Read Online R1 - Rusalka by C. J. Cherryh - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: C. J. Cherryh
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had.
So he said nothing; and Pyetr said nothing the next morning about their being late on their way. Pyetr took a long time getting on his feet, sweated when he had done so and remarked that the morning was warmer than the last, when in fact Sasha felt no such thing and saw their breath frosting in the dawn.
Increasingly Sasha had a feeling of doom and disaster in their circumstances, while Pyetr once again began to talk disjointedly about Kiev, about the Great Tsar's court, about elephants and rocs, and golden roofs and how his father had seen the tsar once, and how his father had been a trader's son, and his grandfather had come out of the great east with a caravan; but of a mother Pyetr never spoke and Sasha finally asked:
"Had you no aunt or anything?"
"No," Pyetr said lightly, lying, Sasha was sure. "I didn't need one. My father got me in a dice-game."
"That can't be so."
"Ah," Pyetr laughed, but thinly, hard-breathing as they walked along the way. "The lad knows something, at least. Had you ever a lover, boy?"
"No."
"Not even a stray thought, yet?"
"No." It was embarrassing. It made him sound the fool. "There just weren't so many people." That was hardly right either. The Cockerel was full of neighbors. "At least—not my age."
"No girls."
"No girls."
"There's the tanner's daughter—Masha…"
He felt his face burn, and supposed that Pyetr and his friends had scouted all the town.
"Or the brewer's girl," Pyetr said. "—Katya, isn't it? With the freckles?"
"No," he said miserably.
"Not one."
"No, Pyetr Illitch."
"No wizardess, eh?"
"No," Sasha said, shortly this time. "What girl would have my luck?"
"Ah," Pyetr said, with a sudden little frown, as if the whole matter were news to him. And Pyetr nudged him suddenly with his elbow. "But if you had money, you could have a curse and warts and you'd have every father in Vojvoda pushing his daughter at you. And one sees no sign of warts."
The warmth stayed in Sasha's face. He knew it was red and he was glad of the forest shadow.
"The girls in Kiev," Pyetr said, and stopped, and put his hand on a tree trunk, saying nothing for a while, while Sasha stood there helplessly. "Damn!" Pyetr breathed finally.
"Pyetr, let me look at it. Let me see if I can do anything."
"No!" Pyetr said; and more quietly, on a second breath: "No. I'll be better—it's just a stitch. They come and they go."
Sasha had a terrible cold feeling of a sudden, not in the night this time, when things were always unreasonable, but by plain daylight, and all Pyetr's jokes had no power to dispel it.
"Let me see the bandages," he said. "Pyetr, please."
"No."
"Don't be a fool. Please let me help you."
"It's all right, dammit, let me alone!" Pyetr shoved away from the tree, walked again with his sword for a cane, not the Pyetr who had defied aunt Ilenka with a flaunt of his cap, but a tired, hurting man with his shoulders hunched and his steps short and unsteady.
Please the god, Sasha thought, and wished Pyetr Illitch well with all the strength he had, for once completely sure of what he wanted and with no doubt in him that it was right to wish.
And perhaps Pyetr was right and he was only a silly fool, because it did not seem Pyetr was any the better for it, not immediately and not for hours afterward. The only thing that could be said was that Pyetr stayed on his feet, walking slowly, and that Pyetr seemed to have no more such pangs, but Sasha had not the least idea whether that was a good sign or bad.
He could not make fire, he could not find so much as a minnow in the ice-filmed brooks they met, he found few berries and not a fluff of fur or a feather of any game in these woods.
Everything was dead. It was that time when the winter died, and much else did, and spring was not yet alive; it was the month for ghosts to walk and the sick and the old to
So he said nothing; and Pyetr said nothing the next morning about their being late on their way. Pyetr took a long time getting on his feet, sweated when he had done so and remarked that the morning was warmer than the last, when in fact Sasha felt no such thing and saw their breath frosting in the dawn.
Increasingly Sasha had a feeling of doom and disaster in their circumstances, while Pyetr once again began to talk disjointedly about Kiev, about the Great Tsar's court, about elephants and rocs, and golden roofs and how his father had seen the tsar once, and how his father had been a trader's son, and his grandfather had come out of the great east with a caravan; but of a mother Pyetr never spoke and Sasha finally asked:
"Had you no aunt or anything?"
"No," Pyetr said lightly, lying, Sasha was sure. "I didn't need one. My father got me in a dice-game."
"That can't be so."
"Ah," Pyetr laughed, but thinly, hard-breathing as they walked along the way. "The lad knows something, at least. Had you ever a lover, boy?"
"No."
"Not even a stray thought, yet?"
"No." It was embarrassing. It made him sound the fool. "There just weren't so many people." That was hardly right either. The Cockerel was full of neighbors. "At least—not my age."
"No girls."
"No girls."
"There's the tanner's daughter—Masha…"
He felt his face burn, and supposed that Pyetr and his friends had scouted all the town.
"Or the brewer's girl," Pyetr said. "—Katya, isn't it? With the freckles?"
"No," he said miserably.
"Not one."
"No, Pyetr Illitch."
"No wizardess, eh?"
"No," Sasha said, shortly this time. "What girl would have my luck?"
"Ah," Pyetr said, with a sudden little frown, as if the whole matter were news to him. And Pyetr nudged him suddenly with his elbow. "But if you had money, you could have a curse and warts and you'd have every father in Vojvoda pushing his daughter at you. And one sees no sign of warts."
The warmth stayed in Sasha's face. He knew it was red and he was glad of the forest shadow.
"The girls in Kiev," Pyetr said, and stopped, and put his hand on a tree trunk, saying nothing for a while, while Sasha stood there helplessly. "Damn!" Pyetr breathed finally.
"Pyetr, let me look at it. Let me see if I can do anything."
"No!" Pyetr said; and more quietly, on a second breath: "No. I'll be better—it's just a stitch. They come and they go."
Sasha had a terrible cold feeling of a sudden, not in the night this time, when things were always unreasonable, but by plain daylight, and all Pyetr's jokes had no power to dispel it.
"Let me see the bandages," he said. "Pyetr, please."
"No."
"Don't be a fool. Please let me help you."
"It's all right, dammit, let me alone!" Pyetr shoved away from the tree, walked again with his sword for a cane, not the Pyetr who had defied aunt Ilenka with a flaunt of his cap, but a tired, hurting man with his shoulders hunched and his steps short and unsteady.
Please the god, Sasha thought, and wished Pyetr Illitch well with all the strength he had, for once completely sure of what he wanted and with no doubt in him that it was right to wish.
And perhaps Pyetr was right and he was only a silly fool, because it did not seem Pyetr was any the better for it, not immediately and not for hours afterward. The only thing that could be said was that Pyetr stayed on his feet, walking slowly, and that Pyetr seemed to have no more such pangs, but Sasha had not the least idea whether that was a good sign or bad.
He could not make fire, he could not find so much as a minnow in the ice-filmed brooks they met, he found few berries and not a fluff of fur or a feather of any game in these woods.
Everything was dead. It was that time when the winter died, and much else did, and spring was not yet alive; it was the month for ghosts to walk and the sick and the old to
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