The western descent of the day's setting sun illuminated the hillocks of pastureland outside of Manchester's center of industry in the warm colors of autumn. Greens and Reds and browns and golden yellows shone brightly in contrast to cold impersonality of steel and filthy stone, while fresh air rolling from atop peak-pierced clouds greeted the lungs instead of the soot and particulate-laden smog that stalked the streets of the city left behind. Together, the doctor and the lieutenant were destined for the small station of Hadfield on a Sheffield-bound train line, and, in that trek of about a dozen or so stops, were given scenes blessed with beatific expanses of nature once the sight of Manchester had ebbed. They passed by rock-studded riversides were bridged by tall viaducts and scaled minor inclines upon which flocks of roaming sheep grazed, napped, and played. Grasses swayed in the last breaths of the day and the shale covered highlands they approached were flecked in cast shadows that complimented the tint of distant ridge points darkened by both their making and the night that was beginning to consume them.
Even outside of the lodge Ivan proved to be rather dull company, appearing to be a quiet man who was more invested in the secrets of his contemplations than any sort of shared conversation. Though he made that journey between the two destinations a couple times a week, Ivan still found himself harboring an undercurrent of loathing for the land to which he felt no connection. In such moments of idle pondering, he wondered if he had been ushered between England and Russia as a child, would he have felt less contempt for the knotty countryside? Perhaps. It certainly would have been an easier explanation to accept were it not for the fact that he was unable to shake the notion that it might’ve been himself who was to blame for his current situation. Perhaps if he hadn’t been so tactless back in Nikolskoye, then he would still be there among the snow-dotted pines of the north, waiting for an assignment of more prestige, instead of trapped in a land that was bereft, fulfilling a duty he was less than prepared for.
Though the doctor was very unaccustomed to making small talk, he did not want his nature to come across as being purposefully rude to his traveling companion after having offered him a home-cooked meal and minor retreat away from the curiosities of the lodge. Ivan turned and spoke with his gentle accent, “Have you been out this way before? If not, it’s worth a journey all the way to Sheffield just once to see the tunnel they made past Woodhead. Goes straight through the Pennines instead of over them.”
Fortunately for the reticent doctor, Nigel spent a good bit of the journey so far lost in his ever-turbulent thoughts as he started out the window from behind his ever-present shaded glasses. With a strange sense of deja-vu, he marvelled at the eerie similarity of the landscape to the cursed vistas he'd traversed throughout southern and eastern Africa. While the fauna and flora were a bit less untamed, formidable rocky plateaus rising up from the grassy vales and cairns of jagged rocks recalled the harrowing fronts where the British army flailed and failed in their foolhardy determination to dominate what would dominate them. He knew from back in his school days that some of the larger plinths and high piles of stone were remnants of Roman, Celtic, and Viking forts, roads, burial sites-- all but forgotten, chewed up by time and spat back into the landscape to forever hide the mouldered bones of the impertinent invaders. In a thousand years, who would pass by the similar cairns of Islandlwana, gazing at falling piles of stone, which Nigel had watched his troops stack hastily over the heaps of broken horses and mangled men who had lain there forsaken for over six months? Maybe no one, as he had heard that even the Zulu were loathe to return to the cursed plains below Rorke's drift, so haunted was the river valley.
There was, despite the idyllic picture of grazing animals and autumnal leaves, an equally sinister aspect to this English countryside. Nigel allowed his mind to focus, briefly closing his eyes and then reopening them, to see the unseen.
And it was terrible indeed: skeletal ghosts of fallen warriors clashed in a preternatural, eternal battle, a long column of moaning women and weeping children wandered over the hillocks, bereft of whatever shelter had been taken from them so long ago, even wild beasts like oxen and lions-- creatures he never dreamed could have actually roamed in England outside of fanciful medieval tapestries-- thundered over the rocks that glowed with ghostly inscriptions.
