Chapter 5

Dead Flies//Superstitions

The red thread snaps between my splitting fingertips. At this rate, I had expected the brittle bones of my hands to break first, but the tapestry knows when it’s finished. My joints creak as I stand and take a step back to examine the fully woven scene.
The scene portrays the life of an ancient coniferous forest. Fresh saplings take root in soft soil. As time marches on, they grow taller and stronger until the tops of the trees reach the stars. Centuries old, these trees are deeply rooted into the history of the earth from which they grow. This forest has been witness to the rise and fall of civilizations.
However, empires fall. Further along the tapestry, fire and smoke overtakes the trees, resilient until the end. The old giants are nothing but skeletons, and the forest a graveyard.
I strain my eyes as I pick apart the scene, leaning in close to make sure that I don’t miss anything. There, where the ashes have settled on the earth, the smallest pinprick of green; a fresh leaf opening up to the sky. Out with the old, in with the new. Finally.
I loudly clear my throat and nudge the pile of feathers snoring off to the side, “Prince Ivan, wake up, there’s work to do.”
With a hiccup, the ‘honk-shoos’ stop and a wobbly head snakes up off of the floor. A man’s voice escapes from the short beak of the goose, “Hm? What was that? Work to do?”
“So you do pay attention. Yes, I need you to go out and get me the news. I need to know what’s happening out there, it’s been far too long.”
“Too long indeed. Much too long for you to ask so much of me and my stiff wings, ma’am,” He gets his webbed feet under him and stands up, stretching his wings to either side, one at a time.
“Oh boo hoo it’s not my fault you’re a lazy slob, you could use the exercise. I don’t wanna see you until you bring what I’ve asked for.”
Prince Ivan snaps at the air with his beak and waddles over to a closed window facing west. His empty eyes stare at me impatiently.
Starting with his window, to let the prince out, I make my way through the small house, opening all of the windows and doors. From each of the windowsills, I flick a collection of black flies that have settled in the dust, having died looking for an escape. They take flight one last time, into a dark, endless expanse of trees.
I move to a thin closet in the corner, from which I produce a broom, tangled in spiderwebs. I tap it on the floor to dispel the silk and proceed to sweep as much dirt and dust out the back door, where it drifts several feet to the soil below.
Finally, I stack kindling in the hearth and dig through a drawer until I find a matchbook. As I go to strike a match on the red phosphorous strip, I notice the picture on the matchbook cover; a faded cosmonaut drifting through space. I remember the face of the young boy who gifted these matches to me in return for a fortune telling. It was in Moscow in 1962 and the boy wanted to know if he would see the stars.
Just like the light of the stars travels thousands of light years for us to see, even after death, the flames from this matchbook transcend generations. I light the fire with a 130 year old flame and, just like me, the house creaks as its stilts struggle to lift it off of the ground and slowly lumber through the woods. The house marches on for several days, slowly but surely. It gives me plenty of time to prepare.
Midway through the second day of travel, there’s a crash by the window as Prince Ivan returns from his journey. Bless his soul, the clumsy bastard clips a wing on the house as he flies in, skidding across the wooden floor and crumpling the newspapers clamped in his beak.
“Sorry ma’am, you haven’t sent me so far in so long, I’m afraid I’ve been out of practice.” His voice croaks out of his long throat after he waddles over to my seat, dropping the wrinkled and somewhat wet papers at my feet.
“You buffoon, you never were ‘in practice,’ you would have made a better cow, surely.” I pick up the newspapers and begin flipping through them.
Prince Ivan moves to the fire, crackling in the hearth, and plops down, legs outstretched behind him and wings flat on the floor on either side of him.
There are several different papers here, mostly local news, but a couple of them are more broad. The headlines don’t give me what I need, albeit dramatic compared to the last time I checked in –
BREAKING NEWS: PRESIDENT POPOV SUCCESSFULLY SHUTS DOWN INTERNAL COUP
NEW OIL RIG FINALLY BREAKS GROUND IN SERBIAN TERRITORY IN UKRAINE
LOCAL RIVER WATER LEVELS HIGH THIS SUMMER, A GREAT YEAR FOR FISHING (warning: wild-caught fish are not to be eaten. If consumed, please contact your doctor immediately)
BOUNTY INCREASE FOR OUR PESKY BEAR AFTER ANOTHER PET GOES MISSING
SIXTEEN DEAD IN LOCAL OUTBREAK OF ICE FLU, CITY RESIDENTS ENCOURAGED NOT TO LEAVE THEIR HOMES UNLESS NECESSARY
I have to open the papers to find what I’m looking for, which is on the third page of the Russian National Press, after the story of the coup –
“MAKING OUR NATION PROUD: 15 dancers hand selected from ballet troupes based in the cities of St. Petersburg, Bratsk, and Novosibirsk to join the international dance team in Berlin for a performance in front of the world leaders at the year’s end.
