Fyodor strained to follow them, but two thugs cut off his route, reluctant to let go of their forbidden amusement, like a bulldog with an imported leather shoe. One of the thugs grabbed his coat at the chest to hold Fyodor up, and the other deposited slow, methodical blows to the face and sternum, calculated to inflict the maximum amount of pain and remorse for ever having tangled with Slava's goons.
The blows stopped and Fyodor looked up out of his one working eye, waiting for the inevitable sounds of Oksana's scream and a gun shot. Instead, there was a flapping of wings and birds poured into the darkened air, coming seemingly from everywhere-the windows and doors of the cabin, from between the clouds, even flying up from among the rats that ran on the ground.
Fyodor was let go, and his knees buckled; he dipped, staggered but stood up, as the air churned around him, black with wings and eyes and beaks. There were reptilian clawed feet touching his face and hands, there were soft-as-butter feathers of owls brushing against his bruised and swollen face. Rats climbed up his trousers and sleeves, seeking protection from the air that suddenly became a whirlwind of predators.
Neither the crows nor the owls showed much interest in the rats-instead, they landed on the trees, the path, the roof of the cabin. There were hundreds of them, and the thugs stared at them, open-mouthed, not yet sure if it was to be their reckoning-if all the people they had turned into birds by their slow-witted, cruel magic had come back to exact revenge.
Fyodor used their consternation to break away and to run to the cabin, muttering, God please let her be alive with his split and bleeding lips that stung in the cold air. The cabin was darker than the outside, and he couldn't see a thing; he blundered inside blindly and immediately stepped on something soft and bumped his elbow against something hard.
"Oksana? he called into the darkness.
"In here, she replied, her voice surprisingly calm. Just wait a second and let your eyes get used to the darkness."
Slowly, like a photograph in a vat of developer, the inside came into focus, black and grey in the darkness. He discerned Oksana-unharmed, thank God-standing by the wall; the soft thing by his feet was Slava, alive but lying prostrate on the floor, with the barrel of a shotgun pressed against the nape of his neck; Elena was the one holding the shotgun. She shot Fyodor a friendly smile that flashed white in the darkness. Hi, she whispered. How many of the others are outside?"
"Just two, Fyodor said. And a shitload of birds."
He squinted into the darkness, and as his eyes adjusted to the twilight he realized that the fourth wall of the cabin had been subsumed by a gray fog that stretched somewhere far, into unimaginable dimensions. The swirling fog cleared and condensed again, allowing him only brief glimpses of the shadowy figures inside of it.
He stared into the fog as one would into a snow globe-the concerns about the thugs and the questions about Elena's unexpected presence melted away, leaving him charmed, entranced by the unfolding spectacle. The figures inside appeared distorted, as if one was looking through a soap bubble, but he recognized their long gray coats and the red stars on their hats, their military boots striking the ground in unison-the legendary First Cavalry, the product of propaganda and folklore in equal proportions; they passed through the bubble, each of their faces briefly magnified and distorted, and disappeared again into the fog.
Fyodor felt his throat tighten as he realized that he was not seeing real people but an entire epoch passing into realms unknown-all his childhood heroes, all the revolutionary soldiers he had been conditioned to admire as a child became irrelevant and disappeared into the mist. They did not look at him as they passed-perhaps they couldn't see him-but stared straight ahead. Their horses followed, with a subdued clip-clopping of shod hooves, their heads lowered, their eyes pensive, all of them bays with a white star on the forehead.
The vision passed, and the fog swirled again.
"What was it? he whispered to Elena.
She shrugged, never letting go of the shotgun's stock. Another era has moved underground."
"But those were not real live people."
"Of course not. They were symbols. Now, if you're done with asking irrelevant questions, will you give me a hand?"
He shook his head and winced-every movement resonated with a sharp pain in his skull. What do you need?"
"The two men outside, she reminded him. See if the birds are done with them."
He peeked through the doorway. It was completely dark now, but on the snow he saw two large dark spots, motionless and bulky like two beached whales. Yes, he said.
"Good. Elena moved the shotgun away from Slava's neck, and motioned for him to stand and move against the wall. Now, let's get this thing over with."
The walls of the cabin dissolved in a mild yellow radiance around them-Fyodor felt like the four of them stood on a stage, the audience hidden from them by the glare of footlights. But he could feel their presence in the undifferentiated glow, he could hear breathing and voices.
"All clear, Elena called into the light. Come on out."
Koschey was the first to emerge, his lips pressed close together in a habitual sour grimace of general disapproval of the state of things. In his bony hands he held two feathers-one black and one white-with the air of a stage magician.
"Bring out One-Eyed Likho, Elena said to him. I don't want him underground."
"I'm pretty sure they don't want him on the surface either, Koschey said.
Elena shrugged, her milk-white shoulder dipping out and back into her black dress. I can live with that."
Oksana touched Fyodor's sleeve. One-Eyed Likho, she whispered to him by way of explanation. It was in here, talking to him. She pointed at Slava. When it saw me it ran through the wall, but I guess they intercepted it."
Koschey allowed a small satisfied grin to light his hollow face. It was quite convenient. Likho stole your friends luck, see? And what is the worst luck if not running into Likho? They are practically designed for attracting misfortune. Too bad for them, but here we are."
"Where are they? Galina and Yakov, I mean? Fyodor said.
"They're coming, Koschey said. Apart from loss of luck they are all right."
Likho was the next to emerge from the glow-a slavering, wild thing that cast about with its hungry single eye, and Fyodor took an involuntary step back. It growled at him, so unlike the dry scratchy voice he had heard previously. Likho strained and fought, but a rope around its neck, held by several rusalki, kept him secured.
Yakov and Galina followed close behind. They both smiled and nodded at Fyodor, and he smiled and nodded back, unsure of the protocol. Were they his friends? Was he supposed to hug them or at least shake hands? He decided to remain aloof, and just hung in the background listening to Elena explain the situation to the new arrivals and introduce Slava to the gathering. The white rook who sat on the Tatar-Mongol's shoulder squawked indignantly.
"All right then, Elena said. This is everyone. What do you think, Koschey, what's first, the curse or the charm?"
"The curse, Koschey replied and stuffed the white feather into the pocket of his long black jacket. Fun stuff first."
He tossed the black feather at Slava; he ducked but the feather followed him like a target-seeking missile. It attached itself to Slava's head, and he cried out in pain as black, tar-like substance oozed from the feather, spreading over his face and his now screaming mouth.