But even more terrifying than the horrors of the past were what he could only think could be the horrors of the future: large metal birds, strange and mighty war contraptions like gun carriages with fixed wings and gatling-guns or worse, huge mortars strapped to their bellies awaiting to be born in a ground-shaking strike of fire and earth. These machines appeared swift and menancing, rising suddenly from an eerie grey-blue smoke, rapidly climbing toward the sun itself, then capitualting wildly back toward the earth in a plume of black flame. Metallic parts littered the hills, cracking open the great plinths, shattering deep mounds where the dead had lain for so long unable to reach the ordinary air. But now they too could escape, and spilled forth from their ancient tombs in great numbers, spectral-swords raised in revenge against the unsuspecting modern world.
Had Nigel been this way before, long ago, in some ancient army, and that is why it so filled him with dread? Or would he return to this place, in a future time, to see the horrors of his vision unleashed by the strange flying weapons?
He watched this nightmarish progression of bellicose phantoms that were animal, man, machine-- - and then, as the haze lifted near the furthest peaks, Nigel was filled with a dire fright as one of the huge armored air vessels slammed straight into the cliffside like a sinister wyrm burrowing its way back to a secret mouth of Hell.
"Oh!" Nigel came to with a start, unsure if he had been simply dreaming or if he had indeed seen past and future spirits who were neither living nor dead. Pulling down his glasses, he wiped his eyes harshly, as if to physically scrape any remnant phantasm from his sight.
"I'm sorry, I was utterly lost in my thoughts. I'm afraid I've never seen any of this-- its beautiful, but also a very strange land. I hate to say it, but it's not unlike the Natal province where I fought in Africa...I've not really since anything of England outside of where I was sent to school and the port where they'd ship me off from. Manchester is probably the largest European city I've seen-- but honestly, I'd rather be out here with the rocks and the sheep and the trees than in that filthy city! Thank you so much, Doctor, for allowing me the chance to travel with you.
"Do your parents know about all this Ripper business? Or even what you saw back in Russia? I just worry about my eyes. I'll keep my glasses on and try not to be too weird about it. I have an explanation, you see-- about being half blinded by the sandstorms in Afghanistan-- its usually enough to quell further inquiry, especially with my cane." He tapped the long black walking stick, sliding bony fingers past the death's head that was the only hint of the lethal rapier concealed within the ebon scabbard.
"I have not told them about our uh... adventures... but, they're usually mindful about privacy enough to swallow their curiosities when it's made clear that whatever issue is not up for discussion. They're very used to me not being very forthcoming; I'm sure your explanation will suffice." Ivan paused a moment to consider his parents. "... Besides, my father - who was a doctor-surgeon in Moscow - seems to have lost some of his scientific interest when he traded his profession in for life on the farm. He is a gregarious man, but his schemes are more likely to rope you into helping him polish off a bottle of vodka than letting him examine your eyes." The foreigner glanced aside to Nigel. "I, on the other hand, would like to look at them in the near future if you would allow me."
Ivan grew quiet again as their train pulled into Hadfield station, standing and collecting his doctor’s bag to disembark. On the platform, he waited for his companion to gather the sheep that was also traveling with them then led the two away, into the town proper. Hadfield was a small village, composed of a main street that was home to shops that were closed in that evening hour, and an errant pub or two whose atmosphere was subdued when compared to those more crowded establishments back in Manchester. Brick buildings lined the winding road northward until they also gave way to more countryside. Sparse fields and open pastures became the standard sight once more, each occasionally dotted with a quaint cottages made miniscule by tricks optical perspective, whose chimneys exhaled the breaths of heated hearths into the chilly sky above. As they walked there were no carriages to move out of the way of, nor were there any passing pedestrians to greet. The sleepy town appeared to already be buttoned up for bed.