“Including our own President Popov, leaders of most European countries as well as China, America, South Africa, Brazil, and North and South Korea will be present to sign a religious treaty, designating these countries as a union under One God. This will be a celebration of newfound peace and unity and our nation is ecstatic to be providing a quarter of the performing dance troupe.”
I skim through the rest of the article and flip through several more pages, looking for any more interesting details. I remember the city of Bratsk fairly well, as it’s more fresh on my mind than many others. “Prince Ivan,” I interrupt his nap at my feet by the fire and he lazily lifts his head to turn an eye towards me, listening. “You useless bird, did you not get the city paper from Bratsk?”
A deflating sound escapes his beak, what could be interpreted as a sigh, and his head drops back to the floor. He answers tiredly, “I did, you just aren’t looking hard enough. So quick to assume my negligence.” He lifts his head again to be heard clearly, “I visited it after Verkhne, so it probably got slipped in with that paper. I can only stay so organized with a beak and no hands.”
I dig through the stack until I find the Verkhne paper and, sure enough, there’s another newspaper folded into the pages of the first. I don’t say anything as I separate them and begin reading. I hear the thump of Prince Ivan’s head hitting the floor once more, soon followed by the steady, nasally sound of his unconscious breathing.
The headline is something about a local factory burning down in a mysterious fire, but in the margins of the front page is a directory showing where to find more specific news stories, I flip to the one titled “Bratsk dancers to represent the nation in upcoming international conference.”
It isn’t a long article, as the list of dancers isn’t long itself, but under a picture of the local ballet troupe is an excerpt on those who accepted their offers. Several dancers opted out and requested their names be omitted from the article, but most importantly, my eyes immediately catch the name that I felt would be there from the beginning –Dimitri Tsovetsky– the young girl whose fate was woven into my tapestry from the moment she stepped foot on those circus grounds a decade ago.
The young woman is easy to spot in the group photo, front and center and dressed in flames. She’s talented, beautiful, and confident; the perfect concoction for an idol, for a national treasure, and most importantly, a catalyst for change.
I circle the name and push myself out of the high-backed, winged chair that I’m in to toss the entire paper into the fire. The house creaks as it takes a sharp turn towards the east. We have a destination.
It’s a struggle to tiptoe around Prince Ivan, stretched out on the floor, but I avoid disrupting him as I move to the finished tapestry, still mounted on the loom. I spend the rest of the afternoon tying up loose ends and removing the tapestry from the loom so that it will be ready for the next artisan.
The wall to the left of the fireplace has had the same old tapestry on it since I began my own. I reach up and remove it from the nails on which it hangs and, with great care not to shake off some two hundred years of dust in the house, bring it to the back door and onto the porch. I drape it over the railing. The house sways from side to side as it travels across the land. I look out past the tapestry on the railing and into the woods as trees pass by and fade away. The air smells fresh with dry pine needles and the only sounds are that of branches snapping under the stilts of my home and the croaking of ravens unseen in the canopy.
One stilt hits a soft spot in the soil and the whole building lurches to the side, causing me to reach for the door frame to catch myself from falling over. My own bones ache when I do so, mimicking the sound of the house as it struggles to right itself and continue forward. Once stable, I duck back inside and return with my broom to beat the dust out of the strands of thread making up the tapestry. Now that it is somewhat clean, it’s clear that the vibrancy of the colors haven’t faded one bit over time.
This piece portrays a barren yet beautiful arctic landscape. Snow capped mountains break up the horizon and country-sized glaciers expand across the valleys. It is only on the edges of the tapestry, however, that any greenery pops up –in the form of grasses, flowers, and saplings. It’s larger than my tapestry and heavy with the history that it carries within each knot.
I’m winded and sore by the time I get the large woven scene folded neatly and stashed in a chest near the fireplace. I place it atop one other piece in the chest, which is significantly smaller than this one or my own. I spend the last of my energy for the day hanging the newly finished scene on the wall in place of the old and then melt back into my chair and drift off.
