He brought back the sun again. He put the shingles back, and added the horses grazing on the open hillside and Babi In the front yard.
Clouds tried to gather. Weeds tried to grow. A board fell off the gate.
He hit his lip and made it go back. A rail fell off the fence. But he set himself in the middle of that yard, with Pyetr as he was, and wanted the shoulder as it had been.
That was the answer. Shingles fell, thunder rumbled, and he built a small fire in front of him and fed it, while he fed the one in the dark of the woods, and breathed the smoke, pine and willow.
He set the vodka jug beside him in the yard—the unbreakable and inexhaustible jug: his one youthful magic, the once-in-a-lifetime spell old Uulamets had told him a wizard might cast: no effort at all it had been to want that jug rolling across the deck—not unbroken—but truly whole, so whole it could never afterward be less than it was at that moment.
Scarily easy, so easy that he had felt queasy about that spell ever after. He had doubted it could be good, and most of all feared what wishing at someone might do—
But he needed that absolute magic now, if only once for the rest of his life, and the jug was the key. He saw the yard, with the wind blowing and the sky going darker; he picked up the jug among falling leaves, locked it in his arms and wanted, with the same simplicity, Pyetr to be with him, the same—the same—as in that unthinking instant he had be-spelled the jug—
No! Oh, god, that day had not been the best in their lives. Pyetr had not married ’Veshka, yet, had not had a daughter then.
God, what have I done?
But the shingles were on the roof again, the yard was raked and kept. The house was standing solid and intact; but he had no idea who was living in Pyetr’s house… as it would someday stand. He had wished something. He had felt the shift in things-as-they-were and things-as-they-would-be. He wanted to go inside the house and find out who lived there; or failing that, only to go up on the porch and look in the unshuttered windows, please the god, to reassure himself what he had done would not change what was inside—
But he was sitting in front of a dying fire with the vodka jug in his arms, and Pyetr was lying on the ground in front of him, while Babi—Babi had his small arms locked about Pyetr’s neck, his face buried in Pyetr’s pale hair.
Pyetr swatted at Babi. The hand fell limp again, but Pyetr had moved, Pyetr was still alive. Sasha suddenly found himself shaking like a leaf, unable to stop. He tucked his foot up and hugged his knee and watched, fist against his mouth to keep his teeth from chattering, wanting nothing but Pyetr’s welfare, not wishing any more proof that the magic had worked than to see Pyetr look at him, whenever Pyetr wanted to, please, sanely and remembering everything since that day in the river.
Babi got up and waddled over, leaned on his legs and reached for the vodka jug. Something had changed: Babi knew. Babi was willing to leave Pyetr: Babi wanted a drink and Sasha unstopped the jug and poured a good dose into Babi’s waiting mouth, libation to all beneficent magic in the twin. “Good Babi,” he said. “Good, brave Babi—”
Pyetr half-opened his eyes, blinking at him through a fringe ill hair. “God—where did you come from?”
“ I was supposed to follow you, remember?”
Please, Pyetr, remember. Keep on remembering.
Pyetr rolled onto his back and felt inside his shirt. Made a face and worked his fingers back and forth in the firelight.
“Does it hurt?”
“No,” Pyetr said, sounding confused, and felt again. “Blood. It’s not me, is it?”
“It was,” Sasha said. “It shouldn’t be now. How do you feel?”
Pyetr took a breath, wiped his hand on his ghastly shirt, making another dark smear, and managed to sit up, leaning on his hand, staring dazedly past the fire, to where the horses were. “Volkhi—”
“Volkhi’s all right. Not a scratch on him, from the vodyanoi, a few scrapes else, that I can tell.”
“God.” Pyetr made a try at getting up and fell on his back before Sasha could catch him.
“ You can’t go anywhere.”
“My daughter, dammit—”
He could not admit to Pyetr what a fool he had been, or warn him of the changes that might happen. He wanted to amend that wish of his—but he doubted he could, that was the stupid part. He could only wish Pyetr to remember his daughter by the time the spell had run its course—and it would not have, yet, it might not have completed itself for days and years, but there was no stopping it—and telling Pyetr about it—what could it do but frighten him, and make his life miserable?
God, stupid, Sasha Vasilyevitch, damnably, terribly stupid! You can’t wish against nature, you can’t wish against time—
But Pyetr, instead of dying, had breath in him tonight, and warmth, and was determined to ride on alone, right now, if he could. “Sasha—we can’t sit here.”
“Volkhi’s exhausted, Missy can’t take it, if you could stay on, which you can’t: the spell isn’t finished with you; and don’t ask me to borrow.”
“I’ll ask you.” Pyetr coughed, and held his shoulder. “It’s not a time for good sense. Or scruples. The leshys will understand us. It’s for them as much as—”
“Not a time to make mistakes, either.”
“Dammit, he’s with her, you understand me?”
“Do you know that?”
“I know more than I want to know. The old Snake has a filthy mouth. The young one, Chernevog, damn him—”
“I don’t believe everything Hwiuur says. He’s left and right and full of twists. And even if it were true, Chernevog’s not in any substance any longer. The boy is—and substance deals with substance.” He felt the heat in his face, but the dark gave him cover. “Yvgenie’s an honest lad. She could do far worse, Pyetr.”
Pyetr could have shouted at him that he was a fool and he had no intention in the world of leaving it at “could do worse,” or “substance.” Sasha heard it all the same. But Pyetr had no strength to go on right now. Pyetr leaned his head against his arm and shook it slowly. “God, how, Sasha? How could she do worse?” And Pyetr thought, wounded to the heart: Why didn’t she answer me?
Because the vodyanoi had taunted him with that.
“I couldn’t answer you,” Sasha said, laying a hand on Pyetr’s shoulder. “Remember? We aren’t hearing each other. And I’m less and less certain our mouse is all the reason for the silence. I think the leshys are aware of it, maybe contributing to it—they did this before, when Chernevog was alive—not helping us, but maybe keeping other things from breaking loose.”
Pyetr was shivering. Trying not to. Trying to be sane. Pyetr said, as calmly as he could, “This isn’t going at all right, is it?”
Sasha put his arms about him, felt the chill and the shivering. “Sleep, Pyetr. Go to sleep.”
Pyetr said not a word. His head fell and his body immediately went heavy in Sasha’s arms: he was that far gone. Sasha suddenly found himself trembling, from cold, from exhaustion, from terror. He wanted Pyetr to be all right, he wanted Pyetr’s daughter to realize her father needed her, and he wanted things right in the woods—now, tonight, this moment.
But—perhaps it was the way his latest wish had gone askew; and perhaps the way all wizards’ wishes went amiss, past childhood—he was not sure he wanted the mouse here. He was less sure he wanted Chernevog, knowing the mouse might have wished him to be with her: wishes held so many conditions, wishes contradicted each other, and tied themselves in knots on wizards’ conditions.
Fool, ’Veshka would say, in her father’s tone.