“My parent’s house is just a bit of a walk from here,” Ivan said as they passed a directional post declaring their final destination, Tintwistle, a short distance ahead. “I was fine with the inconvenience when my stay here was just going to be a brief holiday, but as I make this journey a few times a week, it’s grown to be more frustrating. And yet concurrently, I find myself hesitant to search for a living place closer to the lodge partly because I am quite loathe to live in Manchester, and partly because I think some manner of suspended belief brings me back here, to a time when and place where things were less convoluted. When I left Russia, I wasn’t expecting to stay in England very long. Now that my plans have grown to be this indefinite and indescribable thing, it’s nice to have some solitude away from the congestion of industrial sprawl and the monstrous sights therein, even if they never really leave my thoughts.” Despite his plain admittance, the timid doctor clearly wore the aftereffects of the haunting sights they had all seen so far; his brow remained knit with some incurable anxiety as he watched the distance for disturbances. In the span of a few weeks, everything that was spontaneous was immediately suspect of supernatural subterfuge, and the acquired inability to trust anything proved to be an exhausting way to live.
“You stay at the lodge, right? What’s that like?”
From his haversack, the officer pulled out the small mirror he frequently checked, lifting his lenses to stare at his purple-circled eyes. "You can both poke around in my eyes all you like-- honestly, I think it's best you gain all the understanding you can, Ivan, before you go about this business of butchering humans by splicing them with monsters." A flashing glare abruptly ended the traincar conversation as Nigel pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose, and went back to staring out the window, shoulders seething beneath the well-worn coat he favored.
The lieutenant's sudden bitterness wasn't meant to be directed at Ivan, although it surely came off as so. Nigel remained silent for the rest of the train ride, eyes veiled by black glass, his lips twitching in embarrassment at his outburst. It wasn't until they disembarked and he collected the large, fluffy ewe from the cattle car that the officer's spirits perked up some. With a series of low bays, a rather rotund and quite tall, unusually longwooled variety of sheep greeted her master, bounding from the car and to Nigel's side. This animal, which had inexplicably wandered up to the lodge a week ago, had immediately taken to shadowing Nigel like an oversized loyal dog. He would insist on letting the ewe inside-- at first to "visit" by Nigels' favored wingchair where he'd read; then even to sleep on the floor beside the bed as the nights grew cool. Maid Marian, as he now called her, would lay her ridiculous, large black muzzle over the man's lap when he sat at the table to take usual plain supper of eggs or cream peas, bread, and tea--for the sheep, too, had taken a liking to cream peas on bread, with a dollop of mint jelly. Reunited after the long train ride, Nigel kneeled to hug Marian, grinning as she returned the affection with bleats, pink tongue-licks on his cheeks, and a rapid, wagging tail. Slowly the three made off towards Tintwistle, leaving in their wake more than a few raised eyebrows and shocked expressions.
Nigel turned his head occasionally as Ivan spoke again, sensing the other man's flagged spirit, and at once sympathizing with the revelation that Ivan found himself constantly ruminating about the disturbing encounters they had shared. "Please forgive my outburst on the train, doctor. You see, I haven't dared to interact with...well...anyone really since this operation. I don't have any friends in this country, or any place to go. I've lived most of my life in India, Africa-- either on plantations or in officers' quarters. I was always high-spirited, a good leader, maybe a bit sensitive or artistic, but...not like this. Some...unusual abilities I've had in some form or another since I was a child seem to be more acute now. Other abilities, more...mundane ones... like my riding aptitude and strength, and even my emotional state, were damaged by something that happened to me in Uganda. Maybe it was even the culmination of horrible, unnatural things I saw in Africa and Afghanistan. Ivan, I haven't said anything because...well...because I don't want the others to think I'm feeble or insane. I don't think I am? Not entirely. But I think I am missing a good ten months or more of my most recent memories." The officer stopped to pet his sheep, even though she was not the one who appeared to need comfort.
"At the risk of sounding delusional, I suspect whoever cut me may have done more than implant something in my eyes. Once I realized I could see things that were unseen, never meant to be seen-- something awful happened. I went crazy, literally. I don't really remember. My father disowned me immediately, claimed I'm some gypsy changeling he no longer had need of to preserve his earldom. And apparently I'm not...not officially with the 17th. I'm not sure if I ever was, truth be told, as I was often attached to whatever doomed unit was sent to fight the supernatural horrors Her Majesty had to hide from her cursed Empire."
