook perching sullenly on his shoulder, this one is already dead. I guess that leaves you two."
Yakov and Galina traded an uncomfortable look. What is it that he takes? Yakov said. And why didn't anyone tell us?"
"You'll find out soon enough, Koschey answered and smirked. Maybe that'll teach you to blab about where people might want to keep their death."
"I traveled across the river once, Timur-Bey said. He takes memories, nothing else."
Yakov wanted to know more-what sort of memories and why-but the narrow boat made of grey wood touched the bank. The old man looked over them, at the meadows and forests they left behind. Come aboard, he said in the indifferent sing-song voice of a merchant, come aboard, one memory per party, buys a round-trip."
"What memories do you take? Galina said.
"The precious ones, the ones you'll miss and wonder day and night what it is you have forgotten, the boatman said. You're paying?"
"I am, Yakov said. I don't think I'll miss any of mine."
The boatman's deeply set eyes looked at him out of his creased leathery face. Thin wisps of white hair blew in the wind and mingled with the fog, indistinguishable from it.