Michael Swanwick - Dancing with Bears

Sergeant Wojtek looked bored. “Heard it already.”

“Oh?” Darger’s eyes glittered with mad humor. “Then how about the one about how Kyril the Bold escaped in a snowstorm?”

It was all the hint Kyril needed. Screwing up his face hard, he thrust a hand into his pocket and drew out his wad of rubles. With one all-toopracticed gesture, he snapped the thread and threw all the wealth he had in the world up into the air.

Banknotes snowed down.

“Money!” one of the guards shouted. For which small favor, Kyril was genuinely grateful. He hardly had the heart to shout the word himself. Instead, he proceeded to run as fast and hard as he could.

Behind him, the bear-guards were snatching bills from the air, falling down on all fours to scrabble for those on the floor, and fighting each other for stray banknotes.

Kyril ran. Even knowing that it was the man’s own idea, he couldn’t help feeling a little guilty at having to abandon Darger. But he was also, he had to admit, genuinely relieved to be rid of him.

Surely there was no dwelling place or domicile anywhere in all of Russia, from its richest palaces to its smallest and snuggest hovels, so cozy and pleasant as the sitting room in Koschei’s suite, which he now shared with Svarozic and Chernobog. A fire burned in the hearth and parchment-shaded copper lanterns cast the warmest of glows over them all. A lump of frankincense on a saucer atop one of the lanterns sweetened the air. The three stranniks had been sipping hot tea through lumps of sugar and discussing theology for hours and were prepared to go on doing so until the sun came up. Reasons to praise God had no end, nor did they lessen in delight with repetition.

“To say that the mercy of the Almighty is boundless is to put limits upon His power,” Koschei said, “for it implies that His righteous wrath can be less than universal. No, God is both all-merciful and all-pitiless, and therefore it is heretical to call upon Him for forgiveness of one’s sins. For forgiveness is forgetfulness, and thus alien to the Omniscient One. Logic and devotion alike tell us that He can neither forget nor forgive.”

Svarozicmade a questioning gesture. To which Koschei responded: “Yes, you are right, dear one. This means that to our all-powerful Father love and vengeance are one and the same thing. Our sins are so contemptible as to be beneath His notice, and our virtues so slight as to be nonexistent. How then can we hope to coerce that Mighty Gentleman into doing our bidding? Only by praying for Him to ignore our petitions and to do as He would have done had we not so prayed. Join me now, beloved friends, and I will teach you the only righteous and proper prayer there is.”

Koschei closed his eyes briefly, gathering his thoughts. Then, raising his hands to the heavens, he said, “Lord, make us weak! Diminish us steadily as we grow older, enfeeble and unman us, weaken our senses, and then cause us to sicken and die! Make us vicious and unnatural and despicable in your sight! One by one, deprive us of all the pleasures of life, destroy all those we love, make the world hateful to us, and undo all certainties in our lives save only our trust in Your loving kindness.”

Bowing low over his clasped hands, Svarozic prayed so intently that beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Chernobog had slipped from his chair to kneel, head bowed, upon the carpet.

“Lord God, we further pray to You tonight that Your kind regard will soon fall upon this sinful city to reduce its buildings to cinders and ashes, to level the churches which teach only heresy, to cast down the nobles who rule in defiance of Your wishes, to fill the streets with corpses, and to send the few wretched survivors out into the wilderness to suffer and starve and contemplate Your goodness and die. Amen.”

Chernobog regained his seat. “The wrath of God is sweet,” he observed, “and the scourge of His persecution is a delight to the mortified flesh. I-”

There was a loud banging on the door.

Svarozic rose from his armchair and smilingly bowed in two tremendous bear-men in the white-and-gold uniforms of the Royal Guard. They carried between them a narrow wooden crate, which they set down in the middle of the room. The salute they gave the stranniks was correct, but no more. “From Chortenko,” one said curtly. “He said you’ll know what to do with them.”

“So we will,” Koschei said. “What is your name?”

“Sergeant Umka, sir.”

“Tell me, Sergeant Umka, have you given much thought to your immortal soul?”

The sergeant held himself straight and stiff. “Our business deals with bodies rather than souls, sir. At the end of the day we reckon up the numbers of the living and the dead. If their dead outnumber ours, that’s generally considered a good thing. What happens to them afterward is the responsibility of somebody higher up in the line of command than I am.”

“You are a creature of the gene vat,” Chortenko said thoughtfully, “and all life created by Man is inherently blasphemous. Therefore, you and your peers are an abomination unto the Lord. Which means that either you do not have souls, or else you do but were irrevocably damned to Hell the instant your genome was first expressed. Am I right, holy Koschei?”

“Who could argue with such lucid and self-evident insights? In either case, Sergeant Umka, your focus on the transient phenomenal world is commendable. Let those who have hopes of Heaven cultivate their relationship with God and those who do not see to their duties.”

“Sir. Thank you, sir. May we leave now?”

At a dismissive wave of Svarozic’s hand, the bear-men departed.

Koschei expelled an enormous sigh. “Our hour is come round at last. It is time for us to leave these comfortable surroundings and this sweet conversation behind forever, and to be about the holy, necessary, and painful work of Almighty God. Most likely, we shall never meet again. But let me reassure you, my dear brothers, that this is an evening I will cherish in my heart and memory for the remainder of my necessarily short life.”

“And I also,” said Chernobog. Svarozic spread wide his arms.

They all three came together in a hug of perfect loving fellowship.

Then, separating, they broke open the crate. In it were three gleaming new klashnys, packed in grease. Chernobog brought towels from the bathroom and began wiping them clean. Svarozic went to a cupboard and returned with boxes of ammunition. Koschei brought out the maps of the city, with the five points from which the underlords would emerge and their converging paths clearly marked.

“Here,” Koschei said, tapping the square before the Trinity Tower, where all five paths came together. “This is where the once and future tsar will make his speech. And here-” he tapped the domes of St. Basil’s, the rooftop of Goom, and the Corner Arsenal Tower-“we shall take up our posts. Once the Antichrist Lenin has ascended to seize control of the Kremlin, we may begin firing into the crowd. Chortenko promises that there will be crates of ammunition in each location, so we will be able to do our holy work until the Spirit moves us to stop. Do you have any questions?”

“I only wonder why God is so good as to give us this difficult chore,” Chortenko said. “We who are as nothing before His greatness.”

Svarozic nodded in pious agreement.

“No lives matter in the face of eternity,” Koschei agreed. “Yet tonight, perhaps, our lives will matter, if only for the briefest instant.”

The stranniks proceeded to load their weapons.

Anya Pepsicolova rarely cut herself. Only when she had to think particularly clearly. The cold crisp sting of a perfectly straight cut sharpened one’s awareness wonderfully. Opening the mask of skin to reveal the startled red flesh beneath created a doorway through which new ideas might enter. There was that still, silent pause between the breach and the blood that welled up to fill it during which anything in the world seemed possible.