Hershel found himself at a loss for a proper answer; instead he just whispered, Who are you? What do you want?"
The head chewed with its slack-lipped mouth. I'm a friend, it promised. My name is Pan. We came to take you, to help you."
"Most have left, Hershel said. They took them to the Pale in chains; there is no one but the useful Jews left. He was surprised at how much contempt colored his words.
"And these useful Jews-the head repeated the words without grasping their meaning-"they want to stay here? Despite all the cries and complaints we heard all the way underground?"
"I don't want to stay, Hershel said. But where would we go? There's suffering everywhere, and too much of it to boot. What am I supposed to do?"
"Find those who want to leave, the antlered head advised. We will come back tomorrow, and we will take you somewhere where your suffering will be lessened. The head whistled and disappeared back into the murky glass, and with it the rest of the apparitions were gone, as if they had never existed.
This description sounded suspiciously death-like to Hershel, but he didn't think he had a choice. Finally, a solution that would mollify Rosa; he called her and the children, and only then realized that unless they had been looking through the windows in the last ten minutes, they would have trouble believing his story.
Instead, he told them to knock on the doors of their neighbors and ask them if they wanted to leave. He didn't say where or why, only that whatever it was it had to be better than staying here, waiting for them to outlive their usefulness. Waiting to be killed or converted, waiting for Konstantin Pobedonostsev to give another one of his speeches, talking about Russia as the heiress of Constantinople and Byzantium, and Moscow-the third Rome. Waiting for him once again to remind everyone who killed Christ and who would never be forgiven for it. Hershel assumed that whoever the horned creature was, it was not friends with Christ; at that point, it seemed good enough for him.
But not for anyone else. It was his punishment, he supposed, for his former cowardice and minor but common betrayals. Everyone said that they were fine where they were, and some threatened to sic the Okhranka on him. Everyone liked to think that the worst was over, and that they were either important or inconspicuous enough to survive. Hershel smiled sadly at their self-deception and felt embarrassed by his conceit-he was not so different from them after all.
In the end, only Hershel's family wanted to go to the underground. There was a lesson in this, he supposed-a sad lesson of the sad state of the land, where the only escape possible was underground, and the only ones who cared about his life were the pagan deities he didn't even believe in.
Fyodor nodded, mute; he sat next to Oksana who snuggled against Hershel's and Rosa's youngest daughter, an eternal infant still in swaddling clothes. The girl babbled happily, and Oksana laughed. Isn't she the cutest? she asked Fyodor.
He shrugged, not willing to debate the issue; he felt indifferent toward children, especially the ones who didn't talk yet. Instead, he listened to the voices rising all around him. Distracted by Hershel's story, he had missed something important, and now he strained to catch up. It seemed that Elena insisted that a foray to the surface was the best thing they could do, and the only question was who would lead this expedition. Definitely not Pan, Elena said. Pan, long-antlered and sad-eyed, sulked in a corner, his goat legs and human arms crossed in defiance.
It's nothing personal, Viy explained. Last time it was too chaotic, too disorganized. You just don't chase all your minions to the surface and make a colorful appearance that practically assures that you'll be mistaken for a devil or a hallucination. They could've saved more if they'd only sent someone more human-looking.
"Like you, Pan said from his corner, to the general titter of laughter that fell silent as soon as Viy's attendants moved in with their pitchforks to lift his terrible eyelids.
"Viy does have a point, Elena agreed, especially considering that this is a mission of reconnaissance. We should send people. How about you, Fyodor?"
Fyodor did not expect that. Me? Why?"
"Because, Oksana said. You came from the surface recently. And so did I."
"You can take my rats if you wish, Sovin said. I would come too, but-"
"It's all right, Oksana interrupted. Really, you don't have to make excuses. You can just not go."
"Can I do the same? Fyodor asked.
"No, Oksana said. You haven't paid yet."
One had to pay for everything; Fyodor knew as much. What he didn't realize was that his suffering was trivial, that he was judged and found lacking. His little dull torments were deemed irrelevant, affectations of an essentially wealthy soul, deprived of abuse and true sorrow. He thought it strange to feel so guilty and undeserving, while his entire life was nothing but bleakness and slow descent to the lowest energy state imaginable. And what did he get for it? He was about to be thrust back into the seething gutter he had escaped, only a gypsy girl and a pack of rats for company and support.
"It's not so bad, Oksana said and patted his hand carefully; suddenly, she was the strong and reassuring one, the one in control. I'm sure it'll be all right."
"How do we get back to the surface? Fyodor said.
"I don't know, Oksana said, and looked expectantly at Elena.
Elena shrugged and looked at Pan.
Pan scoffed into his beer. You don't want my help, you find someone you want."
"I can get you there, Father Frost said. Even though he sat quite a long way away, by the bar, his voice boomed, and the top of his red hat was easy to spot. As long as you don't mind an early winter."
Fyodor thought of the bums and beggars, of the long fluorescent tunnels of underground crossings and subway transfers. Not too cold, he pleaded.
"Not too cold, Father Frost agreed. But there will be snow."
It was night, and the moon was appropriately full. They walked out of the frozen forest-garlands and flowers and wondrous trees of pure ice, only to look back and see that the forest was just a layer of rime on a storefront window. Fyodor tilted his face upward, watching large wet snowflakes sift through low clouds, backlit with silvery moonlight.
"I missed this, Oksana said, and shivered, her hands deep in the pockets of her worn jacket with bristling fake fur on the collar and patches on the elbows. I really did."
"Me too, I suppose, Fyodor said. He wondered briefly if his failure to be moved by the beauty of the snow and an unusually quiet night-only now he realized that the usual roar of traffic and an occasional drunken shout were silenced by the thick blanket of falling snow. He suspected that this inability to feel things like this was some sort of an inborn defect, and he wished he could do something about it, that he could learn to feel anything but the persistent fear of gypsies and the world as a whole.
The rats surrounded them like a dark puddle-they expanded and collapsed again, pressing close to each other and lifting their pink feet in turn, to keep them off the snow.
"We better get going, Oksana said. They're cold."
"Where are we going? Fyodor asked.
"Where can we hide with a pack of rats? The tabor, I suppose."
Fyodor blew on his fingers. Do you even know where they are?"
She shook her head. It doesn't matter. We can go to any train station, see if there are gypsies there. She looked up, at the skyline. Kievskiy would be the closest. Let's see who we can find. Or we can try a park, if you prefer."