Chapter 8:
Somewhere, not so much nestled as simply discarded in the middle of one of the many valleys of one or another of the Russias, is a village. Through the valley flows a silty and dull small river, which is nevertheless known for it’s unpredictability. Every year, several villagers die when a flash flood overturns their boats on an otherwise clear day, and every year, these flash floods end up depositing mud into people’s houses and onto the fields. The river is call the быка, or Byka River, for those not familiar (like the author) with reading Cyrillic.
Ordinarily, unless the floods happen at the same time as the harvest, as happened last year, and the year before that, the Byka’s silt would result in fertile farmland and decent crops. Farmers around the village grow barley, wheat, and a range of apples and berries. In short, an outside observer, might consider that the village had what it took to be a pleasant, prosperous hamlet, filled with hard-working happy peasants, who, as noted in the earlier chapters of the story, even had enough to eat, despite the evil and madness of their Tsar.
It may be a feature of the Russian spirit, or simply part of the general human condition, however, that when faced with the prospect of prosperity, people’s subconsciouses rebel, and insist that some obstacle be thrown up, just to make things more difficult. In the case of this village, it was rivalry between two priests of the Orthodox Church, both of whom commanded the loyalty of about 50% of the population of the area, and both of whom claimed to be the rightful priest of the village. So now, in addition to the periodic and unpredictable floods, the village also had two Russian Orthodox churches, their rounded and prominent onion domes across the main street from each other, two large rounded mounds signalling simultaneously the rivalry and the complete symmetry between the two sides. The adherents of the two churches would shout at each other on Sundays and occasionally burn down warehouses, pubs, houses and other establishments owned by members of the opposing congregation, until the next flood caused a disaster and differences were temporarily put aside to save the village.
They were united in the belief that natural disasters, like the floods, were a sign that God was angry with them, and for a few days, they would pray for forgiveness, and help their neighbours, until one or the other of the priests reminded them again that the reason God was angry and sent floods was the church and priest on the other side of the street.
With the floods and the self-inflicted catastrophes, the village had not managed to do much more than scrape by for the past 15 years, and the village was widely considered to be more or less useless as far as its overall contribution to the well-being of any of the Russias was concerned. The village was called Грудь (or Grud’, in English).
In the village, there had lived an old shoemaker and his wife, because we haven’t had a shoemaker yet. They are unimportant to this story except to say that they had a daughter, a shy, quiet girl, who was given oblique mention a couple of chapters ago. I don’t blame you if you missed it, but it’s there. I’m not going back to look for it now. Just trust me. The girl’s name was Thessela. Her parents had died leaving her the small cottage at the edge of the village, a bunch of shoemaker’s tools, and a deep desire to leave Grud’ forever. Sadly, being as useless as it was, and as unpredictably flooded or violent, no coaches passed through and Thessela didn’t have enough money for a horse of her own. She had little choice but to make shoes and try to save up enough money to leave.
She lived alone, not because she wasn’t beautiful. She was, of course. There were young men in the village who thought so as well. Unfortunately, her house sat right in the V of the crossroads of the main street that served as the cleavage between the two church domes, not on one side or the other, and she had never wanted to choose either side. She wanted to save money, and selling shoes to both sides sounded more lucrative than alienating one half of a village. Frankly, she didn’t quite understand what the fuss was about. Both domes looked equally round and both priests looked equally shifty in their big beards, black robes, and silver crosses. As a result, she wasn’t really accepted by either faction, unless someone needed shoes, and so she hadn’t been to church for quite some time. It always felt too uncomfortable going alone and having people whispering behind her back. Oh, people were polite to her when she went to the marketplace, but nobody really wanted to socialize. She wouldn’t have said she was lonely. She was more resigned to her situation, and dreamed of hopefully better days to come.
