No, that wasn't so. Sergei knew that Ivan was strange—but it had nothing to do with him prancing around in the princess's hoose, as the old lady had told Mother. Ivan's strangeness was something else. He didn't care about the things that mortal men cared about. With Baba Yaga panting to invade Taina, with a wedding coming up with the beautiful Katerina, with Father Lukas trying to probe his soul, with all of Christianity to learn in a few days, Ivan acted like these things didn't even matter. All he wanted to do was study the manuscripts. And not the Gospels, either. Ivan insisted on studying the working papers, the lexicon that Father Lukas had brought with him, the one written by the hand of Kirill. It was as if Ivan thought Kirill was Christ, as if these papers were a sacred relic. He only touched them by the edges. He refused to let Sergei fold the parchments, or even roll them up. "Store them flat," he said, or tried to say, stammering in his strange language until Sergei finally got what he meant and taught him the right words. He was careful with the Gospels, too. But he wasn't any more careful with them, and they contained the words of Christ. It made no sense.
But nothing about Ivan made sense. When they were supposed to be studying Christian doctrine, Ivan would listen for a few minutes, then begin to ask Sergei to tell stories. And not stories about Jesus and the apostles, either. He wanted stories about witches and sorcerers. About Baba Yaga. About Mikola Mozhaiski. About kings and queens, about lost children and wolves in the woods. Stories that grandparents told to frighten children on winter nights. Stories that mothers told to frighten their children into staying indoors at night, or to keep them from wandering into the woods by day.
And now, in the middle of Sergei's feeble effort to tell him that bad rumors were being spread about him, Ivan interrupts as if he didn't even care, and he says, "I need you to write these down."
"Write what down?"
"These stories. The story you just told me. About Ilya of Murom."
"But... these stories aren't true. At least, not in the same way that the Gospels are true."
Ivan shook his head. "But the stories are important. In my land, these stories are different. Changed. Lots of things about Mongols and Cossacks and tsars."
These were words that Sergei didn't understand. Except tsar, which was the title of one of the high officials of the Roman Empire, but why would stories about tsars have anything to do with Ilya of Murom?
"So your version of the story, it's older," said Ivan. "It's... clean."
"But why write it down? Everybody knows this story."
"Not in my land."
"Then you write it down."
"I can't."
"You write faster than I do."
"Sergei, if I write it down, people in my land will think I made it up. But if it's in your hand—"
"Father Lukas says I have a bad hand. He won't let me copy anything on parchment, he says it's a waste of precious lambskin."
"But I say your handwriting is excellent for what I need. Not fine copywork like the Gospels. But a simple telling of the tale. It does need to be parchment, though."
"Where will I get parchment? I have no flock of sheep, and if I did, I'd need the skins for clothing, not for writing."
"If I get you the parchment, you'll write the stories?"
"If Father Lukas lets me."
"He won't let you," said Ivan.
"If you already know that, how can you ask me to do what my priest forbids?"
"He hasn't forbidden it."
"But you said—"
"I haven't asked him."
"Then he might allow me."
"Do you think he would?"
"No."
"Then why ask?"
"You mean... keep it secret from him?"
"Yes."
"Lie to him?"
"Has he ever asked you whether you write down the stories of the villagers?"
"No."
"Why would he now?"
"I can't think why he would."
"Then you'll never have to lie to him."
Sergei thought about this. "It doesn't feel honest."
"These aren't Father Lukas's stories," said Ivan. His voice grew intense now, though softer. "These are your stories, and the stories of your family, your neighbors, your friends."
"I don't have any friends," said Sergei. "They've never liked me."
"But it's your village."
Sergei shrugged.
"I can tell you, Sergei, that unless you write these stories down, the priests will have it all their way. Only the histories they want to write, and never the true histories, either. Always twisted to make every king look like a Christian, and every defeat look like a victory. Your people will be forgotten. No one will even know there was a land called Taina. But if you write these stories, I can promise you that your land will never be forgotten, these stories will live forever."
"But I'm with the Church now, Ivan," said Sergei. "You can't ask me to oppose the writings of the priests."
"Not oppose them, Sergei. What you write won't erase a single word of their chronicles."
"Where would you get parchment?"
Ivan laughed. "I'm betrothed to the princess. Do you think I can't get parchment if I want it?"
Sergei could hardly understand what he meant. "What difference would that make? Being betrothed to the princess?"
"I can ask the king for parchment. He won't deny me."
"But... where would he get parchment?"
Ivan looked as if he couldn't comprehend the idea. Yet the words were simple, weren't they?
"He's the king," said Ivan at last.
Sergei couldn't think of what this might mean.
"He can do what he wants," said Ivan, explaining.
"We can all do what we want," said Sergei. "But killing a lamb or a kid and using the skin for parchment—you have to have something very important to write."
"Even the king?"
Now it began to dawn on Sergei what Ivan was assuming. "Oh. In your land, kings can do whatever they want. Like the emperor in Constantinople."
"We don't have kings."
"Then why don't enemies invade your land and take it away?"
Ivan laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "We have armies. We just don't have kings."
"If you have armies," said Sergei, "why are you such a bad soldier?"
Ivan looked surprised.
"Well, that can't be kept secret," said Sergei. "Everyone sees how you can hardly swing a sword. How thin you are."
"I was never in the army," said Ivan. "There are many people in my land, and only some of them become soldiers. I was... one who reads."
"And that's all?"
"And sometimes I write about what I read."
"So you copy manuscripts?"
"No, I write about them. I describe them."
"Why would you do that? If someone can't read the manuscript, how can they read your description of the manuscript?"
"It doesn't matter what I did in my land. I can't go back, can I?"
"Which is why it makes no sense for me to write these stories. You can't take them to your land, so how will they get there?"
"We'll bury them."
"Bury them?"
"Bury them very carefully. In a way that will keep them dry. So that someone can dig them up in a thousand years."
"I don't understand anything you say," said Sergei. "Burying a parchment in my land won't get it any closer to yours."