Standing once more, Nigel nudged his pet forward, his long legs slowing to keep pace with the doctor and the sheep. "So while I find the lodge to be rather spartan and lonely, its better than living with a sick horse under a train trestle, or hiding among caves in some wartorn land. At least I have basic provisions, a bed, a shower, some books-- and the chance to talk with you and Pride Mother and Murphy, people who have seen what I have seen, and lived to tell about it, to learn from it. But, Ivan--even then it's difficult-- because none of you seem to have these inhuman aspects...and each of you have somewhere else to go, other people who can comfort you who know nothing of these horrors. But I assure you, I am most grateful for this chance to see the countryside and have a good meal, and hopefully, learn a thing or two about sheep."
Ivan was an easy man to alienate, and the curtness he had been given was, in a manner, reciprocated.
"I suppose there's little else I can do but forgive you." Though the doctor spoke without hesitation, there was an undercurrent of acerbity to those words that may have highlighted how trapped he felt in his current situation. If Nigel's outburst bothered him, which it clearly did, Ivan chocked it up to being little more than a stick on the growing mound of his recent woes. The docile man turned into himself; he withdrew, and returned to silence after the other's overwhelming and voluminous confessions.
Truly, the Russian chose to become a doctor because he wanted to help – not just his people under their Tsardom, but anyone, anyone who was ill, injured, and needed help. He was as eager to see what knowledge there was to gain from Nigel's eyes as he was to try and ease some of the irritation that the surgeries past seemed to cause him. And yet, smote as he was, what really could Ivan had said to ease the lifelong troubles of the man that walked beside him, or assure the man that he was approaching the issue of Mr. Murphy’s potential augmentation with a healthy amount of skepticism and caution? For men that barely knew each other, there was nothing. Forgiveness seemed the most concise and gracious way to put the hurt feelings caused by egregious assumptions aside. After all, he was already offering Nigel parts of what had been just proclaimed as the officers disadvantages – home comforts, a place away from the strangeness of the lodge, brief normalcy and even friendship despite their obvious differences. Ivan was fine letting the gesture speak for his intentions because he wasn’t sure he could swallow his pride at that particular moment enough to articulate the words necessary for bridging the gap between them.
The rest of the walk was punctuated with heels upon gravel and dirt. Ivan soon turned into a long driveway lined with trees whose upper branches were interwoven like wooden fingers, forming a canopy-arch over the path that lead up to the building at the end. It was a modest cottage made of stone and wood, surrounded by hedges and herbs and flowershrubs that were allowed to grow slightly unruly. The windows were lit with the warm glow from lanterns inside, however the interior was not readily visible due to sheer curtains having been pulled to stifle the sight. Though Ivan would normally have approached the front door to enter, he instead followed the path around to the back, where from the side of the house was a wooden fence and gate that was held open for his guest and his guest’s wooly companion. It was there that the three were immediately greeted with a scene of chaos – chickens, clucking and clamoring, were scattered and scurrying in every direction, bent on evading their animated, older Russian captor who was stuffed halfway inside the birds’ enclosure, hammering at something. Behind that hut stood a barn.
“Papa, chto eto?!” The younger Bezborodov exclaimed to his elder as he sat his doctor’s bag down and snatched up a fussy golden feathered hen that tried to pass him.
“Kury, Ivan. ... Chicken!!” was the less than helpful response from inside the enclosure.
Ivan sighed and turned to Nigel. “I should probably apologize now... my father’s English is not very good. I asked him what was going on and he said ‘chickens’, which is ‘kury’ in Russ—“
“Ya byl kormleniya kur i zametil,” interrupted the father’s voice as he withdrew from the hut, “chto oni klevali otverstiye v ikh kletke, tak chto mne prishlos’ ispravit’, prezhde vsego oni bezhali v gory!” The patriarch soon stood before the pair and Maid Marian, a lanky, bespectacled and bearded man who Ivan appeared to resemble in nearly every way except for his height. As the younger doctor was in the middle of explaining the scenario of the chicken escape and how the older doctor was fixing their pen so it would not happen again, he was once more cut off. “Is this your friend, Ivan?” The man’s accent was very thick as he appraised the newcomer with eyes that looked more severe than they were.