Unfortunately, what with Russian princes rampaging across the countryside on quests, vanquishing sorcerers, and hobnobbing with Ice Queens, things were apparently going to get a lot worse before they got better. Usually when something happened, in the village, like a flood or a fire, she managed to stay out of it, especially in winter when no Russian wants to go barefoot, but she did often end up with broken windows and sometimes rotten fruit thrown at her. So when she looked up and saw the Firebird flying swiftly overhead, toward the icy northern steppes, she braced herself for another round of annoyance.
Both priests saw the Firebird as well, at the same time, and immediately ran to the balconies of their respective churches (which had been set up to face each other for just this purpose) and began hurling loud verbal curses and invectives at each other, because of the portent of evil and disaster that this sign of fire foretold. This went on for a while until they both realized they were cursing each other for the same thing, at which point they decided that this time, there must be another cause for the sign. This time it was clear to them that it was time to get rid of the real divisive threat to their village and unite against the quiet, shy, shoemaker girl who never went to church.
Thessela was just finishing the sale of two pairs of boots she had made for two wandering adventurers, a Mr. Windarsky, and Mr. Repertorevitch, who seemed to have lost their own boots earlier in their travels. They were the first visitors she had seen in over 10 years, and she found their stories of enchanted lands of ice, hunger, and peril quite exciting. She could feel her blood pumping in places it normally didn’t pump quite so much just imagining the exciting trials and pains of that sort of life. As they left with their new boots, and she stashed the money they had paid under the loose floorboard, she sighed quietly and wondered when she would be able to have something happen to her, to test her strength and endurance.
“Oh,” she said to herself, “It sounds so thrilling. I don’t even know how I would react. I would find out if I had no choice, I suppose.” Fortunately, at that moment, her door burst in and an angry mob of villagers grabbed her by the arms and dragged her outside.
“Grab the witch,” they shouted. Thessela was grabbed, sometimes in places that nobody had ever grabbed, or at least in places she had only dreamed of being grabbed, up to that point. It wasn’t the same, of course, she reminded herself, as she stumbled along. She thought it was ironic that the villagers were all wearing shoes that she or her father had made, but she was barefoot.
“Burn the witch,” shouted someone. This brought a cheer. Thessela suddenly realized she was the witch in question, and that the simple villagers had decided that their normal reaction of burning things in response to adversity was now possibly going to be applied to her.
“Please don’t!” she said, but nobody was listening. Old Mr. Clodsky, the town clerk and record keeper finally suggested that they take her to the priests, and soon she was standing between the two churches facing two bearded black-robed men who glowered at her, happily united against her in their newfound détente. They agreed she was a witch and sentenced her to be burned at the stake, as soon as a stake could be erected and enough dry firewood could be found.
“Might be a while, your eminences,” said Clodsky. “Wednesday’s flood was pretty, er, wet.”
“We’ll just have to chain her up in the church until we’re ready then,” said Father Ivan, the priest of St. Basil on the Left.
“Whose church?” asked Father Boris, from the Church of St. Mary on the Right.
An argument broke out and there was some pushing and shoving until Clodsky pointed out that there was a perfectly good stocks sitting right between the two churches which, while a bit muddy and damp, could easily be cleaned off and used. Thessela found herself sitting with her feet in the stocks watching people run around her trying to find dry firewood. It was a change from her normal life, at least.
Meanwhile, just south of the village, a carpet swooped down on a couple of travellers wearing new boots.
“Don’t see that every day,” said Windarsky.
“I think I recognize that rug,” said Repertorevitch. He pulled out a couple of small flags from his coat, and began waving them as if to point directions. The carpet immediately circled round and came in to land smoothly on the road. A man in blue robes and a flying helmet jumped off.
“Vasili Repertorevitch!” said Wragg in surprise. “Haven’t seen you in, oh, centuries or something. Where and how have you been?”
“Rudi Wragg, you old rascal,” said Repertorevitch. “I’m fine now. A bit of trouble for a while in the land of a very powerful and terrible Ice Queen, but I’m back now. This is Mr. Windarsky, an adventurer.”
