Fenek Solère: Rising

‘Then you know our girls were not allowed to wed until they had killed a man in battle.’

‘They also cut off their right breasts!’

She bent forward. ‘Not all the stories are true.’

‘Thank God.’

‘You know I am a believer in the beregini , the Slavic protector goddesses.’

‘Not necessarily a good Orthodox girl, then?’

‘ Nyet! Below, old traditions remain.’

Tom smiled as Ekaterina walked over to the window, sliding her hand up and down the lined drapes. ‘We believe the sacred feminine cocoons our lives, being conceived in the womb and returning to Mother Earth, after we die. It is a simple cycle, much less complex than the Holy Trinity of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.’

‘A nice idea!’ His voice sounded unconvinced.

‘Are you being ironic?’

‘No’, he replied with more than a hint of guilt.

‘You should be careful not to offend our deities. Mokosh, the goddess of destiny, may be a lovely young woman who spins the thread of life, but she is also dangerous. Sometimes we Slavs call her Srecha.’ Then she began to recite:

Tom sat in silent awe for a moment, braced by the heartfelt veracity of her words. Ekaterina’s hair cascaded over her shoulders, her pointing breasts staring down at him. She had the shapely hips and slender legs of her horseback ancestors. He could easily imagine her thundering across the windswept steppes, loosing arrows at Mongol raiders, riding her steed hard into the ripped, red heart of a stormy sunset.

They opened some wine. Ekaterina kicked off her shoes and unzipped her jeans. ‘I think I’m getting drunk’, she said, fingers loosening his tie. He saw she wore the mask of a Veely water sprite dancing and singing in the mountain springs. Tom pushed her back onto the bed, thumbs slipping under her briefs and sliding thin cotton down over her knees.

• Celtic Cross flags begin appearing on prominent buildings and national monuments across Russia;

• Mass rallies are held in Perm’s Gorkovo Park and along Lenina and Komsomolsky Prospekt. ‘We demand our city stays Russian’ echoes across the Kama River;

• Slavic Force and Russian Action militants seize the Kremlin government building of Nizhny Novgorod and arrest the Supreme Regional Officer;

• Army Brigades rally volunteers in city and town squares, distributing food and munitions, as well as providing basic arms training;

• Right and Left gangs clash across the country;

• The military imposes local curfews to prevent looting and disorder.

The wind came biting off the Baltic. Frost-hard teeth raked flesh. Tom cut a thin, black figure on the bleak expanse of the Dvortsovvy Most as Arkady approached, wearing a long greatcoat, his bulky body acting as a windbreaker.

‘ Privet! ’ he declared as he came close. ‘You are tired, no?’

‘ Nyet ’, the Professor replied.

‘You look like you burn candle at both ends!’

Tom shrugged. ‘I am still celebrating our success!’

‘Or maybe you can’t handle our girls?’ Arkady laughed.

‘I told you to leave her out of this!’

‘You don’t tell me, shit!’

‘But burning the apartment?’

‘You were warned!’

‘But that is ridiculous. A speech…’

Arkady cut him off. ‘Is incendiary!’

‘It makes no sense…’ Arkady’s fist hit him square on the nose. Tom saw a spark of light in the back of his brain and felt hot blood spurt down his shirt. He attempted to stay on his feet, but a second swinging blow to the temple sent him staggering back against the bridge railings. He stared at the ground, trying to focus, stammering his words until Arkady took him firmly by the arm and flagged down the car he had used to chase Tom and Ekaterina down Nevsky Prospekt.

‘Get in!’ Arkady shouted, pushing Tom onto the backseat. ‘It is too cold to stand outside debating’, he said, slamming the door, signalling Bogdan to move on. All the familiar streets rushed by the windows. Arkady handed Tom a handkerchief. ‘Clean yourself!’ he ordered, ‘I don’t want you to bleed all over the upholstery.’

‘The girl’s got nothing to do with this…’

‘She’s one of you!’

‘No!’

‘Don’t lie!’

‘I’m not.’ Tom spat a loose tooth.

‘We know she attends street speeches by fascists.’

‘She’s just an impressionable student.’

‘Then you people should not be giving dangerous lectures, yes?’

‘I’ll leave if you agree not to harm her.’

‘This is a civil war, you think we care about whether you stay or go?’

‘You firebomb old men!’

‘And Blood and Honour stabs our boys!’

‘I don’t advocate violence!’

‘You are complicit!’ The car swept up to the kerbside outside the Astoria. Arkady brandished a Stechkin pistol fitted with a long silencer before the Englishman’s eyes. ‘You have 24 hours to leave, after that, this goes pop and your body goes swim in the Neva, understand?’ Then he pulled open the door and bundled Tom into the gutter. ‘And I’ll fuck your pretty friend just for fun’, he smirked, as the car drove off into slow, swirling traffic.

When he got to his room, Ekaterina was gone. A handwritten note said, ‘I have an idea!’ Tom stripped and ran a shower. As he stepped into the surging water, the phone began to ring. He ignored it, washing away humiliating memories with soap and bath oils. Later, he swallowed aspirin with a slug of Jack Daniels and massaged his creaking jaw. Arkady’s attack had been so quick, the blows so accurate. He thought of the power of the disorientating strike on the side of his head and the ease with which he had been thrown around. No simple heavy could have handled him with such confidence. He had been served notice.

Meanwhile, Ekaterina’s idea, communicated in garbled fashion via mobile to Alexei and Yuri’s Vulcari, involved a surprise attack on Arkady’s base in Ulitsa Egorova. They were joined by Roman, Tom’s taxi transfer from Pulkovo airport, and their new recruit, Saniya. Ill-timed and ill-equipped, they had rushed into action without waiting for Alyosha, or their new mentor, Peter Janssen. Bald Bogdan was the first to hear them coming. He went silent, waving a large hand, signalling the others to be quiet before picking up his SR-2 and rising from the armchair.

Unclipping the safety, Arkady, still nursing grazed knuckles, had drawn the Stechkin from his shoulder holster. Moving to the door, his head gestured for his sidekick to respond to Yuri’s demanding knock and unconvincing claim that he had a package to deliver. Others were reaching for the AO-63 assault rifles piled against the wall. Barrels were soon pointing, ammo clips strapped together with insulation tape.

When Bogdan’s hand swung the door open, Alexei and Yuri led the knife-wielding charge straight at the guns. The first volley punched holes through their faces, serrating arms and legs, body parts spliced clean off the bone. Saniya’s intestines spiralled like pork sausage onto the carpet.

They stood with crowds of young nationalists amidst a sea of banners in front of the city’s eternal flame, commemorating the lives of French partisans Sabine D’Orlac and Luc Dubois, whose deaths had just been announced on Russia Today. People held cold hands to the rippling red tongues rising out of the charred earth before them, passing beer bottles, strumming guitars.