The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [4]
“Yes, my lord,” Golitsyn replied, and bowed again.
Tsar Peter the Great dipped his paddle in the water and gave an exclamation of pleasure as the canoe slid into the stream.
“It's good to be on the water again,” he said. “I've always loved ships, great and small.”
Behind him, the broken-nosed giant named Tug grunted vague disapproval.
“You don't share my love, sir?” Peter asked. “I thought you had been a sailor.”
“Damn sure I was, Peter.” He grunted. “It may be a fine life if y'r lord o' the ship ‘n’ all, but f ‘r a common sailor, ‘s more ‘n half misery. An’ rickets, and scurvy, and the black bellyache. An’ when you finally come ashore, they sell you watered rum and poxy whores. No, sir tsar, it's no life.”
“To each his own. I love the swell of the sea, the feel of a boat. When I was building my navy, I myself went in disguise to the shipyards in Holland and learned the shipwright's art, working as a common laborer.”
“Well, we clean fergot t’ christen this'n when we stole ‘er from the Tonicas. Y’ got a name f ‘r our lady?”
Peter thought for a moment. “The Catherine,” he said softly, “for my late wife.”
The third man in the boat, an Indian named Flint Shouting, said nothing but sullenly dipped his paddle in the water, propelling them along.
They camped that night on a sandy natural levee, and Peter and Flint Shouting built a fire with the sticks at hand while Tug searched for more wood. The Indian went about his task with quiet efficiency. He was a changed man. When first the tsar had met him, he had been a boisterous, talkative fellow, always quick with a laugh and a joke. Now, he might go days without speaking.
“Why are you still with us?” Peter asked him, poking at the fire. “I know you care little for us.”
Flint Shouting didn't answer at first, and after a time Peter didn't think he would.
“I did not always like the people of my village,” he finally said in a surprisingly weary voice. Peter thought there ought to be anger there, or hatred, but it seemed to be mostly just exhaustion. “But they were my people. They did not deserve to be rooted up and burned like weeds. And I brought their killer to them. I smiled, and I told them Red Shoes was a fine fellow, and they let him into the village. And he killed them all.”
“I understand that,” Peter said. “I understand the need for revenge. I thirst for it myself. I have many debts of my own to settle.”
Flint Shouting nodded. “I will kill Red Shoes,” he said softly. “To kill him I must find him. Red Shoes is a Dream Walking, and I am not a magician. I cannot see him. He leaves no tracks, breaks no branches, bends no grass. I cannot find him.” He looked up at the tsar and met his eyes squarely. “But one day Red Shoes will find you. And Tug. And then I will kill him.”
Peter didn't flinch at the icy promise. After all, he, Peter Alexeyevich, had sent the heads of his rebellious Strelitzi guard rolling in the snow. He had ordered his own son knouted to death. However many men Flint Shouting promised to kill and then made good on, it was unlikely he could match Peter's own record.
He clasped his hands together. “I already knew you wanted to kill him. I already knew why. I just wanted to know why you hadn't left Tug and me to do so. So tell me—you say Red Shoes is a Dream Walking. What does that mean? What happened to him? He was once our friend, I would swear it. He saved my life. But your village …”
What had happened at Wichita village was no worse than other things Peter had seen. But he had never seen a whole town murdered by a single man.
Peter was no stranger to the scientific beasts that fools called angels, devils, and spirits—many had pretended to serve him, and his philosophers often showed him their experiments with them. But none had ever made him feel as he had when he saw Red Shoes stride through the huts, leaving flame and death behind him, twisting the necks of children and dogs. Something had prickled at Peter, beyond sight, sound, and smell, some sense that knew a kind of