“Really?” said Wragg shaking hands. “And where do you do your adventuring?”
“I think somewhere warm would be nice,” said Windarsky. “But we survived the ice. We even ate our boots, like in all the old stories.”
“Splendid,” said Wragg. “Ah, here come my fellow travellers.” He gestured to the horses carrying Jollyrei and Messaline and the large wolf, approaching on the road. “I’m the advance reconnaissance party, you might say, eh, Repertorevitch.”
“I see,” said Repertorevitch. “Well if you’re looking for a place to stay, there’s a village just up ahead.”
“Oh yes,” said Wragg. “That’s Грудь на Быка (Grud’ na Byka). Still as screwed up as ever?”
“It still has two churches and poverty,” said Windarsky. “But the shoemaker is pretty and makes a fine pair of boots.” He showed off his new boots.
“Two churches?” asked Messaline. “Why? Is it a large town?”
“No, dear lady,” said Repertorevitch. “They just have two priests. These peasants are very religious.”
Messaline decided that Russians were very puzzling people. She looked at the village lying in the valley below. It reminded her of something.
“These churches?" she asked. "Do they have domes on them?”
“Oh, they almost certainly would,” said Jollyrei. “Most churches in Russia have lovely domes.”
“I see,” said Messaline. “What is the river called?”
“Oh, that’s the Byka River,” said Wragg. “See? Right here on the map. Translated that means the Bull River.”
“And the village is Grud’?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Wragg. “It means, er, Bosom, presumeably symbolizing a homey, comforting sort of thing.”
“Or breasts,” murmered Jollyrei.
“So ‘Grud’ na Byka’ would mean…”
“Tits on the Bull,” said Windarsky helpfully. There was a pause while people tried to decide where to look.
“It’s a fairly useless place,” said Jollyrei finally, when he felt he could keep his voice somewhat deadpan.
“Yeah, well,” said Repertorevitch, “the villagers are an odd bunch. Nasty, if you ask me, and those priests are completely bent. Watch out.”
“We fear no villagers,” said Jollyrei boldly, placing his hand on his sword hilt.
“Suit yourself,” said Windarsky. “Come on Rep. Let’s find someplace that has dancing girls.”
“With you, Windarsky old man,” said Repertorevitch. “This adventuring thing is much better than the old wizarding game,” he added to Wragg as they waved goodbye and hiked south.
“They seem happy enough, but I’m not sure they will find what they’re looking for,” said Messaline, idly scratching Rodentsov behind his wolf ears.
“Yes,” said Wragg. “Where are they going to find dancing girls out here, for one?”
“Let’s check out the village,” said Jollyrei. So they mounted up again and rode or flew down to the outskirts of Grud’, where they found the shoemaker’s cottage around twilight. Three small elves, about a foot tall, were sitting on the front step smoking their pipes.
“Uh oh,” said Winken Elf. “We’ve been spotted by some bigguns.”
“Shit,” said Blinken Elf. “Now what?”
“Act like we belong here,” said Nod Elf.
“We do belong here,” said Blinken. “We’re sodding Shoe Elves, ain’t we? We’re just not supposed to be seen.”
“Hello there,” said Wragg to the Elves.
“’Evening y’honour,” said Nod. “Pleasant evening to be passing through.”
“Yes,” said Wragg, looking around curiously. ”Yes. I say, do you live here?”
“Work here,” said Winken. “Elves. Fairy tale. Shoes.”
“Ah, of course, of course,” said Wragg. “And where would the shoemaker be? Asleep already at this hour?”
“No, m’lord,” said Blinken. “Harrassted.”
“You mean ‘arrested’?” asked Jollyrei.
“Well, kind of, but also harassed, on account of where they was grabbing her…” said Blnken.
“I”ll handle this,” said Rodentsov, assuming his squirrel form. The elves looked at him as though this sort of thing happened all the time. “So do you know where the shoemaker is now?”
“Probably up in the village. They said she was a witch,” said Nod.
