Page 26 of The Storybook Hero
Just as Alex began to phrase his greeting in Russian, the boy put aside his book and stood up. He took a few steps forward, then bowed with a formality that nearly brought a smile to Alex’s face. “I am most pleased to make you acquaintance, sir.” he replied in English. “My mother—” His voice caught in his throat for a moment. “My mother and my father used to speak often of our English relatives, as did my grandmother.” He took a deep breath, struggling manfully to control his emotions. “So her letter reached you?”
Alex nodded.
“I … I didn’t think you would come.” His toe kicked at the fringe of the thick rag rug. “And now I fear it is for nothing.” he added in a wavering tone. “The French army is fast approaching. You will be trapped here as well.”
Alex moved closer and placed an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “I have managed, against all odds, to find you here. I daresay I shall figure out a way to get us safely to St. Petersburg.”
Nicholas looked up, hope kindling in his eyes. “You … really think so, sir.”
“Indeed I do. Oh, and I would take it kindly if you will dispense with ‘sir’ and call me Alex.”
The old woman could no longer restrain herself and began to speak in a rush. Riasanov stooped to whisper something in her ear. A rush of color came to her broad cheeks, and she set to preparing tea and a platter of thick sliced rye, radishes and smoked fish. Above the clinking of the glasses and the rattle of cutlery, the steward gestured for the three of them to be seated at the table. Svetlana joined them shortly, mumbling profuse apologies for her lack of hospitality. She placed the food in front of Alex and clucked at him until he had piled his plate with food.
Satisfied that he would not expire from hunger in the next few minutes, she took a seat herself and began where she had left off. “Radischev says that our troops have been thrown back at Tver, which means the French cannot be far from here. What are we to do?” She looked first to Riasanov, and then to Alex.
The steward scratched at his beard. “You will return with me to Polyananovosk, of course. I don’t believe they will push that far east.” He slanted a look at Alex. “But as for the young master and Alex …”
“I will need horses and a sleigh,” interjected Alex.
Riasanov pulled a face. “It will not be easy, especially now.”
“I can pay very well.”
The old woman thought for a moment, then thumped her glass down on the table. “My nephew Igor may be persuaded. If not, I will take a broom to his backside.”
Sometime later,as Alex surveyed the two mismatched nags and ancient vehicle, he couldn’t refrain from thinking that not only had he paid very generously, he had paid through the nose. At least the animals looked to have some stamina despite their ugly appearance, and the sleigh, on further inspection, did not seem in imminent danger of falling apart at the first bump. And no doubt Riasanov and Svetlana were right—he had precious little choice.
He handed over the exorbitant sum and climbed into the creaky seat. Though accounted a dab hand with the ribbons, he soon found that handling a vehicle on runners over slick ice and snow was an entirely new experience. No matter, he though wryly. No doubt he would have plenty of practice at it before he reached St. Petersburg.
Somehow, he arrived back at the cottage from the trial run without serious mishap. After he and Riasanov had put the horses away, they returned to the kitchen where Svetlana had laid out yet another meal.
Alex stared for a moment at the tumbler of vodka that the steward offered him, then waved it away. “We will need warm clothing and extra blankets.” His fingers drummed on the table. ”I suppose it would also be wise to take a supply of provisions, in case we must avoid the main roads.”
“Or in case the villages have been looted and burned,” added Riasanov in a grim voice. “You will also need to take a pistol.”
A ghost of a smile came to Alex’s lips. “You may be sure I have already thought of that. A brace of Manton’s best have been in my satchel since I stepped off the ship.”
Though he had no idea of who Manton was, the steward understood the gist of the reply and nodded in approval.
“I have plenty of spare blankets, and a thick fur robe which will serve well to protect you as you drive, sir,” piped up the oldwoman. Her face screwed up in thought as she slanted a glance at her pantry. “I shall fix an ample supply of food?—”
“Just remember, we do not need to feed an army—at least, we hope not,” interrupted Alex with a short laugh. “The horses must be able to pull the sleigh.”
Svetlana cast an aggrieved look at the grins around her. “You must be able to keep up your strength. It is a long journey, and who knows what awful dangers will be lurking behind every tree.”
“Let’s have no talk of Baba Yagar sweeping down to carry off the young master and his English cousin in her mortar and pestle,” admonished the steward. “We have enough real concerns without you frightening the boy with your lurid folk tales of ravenous wolves and evil witches.”
She fell silent, but the expression on her lined face showed that she considered such threats very real indeed. With a warning waggle of her finger, she stood up and shuffled off to get the supplies ready.
“I have been thinking,” said Riasanov as he listened to the dark muttering coming from the pantry with an amused smile. “It makes more sense for me to take the horses and sleigh that you purchased today, while you and the young master take ones from Polyananovosk.”
Alex made to protest, but the steward held up his hand. “No arguments, Alex. You have a much greater distance to travel. Besides, they belong to Master Nicholas.”
The sense of such reasoning made further discussion unnecessary. “Very well.” He turned to the boy seated by his side, who looked to be a bit dazed by all that was going on, and then glanced back at Riasanov. “Perhaps you might see if you can locate an extra lantern or two, then help Svetlana gather the blankets while I have a word with Nicholas.”
The steward nodded in understanding and left the room.
Alex took a deep breath, trying to figure out how to begin. He had little experience in speaking to children—with a prick of conscience, he realized he had never even met William’s two boys, who must be at least seven and five by now, or Thomas’s brood of three toddlers. How did one avoid sounding pompous—or worse, condescending?