When I wake up, the house is stationary once again. Prince Ivan is no longer in front of the hearth where I left him, but there’s several new gray feathers on the floor in front of the window from which he enters and leaves. I slowly make my way to the window and look out at the new scene expanding in front of me. We’re parked at the edge of a wooded area, the city of Bratsk rising from the earth in the distance, mirroring the forest with concrete and asphalt. Prince Ivan is scratching at a patch of grass nearby and picking whatever grubs from the shrubbery that he can to snack on.
“Prince Ivan!” He snaps his head towards me, startled, “How long was I asleep? Have you explored the area yet or been useless this whole time?”
He begrudgingly swallows a couple more seeds he managed to dig up and then honks out his answer, “Three days since you fell asleep, ma’am. I left the recent city news on the table inside.”
“Oh good, you were helpful. Come inside and I’ll open up the pantry so you can eat more than ditch shrubs.”
“Oh thank you, ma’am, I am quite sick of the lack of good food out here.” He’s wobbly as he takes flight, but this time manages not to run into anything as he enters the lifted house. “Last time we were here, I remember the river being bigger and there being a full reservoir! Now many of the river’s offshoots are dried up and the water level is low.”
“Interesting, the papers say the level is higher than usual in other cities, they must have gotten accustomed to dry summers. I’m afraid much has changed in a short amount of time, Prince Ivan.”
“I agree, ma’am, I may not be as old and smart as you, but even I can tell that these changes have happened too fast. Do you think it’s a curse? You didn’t curse anyone recently, did you?”
“No, I haven’t cursed anyone in the past 60 years, you idiot. But you are right about something being off this time, but that’s why we’re here.” I open the pantry and Prince Ivan loses all sense of courtesy, going feral for a bag of stale bread. Staying out of his tornado of crumbs, I move to the table and pick up the newspapers he collected.
The front page of today’s paper reads “Another local mine shuts down after another cave in and six workers fall ill. All remaining mines in our region to remain closed and miners encouraged to apply for unemployment until this issue is resolved.” Reading through other papers, I piece together the information that I need regarding these cave-ins and this mysterious Ice Flu.
“Prince Ivan, you may be an idiot, but maybe there is a curse…”
He honks in response, bread crumbs spilling from his beak in the process.
“Good gods, I take it back, you’re worse than an idiot.” I toss all the papers into the fireplace, which has dwindled to just glowing embers, but flames spit back up to consume the offering.
I wander around the house, collecting various items and return to the table, spreading out a deck of cards and three large, uncolored beeswax candles. I light the candles in a semi-circle around the cards and then pull three cards, placing each one in front of a candle, with the deck upside-down and placed between myself and the rest of the cards. I flip the top card so that I have four cards face-up. It doesn’t take long for me to decipher the reading.
The middle card, atop the deck, is the most important. It’s the focal point of the spread and it shows the Wheel of Fortune; inevitable change. To the left is the Hierophant; traditions of the past directly influencing the modern day. Above, representing the present, is the Fool. He is reversed, however, in a reckless and impressionable state. Finally, looking to the future, is the Hanged Man, the martyr.
I blow out the candles, return the cards to the deck, shuffle them, and leave them stacked on the table to await my return.
“I hope you’ve had enough to eat, Prince Ivan, it’s time to go out.”
He makes that deflated noise he’s so good at and before he can even argue, begins to grow and transform into a middle aged man. His hair matches the dark, ashen gray of the feathers he previously donned and his face shows the effects of time, but not so much to diminish his handsome features. He’s dressed in a long, heavy tunic of red and gold, fit for a prince and plucked out of the 19th century.
I give him a once-over and cackle, “There should be some extra clothing in the wardrobe, change into something a little less… eye-catching, would you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He takes several clumsy steps towards the corner of the room, where the large wardrobe is, waddling more than walking. Several more steps and he seems to grow more comfortable with his feet and strides more naturally.
I turn away to give him some privacy as he changes. Once Prince Ivan is finished, he arrives by my side. Fortunately, he’s been paying attention to what people wear in the cities these days and has chosen a simple pair of baggy blue jeans and a long sleeve, button-up shirt.
With Prince Ivan presentable, I move to the kitchen cabinets at one end of the room and dig through them until I find a handheld mortar and pestle, which I hand to the prince. “Go put some charcoal in this from the fireplace, would you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He does as he’s told, returning with dusted fingers and the stone bowl, now half full of soot and charred wood.
“Good, now let’s do this outside, you remember what to do?”
