A fire was crackling. The window shutters kept out much of the cold. The furniture was table, chairs, and foot-stool in the front room. Before the man from London had removed his coat, he had a brown mug of tea in his hand from the wizened old woman. He drank it down steaming hot to warm his innards, then he took off his coat and hat and let them see the silvery-blonde hair and chiselled profile of an Englishman with Viking blood in his veins. His jaw was square, his forehead high enough to house a brain full of facts these people could never comprehend, and across his cheeks and the crooked bridge of his battered nose lay a scatter of freckles that made him appear perpetually boyish and drove women absolutely nutsy.
“Fine tea,” he commented, though it was not so much tea as it was tree bark.
“You’re a fine shit thrower,” said the chief, who sat down in the best chair and hooked the foot-stool toward him with a haughty boot.
“I am that,” agreed the man from London, with a placid smile. “But you have to know why I’m here. You’re not stupid, are you?”
“Not stupid.”
“All right, then. I understand he lives in the ruins.”
“The church,” said the chief. “It is our village church.”
“The ruins of a church,” the man from London corrected. “He lives there, yes?”
“Maybe.”
“He lives there. Yes,” said the man from London, with a firm nod. He thought of sitting down, but the other chairs looked none-too-steady and to fall on his bum before the chief and the watchful old woman would do nothing for the balance of power in this room.
The chief stared up at him with something near pleading in his small black eyes.
“What do you want with him? Huh? What does an Englishman want with him, to come so far?”
“I want to speak with him. I understand he speaks English.”
The chief peered steadily into the fire.
“I know he’s wanted for murder. I know it’s just a matter of time before they find him.”
“They won’t find him. We hide him.”
“Not very well,” said the man from London. And added: “Obviously.”
“Don’t make airs with big words,” the chief warned, his face clouding over. “That last Englishman who came…he made airs with big words, too. Him with his camera and all his little geegaws. Oh.” The chief’s mouth hung open for a few seconds, and then it slowly closed. He smiled thinly. “I see. That Englishman…the newspaper writer…he told someone, is that it?”
“He told the man who told the man who sent me. So…you’re correct.”
“And us trying to help a poor English newspaper writer fix his broken-down wagon,” the chief said, with a fearsome scowl that turned into a sad half-smile. “We said we’d do the work for a few coins and he could stay the night. Then he saw something, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he did.” That had been back in October. The English journalist was in actuality a member of the British secret service on a piddling errand involving the movement across the Polish border of a few document photographs. Minor, busy-work stuff…but then the tale he’d brought back from this village on the raw and windswept frontier…much more interesting than armored-car blueprints. Therefore, while the man from London was in Minsk killing a Russian double-agent he did not know, and was so close to this little village, it might be worth the extra small trip.
The bald-headed bull-man said nothing for awhile. Then, spoken quietly: “He catches food for us. He feeds the whole village. He’s a very good young man. But…troubled.”
“Yes, being wanted for murder is troublesome.” The field agent had brought back that information as well, gleaned from a young girl in the village who had heard it from the murderer himself. Such girls gave up quite a lot of information for a pair of silk stockings or a box of chocolates.
“Not just that. Troubled. Here.” A hand pressed against a Russian heart. “Deep.”
“Hm,” said the man from London: an emotionless comment. “The story I’ve heard is a little bit difficult to believe, you know.”
“Believe or not.” This was delivered with a shrug. “What does it matter to you, anyway? I’m telling you he catches food for us, even in the snow. The rabbits have no thought of getting away. He brings down caribou…the wild boar…the stag…everything that moves in that forest over the hill. So believe or not, what does it matter to you?”
“It matters. Or, that is to say, it might matter. I’d like to speak with him.”
“He doesn’t accept visitors.”
“I’d like to find that out for myself.”
The chief abruptly stood up and advanced on the man from London, who held his ground as if rooted to the boards. A bulbous nose pressed up close to an Adam’s apple. “This is my village. You don’t come in here and tell me, I tell you. Now… I don’t know what he is, and I have never seen what some people think he is…but I am telling you, Mr. Englishman, that he belongs to us and he will not be leaving here with the likes of you.”
“And I can’t leave here without speaking to him.” The voice was calm, collected, cool. But the icy blue daggers were very sharp. “I won’t leave without speaking to him.” He offered a boyish smile, his specialty. “Let’s don’t be unpleasant, when it’s so terribly unnecessary. All right?”
“Show him,” croaked the wizened old woman. “He talks a storm of manure.”
“Well put, madam. I think this whole tale is a storm of manure.” He daggered into the bull-man’s eyes. “Show me.”
On the way through the village toward the ruins on the hill, a group of people got around them and followed. It was evident where the Englishman was headed. Suddenly a girl of about sixteen with warm brown eyes and curly golden hair beneath her woolen cap plucked at the man from London’s coat sleeve.
“Tell him Nena forgives him,” she implored. “He won’t speak to me anymore, but won’t you tell him?”
“I will,” the man from London promised. He saw that the girl’s right hand was heavily bandaged.
The group of people fell back and stood watching. The bull-man took his charge up almost to the ruins and then he too stopped and held his position. The man from London continued on alone, climbing up snow-covered stone steps to the onion-domed shell of what remained.
He entered the cold shadows, and listened to the silence.
Stairs led down. He followed them. The light that lived in this stone chamber was blue, and he could smell woodsmoke. He went on, into deeper blue. His boots clattered on the floor. Noise enough to wake anything that could chase down a caribou. He paused for a moment, because suddenly he was not so calm, cool and collected. He could see a small fire burning beyond an archway. Not much more than a bundle of sticks and brush, it appeared to be.
His heart was beating harder.
“Hello?” he tried. There was no answer. He decided to use his English. “Hello? Can I come in?”
Still, nothing. He could hear the fire pop and crack. He saw shadows scrawled upon the walls.
“Anyone here?” he asked, in the King’s tongue.
“You are here,” came the quiet reply, also in English, from beyond the archway. It carried a faint, menacing echo. “But you shouldn’t be. I wouldn’t be here, if I were you.”
The man from London cleared his throat. “Nena says she forgives you.”
There followed only the sound of the small fire burning.
“I’m from London,” said the man. “Originally, I mean. Today I came from Pruzhany. My name is William Bartlett.”