The Lost Souls of Angelkov (2 page)

The Cossacks know him. Everyone knows him; he’s the landowner. He owns the grand estate of Angelkov and the hundreds and hundreds of surrounding versts. He was also, until recently, the owner of thousands of souls, all his former serfs. So yes, it’s a plan. How many hours have the Cossacks waited for him in the trees, in this damp, late winter cold, their toes numb within their high leather boots, their hair slick with sweat under their hats? How many days have they come to this place, waiting for just this moment: when Count Konstantin Nikolevich Mitlovsky travels, unaccompanied, through his own thick forest of pine and spruce and birch? When he rides, unsuspecting, along the isolated trail he had his serfs cut through the woods so that he might come out at the road close to the nearest village, saving a distance of five versts?

But in almost the same instant he realizes he
has
done this very thing every day over the last week. The weather has been so fine. Yes, alone, he rode this path yesterday, and the day before that and before that. The only difference today is that his son is with him.

His only child.

Konstantin tries to focus more clearly on the dark eyes of the man in front of him. He’s now aware of a shocking,
great throb in his right hand. It hangs loosely at his side, and blood drips from the ends of his fingers onto his grey woollen pant leg, onto the lustrous polished leather of his high riding boot, onto the packed snow beneath his horse. He’s glad Mikhail is on his other side, and won’t see the blood.

The Cossack peers around Konstantin, studying the boy. Something in the Cossack’s eyes makes Konstantin close his own, sending a silent prayer towards the saints. “I have a number of rubles with me,” he says, opening his eyes and again looking into the Cossack’s face. His voice is raspy, as if just awakening from a long sleep. “Here.” He makes a motion with his head, a nod at the side of his greatcoat, where a leather bag is attached to his belt. “Take it. And there’s more. You know there can be any amount. Name it. Name it, and it will be yours.”

Konstantin must continue to hope that what is happening is only simple robbery. That these men are taking what they feel is rightly theirs, another result of the unrest sweeping the country. The Tsar emancipated the serfs in February, and with their freedom has come a cost to those who once owned them. These men may not be true Cossacks, not soldiers of the Tsar, but newly free men angry with those who once dictated their futures.

The Cossack uses the tip of his sabre to slash through the leather tabs holding the purse onto Konstantin’s belt. In one more deft movement of his sword he flips the purse into the air, grabbing it with his left hand and cramming it into the pocket of his coat.

But Konstantin isn’t relieved. The men circle closer. He knows what will come next. A desperate, tipping weight makes him feel, suddenly, that he might fall from his horse
in a way he hasn’t since he was three years old and on his first small pony.

The Cossack puts the tip of his sword to Konstantin’s neck. “Hand over the boy’s reins.”

Konstantin doesn’t move, aware of that deadly point. “Please. Spare the child, I beg of you. What good is he—a boy, and not even a good horseman yet? He’ll only slow you down. On God’s name, I will give you what—” He stops, the tip of the sabre pressing so deeply into his neck that there’s a tiny pop, a sound that echoes in his ears as if a bottle of chilled champagne has been opened in an adjoining room. His flesh burns as though a flame is held to it.

“Give me the reins,” the Cossack says again. He lowers his sabre and reaches forward with his other hand, huge and corded, to rip the leather reins from Konstantin; the older man’s strength is no match for the Cossack’s.

As the boy’s gelding passes in front of his Arabian, Mikhail stares at him. “Papa?” he says. He is not a particularly obedient boy, and yet at this moment he is waiting for his father to instruct him.

Konstantin sees the boy’s name,
Mikhail
, embroidered in blue wool along the bottom of the back of his
talmochka
. He remembers watching Antonina as she worked with her needle and thread, her head bent over her son’s quilted coat.

“Please,” Konstantin begs, and even to his own ears his voice is feeble, an old man’s voice. Helpless. He has no weapon now, no defence. He’s one old man against three—there are only three, he sees—strong young Cossacks. Still, he leans sideways in his saddle, tugging at the Cossack’s sleeve with his good hand. Cut off my hand, he thinks, cut it off, cut off both of my hands, so all will know I tried to save my son.