He responds as we walk out the front door and carefully descend the rickety wooden steps down to the soft dirt below. “It’s been several years, but it’s hard to mess up grinding charcoal in a mortar. I can do it, ma’am.”
“That’s what I like to hear, now don’t disappoint, Prince Ivan. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
He begins to steadily stir the pestle clockwise, grinding the charcoal into smaller and smaller pieces. Once the pieces begin to become more uniform, I dig into my deep pockets and add a dash of rust-colored dust to the mortar, muttering the correct words under my breath. Around us, the dirt on which we stand lifts into the air and spirals around us at the same speed that Prince Ivan grinds the charcoal into a fine soot.
Soon, the dust devil takes form around us. At first, we are lifted into a carriage, a half-formed horse tethered to my hands by long reins that drape over the edge of the vehicle.
“Keep going, Prince Ivan.”
Next, I’m at the wheel of a loud, boxy car –sputtering in space like a horse frothing at the starting line of a race track.
“Keep going.” I feel a heaviness drape over my eyes as the spell wears on me. I’m not nearly relevant enough these days to have the power necessary to complete complex miracles such as this.
Prince Ivan notices my fatigue and works faster, the fine dust escaping to join the rest of the illusion in the air.
Finally, our bodies shift into the cracked leather seats of a 21st century car, my fingers are loosely wrapped around the cushioned steering wheel, fit with buttons and lights. I tighten my grip and then relax into the seat. The world outside of the windows is quiet again and this vehicle is powered not by a horse, but a colony of wasps under the hood.
Prince Ivan’s hands have settled and are now empty.
“Trade me places, I can’t drive, but don’t leave the vehicle or the illusion will dissolve.” I open the driver’s door and hobble around the hood of the car, gray paint flaking off to expose the rusted metal underneath. Inside the car, I watch as Prince Ivan crawls over the center console and into the driver’s seat. Another flake of paint floats to the forest floor and disappears as the car shifts with his weight.
“Um…” Prince Ivan opens his mouth once I’m settled in the passenger seat. “How do I drive, again?” His hands are hesitantly placed on the steering wheel and he stares ahead, eyebrows furrowed.
I suck in the air around me and hold it for a moment before sharply exhaling. “It’s just like riding a bike, as they say, you’ll remember soon enough. If it helps, we’re in park, so maybe start by shifting into drive.” I tap the gear shift set between us.
“Right, just like riding a bike…” He stays still for a moment longer and then attempts to shift into drive, but nothing happens.
“You have to press the break, you buffoon.”
“Ah! Yes! No, I think I’m beginning to remember.” This time, he’s successful in shifting gears and I can see his shoulders drop a hair as the car inches forward.
Eventually, Prince Ivan does, in fact, remember how to drive the old car. We pull out of the woods and soon enough, find a dirt road that eventually connects to a paved road, which eventually escorts us into the city. At the speed he’s driving, it takes us nearly an hour to reach the concrete structures and pale paint jobs that fill the region. Many of the streets are quiet and luckily there is very little traffic for the prince to have to navigate.
“Did you know that I’ve never ridden a bike?” Prince Ivan breaks the silence as the buildings become more compact in the space.
I sigh and turn on the radio, fiddling with the station knob until static turns into music. “Turn right here, there’s no need to test your skills in the inner city. If my instincts are correct, the girl lives in the outer residential areas anyway.”
We sputter along through side streets and neighborhoods for another 45 minutes before I tell the prince to pull up next to a beige house, just like all the others, and park the car. “Stay put, I’ll try not to be too long, but this could take me a bit. Luckily, the girl’s mother actually has some respect for myself and the other old gods of this region,”
I open the passenger door and make my way to the front door of the house. I can feel that I’m in the right place, enough so that I don’t look back to ensure the illusion of the car is still solid.
I knock on the door and wait patiently. I can hear movement inside and quiet arguing, but act like I can’t see the woman peeking through closed blinds from the nearby window.
It takes another moment before I hear the lock click and the door opens a crack. The woman projects her voice through the narrow opening, “Ah, privyet, can I help you?”
I respond in my warmest, most grandmotherly voice, “Privyet, privyet. I’m sorry to bother you, darling, but is there any chance you could give a listening ear to an old god who has done the same for you and your people for centuries?”
I must look like the sun, the way she squints at me before responding, “I’m sorry, do I know you?”