“Yes,” was Ivan’s immediate response, “This is Lieutenant Crowninsheild. Lieutenant, this is my father, Oleg Ivanovich Bezborodov.”
“Hello! Nice meet you!” The formalities of conversation seemed to die with Ivan as Oleg ushered Nigel forward, toward a group of hens pecking in front of the barn. Either his appraisal was satisfactory, or the man was just very friendly. “You like chicken? You catch chicken!”
“He means to say please,” Ivan added for extra measure, following behind to deposit his caught hen back in the coop.
After the icy, silent walk to the farm, the sudden cacophonic fracas of free-roaming hens and foreign utterances caught Nigel completely off guard. As the wiry elder wheeled in front of him, the lieutenant nodded quickly, but did not have a chance to even extend his hand as he found himself pushed toward the poultry, Marian uttering her own startled greeting as she was pulled forward on her leash.
"Hello, nice to meet you--sir! Yes, I like chickens?" Nigel then paused for a moment, assessing the situation as if determining the most opportune path to make his charge. "Okay...2, 4, 6, 8...9 of them...alright, Maid Marion...stayyyyy...stayyyy."
Lashing the ewe's leash to a fence-post, Nigel knelt down to pull Marion's hind leg back so that she would create a woolly mountain of a barrier on his left. As he did so, the long scabbards holding his cane and his shashka lashed to his waist tipped upward from his cloaked body, and one of the birds perched upon the shashka with a flurry of fat wings, as if the man were but a strange tree of sword-branches to roost upon. Nigel craned his head back, studying the rotund bird, then raised his brows as three more followed, alighting on his back and pecking on and under his shoulder cape with great curiosity.
"Oh come, now, really!" The lieutenant stood up, and the perched chickens fluttered to the ground, about the boots of the intruder in a widening chaotic circle. Stepping through the birds and farther from the barn, Nigel now planted his feet a good five feet from the gate, as if he didn't understand the farmer intended for the birds to go inside the pen, not further away-- and that catching chickens involved actually capturing them with your arms, not merely standing there, one hand on a swaggerstick and the other digging through a coat-pocket. Nigel pulled out a small wrapped biscuit, some military-issue hardtack he tended to keep on his person out of habit just in case he ever found himself stranded in some strange wilderness again. Lifting it to his lips he yanked off the wrapper, then bit off a good chunk, breaking it up with his teeth. But before Bezborodov senior could rattle off any criticism of Nigel's incompetence at herding and inopportune penchant for snacking, the officer strode forward, waving his walking stick in slow circles over the ground, and spat a mouthful of mealie-bread crumbs towards the hens.
With a babble of bocks and beeps, the chickens converged upon the bits. The lieutenant took advantage of their distraction and stepped right up to them. Even if they circled back towards the Englishman and threatened to slip through his legs, it was as if there were some invisible fence about him. He continued to slowly move forward toward the barn door, and as the birds fell beneath his shadow, it set their tri-toed path right again. As the last of the birds waddled her way into the coop, Nigel jutted his cane at the door, then fixed the latch. He looked through the wires as the birds clustered on the other side, who responded by pecking at his boots and scratching at the screen dividing them from their captor. "Bad Kury...Kury stay home now."
Turning back to Oleg, Nigel brushed the hay and featherdust off the hem of his cloak before offering his gloved hand, the other still grasping his cane. "There you go, sir...doctor...Beshborofdove...thank you for having me at your home. I've looked forward to meeting Ivan's family. This is my sheep, Maid Marion-- I'm afraid she was a stray, who came to my lodge in the city. I hope you don't mind if she can enjoy your pasture while I'm here."
Despite the strange introduction to the farm, Nigel was very much relieved that things were as informal as they were. For he didn't know much about Russians other than the horrible war-tales his father would tell about Crimea. So far, the older doctor seemed harmless enough, if not rather welcoming.