But the Cossack simply slides his sabre into its sheath, struggling to yank his arm from Konstantin’s grip. Konstantin won’t let go. The Cossack digs his heels into his horse, kicking its flanks, and it rises on its hind legs. Konstantin is thrown to the ground, and his horse bolts and gallops through the trees, ears back. The Cossack turns his own gleaming chestnut in the opposite direction. Guiding Mikhail’s horse, he rides away, the others following.

Mikhail twists in his saddle to look at his father. Konstantin is already on his feet, and calls out to his son, “It’s all right, Mikhail. Be a good boy. Do what they tell you. I will come for you later. I will come for you. Don’t be afraid.” He thinks his voice sounds certain and will reassure Mikhail. Does it? Mikhail’s expression is panicked, his eyes wide, grey-green in the thin winter air, but he doesn’t make a sound.

A brave boy, Konstantin thinks in an oddly suspended moment. “The ransom,” he shouts, as the men ride farther into the trees. Mikhail is still slightly turned, looking over his shoulder at him. “The ransom! Any amount. Send word. I will pay immediately. Any amount, I tell you. I’ll give you anything. Anything! Tell me!” He’s watching the direction the Cossacks are heading as he looks in the thick trees for his own horse. He has to follow them.

At his father’s shouting, Mikhail turns away, his small shoulders stiff and high, his hair a golden glow in the light streaming through the tall, swaying trees.

It’s too cold for him to be without a hat, Konstantin thinks.
The child’s mother was right, as always. I should have listened to her
.

The sound of hooves echoes behind him. He spins. It’s Grisha, holding the reins of the grey Arabian.

“Grisha,” he says. “Thank God. They’ve got Mikhail. They’ve got my son. Go after them, Grisha.”

Grisha drops the Arabian’s lead in front of Konstantin. Konstantin attempts to pull himself onto his horse with his good hand. He falls onto the bloodstained snow, tries to rise, falls again. His left hand trembles as he points west, into the thick forest.

Grisha gallops in the direction of the kidnappers, disappearing into the trees.

A
ntonina is alerted by the screaming of a servant in the yard.

She holds up her wide skirt with both hands and runs towards the front door. She arrives in time to see Grisha helping Konstantin off his Arabian. He would have fallen had it not been for Grisha’s firm grip.

She takes in the scene in an instant: her husband and Grisha. Something is wrong with her husband. Where is her son?

“Misha,” she says. “Misha.” Grisha, aided by Lyosha from the stables, half drags, half carries Konstantin towards the house.

“Let’s go now, Grisha,” Lyosha shouts, struggling under the count’s weight. “I’ll get the others. We can’t give them any more time.”

Antonina’s mouth goes dry, dread gripping her with
such strength that she can’t speak. Can’t even say her son’s name again.

Grisha hisses at Lyosha to shut up. “We’ve got to get him inside. Then we’ll go back.”

Antonina grips the door frame, staring at her husband’s open coat, his bloodied shirt and hand wrapped in a scarf she recognizes as Grisha’s. They push past her, and she smells the rancid odour of fear, the metallic tang of blood in the waft of air that follows the men. She is beside them as they lay Konstantin on the emerald silk settee in the drawing room.

Grisha straightens and looks at her, and suddenly it’s as if the air in the room has stilled around Antonina.

Servants crowd in the doorway, pushing against each other silently, crossing themselves. Antonina sees her maid, Lilya, clutching her younger brother Lyosha’s shoulder as if protecting him, even though he is taller than she, and she has to reach up.

If she moves or speaks at this moment, Antonina fears she will come undone and do something mad—whirl her arms like a windmill, or crash to the floor, kicking her legs so that her underskirts are revealed to all the servants. She’ll wail—oh, she knows with certainty she’ll wail like an old babushka, following a coffin to the cemetery.

No. She won’t allow herself to do any of these things. Finally she says, “My son. Where is my son, Konstantin?”