I smile. “Better than you might expect, my dear. Although we have only met once before, it is your daughter that will better know my face and voice, and it is for her that I have come to your home. You will know me as the Baba Yaga, but you may just call me Baba. Now, again, I’ve heard your prayers for a lifetime, will you do the same for me, just this once?”
As clouds obscure the sun, her eyebrows lift and eyes go wide, now seeing me clearly. “Can it really be…?”
“Of course, my dear Katya Tsovetsky, once Katya Vasilisa. I know you, and I see it in your eyes that you know me.” Her face softens and she opens the door for me to enter. True faith is blind, and she’s been staring into the sun for decades.
“You know,” Katya closes and locks the door behind me and then continues to speak as she leads me through the house and into the kitchen, “I always knew it was you. Dimitri told me of her experience in your circus tent those years ago. I knew your paths would truly cross again, and I believe you have come at the perfect time.”
In the kitchen, her husband stands with a cup of coffee in his hands. Katya’s own cup is left on the counter, awaiting her return. The bear of a man addresses Katya upon our arrival, “Katya, I didn’t know we were expecting company.”
“Maybe not,” she responds to him and motions to me, “but this is company that is always welcome in our home. Alexei, meet Baba, Baba Yaga to be precise.”
There’s a difference between blind faith in a god and the loyal faith found in love. His faith is in her, not me, and that is written across the hardened wrinkles of his face as he glances between us. He stays respectful, “Well, Baba Yaga, can I make you a cup of coffee or tea? I’m afraid we don’t have any cauldrons to brew anything stronger.” He chuckles at his own joke but bites his tongue when his wife shoots him a warning glare.
I let out a cackle in response. “Don’t you worry, Mr. Alexei, I would have brought my own if that’s what I desired. I will take whatever tea you have, but black if it’s available.”
He laughs again, but this time more wary of the wife, “We can do that! Black tea coming right up.” He moves across the kitchen to the stove and begins boiling water in a kettle. The water must have recently been heated, because it doesn’t take long to reach a rolling boil. Alexei brews the tea and delivers the mug to me. We all find a seat at the table and he speaks again, “Well, aside from the tea, how can we help you this morning?”
I take a long drink of the tea, which burns down my throat, but the brew is strong and satisfying. “Ahh, I haven’t had a good strong cup of tea like this in a while, I think I could leave satisfied already. That is not why I am here, however. I’m here because my fate and the fate of your daughter are entwined. I know that she has recently been recruited for an important performance, and I have no intention of preventing her from participating, but I would like to bring her to my home for some time.”
Katya interrupts before I can go on, “We aren’t letting the kids travel until this flu business has settled.”
“Ah, you’re calling it a flu now, but that’s not really what you think it is, do you?”
Her eyes meet mine, knowing.
“I don’t blame you for being afraid, but I assure you, your daughter will be safest with me. I believe she needs to make it to Berlin for the treaty signing more than you know. That trek is too much for me, and I have a bad feeling about where this treaty could lead. I need her to represent me there, but I also have reason to believe that she has already been exposed to this curse.”
Katya and Alexei both look at me in disbelief. Or maybe a touch of fear.
“How long?” Katya asks.
“Oh, not too long, a month or so? I can have her home in time to be with the family for some time before needing to travel to Europe to train with the new troupe. Treaties like this never stick to schedule anyway, we have more time than you may think.”
Alexei’s hand moves to scratch at his scalp. “I don’t know, how do we know this is real and we can trust you?”
“You don’t, fear and faith go hand in hand, and I’m not going to twist your arm. Nothing is set in stone, the threads of fate can be cut and rewoven, but nothing can fix the gap that doing so leaves in the tapestry.”
“Speaking in riddles, why am I surprised?” There’s a rumble of frustration in his voice, “The legends portray you as a witch and an antagonist just as much as they do a protagonist.”
“I will not deny such a truth, but there is a time limit on this decision, so I’d suggest coming to a conclusion on whether my intentions are nefarious sooner rather than later. Once I leave here today, I will not be returning.”
Katya looks to her husband. She has made up her mind, and her eyes are asking him to understand. He sighs. In submission or solidarity, I don’t think even he knows.
“I think we should give Dimitri the option to have a say as well.” Alexei refuses to sing her fate into existence.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear, I look up from another sip of tea and meet the eyes of the girl herself. Dimitri has grown exponentially since I last saw her, and the newspaper picture did not do her justice. However, the confidence that oozed out of her in that picture is now replaced with a tension that could snap with one more gust of wind.