The patriarch was immediately charmed, delighted by the efficiency the young officer employed in solving the birdly dilemma. He took the offered hand into his own, brushed with the dirt of the day, and enforced the gesture of peace and welcoming with a sharp clap on Nigel's shoulder.
"Good man! You catch chicken muuuch better than Ivan." Even though the disparaging remark was made in jest, the assessment it made was not altogether wrong. Ivan certainly offered no argument, huffing a laugh and nodding in brief agreement. Indeed, the antics of his father appeared to slowly soften the son, wearing down the younger doctor’s rigid posture and stern expression with a myriad of ridiculous antics to which there appeared to be no end. With that view of the man, it may have been hard to imagine him as a still-faced surgeon who saw to the steady-handed treatment of grievous ills, but also with that view of the man, it may have been readily apparent as to why he no longer was under the employment of more serious society. Looking down to Nigel’s squat companion, Oleg patted the fluffy sheep on the head and pointed to the vast pasture immediately beside the barn. "There-- you put sheep. We eat when she eat."
While Nigel did that, Ivan stepped away to collect his bag that had been abandoned at the gate, and Oleg saw to getting the visiting animal a treat as an expression of gratitude for her help in the chicken debacle. He reappeared at Nigel's side after a moment of disappearance into the barn and gave the young officer a carrot.
"My sheep love carrot, maybe your sheep love too?!"
Preoccupied as the pair were, the undistracted Ivan was the first to notice his mother’s appearance at the doorway in the back of the house. Her brow once knit with worry suddenly eased at the sight of the trio. Though an older woman, she was neither dowdy nor doughy, looking rather fit for her age, which was likely due to the amount of assistance she offered her husband on a daily basis. Mousey brown hair was gathered into a messy bundle atop her head, and over her dress she wore an apron that was smudged with minor sights of the feast she had planned.
“I was getting worried about you!” she chided her approaching son in a tone that was only lightly invested in the castigation.
“Father let the chickens out,” he offered as an explanation between her forced hello of a hug and kiss.
“Ivan, no... IVAN...,” Oleg protested, “Look what I tell you. Chicken are smart and peck hole in pen because they love hill and want to get fresh worm and biggest worm for surprising flock to be queen.. to be TSARINA of KURYovskoye! You want work in Kuryovskoye, but you don’t go, chicken don’t allow you! She like friend much better.”
Standing at the same height as her son, the mother leaned into his shoulder to mutter. “Did you tell your friend that your father has a wild imagination?”
Ivan shook his head. “Not in those exact words.”
“Well, come in for dinner,” the woman announced, motioning inside, “Hurry before it gets cold.”
Upon entry, the scent of roasted vegetables and meat-less stews immediately greeted them, wafting from where they were placed on the table to the back door, a room or so away from the dining room. The house’s interior was understated, genuinely a country home full of the things that were necessary rather than useless baubles hung simply for the sake of decoration. And yet, despite its simplicity, it remained a very colorful interior – carpets bearing convoluted patterns lined the floors, the wallpapers of the various rooms they passed through were vibrant and lively. Wood of rich colors constructed a good portion of the furniture; the dining table they were led to once belonged to a tree whose meat was golden blond. It shone under the warm glows of the lamps surrounding the large setting.
A veritable buffet of dishes were spread out on top of the table, ranging from puff pastries to pierogis, and dishes of vibrant veggies flanked by bread and a number of different condiments to partake. Before sitting, Ivan’s mother properly greeted their guest, approaching to offer her hand.
“Are you Lieutenant Crowninshield? I am Cecelia Bezborodov. It’s very lovely to make your acquaintance, and all of us are happy to welcome you into our home. I hope you will excuse our informality. Since moving back to Tintwistle from Moscow, Oleg and I do not partake in proper society very often for how exhausting it is. We’re just happy to have our animals, each other, and now, it seems, our son.
“Please help yourself to whatever you like, and eat to your contentment. Ivan made clear that you do not eat meat, so everything on this table is vegetable only. There are traditional Russian dishes, like borscht and pierogis stuffed with cheese, potatoes, onions, and some English dishes too, if the Russian ones are not to your liking.”
