Two Cousins of Azov

It did not reply, but hunched down, almost hidden in the shadows.

‘You can’t hide! I’ve seen you! And … and I have a fierce dog! Baba will be out any minute. She knows about the old ways, and she won’t be scared! She’ll give you a good hiding!’

There was no reply. Tolya could see nothing, but Lev knew more, and a growl shuddered through him. A twig snapped not three metres from Tolya. He turned and fled, dashing on ship-wrecked legs back to the house as a tempest of barking filled his ears.

‘Baba, Baba, there’s something in the trees!’ He burst through the door. ‘A spirit! Moth boy! He’s flapping in the trees – I saw him!’

She was busy, knife in hand, a pile of bloody bones resting on the table in front of her. ‘What are you on about, boy? I’ve bones to boil, and you’re shrieking about spirits?’ A pot was already bubbling on the stove. ‘And look at this kindling – it won’t split itself!’ Baba jabbed her knife towards the stack of wood in the corner. ‘You and your stories—’

‘Really Baba, I really, really saw it! Look: Lev is still out there, he won’t come in! He’s growling at it. It’s in the trees! Look!’

He grabbed Baba’s arm and tugged her towards the window. She pulled away from his grip.

‘I see nothing, boy. Get the dog in. If he gets in the forest we won’t see him for a week.’

‘But he won’t come, Baba!’ cried Tolya, desperate. ‘Please!’

‘Akh!’ she spat, and grabbed up the lantern from the windowsill. Together they hurried out into the yard. ‘Lev! Come!’ shouted Baba, but the dog was at the gate, intent on the trees, still growling, ears back and dagger teeth shining. Baba made towards him with swift strides but stopped short at the well, head cocked to one side, sniffing the air.

‘It’s there, Baba!’ Tolya pointed into the darkness, where the eyes had glowed and the arm-wings had flapped. She said nothing, but held the lantern higher. Still Lev snarled, front paws coming off the ground in fierce jerks.

‘Show yourself!’ she bit out at last. ‘We know you’re there.’

Nothing stirred but the wind and the leaves.

‘No harm will come to you, that I promise. We are good folk.’

Tolya looked up at her, questions bubbling to his lips.

‘Hush!’ she commanded.

Lev growled, then split the dusk with a volley of barks.

In the darkness below the pines, a greyness rose, shaking the air like a mirage. A wretched, flapping, scarecrow figure emerged, cloaked in rags; an apparition as thin as paper, filmy like the skin on a pond. Baba eyed it carefully, frowning and squinting, and clicked her tongue, muttering under her breath.

‘Come closer, come here in the light – slowly, mind!’

The figure flickered, taking form out of the green and grey, solidifying from apparition to …

‘You’re no spirit. There’s no magic at work here,’ she said to Tolya, and then more loudly. ‘You’re no moth, are you? Who are you?’

The apparition moved closer, and in the soft light of the lantern, Tolya could see it was, in fact, just a boy. Older than him, taller, maybe sixteen or seventeen, but thin and strange. The boy stood still a while, then slowly raised his hands and flapped them in front of his face, in and out, in and out. Yellow-white teeth like standing stones split his mouth in a strange grin.

‘Hey!’ shouted Baba, and the flapping stopped. He shivered, round eyes standing out from skin as pale as milk, as pale as the moon. He reached out a hand, emaciated and ground with dirt, as if to touch the rays from the lantern in Baba’s hand. ‘Come closer!’ she said. ‘Come see! We won’t hurt you.’

The boy shuffled through the long brown grass until he stood at the fence on the edge of the yard. Again the hand reached out to the lantern, and this time gently tap-tap-tapped on the glass.

‘Baba!’ whispered Tolya, eyes round.

‘Who are you?’ asked Baba.

‘Yuri,’ answered the boy, his voice coming slowly to his lips, stilted and hoarse, pushed out on a sigh.

‘Where are you from, Yuri?’

The boy said nothing, and simply pointed over his shoulder in the direction of the forest.

‘Where are your people?’

The boy shrugged and stared at the lamp.

‘Are you hungry?’

He reached out slowly with the same emaciated hand, and nodded. His gaze hadn’t left the lamp, but Tolya saw his eyes were never still, flickering across-across-across as he looked into the light.

‘Is warm, your house?’ Yuri asked suddenly, smiling his strange toothy grin as his eyes oscillated in their sockets.

Lev sniffed at the boy’s calves, jaws hanging open, but made no sound.

‘It’s warm. And you are welcome.’

‘No, Baba! He scares me!’ Tolya pulled on her arm, but she flicked him off with an angry glance.

‘Quiet, Tolya! Come, we’ll have some broth, and you can warm yourself by the stove, Yuri.’ Baba’s eyes were watchful, and she peered in every direction as she strode back towards the cottage. Over the yard a silver moon rose, bright as a frozen sun, bathing the boys in its cold, blue light – one flapping, and one creeping behind.

The forest sighed, and wood smoke rose to meet the heavens.

‘Anatoly Borisovich!’

A jolt thumped through his chest. Strong hands clamped his shoulders and his head snapped back and forth.

‘Wha—? Who— oh!’ The shaking stopped. Green eyes stared into grey.

‘Did I fall asleep?’ Wings were flapping in his mind, shifting memories like leaves in the wind.

‘Yes,’ said Vlad, releasing his grip and easing himself back into the visitor’s chair. ‘I thought maybe … Well, you gave me a fright. You stopped talking and made a choking sound, like you couldn’t breathe. Like you were …’

‘Sleep, Vlad. There’s nothing to fear in sleep. It brings relief. You’ll learn that, as you get older.’

Vlad snorted and slowly smoothed the blankets across the old man’s bed.

‘Maybe so. But I’m glad it was just a … nap.’

‘I must sleep more. But I feel we made progress, don’t you?’

‘Well …’ Vlad pushed the chair onto its two back legs and regarded the old man with a small smile. ‘I can’t really see it, myself. Hearing about your childhood in Siberia is very interesting, and I can see that just talking, just reliving things, is making you feel better. There’s colour in those cheeks, Anatoly Borisovich!’ The old man returned his smile with a grin. ‘But I need to know about your breakdown in September, and I’m still interested in those scars, for my case study. I have to write a report on you – for my medical degree, and for your best interests.’ He leant close to the old man’s face, seeking his eyes. ‘And my report can’t really be about your babushka and Lev, and this moth boy, can it? Do you understand?’

‘Ah.’ Anatoly Borisovich’s hand floated up to his face and his fingers felt into the relief of his cheek, following the crevices and smooth patches: the map of his past. ‘But it’s all related … you need to understand … family …’