“Baba?” She interrupts her own previous thoughts to address me.
I smile wide, “Why yes, dear! It’s your sweet old Baba! It’s been years, but if my memory serves me well, you once told me about a carousel ride that you enjoyed very much. I’d like to bring you back to that memory for a while.”
One side of her upper lip curls up into a subtle snarl, “That’s not suspicious at all.”
I laugh, but decide not to explain. Besides, I don’t have time to as her father addresses the girl.
“Dimitri, is something wrong? You came in looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She glances at me, “I may as well have now.” She returns her gaze to her father, “But no, I have uh, some potentially bad news…”
She avoids looking at her mother, which is telling enough. I watch the interaction with interest.
“Um… Lev is sick. So are his parents. They’re on their way to the hospital now…”
Katya places the mug in her hands on the table and takes a breath to keep her head. “I knew it. That’s it, the decision has been made.”
“What decision? What?” Dimitri finally looks at her mother, and then at her father for proper answers.
He gives what he can, “Well, we were going to let you have a say in the matter. Baba, here, wants to bring you to her home. We think it may be best for you to stay with her for a bit so that you don’t get sick. And it seems that Baba was right when she said you had already been exposed… She seems to think she can ensure your health and safety, and your mother and I agree–”
“WHAT!? You want me to go live with this crazy bat? I’m supposed to be going to Europe at the end of the summer! I can’t just give up on my dreams for this! And I can’t just abandon Lev and the team!”
“And we’re not making you do that, Di!” her father quickly assures her. “Baba Yaga wants you to perform just as much as we do! You’ll be back in time to join the troupe in Europe, don’t worry.”
“Baba Yaga? Now I get it.” She looks at her mother, “Mama?”
Katya meets her eyes, “Dimitri, I just want you to be safe, you know this. And I really do want you to take the opportunity to perform, I just think this is the best bet for you to do so. I know you may not hold faith in the gods themselves, but can you trust your mother just this once?”
She resembles her father in this moment, sighing heavily. “What about Mikhail?”
“Your brother will be fine.” I assure her this time, finally reinserting myself into the conversation, “I’m afraid I only have room for one in my home, but I can do my part in warding your family against curses and viruses before we leave.”
“Arguing isn’t going to help me here, will it?” She asks her parents, who shake their heads in response. “Whatever, fine. Fuck this. Do I have to leave now?”
This time, I nod in response, “You don’t need to bring much, but grab a bag of your personal belongings and we’ll be ready to go.”
She grumbles under her breath but acquits herself and stomps off. I can hear her knock and enter a room, followed by a muffled conversation.
As Dimitri prepares, I fulfill my part of the bargain and make several salt piles near all the house exits, muttering protective incantations as I work.
After several minutes and the sounds of more shuffling and stomping in the back rooms, Dimitri returns with a pack slung over her shoulder. Her eyes are red and her cheeks glisten. A young man follows her into the kitchen, taller than her but with an uncanny resemblance. He looks nearly as upset, but there’s a hint of curiosity in his eyes as he studies me. There’s a sense of faith that emanates from him once he acknowledges me, not nearly as unhindered as his mother’s, but there regardless.
“Ready?” I replace the remaining sea salt into its pouch and shove it into one of my deep pockets.
“Whatever.” She spends a moment hugging and saying farewell to her family before walking to the front door, not bothering to wait for me.
Once we’re outside, I see the look of concern on her face before I look further, to the street, and see the ripples of a failing illusion. It’s as if heat waves have shrouded the small gray car, making it falter in and out of existence. Trapped within, however, is the far-too-solid form of a man, nodding off to dreamland.
“PRINCE IVAN!” I yell across the short yard, “WAKE UP OR YOU’LL BE EXPERIENCING FAR WORSE DREAMS!”
His head snaps upright and he shakes the frolicking sheep from behind his eyes. The illusion fills in around him, once again. “SORRY MA’AM!”
At this point, Dimitri’s jaw hangs open in disbelief.
I hobble past her and towards the passenger side door, “You finding a bit of faith now, dear? In the backseat, before he falls asleep again.”
She gulps and follows orders, much more certain this time.
Once we are both inside the car, Prince Ivan is already sputtering pathetic apologies to me, but pauses to look back and warmly greet her. “Privyet, Dimitri. It’s great to finally meet you, I am Prince Ivan.” He smiles and shifts the car into drive.
We follow the same roads back to the forest in silence, apart from the radio pouring out soft guitar notes and stories that have grown old.