Once Maid Marian was put to pasture, her lumbering woolly self became invigorated, bounding playfully into a small herd of smaller ewes who welcomed their city visitor with curious bleats and nuzzles. Soon all the sheep were occupied with their constant business of grazing, in search of the delicious carrot-roots that had been scattered near their water-trough. Upon entering, Nigel took the hand of Cecelia, giving it a tender clasp in between his own.
"I am honored to be welcomed so graciously by you and Dr. Bezborodoff, ma'am...please, call me Nigel. I agree the formalities of society cannot compare to the comforts of a happy home like this! Also, please excuse me for keeping my glasses on, I-- my eyes are sensitive to light since the war in Afghanistan's icy deserts." The lieutenant released her hand, looking with delighted wonder at the rich patterns of the decor and inhaling the exotic smells wafting from the table. Taking a moment to place his coat, sabre-belt, and haversack upon some hooks near the door, Nigel fished out a small gold box and retrieved his walking stick before addressing the lady of the house once more.
"I
am humbled that you prepared such a wonderful feast on my account!
Forgive me if I eat like a horse, for I haven't seen such a bounty of
garden harvest outside of the Tibetan temples in Sikkim, and needless
to say, the English have a queer way of thinking eggs or potatoes are
the only worthy vegetables. " Nigel now presented the box
to Ivan's mother, which had a cellophane top to showcase what
appeared to be Russian pastila nougats, but were labeled with the
French words Les guimauves aux fruits
et fleurs rouges.
"I'm afraid these marshmallows won't be as delicious as what you've made, ma'am, but I hope you like them. The shop-mistress said they were based on a secret recipe loved by Tolstoy himself-- she said they are flavored rose, apple, strawberry and currant. The sample I had was like eating a little cloud!"
"Oh, my. How very kind of you, Nigel," the woman replied as she received the gift. She turned the box around in admiration, but was only allowed a brief moment of before it was snatched up by the hands of her husband for examination between father and son. At the table, visually busy with the acrobatic steam trailing from hot dishes, both appeared to hover over and poke at the object like it were a cadaver of a rare condition, excitedly conversing between themselves in their shared foreign tongue. "You made a good choice. Pastila are also a favorite of Oleg and Vanya." Possessing a perpetually good nature, Cecelia smiled and extended her hand to the table. "Come sit, and eat until you are full."
Settled
and divested of their coats and overcoats, the meal began properly,
but with very little order. Cecelia was the last to join, bringing
from the kitchen a carafe of wine in one hand and a pitcher of water
in the other. The expectation was for each to fill their plate and
glasses; the atmosphere was warm, lighthearted, and communal.
"How
was everyone's day?" Cecelia asked of each man at her table, but
turned to let their guest go first. "Nigel, you mentioned
Tibet... did you stay there very long? Back when I was authoring
travelbooks, I very much wanted to go there but never quite made it."
A laugh peppered the woman's words.
The
lieutenant watched with a bemused smile as the Bezborodov men
examined the sweetmeats, before taking his seat at the table and
taking samples of every dish, known and unknown. Nigel's smile was
tempered a bit by the nagging knowledge that the fancy candies were
due to Ivan's generous loan of a pound to the penniless officer, who
had a number of luxurious spending priorities that would seem
irrational to most.
" I cannot take all the credit, as Ivan helped me buy these...but yes, Tibet! It is an astounding landscape, but the people are even more incredibly beautiful. Almost not of this world, with their intricate beliefs and hypnotizing arts. I was born way up in Sikkim, which is a little arc into the heart of the Himalayas where Bhutan, Darjeeling, and Tibet all meet. So there were Tibetan temples there, and several of our servants worshipped their strange gods and monks in saffron robes would visit me when I was little and bring all these ritual objects for me to see. I know it seems odd that I could remember something from being so young, but it made a very deep impression on me, just as any very big kindness or cruelty might affect a child for the rest of its life. What I learned foremost is the scariest seeming monsters were the kindest protectors, and the humans were often more beastly than any animal...to make a long story short, don't judge a book by its cover."
