The clearings gaped at them from the right and left, soft succulent meadows of long rich grass, sharp sedges fringing the wet meadow margins where a brook gurgled in its gentle idiot tongue.
"Wait, Timur-Bey whispered, and kneeled to examine footprints in the soft ground.
Yakov was not an experienced tracker, but even he could see that the meadow was thoroughly trampled.
"These are bare feet, Timur-Bey pointed. And these-not quite bare, but quite close. It looks like their boots are falling apart."
Sergey flapped his wings and hopped awkwardly to the ground. He half-hopped, half-ran to Timur-Bey's side, peering at a deep oval depression filled with murky swamp water. This is the butt of a rifle, he said.
"Or a musket, Timur-Bey agreed. Didn't they use to say that the bullet is stupid and the bayonet is wise?"
"Maybe a musket, Sergey said. My point is, we should probably be quiet and not attract attention."
"Maybe they're friendly, Zemun said.
"They have guns, Koschey said. Not that it bothers me, but you fleshbags should probably keep it under advisement. Bare-footed men with large guns are rarely in a good enough mood to chat before shooting."
"I don't like this, Galina said.
The rook squawked with laughter. The large gun part or the men part?"
"Oh, leave her alone, Yakov said.
"I'm just saying, Sergey said. You don't like men much, do you?"
Galina shifted her shoulders uncomfortably and slouched. No. What's your point?"
"Enough, Yakov interrupted. This is really not a good time. It was true, of course; at the same time, Yakov did not particularly relish the subject. He knew Galina; she had grown up the same way he had-without a father, among women hardened by bitter life experience. She had no reason to feel any differently than she did, and yet he felt guilty the moment that no left her lips. Like it was his fault somehow-but then again, he had left his wife. Or perhaps it was she who had left him; he couldn't remember anymore, not through the cobwebs of lies and rationalizations and retellings of the same story over and over to himself, until the details took on the shape of his words, and the words themselves became the truth and the substance, their underlying memory forever lost, like the wax mold of a death mask.
They moved along the road, under the sparse cover of the trees. The shadows of thin branches and leaves weaved in patterns of light and dark, breaking up and concealing the shapes of people and the cow that moved below them. The meadows disappeared, supplanted by patches of rough scrub-bushes and goldenrods, willow herbs growing through the charred remains of some long-forgotten buildings.
The trees receded, and they stood between the overgrown ruins and a tall palisade, made of thick and long logs fitted together side by side, their sharpened ends threatening to pierce the distant sky. They could not see what was hidden behind the fence, only a curlicue of smoke rising from behind it, and a strong smell of burnt wood tainting the air so strongly Yakov tasted it on the back of his throat.
"Something's burning, Galina said.
Timur-Bey shook his head. It's not burning; it had burnt, many years ago, but it still smolders. Like they do. He pointed with a nod.
There were five men there, standing and sitting under the shadow of the fence, dressed in rags; their feet were wrapped in remnants of rough sailcloth, and muskets rested on their shoulders. But Yakov looked into their faces-red as if boiled, their beards and eyebrows singed or burned off, their eyes the blind white of a cooked egg. Their nails, trimmed with mourning black, bubbled as if melting off their fingertips. Their rags were covered in soot, but Yakov guessed them for military uniforms, even though it was impossible to see the insignia; he guessed that they were from the early nineteenth century, but could not determine their allegiance. At least, until they spoke.
"Hey, Petro, one of them called. What time is it?"
"Who cares what time it is? Petro replied and spat philosophically. Does time even have meaning anymore?"
One of the others nodded and sat down, resting the musket across his knees. And for what sins are we being punished so? he said. What sins have I committed, dear Lord in heaven, to guard the fence of a burned building for all eternity? What sins, what sins are so great to merit such a punishment? Dear Lord, forgive me my trespasses, lowly sinner that I am, and deliver me from this torment."
"Shut up about your sins, Corporal, the one named Petro said with a stifled laugh. Who's to say sins have anything to do with this fence? And who's to say whose sins are greater?"
A general murmur of agreement emitted from the rest of the soldiers.
"I suffer so, the Corporal said.
Collective groans of annoyance were his answer, and Yakov decided that for the past hundred and eighty years the Corporal's suffering had been getting on his comrades nerves.
Yakov and the rest had all agreed that a direct approach would be the most foolish one; instead, they decided to rely on an old-fashioned deception-rather, Zemun and Koschey decided on it, while Galina and Yakov rolled their eyes at each other and shook their heads in disbelief. Timur-Bey and Sergey remained neutral on the matter.
"Seriously, Yakov said to Zemun. Trojan horses have been done before."
"It's not the same, Zemun said. There's no one inside me. She sounded hurt, and Yakov didn't argue further.
They watched Zemun as she approached the gates, her jaws moving rhythmically, and her eyes as empty as those of a regular cow. The soldiers at the gate turned to watch her with their blind white eyes.
"What's that? the Corporal asked.
"Looks like a cow, Corporal, Petro said, and stroked his bare face thoughtfully, as if he expected to find a beard. A beauty of a cow, too."
The rest muttered that it was a nice enough cow, yes sir, sure was.
"I haven't had have any milk in ages, Petro said. Or cheese, for that matter."
The corporal stopped lamenting the cruelty of his fate, and smiled. Zemun let herself be led inside, and Yakov heaved a sigh. He only hoped that the plan wouldn't backfire too badly.
When night fell, the gate in the tall fence swung open, lit from the inside by the ghostly blue light of the celestial cow, and Zemun herself motioned for them to come in. Inside the gate there was a yard of tightly tamped dirt; every pockmark and trough stood out in stark relief, like craters on the moon's surface, illuminated by pools of light. There were stars strewn about, and their blue and white rays pierced the darkness like spotlights.
"What happened here? Yakov asked, pointing at the globes of pure light littering the bare yard.
"They tried to milk me, Zemun answered, and looked sullen. But I don't think they suspect anything."
Galina exhaled an unconvincing laugh. Of course not. Why would they?"
Yakov looked past the scattered stars and forgot about the danger and everything else, gaping at the wooden palace that towered over them. The facets cut into its smooth light walls reminded him of the palaces in the Kremlin, and the gilded onion domes topping seven slender towers appeared more beautiful than any buildings he had ever seen. What is this? he whispered.