Page 16 of The Storybook Hero
Alex rubbed at his weary eyes and tried to stretch out his cramped legs among the tangle of sleeping bodies. The other passengers seemed oblivious to the fetid air and hard wooden seats, having settled into the journey with a certain grim resignation. The only signs of life came from a country merchant snoring loudly in one corner and a short priest whose enveloping black robes that made him look like a rolled up carpet. From out of the wrappings of wool came a litany of whispered incantations and rumbled chants. Neither man was given much heed, save for an occasional elbow when the rasps and wheezes got too loud.
It was a rather motley assortment of humanity, Alex decided, his mood none too charitable after another long day on the road.But as he glanced down at his own rumpled coat and soup-stained pants, a rueful grimace tugged at the corners of his lips. No doubt he, too, must reek of garlic and sour rye.
Well, at least he must blend in!
Another rut in the rough road threw his neighbor’s knee into the side of his thigh, drawing a silent oath from Alex. If only his uncle had managed to get the name of the estate right, he thought in exasperation as he rubbed the bruised spot. Russian was not the easiest of languages, but a misplaced vowel had sent him nearly a week in the wrong direction. His relatives were owners of an estate namedPolyananovosk, notPolyananovisk. And while the endless forests of spruce and pine had been magnificent, and the wooden villages and onion domed churches of great interest, he would have much preferred to arrive at his destination in a more direct manner.
And a more comfortable one.
He threaded a hand through a tangle of his hair. Damnation, it felt as greasy as the bowl of mutton stew served at the last stop. Perhaps it had been overcautious to take on the guise of a poor tutor, rather than travel under his real name in a spacious, well-sprung private carriage with all the amenities due a member of the English aristocracy. And yet, the rumblings he had heard in the various smoky taprooms along the way had caused him to admit that the precaution had not been unwarranted.
Unrest was in the air. Rumors of an impending invasion swirled around every village they had passed through. Any foreigner was eyed with suspicion—indeed, he had seen an older Danish gentleman dragged from his carriage and beaten to within an inch of his life just two days ago. The local peasants were not particularly concerned with the nuances of nationality and which country was the current ally of the Tsar. The threat to Mother Russia was from anyone not of their own bloodThat England had until recently been one of the enemy only exacerbated the potential for trouble.
So, as Alex scratched at one of the innumerable flea bites on his torso, he had to admit that the plan, however unpleasant, had been a wise one.
The coach finally lurched to a stop in the muddy yard of a small inn. Climbing over several prostrate forms—numbed into oblivion by the local brew at the last stop, if the smell of their breath was any indication—Alex pushed the door open and stumbled to the ground. A sharp gust of wind cut through his ill-fitting garments but the tang of larch and pine cleared the muzziness from his head. He stood for a moment, savoring the clean crispness of the air, before pulling the thick wool cap down over his ears and hurrying inside the inn.
Rather than stay in the smoky room, he carried his thick glass cup of hot tea back outdoors and walked toward a dense stand of birch, their silvery white trunks like drizzles of sugar against the darkening sky. A storm looked to be heading their way—indeed, Alex felt a snowflake catch on his cheek, then another. The temperature was dropping by the minute and behind him, he heard the horses stamp in impatience to be off.
One of the ostlers muttered an oath as he struggled with a buckle of the harness.
“Nasty weather,” remarked Alex, strolling to the other man’s side
A grunt was the only reply.
“Does it look like we will see snow?.”
The man shrugged. “Whatever God wills.”
Alex probed for a different sort of information. “Are we far from Polyananovosk? The estate of Count Scherbatov.”
The question was met by a blank stare.
“I was told it was near Kovrov.”
“Oh, that is at least twenty kilometers down the road,” answered one of the other men tending to the horses. The way he said it, he might have been speaking about a spot halfway around the globe.
A horn sounded, signaling that the driver was impatient to be off before the full brunt of the storm hit. With great reluctance, Alex climbed back into the crowded confines of the coach, consoling himself with the knowledge that the journey was near an end.
Several hours later, the horses paused before a cluster of wooden huts. “You! The fellow looking for Polyananovosk,” shouted the driver from his perch. “You must get out here. And be quick about it. I haven’t got all day.” Already the reins were twitching in his mittened hands.
No further directions were forthcoming and Alex dared not risk any questions. He grabbed his bag and stepped over his neighbors, drawing more than one tired curse. The door felt shut, the whip cracked, and the wheels creaked forward. With nary a regret, he watched the dark, lumbering shape disappear around the bend.
After hoisting his bag to his shoulder, he turned to make inquires of just how he might continue on to the count’s estate. The few errant flakes had become a steady fall of powdery snow. Already his toes were feeling the seep of a numbing chill through the worn leather of the second hand boots.Hell’s teeth, he muttered to himself. This time, his information had better be accurate or he might well end up a meal for the roving wolves of the forests.
A gnarled old babushka, her head so heavily wrapped in a gaily patterned wool scarf that her words were barely audible, waved a scrawny finger in the direction of a faint cart path. From what he could understand, he was meant to follow it until itcrossed the drive leading to the main house. When he asked how far, she merely shrugged.
Alex shifted his weight from one cold foot to the other, debating whether to leave the only signs of civilization for the yawing darkness of the looming forest. However, the sound of muffled hooves and creaking leather interrupted his thoughts. A small wagon approached, then slowed at the sight of the lone figure by the side of the cottage.
“What business have you around here?” demanded the driver, a tone of authority shading his deep growl.
“I seek the house of Count Scherbatsky.”
“For what reason?” The man leaned down from his seat, his narrowed eyes sweeping over Alex’s shabby garb with undisguised suspicion.
Alex hesitated only a fraction. “I’ve been engaged as a special tutor for the young count.”
The other man pursed his lips. “I have heard nothing of any new tutor. The Countess did not say anything of it before she—” He stopped abruptly and fixed Alex with a suspicious stare. “What sort of tutor?”
