Orson Card - Enchantment

So let her have the kingdom. What good was a kingdom anyway? Whining people to govern, rents and taxes to collect, which everyone tried to steal from her at every step in the process. What good had any of it done her? She'd played at it, but the game wasn't worth the cost.

She was still Baba Yaga, though, wasn't she? Her books might be buried and soon burned, her spells might have been broken, but she could still do magic.

That house-that-flies, for instance. She could make another one like that. Maybe smaller, so it didn't take so much strength to get it off the ground. And come to think of it, it wasn't the flying that was so important, it was the mobility. In the forest here, a huge building that wouldn't fit between the trees was useless—of course it had to fly, and then where would it come to land? No, what was needed was a tiny building, a simple hut, but with legs on it, like those chicken legs, which would pick up and move where she wanted it to go.

That way no one would ever be certain where she was. She might stay in a place for years, harvesting pleasures large and small from the surrounding countryside, then give the command and let her house carry her away to another place. And, come to think of it, the house could stand up on its legs whenever she was gone, and spin around so its door would face away from any intruder. No one could get inside. That way her possessions would be safe. No more nasty little princesses undoing centuries of work.

It was a good thing she had never relied on Bear's power to sustain her life. She never trusted her life itself to anyone. No, the spells that held her body together were paid for in long-shed blood. But she would need more, soon.

More blood, but none from Taina. She didn't want that princess looking for her. She'd move eastward, deeper into the forest, where they'd never heard of her, where she could take the occasional child gathering berries in the wood, and then move on. And someday she might run into Bear again. He'd be more careful, of course. But wasn't it just possible that he'd miss her, just a little bit, and want her back? Trade a little power for the gift of speech? She'd been using him, of course, but she also enjoyed his company. It was good to have someone to talk to now and then. Even if it was a gruff old bear who probably betrayed her.

How did that Ivan break the spells of binding?

Oh well. There'd be many centuries to ponder that.

The bonfire lit up the sky behind her. Ahead of her, small nocturnal animals fled from her approach. Inside her, the flame of malice burned as bright as ever. As bright, but smaller. Her reach was smaller, too. But so were her needs. She was retiring from public life. Simplicity was what she wanted now. Simplicity and someone's skull to crack between her hands.

Ivan! Katerina! She thought of them and almost choked on rage. To think of the happiness that lay ahead of them, after all the harm they'd done to her! Was there no justice in this miserable universe?

Summer Vacation

The school year was over in Tantalus. Children threw papers out of bus windows and ran shouting over the lawns and meadows. But none of them was happier than Matt, Steven, Luke, and Little Esther Smetski, who knew that something more than mere summer vacation awaited them.

Father and Mother already had their bags packed—but there weren't many, only a few days' worth of clothes, just enough for the visit they always had with Uncle Marek and Aunt Sophia. Father always spent some time in Kiev, because he was the hero of the literary community there, having discovered the most amazing trove of ancient writings in Saint Kirill's own hand, on parchment which had been filled by another ancient, anonymous writer, who recorded the earliest known versions of the folktales of the Russian people. In America, he was respected at the university and among colleagues, but in Kiev, he was known to the people on the street. Indeed, there was a street named after him, one which had once been called by the name of a Russian Communist who slaughtered millions of Ukrainian kulaks, but now was named for the scholar who had opened up the Ukrainian past.

But what did that matter to the children? Father had his fans—he'd be busy with them for a while. What mattered to Matt, Steven, Luke, and Little Esther—or, as they were called all summer, Matfei, Sergei, Lukas, and Tila—was the other place, the faraway place, the place they never spoke of to their friends. The land where they were princes and princess, where Mother was queen, where Father was king and counselor to her.

Matfei was old enough to be learning history in school, but he had to laugh when he read about kings. He knew what kings and queens were. In at least one kingdom, nestled up against the eastern reaches of the Carpathian Mountains, there was a kingdom once where a queen ruled over her people, while her bookish husband played with his children, worked alongside the people, argued questions of philosophy with the priests, and gave whatever counsel his wife might want. He was a foreigner there, but with only a trace of an accent, and the people loved him, partly because Queen Katerina loved him, but mostly for himself.

It was the children they adored. But when it seemed they might be pampered to death, Mother and Father always drew them back, put things in perspective, reminded them that it was the kingdom-in-them that the people loved, and that they had to learn to become worthy of the devotion of the people. "It's not yours by right, this power," said Mother. "It is earned, by service, by loyalty, by sacrifice." Just one of the many lessons, the thousands of lessons that they had to learn. Of kingship, soldiering, farming. This year, Matfei and Sergei would be taken along to Kiev to be presented before the high king and have their first lessons in political maneuvering. They could see that Mother and Father feared this more than anything, but that only made it more exciting for Matt and Steven to look forward to.

Grandma and Grandpa came along with them to the airport in Syracuse, so they could drive the minivan back, as they did every summer. Grandma, as always, had a new charm for them to wear. Luke begged her to teach him how to make such things, but Grandma wouldn't do it. "The need for magic isn't so great anymore," she said, "and besides, the power that sustained it all is fading. It was the old gods who were behind it, and as their power weakens from the unbelief of the people, their power also fades." Luke had no idea what she was talking about, but Matt and Steven did. They knew how the people of Taina came to their mother for healing, and how she was able to do less and less for them, and how it grieved her. What they didn't understand was Mother's and Father's refusal to take modern ideas back with them. "Why not find the penicillium mold and use it to fight infections?" Matfei asked Father once.

"Because it isn't time yet," he said.

"But people will die from simple cuts and injuries," said Matfei.

"People all die eventually," said Father, sounding utterly heartless. But then he hugged his son. "I love your compassion, Matt. But here's the thing. In our own time, after just a few generations of using antibiotics, the bacteria are developing resistance to them all. If penicillin were put into use in 905, what would happen then? The whole history of the world would change, and we don't know how, and so it would be wrong of us to change it."

"But you took gunpowder back, Father. And alcohol."

"I kept the secret of gunpowder from the others," said Father. "A few know the ingredients, and they've promised not to pass the information on. I did it because the need was great. Because that was what I was sent to do. But we haven't needed it since."

"What about when I'm king, Father? What if I need it then? Will you tell me?"