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."