“Is she a witch?” asked Messaline.
“No idea,” said Winken. “Gonna burn her at the stake anyway, ain’t they?
“Burn her!” said Messaline. “We must help her.”
“Right,” said Rodentsov. “Which way did they go?”
“Head for the churches, up Расщепление Дорога (Cleavage Road),” said Nod.
“We may be too late,” said Wragg.
“Nah,” said Blinken. “What with the flood on Wednesday there ain’t a stick of dry wood around for miles. It’ll be days before anyone has hot tea here, never mind a witch burning.”
“Come on,” said Messaline.
And so on they went. Wragg left his carpet with the elves who promised to look after it, as well as the two horses. Rodentsov urged caution, so they made their way carefully up the main road until they heard the sounds of jeering.
Jollyrei looked out across the square between the churches and saw a dark haired girl sitting quietly in the stocks, and trying to do so with some dignity, although her dress was torn, her feet were bare, she was slightly stained where rotten fruit had been thrown at her, and there was a broken egg on her head. As happens at this point in fairy tales, he thought he had never seen anyone so enchanting in all his life.
“What should we do?” asked Rodentsov. “I mean, she’s not really our problem.”
“Still,” said Wragg, “can we in good conscience just leave her here to wait for the firewood to dry?”
“You may be right,” said Rodentsov. “What do you think, Jollyrei.”
“Hmmm? What?” said the prince. “Isn’t she lovely?”
“He wants to rescue her,” said Rodentsov.
“Good,” said Wragg. “But how?”
“O merde!” said Messaline in frustration. She pulled a small knife out of her boot, and strode across the square like an avenging angel. “Away, peasants! Go, you pests!” She scattered groups of unruly teens and other onlookers behind her until she reached the stocks. Then she took the knife and started working on the lock.
“Hello?” said Thessela. “I don’t think we’ve met, but I’m happy you’re not throwing anything.”
“I am Messaline,” said Messaline, “I am a princess from France, and I am here with some people who are talking about rescuing you. Maybe this is what Russian men are like, but I was impatient.”
“What’s she doing?” asked Jollyrei.
“Picking the lock, I think,” said Wragg. “She has a lot of pluck, our princess. Still, it might not have been a wise move.”
“Those guards don’t look happy,” said Rodentsov uneasily. Indeed a couple of guards had begun to advance on Messaline.
“Now, miss,” said one, “you got to leave that alone and go on home now.”
Startled, Messaline stood and spun around, brandishing her small knife. The guards reacted about as you might expect and within a couple of minutes had overpowered Messaline. They started to drag her to the stocks. Rodentsov, pulled out his sword and charged in recklessly to save Messaline. He might have prevailed against a shorter foe, or perhaps against one, but against three it was an ultimately gallant show, but with no real chance of success. One of the guards threw a cloak over him and he was put into a wrought iron birdcage which they set down in front of the stocks. Messaline, meanwhile, was put in the stocks beside Thessela. She gave the guards a master class in French swear words for their trouble.
Rodentsov, in his cage in front of the stocks, tried to escape by changing into a wolf. All that did was fill the cage to almost bursting. It made a sort of “twang” sound, and looked like a gray furry pillow wrapped in iron bars. The furry gray pillow yelped in some pain, and turned back into an annoyed squirrel.
“I don’t think that went as well as you hoped,” said Thessela. “I’m Thessela.”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Messaline. She took Thessela’s hand. “This is not good, but do not worry. We will be rescued.”
“Do you think so?” asked Thessela dubiously. “Will it happen before I am burned as a witch?”
“Oh yes,” said Messaline confidently. “Prince Jollyrei rescued me once already. He will come soon, I’m sure. He is a brilliant strategist.”
Rodentsov rolled his eyes and sat down heavily in his cage.
“Do you need rescuing often?” asked Thessela doubtfully, not seeing any Russian princes in sight. “I’m a bit new at this.”
To be continued…
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, but since you did, I will now
