Militza nodded slowly as she exhaled steadily. ‘Perfectly. We’ll use the “Price”.’
Stana shook her head. ‘Militza, you can’t consort with the dead and expect to be left alone.’
‘Says who?’
‘Do you think you’re the only person who can dance with the Devil and expect him to listen when you ask to stop?’
‘I have looked the Devil in the eye.’ Militza raised her eyebrows, sounding pleased with herself. ‘All those séances, all those times we have used the Ouija board, where do you think I went?’
‘You are scaring me now.’
‘Don’t be so weak. You have known about our power all your life; it goes back centuries. Now is the time to use it.’
‘But you will open Pandora’s Box!’
‘And then…’ said Militza, stubbing her cigarette in a silver ashtray, ‘I shall close it.’
That night, the three of them gathered in the library.
Stana had spent the rest of the day begging her sister not to perform the manifestation, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. Militza had promised the Tsarina that she should have someone ‘new’ and she, Militza, would provide him. Her logic was that if she manifested him, if she asked Spirit to provide him, then he would forever be in her thrall. She wanted someone truly powerful, who had control over life and death; and as she would provide him, she would be the one to control him. He would be her little monster. And she would keep him to heel.
So that fateful All Hallows’ Eve in 1905, while Peter and Nikolasha went into St Petersburg to see Chekhov’s play The Three Sisters, the two sisters and Brana took out the ancient bowl from the trunk Militza had brought with her from Cetinje and filled it with herbs, henbane and hashish. As the bowl began to crackle and smoke, Brana brought out a large carpetbag which she placed in the centre of the room.
Militza stood in the far corner of the library and peeled back her eyelids. Staring into the small hand mirror she had brought with her, she administered the belladonna drops: each squeeze of the pipette causing her to wince at the stinging pain. Then she began to chant, swaying from side to side with her eyes closed, inhaling the smoke, repeating her mantra, calling for her spirit guide. Her nostrils flared and her breath grew deeper, her bosom heaving as she felt him enter the room. The candles flickered and the curtains billowed and her chanting grew more frantic; over and over she said the words, biting her bottom lip, trying to control herself. Her shoulders quivered and her back arched as she let out a small, ecstatic sigh, she gripped on to the table with her slim white hands when he did finally enter her. She exhaled at last and opened her eyes. Her mouth open, her lips engorged, she kept hold of the table to steady herself.
‘He is here,’ she said gently, smiling, caressing her own soft cheek with her warm hand. ‘And he’s excited.’ She paused. ‘Brana,’ she said, as if trying to gather her thoughts. She exhaled deeply. ‘Gosh,’ she said, her eyes rolling in her head, as she slowly circled her hips. ‘I am not sure I have ever felt him this strongly before… Brana?’ She exhaled again, her eyelids fluttering. ‘Is it nearly midnight?’
‘Almost,’ the crone said.
‘Then we have no time to waste.’
Brana delved into her bag and brought out a glass bowl, a square of pink wax, a pot of dust, then out of a net amulet around her neck, she produced a small wooden cross. Militza placed on the table the icon that Philippe had given her of St John the Baptist.
‘You can’t use that!’ said Stana, looking horrified.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s against God, against Nature.’
‘To hell with that!’ Militza replied.
‘But it is sacred.’
‘All the more reason to use it.’ Militza smiled. ‘Quick, you fill the bowl with water; Brana, you warm the wax.’
The women worked quickly and soon the bowl was full, the wax soft and malleable in Militza’s hand. Her fingers were dexterous as she pulled and teased and the figure of a man slowly began to emerge from the wax. It was a simple effigy; she didn’t have to time to make individual legs.
‘He can wear robes,’ said Militza, as she fashioned his feet. ‘Oh,’ she smiled. ‘We must not forget this.’ She pulled at the wax between his legs. ‘Every man must have a member!’
‘But so big!’ said Stana.
Militza giggled. ‘Don’t be so prudish! And she made it a little longer, just for fun. The hashish must have been stronger than usual. ‘There!’ she said as she dropped it into the bowl. The little wax doll bobbed around in the water, the candlelight dancing with him. He looked part baby, part monk, part holy satyr. ‘Now,’ she continued, ‘the dust from a poor man’s grave.’ Brana handed her the small pot. ‘Collected at dawn this morning?’
Brana nodded. ‘From a grave in the village, an old horse rustler, I think.’
Militza took a pinch of the dust and sprinkled it into the bowl. As she did so, she began to chant.
‘Koldun, Koldun come to me, Koldun, Koldun come to me. Koldun, Koldun come to me and together we can set the Tsarina free.’
The little figure continued to float and bob around in the water.
‘Next, the cross. The icon. And the mirror – the invention of the Devil himself!’ she laughed.
In one swift movement she slammed the icon face down on the table. Stana closed her eyes. She could not bear to look. Next Militza dropped the wooden cross on the floor and she began to grind it under foot. As she did so, she placed the mirror next to the bowl so that it reflected the candlelight and intensified it, like a bright moonbeam, on to the bouncing figure.
‘Koldun, Koldun come to me,’ she began again as she stamped her foot up and down on the cross, pulverizing it under her heel. ‘Koldun, Koldun come to me. Koldun, Koldun come to me, and together we can make the Tsarevich better be.’
Still the small pink figure bounced up and down in the water.
‘And now the “Price”!’ Militza turned and smiled at Brana.
Brana nodded and she bent down, opened up her carpetbag once more and brought out a large, leather-bound Bible. She opened it and gently pulled apart the pages to reveal what looked like a blackened, crisp, oddly shaped piece of paper. Stana inhaled in horror.
‘The “Price”!’ Militza’s eyes shone. ‘What better way to summon a magician, a sorcerer, a Koldun? What better way than to use the unshriven, unblemished soul of a dead baby? It doesn’t get more perfect than that. To create life, you must take it – and here is a life taken.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Stana, her hands shaking, her mouth twitching.
‘I have never been surer of anything!’ her sister said as she plunged what remained of Grand Duchess Vladimir’s miscarried foetus into the water.
‘Koldun, Koldun come to me…’ She swirled the water around the bowl. ‘Koldun, Koldun come to me.’ The water gradually began to turn red, blood red, as the foetus slowly began to disintegrate and finally dissolve. ‘Koldun, Koldun come to me, and together we can all powerful be.’
The curtains at the window began to sway and the table started to vibrate. Eventually, the whole room was shaking, as if hit by an earthquake. The noise was intense. The three women held on to the table so as not to be thrown over. Militza laughed, hugely, loudly, her mouth wide open, her larynx vibrating. It sounded diabolic. Stana screamed but Brana merely stood her ground. And then, as quickly as it arrived, it was gone. All that remained was an empty bowl of bloodied water.
‘Where’s it gone?’ asked Stana, staring into the empty bowl, her heart pounding.