When Konstantin closes his eyes and turns his face towards the back of the settee, Grisha says, “He was taken, madam. I was following the count and your son, as you instructed, but I stayed back. I knew if the count saw me … so by the time I arrived in the clearing and found him”—he
indicates Konstantin with his chin—“the men had a good start. I followed the direction the count pointed out, but after only a short time it became impossible. There were too many trails, countess. I knew I had to get back to the count and bring him home. His hand …”

Lyosha steps forward from the crowd of servants in the doorway. “Let’s go after them, Grisha.”

Grisha stares at him until Lyosha takes a step back. Lilya puts her hand on her brother’s arm. Grisha is the head man on the estate. He reports to the count. It is Grisha the others obey.

With no warning, a rush of acidy fluid is in Antonina’s throat. She swallows, bringing her fist to her mouth. She won’t disgrace herself in front of the servants. Her throat burns as she lowers her hand. “Taken?” she repeats, and clears her throat. “Taken by whom?”

“I don’t know, madam. I didn’t see them. There were three, the count says. He needs a doctor, madam.”

Konstantin finally speaks, loudly. “No, there is no time for a doctor. Bring clean linen.” He sits up and slowly unwraps the scarf, wincing.

Antonina looks at her husband’s hand. The back of it is slashed through, tendons and veins a pulpy mess of congealing and fresh blood.

“But Count Mitlovsky,” Grisha says, “it’s bleeding too—”

“I said no doctor. There’s no time,” Konstantin says, grimacing.
“Chyort,”
he curses.

“Madam,” Grisha says to Antonina. “His hand—please, madam. We await your orders.”

“I give the orders,” Konstantin tells Grisha. “Keep your mouth shut.”

Antonina focuses on Konstantin’s linen shirt: on its snowy surface is a spread of crimson. From Konstantin’s hand, she thinks. Not from Mikhail. The blood is from Konstantin’s hand. “Get something to stop the bleeding,” she says into the room, her voice steady. She hasn’t come undone. She sees a scrap of fabric protruding from Konstantin’s uninjured hand.

“What is that?” She points. “What are you holding, Konstantin?” She goes to him and tries to open his fingers, but his is like the grip of a man already dead. “Konstantin,” she says, low and fierce. He uncurls his fingers. A strip of wool with a small insignia sewn onto it in tight stitches lies on his palm.

“Cossacks,” she says. Now her voice is a stranger’s, hoarse and rough, as if she’s been screaming for a long time. Cossacks, cavalry in the tsarist army with their lances, carbines, pistols and sabres, are fierce and predatory in time of war. But there is no war. The Cossacks should be fishing and breeding cattle, as they do during peace.

“Why would Cossacks take Misha?” she asks Konstantin. She thinks about the stories she’s heard, of Cossacks recruiting their numbers by kidnapping peasant boys in time of war. “They don’t need more boys now. And especially not a … Mikhail is of the nobility. Why, Konstantin?”

Konstantin pulls away his hand, his lips pursed, the skin around them white. The insignia falls to the floor.

Behind Antonina is the swish of skirts, the rasp and slap of heavy boots against the floor. The clock on the mantle ticks. There are murmurs. Then the old housekeeper Olga is wrapping a length of cotton around Konstantin’s hand. But the bleeding continues, soaking the layers of cloth.

Antonina again clears her throat and swallows, tasting
the sourness of her own saliva. “It’s for money? Is that it, Konstantin, a ransom demand?” Now her voice is hard. “All this unrest—they think they can just steal children and demand a ransom?” She looks at the crowd in the doorway, as if they, her own house servants, are somehow responsible. All of them except Lilya look at the floor; she comes forward, to her mistress.

“They will demand ransom,” Antonina states, looking back at Konstantin. Her voice is loud in the eerie silence of the room. And suddenly she’s full of terrible energy; there have already been too many wasted precious moments. “Ransom! Ransom—we’ll pay the ransom. Of course.” Her hands reach out, trembling.

Lilya stands beside her. “Madam,” she says quietly, and at her voice Antonina drops her hands.

“Yes,” Konstantin says. “Yes. They will want money, and we will pay them. That’s enough,” he says to Olga, who is fussing over the bandages and a sling she is attempting to tie. “But we can’t wait to hear from them. We’ll go after them now. Grisha, round up as many men as we have horses. We’ll find them, Antonina. And we’ll take back Mikhail.”