C. Cherryh - Rusalka

But the reputation for luck stayed with him.

Or maybe worse than that.

He knew the gossip, knew what some of his parents’ neighbors had said about him when his parents had died. Even uncle Fedya and aunt Ilenka had insisted that was not so, that he was not to blame for the fire, else they would not have taken him in: uncle Fedya and aunt Ilenka had taken risks for him, risks to their reputation and risks to their business, which, they had pointed out to him, were not necessarily bound to continue, let him think of that any time he thought that they had treated him shabbily.

Most of all he tried not to ill-wish anyone, at any time, because he dreamed about the fire, he dreamed about his parents’ voices screaming inside the house, he dreamed about the woman next door saying, The boy’s a witch—

His father had beat him once too often, the neighbor woman had said, and the house had burned down…

Sasha put his back into it, as uncle Fedya would say, scrubbed until he could stop thinking about that old woman. He scrubbed and rinsed and scrubbed and rinsed till the walk was clean and the muddy ground beside the logs was standing in puddles.

“Well,” someone said from behind him, and he recognized that someone before he ever glanced back over his shoulder at elder cousin Mischa, who had come out in his fancy clothes. Mischa was going up the street to The Doe, where he was courting the tavern keeper’s daughter: Sasha had heard Mischa saying as much this morning in the kitchen.

He gathered up his brush and his bucket and moved aside on the walk. There was room enough for two. But Mischa found a way to shoulder him off to stand in the mud.

Mischa thought that was sport. “Clumsy oaf,” Mischa said.

Sasha did ill-wish Mischa sometimes, but only in little ways. He dared not think overmuch, now, for instance, of Mischa and his finery landing in the mud, directly after one of Mischa’s little pranks: accidents of that kind were dangerous to his reputation and to his welcome with uncle Fedya and aunt Ilenka.

But he furtively hoped for such an accident later, somewhere on the way to The Doe, perhaps involving a very large puddle.

He was afraid when he caught himself at that, afraid to grow angry with Mischa, afraid to think about laying hands on his cousin and flinging him into the mud himself.

Most of all he was afraid that what the neighbors had said about him could be true, and that, without even wanting Mischa to come to lasting harm, he could do what he feared, the same as they said Pyetr Kochevikov had conspired with someone to do to the boyar Yurishev.

Pyetr had asked him forthrightly why he had helped him in the first place. That was easy, Pyetr having done him no harm, and Pyetr seeming in desperate need of help—

Until the watch had come to the gates saying that Pyetr was involved in sorcery—

Then Sasha had wanted to stand very far in the shadows and not have anybody anywhere remember that he existed.

Now—now, he had helped Pyetr Kochevikov, he had brought him food, he had helped him hide from the law, and when he had heard the charge he had known in his heart that Pyetr was not guilty of what they said—not Pyetr the prankster, not Pyetr, who could do such outrageous, wonderful things and get away unscathed—Pyetr never did real harm to anyone. There was never malice in his jokes. Pyetr and murder were unthinkable together.

And Pyetr and sorcery—

If they could believe that of Pyetr Illitch, then they could believe it of anybody; and if the thieftakers found out who had been hiding Pyetr—then people all over town might remember all sorts of things about The Cockerel’s stableboy, and nobody was going to ask whether it was true or not.

Sasha wanted Pyetr Illitch to leave, now, immediately: that was all he could think of for a solution; but Pyetr refused, Pyetr said he had to have more time, and he personally had no idea what to do with a man so weak he could hardly walk. There was no throwing him out, even if he could hope the watch would never discover who had hidden a fugitive from them for a night and a day. He could think about sending Pyetr away, simply telling Pyetr he had to go and making sure that he got out The Cockerel’s gate before anyone saw him. He could tell himself that he ought to do it before something terrible happened to the whole household, because they were not responsible for Pyetr Kochevikov, even if he was innocent, and he was responsible to uncle Fedya and aunt Ilenka, who had sheltered him when nobody else would—

But he had not the heart to see Pyetr Illitch caught and killed.

He wished he could think of something.

He wished none of this had happened.

But that kind of wish never worked.

THE BOY came in the evening with a couple of small boiled turnips and a big piece of bread, which Pyetr was very glad to see. The Cockerel’s kitchen had been smelling of baking bread all morning and of stew all evening, with the coming and going of patrons, footsteps on the walk, shouts and banging of The Cockerel’s door, to remind a hungry, hurting man that other people were enjoying a much happier evening.

At least no one had come in for any of the horses, thank the god, and Pyetr had felt himself at least the better for a few hours of uninterrupted sleep—until hunger had set in and he would have been glad to contemplate yesterday’s little saucer of bread and sour milk on the stall gatepost, which somebody’s black and white cat had gotten after breakfast.

Sasha broke off part of the bread and put it in the saucer first off; and poured a little of their drink on it—for the Old Man of the stables, one supposed, and not for the cat—which probably had its daily round of barns and stables and doorsteps. It had certainly looked well-fed.

“They’re talking in the tavern,” Sasha said, between nibbles of his own bread. “There’s a reward on you. From the boyarina and her family.”

Pyetr felt his stomach upset. “So. How much?”

“They say”—Sasha’s voice took on a tone of true respect—”sixty in silver.”

“I can’t say I’m insulted.”

Sasha looked uncertain then, as if something of the bitterness had gotten through; or as if he thought he should not have brought that up, here, alone with him.

Why did he say? Pyetr wondered. To find out whether my friends can bid higher?

“Why would they think that about you?” Sasha asked. “About the sorcery—why would they think that?”

Is he afraid of me? Pyetr asked himself then, as an entirely new territory opened to him with that idea. Is that why you haven’t gone to the law, boy?

“Maybe I know a sorcerer,” Pyetr said.

“Who?”

This was the boy who put out saucers of milk for the barn-warder, who, even if one pointed out that the cat had gotten them, would say, as the old folk would, that the cat did not get the saucer every time.

“I wouldn’t be smart to say, would I?”

Sasha bit his lip, frowning, and Pyetr felt no safer considering the deep distress he saw on the boy’s face. He had no clue which direction to go, now, or what might gain the boy’s help or what might send him running headlong for the watch.

“If you know a sorcerer like that,” Sasha said, “why doesn’t he help you?”

Perish any thought that Sasha Vasilyevitch was dull-witted.

“I don’t believe you did it,” Sasha said. “I think the boyarina’s relatives did. I think they’re lying. His relatives were saying Yurishev knew you were coming to the house and he set up a trap—but now they’re not talking to the magistrates, they’re not seeing anybody—and the boyarina’s maid hanged herself, they found her this morning. They’re saying she helped you—”