They entered the forest, and despite Yakov's current upset he felt like a kid who had stumbled into a real fairytale. Despite the frozen trees, the air was only slightly cooler than elsewhere underground, and the ghost of the sun shone above, lighting the hoarfrost on every surface with a prismatic glitter of blues, reds and yellows. The delicate tracery of the frost formed flowers and fantastic animals and they wound like magical canvas around every trunk.
Carefully tended paths meandered between the trees, and Yakov realized with a sting of embarrassment that he was looking for woodland creatures that usually hung out in Berendey's Forest, at least according to the movies. He noticed a white hare darting away among the trees and the heavy horned head of a moose peering between the spruce branches.
"Can I borrow your rook for a sec? Yakov asked Koschey.
"Knock yourself out, Koschey answered, and extracted the rook Sergey from his pocket. Just don't let him get away."
"Where do you think I'm gonna go? Sergey said, and fluffed his feathers. God, it's cold here."
"It's not bad, Yakov said, and carefully placed Sergey on his shoulder. Does it look like you would expect?"
The rook blinked in the bright light and looked around with his red eyes. It looks like a movie set."
"Except that it's real."
"Or so you think."
Yakov briefly considered stuffing the rook into his pocket, but decided to give him another chance. Do you remember how to find Berendey?"
"Find him? I've only seen him in the movies. There's a scene change, a cutaway, and then he appears. I guess we wait for a cutaway."
Yakov just shook his head.
"He's right, actually, Zemun said behind him. Berendey knows what happens in his forest, and if there are any trespassers he won't be long."
They continued walking along the paths because it was pleasant, and the forest was so pretty it seemed a shame to leave it unexplored while one had a chance.
"How old are you? Yakov asked Sergey.
"Twenty-five, he answered. You?"
"Thirty. I was just thinking what was your favorite ice-cream when you were a kid?"
The rook squawked a laugh. Remember the one in wafer cones, with a crme rose on top?"
"That was my favorite too. Remember those little chocolate-covered cheesecakes they used to have? I could live on that stuff."
"Me too, Sergey agreed. Funny how good the food was when we were kids. Now everything tastes like shit. I wonder if it's because it's all imported and comes from a can, or if it's just how memory works?"
Yakov shrugged. A bit of both, I suppose. And not all the food is shit. Imported chicken is pretty good."
Sergey made a contemptuous noise deep in his bird throat. Humanitarian help? They call them Bush's legs."
"So I heard."
"Those chickens are fucking monsters. What do they feed them in America?"
"I don't know, Yakov said. Still, he felt closer to Sergey, another shared experience, as meaningless as it was, somehow making them alike. He did not like the feeling-Sergey was a criminal and a lost soul, wedged temporarily into the body of a fat white bird. He was nothing like Yakov, and not a person Yakov wanted to be friends with.
Yakov looked ahead; the crystal light and the magical forest were growing habitual, and he wondered why Berendey hadn't apprehended them yet; then he remembered the rumors of his disappearance, and his mood darkened. He started to think that they could spend an eternity wandering through this forest, and doubted if they would be able to find their way back.
"Look! Galina said behind him, and Sergey flapped his wings in excitement.
A dark cloud coalesced over the trees, and the sounds of cawing and hooting filled the air. Black birds, brown birds, gray birds. Yakov had never seen that many birds together-they obscured the sky as far as the eye could see. Where did they come from? Yakov said.
"I don't know, Koschey said, but I'm more concerned with what they're doing."
The birds, despite their immense numbers, seemed to home in on a particular spot, just ahead, where they circled restlessly and cried.
They rushed through the wood, trees growing sparse as they approached a clearing.
"It's like a picture book, Galina said. Yakov agreed inwardly; the house in the clearing, a trim cabin built of even reddish logs, with a thatched roof and a chimney from which curly white smoke rose, wouldn't be out of place in a fairytale, as a peaceful dwelling of a virtuous woodcutter or some other benign but slightly misanthropic character. The roof and the porch and the banister running along three steps leading to the front door were grey and black with sitting birds.
Sergey stiffened on Yakov's shoulder.
"Relax, Yakov murmured. They don't know who you are. They might not even be the same birds."
"Of course they are, Galina said. She pushed him aside and ran up the steps. Masha? she asked every jackdaw in sight. They looked back with their shiny, black eyes, their heads with a little tuft of feathers tilted to their shoulders, but none answered the call.
Zemun and Koschey approached the closed door, and Koschey tugged on the handle. Locked, he said.
"Maybe he isn't here, Zemun said.
Timur-Bey shook his head. Dear Celestial Cow, he said. We cannot leave without seeing if Berendey is inside. I do not know about your kinds of gods, but the spirits of my ancestors tell me that gods are mortal. We have to see, and if you permit I'll be glad to kick the door in."
"Let's knock again, Yakov said. Maybe he didn't hear us the first time. He didn't mention the thought that started bothering him the moment he'd seen the birds: what if Berendey was the entity Sergey overheard conspiring with Slava? He certainly seemed to be one of the very few underground inhabitants who visited the surface frequently to steal sunlight; he had the opportunity, and Yakov's experience taught him that opportunity often outweighed any motive.
Timur-Bey smirked. I know what you people say. An uninvited guest is worse than a Tatar', right?"
"It's just a saying. Galina gave a sheepish smile.
This smile irritated Yakov-it reminded him of his ex-wife, of her constant desire to pacify and dampen any disagreement, smooth out the wrinkles on the surface no matter what resentment brewed inside. He turned to face Timur-Bey. Yeah. Would you prefer we said that an uninvited visitor is better than a Tatar?"
To his surprise, Timur-Bey laughed, showing small uneven and very white teeth. I see your point, although I still doubt the compulsion of such comparisons. Go ahead, knock."
Yakov did, and for a few minutes all of them-people, birds, the cow-listened for any sound inside the house. There was none; Yakov thought that he heard a faint buzzing, but there was no way of deciding where it originated, and whether it was just an artifact of the ear straining to hear something-anything at all.
After a while, Yakov nodded to Timur-Bey. On three."
He counted to three, and his and Timur-Bey's shoulders made a shuddering impact with the sturdy door. It gave on the second try-the wood by the jamb splintered and the door fell halfway in, hanging by the still-locked deadbolt.
Inside, the house smelled of wood shavings and pine resin, of sun and hay. The birds poured in through the open door, as if compelled by some invisible force.
"Hello? Yakov called through the roomy entrance hall and into a darkened corridor.
There was no answer, and he motioned for everyone to remain where they were. He had never carried a gun in his life, but now he wished he had one on him, as he moved through the corridor, his left shoulder brushing against the wall, and kicked open the door on his left. It was a kitchen, judging from the well-polished copper pots, and he wondered briefly why spirits and demigods even needed a kitchen. The recently swept floors smelled of fresh pine, and the pot-bellied woodstove stood clean, not a speck of ash in its roomy interior; neatly split fire logs were stacked in a corner, just waiting for someone to start the fire with the long curls of dry birch bark piled by the stove.