Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [60]
While he tossed and turned, she would remain in the room, a gentle, quiet presence, bathing his brow from time to time, saying little. Sitting by the window she seemed quite contented to stare out at the sky, or read her book of Psalms, or half doze while he lay still. She would speak if he wanted to talk, but she never addressed him, or even looked at him. She was there, yet not there, calm and unmoving.
Outside, the rains of autumn fell, the countryside became a morass of rich, black mud, and all nature seemed like a wet and wilted bird. The skies were grey and heavy, the horizon blank. Somewhere, behind the long grey-black skyline, a huge, white cold was preparing to advance from the east.
Then came the snow. The first day it came over the steppe, in an endless orange glow, and fell upon the damp streets in soft grey flurries. As Ivanushka stared past his mother’s quiet, pale face, he had the impression that outside, nature was closing a door, shutting out the light from the sky. But alone in his room with her, he did not mind. On the second day came a blizzard. Now the snow storm howled, as though the endless steppe had conjured up and sent an infinite army of tiny, grey demons who intended to hurl themselves furiously upon the citadel and overpower it. But on the third day, a change occurred. The snow fell softly. For a time, in the middle of the day, the sky even cleared enough for a few shafts of sunlight to shine through the clouds. The snowflakes that fell, morning and evening, were large and soft as feathers. And it was after this that he began to recover.
The Russian winter is not, in truth, so terrible. Even the smallest hut, with its huge stove, is piping hot inside.
A week after the snows fell, on a bright sunlit day, Ivanushka, wrapped in furs, was carried to the high walls of Pereiaslav.
How the land sparkled. The golden domes of the churches in the city flashed in the sun under the crystal blue sky. Below, the river was flowing past a gleaming white bank, and in the distance the woods on the other side were a dark, glistening line. To the east and south, over patches of wood laden with fresh snow, the beginning of the mighty steppe could be seen: a huge, white carpet, stretching endlessly, shining softly.
Thus, through the Russian winter, the thick blanket of snow protects the earth.
And through that winter, as the land by the snow, Ivanushka was protected by his mother.
At times it was as though he were a child again. They would sit by the fire, or by the window, and read the fairy stories or recite the byliny that he had known as a boy.
The firebird, the tales of snow maidens, of bears in the forest, the stories of princes in search of wealth or love: why was it that these childish tales, now that he was older, seemed so full of wisdom? Their very language, with its subtle sense of movement, wry humour and gentle irony, seemed to him now to be trembling with life and colour, like the endless forest itself.
Death came once to the family that winter, when Sviatopolk’s wife suddenly sickened and died. Though he had hardly known her, Ivanushka would gladly have gone to comfort his brother but Sviatopolk did not seem to wish it, and so Ivanushka had said no more.
Slowly, the long winter passed and Ivanushka, in this little womb prepared for him, recovered his life and emerged, in early spring, while the snow was still upon the ground, ready to join the world again.
His brow was clear, his eyes bright, and although he was a little subdued and often thoughtful, he felt cheerful, whole and strong. ‘Thanks to you,’ he told his mother, ‘I have been reborn.’
The world of Pereiaslav into which he emerged was a busy one.
While the princes had fought over golden Kiev, cautious Prince Vsevolod had kept his grip on Pereiaslav, the hub of the southern frontier forts, and raised the city to new importance. Compared to Kiev, of course, it had only a few fine churches, and most of its buildings were of wood. But the stout, square fortress town represented