Nigel paused, nodding with a grin as Oleg heaped less polite mounds of food on top of the conservative portions the lancer had taken. He was grateful for their generosity, and would eagerly devour every offered morsel, until he was too exhausted to eat anymore. If such an appetite would be considered gluttony in his former posh circles with their strict rules of dinner proprieties-- then Nigel was glad to be a heretic.
"Ah,
a travel writer! I would very much like to read some if you have them
here. After my last duties in Africa, I was sent to the colonial
compound at Shimla, which is closer to Kashmir and Afghanistan-- but
I took some time to travel the Silk Road through Kathmandu and on to
Lhasa, in hopes of going back to my home estate. But of course Lhasa
is forbidden to outsiders, so, I didn't quite make it to see the
Dalai Lama. I have some watercolours somewhere I did...maybe they are
in London...with my father..." Unconsciously, Nigel's hand
trembled and he inadvertently dropped his fork, causing a loud clank
as it hit the plate. Quickly he took it up again, and changed the
subject.
"I
do say, all of this is so delicious! Ivan must write down for me what
the Russian dishes are-- or if you have a recipe, ma'am, I'd be
grateful to have it! Especially these little pillows of cheese, and
cabbage, and oh, I especially love the fruit ones! You know, our
Indian servants used to say that any cooking should be a prayer
offering; But your food, its more than a prayer for my weary
soul-- its a miracle!" Nigel raised his wine glass,
slowing lifting it towards Oleg, Cecelia, and Ivan. "To
the health of you, your animals and your crops, and may the
Bezborodov family be blessed with many happy days together."
Each
member of the family partook in the toast, some more naturally
enthusiastic than others, and settled into a conversation that was
occasionally given pause by the circumstances under which it was
conducted. The meal was long, leisurely, and when everyone had
finished, Cecelia and Oleg shuffled Nigel off to their home's sitting
room while Ivan saw to clearing the table.
It
was there, in that room, where evening stretched into night. Cecelia
showed Nigel her travel books while Oleg and Ivan conversed, or
argued - or maybe it was some combination of the two - in their
native tongue over a stack of foreign-language newspapers and a
bottle of vodka that was shared with all. Oleg, of course, was the
more animated of the pair, gesturing wildly and loudly to Ivan's oft
frigid retorts, and yet the scene seemed to be no cause for concern
as Cecelia went about her business without interruption. The candy
that Nigel had gifted them was divvied up too, each piece cut into
fours and distributed for equal enjoyment. The room itself was not
unlike the pieces of the house that Nigel had been shown so far.
Fire-lit lamps threw their orange-yellow hues onto the furniture and
walls; they gave off heat to combat the chill of deepening night.
Satiated
and further relaxed by the addition of clear spirits to the heavy
meal, Ivan slumped in the chair he was sitting in, arms propped on
the rests, fingers clutching an open newspaper that he had taken to
properly read rather than argue over, like his father had so
preferred. Oleg and Cecelia excused themselves to bed shortly
thereafter, and Ivan gave them a half-hearted wave of goodnight. When
a moment of silence had passed, he then peered over his reading at
the Englishman.
“Thank you again for the pastila,” he said. “They really are my favorite, and remind me so much of Moscow. I know you didn’t have any way of knowing that, but it’s incredibly thoughtful."
Ivan's comment came unexpectedly, and Nigel's cheeks flushed. "You're welcome, Ivan. You're correct-- I didn't know-- I just asked the proprietress what might be a nice housewarming gift for a prominent Russian surgeon's family...and really, you paid for them...but I'm glad they have given you a sense of home. I know that feeling... That ache for a familiar memory, that fuzzy dream that can come back with something as sudden as smelling a particular spice cooking, or the longer late night pondering of solitary spaces we once loved. I don't feel at ease in Manchester at all..being here at the farm makes me-- as your father kept saying in his vodka toasts, too many vodka toasts!!--schastlivvy-- happy."
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