Fyodor was skeptical at first, but the rats were faster and more organized than he expected. They broke into two groups, outflanking one of the birds and cutting it off from the rest of the flock. Just as the bird noticed that it was surrounded and raised its wings, ready to fly, the rats pounced all at once, like a pride of tiny, well-coordinated lions. The bird squawked once and was overwhelmed, buried under the shifting mass of fur and agile tails.
"Don't you eat it, Oksana called to the rats in a scolding voice. The snow crunched under her boots as she approached the fallen bird, still pinned under its attackers. She picked it up, ruffled but unharmed, and stuck the glass granule into the wide-open beak quivering in distress.
The bird swallowed hard, working the round foreign object into its crop. Then the bird spoke.
His name was Vladimir, and he used to be a businessman-the real kind, not one of those thugs and racketeers who only called themselves businessmen but had never done an honest day's work. Vladimir was among the brave few who were the first to open co-ops; his manufactured carpets and pseudo-Persian rugs, and business was good. His story was sad in its familiarity: at first, there were several gangs extorting and threatening, and he did what everyone else had to do-he chose the lesser of the many evils that beset him to rob him blind. Even lesser was a relative term. He couldn't quite distinguish between them, coming and going, robbing and threatening, brandishing electric irons and pliers, their favored instruments of persuasion and extraction of assets, confessions and on occasion teeth. They even looked the same: back in the day before maroon jackets, they all wore their hair short, their torsos clad in leather jackets. For comfort and freedom of movement they wore track pants, just like back in the days when their favorite occupation was forcible shearing of hippies. Vladimir wished that they had remained on the fringe and never even entered the consciousness of the budding entrepreneurs, but there they were, fully in view and menacing from every corner.
He went with Slava because he had the appearance of a member of the intelligentsia, with his thin fingers and tired but kind eyes, with his habit of nodding thoughtfully along with the pleadings of his extortees. He was a reader too, given to quoting from John Stuart Mill and Jonathan Swift; he was fond of Thomas Mann and Remarque. Vladimir chose him as his protection-his roof, in the vernacular with which had become disconcertingly familiar-because if he had to be subordinate to someone, he wanted that someone to be an educated man. Just a small vanity, he thought.
But there was danger in being under protection of a man who liked to consider whether personal experience was the limit for one's imagination, and whether it was possible to invent a truly alien creature, for example, not just an amalgam of familiar beasts. There was danger in being subject to someone who wondered whether the dragon on the city's crest was related to the Komodo dragon it so closely resembled, and if so, when St Georgiy had a chance to travel to Komodo. The man with imagination could notice the magic that was seeping into the world, cast for him to notice, like round shining lures.
"You know about magic? Oksana said.
The jackdaw flapped its wings. Of course I do; I did from the time he first started thinking about it. He borrowed some books from me-books on Kabbala. My grandmother was a Jewish mystic of some sort. The books were old though; valuable. I knew nothing about that crap, just had no interest in it at all."
"But now you do, Fyodor said. He glanced around, making sure that no one eavesdropped on his conversation with the bird. Tell me, why do they come here?"
"That I don't know, Vladimir said. But if you want to follow them, now's the time. He pointed his wing at the three men who finished their stretching, smoking and leisurely conversation, and headed down the freshly plowed path.
"We know where they're going, Oksana said. What did Kabbala have to do with it?"
"From what I understand, Vladimir said, he wanted to learn magic. Kabbala seemed like a good place to start; he even got some symbols branded into him. It didn't give him any abilities, but he said that it was like a sign for the forces from the other side to find him."
"What forces? Fyodor asked, feeling the fine hairs on his neck prickle.
"You know, the jackdaw said. It didn't actually shrug, but Fyodor imagined that it did. The usual-Satan or whoever, I guess."
"All right, Oksana said, and tugged on Fyodor's sleeve. Let's go check out the cabin."
"Thanks for putting me into a bird, Vladimir said, but would it be possible to maybe make me human again?"
"We don't know any magic, Oksana said. I suppose if were to put your soulstone into a person"
"I doubt it, Fyodor said, and started down the path after the thugs who had by then disappeared from view. We do know someone who might be able to help you, though. If you help us, we'll talk to him on your behalf."
"That would be acceptable, the jackdaw said. Very satisfactory, in fact. The jackdaw settled on Fyodor's shoulder. Is there anything else I can help you with? And where are we going, by the way?"
"Peter the Great's cabin, Oksana said. Meanwhile, do you know anything about people turning into birds?"
"Of course, Vladimir said matter-of-factly. Everyone who pays attention knows. The cops were looking for all the people who went missing. Where I live, Biryulevo, one of our cops disappeared too. The rest of them lost their heads over it, interrogated every Chechen and Georgian and illegal they could get their hands on. They started asking business people, too-who disappeared, why, that sort of thing. No one wants to cross the racketeers, but people know. They see the gang strutting by, and the next thing you know your mate is flapping his wings I was sort of hoping for that fate when they came for me. Always wanted to fly, ever since I was a kid."
"Who didn't? Fyodor muttered.
Who didn't indeed. Even now, quite free if the delusions of childhood, he occasionally dreamt about flying. He never rose far above the ground nowadays, hovering just above the nodding stems of autumn grass. He always flew over the grass fields in his dreams, a cartoon yellow from one horizon to the other, nodding, whispering. If he closed his eyes, he could hear the rustling of one stem against the next, he could feel their stiff bristles trailing against his bare toes and fingers.
He snapped back to the crunching of snow when they heard the voices coming from the cabin. The sun was setting already, long tree shadows stretching long and blue, undulating across snow drifts and hollows. Still it was too light to approach the cabin; they stopped, and a moment later the voices inside stopped too.
"Did you hear anything? said one of the men inside.
"Spies, answered a rustling, despicable voice; it felt like the scratching of a nail across a windowpane. Go get them."
There was nowhere to run, and Fyodor turned to Oksana for support.
She faltered and then whistled; the rats poured from her and Fyodor's sleeves, came running from the cabin. There were so many of them-Fyodor thought that the wild rats joined them too, subject to Oksana's peculiar charm. Rat on rat, column on column.
Three maroon jackets stood in the cabin's doorway, their eyes troubled. Guns glinted in their hands, but they didn't shoot, as transfixed by the rats performance-tail twisting with tail, hands holding hands-as Fyodor. They didn't shoot even when a bear made of rats stood to its full height, raised its arms, and stepped toward the cabin.