Kate Furnivall - Under a Blood Red Sky

Sofia shinned down the swaying rungs and jumped the last section on to an earthen floor. She was struck by the change in temperature. It was a cold underground room.

‘Pyotr.’

His pale face was close and she wrapped her arms around him, hugged him tight to her. ‘I’m sorry,’ she breathed into his hair. ‘Fomenko came.’

She could feel the boy’s bony body rigid at first but slowly it grew soft in her embrace, and that’s when it started to tremble. Only faint, but enough to tell her what he’d been through, shut away in the dark on his own. His shirt was damp with sweat despite the cool air. She held him until the trembling ceased, then stepped back and tapped his chin teasingly.

‘Look what the Chairman kindly gave me for you.’

From her pocket she drew out the box of matches she’d stolen from Fomenko’s desk and in the dim light she placed them in Pyotr’s hand. His fingers were quick to strike a match and holding it in front of him he crossed to a narrow shelf, picked up the stub of a candle that lay there next to a bible and lit it. The flame flickered and hissed but by its light she saw Pyotr’s face clearly for the first time. One of his lips was bleeding where he’d been biting at it.

‘Come on, let’s get you out of here,’ she said cheerfully, holding out one end of the rope ladder to him. ‘You first.’

‘No.’ He shook his tousled brown hair. ‘Look at this.’

Holding the candle high, he led the way to the rear of the room. She swerved to avoid a wooden chair piled round with half a dozen bulging sacks in the middle of the floor, all propped carefully on top of each other. Her heart tightened when she realised Pyotr must have heaped them like that, struggling in the darkness to reach the ceiling, but there hadn’t been enough of them. Did he shout? Did he scream and cry for help? Or wait quietly, believing in her?

‘Look,’ he said again.

Had he found the jewels? Her pulse leapt at the thought. The walls were lined with wooden planking coated in pitch that, in places, had been repaired. On one side was an ancient door with heavy iron hinges.

‘It’s locked,’ Pyotr said when he saw her glance at it.

He stretched out the candle and its wavering light revealed that the rear wall was covered with a heavy brocade curtain instead of planking. It was hard to tell its colour in the gloom but Sofia had the impression of a deep purple glimmering among the darting shadows.

‘Is it-’

‘Wait,’ Pyotr whispered. Then, with all the panache of a magician, he swept the curtain aside.

The wall was full of eyes. Sofia felt her stomach sink as she realised it wasn’t the box of jewellery she was seeking.

‘So, Pyotr,’ she murmured, ‘it looks like God hasn’t been driven out of Tivil after all.’

The alcove behind the curtain was a metre deep by about three metres wide and every scrap of birch-lined wall was covered in religious icons and statues and crucifixes. Sad-eyed saints carried the burdens of the world’s sins on their gilded shoulders; hundreds of Virgin Marys gazed with adoration at the soft-faced Child Jesus. Lovingly arranged in groups on the floor were statues of them painted in vivid reds and blues and golds.

Pyotr was staring open-mouthed.

‘So,’ Sofia said, ‘this is where the village hid their beliefs.’ She spoke quietly, as in a place of worship. After a moment she reached up and pulled the curtain back across the alcove. Pyotr flinched, the look in his eyes far away.

‘So shocked?’ Sofia asked.

He rubbed his free hand across his face in a rough gesture and nodded. ‘They’re so…’ His voice trailed away.

‘So powerful?’ she finished for him.

‘ Da . I didn’t realise.’

‘You’ve never been inside a proper Orthodox church with frescoes and carvings and gold crosses and air so laden with prayers and incense that you can barely breathe it in.’

He shook his head. ‘But it’s just superstition.’ It was meant as a statement but somehow it came out more as a question. ‘Once they realise that, won’t they let it go?’

‘No, Pyotr, they won’t.’ She stopped herself. Now was not the time for saying more. ‘Come on, let’s see what’s in those sacks you piled in a heap.’

‘Just grain and potatoes and swedes.’ He kicked one of the sacks with his foot, spraying dust through the air. ‘Hoarders’ food.’ He said it with disgust.

‘Let me put the candle back on the shelf.’ She pushed him towards the rope ladder. ‘Time to leave.’

He twisted his head to look her full in the face. ‘Sofia, I thought you’d cheated me. When you said there was something here to help my father, I thought you must mean that you’d shut me down here because all I had to do was pray to the Virgin Mary and Papa would be freed.’

‘Oh, Pyotr.’ Sofia leaned forward and kissed his cheek. ‘I’ll never cheat you. What I’m searching for is worth thousands of roubles. In this country roubles will buy you anything if you have enough of them, even freedom. We’ll get him out, one way or another.’ She stroked his damp hair. ‘I promise.’

A light rain was spitting in the wind. Sofia locked the church door and glanced cautiously up and down the street for any sign of Chairman Fomenko but there was none. Two young girls came skipping up the muddy street and waved to Pyotr but he ignored them.

‘Pyotr, one more thing I need from you.’

‘To help Papa?’

‘Yes. And to help me.’

He looked at her expectantly. The wariness seemed to have disappeared from his eyes. ‘Yes?’

‘I want you to take the key to the smithy where I saw you working and…’

‘Make a copy.’

He was quick. ‘Is that possible?’ Or was she asking too much of Mikhail’s son?

He puffed out his skinny chest. ‘Of course. And Pokrovsky the blacksmith will give me help if I need any.’

‘Will he keep it secret?’

‘For Papa he will.’

She grinned at him. ‘Thank you, Pyotr. When it’s done, take the original back to the kolkhoz office. Understand me?’

‘Yes.’ He tossed his head and strutted off in the direction of the smithy.

‘Mikhail,’ she breathed, ‘you can be proud of your stiff-necked son.’

Then she faced up towards the far end of the village. It was time to speak to Rafik.

‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

Rafik was seated at the rough table when Sofia entered, still wearing his yellow sunshine shirt. His black eyes were half hooded, his olive skin seemed darker and his black hair was hidden from sight under the pelt of the white fox. His shoulders were hunched over like an old man’s. This was not a Rafik she recognised. Her mouth grew dry. The room was dim despite the daylight outside, the air scented and heavy, and the moment Sofia breathed it in she could sense a strangeness in it.

What had he done? Warily she sat down opposite him.

‘So the soldiers at the stable let you go,’ she said.

‘Did you think they wouldn’t?’

She shook her head. ‘I was searching for you up there. I didn’t expect to see the troops. I was worried for you.’

‘It was priests they were seeking today, not gypsies. Next time I may not be so fortunate.’

‘Did the worshippers escape?’

‘Every last soul of them.’

‘And Priest?’

‘He is safe… but not safe.’

‘It’s a miracle that he hasn’t been arrested and put to death before now.’

‘I look after him.’

She understood now exactly what he meant by that: he used this strange hypnotic power of his. ‘So why wouldn’t you look after Mikhail when he needed it? I begged you.’

‘Oh Sofia, don’t look so angry. You have to understand that there were too many troops swarming round him and it was impossible. The time was all wrong, but now… the time has changed. Tonight is the moment when your eyes will open.’